Digital Slob
Curt Brandao
Confrontation is too
much work for slobsAs a group, Digital Slobs abhor confrontation, and any meeting between two people who do not already know each other qualifies as a confrontation.
This is why we go to the Laundromat at 2 a.m. -- so our deflowered delicates will play to an empty room.
It takes a lot to draw us out. But if an authority figure commands us to take anything other than the easy way out "for our own good," Digital Slobs can summon up the kind of spiteful courage movie director Michael Bay tries to capture in super slow-motion as a guitar riff strums in the background.
Rightly or wrongly, my first such stand came during my junior year in high school, the week we sat down with our counselors to plan the next year's classes. What had been a formality the last two years quickly became an audit of my soul.
As I saw it, I had taken all the required maths and needed only one science credit to graduate. So, I checked off "Physical Science," also known as the "trees are made of wood" class. But my counselor said that, because I showed promise as a freshman, I couldn't demote myself to join the football team in the academic kiddie pool (even though the entire offensive line called me "Professor Curt" in Consumer Math because I could convert 25 percent to a fraction without even lifting a pencil -- ah, I loved those guys).
Instead, she said, I had to take chemistry. But you couldn't take that unless you had passed, or were also enrolled in, Algebra II, which -- surprise, surprise -- I had also sidestepped.
Rather than cower and apologize (my standard one-two punch), I did what I'd seen my mother do to clerks at the Kmart return counter for the last 16 years. I said, "Let me speak to your manager."
So in walked "Ms. M," the principal, a cross between Darth Vader and Nurse Ratched. Since my high school was 1,600 students strong, I'd survived three years deep in the herd never singled out by Ms. M. Still, there we both were, and only one of our reputations preceded us.
As we stood, she skimmed a printout of my academic history and said, "No, Mr. Bran-DAY-o, you'd have a hard time proving to me that you tried as hard as you could in these classes." Of course, she was right, but since I've spent my life trying to get people to pronounce my name like Marlon Brando, and not the way Harry Belafonte sings the "Banana Boat Song," it was time for Michael Bay to cue my quick-zoom close-up and over-the-top macho guitar riff.
"Well, Ms. M," I began, straining against the lump in my throat, "since you don't know me well enough to even pronounce my name correctly, I really doubt you possess the insight to make such a snap judgment about my academic career."
The last thing I remember was my counselor's eyes tripling in size as she stepped back from Ms. M, who made it clear I was now firmly in hell and my range of movement was limited to fearful trembles as she ground my backbone into a fine powder.
Inexplicably, however, she let me live, and my backbone regenerated a few days later. It seemed I was going to be lazy even if it meant the end of me, so I called the school board, which forced Ms. M to let me cheat myself out of a better education. Once I broke the dam, my fellow underachieving upperclassmen poured into Physical Science behind me, and I rode into my senior year on their shoulders.
Well, I'm sure they would've put me on their shoulders, anyway, if it wasn't such hard work.
Curt Brandao is the Star-Bulletin's
production editor. Reach him at
at: cbrandao@starbulletin.com