bloomsday

A Childhood Anectdote:

Like Machiavelli, I learned my political lessons young.

I was in elementary school when a levy on the ballot brought cameras to our class for a puff piece. It was in the media center where the cameraman lit up his lights, looking for ideal children in need of funding. Instead, he found a swarm of obnoxious children, anxious to be on tv, piling on one another at the bookshelf, ripping books off the shelves, glancing at their covers toward the camera, and tossing the books aside. They looked like the carp in the shallow pond at the amusement park, lurching over one another for a pellet. And what was that pellet, anyway? Media exposure? A childish urge for Warhol's 15 Minutes? McLuhan's bastards, every one.

I played it cool, found a quiet empty spot near a window for good lighting. I opened a book and read. The cameraman annoyed with the chaos and anarchy his lens was capturing, turned his eye toward me, alone in a corner. He set up his camera and filmed me. I never lifted an eye toward the lens. He captured a moment for public consumption, then went on his way, hurriedly packing his lights and batteries. I was the one who wound up on tv.

I think the levy passed.