Here's a letter sent to me overseas by one of my best Canadian teachers.
You've finally done it - I feel guilty enough to write you, even though it means taking a break from marking term papers.
I'll answer your letter first. I'm glad your musical tastes have expanded to the extent that you now appreciate Man. But any advances you may have made are totally negated by your absurd recomendation of the Sex Pistols. Actually, if you want to get picky they are not punk rock. (I saw Lou Reed, by the way, and he was so awful - an incredible volume - that I walked out.) The Sex Pistols I'm afraid are what money is all about. The last I heard of Status Quo they were claiming that they now were, as they always have been and will forever be, a disco band. Need I say more?
Now for news from Sliverville High. I'm not sure how many fabrications your tubby little brother has fed you, so I'll be brief.
It's been a fairly quiet semester - no real problems in school but no real high points either. The four of your poor excuses for friends in my class are fortunately split into two classes. The one class is so rowdy Jimi and Stanley disappear in a cloud of whispers, or should I say smoke? Cal and Henrik, on the other hand, were always the quietest of your questionable crew. It is the quiet ones that worry me. They're not working terribly hard (they're at about C) but they are not slacking off either.
Jimi really disappointed me when he was expelled, ignominously, from the football team when he let the demon alcohol pass his lips. "Jimi," quoth I, "I never thought you'd do such a thing. Your future with Miss Grapes hangs by a thread."
Apparently he took my lecture to heart and now goes around wearing a clean shirt, vows to break all his KISS records and promising that he will join a monastery when (if) he graduates.
Naturally, the basketball team is in the doldrums without him - they even lost to Duette Dawgstile High last Friday - the same night former Sliverville basketball hero Hoops Hill was on tv (for one minute) playing for the University of America.
I'm now past my bedtime and must end this abomination.
Miss Grapes was the object of a well worn prank the previous year. Jimi and I filled up the above letter writing teacher's waste paper basket with water, topped it off with paper and set fire to it in the classroom. We yelled fire and looked panicky as Miss Grapes sprang to action and jammed her foot into the basket to put out the fire with predictable results. The teacher, Jimi and I fucking near wet ourselves we laughed so hard. The teacher collected himself and sent us into the hall where he managed to keep a straight face long enough to tell us we cannot be lighting fires in the school and make it look like he may have retained some thread of control over us. He was a great teacher.
Try pulling a stunt like that one now and you will find out how times have changed.