The Delights Of Tormenting Your Carpool Victims.
By Tom Danehy
I'M A DAD. I drive carpool. If this were Jeopardy,
that would be the answer, and the question would be, "How
does one put 80,000 miles on a Honda in less than four years?"
Two or three times a week each, I take my son to one school and
my daughter to another. It's cool. I get to stack books and newspapers
in one corner of the back seat, squeeze three or four kids in,
yell at them to buckle up, and then drive the same boring route
I've driven eight billion times. There are benefits, however.
I get to use the time to humiliate my kids in front of their friends.
And their friends in front of my kids.
There's this one girl in particular, my daughter Darlene's friend
Courtney, whom I take particular delight in tormenting. The poor
kid has target written all over her. Nice kid, takes honors classes
with Darlene, plays softball, band drum major, and a vegetarian.
I could drive her to school in Pakistan and not run out of material.
I spent a year dogging her for her vegetarianism. She was in
danger of getting a "B" in this one class; I told her
that pork chops increased brain activity. It's always worked that
way for me. Whenever I eat pork chops, I automatically start thinking
more, although it's mostly about bacon.
Courtney has stuck with it so far. I clipped out an article about
how the dude who was the editor of Vegetarian Times magazine
went back to eating meat, saying, "Twenty years of tofu is
an awful long time."
Hey, 20 seconds of tofu is an eternity.
She even convinced me to try vegetarianism, claiming that just
a couple weeks away from meat would change my life. It did. It
made me think about adding dog and cat to my normal diet of beef,
pork, turkey, fish and chicken. I went seven weeks and thought
about fried chicken every single day.
This year Courtney is the assistant Band Nazi. That's one of
the two people who stand up with their backs to the football crowd
directing all the little Hitler Youth as to where to go when they
play their show tunes. (Darlene is in her second year as part
of the Hitler Youth, claiming that taking a full load of honors
classes and playing four sports wasn't fulfilling enough for her.)
I told Courtney she should write a book about her experiences,
maybe call it The Dos and Don'ts of "Ready Begin!"
Anyway, Courtney is very '90s, very hip and informed. Her mom,
Chris, who apparently was very '70s, very hip and informed, has
turned out a very intelligent child. That makes Courtney much
more fun to pick on.
Courtney is especially strong on feminist issues. She hates it
when I agree with her on most things. I told her I was a supporter
of Title IX since Day One. I explained to her that when I was
the editor of the Daily Wildcat on the UA campus, I used
to get hate mail saying I was wasting space covering women's sports.
Fortunately for her, we don't agree on everything. Title IX is
great. The use of the word "womyn" ain't gonna fly.
Same for "herstory." Lighten up, Courtney. Get out of
Antigone and go find a bookstore with a humor section.
Courtney and I had settled into a lull period recently until
she hit me with a biggie. She and her fellow Band Nazi, a nice
young lady named Megan Goudschal, think that the marching band
should split the gate receipts with the football team. She even
wrote a paper about it for a class.
Boy, I'll bet that paper made the rounds at the faculty lounge
before being handed back. See, we're not just talking any football
team; this is the Amphi By-God Panther football team. You don't
mess with the Panthers; you don't mess with their gate receipts.
This ain't Sabino, where they hold celebrity Booster Club golf
tournaments and raise a hundred grand. This is Amphi, where they
hold let's-wash-some-cars-so-we-can-all-have-matching-jerseys
fundraisers.
She told me this idea one day when we were on the way to school.
I immediately pulled over and asked her if she had climbed Mount
Everest lately. She asked why and I told her she was displaying
classic symptoms of hypoxia, a temporary delusional state caused
by a deficiency of oxygen in the system.
(Yeah, I read Into Thin Air. So what? I knew that word
before I read the book, mostly because I'd read the article in
Outside on which the book was based.)
She was serious, though. She said the band works just as hard
as the football team does to get ready for Friday nights; they
should share in the financial rewards (to help defray the costs
of traveling to band competitions and the like).
I listened to her argument, then told her she was nuts. I knew
I shouldn't have said that, since she was sitting directly behind
me and I couldn't see her in the mirror. I suddenly flashed on
Leon Trotsky taking a pickax in the back of the skull. I decided
to take a different approach.
I said that band is cool and I know everybody works hard. They're
out there in the August heat and the December freeze. They do
a great job. But make no mistake: Nobody pays to see the band
march. Nobody. Ask your parents. They're there to see the
game and they have the added bonus of having something to watch
during the 20 minutes between the second and third quarters.
She disagreed, but I pressed on. The only way people would show
up on a Friday night to watch bands is if the two schools' bands
were fighting. Now that would be cool. I can hear the announcer:
"The Dorados' drum line is charging up the middle, but the
Panthers are countering with a flanking movement by the horn section.
It's a titanic clash. Clarinets and body parts are flying everywhere.
Oh, the humanity."
Now that I'd pay to see. Heck, the football team would pay to
see that. But I'd insist that my daughter go into battle with
a full flute and not just a piccolo.
Courtney just got her driver's license. For some unknown reason,
she announced she'll soon be leaving the carpool.
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