Sally Forth

Hey, remember The Fourth of July, 2003? We don't, but found this in our archives:

Fourth of July Fourthiness.

Independence is on the march, patriots.

& Recently . . .

Kurt Cobain's Ghost with an Invitation to a Fourth of July Picnic and Fireworks by Angela Genusa

"B.L.T.": A Review by Will Layman

Ten Tiny Poems by Brian Beatty

Angry Words from a Gnome Who to This Day Continues to Think the Human Genome Project Was Actually The Human Gnome Project by David Ng

Key Party, N.Y.C., Circa Always by William K. Burnette

A Day on the Phone with Mythological Norse Firewarrior, Bringer of Storms by Aaron Belz

Polish Fact

Daily Newspapers:
Gazeta Wyborcza
Super Express
Nasz Dziennik

Weekly Magazines:
Wprost (rightwing)
Polityka (leftwing)
Newsweek (Polish edition)
Najwyższy Czas! (rightwing)
Przegląd (leftwing)

Learn a Foreign Tongue!

Learn Latin!
Mea culpa.
My bad.

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Sunday, February 23, 2003   |    Fiction

Confessions of a Kindergarten Mind

by Nick Jezarian

“Whose painting is this? It looks like a lovely house with a purple sky.”

I loved purple, still do but it bordered on obsession back in the day. No one raised his or her hand.

“Children, you really have to remember to put your names in the corner of the page so we know whose painting it is.”

“It’s mine.”

I figured it was time to end the suspense. Everyone had gawked at the painting in question long enough. I walked to the front of the room trying not to step on the other children who were all sitting Indian style. Mrs. Travoligne handed me the painting with a big shit-eating grin. She loved her job.

I held the painting in front of me for a moment to examine my own work. It really wasn’t a picture to be proud of, not even for a kindergarten student. The house was wobbly, looked like a strong breeze would blow it over. I’d have fired the contractor who built it lickety-split, the drunk fuck, there would have been no other explanation for the workmanship. In front of the house stood a woman, on the fringe of being a mutant, who lacked breasts or any other discernible feminine characteristics. Her pet, what I presumed was a three-legged mixed breed mutt, sat next to her with what must have been a three-foot-long tongue hanging out of the corner of its slobbering little jaw-box. The bushes surrounding the house were fuzzy and seemed to be evaporating into the purplish, crap-colored horizon. The paper was about 24” x 18” and proved quite unwieldy for a five year old. What a piece of shit, I thought to myself and sat back down. I took responsibility for five other nameless pieces that afternoon.

The purple-sky painting was not mine. None of them were mine. I was busy playing doctor with Dena Thimm and trying to bribe Arnold, the smart kid, to teach me how to read. Stealing conflicted with the basic core values Mrs. Travoligne was attempting to instill in us but I just looked upon it as sharing. That was another principle integral to our kindergarten time.

The way I saw it, I was doing good on a number of levels. I had art, hideous looking art but art nonetheless, to show my mother when she picked me up from school everyday. Second, I was giving a home to some other poor kindergarten slob’s wretched excuse for artistic expression; that should have instilled in them some pride. Third, Mrs. Travoligne laid off my back during naptime because she thought I was just a productive little machine so I got to paint (play doctor) while the others slept. As far as she was concerned, I was making the most of my school day, exploring the depths of my artistic abilities. And last but certainly not least, I was learning, at an early age, how to multitask. From my teacher’s perspective, I was studious and hardworking. Meanwhile, I was buzzing away socially, drinking up the possibilities that lie within the inherent differences of the male and female anatomy. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

It was a nice little racket I had going, the whole kindergarten scene. That was until; I switched from the p.m. to the a.m. session. Even as a child, I wasn’t a morning person. The only thing that could inspire me to get up early once a week was Saturday morning cartoons and even that proved troublesome.

Ms. Manzi taught a.m., it was right across the hall but she proved to be an evil bitch from the outset. When we got to school, we would all go out into the hallway at the same time to put our jackets and book bags away in the non-combination lockers. They would wean us onto combinations in future years. Every morning, I would come in and find all sorts of shit in my locker; snow boots, a jacket, a book bag, a stuffed animal, baseball glove, tons of shit. I would immediately toss it over my shoulder to make room for my own gear. This went on everyday for a little over two weeks. One day Manzi cornered me during playtime and asked me if I had anything to return. Shit, I thought, she’s on to me about the paintings.

“No,” I said.

She took me out into the hallway and showed a pile of clothes and toys that were strewn all over the hallway.

“Whose are those?” she asked.

I don’t know. She dragged me over and made me pick up the pile and shove it in my locker. Then she proceeded to lecture me about the importance of sharing my space. Apparently, we shared lockers, the p.m. and the a.m. classes. Well no one ever told me that. Manzi threw me in the corner and I was forced to look on for two days while the others had playtime. Fuckin’ Manzi, way to teach me right from wrong.

But she taught me, I’ll give her that much. Sitting inside while I watched all the kids playing outside, I learned that getting caught sucked. Then again, I also learned that she left her pocket book inside too.

Nick Jezarian is clearly a superbly built creation resulting from the union of man, woman, and crustacean. Nick's crustacean heritage contributes to his being mostly belligerent, constantly angry, yet always amused. Considering Nick's criminal spelling and grammar habits, the fact that he is part of the Y.P.R. brain trust doesn't say much about the site. Josh and Geoff have driven Nick's writing to new levels as he sends his Guff to the staff in an elaborate binary code that can only be deciphered by the light of pixie dust. Nick is Y.P.R.'s resident hip-hop expert, as he owns three CDs and once stabbed 50 Cent. Nick's favorite word is "word."