APB...The Sweet Pickle Bus

Remember this thing? Remember how even when it was new, it looked beaten up and old as hell? But a lot of kids learned to read from this thing, so good on you Sweet Pickle Bus.

(FYI: I guess some people are now naming their Party/Stripper Buses after the books, so if you do a Google search, know it ain't all SFW.)

The Last Class Picture

Does this look familiar? It does to me.  My daughter brings home a picture just like it every year.  My brother and I did too, and so did our folks before that. At some point, like a lot of parents, I'll find them, jammed in a drawer, covered by a tangle of wires for devices we tossed out long ago.  WIFE and I will take them and hold them. We'll sit, put them together, and marvel at how much MONSTA has grown in what will surely seem like almost no time at all.  

But this one is different.  It may not look it, but it is.  This picture is of 15 kids, all the same age as my kid, who were gunned down by a guy out of his head and stocked like a small army. This is their last class picture.  When their parents find it hiding in a deep, forgotten drawer, it will be alone.  For these children, there will be no more class pictures.  

I've tried hard to avoid looking at these faces. I pretended that like the other stories of tragedy, this too would be pushed from my memory by the million things vying for its attention. But it's not happening. This isn't going away.  My daughter is a first grader, and my wife is a school teacher.  And two years ago, we lost a beautiful, but too fragile, newborn baby. Sandy Hook has made a deeply profound and heartbreaking impact on me, and I'm not sure when that will pass.  But I think of their parents, and am quietly grateful knowing that for me, it will.  

Here's all I ask: take a close look.  Please.  Then look at your own kid, or nephew, or friend's kid.  See if you can't make out some resemblance. No matter where you come from, I bet you'll see at least some similarity. Then, when you get a chance, ask yourself: "Is this really the best we can do?"

PLEASE DON'T FEED THE MAMA GRIZZLIES

If I wasn't a real parent already, I am now.  WIFE and I just got back from our first PTA meeting.  Because MONSTA goes to a charter school, the group is actually called a PTO, but if you think I waited this long to join the PTO, think again.  I'm calling it PTA, and if someone has a problem, they can stick it in their sub-committee. 

People like WIFE and I join the PTA because we want to make sure the school is as strong as possible.  After all, it's got the crucial task of making sure MONSTA isn't dumb.  If she turns out dumb, then she lives at home forever, which means even longer before I'm free to walk around in my custom-made birthday suit.  So yeah - I got a stake in it.  But how long I can stand this group is anyone's guess.  I can't imagine a better example of why government doesn't work than the PTA.  If I'm ever become a libertarian, they're to blame.  

Today, in our first meeting - a mere 8 days into the school year - things got HE-TED!  First, folks come late.  Alright.  We all get settled, squished onto these tiny lunch tables, and as I naively expected, the meeting begins smoothly.  After all, we're here for a common purpose. We're here to help.  We're here for...the children. 

But this is a group of humans, shut in all summer with their insane children, waiting out Hurri-Quakes, and watching CNN.  I should have known better. With pleasantries out the window, some lady starts pushing us to vote on giving 800 clams to an unknown gym teacher so he can buy uniforms for an after-school football...er...FLAG football team.  I'm sorry, but everybody knows that if you're gonna ask for a vote on budgetary matters, that ish has gotta be on the AGENDA!  Pedestrian, y'all.  It did not get better.  

Some lady, who I'm sure had Dr. Phil on DVR, gets angry about her son being penalized for not bringing a stapler to class. But instead of contacting the school ("I won't give them the satisfaction!"), she tells the now powerless PTA-chair to "investigate." Then the talking stick gets passed to someone else who is pissed that her son wasn't placed in the class he was "promised." She's got one kid running around the meeting, and another in her arms, and still has the focus to confront the principle, who until now had been coolly observing from the doorway. From the cheap seats, someone insinuated that maybe, you know, 'cause he's SIX, her son got it wrong about which teacher he was assigned to, AND that's when people started to leave.  

I hadn't thought about until today, but if Crazy Sarah Palin is looking to recruit for her "Mama Grizzly" campaign, Queens might be a good place to start.