Tim explains Mrs Schmidt

(and other fascinating people from Westwood Elementary School)

Oh, my dear readers, as you are already well aware: Tim Bandelow and I spent a lot of time together as kids. Summers were always brilliant because we got to spend an absolutely ridiculous amount of time in each other’s company.

I’m going to say that it was probably the summer of 1977. Yes, that sounds about right. We were crossing the bridge from the fourth grade to the fifth grade by attending West Geauga Day Camp; learning crafts, going swimming and basically wreaking havoc in the lives of Mark (“Kram” according to the t-shirt he wore) and the other counsellors who supervised us during the days at said camp. The beleaguered Mrs Bandelow (and I only say that because I realise in hindsight that we were little terrors to her) would collect us after a long day of chaos and crafts and take us back to Chez Bandelow for even more chaos (and knock-off Hostess cakes) while I waited for my folks to get home from work.

On one particular day, Mrs Bandelow had to run a few errands before going home and Tim and I still had a considerable amount of fuel left in our tanks, which made the ride home quite a noisy slice of hell for her. I don’t even know how we got on the subject of the put-upon ladies who supervised us at school, but we were there and Tim was off and running. He talked about the cafeteria supervisors, Mrs Roberts and Mrs Redford, and how we all liked Mrs Roberts, who was really good-natured, fun and knew how to interact with the kids. Imagine if you will a younger, really cute and dimpled version of Rosanne Barr (not suggesting that Ms Barr hasn’t turned out shockingly well for her age, but I digress) walking the floors of the cafeteria and smiling and joking with the children of Westwood Elementary. Now, imagine if you will a crusty old sailor of a woman whose permanent scowl earned her the reputation as “the mean one”. She with her salt and pepper hair, crossed arms and slow shuffle suggested that this was not someplace she wanted to be, but that she was probably serving out some prison sentence for committing unforgivable crimes of dourness against humanity. Of course, Tim made the commentaries to these observations even more hilarious that I could articulate, so there we were, in the backseat of Mrs Bandelow’s car, laughing hysterically as she cast judgment upon us two naughty boys. We continued to cackle at our own massive hilarity as she exited the car, went into Rogers supermarket to pick up a few things and returned ten minutes later. We were still laughing.

Mrs Bandelow had to make one last stop before heading home, so in the two miles between Chester Plaza and the post office (Allen Kowalcyk’s grandfather’s post office, if you recall), Tim gets on the topic of Mrs Schmidt, one of the playground monitors. Oh, poor Mrs Schmidt! Where do I begin? Mrs Schmidt was a very large older woman who had salt and pepper hair that was pulled back into a long, greasy ponytail. She often wore blue polyester slacks, tennis shoes, a red plaid shirt and a dark blue windbreaker. She also accessorised herself with a coach’s whistle, copious amounts of dandruff and crusty green teeth.

Tim’s description of Mrs Schmidt had us in tears, rolling in the backseat of the car, holding our sides for fear of splitting from sheer laughter. Mrs Bandelow was not amused in the least. We pulled into one of the three parking spaces next to the two-storey brick building that was the post office and the apartment Allen shared with his mother and brother, Todd. Mrs Bandelow said she’d be right back and she was. Unfortunately for her, she came back to what appeared to be an empty car as Tim and I had laughed ourselves right into the foot-wells of the backseat. She opened the door and called for us. Struggling to catch our breath, we hoisted ourselves out of the foot-wells, hugging the headrests of the seats ahead of us and proceeded to start laughing even harder.

“Now what’s so funny,” Tim’s mother demanded to know.

Still struggling to catch his breath, Tim managed to squeak out, “you know when cows go poo…hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hooooo...?” He proceeded to laugh even harder and I think I was possibly on the verge of hysterical vomiting at that moment. Anyhow, we managed to compose ourselves for a brief moment as he tried to explain why he said what he said. “Well, there was one day at the end of the school year when the doors were open at both ends of the school. Mrs Schmidt was standing at the south end and we were at the north end and you couldn’t really see her ‘cos it was so bright outside, but you could certainly smell her!” We erupted into laughter and possibly some accidental farting.

“Timmy, that’s not nice or funny! You boys are horrible.” Mrs Bandelow’s voice trailed off in disgust, though I’m pretty sure Mr Bandelow would’ve disagreed with her.

Tim, as usual, was determined to have the last word, so between giggles he said, “hey… hey, mom! D’you… d’you know what’s horrible?” I couldn’t see her face, but I assume Mrs Bandelow was rolling her eyes at this point. Tim continued, “what’s horrible... is the way Mrs Schmidt smells!”

Of course, that was the most horrible thing of all, and so we laughed all the way home!

Sometimes what you are trying to say isn't what you are saying at all...

My friend Marnie was my bestie during my band years. She was married to the leader of our little band at the time and we always had fun together... and got into loads of trouble. It was a bit ridiculous. We were always at various dinners for business or dining with host families who supported our music and we usually sat together because we were the silly ones. She knew a little French and tried to speak whenever she could. I was quasi-fluent and did the best I could even if certain Parisian shopkeepers didn't want to have any of it. Anyhow... the chef prepared this amazing dinner and she just couldn't eat what was left on her plate and didn't want it to go to waste. Everyone was involved in conversations, so Marnie wasn't being heard when she was offering the remaining food on her plate to the others attendees. I happened to hear her saying 'something', so I turned around. I saw her pointing down at her plate, but from everyone else's vantage point, it looked like she was pointing at her lap. She innocently kept looking around the table and saying "Attention! Attention! Mange moi? Mange moi?" I quietly and firmly told her to stop doing that. She asked why, said she didn't want her food to go to waste and thought someone would want it. I told her that was fine, but what she was really doing made it look like she was pointing to her crotch and inviting everyone to eat her. Needless to say, she knocked that shit off quickly.

Oh, when we were young...

"We like the (Star Wars) prequels better than the original films..."

All right, so now that I've got your attention, we can just get on with this. When I say "we" I don't mean "me and Lou"; Lou thinks they are OK, while, as you probably already know, they factor in some order, all of which before "Return of the Jedi", which I sorta hate.

Anyhow, we were visiting our friends, Mark and Sarah, a couple weeks ago and they informed me that they had gone through and watched all of the Star Wars films on blu-ray for the first time. Mark had seen at least two of the original films when they were originally released and his wife had not seen any of them; they were pretty much look at the saga with a fresh perspective. We'd only been there for about 20 minutes and were noshing on some lovely appetizers and enjoying some wine when they told me they had just seen the films in a marathon viewing. Mark and Sarah really love films, good films, so I was interested to hear their take on the saga. I mean, these are people who live at the Cleveland International Film Festival.

Immediately after making their announcement, Mark asked me, "so, why do people hate the prequels so much?" Wow, um... how long do you have? I was going to answer as "people" and not as myself since I don't completely hate every aspect of them. I told them that people didn't think there was good character development and that even the best actors came off rather badly; that the stuff about trade embargoes and the politics just seemed a bit convoluted, boring and dragged down the action and story; that there was Jar Jar Binks and there you go. I asked them what they thought about them.

What my friends had to say next was shocking, to say the least. "Actually, we like the prequels better than the original films." Really? I have never heard anyone say that with such conviction and authority. Well, I think that may be because everyone I have met who has seen the series kinda grew up on them and like the originals better. I needed to follow that up with, "really? Better? I'm really interested to know why you liked them so much."

Here's the list in brief:

1. There was actually more of a plot than the original films: We saw the rise of a mid-level politician who eventually became the Emperor. We witnessed how he put things into play, which created a domino effect that started a war which put him into power. The Jedi had to investigate all these things, not knowing it was Palpatine who was pulling the strings.
2. Anakin Skywalker's fall made Darth Vader a more complex and interesting character that was not one-dimensional and purely evil.
3. The tone of the films was different, which clearly made it seem like this was set during a different time. It was like knights and damsels in distress. This helped to make the original films seem like a product of a post-war universe.
4. As a part of the first point: The original films didn't have much of a plot other than "we need to defeat the big bad" until they introduced Luke's intent on swaying his father back to the light side of the Force. These films were just "crisis/resolution, crisis/resolution, crisis/resolution" and came off as very simple and not challenging.

Okay, so there you go. There are people out there who like the prequels better than the original films and I know them. And because of this, I have to ask: Is it possible that we, the fans who grew up with the original films are all too close to them that we cannot be more objective about them? I mean, yeah, the tone is completely different between the films, but the acting really is no better. I think maybe they expected a broader range of emotions out of the actors in the prequels and they just didn't deliver. If we'd have asked any of the original principles to give us more depth, could they have?

I recently took the journey through the films with fresh eyes; the ten-year old girl who lives next door experienced the films for the first time. While she likes Leia the best, she seems to like all the films equally. You could argue that she's just a kid and what does she know? I was almost ten when "A New Hope" was released. What did I know? I just knew what I liked. Maybe as adults who grew up expecting Star Wars to be a certain way were disappointed by the prequels because of those expectations. Are we being unfair to allow others to have an opinion and like what they choose to like because their feelings are different from the majority of people who treasure the original trilogy? We just very well may be.

SHIT THAT NEVER HAPPENED: WHAT’S THAT SMELL?
Setting: Office – two people in cubicles, unable to see each other

Old Man: *sniff* Hey… does anybody else smell that?

Female Colleague: Smell what?

Old Man: I don’t know. It’s a sour, old milk smell.

Female Colleague: Oh, I’ll bet that’s probably my salad; it has Feta cheese on it. It’s really good. Would you like to try some?

Old Man: *mocking* No, I would not like to try some! Meh… at least they got the name right. “Fetid cheese”!

Female Colleague: Ugh… it’s “Feta” cheese, not “Fetid”.

Old Man: Really? ‘Cos it seems like it should be the other way around!

Female Colleague: Idiot.

Manager: Well, you know what they say about opinions...

*employees blankly look at each other*

*awkward pause*

Employee #1: They say... that they follow her around?

Manager: They follow WHO around?

Employee #1: The... opinions?

Manager: I don't understand what you're talking about.

Employee #1: Opinions... isn't that what they call Oprah's minions?

Employee #2: *gasp* Oprah's got minions???!!!

Employee #1: Apparently, so!

Manager: I quit!

BATHING

A potentially possible history.

It’s something that most of us do at least once a day in some form or another. The rest of us who don’t, let that first sentence exist as a gentle reminder of your failure. Please try to do better in the future, the rest of us will appreciate your efforts. What I often wonder is how this rather mundane, but necessary act came into being in the first place.

If you look at nature, you see animals sitting in water or mud or dust to rid themselves of the things that cling to them. Generally speaking, this water or mud is also filled with their urine and feces, which, if you haven’t noticed they will gladly drink (the water, not the mud. Sorry.). Further acts of grooming or physical care include: the social picking and consuming of things like lice and fleas or other insects that infest their hides, as well as dragging one’s bum along the floor or the rough terrain on the middle of an African plain or along an accommodating tree branch. Disgusting, yes, but also necessary.

When it comes to humans, you understand that we somehow evolved out of that mess. Well, those of us who are actually evolved and are not under the spell of mythical fables or Fox News know this; the rest think we magically appeared under an apple tree with a snake in it. Now, I have nothing against the whole “creation” theory, but evolution still can factor into it if you aren’t blindly stupid. But I digress—we evolved out of that "sitting in piss water and nitpicking" stage into something a bit more modern and aware.

So, when did this happen? How did this happen? I’m sure some anthropologist or someone has done some work on it, but I offer this potentially possible history on how we started to realise there is some value in bathing. It might have gone something a bit like this…

We have a tribe of people who don’t bathe. They just start to stink of sweat, smell of feet and all manner of stuff that one’s body makes and evacuates. They don’t quite have a handle how to deal with this and they start to live further and further apart, coming together only to work the fields or to hunt, because it’s so much easier and safer to do those things in groups. We all know that wet dog smells the absolute opposite of pleasant, so I’m certain that the rain that undoubtedly fell on these simple folk did them no favours.

I propose that one day, a group of men were following some sort of animal along a river and the clumsy one falls into the river at some point because he tripped on a stone or root. The hunting party has a good laugh at the one who fell in, especially since he was unable to get back up the bank and onto land at this particular juncture of the river. He ends up having to endure the rapids and gets beat up against some rocks before being able to exit the estuary and emerge, soaking wet, to the jibes of his friends who've met him further downstream. After they were all done laughing at him, the most astute of the bunch discovers the one who fell in no longer smells like the sour, fetid creature he was just moments earlier. It was an amazing discovery, to say the least! As I picture it (based on the acts of stupidity of modern peoples and how some of us never learn from examination), they didn’t quite get that they could actually just walk down into the water, scrub off the nasty and come up clean and less offensively odiferous. No, rather, I’m sure they stood in line, taking turns tripping on the same root or stone, falling into the river, slamming against the rocks and tumbling over the rapids to finally emerge downstream. Who’s laughing now?

Anyhow, I’m not saying that’s exactly how it happened, but I’m presenting that as one possible scenario amongst tens as to how humans probably learnt to bathe.