re-written/re-posted 6:51pm, 12/11/07
(note: I wrote this about two years ago, as part of my “Worst Years In Music: 1988” entry. Eventually, I’ll make a podcast, and that’ll be the pilot episode, because it’s seriously the funniest thing I ever wrote. However, this morning, as I sat at the Boston Convention Center registering young professional women for the Massachusetts Conference for Women, my ears perked up as that infamous song wafted o’er the pleasant but sterile architecture through the Muzak, and it reminded me of writing this, and I’m proud enough of it to post it all over again.)
This Is the Story of Why I Suffer A Mild Panic Attack Whenever I Hear “Get Out Of My Dreams, Get Into My Car” by Billy Ocean.”
By Andy Hicks
(originally published on geekusa.wordpress.com)
When I was eight, my parents got kind of fed up with having to come down to Robinson Elementary School every day to remove their child’s head from the loo, so it was decided that I would try Catholic school on for size. I lasted one year – third grade, which is why I write cursive in the Palmer method but couldn’t recite the Apostle’s Creed if my life depended on it.
One fine day, I was sitting in Mrs. M_____’s homeroom at Notre Dame Academy in Tyngsboro one morning. She was running late, which basically meant that you had twenty unsupervised third graders going all Lord Of The Flies all over the damn place. One of those rapscallions was a young gent we’ll call Tim.
Tim was one of those scary hyperactive kids who thrived on making life horrible. His best friend was this absolute asshole named John. Now, before we go on, I should point out that, yes, kids are cruel; no, it’s probably not fair that I’m using such language to describe a nine year old, and; yes, I’m over it.
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