(no subject)
Ok, seems that I am now the victim of a near-full blown flu, which sucks monkey balls. I still made it to school though and since I had quite a lot time to spare today I figured I would get a lot of homework done. It took me two full hours to form this in my head and I just feel so sluggish, but some of you may enjoy this.
We were to write a description of a person and this is my junior high school (Hogstadiet) music teacher. Its the honest to god truth and I have even skipped some disturbing details about him!
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Recollection of a High School nightmare - “The music teacher”.
By Marcus Stendahl.
How does one explain that music teachers all seem to be originals? I went to what would be the equivalent of Junior High school in the mid-80’s and it felt like all teachers were originals, yet the musical teachers stood out, even for them.
I recall one of these teachers. His face was filled with creases that would make a bulldog frown with jealousy. At the corner of his eyes, wrinkles were displayed prominently like not so fine cracks in an ancient marble statue. He always tried to be clean shaven and seemed to go for the look of Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. He would have pulled it off if Mr. Eastwood would have had the skin complexion of a doughnut that had mated with a 300 year old prune. My music teacher was maybe 45, but could easily have passed for ten or fifteen years older. He did not age like a fine wine one can easily state.
His hair was the color of hay at the height of summer; rye blonde, yet at the same time he had an unnatural tint towards bright yellow. No doubt the shoulder-length blond curly locks he prominently displayed came by the help of a peroxide bottle and careful application of a curling iron.
He often wore any of a number of button-down shirt that all shared the same trait, they had all seen the inside of a washing machine way to many times, tumbling round like on a carousel until you have had enough and all that remains is the pale reality that it may be time to move on to regain some color and sense. Yet the shirts covered his body up, which was a great relief since we then had an easier time avoiding staring at the corset he always wore. A corset that strained against the pale shirts, hoping to one day escape and - like Mel Gibson portraying William Wallace- join in the cry of “Freedom!” We all lived in horror of that day, knowing for sure that we would go blind from whatever we would be exposed too.
His pants were the height of fashion a decade past; always white or beige, (pale off course!) very tight around the midsection and upper thighs and then generously creating a large cone from slightly below the knees down to the foot, thus creating a good amount of space for his golden high-heeled shoes to swish around. Never has a man moved so spectacularly on high heels, swaying back and forth and putting his hips into the swing, creating the illusion of the Pillsbury doughboy on glitter stilts.
As he would pass you by the scent of his old stale perfume would overpower you, the smell of old perfume covered up by more freshly applied cheap perfume, creating a macabre dance of near deadly scents that would assault all your senses and while your eyes were busy watering up, would assault your nostrils and make you long to escape the classroom while indeed joining Wallace in the cry of “Freedom!”
We were to write a description of a person and this is my junior high school (Hogstadiet) music teacher. Its the honest to god truth and I have even skipped some disturbing details about him!
---------------------------------------------------------------
Recollection of a High School nightmare - “The music teacher”.
By Marcus Stendahl.
How does one explain that music teachers all seem to be originals? I went to what would be the equivalent of Junior High school in the mid-80’s and it felt like all teachers were originals, yet the musical teachers stood out, even for them.
I recall one of these teachers. His face was filled with creases that would make a bulldog frown with jealousy. At the corner of his eyes, wrinkles were displayed prominently like not so fine cracks in an ancient marble statue. He always tried to be clean shaven and seemed to go for the look of Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. He would have pulled it off if Mr. Eastwood would have had the skin complexion of a doughnut that had mated with a 300 year old prune. My music teacher was maybe 45, but could easily have passed for ten or fifteen years older. He did not age like a fine wine one can easily state.
His hair was the color of hay at the height of summer; rye blonde, yet at the same time he had an unnatural tint towards bright yellow. No doubt the shoulder-length blond curly locks he prominently displayed came by the help of a peroxide bottle and careful application of a curling iron.
He often wore any of a number of button-down shirt that all shared the same trait, they had all seen the inside of a washing machine way to many times, tumbling round like on a carousel until you have had enough and all that remains is the pale reality that it may be time to move on to regain some color and sense. Yet the shirts covered his body up, which was a great relief since we then had an easier time avoiding staring at the corset he always wore. A corset that strained against the pale shirts, hoping to one day escape and - like Mel Gibson portraying William Wallace- join in the cry of “Freedom!” We all lived in horror of that day, knowing for sure that we would go blind from whatever we would be exposed too.
His pants were the height of fashion a decade past; always white or beige, (pale off course!) very tight around the midsection and upper thighs and then generously creating a large cone from slightly below the knees down to the foot, thus creating a good amount of space for his golden high-heeled shoes to swish around. Never has a man moved so spectacularly on high heels, swaying back and forth and putting his hips into the swing, creating the illusion of the Pillsbury doughboy on glitter stilts.
As he would pass you by the scent of his old stale perfume would overpower you, the smell of old perfume covered up by more freshly applied cheap perfume, creating a macabre dance of near deadly scents that would assault all your senses and while your eyes were busy watering up, would assault your nostrils and make you long to escape the classroom while indeed joining Wallace in the cry of “Freedom!”