School has begun again and I’m not sure if my brain is going to join me. I’ve been having weird gaffes in my memory. That’s right, I mean gaffe, not gap.
I am remembering the important things like how to get to work and not to wear my underwear on the outside and how to teach without freaking out or cursing like a sailor. I survived the first three days back at school, herding squirrelly kids and marginally vexed parents.
I did, however, misplace a banana.
Our school day is about an hour longer than most other schools and I live a 30 minute drive from the school, so I usually need a snack in the late afternoon so no one has to die. I am making a concerted effort to eat better, so I brought a banana. (I also brought lemon slices to put in my water and to squirt on my salad, but the lemons reached their intended destination. I guess this signifies no prejudice against yellow produce on my part.)
I still don’t know where my banana went.
The school days themselves were fairly uneventful, but I’m still feeling a bit off kilter. Possibly because I’m waiting for the four unicorns of the Apocalypse to appear over the horizon (My Armageddon is more fabulous than yours!).
My Amanda Friend and ventured out to run errands together. One of the tasks we needed to accomplish was to return books to the library. (Amanda is a librarian in another city, so we rarely get to do this.)
I love books, as does Amanda, so this was a pleasant venture. As I scanned the shelves I noticed that the books on how to survive time in prison are nestled cheek to jowl with how to survive standardized testing. Well played, Melvil Dewey, well played.
I was checking out the new fiction and I began to work up a perfectly good grump about Genre Fiction. For those of you who are not book obsessed, Genre Fiction is just another way of classifying types of books. Chick Lit, Mystery, Urban and Christian are a few of the Genres.
I told Amanda that I feel that Genre fiction is just a way for a some book with a personal agenda to lure a reader in under the guise of a mystery or other plot-line and just when you are too invested to turn away, they drop the other shoe right on you.
Amanda didn’t understand why I was getting all het up about it, but it made me think about how sneaky fiction really is. Not to mention fiction writers. (I fancy myself a writer, but I also am very upfront about whatever my weird agenda is.) Case in point: James Patterson occasionally offers a Masters Class for writers. I recently saw an announcement proclaiming that Mr. Patterson was looking for a new ghost writer and he would select one from his roster of students.
I have long suspected that Mr. Patterson has a cadre of minions who help him dole out the reams of words that appear in shiny covers in various parts of the bookstore.
I said as much to Amanda and suggested that taking one of these classes was a good way to find yourself chained up right next to 699 other monkeys and their typewriters pounding out the next mystery or YA novel or romance or whatever else would fly from your paws.
My description included a guess as to what that writer’s room would smell like. This led me to wonder if anyone else would be able to keep up with that particular conversation and Amanda reminded me of another adventure we had that resulted in a narrative about the poo flinging possibilities of monkeys (Coming some from IFC!). Now I’m pondering if monkeys deserve the reputation they have or if just one monkey, one time did that and now they are all tarred with the same (poopy) brush.
I bet they know where their bananas are.
And we’re back