Well, we got no class. And we got no principles. And we got no innocence. We can’t even think of a word that rhymes! Schoooool’s … out … for… ever…

And whatnot.

Are you like me? Did you hate going back to school when the grand machinery of summer wound down to nothing? Or were you one of those weirdos who looked forward to it year after year, yapping endlessly about revisiting old friends and making new ones?

How did that lobotomy turn out, anyway?

You people confound me. Today, roughly 300 years since I last stepped into a classroom, I still get a feeling very closely related to nausea every time I see a back-to-school commercial. It’s a feeling like invasion. Monsters are coming to pluck you from your summertime play and those monsters are in the shape of long, yellow school buses. They are in the form of teachers with sweater vests and monotonous speaking voices. The monsters come with chalk dust on their talons and they reek of pencil shavings and cafeteria food.

Did you see that? A chill just ran right up the back of my leg, coiled around my spine and shot out the top of my head. I really should get that checked.

When I was a boy bitching about school, the world full of parents, coaches and teachers (old people) would tell me this: Enjoy it now, sonny. Enjoy every day you get to be here, because before you know it, you’ll be all grown up. You’ll have a family to take care of, a job that demands all of your time and bills you can never keep up with. Enjoy it while you can, boy, because childhood is gone before you know it.

What were you parents, teachers and coaches drinking back then, anyway? Old-people juice? You really ought to check yourself in some place.

While adulthood is no picnic (unless you happen to be picnicking), it still beats the hell out of youth, in my book. While I answer to many people, there’s not a one of them who can order me to get out of bed while it’s still dark, eat mushy cereal, put on something plaid and go stand outside in the cold for an hour waiting for a bus to come and take me some place I do not wish to go.

You can try ordering me if you want, but you’re better off just drinking your old-folks juice quietly and gumming whatever it is you have there for food.

I hated school. I had a bunch of friends and more than a few girlfriends in my day, and I probably could have gone to the Olympics as the gold-medal kick-baller. I liked throwing spitballs and putting thumbtacks in chairs. But really. You can only get away with that crap for so long. I know because I tried it last week and got badly beaten.

Hated it, man. I hated how the very first day of school each year, some smiling teacher wrote her name on the chalkboard and then informed you that you had to have all your books covered the very next day. I mean, what is that? I just learned your name. You think we could get to know each other a little before you start threatening me with book covers?

Book covers almost ruined me as a child. I cannot cut a straight line and I fold even worse. Showoffs were always carrying their beautifully bound books to school on day two and winning more smiles from the pretty teacher. Me, I had to use six bottles of glue and 40 paper bags to cover one side of one book. You laugh, but how funny would it have been if the young me had suffered a disfiguring paper cut during all that book covering?

OK, it would have been pretty funny. But my point is made. School was a long string of orders and subtle threats. It was deadline pressure, and the competition was fierce. You think Becky, the way-ahead-of-her-years girl in the first row is going to give you a second look if you can’t come up with the capital of Oregon when called upon? I can tell you from experience she is not. I cannot, however, tell you the capital of Oregon.

Most people recall their early school days with sweet memories of good friends and teachers who taught them valuable lessons they carried into adulthood. Shiny apples and gold stars. Wheeeee.

I remember the shrill of the alarm clock, the mushy cereal and the mocking cold of winter walks to the bad place. I remember gigantic school-room clocks moving so slowly, Einstein should probably have issued a third theory of relativity just to explain the phenomenon. I remember the dreamy horror of a teacher calling upon me with a question just as I was dozing and dreaming of Becky in the front row.

Is it any wonder I’m such a happy adult?

But OK. I shan’t tarnish your happy memories any longer. You loved school. You miss it and you want to go out and cover a book with a paper bag this very minute. Go to it, my reminiscing friend! Glory in the charmed memories of your own school daze. Watch those back-to-school commercials with longing.

Just … really. One of these days, can I take a look at your lobotomy scar?

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. You can share school-day memories with him at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.

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