For context, read
A New Twist – Part I

Apparently, Caleb’s first roller coaster was the Mind Eraser too.

I can’t remember the first time I heard the phrase, “I remember it like it was yesterday.” I suspect it was quickly followed by a strange, soap-opera-esque stare into the distance, swelling music, and a wavy special effect leading into a flashback sequence, but I’m not sure. After all, I don’t even remember yesterday like it was yesterday. Instead, I get small flashes and scenes; some immaculately drawn or painted rather than a photo-realistic representation of whatever it is I’m remembering.

There are, however, some experiences which are simply so vivid that they paint a masterpiece in my mind; and I say paint with full knowledge that even the clearest image is streaked with the wide brushes time uses to distance the event. I remember watching the sun rise on the peak of Masada in Israel. I remember crashing spectacularly down my first double black diamond at Breckenridge. I remember diving into the lake in Kent’s Hill, Maine and feeling the algae slide by me as I coursed through the water.

Some events I’m surprised I remember. Others I know I’ll remember before they happen. And some I expect to remember but don’t.

It was literally yesterday when I went to Elitch’s, yet now it feels so distant and surreal.

Memory’s a strange and fickle thing.

—

I’m shivering slightly despite the warmth of the sun. In the distance, several roller coasters rumble along tracks. Despite it’s distance, I can hear the creak of the Twister II, an old wooden roller coaster. To our left, screams echo from the Sidewinder, a short loop de loop that goes forward, then back again. I can hear the squeal of brakes on the Tower of Doom, a dead drop that mimics my first real thrill ride, the Edge at Great America.

All of these are dwarfed by the massive twirling steel rig that is the Mind Eraser.

“You sure we can’t just go to a simpler coaster?” I ask meekly.

“Are you kidding me?” Annika replies, her eyebrow and head clearly mocking my fear.

“Once you’ve ridden the Mind Eraser, you can ride anything,” Denise assures me. “Besides, it’s not that bad. Trust me.”

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

Ann Althouse, now a law professor at the university of Wisconsin,
studying for her final law exam in 1981. Taken from her blog.

When it comes down to it, there’s always one question that needles me until every thread of thought and belief come unwound: Why?

—

The past few months, I’ve been slowly wending my way toward grad school. My exact destination has been unclear, but the path to all points is roughly the same. It’s like navigating by Polaris, the North Star; it probably won’t get you to your destination directly, but it’ll get you close enough that it’s hard to get too lost.

Last Friday, I received my LSAT score. This, along with my instant GRE results, ends the studious portion of the process and plants me firmly at the application stage. I’m still not tremendously pleased with my GRE score–thanks mostly to what appears to be over-performing on the math section and under-performing on the verbal, which place my overall score approximately where I expected despite my annoyance–but I overshot my LSAT target by a couple points, leaving me quite enamored with the outcome.

SIDE NOTE: Graduate exams are interesting. The GRE’s verbal section is infinitely harder than the math section, but given that my lackadaisical nature resulting in less than 4 hours of studying for math combined with my complete and total avoidance of math since high school nearly a decade ago, my 770 out of 800 was a complete surprise. Meanwhile, despite my complete and total infatuation with the English language, I found that much of my linguistic tendencies resulted in a skewed understanding of language in which colloquial definition and dictionary meaning were at odds. The LSAT, meanwhile, played up the strategist in me. It’s a test which I not only found to accentuate my strengths as a gamer, but also to be surprisingly enjoyable. If the LSAT is truly indicative of the type of work required by law school, I fully expect to both enjoy and be challenged by the material presented.

My pleasure was short-lived, however.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

Fenway Park during a night game.

When school let out on a game day, there was always a desire to take my allowance for the week and wind my way down to Kenmore Square for a Red Sox game. At only eight dollars, bleacher seats were downright affordable, and those lovable losers, always in the shadow of the Evil Empire, could entice me with promises of witnessing the unimaginable: a victory.

I could see every major league team in the bright hues painted in the foliage whipping by the subway windows. The speed of the train only compounded my excitement as we dove into the inky blackness, a promise of next stop Kenmore rasped over the PA in a thick Boston brogue. The crowd would sway and part as I ducked and dove, swimming to the surface in the midst of the city’s madness, surrounded by a sea of bright reds and deep blues, all flowing toward the massive green container that could bubble over with teeming joy or leak slowly with disappointment.

It’s easy to forget what it’s like to be child, that ever trusting, nubile mind. I would sidle up to the ticket window and part with my money for a stiff piece of paper that granted me viewing rights to a dreamworld. The gate keepers always smiled as I slipped through the turnstiles and traversed the echoing concrete halls. Every time, I would stop at doorway to my section, the bright blue sky glowing brightly through the threshold. Several deep breaths later, I would walk out, my mind reeling so fast that it seemed a slow motion march into the light.

There’s something magical about an open patch of grass and dirt. The smell alone is intoxicating. In the eyes of a child, every possibility plays itself out right there when the field appears, and each possibility is more fantastic and amazing than the last. Every pitch could be a strike out or a home run. Every hit could lead to an amazing defensive play or an exciting race to the bag. Every fly ball could be the greatest souvenir I’d ever gotten. Probability, scandals, drugs, egos; none of these things mattered. All that mattered was scent of fresh grass, the roar of crowd, and the chance to see some baseball.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

Elitch Gardens at night (2007).

My heart flutters. I’ve barely done anything but stand idly since exiting the car, but I can feel the tension running through my body. My stomach rumbles. It’s not due to hunger, as I finished breakfast less than an hour ago, and I’m far from stuffed thanks to a brief visit to the evacuation chamber. My mind races. It recounts the laws of physics and the basic principles of motion, all the while reminding me that I’m not going to die or even be at risk for injury, but that I’m almost certain what’s coming won’t be pleasant.

I sling jovial and halfhearted arguments, knowing that I’m too stubborn to back down now. No one has any serious rebuttals. Everyone simply brushes me off as a silly man whose irrationality is… well, irrational.

I watch as Mitch nearly falls making his ascent into our loosely rocking modern-day buggy. I try not to make the same mistake, firmly planting my left foot as I pull myself up and in. The hard plastic seat is cramped, my hips and shoulders wedged into the odd contraption. My neck cracks as I duck under the the padded yellow restraints that mark the point of no return.

“You’re going to love this, Ben,” one of my companions call to me. I don’t answer. I’m going to survive this, I think to myself, but love it? My stomach might decide that one for me.

The ride is called The Chaos. It’s a carousel of two-person cabins, facing outward. The entire carousel lifts up on a hydraulics and tilts to nearly 90 degrees. The cabins, which are speared perpendicular to the riders, can spin freely, toppling over and over vertically. Given the right weight balance, the centripetal force should maintain a heading without spin. A little rocking by the riders can easily change that, spinning the compartment head over heels as if it were in eternal free fall.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

I once called it “a termite’s dream come true.” Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn’t have been so callous.

The chair was plain and ordinary looking, barely stained and sun-bleached in its old age. Its legs creaked when someone sat down and the wooden slats of the back rattled when someone got up quickly. The seat was worn from use, smooth where butt cheeks had rubbed into the seat. There was nothing intrinsically impressive about the chair and I treated it accordingly.

It slid neatly under my desk in the back of my room, tucked next to the window overlooking the driveway. Though I didn’t treat it as such, the chair was surprisingly central to my existence in that room.

My computer perched atop the table where my friends would gather, straining to see the next level of whatever game we were playing, the current mouse commander seating in the chair while the rest of hovered or pulled up seats. I’d throw my feet up on the table, creaking back on two legs, and read in the waning light of the afternoon, and lean forward over my homework beneath the track lighting installed above. With the lights off and the shades drawn, I would sit in that chair and watch the window across the way, my fingers preening apart the slats in the blinds, hoping to catch a glimpse of our neighbor’s college age daughter slipping out of the shower.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

Available for your shower now!

“Did you have a good time?” Larry inquires.

“Yeah, it was fun,” I reply, my smile quickly turning into a tiny grimace. “I must admit I was tempted to pull Captain Geek aside and introduce him to deodorant.”

“Captain Geek? We’re all geeks and gamers here.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle and nod, “but none of us exemplify the stereotype quite like the unwashed mass over there.”

—

Whatever happened to the days where bathing was the last thing we wanted to do?

I remember fighting with my parents after hours of jumping in puddles and wallowing in mud simply because I didn’t want to birthday suit up and slide into a tub. I would splash water on my toothbrush and barely scrape my teeth because I didn’t want to brush (and I hated the mint flavor of toothpaste).

Somewhere along the way, clean became the thing to be.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

Nearly a year ago, I went to great lengths to extricate myself from Boulder. I moved out of my house, threw all my things in storage, and went on a grand journey around the world almost exclusively to uproot myself and have a chance to go someplace else. Obviously, the traveling was worthwhile in and of itself, but the impetus was to get out of Boulder.

Boulder is an amazing town. It suffers from excellent weather while still maintaining seasonal change. The population is infested by a wealth of intelligent, interesting and beautiful, though rarely in combination, people. Days and nights are regularly filled with arts and leisure that only the rich and famous could tire of, and ski resorts, hiking trails, and the call of city (or a close facsimile thereof) are just a Hop, Skip, or a Jump away. In essence, Boulder is the only attainable paradise I’ve ever experienced.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

Image found here.

My junior year of high school, Dodi came back to visit.

My friend Oolij told me Dodi had been a good friend before his family had disappeared down the East coast to Maryland. As is usual with kids, the reasons for his family’s move were muddled with elements of rumor and gossip.

“Dodi totally got a raw deal,” Oolij explained. “He had a crush on this girl and would walk by her house on the way home each day. But it was on the way.”

“Dodi was a stalker,” Staniel told me. “He lived in the opposite direction and was following her around. It was kind of creepy. She got a restraining order against him.”

“His family moved for work reasons after Freshman year,” Montserrat claimed. “I mean, sure, she was happy he was gone and it was probably good for him, but it had nothing to do with the restraining order.”

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

For context, read
Arm Candy - Part I.

As a little kid, I adored being the center of attention. My parents have a picture of me sitting at the piano in pajamas, banging on the keys randomly and entitling the piece “Storm” with such panache and veracity no one could argue that it was simply noise. I had a perfect fake smile down to a T, though by the time I was eleven or twelve, it had turned from cute into awkward and creepy.

Eventually I developed stage fright, putting an end to my extroverted jaunts into the spotlight. While I was small, however, there was nothing that could keep me from being in the limelight.

Nothing except expecting me to perform.

—

Uncle Ted drove a beat up Cadillac that was likely a hand me down from one of the elders in the family. The silver paint had been flecked with rust and the hubcaps had run off screaming. Uncle Ted buckled me in as I crawled into the massive wasteland of fast food wrappers and beer cans that made up the back seat.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

Image by the Crafty Bohemian.

“You wanna go get some arm candy, Ben?” I stared dumbfounded at my uncle Ted. The truth was, I barely knew the guy. I’m not even sure he was actually related to me. “It’ll be fun! There’ll be food and baseball and girls!”

“Ick, girls!” I yelled, eliciting laughter from Ted and his friend.

—

I was six years old the summer I visited my distant relatives on the North Shore. We had flown out to see my Nana Marjorie in Boston and got invited by the rest of the clan out to the lake house.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

I sip café au lait out of the giant bowl-sized mug, its logo glaring at me, taunting me. It reads “Brookline High School Class of 2000″ on it. I love this mug. It’s all I have to remind me that I graduated.

Well that and this worthless piece of paper they call a diploma.

The symbolism of the diploma is the culmination of years of work and study. “This man did it,” it says to all who look. “This man studied hard for four years (or perhaps more if he’s a dipshit or slacker) and completed everything this place of learning asked of him. Value him. Praise him. He earned it.”

For those first few weeks after walking away with this flimsy excuse for proof of education, it really feels that way. It feels like I actually accomplished something. Praise is showered down upon me like manna from heaven.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

“Listen Mom,” I say tepidly, the fear and disappointed firmly held from my voice. This is important. This is necessary. I still don’t like it. “I’m down to the dregs in my bank account. If I don’t spend any money between now and the end of the year, I’ll have just enough to cover my January student loan payment before I’m out.”

She can’t see it, but I’m cringing. I hate talking about money. It’s part because I’m terrible with it and she’s the responsible accountant for a multi-million dollar philanthropy, and part because discussing money feels like it’s just one small step away from being greedy, one of the ugliest and most common vices in America. Over the years I’ve bounced checks, ran up huge credit card bills that went unpaid, nearly defaulted on my student loan, shirked collection agencies, and borrowed money from friends (all of whom, to my knowledge, I paid back).  I’m hardly an apt and able successor to her legacy.

“Ok. I think your father will be able to free up some money from the estate soon,” she replies.

The estate refers to my grandfather Harry Roberts’s estate. The same one I blew through traveling. Blew through may be the wrong word, as I actually spent only a portion of what has been left for me. The rest is still locked up as they sell houses and items of his and hold it in trust while things work themselves out. The money I got for my trip was an advance, of sorts, which complicated matters as it necessitated disbursement of equal funds to the other inheritors.

Still, the fact that it’s technically my money doesn’t make it any less awkward; especially considering that I wanted to turn it down completely at first.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

“You know. I’m just saving the princess from the clutches of evil.”

“Oh,” I said, impressed by the matter-of-fact way in which he replied. I ate another grape off my plate as I sat down cross-legged next to him. I’m not sure I realized it right then, but thinking back, I should have been in awe of Ethan; his courage and fortitude; his resiliency; his zen-like calm. All of that in an mere eight-year old child.

We sat there for well over an hour. There was no talking, except for the occasional, “can I try?” or “pass me a grape, please.” The adults wandered back and forth, offering his parents their condolences, the upbeat Zelda theme quietly playing out of the small color TV flickering in front of us.

It took me years to understand the way Ethan reacted to his brother’s death. Adam was my best friend, and from the moment I found out he was dead, I was torn up inside. But with Ethan, I couldn’t tell if it was shock that kept him from tears or that he had already cried it out in private.

I found out Adam had died on a Monday. I had spent the weekend tearing through Otto of the Silver Hand, carefully remembering every brilliant detail in preparation for the Medieval history project a few of us were working on. I walked into my homeroom, my book in hand, ready for another joyous week.

“Did you hear?” a classmate asked me as I slipped into my seat.

“Hear what?”

“Adam Gelfand died.”

I didn’t even take the time to respond. I stormed up to my teacher and fearfully demanded if it were true. I’m not sure my jaw closed the remainder of the day when she grimly nodded and apologized.

I dragged my feet leaving school. My au pair was upset I was late and berated me the entire way home. What a horrific day she was having. She got a speeding ticket. She missed an appointment. Nothing was going right. I simply sat there and seethed. As we walked up the stairs to the house, she made a particularly nasty comment about my lateness.

“FUCK YOU,” I screamed. She slapped me. I stood there stunned, tears welling up in my eyes. “My best friend died today,” I said firmly before storming up to my room and diving into a box of kleenex.

I couldn’t understand how the sun could be shining, the birds singing. It was a nearly perfect spring day, and yet my entire world had changed.

For me, Adam’s death was potent and real. I didn’t know why it hurt so much. It’s not like it was unforeseen.

It was only a few months prior that I had stopped by his hospital room, ignoring the stifling claustrophobia hospitals elicited in me, and left a copy of the Black Stallion resting on his arm. His mother said thank you for him because he was too tired to wake up.

Throughout fourth grade, Adam had been back and forth from chemotherapy and hospitalizations. His brain tumor was no secret. Sometimes, he’d be with our class for several weeks with no problem. Then one day he wouldn’t be there for a while. Most of us learned to live with his absence, but it was tenable for me. I guess I assumed he’d always come back.

When he was feeling well, he, Greg and I would run around our backyards reenacting great moments in heroic literature. Adam was always the good guy—Robin Hood, or Elliot Ness, or King Arthur. That’s just the way it was. He wasn’t capable of being evil, let alone pretending to be evil.

Adam had a brilliant sense of humor. He was the grand master of the pun, for a fourth grader, of course. His jokes were always clean and his smile ever present. In the later years, it was often a tired smile, but I never saw him frown for more than a moment.

As I sat next to Ethan at the reception, all these things went through my head. Each picture in the house had that beaming smile of Adam’s. In each one his eyes twinkled with an intelligence far beyond that of any of our classmates. Only a few weeks before, those things were tangible and real. Now, however, they were gone.

Yet here Ethan was, sitting in front of the little TV, mashing buttons, his stoicism inconceivable to me.

---

The morning of Christmas day, I awoke with a chill. The blizzard that had swept over the mountains continued unabated outside my window. Despite the fleece blanket tacked in front of my window and the drawn shades, the cold easily pulled me from my slumber.

Christmas has never been an important holiday to me. My mother’s side of the family is Christian, but I was raised Jewish. We never visited on the Christian holidays. Thanksgiving was the big full family event, in all its secular glory. The distance between Boston and Denver made it easier to ignore my extended family. After moving to Colorado, I always felt obligated to join them for Christmas, though usually I scheduled myself to work or volunteer so I didn’t have to attend.

This Christmas eve I had been working, giving me the perfect excuse not to go. Still, being family and all, I felt obligated to give my grandfather a call.

I stumbled out of bed and snagged the phone from its charger. My grandfather’s number was programmed in, so I didn’t even need to remember it as I scrolled through my phonebook.

“Merry Christmas, Grandpa,” I said as he answered.

“Oh, hi Ben.” His voice sounded down. There wasn’t even a merry Christmas back.

“Sorry I missed Christmas dinner. How’d it go?”

“Fine, fine. Here, talk to your Uncle John,” he said, as I heard the phone fade away from him.

“Hey, Ben.”

“Hey John. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too,” my uncle responded dourly.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, worry washing over me.

“Oh, mom isn’t doing so well. We’re over at the hospice now.”

“Do you want me to come down? A friend left her car with me. I could be down in–”

“No, no. It’s probably nothing,” he interrupted as I parted my shades and looked out at the falling snow. “Besides, you don’t want to drive in this. It’s really yucky out. Go. Enjoy your day off. We’ll call you if anything happens.”

“Alright,” I said, resigning myself to a day indoors. “Give everyone my love.”

---

My grandmother died that evening. I didn’t get a phone call until the following morning. All I could think was how I should’ve gone down; I should’ve been there.

Though my mom flew out the following week, we didn’t really spend much time together. She was busy with family. I was busy with work.

Two weeks after my grandmother had died, our family finally congregated at my grandfather’s house. My mom cooked Veal Paprikash, a traditional Czech dish and one of my favorite dishes growing up. Every time we visited, my grandmother would make it for me.

Our family sat around watching TV and chatting about trivial things all evening. There wasn’t any mention of my grandmother outright, and no one seemed perturbed by this.

Perhaps, I thought, it’s in poor taste to talk about things so soon. Then again, what do we really have to say anyway?

My aunt and uncle, who had separated, acted civilly. I was surprised. It was almost as if they were still together.

When we sat down to dinner and grace was said, there was a brief mention of my grandmother. But afterwards we returned to our normal conversation.

“This is delicious,” my uncle Bruce said. “You did an excellent job, Paula.”

“Yeah, it’s great. Though not quite as good as mom’s,” chimed my uncle Bruce.

“Well, mama had years of practice,” said my grandfather. “I think the key is a little more salt and pepper.”

“Thanks,” my mom responded, nodding in kind. It was the only real discussion of my grandmother that night.

---

The entire drive home, I blasted classical music, watching the snow blow across the highway as I sped toward Boulder.

Why weren’t we sadder? I wondered. Why weren’t we sitting around laughing and telling stories about my grandmother? Why was everything so normal?

And then it dawned on me. We had already finished mourning.

It would be poetic justice that some grand operatic crescendo matched my emotional epiphany. As with most things, that wasn’t the case.

For the last year and half, we had watched my grandmother wither and die. I had done my mourning the first time I visited her in the hospice. I suspect over that time we all had.

Looking around the dinner table that night, I should’ve recognized the expression each of us wore. It was the same one that Ethan had at his brother’s funeral. For two years, he had watched his brother fight with that brain tumor. By the time he finally died, he and his parents had known for a while what was coming. They were prepared. And I wasn’t.

I shed no tears when my grandmother died. If anything, it was relief I felt. Getting together that night, my family was stoic and calm. It was the perfect balance of pain and relief. We had already lost my grandmother over a year ago. There was no need to cry or share stories or reminisce. We had been doing it for so long, all we wanted was some normalcy.

As I pulled up to my house and wandered inside, the stars twinkling over head as the wind stirred up the snow, I considered for a minute whether I should sit down and play some Zelda on the Wii.

Naw, I thought, a glimmer of Adam’s smile flitting across my mind. I don’t think the clutches of evil will be threatening the princess tonight.

Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

There was a group of us who would meet on the court in the playground before school each day. For the forty-five minutes before we were dragged in to class, we'd play pick-up games of basketball. Some days, I might be the only one there, shooting around on my own, hoping that others would show in time for a quick game or two. Other days, we'd have three or four kids waiting to get next in our half court game of four on four. Unlike recess, which divided our elementary school by age, or after school, where the entirety of the school was there rather than just a few of the faithful, these before school games defined a certain group of us.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the most friendly of groups. Trash talk flew and the younger kids learned a colorful new vocabulary as we ground out our game on the blacktop. Fights would break out at least once week, though generally they were just your average playground shoving match, where the bigger, stronger, or older kid would stand with a smirk and taunt the loser as he walked to the sidelines with his tail between his legs, his ego more bruised than his body.

Beyond the players, there were a collector of spectators. Usually they were too young or too clumsy to play. A few, however, were girls who realized that the game was the only thing to do before school.

It was here at this game that I first found myself on the receiving end of an unwanted crush.

Her name was Phoebe. She was black, taller than me, wore glasses, and was in the special education class. One morning, after I sank a vicious jump shot over a kid two grades above me, she whispered to a friend that she liked me. I don't think I would've noticed at all had her friend not then spread the word. The crowd, suddenly overcome with this revelation that the special ed kids can have crushes, began chanting taunts.

A couple of the older boys on the court smirked a little, but you could tell they didn't like people picking on the special ed kids. One of them raised his voice and attempted to deflect the jeers. "Hey Ben," he called. "How's it feel to be liked by a retard?" His tactic worked. Suddenly, the jeers were flying at me. Eventually, the game resumed, the bell rung, the world moved on. Till the end of my fifth grade year, every time I stepped on that court, someone would remind me that a mentally challenged person liked me.

There's something about the disabled that naturally makes us feel bad. Even their love feels shameful at first. When I learned of my position in Phoebe's mind, I immediately asked what is so wrong with me that a retard would like me? Am I flawed somehow? Do I belong in the special ed class?

Looking at the couples around me, I always saw some sort of similarity in the people: Jews marry Jews; Whites marry Whites; Lawyers marry Lawyers. Even when there were obvious differences, it seemed as though people only chose to have relationships with those who were somehow like them, whether it was race, religion, lifestyle or something completely invisible to the naked eye. If a special ed kid was interested in me, how was I like them?

I slammed the door on that thought. I wasn't like them. I was smarter, better looking, destined to do something great. So why her? Why not someone like me? Why not a smart, pretty girl? Why not someone I could actually like back?

There's a disconnect between reality and self-image thanks to the media. We watch on TV and see these beautiful actors and actress play characters with sensitivity who find themselves in situations like we do. These characters are written to be empathized with. Somewhere along the way, it begins to go beyond empathy. We begin to think of ourselves in the same light. If the quiet and intense loner Dawson can get girls like Joey and Jen, then since I'm even cooler than his character, I should be able to as well. For most of us, that's not an option.

And that's the rub. Instead of smiling and thinking to myself, "I'm loved," and being happy for something not everyone gets to experience, I fell into a derisive state of mind that insulted both Phoebe and myself. Anytime someone expresses interest in us, we should be flattered and happy that someone can find us attractive. We should appreciate their outpouring for us even if we have no plans to return it in kind. It wasn't until after high school that I realized this.

In the end, a crush is a complement. The world would be a better place if we could remember that.

My first time away from home for any significant period of time was sleep-away camp in Maine when I was between 4th and 5th grade. There were many important things that happened: I was teased so badly I wrote a letter home demanding to leave immediately, but by the time my parents got there, I was happy and well-adjusted and didn’t want to leave anymore; They ran out of room housing with my peers, so I was put in with an older age group; I forgot nail clippers, got into a fight with my roommate (who was 3 years older) and ended up being nicknamed the Human Wolverine for the scratches I left.

Though it didn’t seem important at the time, perhaps the most interesting thing that happened while I was there was the farce two strange old ladies pulled on a small group of us while on a field trip to the mall.

The camp itself was located on the campus of a high school in Kent’s Hill, Maine. For those of you unfamiliar with New England, Maine is about as back woods as you can get, and once you’re North of Augusta, Maine’s capital city, it gets especially sparse. Because of this, it was a big deal to go on the weekly field trip to FunSpot or the water park or the movies or whatever other semblance of civilization we were visiting that time. At least once each year, the mall was the destination of choice. It was a typical mall for the time: massive, blocky, gray and bland. The worst part was that by around 4 o’clock, everything was closing down and all of us were congregating in the mallways and waiting to leave.

It’s odd wandering though a mall whose only interesting stores were the food court, a comic shop, KB Toys and the Sharper Image. Everything else there wasn’t intended for us kids, so boredom came easily. With it raining outside, it felt dark and late already, despite being mid-afternoon in the middle of the summer.

A group of five or so of us found our way into a secluded area of the mall where a pair of old ladies sat on the edge of a planter chatting and eating. The ladies watched us warily as we bounded about chatting, joking, playing, and showing off our new toys and comic books. We had grabbed a seat by the pay phones and finally seemed to get comfortable when I noticed two of the other boys talking to the old ladies. In no time, they had come running back over.

“Guys! Those ladies told us there’s a hidden camera here from America’s Funniest People!” You could feel the excitement in his voice. Most of us were relatively gullible and immediately thought, DUDE! I could be on TV! There were a few skeptics.

“Yeah, right. I bet they’re just pulling your leg.” With this, the entire group slowly walked around the planter searching for the camera.

Deep in the foliage of one of the bushes, we could a see a little round thing reflecting the dim mall lights. You could feel the buzz growing. Suddenly, a couple of the kids began darting into the camera’s field of view, making faces, telling jokes, and being as purposefully funny as they could be. The rest of us sat by the side avoiding the camera, watching the spectacle, or nervously awaiting our turn. The old ladies, meanwhile, just laughed and laughed, almost falling over at the dearth of antics.

Personally, I think it’s especially cruel to taunt and tease children with a camera. Being in front of a camera changes things. There’s this fascination with being seen, watched and heard, with having all attention on you. Certainly, not every kid will jump at the chance to preen and strut, but pictures and film are means to our fantasies. It’s this understanding that intrigues me most about being in front of a camera.

It wasn’t long before the word had spread. The group slowly grew from five to twenty to nearly every camper at the mall that day. A line began to form, much to the amusement of the old ladies. A scuffle broke out between two kids fighting for their spot in line. This, despite the complete implausibility of the entire scenario, was a huge deal for everyone.

And then it happened.

With this mass of campers falling over each other in the name of fame, fortune, and comedy, the CITs arrived.

“What’s going on,” one asked me.

“There a hidden camera in the bushes from America’s Funniest People!”

“What? The TV show?”

“Yeah!” The CIT looked at me. He twisted and glared at the bushes.

“Where?”

“You see that shiny thing in there?”

“No, where?”

“Right there!” I got up and began to lead them towards the bushes. As soon as his eye found the object I was pointing to, he headed straight for it. Everything ground to a halt, a mixture of fear and curiosity washing over the lot of us. The CIT leaned over the bushes, carefully digging for object so carefully hidden.

I didn’t know what to hope for. On the one hand, if it were really a camera, how cool would it be to be on TV? On the other, how stupid would the lot of us look with the things we were doing?

The CIT turned around, an annoyed look on his face. “It’s just a soda lid,” he said. The old ladies burst out laughing. You could hear sighs of relief, groans and even giggling from those who hadn’t pranced about. The dream was over.

As we wandered off, we could hear the old ladies complaining to the CITs, “Aww, you ruined our fun!” Life was back to normal for everyone.

So now you know. All you need when you’re bored is a soda lid, a mall, and a bunch of gullible kids. Lesson learned.

Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

The other day, I saw wholesomedick post about the ways he’s stagnated developmentally over the past few years and began thinking about my own philosophical development. I’m certain that I’ve changed in some ways and not in others, but I’ve had the same basic morality for a long time. Therefore, I’ve decided to put together a personal philosophical timeline tracking my development from birth to today and the various changes I’ve made in belief and action.

• July 4, 1981 - I’m born in San Francisco, home of the 60s revolution, progressives, health food, and the homosexual revolution of the 80s.
• Spring 1983 - My first word is “golfcart” according to my parents. We’re in Hawaii at the time and passing a golf course.
• 1984 - I’m thrown out of two pre-schools for fighting and my parents take me to a psychological service to help with violence issues. I’m featured in a video for the organization, though my parents don’t show me until I’m in college.
• Summer 1984 - I’m grounded for making a kid cry at the park. Apparently, I went up to him in the sandbox and told him that Santa Claus wasn’t real. My grandmother has a good laugh at my expense.
• Winter, 1985 - I have my first crush on a girl in Kindergarten named Sarah. She was blonde, but I don’t remember anything else about her. I bought her flowers and brought them in to class. Most of the kids ridiculed me, but I got invited to her birthday party, the only boy there. A few weeks later, while playing Kissy Girls & Kissy Boys (a variation on tag) during recess, I accidentally cause Sarah to slip while climbing on the a play set and she stops talking to me for a while.
• Early Summer 1986 - My parents are called by the JCC summer camp because I’m rejecting religious principles out of lack of evidence. I’m sent to sit in the hall for saying there’s no proof God exists in front of the class.
• Late Summer 1986 - While on the camp overnight, I reveal to a friend that I have a crush on a girl named Robin. He proceeds to promise he won’t tell anyone and then runs through the camp telling people. I chase him down and beat the living shit out of him. Counselors pull me off and make me sit behind a tree away from everyone else. Robin comes by and gives me a kiss on the cheek while in Time Out.
• Fall 1987 - My Uncle Buddy dies of a heart attack. During my visits with him, he would give me small toy cars which I still keep as a memory. I cry and throw a fit when my parents tell me I can’t go to the funeral. Shortly thereafter, I start trying to save the mice my cats would catch and kill. None survive.
• Spring 1988 - I severely injure two kids while at school.
  1. David hits me in the head with a ball during dodgeball and my head slams into a cement wall. I black out. He apparently approaches me to see if I’m alright with his right hand extended and I bite it down to the bone. He has to get a cast and I end up suspended for the week. When I return, I give him a G.I. Joe to make up for it. A week later, he leaves it in the yard during lunch and I steal it to add to my collection.
  2. A boy pushes me while up on a structure. I turn and hit him and he falls off onto the cement ground, breaking several bones and getting a concussion in the process. He doesn’t remember what happened and everyone thinks it’s an accident. I feel guilty for years.
  LATE CHILDHOOD - The Move to Boarding School
• August 1989 - I move to Boston. I feel incredibly out of place and odd in my new surroundings. I get picked on for introducing myself as being from San Francisco. I continue to do this until I switch schools in 7th grade. Boston just didn’t feel like home.
• Fall 1989 - I read The Whipping Boy and Johnny Tremain shortly thereafter, impressing my teacher, but bothering her that I was getting ahead of the class. I’m also chastised for already knowing script, but not knowing how to write in print.
• Winter 1991-1992 - I read Otto of the Silver Hand as part of the medieval segment of the course. It’s the first book to really make me think about morality and treatment. After a fight with a 7th grader, I decide I shouldn’t fight anymore. Memories of the boy I sent to the hospital with a single punch stop bothering me after this.
• Valentine’s Day 1992 - I use a crystal growing kit and a cheap toy ring to make a crystal ring for my crush Allison. I leave the ring in her doorway with a card early in the morning, signed by a secret admirer. She finds out it was me within three days. A few weeks later, she washes her hands with the ring on and the crystal dissolves.
• Spring 1992 - My best friend Adam Gelfand dies of a brain tumor. I spend his funeral playing with his little brother Ethan and trying to cheer him up. I vow to try and be more like Adam, who was incredibly smart, kind, and funny. I doubt I did a very good job outside of the first few weeks. Two weeks later, my friend Todd Saker dies when he hits a tree skiing at Attitash while on a New England Ski Club trip I decided not to go on at the last minute. I both feel guilty and oddly relieved I didn’t join him.
• Summer 1992 - I spend a month at a summer camp run by John’s Hopkins’ Gifted and Talented program. During this time, I’m first introduced to crappy Fantasy novels, role playing, and Nirvana. I also spend a large portion of my time watching the lightning in Maryland. My biggest memory is spending a day at the pool making fun of a fat kid. That evening, I feel sorry and go to apologize. He slugs me. I decide I deserve it.
• July 4, 1992 - For my birthday, my parents give me a hardcover copy of Jean Paul Satre’s Being and Nothingness because I keep refusing to empty the dishwasher until they prove I and the dishwasher exist. I read through and don’t understand much, but begin to discuss existentialism with my Dad to try and understand. By the end of the summer, I have a basic understanding of existential theory and begin to embrace it.
• Fall 1992 - I voted for Perot in the 1992 mock election at my elementary school. When Clinton wins, I start arguing with my teacher about how Clinton wasn’t much better than Bush despite my parents voting for him and that Perot doesn’t allow morality and religion to affect his plans for the country. I also express my desire to see a third major party. He throws me out of class.^*
• Winter 1992-1993 - As a practical joke during Hebrew School, I attempt to pull the old tack on the chair trick on Josh sitting next to me. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a tack and instead substituted a newly sharpened pencil. Josh goes to the emergency room and spends 3 hours in surgery having the graphite pulled from his ass. He never comes back to that Hebrew School.
• Summer 1993 - I’m caught multiple times doing illegal acts on AOL and am banned for life. The acts include software piracy, credit card fraud, account theft and various hacking violations. My family is told if I ever sign up for AOL again, it’s a $35,000 lawsuit.
• Winter 1993-1994 - I start gaining weight and internalize the label of “chubby.” I begin using it to my advantage by joking about it and attempting to appear clumsy when being picked for sports.
• End of School 1994 - Despite the fact that I was leading the math team and helping everyone else with their homework, I gets Ds nearly across the board. My parents decide I should go to private school where I can get more structure. Kindly, they give me the choice of school. I choose the one with the most beautiful campus, completely unaware that it’s all-boys and mostly stuck-up rich kids with too much time and money on their hands.
  PUBERTY - Boarding School to Public School
• Summer 1994 - While at Newsport (a sports sleep-away camp) in Kent’s Hill Maine, I read The Celestine Prophecy. Despite knowing it’s not a great work of literature, a lot of the philosophy and precepts seem to ring true and strike home and any number of other cliche and trite sayings. I remember reading in my room on the evening of my Birthday while listening to the Batman Forever soundtrack. For some reason, though the book hasn’t stuck with me, I feel as though this is a definitive point in my philosophical growth.
• Winter 1994-1995 - While home over Christmas, my rabbi convinces me to have a Bar Mitzvah that summer. I had refused based on the fact I don’t believe in God and refuse to agree to a system which requires me to do so. After several meetings, he explains that he doesn’t believe in God either, but does believe in the precepts taught by Judaism and the community it builds. I agree.
• Spring 1995 - I first see evidence of my mother’s alcoholism. I knew she went to AA meetings, but I never put 2 and 2 together.
• Summer 1995 - I have my Bar Mitzvah. My speech is about how religion is about creating community and building up the connections between people, not about God. My Dad cries. I’m embarrassed.
• Winter 1995-1996 - While at boarding school, I learned how to lie, cheat, steal, and manipulate the system. I also drink heavily, try drugs (weed and acid) and get caught but am able to elude punishment. I also witness my first gay sexual act (walking in on two boys during a blow job), and though I’m slightly disgusted, I decide they don’t deserve any ridicule and don’t mention it.
• Spring 1996 - While home over break, my grandmother, who had been suffering from breast cancer, collapses outside our bathroom and dies. I come out when I hear the thump. My mom is wailing. I turn around, return to my computer and tell my friend Andy my grandmother just died and I have to sign off. I remember shedding one tear (yes, the trite single tear), not really seeing my Dad cry despite it being his mom, and being rushed back to school a day after the funeral cause break was over. Once again, I vowed to be a better student and try and emulate her best traits. I don’t think it lasted more than 6 months.
• Freshman Year of HS (1996-1997) - I attend Boston University Academy my Freshman year. My grandmother had really wanted me to go here, and because of that I wanted to live up to her memory. I’m asked to leave because of poor grades (less than a B- in multiple classes is unacceptable) and complicity in an instance of cheating on a 5 point quiz (I copped to it to cover for a friend. The friend sold me out. We stopped talking.). I spend most of the summer feeling helpless and pissed off that I let her down.
  TEENHOOD - Boston to Boulder

  

• Sophomore Year (1997-1998) - I reenter public school now a year behind my elementary school grade. I’m too embarrassed to make myself well known, so I spend my lunch breaks in the library studying or in the gym playing basketball. I specifically avoid being outspoken, though by the end of the year, I’ve once again stepped forward as a class clown.
• Summer 1998 - I spend the summer traveling around Israel with a basketball team and playing local high school teams. We win one game. I also lose my virginity to one of the girls on the women’s basketball team touring with us. It was a very odd experience and, quite frankly, not a very good one. When I leave to come home, I believe I’m in love with her.
• Junior Year (1998-1999) - With my virginity lost along with a fair amount of weight, I feel confident in myself for the first time in years. Body image issues are finally gone (for now) and I’ve pushed myself to take up the bass and join a band. It was a good year overall. My mom relapses into her alcoholism, culminating in her passing out on the landing outside my room. I try hiding bottle from her and eventually confront her. She apologizes the next day and seeks help by starting with AA again. She’s drank since then, but she keeps coming back to AA. Currently (2005), she’s just over 3 years sober and I support her in every way, shape and form I can.
• Spring 1999 - After having helped the DARE program and being a peer leader, Heidi, the counselor that runs our peer leadership program, nominates me for a good samaritan award. I win it, but feel extremely bad doing so. It makes me feel as if I were being payed off for doing good things. I refuse to acknowledge the award and try to send the $75 scholarship back. My parents convince me to keep it. I selfishly give $50 of it to charity to make myself feel better.^*
• Senior Year (1999-2000) - Lots of stuff happened, some of which I’ve been asked not to talk about, so I can’t elaborate. I miss the first few weeks of school recovering from jaw surgery. My face, which has substantially changed, once again cause body image issues. I spend a semester in philosophy and form a Marxist utopian ideal. In a design your own utopia project, I convince the class to choose a modified social-capitalist state built upon Marxist precepts and modified capitalist economics. I still believe in this model today. I skip a lot of class in order to gain some much need worldly experience hanging out with friends. I end up only getting into one college because of my 2.13 GPA and promise myself I’ll work harder in college. I actually stick to it this time.
  THE GOLDEN AGE - College Years
• Summer 2000 - I get a job at Kaleidoscope at the Jewish Community Center as a counselor. I realize there’s nothing I enjoy more than working with kids and trying to help others. I get in trouble several times for disobeying rules, but the director tells me that I was only trying to let the kids have fun.
• Fall 2000 - Freshman year begins. I work hard, do well, and am happy. My first roommate vows to get me drunk and doesn’t succeed. I spend my first party wandering around trying to keep track of a girl who came with me and whom I was afraid would be taken advantage of. Her friends appreciate it; she does not. I drink two beers there. Later that semester, I alienate a friend of mine by making the Jesus is gay argument/joke and throw myself head on into the radio station. I continue my anti-corporate tendencies.
• Election 2000 - I vote Nader because I realize my vote doean’t matter. In Colorado, we’re far enough republican that my vote won’t make a difference. In Massachusetts, we’re far enough democrat that my vote won’t make a difference. By voting Nader, I hope to have the Green Party get 15% and create a third party. Nader gets around 13%. At Thanksgiving, my mom’s side of the family spends the entire time making fun of democrats and spewing republican rhetoric (”LOCKBOX! HAHAHAHA!” Dicks). My grandmother blames the economy on the Mexicans. I leave the table immediately and refuse to return.^*
• Spring 2001 - I spend a lot of my semester talking with Paul across the hall, who’s a die hard republican, but understands why he believes what he does. We have many a good discussion and generally agree to disagree. I realize I’m in love with my good friend Amy. At that point, I wasn’t physically attracted to her. During a long night of drinking, I tell this to her. She cries. I leave. She doesn’t remember the night, giving me a second chance. I decide I’d rather be up front and honest than take a second chance. Two months later, she dates a mutual friend and I come to the realization that by telling her rather than letting things take their course, I ruined what could’ve been a good thing.^*
• Summer 2001 - While at Kaleidoscope, I was assigned a boy with serious Asberger’s disease. He was incredibly smart, but had bad social issues. One day, during a group meeting with one of the dance teachers, he started to freak out and yell. The teacher, rather than ignoring it, began yelling at him to stop, which in tunr only made him more aggravated. The correct way of dealing with it was to ignore it and let him clam down when he realizes he’s not the center of attention (which is why he freaks out). I proceed to argue with the teacher in front of the kids, about this and try and take the attention away from him, which in turn provkes the teacher. She pulls me aside and yells at me, and I later get chewed out by my boss. I refuse to apologize and further my belief that those in power are not always those who know best.^*
• Fall 2001 - I move off-campus and decide to stick it out at CU, taking time off for in-state tuition. I get a job working night security and a large monetary gift from my grandparents to help pay for the semester. During my night security gig, I decide I don’t like the way the rules are enforced and begin to go lax when I can, letting people off left and right. I eventually quit due to issues enforcing poor policies. I waste a lot of money and realize I’m bad with it.
• Spring 2002 - I briefly attempt to deal weed, but realize I’m smoking the profits. After spending two weeks straight stoned, I decide it’s a bad thing, and curtail my use. I rarely smoke anymore, though I will on occasion.
• Fall 2003 - With gay marriage suddenly becoming a hot button issue, I begin to involve myself in politics. I start working with the radio station again, continuing my anti-corporate trends.
• Spring 2004 - I get involved with Music for America and slowly realize that most of my friends are grad students and extremely liberal. I become more politically charged and start Inquiring Minds (Motto: “It doesn’t matter where you stand as long as you understand.”), basically running it throughout the spring semester. I take over as News Director at Radio 1190, further involving myself in politics.

That’s just about every major occurrence in my growth morally, ethically and philosophically up to this point. I can’t say that everything here defines me, but it all goes to who I am and why. There area few things omitted, but I figured it was long enough as is.

Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.