One of the worst parts about middle school was getting a progress report. I’m not sure if it happens everywhere, just in New York or just in the particular town I grew up, but it was the worst. And no, I don’t mean a report card. That was an accepted, stomachable inevitability, a hard numerical or letter assessment of a complete body of work. It was good, bad, or somewhere in between and your parents had the right to hold you accountable for it.
But progress reports. Screw progress reports. For those of you lucky enough to never have to face the mid-quarterly music, here’s the deal.