Back to the School Future

by Jason Tudor


Overheard on a Mervyn's clothing rack in 1983 ...


Say, where ya goin', Mom? Just stop right there with your feathered hair and tube top. It's me, corduroy, and I've got something to say. Did I mention I'm corduroy? Oh yeah, and I've seen you circling the store looking for last minute back-to-school bargains like a women who really knows her stuff. I'm it. Let me explain.

First, I know. Your son said he wanted that popular OP brand that all his friends are wearing. He gave you the nod on some 501's. Okay. Fine. Maybe. But look at me for God's sake. Lush. Shiny. Striking. Don't like my tan? My friend is Navy blue. His buddy is Butterscotch. Another is wheat. Still another is dusky rose. We're the Color Me Badd of clothes; a rainbow of corduroy flavor (Oh, I need to write that down!). How could your son NOT like that?

Oh, and did I mention who's wearing me this season? Kirk FREAKING Cameron. That's right! Oh and did I mention Alex FREAKING Keaton aka Michael J. Fox wears cords and a sport coat while he's berating that patsy father of his? Your son couldn't be in cooler company. Those, mommy dearest, are the facts of life and to deny your son two or three pairs of me ... well, gimmie a break.

Now, I know where you're going to go next with your finger on your chin there: the noise. Look, corduroy-clad thighs scraping together in a crowded high school hallway is a sign of dominance; an aural urine territorial marker that swishes, scrapes and smells of good judgment -- and victory. Squint and scrunch your face all you want. I'm a winner.

Now, don't let these red tag placed on green tag placed on yellow tag clearance stickers dissuade you from reality. Seven dollars a pair IS a bargain, but people in France are paying, like, seven times as much. The Japanese aren't just snatching up real estate; they are awash in corduroy pant value. So, tell your son he's making an INTERNATIONAL fashion statement. That I'm on this clearance rack next to these terry cloth shirts with the zippers merely means I'm one step closer to justifying your back-to-school budget.


That's right ... reach out a hand. That's it ... that's ... wait! Where are you going? I just explained that ... what exactly didn't you like about velvet ... I AM A BARGAIN AT TWICE THE PRICE! DENIM IS FOR PINKO COMMIE HIPPY FREAKS!


[Ahem]

Doesn't matter. I'll get the next one. Or the next one after that. Once you go cord, you never go back.


(When Jason Tudor's Thorazine wears off, he's allowed one ball point pen, one-side of one sheet of used bond paper and access to a dictionary. This is one of the things he made. You can discover more of his drug-holiday induced creations on Twitter @jasontudor or his website at www.jasontudor.com)

Boom.

by Bill Mullis

Now that everybody's back in school, it's time to cast our minds back into the depths of time to remember a quieter, gentler age....

It was a quiet day in the spring of my junior year of high school. I was, through no fault of my own, in a college prep program, along with a bunch of kids who were certifiable geniuses. Or, in some cases, simply certifiable.

Two of these guys (let's call them Mark and Ricky) were especially strong in the physical sciences, including, of course, chemistry. They were, in every way, completely respectable young citizens of the Republic, with nary a spot nor blemish to their names. They were, in a word, model students, beloved of parents, teachers, and school administrators.

Until the unfortunate extracurricular project.

Turns out one of them (which one has been lost to the mists of time) got his hands on an old chemistry textbook in the local library, and was astounded to find the formula and detailed instructions for the making of nitroglycerin.

As I understand it, the discoverer called his buddy over and said, "Look at this. Is this for real?"

"No way," said the buddy emphatically. "No way they'd actually put that in a book. It's gotta be fake. They must have left something out."

"No, I think it's real."

So when the compound changed color just the way the instructions said it should, the intrepid duo were suddenly very trepid indeed. They looked at each other over the flask of innocuously amber liquid and, surrounded by the contents of the chemistry lab storeroom they had entered without authorization and used without forethought, very quietly and softly decided to vacate the premises.

They went to the next lab down the hall, where the science teacher was using her lunch period to grade lab notebooks, and poured out their sorry tale. More probably, stammered would be the accurate verb, but I'll try to put the same brave face on it that Mark and Ricky did. The teacher, having spent a long career listening to cock-and-bull stories, listened with the proper amount of jaded skepticism, then asked the appropriate questions the appropriate number of times. She sighed, put down her sandwich and her red marker, and stood.

"Show me," she said.

The first indication the rest of us had that something was amiss was when the fire alarms went off and we evacuated the building. The buildings on either side of us were also cleared. I missed English and History, and didn't even get to see the bomb squad. I understand they were impressed by the purity and the potency of the compound Mark and Ricky produced, since it would have flattened half the school if things hadn't gone as well as they did.

The police detectives weren't nearly as impressed, but once they determined that no actual criminal intent was involved, just plain old-fashioned stupidity, the boys were released to their parents. No charges were filed, but these guys couldn't cough loudly without a police interview for the next hear and a half.

And that's why chemistry lab storerooms are locked up to this day.


Bill Mullis currently spends his days feeling sad because he never got to play with high explosives as a child. You can keep up with his latest antics via The Captain's Log at www.mindovermullis.com.

Image credit: usafa.af.mil