Shenaniganizing
People always ask me how I got in the ad game. For me, it was shenaniganizing, mischief, telling whoppers. That’s the ticket.
I was awarded the honor of Class Clown a number of times. And proud of it. A well-known police chief once told me at the Fort, “The class valedictorian usually ends up working for the class clown.”
Another thing a friend of mine, Tim Parr from Swobo Clothing in San Francisco, told me, “When you interview somebody applying for a job, ask them if the teacher ever put on their report card, ‘Disrupts the progress of others.’ If they say yes, hire them.” That’s what the nuns always put on mine.
For some little thing I would do, some old battleaxe would say, “Mr. O’Brien, go to the corner, sit on the stool, face the wall and put that white hat on your head.” That white hat was known as a dunce cap.
But hey, I think I still hold the record for the number of days skipped without getting caught at Holyoke High. I used to stash a fishing pole up a tree at Ashley Reservoir behind my house. If the sun was shining bright, I’d say goodbye to my sisters and tell them to have a nice day as they boarded the bus. Then I’d take off into the woods,
My grandfather was buddies with the Supervisor of Attendance (also known as a truant officer) and I quickly became his buddy, too. When he first ran into me, I was hiding behind a tree. He said to me, “What are you doing out here on a school day?” I told him I had to be outdoors because I had Alfalfa’s disease. He said, “What’s that?” I told him that when I was stuck indoors my hair would stand up straight and my ears would wiggle. He laughed like hell.
That’s shenaniganizing at its best. And that’s how I got here. The only thing that bothers me is I’ve never been invited back to speak to schoolkids on Career Day.
Hey, keep your dukes up.