(During which the author suspects ruin is imminent.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 16, 2009 01:15pm | Post a Comment

The "homework feeling." That’s what I’ve got.

It started when I was a kid. It would be after school, and I was finally at home. The sense of relief was huge, because I hated school. Every school day was something to survive – forget about excelling.

Not that I attended schools that were innately dangerous, mind you. In fact, my Ma made sure, humble means or no, that I went to private, reputable institutions. But my antipathy was unconditional. I have the test scores to prove it.

Having finished a day of school there still remained, however, a most evil of responsibilities: that heinous curse, homework.

It haunted me every hour I didn’t do it. Whether I was watching You Can’t Do That On Television, or making my culinary invention – Sweet, Scrambled Pancakes* – or writing cry-for-help puppet shows, there was always that voice in the back of my mind reminding me in a chiding tone that I had homework.

I pretty much never did homework. No amount of privileges revoked, respect lost, or threats of future failure could convince me to do a sheet of fractions. Heck, the homework could have been to sit in a chair and clap twice – I would have found a way to avoid doing it.

To this day, most any time I’m not actively doing something responsible and productive, I feel guilty, or like I’m forgetting something important and, as a result, my life will be sent into a furious, downward spiral. I know it’s neurotic, but all it takes is two hours of enjoying listening to music and daydreaming for me to worry that I’ll be living in a rotted cardboard box by Tuesday.

This is what happens if you procrastinate watering the plants.

Since I’ve been transferring my vinyl collection into MP3 format with my new (superior quality at low cost) turntable from Amoeba Music, I get the homework feeling all the time. It’s simply too much fun I’m having – clearly I must be wallowing in sin.

And yet, even as I record the b-side to my LP compilation of Swedish pop from the 60’s, here I am, writing my blog like a good boy. Granted, this hasn’t been much of a music/movie blog entry – it’s more of a cheap form of therapy, really.

I don’t know where to go with all this. This wasn’t a thought-through article as much as it was me telling you how I feel right now. Perhaps it’s not appropriate? But after what we’ve shared, you and I, I feel as though I can let my guard down and just be myself. Our love is that strong.

Besides, it keeps me from editing the synopsis I’m due to turn in next week.

*The recipe for my Scrambled Pancakes was more or less as follows:

Prepare Bisquick© brand pancake batter as directed, except to ADD about ¾ cup of             honey. Yes, that much. I did say they were sweet.
In a skillet, melt a cube of butter. Listen, it’s nothing Elvis wouldn’t do, and if it’s good         enough for the King…
Pour entire amount of batter into skillet and cook, continuously scraping pan as you             would when cooking scrambled eggs.
When batter resembles a pile of pastry dough with multiple sclerosis, it’s done!
Garnish with MORE honey and butter!

Do not attempt to drive after eating. Or going outside. Or doing anything other than sitting in front of the TV watching You Can’t Do That On Television. You’ll be digesting this for days.

I invented this recipe when I was eight.

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