The Bridge on the River Kwai

I was walking down the hallway today, taking my long trek from the copy room out to my little shack (approx one mile) and I was feeling a little, um... weird.

One of the things I've noticed about teaching is that so much of your work is in isolation. Duh. You are supposed to spend the majority of your working life with teenagers. You are funny. No one really appreciates how funny you are. Sometimes they get it, and then you can be proud (they did get it when I wrote "mental incontinence" on the board as a disqualification for voting). Some handle this by losing their sense of humor, some handle it by bringing their humor down to their level. I am not that low, I think knock knock jokes are lame at any age past six. Puns are the game, but those limited English kids don't really "get" puns all the time.

So if people aren't going to laugh with me... then I'll have to amuse myself.

Disclaimer: I fully recognize that my behavior, when perpetuated for long enough will gain me free admission to a nut house. Wait... hmmm...

I like sound effects. I can draw funny elephants on the board. I've taken to calling everyone that tries to tell me what to do "the man" and for that matter anyone in history that was well... on top. I practice funny walks sometimes when the kids are working quietly on their (gasp) worksheets. I yell at the stapler and the attendance program (which was designed by Satan). All in an attempt to well... cope.

Now some of you know I like to teach in metaphors. Imperialism is like the War in Iraq. Well not like... that would be a simile. Imperialism is the War in Iraq. Or do I have that backwards. Monopolies are like Ticketmaster. Immigration policy now is like it was 100 years ago... The Spanish-American War was a lot like a misunderstood cat-fight over the the attractive on the outside Cuba. The Civil War was a misfired divorce when the bride was forced to go back to her husband and make nice...

And sometimes I have metaphors for my own life. Today I was walking back from the copy room on the way out to my shack. The march is about one mile and there is a reason I've lost weight as I've labored in this jungle.

I started to whistle. I started to whistle the Colonel Bogey March. Din din. Din. Din. Din dindin din. Din din din... and that's when it hit me. I'm building a bridge over the River Kwai. The officers aren't working and the POWs don't care. Actually, they might be out to sabotage the whole thing (go figure). In that respect the plans are well... poorly thought out. I'm building a bridge over the River Kwai. When we realize the first plan is faulty, we scrap it all and build another bridge exactly like it 100 feet away. And when it is built... well... you know what happens. The comander gets in a gunfight, gets shot and accidently hits the plunger wired to the bridge, blows the whole thing up and sends the train into the river. A lesson in futility, "Madness!!! Madness!!!" I say.

The more I think about it, the more the metaphor works. Din din. Din. Din. Din dindin din. Din din din... is it me that's wrong in the head or... something else?

My question to those more well versed in insanity than I... should I see a head doc?

In other news: Magic Shell (R) might possibly be my new favorite substance.