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My Movie Continues: The Privileged Few...

My movie continues.

Anyway back to the school. The principal was a real ass hole. I am sure in his movie he was the hero or the savior. In mine, he was a prick. He was the kind of guy that pulled my sister in to his office at the mature age of 8, and told her to sign a confession of misbehavior and a follow up contract as to the repercussions for further disregard of lunchroom policies. But my father had taught his kids well. My sister appropriately replied to villainous disciplinarian, that she “cannot sign these documents, I am a minor and will need my lawyer to review them.” She was eight years old. This had much to do with my fathers attempting to prepare his kids for the real world right out of the womb. But this preparation was an uphill battle with many headwinds.

There were a couple of hotties or as I we would refer to them today as M.I.L.Fs at the “Yeshiva”. I am pretty sure my fourth grade teacher was smoking hot. If I was wrong, I would prefer to hold onto that memory. I do remember she drove a 70’s Corvette. That was pretty hot too. But for the most part, the teachers looked like characters out of a Tim Burton nightmare cartoon movie.

Couple of other visuals as the credits continue to roll across the screen. There’s me and my mom shopping for clothing at Bambergers. It no longer exists, but it was like the Nordstroms of the 70’s just much lower class. The truth is, we were all lower class in the 70’s and early eighty’s. Modern upper class, the Nuevo Riche didn’t begin to evolve until the late eighties. So perhaps Bambergers then was like Kohls today, but Kohls then was like Nordstroms today. Stay with my trend of thought here. It was supposed to be some kind of privilege to shop at Bambergers, or maybe not, but every time she bought clothing for me, I seem to remember hearing how thankful I should be that I have clothing on my back and that we get to shop in a store like Bambergers. When that shit gets drilled into your mind enough, you start to actually believe you are amongst the privileged few. In fact, as a kid you dramatically misinterpret those statements. I thought it was a signal to me, to walk amongst the masses, my classmates, camp friends, teachers and any authoritarian, as if I was special, a “chosen one” to exist for some special reason amongst the privileged ones. Man, was I F**k’n Brain washed. My whole fricking school was brain wahed because we were all told these things. A whole community of f**ked up kids growing up in a bubble. Now here is the real irony. I have a theory as to why that community, that generation of Jewish parents brainwashed a generation of kids to walk into the modern secular world believing they were a privileged group.  Because…..ready for this?……..they were right, or at least they were right from their perspective. They were a whole generation brought up to believe that they were lucky to be alive. They were brought up by families, who were basically all in one way or another devastated by the Holocaust. I mean, they either witnessed or knew that their parents had watched over a third of their people be murdered through systematic genocide as the entire world sat by and watched. Our generation’s parents really were the “CHOSEN ONES”. They were the ones chosen to live. In those days, success meant breathing the next day. Not a vacation home and sports car. Our parents were right. We were a privileged generation, living in our own bubble. Privileged to be of this generation and not the one that was nearly wiped out by Nazi death camps. Privileged to be alive.

And out into the world we all went. As F**ked up as could be and completely ill prepared for the insanity and struggles of real life. My father did his best to prepare me. But ultimately these things can only be fixed by proper medication. Through Lexapro eyes can one truly see the word. Through Clonazpan ears can one really hear the world. And through Tamazapam hands can one really touch the world. Throw in some yoga and everything is fixed.

The Movie continues……………………………………..

Final opening credits soon coming to an end.

Pan in on 70’s style brick building on Airmont road.

Doctors office, cough, “wait out here son”, some sort of old time crank, operated a silent video machine in the waiting room. You turn a handle and
it moves slides in a metal box with a viewer. The slides move fast enough to make it appear like a motion picture. Something out of the 50’s. This was what a kid had at his disposal while waiting a half hour for the doctor to “see you”. No Itouch, no cell phone to text your BFF, and no Nintendo DS or Game boy.

Have a lollipop. “He will be fine”, “just a couple of days in bed. School? Oh, no school for him, just rest.”  Yeah baby. Sweetest thing a doctor ever said. “No School”. I couldn’t believe it worked. How is it possible that I could fake this doctor out each and every time? I wasn’t sick. But I must have been a privileged gifted child actor.

Now I could go home get into bed and think about my fourth grade hottie teacher as I watched wheel of fortune all afternoon. One of the privileged few.

Disclosure: None.