A picture of me with paint on my face: MAN OF THE FOREVER!

In third grade, I drew a picture of myself getting killed by a dinosaur. Rest assured there was plenty of blood and no hue of red crayon was spared. I came to this end after I had successfully invented a time machine but had then been too careless in my exploration of Rhaetian Stage in the Triassic Era. Alas.

This modern work of Crayola art was part of an assignment where the class imagined themselves as Time’s Man of the Year. (Those were the zestful days before we were forced to waste syllables by saying “person.”) We cut the centers out the red-bordered magazine and glue-sticked our pictures in. They were on the walls for the parent/teacher conferences.

With a realistic understanding my limitations, I projected myself winning the honor in the future. But not Artie N. He wanted the award now. 1987 now and screw Gorbachev. But since he couldn’t draw he took his red frame and glued it to the glossy side of a piece of tin foil. Instant crappy mirror. It looked like shit.



And it still does. But I looks like Artie was quite the visionary.