When Instant Messaging Got Big

This was kind of inspired by Daniel's post about peaking early, which for the record, he did.

I had a strange experience over the Aol instant messenger which I think all started with Jake telling me to get a screen name. So at that point I was about 4 foot 9 and about 80 pounds, which contributed to me being at my most introverted and shyest point of my life. So I used Jake's budding social skills as my conduit to the world of the cool kids. So when I finally got my AIM account up and running, I had a buddy list, one friend strong. His screen name? Wingman836. Let me tell you what, that 13 year old kid was one hell of a wingman. He gave me the screen names of all the popular girls in the eighth grade. This was my gateway out of my cocoon into the social butterfly of the internet/blue ridge middle school. One of screen names he gave me was Jacque Christy's and hence my slow, awkward, and ineffective courting began. A couple of weeks, maybe a month or so went by of exchanging instant messages and then I finally got the guts to give her a call. In this phone call I invited her over to my house to hangout on a Friday afternoon after school. Not only that but she would be riding the bus home with me. Which at the time seemed like a big deal, I remember needing a note from parents and everything. I'm sure Jake and Matt both remember that infamous bus route. But that's a whole other story.

Apparently the fact that she agreed to hang out with me at my house was a big deal. I didn't really know why or what that meant. I had never had a girl come over to my house before, what the hell was I supposed to do? I assumed that I was supposed to make a move, since the next Monday in art class everybody asked me if I "hooked up" with her. God knows what that meant in middle school. Long story short, I didn't. But I'm sure you all knew that. I think we played some sort of game and watched the Simpsons, and she laid down on the couch next to me. And then we pretty much never talked again. So I made huge strides. The only thing I can remember when I think about this is that in the eighth grade, I was a suave motherfucker.

Childhood Embarrassments

In light of recent developments in the late stages of Childhood Saga, I was wondering if anyone can top the past stories with their own embarrassing tale of their early, awkward youth. Note that I'm inviting that we call ourselves out, since self-deprecation is always a good policy, and once it is out, we can all proudly point and laugh at the author!

Let me try and think of few of my own:

-Sitting next to Aubrey on the bus way up front on the way to middle school (during the week my parents left me to stay at Edward's - a ridiculous week in its own right), and me making it about 80% of the trip sort of swaying back and forth, my face all green, before just barfing all over my saxophone case (I'm pretty sure I missed her, but you never know). The best was the kids didn't really get the full smell until they had to walk by to get off the bus, upon which they yelled how awful it was and grimaced at what I'd become. Twas a grand embarrassment!

-Not making the Valley (high school) soccer team. (hahahaha, God, people really stood up for me saying this was an injustice, but come on, I didn't make it. Playing for shits and giggles and slackery on the tennis team was where I truly flourished anyway).

-Ah! Possibly my best of all, blowing away the others by far in my mind: the time I broke the zip line at Josh's house because I was, well, too heavy. And EVERYONE (in my mind) called me fat. Glorious. This began a string of me-breaking-things incidents that extended well beyond just being fat, but clumsy, reckless, and a dum dum.

-In 5th grade, when the final "gag" awards were given out, and the teacher was trying to make light of everyone, I was given a (completely serious) "helping hand award". Jesuso Christo I got crap for that (and deserved it, ha, let's be honest - although they did ask me to help that kid read. Was I supposed to say no? Damn you heartless bastards).

-Answering the phone that my mom called down and told me was "Alex", who I believed to be my friend (a guy), but who turned out to be Amy's friend (a girl), and it took me an excruciating dialogue to figure this out. Maybe you had to be there (at that age).

-At camp admitting to girls that I'd never kissed anyone. Buncha bitches.

-At camp having to wear that harness that basically turns your shorts into a speedo in front of those girls I told that I'd never kissed anyone.

-Various soccer camp moments involving changing or just taking random verbal assaults from diabolical ass-wipes.

-Mr. Barr telling me when I lost to Meagan Lowers in an archery contest in P.E., that she "spanked me".

I know the list goes on and there are more I'm not thinking of, but I'd like to see someone top mine. I feel like a lot end up being so haunting because of the context or just being there at that moment, but that kind of makes it even funnier, that we were so humiliated over something so trivial.

driving mr. jake

Back in high school Jake and I used to drive everywhere together. This particular time we were taking his blue explorer into the burg with Kate (Jake's sister) in the back seat. We were just by the Texaco when the blue lights started flashing behind us. Jake was obviously shaken up. The cop pulled us over right in the Texaco and told jake he was going 50 in a 40 zone. He talked to Jake a bit then asked for his license and registration. I think Jake thought he would just get off with a warning because when the cop started walking back to his car Jake threw his head out of the window and begged the cop to just give a warning. As he came back into the car I could see tears running down his face. Now being a good friend I tried my hardest to not laugh. I mean what if they roles were reversed? But, when I get uncomfortable I crack up and this time was no different. I sat there in the front of the car laughing incredibly hard while my friend was having a pretty rough day- crying "because acutane makes you emotional."

I hope it's okay to tell this story Jake- It still makes me laugh a lot.

The Ugly Middle and My Early Peak

Oh! how they told us the things we'd do in the big middle school! Once we left our humble roots in our quaint and locally-based elementary schools, we'd be riding high! They spoke of the new freedoms and responsibilities. They told us how we would meet new children from across the county. And they glossed over the fact that our innocence was going there to die forever (along with recess).

Just the thought of having to leave classrooms constantly scared the bejesus out of me before we ventured over to Blue Ridge (our middle school). It just didn't make sense that we would change rooms. Why change rooms when you can stay in the same one? Lockers also were very intimidating, and I remember we even had sample locks to try out in 5th grade before the end of our last year at elementary school. It seemed like they were trying to intimidate us, "So everyone will have 5 minutes in between classes, and you'll have to figure out your schedule so that you can have enough time to go by your locker, exchange your books for the next class, or classes if you can't make it back to your locker in time, and then make sure you're not tardy, because there's a slew of reprimands of varying degrees that they can sentence you to. First off, if we're in such a hurry, why would we lock our stuff away when we're coming back in such a short time. Isn't that kind of like putting your shoes on and tying double knots every time you get out of the pool at swim practice, moments before you have to take them off and jump back in?

And where did all this punishment come from? Whoever created middle school discipline clearly had a fetish for all the ways you could wag your finger at someone: warnings, demerits, tardy slips, referrals, principal office visits, lunch detention, in-school restriction, after-school restriction, Saturday school restriction, parent-teacher conferences, suspension, and the almighty expulsion from the school and even the school district. Shit was basically hitting the fan left and right as we scrambled through the hallways, dropping our books because our appendages were all growing at different speeds, and the second we tried to scream for help our voices would crack, leaving us utterly humiliated, acne-covered, and lying in shame in the empty and window-less hallways. Ah, yes, sweet middle school.

But I feel like it was well accepted that the technical difficulties of middle school (the lockers, classroom switching, and emphasized disciplinary actions) were dwarfed by the social massacres that took place in grades 6 through 8 (dependent on what your MS offered). Suddenly, there were a hudred or more kids your age, all thrown together in the same filthy arena. Whatever relationships you claimed to observe in elementary school were about to be put to the test. And in this massive sea of awkwardness was the worst presumption of all, that of presuming to be mature. New ideas of how we were supposed to interact with the opposite sex, with our friends, and with people in general spewed into the social arena like sewage from a toilet with its flow reversed.

The place to observe such new order was in the cafeteria. Lunch tables were set up like real estate markets with some sort of established "popularity" being the currency by which these plots of land were valued. At first, things seemed loosely tied to the elementary school bonds, but inevitably, these groups would break down in the face of the pulls of the middle school social hiearchy. We watched as some of our best friends migrated away from our table, which was becoming increasingly bitter, sarcastic, and barbaric at the sight of such snobbery. Soon, it was us who had established our own microcosm of a society within our table, sentencing our own kind to obey our ficticious power and ability to give out random beatings and shovings, verbal assaults, and even in the queerest of rituals, sentencing one of our own to lick the cafeteria floor if the rules of our animalistic "drop" game were violated. The "drop" game in itself can basically epitomize our minds and intentions at that point in life. The basic setup to the game is one person dropped something they brought for lunch in the middle of the table, while the rest of us participated in a real-life version of Hungry, Hungry Hippos, and would grab at the food the moment it struck the table. The only real rule was that you couldn't grab the food before it hit the table, or else you were subjected to the ultimate punishment as stated above. We were shameless and ravenous, strange and uncomfortable. Such was middle school, especially when it came to girls.

This was when, ideally, we all frolicked bashfully like Disney romantics among the cartoon birds and bees and bears and brachiosauruses, but in reality it was a time of jitters, secrets, deceit, impossibly folded (and then crumpled) love notes, rampant AOL instant messenger banter, and complete and utter confusion about what the hell was going on. It was all incredibly exciting of course, but no one really knew why. Rumors would just start circulating and people would be implicated into various love circles, triangle, and and hyperboles. I believe the phrase, at least at that time, was "going out" with someone, which meant you two were together (somehow), even though in all reality, you didn't go anywhere, you didn't really know each other, and in all reality you probably never even said a word together (let alone touched physically). I seemed to have backed right in the middle of all this when someone told me some girl liked me (probably through a 70-time folded note with pink ink scribbled in loops and flowers all over it (and for those who would know, it was Jennifer Everhart - Jim, I think you had the exact same situation maybe a week apart from my own experience). Not only did I not know this girl, but I certainly had no idea what to do about this newfound information. Of course this wasn't really a problem, because her friends seemed incredibly adept at pulling me through the gauntlet that was a middle school relationship. I was told who liked me, why they liked me (because I was soooo cute! xoxoxo!!!), and when and where this girl thought would be a good time and place for ME to ask her out, all of this second-hand knowledge from her friends. I don't think I got my first directly-sent-by-her note until after I fumbled across the schoolyard track (past all the leering eyes of her entourage) and uttered something to the likeness of "D'ya wanna go out with me?", after which (she said yes) I promptly smiled, blushed, turned, and walked back into the school.

Our beautiful two or three (I really have no idea) week relationship was one for the storybooks. A flirty pink inked note here, a chance glimpse of her smiling at me from another lunch table there, and basically me befriending her friend (Jenna Livesay) at the big high school basketball game where she was going to sing the national anthem. I may have said five words to her. What a ride it was, and then, as if plotted out carefully on all those girls' calendars, I was dumped a few days before Christmas break. I even remember some of her friends seeing me in the hallway telling me to run because they knew she was close and she was about to drop the axe, and me being completely confused because it didn't seem like that was the best way to keep a relationship going (not realizing that they just wanted to watch me squirm for their enjoyment).

After that, I was pretty sure the whole "going out" thing was bullshit and I was to have none of it. But as my friends may know (and remind me constantly of it), this whole thing was far from over; I was well on my way to hitting my peak of my life, whether I wanted to or not. For whatever reason, among the ranks of girls, word spread that I was "super-cute", in the way that I would imagine a puppy shrunk to the size of pea and dressed like a little fireman or some shit would be cute (the more u's the better - cuuuuuuuuute). That's all it took basically. I caught a wave, a big one. I was "hot", and allegedly "a buncha girls" liked me. This was it, I had made it. And what did I do? Absolutely nothing. Blushing and smiling and shyly going from class to class, I fucking rested on my laurels. I was completely complacent and honestly had no real inclination to do anything, mostly because I didn't really know what to do. Even though I did happen to have my own super secret crushes on acknowledged reciprocating parties, I was scared, scared to lose it all and scared to reveal to these girls I was in no way suave or cool or knew how to make a move. And so eventually, it all died down. The show left town and the word was I was a frickin' prude, too nut-less to do anything but smile and blush. But such is life, and damn it, I had a good run while it lasted.

wordsmithery: post-apocalypticism

I invent -isms quite often. For example, "sextism" can refer to the preference for, or more broadly the practice of, engaging in sexual communication via text message; refers to the partiality of an individual (a "sextist") to engage in sexting. For those uninitiated, "sexting" itself is a portmanteau; for more information please see my post on the subject. Now, on to the meat of this post:

I am a lifelong lover of stories, movies, games, and adventures the realm of the post-apocalypse. Please note that my love of all things post-apocalyptic extends to the sub-genres doomsday, mega natural disaster, and dystopia. This covers a broad range, but for the purpose of this post, I am merely referring to the post-apocalyptic category.

While apocalypticism is a well-known subset of religious belief, the area of post-apocalypticism is much less discussed and dwelt upon. While there is a massive body of cultural work in the area, the -ism itself deserves more respect. Below is the treatise of a self-declared post-apocalypticist.

I used to think that survival after the end of the world was such a romantic concept - the idea of man against nature or machine or alien or plague, but always, simultaneously (and most importantly) against himself. But then I figured it out. I believe the revelation came as I was reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road. As horrible as some of these post-world worlds are, I see them not as hellish scenarios, but as fantasies. I see them as escapes from a reality that is complicated by meaningless detail and an existence which is increasingly distracted. I tend to think that our priorities are screwed up 95 percent of the time. How often do we place money over friendship, image over knowledge, having more things over having meaningful experiences. But in the post-apocalyptic world, it's all about naked, obvious truths. What really matters comes to the forefront. Good over evil. Survival. Use everything efficiently. Coexist with what is left of nature. Money is value-less. Love triumphs. Sure there aren't any comforts, and you're constantly paranoid about impending attack from roving thieves or zombies, but I am still, to a degree, envious of the characters whom I read about, watch, and play as.

There's plenty more to be said on this subject. In fact, I am using this post to formally propose to the powers that be that "post-apocalypse" be the theme of October. Perfect as we head into the fall season and Halloween. Daniel and Edward, I am looking to you for validation here.

Of Nemeses and Archenemies

Some of you may have already heard me yabbering about this topic, but I think it warrants a post and some responses. I've been reading the book Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas on loan from Edward (tanks Eddy!), and I definitely recommend it to any and all of you. In the second half of the book - Things That Might Be True, he goes into his more exploratory essays about concepts and societal situations (leaving the first half - Things That Are True, which is composed of interviews with celebrities and musicians as well as other pretty cool crap), and one of them has to do with nemeses and archenemies.

It's kind of an interesting concept he brings up in that all anyone really needs for a compelling and successful life, he says, is a nemesis and an archrival. The differences between these two can often be hard to really see clearly, but one of the best defining statments he gave was, "you measure yourself against your nemesis, and you seek to destroy your archenemy." He also provides some guidelines that help:

"Recognizing your Nemesis:
- You kind of like your nemesis, despite the fact that you despise him
- You will always have drinks with your nemesis.
- You would attend the funeral of your nemesis and-privately-you might shed a tear over his or her passing
- At some point in the past, this person was (arguably) your best friend.
- You and this person once competed for the same woman (or man), and you both failed.
- You have punched this person in the face.
- If invited, you would go to this person's wedding and give them a spice rack, but you would secretly hope that their marriage ends in a bitter, public divorce.
- People who barely know the two of you assume you are close friends; people who know both of you intimately suspect you profoundly hate each other.
- If your archenemy tried to kill you, this person would attempt to stop him."

"Recognizing your Archenemy
- You would never choose to have a cocktail with your archenemy, unless you were attempting to spike the gin with arsenic.
- If you were to perish, your archenemy would dance on your grave, and then he'd burn down your house and molest your children.
- You hate your archenemy so much that you keep your hatred secret, because you do not want your archenemy to hate the satisfaction of being hated.
- Every time you talk to htis person, you lie.
- If you meet someone who has the same first name as this person, you immediately like them less.
- This person has done at least two (2) things that would be classified as "unforgivable".
- The satisfaction you feel from your own success pales in comparison to the despair you feel from this person's triumphs, even if those triumphs are completely unrelated to your life.
- If this person slept with your girlfriend, she would never be attractive to you again.
- Even if this person's girlfriend was a hateful bitch, you would sleep with her out of spite."

Now, I thought it would be interesting if people would pipe in and try to suggest some duos that are nemeses and some that are archenemies. One of the interesting aspects of this dynamic, as I've discussed with others, is should these relationships be reciprocated, as in if you are my nemesis then I am yours? Or is it possible for these relationships to be more one-sided where you could be my nemesis but Weird Al Yankovic is yours?

Klosterman gives some more interesting examples of who he sees as nemeses and archenemies:

Magic Johnson was Larry Bird's nemesis but Isiah Thomas was his archenemy - whenever Magic and Larry played it was an instant classic in match-ups, a beautiful battle of skill, talent, and hard work, but when Larry went against Isiah, it was a "train wreck", as in everything fell apart and was hard to watch. From this I think it should be noted that nemeses, when put against each other, often create something greater than themselves, while archenemies clashing usually result in destruction and bringing each other down to very basics of humanity.

Joker was Batman's nemesis but Superman was his archenemy - this may not be the best example, especially depending on interpretations of the concepts and which versions of these characters you refer to, but I think the idea of it is that Joker and Batman were often on the same level of head to head battling, each basically challenging they other to push them to the top of their game in order to prevail. With Superman (and again I don't know a whole lot about the relationship here), I think he's saying that Batman basically hated Superman because Superman rendered Batman "entirely mortal and generaly nonessential". I could also see him hate Superman because Superman was eternally clean cut and much more willing to side with the cops or government it seemed, while Batman pursued independence from such forces (at least later on in the Frank Miller and Nolan versions, where he might have an inside man - Gordon, but stay out of it for the most part).

Vince Neil of Motley Crue was Axl Rose of Guns n' Roses's nemesis, but Kurt Cobain was Axl's archenemy - I don't know a whole lot about these guys, but it sounds about right.

My own suggestions:

Michael Jordan was his own nemesis, and the Detroit Pistons were his archenemy - possibly cheap for taking the Pistons again, but I honestly didn't know much about Bird and the Pistons. Most of my knowledge about that team of the early 90's was that they would kick the shit out of Jordan, literally, fouling him so hard that he would just get furious while not allowing him to be the immortal basketball player he was. And he basically measured himself against himself, which proved to motivate him like crazy.

South Park are the Simpson's nemesis but Family Guy is their archenemy - South Park provides an experienced competitor that is honestly of a contrasting style, is more violent and crude, but still very intelligent in its execution. Family Guy has been accused of stealing all kinds of jokes from the Simpsons and seems to breed an even more sarcastic of an audience than the Simpsons or South Park ever did, which makes them even more snarky, irreverant, and basically an entity that is like an ungrateful successor who doesn't even seem to deserve that sort of title. Don't get me wrong, Family Guy is a hilarious show, but I could see how the Simpsons would want to destroy it and rather measure themselves against South Park. Feel free to debate.

The Beatles were nemeses with the Rolling Stones, but they were the archenemy of the Beach Boys. - I'm basically taking this from what I've heard from Edward (hopefully I interpreted this right, but he could tell you better than me).

Winter is Summer's nemesis, but Fall is Summer's archenemy - a little abstract I'll grant you, but it is Fall that ends Summer every year, while Summer and Winter compete more head to head in various types of activities (snowboarding vs. surfing, Olympics vs. Olympics, cold vs. hot - I mean come on!).

All right, let me know some of your own ideas for pairings of any kind, maybe even some of your own nemeses and archenemies.

House League

Right before the dawn of dunking burned a deeper ritual, that of getting up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, watching a few half hours of cartoons, playing House League Soccer, and then coming back to watch more cartoons (and picking up McDonald's if we were lucky). Those original years before it was even possible to play on a bigger, better, and traveling-farther team were amazing. I don't remember a whole lot of the actual soccer, but more just being in awe at those that kick the ball hard (the aforementioned John Sheehan and Max Farley), messing around at practice (getting in fights with the Wheelers, a pair of brothers bent on destroying everyone and everything, including each other - the younger one, Nathan, bit me, twice, and the older one I got into an actual fight with at DZ Discovery Zone (probably my only true fight in life); I mean he had my name, c'mon!), and avoiding the oranges at half time (don't ask me why. I love them now, but never tried them then). Soccer was a huge Waterford tradition, as was scrimmaging the Hamilton kids, who for whatever god-forsaken reason, ALL had rat tails. It was a deeply potent sport in those days, before we knew the meaning of anything really, back when for whatever reason the opening of the MLS coincided with our youth; back when we went to DC United games to watch Marco Etcheverry rip shit up, marveling at how much he resembled what we believed the greatest player of all our peers, Edwin Hammerman, would grow up to be. The kid scored a goal off a corner with a bicycle kick when we were like ten years old.

The World's Best Countries (According to Newsweek)

I have come upon a beautifully interactive website showing the breakdown of the best countries in the world. Hard to tie this into Childhood Saga Month, so I won't try. This is more of an interesting look at how these rankings were created and to get some inspiring feedback from our highly astute scholars who frequent this blogovoyage we call Demons in My Britches. Without further ado,

THE WORLD'S BEST COUNTRIES

(http://www.newsweek.com/2010/08/15/interactive-infographic-of-the-worlds-best-countries.html)

Ringing in Y2K with Timbo Cotter

You remember it.. They inadvertently programmed computers to shut-down and reset when the clock struck 12:oo am in the year 2000. Planes were going to fall out of the sky, whole financial networks would be destroyed, society was doomed. This isn't about that.

Much of my childhood was spent at the Cotter's house hanging out with Timbo, Patrick, and Brian. I always liked it there because we could stay up as late as we wanted, eat whatever, and sleep in. I was allowed to go to his house for New Year's- and lucky me, they were throwing a big party.

The night started off great. People brought tons of food- kids played, parents drank- it was all around a good time. Then it started to happen. My stomach was wrenching and I could do nothing to alleviate the pain. After much deliberation, I asked Brian Cotter to take me home.

So, Timbo and I sat in the back of his Ford truck while Brian and his friend Austin Bowie drove and rode in the front. I was getting progressively worse and am pretty sure I said I might puke, but being so close to my house that I could 'probably hold it.'

'Just tell me if you need to and I'll pull over," Brian said. "Don't puke in the Truck."

'Don't puke in the truck. okay- just concentrate you can make it' i was thinking-

Just about then we made a really sharp turn and I lost control. Knowing that it was coming and that no puke was allowed in his car I covered my mouth. Bad idea. Vomit (which was coming out at a crazy pace) sprayed everywhere. Austin was riding shotgun and looked back at me with a face of pure amazement. I basically puked directly into his mouth. He then proceeded to projectile vomit all over the front of the truck.

My spray was not localized and it hit Timbo too- who also started puking his guts out. Brain started to freak out and pulled the car over as soon as he could. It wasn't soon enough because by the time we all escaped there was probably a good 1 to 2 inches of puke over the truck.

I've never seen people move so quickly to get away from something before. The truck stopped and we were all instantly out of it- all of us puking on the side of the road.

It was everywhere- - we were saturated with 3 different kinds of vomit. It covered our clothes- our faces- our hair- everywhere.

The big problem was that we were still decently far from my house and the car was un-drivable. Who was going to get in that car and drive the rest of the way? Timbo and I were 13 so not us. It had to be Brian. We made a plan- all of us would sit in the truckbed and Brian would drive with his head out of the window like some overjoyed dog- but there was no joy here. Just a shit-ton of vomit.

By the time we got to my house the puke had frozen in my hair and to my face. I felt terrible for the next 3 to 4 days. My mom told them she would drive them home and clean his truck. And to this day, every time I see the older Cotter brothers (which is rarely) they bring up this story- and I really am glad it happened because I love it.

I Dream of Dunking

What's hard about all these childhood saga posts is that I always want to put more into them because these posts are mere portholes into the universe that each refers to. The dream of dunking goes far beyond just my childhood as this is one of the few things I'm almost certain every single kid had tucked away somewhere in their dreams. I mean we grew up with Michael Jordan. Let's get serious. There was nothing greater than him dunking. There was nothing greater than a dunk. The move is so damn simple, and yet it works so well every time.

I was one of the many children who played on a lowered hoop, enabling myself to perform such an awesome move. And we got into it, I mean really into it. Entire summers consisted of nothing but dunking on lowered hoops at Edward's, Greg's, Aubrey's, Matt's, and even my lowered hoop, as well as various public ones like around Hamilton randomly and in the Purcellville community center; basically any lowered hoop we could find. We even dunked at the pool as referenced in Edward's pool entry. Dunking was everything and anything that was fun, exhilirating, and empowering as kids. God bless Woody Harrelson for wanting it so bad in White Man Can't Jump.

As a quick reference to this religion of dunking on lowered hoops, here is a not-so-quick video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6X5nmA_lZko

Hopefully more will be said on this subject through the days and millenia ahead.

Book Club Update

Hello, friends, foes, and local minorities! Sorry I haven't been posting on the blog as much. The past month or so has been a very chaotic time, but overall positive. I have been very busy though. I still plan on starting the book club pretty soon, hopefully iwithin the next month. As stated previously, I am reading Homer's Odyssey, and after that, I still plan to start the Bible in honor of (last) month's religion theme. But after this, I will start reading Stephen King's Dark Tower series. If you guys want to get a head start on this, since it's lengthy, be my guest. We can break up the seven books with other suggestions if people want. I believe Jim had suggested some Philip K. Dick.

Also, I wasn't able to watch any Coen Bros. for last month's director time. Should we move onto a new director this month or carry them on for September so we can all watch more?

--Edward

One Specific Halo Night

Halo nights deserve their own extremely large post. This smaller one will discuss one fateful Halo night. It was a Friday and we had been playing 4 on 4 or 6 on 6 capture the flag. The map was bloodgulch , or coagulation- whichever. I was a pretty good sniper and got way too into games for my own good. My goodness- the feeling of sniping someone who was about to capture the flag was beyond words- almost as good as sniping someone off of a moving ghost.

Austin Caldwell was being talked up by allll of his 'cronies'- they were saying that he was the best sniper ever and he could beat anybody. It seemed like all my 'boys' backed me as a challenger and I was confident.- I mean I was AWESOME. He arrived and we got down to business- separate tvs- system-linked- different rooms. No greater challenge.

It started and ended quickly. I was a 'noob' and ran around center- he stuck to the rocks and hills. Boom- headshot- I was dead. WTF? No way. boom boom boom- dead 3 more times. I believe he killed me 10 and i killed him 2 or 3. I was beyond mad- beyond ashamed. I did not want anyone to look at me- I did not want to admit defeat. I was broken.

We continued to play more capture the flag- and i only went for Austin- He would not best me. Ended up we were pretty evenly matched- but to this day I cant look at him without remembering that night.

I still maintain im better- seriously

Childhood Saga: The Paalborgs Pt. 2

2. Taking a Stance Against Authority (Instead of Bailing) for God Knows What Reason
Some day after school Edward, Alex, and I were roaming the streets of Waterford shooting the shit. It was a recent development of Edward and mine to get really into (mostly just the idea of) taking risks. It was more of a concept than anything, and it included pretty much anything that might get you hurt, in trouble, or both. A couple fine examples involve Edward and I climbing onto a parked U-Haul truck because in our minds it was taking a risk (I guess?), or the time period that Josh, Edward, and I would climb onto the roof of the school periodically until we got caught by the principal (a ground-breaking risk by all means for the time, our tiny town, and our sweet, innocent minds).

Anywho, we got into the idea of abusing the relatively slow moving traffic of Waterford by crossing the street just as a car was going by in order to touch the car as we passed behind it. This may seem pretty straight-forward (and in all likelihood is with cars at those speeds), but this was relatively ground-breaking for us. Although it was fun to "tag" these cars as they passed us, we wanted more. So we started rolling rocks out in front of cars to be hit by the underside of the cars if the rocks happened to bounce up. Looking back, this was such a moronic thing to do, especially because we were clear as daylight standing by the side of the road throwing these rocks. Sure enough, one of the bigger rocks we threw (probably me on this one) bounced real hard into the car's innards and the soccer mom driving the vehicle screeched to a halt (this was up on High St. where cars were going 30+ mph instead of the 20 mph down on Second St. where we had been touching the cars). Instead of bolting like any normal kid instilled with the fear of being held accountable for the stupid things he does, we simply froze. The woman yelled over at us, and then Alex did something even dumber than just freezing, he walked up to her. Edward and I were still a bit dazed, but we followed timidly. She proceeded to go on some rant about how irresponsible and dangerous what we did was and that there might be damage done to her call (it was a freakin' pebble lady). She also did the whole, "What's your name? Where do you live?" Some of the scarier questions for a youth to receive (being an anonymous kid is probably the best and most free state one can occupy in life, and if someone steals your anonymity and learns your actual name (and your parents' names) then life is over).

I think the main line that sticks out in my and Edward's minds when we look back on it has something to do with Alex having the audacity to say, "I am responsible and grown up" (Edward, you might want to correct me on this), in this weird, defiant way that made no sense considering the immediate events at hand. The lady eventually had to pull up a ways on the road because she was holding up traffic behind her. She said something like, "you are going to show me where you live so I can talk to your parents," before pulling up, with all intentions of coming back to us after the cars behind her left. Needless to say, we finally bolted back into the forest behind us and ran into one of the scarce alleys of the Waterford village to wait out the storm, spying on the road for that crazed lady's car. I must say, the kid had balls to speak out against her and basically bullshit in the face of all the evidence against us. Maybe it was stupidity and maybe I couldn't (and still can't) help but admire that kind of stupidity, but either way it made for a great thrill of our wild, aimless lives at that point in childhood.

childword sagasmithery: burnt sienna vs. raw umber

Sometimes the sound and sight of words alone, regardless of their meaning, can be so infuriating that you wish you never grew eyes to read them or ears to hear them. It sounds extreme, but not in the case of two seemingly innocent but inherently diabolical Crayola crayons. Especially when you are six years old, sitting in a first grade classroom, and you have no idea what sienna or umber are, let along their burnt and raw variations, respectively.

I envision a conversation like this taking place:

Five Star General Crayton Yola: I'm assembling an elite team for a project. Code name: "Box of 64." They say your the best, and I need the best.
PFC Burnt Sienna: Who's asking?
FSGCY: The President of the United States.
Seargant Raw Umber: ::takes a drag of the last third of a cigar:: We're mercenaries, not soldiers.
Sienna: You heard him. We're done with SEALs, Army Rangers, and Delta Force, Blue Angels, and VR Troopers--though VR was some heavy shit.
General: I'm well aware. But this ain't no Tiger Cub retreat. This is black ops. I need you to confuse the absolute shit out of kindergarten students looking to use shades of brown.
Umber: Now we're talking.
Sienna: Lock and load.

My childhood was scarred by a confusion between the two colors. To this day, I honestly don't know the difference. I am almost certain this is why I decided to discontinue art classes. A deep-seated disgust for the nomenclature of these particular shades of brown-beige-dark orange.

Burnt Sienna debuted in 1949. I'm convinced that the Fifties were the heyday of Burnt Sienna. Back then, it was the new kid on the block. A baby boomer, very earthy, hardworking. It knew the pain of fire, having been burnt and all. Tested, weathered, and proven. A real color of the people. Had a three-bedroom house, two kids, a white fence, and a golden retriever. But then, something happened.

In 1958, along came Raw Umber. It was like Burnt Sienna, but before it was bathed in molten lava. It was young, fresh, and flashy. In a word: raw. Just like Facebook to Xanga. Things did not go well at first. The relationship was tumultuous. Eventually, there was a reconciliation though, then friendship, and this ultimately led to co-conspiratorial partnership to confuse children and drive them away from the fine arts.

A bit of etymology:

According to Wikipedia (citation needed), sienna and umber are "two types of clay earth pigments, naturally occurring minerals, principally iron oxides,that have been used since prehistoric times as pigments." Now, why on earth it would have made sense to use "burnt sienna" and "raw umber" as names for crayons to be used my children ages 2-10 remains a mystery to me. And that makes me angry.

Burnt Sienna is described as "a warm mid brown color." Ok. Raw umber is described as the "color of the raw natural clay earth pigment." I have no idea what that means. Still.

Raw Umber was retired in 1990. However, burnt sienna is alive and well. And guess what? In a freakishly, Alien vs. Predator-inspired plot twist, something new has developed. Bursting forth from the chest of the dying Raw Umber is none other than Raw Sienna.

The Predalien of crayons and the nightmare to my nightmare.

Coen Brothers: Blood Simple

Even though Coen Brothers month (August) didn't go over huge, I still have faith that the movie club/horde will continue on, and as I have checked off a good bunch of Coen Brothers movies I hadn't seen before, I wanted to write a bit on each before I forget too much. (I'm assuming that Coen Brothers month gets a slight extension indefinitely until we get our shit together and start moving on this thing as a unit)

Initially, I had always enjoyed their movies, although my experience with their material was pretty limited before all this. I'd seen O Brother, Where Art Thou?, The Big Lebowski, The Ladykillers, No Country for Old Men, and Burn After Reading, which seems like a good amount, but it leaves out the heart of their material from the first half and more critically acclaimed I guess, while being lesser known. I saw Raising Arizona just before this whole movie director month group had started and unsurpringly (especially to those who know my weird affinity for Nicholas Cage in the face of all those who think he stinks) I loved it. From there I watched Blood Simple, Miller's Crossing, Fargo, and Barton Fink (in that order).

Although it's almost hard to separate all of them out from each other when you watch them all pretty close together (I admit this is the first time I've tried to pay attention to multiple movies in relatively short intervals one after another), as I think about them all, they definitely had distinctive personalities, much as the children of odd and creative parents would. I'll try to relay them chronologically though, and for the love of God, IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THIS MOVIE, READ THE FOLLOWING AT YOUR OWN RISK:

Blood Simple (1984)

This is the first Coen Brothers movie they put out on a big screen (I guess, if that's what someone's "first" movie as a director means). I'm not really sure what I expected from it, especially having never heard jack about this movie. Basically, I was blown away. It's not like I hadn't seen a good Coen Brothers movie before or even a good movie in general, but it felt good to watch something for real for once and get knocked off my chair for it. Before I blubber on, I'm sure others will have other opinions as tends to happen, but I want to hit on the strong points that made an impression on me. First off, setting. The Coen Brothers fucking love setting, and of all settings, America. I can't really think of a director that really goes for capturing America in the deep, melancholy, sweeping way that the Coen Brothers manage to (is it weird that no one ever calls them simply, the Coens? I guess "brothers" always stands out a lot more, fucking brotherhood). And there is not much more deeply American as the weary and vast American West. The whole thing seems more like an acid trip than any other place I can conjure up really (as GTA: San Andreas should show any lucky soul who happens upon the wild abandon of that game), and not because it's so exotic, but because it's so damn familiar, just exaggerated beyond any comprehension. There's maybe three or four of their movies that they use this close-up shot of black-as-night pavement flying by with that white stripe whizzing in and out of the frame every half second or so. And then there's this crazy, out-of-body camera pan up onto an infiintely long highway, and then some sort of insanely fast zoom in, only it's not technically a zoom because the whole damn camera is moving forward. They definitely use this setup in Blood Simple, and I'm pretty sure they use it in Raising Arizona, and maybe some other movies. Or maybe I've just seen other directors do this as homage to this or perhaps even inspiring this. Either way, I love that shot of the white line shooting past the camera over and over, and the slow realization of who is doing the traveling and why. It reminds me a lot of how every damn Star Wars movie starts with the camera on the stars then eventually pans to whatever happens to be going on in the film.

What's funny (not actually funny, just odd) is that this is not even the opening of the movie, but the opening of the story within the movie. The opening of Blood Simple actually starts out with an extremely far away landscape shot of the West, Texas in particular I believe, and the oil fields with the heat blurring the giant machines and industry in the middle of a scorching day, all set to voice over. And the voice over comes from a voice so weathered, twangy, and just plain fucked up that you listen hard as it tells you about life in the West, about capitalism, and about how people always slip up. These words, although pretty broad and vague, are about as direct as any detail the audience will be given the whole movie. The rest is shot like an extremely rich and sweat-inducing fever of a dream. One of the most compelling parts of it all is how complicated it gets twisted with only four major characters and one basic plot point, this woman is cheating on her husband. It becomes complicated not unlike No Country for Old Men in that people keep misinterpreting, misjudging, or just missing altogether certain things that only we as the audience can see, making us try to imagine what they are going through having only a narrow perspective on the increasingly skewed thing.

Rie put it pretty much spot on after we all watched the movie, saying it was an extremely moody movie. This pretty much describes it, but you really have to feel out how deep the mood of each scene goes, how long each pause or look or moment is, to really appreciate this establishment of mood. Also, I was amazed at how well they establish setting on a miniature scale, in that of a certain room, like the office at the bar and the house where she goes to stay with Ray(?) (the man she's cheating with) in particular. These places keep getting revisited over and over, with certain details slightly different each time.

What's interesting about the course of this movie and the course of a movie that is so based on atmosphere and suspense and boiling tension is where things start to spill over, slip away, and derail altogether. That seems to be the nature of what they were going for, with each character reaching his or her limit at various points in the movie when things start coming back to haunt them for no easily identifiable reason (like when Marty warns Ray of Abby saying "I ain't done nothing funny"). The violence is so potent each time it shows up, with the shots of the camera and the awkward heaviness of dragging a human body. All of this combines to make for a near headache of turmoil to sift through in your head as you watch it all sort of mutate into itself (again, this goes into my theory of that final image the private detective sees in the bathroom). And through it all, the detective's voice over in the beginning and his sort of comic relief (although I wouldn't really call it "relief") become the only thing you can really bounce off of as an audience member searching desperately for reason or meaning or something. The problem is, we realize what we're listening to is almost a weird incarnation of Satan himself, the way he laughs and shifts in his seat and talks through a crackling voice. It's a dark movie no doubt, but it's almost too balled up to let the whole weight of it fall completely on you as an audience. You're left more with images (of the incinerator out back, Abby and Ray sleeping through the bedroom window, and the bullet holes through the wall) and sounds (the Same Old Song in the bar and the haunting music always so large in the Coen Bros. movies I've found). It's a movie of impressions, some as shallow as an itch that may be a bug or a bite from a bug, while others are so deep that they occupy you without showing sign of entry like getting mercury poisoning from just being around the stuff. I definitely recommend it, and I can certainly see a lot of what made so many of the mood shots poignant in Blood Simple, sticks with the Coen Brothers in each movie thereafter.

Childhood Saga: The Pool

As I've told Daniel, I fear that childhood month will ruin me, because I think I'm a bit too nostalgic for my childhood. Maybe I'm just too nostalgic about a lot of things. Or perhaps I'm just making this up because I'm thinking about it, since the purpose of this month is indeed to look back on our childhoods. But anyways, nostalgia for whatever reason is both a beautiful and depressing emotion, and it hits hard as autumn descends upon us. It is that emptiness at the pit of your stomach, the chill in the wind, and the look in the stranger's eye as you pass her by.

But most of my childhood memories are happy ones and they have a bright nostalgic quality to them. Especially since most of my big childhood memories involve Daniel, and as you can see he's still around. It makes me very sad to think about those with particularly unhappy childhoods, since even though I don't sugarcoat mine, I realize that I had a lot of fun imagining entire worlds with my friends. Especially with Daniel and me, that was a huge facet of growing up. We could make entire worlds out of the littlest things. Life wasn't about how much you could do, how succesful you are, what your job is, and how many countries you've visited and hobbies you have. Rather, it was about how much fun you could have. Nothing else. And we could make games out of anything. I'm sure I'll talk about this more in the future. Anyways, that's just an opening to my portion of the Childhood Saga.

So...the pool. Holy fuck. That means summer time. And there was nothing quite as orgasmic as summer. Let's be honest here. Intercourse is a let-down compared to the feeling you got in elementary when the last day of school was finally over, you hit that bus home, and then a whole world of possiblities opened up before you. Again, these aren't possiblities like traveling abroad over the summer to learn a language, meet some cool new trendy-type people, and develop some valuable life-skills. Possiblities meant video games, sports, and the fucking pool.

Conveniently the pool was located directly across the street from my house. I don't mean like around the block or down the road. I mean right the fuck across from my house. Its proximity can be shown in a pointless challenge that Daniel and I had, which I sometimes doubt we ever completed. Because the hardest part of going to the pool was the initial plunge or creep in (if the pool was cold, which Waterford's pool often was), we thought it pretty ballsy if we broke out into a run starting from my front door and culminating in a dive into the pool. This was somewhat challenging task, because it involved running across a lot of gravel and rocks barefooted, or it involved taking off one's shoes at a full run. I'm not sure if we ever did this, but I like to think we did. Daniel could comment on it.

Now, for clarification, the Waterford pool was technically called Greystone Pool, named after my house. My dad claims that it was built for his grandfather, who had polio. That seemed pretty common back in the day, showing just how old my dad is. It has had its lion's share of lifeguards through the years, ranging from a young Timbo Cotter's older brother to my own brother to some kid with dreadlocks who liked to play the bongos and left Daniel and I unattended quite a bit to go "do something" behind the pool shed, to the most famous crop of lifeguards that were there during the "high summer" of pool-going, a time when Greg, Daniel, and I went to the pool basically literally every day over this particular summer. I'm going to focus on this summer, because it was a bangin' time for all.

Purists will say this isn't really part of our "childhood," per se, since this summer took place sometime around freshman or sophomore year of high school, but I really couldn't give less of a fuck, because I'm on a roll! Haha. So I believe this was the summer when we invented pool dunking, which was a glorious sport involving jumping off the diving board and dunking a small ball (the best ball was the small signed soccer ball given to my brother by our team, the year when he coached Daniel and me and the world's best soccer team, but that's another story for another day) into an intertube (or I guess technically the rubber inside part of a car tire, since intertubes always popped). But we weren't fucking losers. We didn't just dunk it. We did 360 flips and 720s and of course Daniel specialized in all sorts of reverses. Greg wasn't really much of a technical dunker, but what he lacked in specialized tricks, he more than made up for in attitude and pure height off that diving board. Daniel has a great picture showcasing this, as it is only the lower half of Greg's body, his torso and head well off camera. We milked this sport for all it was worth, and Daniel has a solid video of it set to Joe Satriani showing a variety of dunks. But please remember, just as with all of our invented games, the best stuff was never caught on camera. For whatever reason, whenever we turned a camera on, we always started fucking up and being too self-conscious.

This was also a time of hormones and jackassery. Greg's crush on the lifeguard Allie was well-documented, as was his hatred of her boyfriend-lifeguard Matt Vess (who didn't hate this chump?). There were these pool devices called torpedos or something that you slapped into the water and they would shoot at your groin-area way too fast. I remember Greg and Matt Vess having lots of fights with these. I won't lie and say I didn't have a crush on the lifeguard Ashley. That was Greg and me in our primes right there. Daniel of course could've gotten anyone he wanted, but played it cool as always.

There was a sign-in book at the pool, but like virtually everyone else, we never really paid attention to it. Daniel and Greg should've been paying guest fees all summer, but I doubt they ever spent a cent (Daniel's family would sign up for the pool sometime in August, which really doesn't make much sense, because I'm pretty sure it costs the same as signing up in June). To show our total disdain for "the man," we would sign in as joke names, and this culminated in the epochal "Villain Week" that some say stretched well over a month. While my best contribution for that particular "week" was Grand Moff Tarkin, Daniel took the cake with "The EPA from Ghostbusters." Fuck, that's good. Reminds me of his "Comment of the Year" (did you win two of these in a row?). Now that I think about it, Mike, didn't we award someone a comment of the year once? Anyways, it's clearly my goal to win this award at least once in life. I love how much Greg and I hated giving it out to you (twice?), but that we knew we had to. Haha.

What else is there to say about the pool? I'm sure Daniel can think of some things.

Growing up, there were too many obnoxious and disgusting and wild families to even begin to recount here. Such stand-outs are the hairy armpits of Mrs. Woolcott, the Jarvises, and the Hayfords.

I'm sure I'll think of more things to talk about later.

--Edward

My first day of Kindergarten

I came to Waterford Elementary two weeks after the school year started because my parents moved us from Ashburn, a town about 30 minutes east, to Waterford. Like most kids, I had a SEGA and was pretty proud of that fact. I was scared that day, scared to meet a new group of little children and was afraid that they wouldn't like me. Well, Daniel and Greg really put those fears to rest when I walked into the room and heard them talking about SEGA- probably about Sonic. I gingerly came over and told them I had a SEGA as well. Both of them looked at me blankly and then asked- Were we talking to you?

I left class that day with a hole in my heart- I had been shamed.

Snake Road

Back when my mom tried to hypocritically instill Catholicism into my seven-year-old brain, we went to a small church in Colonial Heights, VA. Every Sunday, I sat in an uncomfortably ruffled dress and listened to things that I compared to Aesop's Fables. I spent Sunday School forming crushes and working on my coloring book techniques. I knew that I just had to sit through one hour before we could get ice cream. I was routinely taken to a tiny booth to get a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich after being submitted to hellfire and damnation. But on one particular Sunday, I was feeling ill and had had enough of the solemn environment. I saw two people exiting the church, and wanted a solid explanation as to why we had to stay.
"They're probably just going to the bathroom," my mom quietly stated.
"NOPE, THEY'RE LEAVING!" I screamed dramatically, pointing at the poor couple trying to escape. The entire church turned to witness this abomination. I was quite pleased with myself, and stood up as though it was my turn. My mother yanked on my arm until I fell onto the solid pew, and attempted to hide her face. The deep scowl didn't leave my face until we were on Snake Road. It was named appropriately for its sharp curves and rollercoaster-like hills. I felt like I was in another dimension, and I didn't even mind when we passed the turn for the ice cream shop. My personal satisfaction with the outcome of the day, and the fact that I was headed home, was enough. We changed churches a few times before we eventually stopped going, but I was certainly not forgotten at St. Anne's.

wordsmithery: the time-delayed rap battle

You don't have to be from 8 Mile or Inglewood to lay down a phat rhyme. You don't even need to own a gat, a scraper, or a wave cap. All you need is the desire to stop a chump in his tracks when he steps to you. While fist fights might be cool, they are simply impractical on a regular basis. The rhyme, as they say, is mightier than the shank.

Enter the time-delayed rap battle. This is for the wordsmiths who aren't the lyrical Mario Andrettis on the Momo, but are capable of a bit more than, "Come at me bro/Yo momma's a ho!" The preferred arena for the time-delayed rap battle is the email listserv. It's not as though you're serving up linguistic lashings on stage with a mic in your hand, but the audience is real, and anyone can push send at any time. The key is that you're not actually freestyling; the creativity has time to marinate, the disses are premeditated and carefully crafted.

The following are a few verses that I threw out to a World Cup Pick'em listserv earlier this summer. My bracket was named "Roberto Baggio's Rat Tail." I ended up losing pretty badly, but really, victory was mine because my rhymes were sick. Check it:

Sent out after I secured my first correct pick:

That's one correct pick for Roberto Baggio's Rat Tail,
A hundred eighty-two more points comin' cuz I can nat fail.
If you think you can defend me, here's the advice I'm givin' ya:
Give up. Cuz Im bout ta break you like Drogba's tibia.

I pick winners and get chicken dinners while you stay starvin',
I'd throw you my leftovers but, fools, you ain't desarvin'.
Cuz I'm harder than Zidane's forehead, a swift kick to ya pants,
Watch me bicycle kick ya balls like I was Armstrong, Lance.

Sent these stanzas out after a getting into the lead:

With twice Kaka' 's speed I left you spinnin' around,
My raps awe some--your mouth can't make a sound.
Have a glass of water son, better yet, have sixteen,
Gonna need to hydrate the way you try to pick teams.

My rhymes so fresh I ain't need no preservatives
This listserv's a yearbook, and I'm handin' out superlatives:
Biggest poser, worst picks, lowest street credibility,
I want to see some come-backs, 'stead y'all people is killin' me.

To hang with me you'll need to cheat like T. Henry,
I'm calling handball on your girlfriend as she's cuppin' on me.
My moves like Cristiano, my style so pleasurable,
I'm BP in the Gulf: my flow is simply immeasurable.

"Write the Future" says Nike but y'all are stuck in the past,
I flux through time like Deloreans when I step on the gas.
Stay off the field and the highway when I'm 'hind the wheel
I spit fire like red cards--but this ain't a game, it's REAL.

I'm just hoping to whet your appetite and maybe inspire some budding lyricists out there. Who knows? Maybe the next great time-delayed rap battle will happen right here. Starting right now. On this blog.

The Mighty Toe Ball

Since Edward mentioned my "prowess" for booting soccer balls that may or may not have ended up connecting with various female bystanders (Kathleen/Katie G) in the head at recess, I feel I must explain these events further. While part of this action may have been deeply premeditated, a much larger part of these assasin toe ball bullets were controlled by something you nor I could ever hope to control (in the same way any projectile that left Greg's grubby hands would somehow connect directly with your face or go over some fence).

From what I've gathered in my athletic education, to kick a soccer ball in the proper fashion, you should connect either the instep of your foot, the top of your foot, or (if you're a white cleat-wearing dick) the outside of your foot with the ball, follow through, and keep your body over the ball so that it doesn't go sailing into the stands (or forest/stream in most of our cases). However, we quickly discovered the dark secret of kicking a soccer ball, one that unlocked the inner chaos of the ball with the potential to cause brain damage (not to mention breaking all your toes at once). This was the toe ball. You connected mainly your big toe and whatever other toes might want to join with the ball, and you let it fly. Because there is no real guidance for toe balls unless you connect from a stand-still facing as straight as you can, then the toe ball will go everywhere. Not only that, but it will knuckle in such a way that anyone in it's way would do better to just brace for impact rather than try to get out of the way. The toe ball was effective mostly for intimidation while simultaneously making it apparent to the other team that you had no real comprehension on how to play the sport. What a brilliant move.

Childhood Saga: The Paalborgs Pt. 1

The Paalborgs entered into our little world some time in the heart of elementary school. I really don't remember any momentous arrival, but rather a seamless change from not remembering them being around to suddenly going over to their house like it was the only thing I'd ever really done. The Paalborgs had two daughters, Avery and Whitney, and a son, Alex. They owned two gigantic English Mastiffs, (which would lick your face off if you let them/wanted them to), they were humorous, eccentric, and sweet as a family, and they also introduced my 3rd-grade brain to the idea of a religion besides Christianity, ie Judaism. They had a large house, and they lived just outside of town in a brand-spanking-new development (the aptly named "Waterford Heights").

Alex fit in real fast with whatever sort of brainless crowd I occupied, full of the usual obnoxious nerds that I hold dear to my heart, who feasted on video games, sports or sport-like things, and any crap our imaginations came up with. He wasn't the most athletic, the smartest, or the coolest (I think it goes without saying we were none of these as well), but he seemed to have the same sense of humor and random imagination we had, which is all that really mattered. He would become essential to much of my so-called "childhood saga" that this blog is featuring for the month of September. Although not the main player, Alex was crucial in a number of events and developments in our formative years.

1. The Formation of the "Monkeys" (and the Subsequent Formation of the "Spiders")

I believe in earlier posts (notably The Aye-Aye post), I've expressed my love for primates and apes and creatures of that sort. There was a time, when such a love was basically a loud and proud passion that was meant to be talked about endlessly, drawn in scribbles on homework, and day dreamt about during any free moment (which in childhood is basically every moment). During this time, someone or some group possibly including me in the founders, decided it was highly important that a group or gang or posse or entourage or brotherhood be formed based loosely or not-so-loosely on our passion for monkeys. We called ourselves the "Monkeys". Greg seemed to be the leader of said group, but Alex was right up there. Our group activities involved chiefly the molding and folding of aluminum foil into shapes, then polished (by rubbing maniacally against the cafeteria tables) to have shiny and shimmery sides. This was some sort of ritualistic black smithery that did not really have an obvious cause related to monkeys other than perhaps the simplest cause for all apes and human-apes alike, covet anything shiny.

Beyond that, I think there may have been the general exclusion of those not in the monkeys using the looking-over-shoulders-from-a-different-lunch-table tactic or by talking unnecessarily loud around non-members about the Monkeys using our titles as often as possible ranging from King to Blacksmith to Guard (Edward may have been security - not really a wise choice other than maybe for his foul mouth to scare people off). It then was inevitable that the nonmembers became pissed at this and formed their own entity. This, of course, was the Spiders. Whether or not the founding members of said group loved arachnids like the Monkeys loved monkeys remains to be seen. I have a feeling spiders were used more for their badass-ness and general darkness to reflect such angry tidings toward being excluded from a foil-rubbing, glasses-adjusting, nerd conglomerate. And like the bastard I was (and am), I managed to somehow be in both groups, but I guess that's besides the point. In fact, this whole thing is kind of besides the point of the Paalborgs, except for the fact that Alex led this charge along with Greg of the Monkeys vs. the Spiders.

The Spiders, from what I could tell, consisted of the cooler and more athletic, and they basically just drew a lot of spiders all over everything and existed to hate the Monkeys (as good a reason as any). Eventually (prepare yourself for the most anti-climatic ending ever!), the teacher told us to dissolve all class gangs and get on with our lives (those gangs were our lives, didn't she know!?). The whole ordeal lasted maybe two weeks, and to be honest I don't know if that's how it actually ended. In my mind it kind of just fades away, like most things that anyone ever gets really worked up over. The ending or resolution never seems to be as big as what was at stake.