I lied. I can't shut up.

Really tried not to blog, but this is too good not to report.

In guitar class, we've learned to read all the single notes, and have moved on to chords, which means we've moved out of the fundamentals book and into the pop songbook.

Tony, one of the more extroverted students in the class, was whining a bit because the book contains mostly old songs.

I reminded him that old is good, and then we both joined with everyone in today's sing-alongs, which included "Yellow Submarine," "Scarborough Fair," and "Leaving on a Jet Plane." We didn't have to sing "What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor," but we do need to learn to play it (and those other songs) before next Tuesday.

Playing music together instantly creates community. And once you start singing with someone else, it adds a layer of soul and vulnerability that deepens the relationship. Age, class, gender, ethnicity--those barriers drop a way when you're in a group creating music. Guitar class is really great that way.

If you're wondering about my grades, first of all, what's wrong with you? Second of all, I have 51 out of 52 points in guitar, thanks for asking.

Feeling euphoric, I bused back to the dorm, where Spanish language signs (La Salida, Cafetorio) have been posted all over the place. I didn't have to wonder why for long, because the lunch line was four deep with Spanish-speaking middle school kids in soccer garb.

I seated myself in the middle of the main dining room, which soon filled in with lanky teenaged cross country runners.

There's some kind of cosmic poetry in my being surrounded by jocks all summer. Today, though, my heart broke for one skinny kid who put his tray down on a table and was told by an alpha male ringleader, "Sorry, dude. This seat is taken."

The skinny kid relocated to an adjacent high-top table, where he was snubbed by the alpha males (and by the way, that chair remained empty throughout lunch) and hassled by a cross country girl who made a point of taunting him for not having any friends. She also accused him of eating three corn dogs, which, the last time I checked, is not a crime in this jurisdiction.

So what do I do?

The mom in me wants to invite the skinny kid to have lunch with me, but I know from experience with my own kids that public adult intervention only worsens this type of social abuse.

The Charles Bronson in me wants to kick the little creeps' butts.

The Harry Potter in me wants to cast a zits-and-plantar's-warts spell.

The new age hippie chick in me wants to talk to the perps about the concept of bad karma.

And the little snot in me wants to tell the excluders that I've been to my 25th high school reunion and all the mean kids turned out ugly.

All I actually did was shoot them a fierce mom ray. I'm doubtful it had any effect.

I really do wish I had magical powers.

Anyway, now I AM headed to the weekend. Steve just called from Owatonna (about 90 miles away), so our reunion is imminent!

Have a good weekend!