So, I’m sitting in the Auburn Council Chamber of Doom and listening to the chatter from the neatly arranged group at the front of the room. Educationers, I think they call them. Or Superintenderlings.

These are the men and women who decide what goes on in our schools, and my editors tell me that’s important. People care about their children, apparently, so I need to pay close attention.

Every time I get sent to a city function, like a canary sent into a dark and stinking mine, the panic sets in. Right now, the buzz from the committee people is just white noise but, at any moment, someone could use big and confusing words like “mill rate” or “attrition.”

Every time I hear the term “mil rate” my mind insists on translating it as “millwright” and I picture some big guy in greasy overalls toiling in a barn. That image reminds me of Pa in the “Little House on the Prairie” and I get to thinking about what a brat Nellie Olson was, all snooty and uptight about everything. Wasn’t there an episode where one of the Ingalls girls totally kicked Nellie’s butt in the schoolyard? Boy, that’s a fun thought. I always thought one of the Ingalls girls was kind of hot, but I can never remember if it was Laura or Mary. The one who went blind, I think. I wasn’t a huge fan of the show, you know. “The Six Million Dollar Man” started airing right around the same time, and that was much more intriguing. Remember the time Steve Austin had to fight Bigfoot?

Wait, did that really happen on the show, or was it one of those strange dreams from my youth?

So, by the time all that goes through my head, I’m sitting in the pews (they feel like pews to me) grinning like a fool while the education people have passed a potentially important measure.

“The measure passes,” declares the head education person. I think he bangs a gavel or something. “On to the next item.”

Whenever this happens (and it happens more than you’d probably be willing to believe), I scold myself and vow to pay closer attention for the next item. If I’m not careful, one of the school boarders might use a word like “attrition” and that will send me into further chaos.

“Attrition” is one of those words I just can’t grasp even as someone stands there explaining it to me. Whenever I hear it, no matter what the context, I flash back to that pivotal scene in “First Blood,” where Col. Trautman schools the stubborn Sheriff Teasle on Rambo’s expertise.

The line goes like this: “In Vietnam, his job was to dispose of enemy personnel. To kill, period! Win by attrition. Well, Rambo was the best.”

How awesome was Col. Trautman? I mean, that guy could deliver monologues dramatic enough to topple a big guy like Brian Dennehy. He spit every other word, I think that was the trick. And while he’s doing it, the brooding John J. Rambo is out there, eliminating his pursuers one by one.

Ding, ding, ding! With that awesome image, I finally get it. Attrition! The gradual reduction of an army or workforce as personnel are eliminated through layoffs or hand grenades. I totally see it now. I think about raising my hand to tell the edumacation panel that I finally understand attrition, but, before I can do it, that head guy bangs his gavel (or whatever) again. “Measure passes,” he declares.

The three members of the public who turned out for the meeting gasp in perfect harmony. The superintendent lady is grimacing as though she just swallowed a live centipede. Whatever just happened was fairly significant and damn it all, I missed it.

The meeting continues this way for roughly six hours — although to be fair, meetings in Auburn move along waaaaay quicker than those in Lewiston, where meetings aren’t even started until each councilor has told his or her vacation stories and roughly 300 members of the public are allowed to respond at least twice. Lewiston council meetings last longer than the gestation period of the West Indian manatee.

While these education people are discussing important matters that affect the well-being of your children, my thoughts are wandering to cat fights on the prairie and spitting Army colonels. I’ve taken some notes, but they’re mostly doodles. (This one is a duck smoking a cigarette. See the little curl of smoke rising from his bill?)

A vigorous discussion about the bus contract reminds me of a chilling scene from “Salem’s Lot” in which every kid in every bus seat is a vampire. A debate about the decaying floors and crumbling walls of Edward Little High School reminds me of that time I sneaked onto the roof of Brookside Elementary in Waterville to retrieve a ball and then couldn’t get down again. A vote on the very important matter of the school system’s absentee policy, for one reason or another, makes me think about shepherd’s pie.

Some people like peas in their shepherd’s pie, you know, which is just gross. And who the hell is Shepherd and why did he get a casserole named after him? The French call it pâté chinois, which translates to “don’t put peas in this, American fool!”

Bang goes the gavel (or whatever.) Another measure has passed. Those in the audience get to their feet and thunder applause. Some of them are digging out Bic lighters and waving them back and forth. Holy crap, did I just miss a rock concert?

I think I ended up spending so much time on the crime beat because there’s not a lot of chance for the mind to wander there. When buildings or people are actively on fire, you’re not going to drift off much. If some dude gets shot in the knee, he can usually describe his pain in five words or less. Crime is much more time efficient than city government.

Write that down, it might be important.

I have a short attention span, I guess, an unfortunate result of all those paint-chip sandwiches I enjoyed as a kid. Fortunately, the educationers and other city folk usually are patient with me, explaining each measure in very small words once the meeting is over. Occasionally, they get to talking about certificates of posting and statutory consent agendas and that just reminds me of the thing we did that time with the lawn sprinkler.

But I fear I’ve said too much.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can send your interpretation of statutory consent agenda to mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.