I remember going to a Saturday detention in the principal’s office for playing hooky from gym class at the library for the third time in two weeks. I’d figured her secretary would be brooding over me until I could put on a big enough pout and mash my puppy-dog eyes together enough times to draw tears, after which I would be promptly sent home. Instead, I found our hair-sprayed, high-heeled, hard-ass principal (Mrs. Steele, who drove a low pro matte black Corvette Z06) with her arms folded neatly across her pant-suited bosom. A besmirching grin puckered over her visage that froze me aghast after having practically sashayed into her office. She asked me what I thought was so special about computers that made them better than playing dodge ball in gym class. Immature and still generally clueless, I asked her what I was learning while I sweated it to the sixties amid blubbery teeny bopper bimbos and death metal jock straps. I told her very frankly that gym class on the whole was entirely worthless to me and my learning was better accomplished in front of a computer.