When I was little, I adored art class. The crayons, the construction paper, Elmer's glue and, oh yeah, the markers. Those markers. The ones that kill brain cells and highify you. It's especially potent when 30 little scribblers are drawing in a closed classroom. People say pot is the "gateway drug." Wrong. It turns out it's markers (or possibly ice cream). And that would make teachers either dealers or stoners. I prefer to think of my second grade teacher as a stoner.
I'm thinking somewhere along the line, a parent got upset over the glassy-eyed stare of their little artist (and possibly offended by the Pink Floyd-like artwork that was produced) and complained to someone, somewhere. Now, instead of markers and art class, people use ritalin and whatnot. Markers are more fun.
Moral of today's story: I'm not creative during April and early May (four concerts and eight rehearsals to go in the next nine days).
An Erinku:
marker of
goodness
away
gone away
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