Honestly, I never thought of myself as anti-intellectual, but last night I showed my true blue-collar colors.

One of my sons attends a special academic program. When he expressed interest in middle school, I went to a meeting and gave him the application, saying, "Here it is, if you want." He surprised me by doing it.

In his second year, I have pretty much ignored the process. During elementary school years, I was hyper-involved, maintaining intimate knowledge of schedules, homework, teachers and progress; by middle school, I abdicated, figuring my kids were old enough to make it their deal. I ask if their homework is done or about the big test coming up, but all I get is an eye-rolling, two-syllable "Ma-om." I go to conferences where opinions often vary wildly from teacher to teacher, hearing "He could put in a little more effort" quite a bit. Although ably performing the "disappointed in you" speech, whip-cracking is not one of my specialties.

Last week brought a "mandatory" meeting notice. Feeling neglectful, apparently requiring a command performance notification to motivate involvement, we attended. The meeting resembled the one I went to originally: a panel of successful students lauding the program's merits.

I felt some discontent brewing, stirring memories of my own education. Academia is rife with people who espouse creativity then produce a five page rubric on how it should be expressed. The professor who talks about critical thinking isn't usually impressed when the criticism contradicts his life philosophy. Oh, I'm no David Horowitz suggesting educators are liberal indoctrinators or Mao Zedong looking to reintroduce intellectuals to the pleasures of shoveling manure, but there is a certain odor to elitism.

I was comforted by not being alone. One parent questioned the emphasis on getting into prestigious colleges, wondering aloud if the program had many real-life applications. A student asked if the curriculum merely taught "how to BS effectively." I held back my standing ovation.

But the final straw was the meat of the meeting, the new guidelines for 150 required volunteer hours. Divided into categories of creativity, action, and service, each with its qualifying definitions and suggestions, the common theme seemed to be enriching your personal experience for the benefit of the unwashed masses.

"Service hours may not include simple, tedious and repetitive work such as returning library books to the shelves" was the statement that sent my brain into white heat. There's an important lesson for suburban teenagers: You're too good to engage in grunt work that comprises 80% of life. Don't put up the bulletin board so the teacher can spend time with the class; you're the one who should be teaching lessons. My position is the opposite, advocating advanced curriculum in How to Clean a Toilet and Don't Be So Full of Yourself 101.

"You will stay in this program," I said after the meeting, "if only to puncture its bombastic, bloviated, repetitive, redundant, pretentious pomposity."

"Oh, they'll deflate themselves by talking so much," my son responded.