Okay, so this is the book I'm reading right now. It's a HILARIOUS memoir by Wendy Burden who just happens to belong to that fantastically rich and famous family … the Vanderbilts. Anywho, I am halfway through it and I’ve literally busted a gut from laughing out loud. She tells the story from the viewpoint of her 8 year old self and even though she grew up with fabulous wealth and I grew up on Manzanar Avenue just east of East L.A., I totally “get her.” She was a weird little kid who was obsessed with Wednesday of the Addams Family and morbidly interested in all things related to death. Her memories of the 1960’s might as well be mine ... everything from PF Flyers and Easy Bake Ovens to Honey West and her pet leopard.
So ... having gone down "Memory Lane" with Miss Wendy, I thought I'd share some of my childhood recollections from the 1960's ...
My first grade teacher was Miss Socash. She was young and pretty and blond and like most authority figures in my life, I irritated the shit outta her. One afternoon during "Art Time" Miss Socash instructed the class to draw something that was "funny" ... 
you know like a clown or something like that. I drew a drunken hobo with bloodshot eyes holding a bottle with XXX on it. I thought it was hilarious. Miss Socash did not. I knew this because she burned a hole in me with her eyes, convinced I'm sure, that I was going to grow up to be a stripper or a kleptomaniac. Even then I knew I had a sophisticated sense of humor.
Ever the loudmouthed class clown I was horribly obnoxious and probably half of my teachers wanted to throttle me, however the few that "got me" have my everlasting respect because I think they knew that I was really an adult stuck in a kid's body. I never liked school, didn't like being told what to do or made to conform to some stupid teacher's idea of what I should be. To this day I think school should be outlawed because all school does is crush the spirit of all special and quirky kids who do not fit into the correct boxes. If I ran the world school would be pass or fail. No A's or B's or D's EVER. Individuality and creativity would be encouraged and not quashed and being a loud mouthed class clown would make you an honor student.
1965 ...
I'm in the fourth grade with my cousin Eddie. Our teacher is Mrs. Faraca (you may recall me blogging about her in previous posts wherein I refer to her as "Mrs. Faraca the caca").
Every morning I would spin myself round and round trying to make myself throw up so I didn't have to go to school -- this is how much I hated Mrs. Faraca. I think she was a closet schizophrenic. At least once a day she would completely lose her shit in class and go off on a screaming tirade. She terrified the fuck outta me ... eyes a bulging and veins a popping. I couldn't imagine that she actually had offspring of her own. Do you know that bitch gave me nothing but D's the entire year I was in her class! I hope she's dead now.
1966 ...
My fifth grade teacher was Mr. James. I LOVED Mr. James. He had a head that was shaped like a perfect triangle and when he yawned he never opened his mouth ... he'd suppress his yawn by pressing his fist to his mouth ... his nose and checks would flare out so red and wide that I was certain his face was going to burst like a balloon. That's like sneezing without closing your eyes ... (amazingly, I have mastered this technique which I taught myself after having sneezed one too many times with wet masca
ra).
I still remember what Mr. James said about inflation. He said that one day it would take a wheel barrow full of money to buy a loaf of bread AND he taught us how to follow the stock market. YES. IN THE FIFTH GRADE! We had to bring in our newspapers and pick a company to follow and he taught us how to read the stock reports. Mr. James gets an A-okay in my book.
Mr. Sherman was my sixth grade teacher and the spitting image of Peter Lawford. I LOVED MR. SHERMAN. For those of you born after 1980, Peter Lawford was a movie star of some note in the 40's and 50's who went on to marry President Kennedy's sister and was a member of Sinatra's "Rat Pack". He was debonair, and tanned, and grey at the temples, just like Mr. Sherman. Mr. Sherman was what I called "a swinger" and I had a mad, mad crush on him. He once kissed my hand in class and my heart was his forever.
Once, when I spent the night 
at Becky Mendoza's house, we found his name in the phone book and called him up. He was nice enough at first but them I kept on yakking and yakking ... I'm sure he thought I was a huge pain in the ass but being 11 years old and love being blind and all that I just couldn't tell. I mistook his nicknames for me (Blab and Slim) as confirmation of his fondness for me (sort of like a reverse teachers pet thing) ... but then he also used to tell me that I had Diarreah of the Mouth ... hardly professions of love but the way I looked at it, I was HIS diarreah of the mouth.
ggo!! Do you think he's jealous? Do you think he's reached out through the ether and "caught me" cheating? Can you blame me?! He doesn't write, he doesn't call, he doesn't visit me in the library of my dreams. What am I supposed to do??? I'm so torn. I NEED DIRECTION!!!! 
ggo!! Do you think he's jealous? Do you think he's reached out through the ether and "caught me" cheating? Can you blame me?! He doesn't write, he doesn't call, he doesn't visit me in the library of my dreams. What am I supposed to do??? I'm so torn. I NEED DIRECTION!!!! 
