Let the pleasing rhythm of Emma Thompson's voice carry the following memory into your mind.
Middle School is a battlefield. A war zone that rages on for what feels like eternity. It drags on and dwindles and drips like an IV into the veins of a dying man. Middle School is slow and painful torture. The embarrassments and awkward moments it supplies are merely the pathetic prologue to the Thermopolean War known as High School.
Middle School is a collection of terrible, horrid moments, plucked out of one's life, when he or she is struggling desperately to impress friends and teachers, and always failing miserably. There is no such thing as moderation or subtlety in the mind of a child, no matter his desire to masquerade as an adult.
There is a time, however, to break from the agonizing struggle of pretend. The time that allows the child in everyone to be free. The time when all attempts to impress will fail, and everyone acknowledges the fact, so the effort is not wasted, and instead is spent wisely on making a fool of oneself. That lack of moderation and subtlety is best exhibited in an affectionate absence of adult affectations, known as Lunch.
Switch to Colin Firth here.
My sixth grade table was the farthest table on the north side of the cafeteria. I fondly remember sitting next to a young up-and-coming funny-man named Justin, a new addition to our clan. We sat across from my rediscovered best friend, Amy, and her strange awkward-minded friend Jasmine* (see footnote). Farther down the table next to the plexi-glass window sat previously-mentioned Brooke and Kayla, with Patty, Brittany, Brittnee, Lauren, and a plethora of other BFFs.
It was this year that my system of allowance was changed. Instead of being given lunch money every day, and a small allowance every Saturday, I would get twenty (or thirty or forty, I don't particularly remember) dollars each month, which was also meant to cover my lunch at school. So, if I wanted to spend money on pizza and soda for lunch every day, I could not expect to buy packs of Pokemon cards with any leftover money. On the other hand, if I was willing to eat a scrappy lunch, I had funds available to me to buy toys and Pokemon cards when the mood struck me.
I chose the second route. I decided that I would buy two bags of potato chips for lunch every day, totaling in one dollar. One dollar every day for lunch, meant a total of merely five dollars a week, which left me with ample funds with which to satiate my own interests. Anyway, the important part is that I ate potato chips for lunch nearly every day.
What happened next caused some friends to laugh, some to cringe, and others left simply in awe. When I had finished with the tangible crisps from the bag, I would turn the bag inside-out with my hand inside the bag like a vicious puppet-master, and I would lick the succulent flavor dust from the silver insides. I would lap up the wonderful entrails of my cheap kill, valiantly claiming that I was "getting my money's worth!" In this prosperous moment, all concerns for my public image were denied, and I was left only with the salty satisfaction of a good day's hunt.
Other memories come flooding to the fore. Justin would periodically have rounds of popcorn-chicken basketball with Amy's shirt. The "Ah!" that proceeded after a successful point was followed by Amy's hunt for the morsel and her victorious munch, reminding Justin of his foolish squandering of sustenance.
Eighth grade brought with it new faces, and entirely new lunch-time adventures. Our cafeteria had been graced in multiple ways. The first, the addition of N*Sync fruit snacks in the lunch line. At twenty-five cents each, and the gamble of a bag full of juicy hearts or a bag full of dry gelatinous ovals, it was difficult to deny their allure. The second blessing was a jukebox at the end of the cafeteria, which my friends and I monopolized. Most songs featured on the jukebox were pop hits of the day, such as "Kiss of a Rose" by Seal, "Oops...I Did It Again" by Brittany Spears, and a smorgasbord of new rap and R&B hits. However, its shining selection and favorite of our group was the old Motown hit, "My Girl" by Smokey Robinson. In a hotly contested battle to maintain the position of "Most Played," our clan would routinely announce "Five-Dollar Fridays." On this wonderful day, we would put five dollars worth of quarters in the jukebox and request "My Girl" with every scrumptious donation. Reports were obtained that our anthem played repeatedly throughout the next two lunch shifts and beyond.
Lunch after middle school quickly becomes a proving ground, serving to expose every insecurity in a test to prove one's popularity. But, for a short three years of my life, lunch was a purely social function, where judgments were held, and memories were stored as ammunition to be used at a later date. After all, one must bring all of one's guns to the final showdown of High School.
*Jasmine had reported to our group a short year earlier that she had been visited by an Andalite from the Animorphs series, and that she was gifted with the power to shapeshift. Some friends and I thought she was playing pretend, so we joined along and agreed that the rest of us had also been visited. When we learned that she was serious, we were left with a semester-long awkward silence. Rumors abounded later in life that she had a "dragon penis." Let us leave that one alone for now.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Strangulation by GameCube
Who's pretentious? We are! For the next ten minutes, your name is Lord Fitzwilliam Derbyshire II, and you speak beautifully.
I forget in which year this wonderful memory occurred, but the colors are quite vivid. My inkling tells me I was in the eighth grade, but I could easily be mistaken.
My father loves to fish. He goes fishing nearly every weekend and every day off he can manage, without fail. He goes by himself, with others, at night, or in the morning. I feel that he truly finds a connection with God when he is out on the water, facilitating the circle of life, the natural process of predator and prey. The fish are the prey. Naturally.
He keeps his prizes in a large upstanding freezer in our garage, and stockpiles for months on end. He gives bags of frozen, cleaned fish as gifts to any and everyone fortunate enough to know him. However, my father's generosity cannot overrun his catching capacity, and so the stacks of Ziploc baggies build up more and more, as if they are spawning new copies of themselves. Disgusting little buggers.
Every six months, back when my brother and I were in school, my house would host a "Fish Fry," religiously attended by many of my close friends for years on end. The summer Fish Fry would typically double as my birthday party. My household was also fortunate enough to have amassed a formidable collection of various games. Billiards, darts, ping-pong, horseshoes, an infinite closet of board games, water guns, foam swords, and, this year, my newest and most prized possession: a Nintendo GameCube.
A staple at many gatherings from then onward, the Nintendo GameCube was fortunate enough to host what I call the greatest fighting game of the time, Super Smash Bros. Melee. And at this particular party, for this particular moment, on my birthday, at my house, in my living room, on the television screen, I was King.
Many of my guests were unfamiliar with the controls, and I could tell they were losing interest quickly. Eight or so young people crowded around a television screen. I observed my opponent's hopeless flailing in the game, but failed to notice the hopeless flailing occurring on my couch.
I suppose a squabble had arisen over whose turn it was to play, or who was to claim a space on the couch. I must admit, I was immersed in my on-screen conquering. I heard a gasp, and a choking, gurgling sound, and I turned to see two girls from my class. One girl, Brooke, too witty for her own good. The other, Kayla, too skinny to survive a slight breeze. Apparently, Kayla had squeezed herself into a tight position: between Brooke and a GameCube controller. Brooke might have been wearing a green Veggie Tales T-shirt as she tenderly, let us say, "hugged" the life out of a friend with a controller cord, but one can't be sure. Truly a model of Love. (In truth, I might have photographs of this particular party, though not the conflict. I will do my best to find and display at a later date.)
I realize now why I had dominated so effectively and efficiently. My opponent had been engaged in a raging battle of her own, distracted by another momentary, albeit slightly more dangerous, enemy.
I don't remember how the conflict ended, or who broke them up. It wasn't me. I was paralyzed from the possibility that I might see a dead body by the end of the day. My birthday! The brutes. I only know that both Brooke and Kayla are still alive, and, from what I remember, somewhat good friends now. I could be wrong. This memory has made for an entertaining anecdote at many a gathering of high school friends. Needless to say, the GameCube was retired for the rest of the day, in favor of foam sword-fighting. It seems everyone had a little stress that needed to be released.
It is one of those loving reminiscences that goes something like, "Do you remember that time I tried to kill Kayla?" "Oh yes, it was a charming day, indeed."
Also, it appears I am now taking requests. If we shared a moment that you wish to share with others through my open correspondence with the masses, let me know. I will retell it to the best of my abilities.
I forget in which year this wonderful memory occurred, but the colors are quite vivid. My inkling tells me I was in the eighth grade, but I could easily be mistaken.
My father loves to fish. He goes fishing nearly every weekend and every day off he can manage, without fail. He goes by himself, with others, at night, or in the morning. I feel that he truly finds a connection with God when he is out on the water, facilitating the circle of life, the natural process of predator and prey. The fish are the prey. Naturally.
He keeps his prizes in a large upstanding freezer in our garage, and stockpiles for months on end. He gives bags of frozen, cleaned fish as gifts to any and everyone fortunate enough to know him. However, my father's generosity cannot overrun his catching capacity, and so the stacks of Ziploc baggies build up more and more, as if they are spawning new copies of themselves. Disgusting little buggers.
Every six months, back when my brother and I were in school, my house would host a "Fish Fry," religiously attended by many of my close friends for years on end. The summer Fish Fry would typically double as my birthday party. My household was also fortunate enough to have amassed a formidable collection of various games. Billiards, darts, ping-pong, horseshoes, an infinite closet of board games, water guns, foam swords, and, this year, my newest and most prized possession: a Nintendo GameCube.
A staple at many gatherings from then onward, the Nintendo GameCube was fortunate enough to host what I call the greatest fighting game of the time, Super Smash Bros. Melee. And at this particular party, for this particular moment, on my birthday, at my house, in my living room, on the television screen, I was King.
Many of my guests were unfamiliar with the controls, and I could tell they were losing interest quickly. Eight or so young people crowded around a television screen. I observed my opponent's hopeless flailing in the game, but failed to notice the hopeless flailing occurring on my couch.
I suppose a squabble had arisen over whose turn it was to play, or who was to claim a space on the couch. I must admit, I was immersed in my on-screen conquering. I heard a gasp, and a choking, gurgling sound, and I turned to see two girls from my class. One girl, Brooke, too witty for her own good. The other, Kayla, too skinny to survive a slight breeze. Apparently, Kayla had squeezed herself into a tight position: between Brooke and a GameCube controller. Brooke might have been wearing a green Veggie Tales T-shirt as she tenderly, let us say, "hugged" the life out of a friend with a controller cord, but one can't be sure. Truly a model of Love. (In truth, I might have photographs of this particular party, though not the conflict. I will do my best to find and display at a later date.)
I realize now why I had dominated so effectively and efficiently. My opponent had been engaged in a raging battle of her own, distracted by another momentary, albeit slightly more dangerous, enemy.
I don't remember how the conflict ended, or who broke them up. It wasn't me. I was paralyzed from the possibility that I might see a dead body by the end of the day. My birthday! The brutes. I only know that both Brooke and Kayla are still alive, and, from what I remember, somewhat good friends now. I could be wrong. This memory has made for an entertaining anecdote at many a gathering of high school friends. Needless to say, the GameCube was retired for the rest of the day, in favor of foam sword-fighting. It seems everyone had a little stress that needed to be released.
It is one of those loving reminiscences that goes something like, "Do you remember that time I tried to kill Kayla?" "Oh yes, it was a charming day, indeed."
Also, it appears I am now taking requests. If we shared a moment that you wish to share with others through my open correspondence with the masses, let me know. I will retell it to the best of my abilities.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Memory One: Kindergarten
English accents at the ready? Very well. As a famous Englishman once said, "Engage."
(You may congratulate yourself if you thought Patrick Stewart.)
There are numerous accounts of my life before I gained consciousness, all gathered and haphazardly organized into a loving compilation known as "Xmas '91." This home video is a brilliant capturing of my unconscious actions. My intriguing re-telling of the classic storybook, "Once Upon a Potty," is emblazoned on the film for eternity.
However, seeing as I do not have a conscious memory of these events, I will not describe with the excruciating detail I intend to impart on the rest of these entries. To set somewhat of a stage, I was born in Houston, and my family and I lived for a short year in an apartment there. We then moved to Beechwood, a small neighborhood to the north of Angleton, Texas.
My first memory is my first day of kindergarten. In those days, I slept in a T-shirt that was far too large for me. I would routinely envelope myself in its folds, like a hermit crab burying itself in the sand. In this memory, the light-blue shirt came down to my knees. I have no memory of what I had for breakfast, but I imagine it was a simple, unassuming bowl of Rice Chex. I walked outside into the dark breeze of my driveway to see my brother off. The wind was blowing calmly, as a mother blows on a bowl of hot soup for her child. I asked my mother, "What are we doing today?" She responded, "You're going to school, too."
My recollection skips ahead now to the classroom of Mrs. Brit, a wonderful, wispy kind of woman. She was small, but she would surround you lovingly, like sunlight on a windy day. On the floor are rows of colored duct tape, on which the children are meant to sit. Many of my fellow amoebas in this room I would forget until middle school, when we would be reunited. We sat "Indian style" on the rows of duct tape and, after reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, reviewed the letter 'A.'
"A, A, A, A, A. Good, now what sound does the letter 'A' make? Repeat after me. Aaaah, Aaaaah, Aaaah, Aaaah."
"Aaaah, Aaaaah, Aaaah, Aaaah."
"Very good."
I remember being terribly bored during this year. Mrs. Brit would ask us to write our names on our papers, and I would. Meanwhile, the vast majority of younglings surrounding me would shoot their hands up like fireworks. "Can you help me, Mrs. Brit?" "Of course." Meanwhile, I would continue with the assignment. Connect the dots. Very well, if you insist. As I passed my pencil from point to point, I would munch on the Skittles on my desk. "Can I have some?" asks a piercingly cute girl sitting across from me. Her name is Amanda Ochoa. "Okay." She reaches into the bag and picks out a red one. "Not the red ones," I say. She makes a face, but agrees, and takes a purple one instead. I am in love.
We return to the stripes on the floor and Mrs. Brit holds up cards with pictures of clocks and coins. We talk about time and money, the backbone of American Consumerism, the first thing I am taught in my standardized education. Wonderfully American.
Bathroom break. Everyone lines up, in the same order we were sitting on the colored stripes. We walk single-file to the bathroom, and two at a time, we are directed into the bathrooms. As we exit, we are led to a community sink-and-soap station to wash our hands. From here we go outside to the blacktop to play. I mostly sit around and watch. I play one or two games of hop-scotch in the corner of the playground.
I am picked up in a blue van and taken to Noah's Ark Day-Care. My teacher here is Mrs. Sue, a large woman with blazing red hair. I learn that we are allowed to bring one toy each day to day-care. I don't have a toy today. Instead I play with green plastic army men, using a Playskool plastic kitchen as a battleground. I play with Justin Williams, a skinny black boy. We discuss the Power Rangers and the Ninja Turtles. I vehemently claim that the Blue Ranger is the best, but he disagrees and heralds the Red Ranger as the mightiest defender of good. We agree to disagree.
We are directed to play outside for a short time, then to a play-room, and finally, to a large sitting room. A single television set is wheeled to the front-center of the room. The children clamor to the front, and debate rages across the room. I sit in the back. We settle on Legends of the Hidden Temple. I cheer for the Silver Snakes. After the Red Monkeys (much to my disappointment) rebuild the Shrine of the Silver Monkey and win their bikes, we watch the Power Rangers. The time passes, and the various television shows continue, and I notice that one by one, the murder of children sitting "Indian style" has thinned down. This continues for quite a while, until I am left alone with three other little children.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"A little after five, sweetheart."
"Where's my mommy?"
"She'll be here soon."
"Did she forget me? Did she leave me here?"
"Of course not, baby!"
I erupt into tears.
Happy story, really. I assume my mother appeared shortly after to retrieve me, but my memory fails me, and understandably so. I came to expect soon after that I would typically be the last one picked up from day-care. That trend continued in the summers at Our Lady Queen of Peace summer school, when my father would routinely pick me up long after all the other children had disappeared.
You will come to learn soon that I had a relatively pathetic childhood. Full of happy moments, to be sure, but with an overarching tone of my own depression leaked in. My family lovingly called my attitude "crabby" until I reached the age of twelve.
I was not a happy child.
Enough of me for now. I hope you enjoyed some sense of comfort as you read about my first memory. Perhaps I have sparked your own minds and pulled you back into an angry, lonely world which you long to forget. Enjoy the grueling climb back out, and I'll return to my mind-figments soon. You will join me, won't you? Wonderful.
(You may congratulate yourself if you thought Patrick Stewart.)
There are numerous accounts of my life before I gained consciousness, all gathered and haphazardly organized into a loving compilation known as "Xmas '91." This home video is a brilliant capturing of my unconscious actions. My intriguing re-telling of the classic storybook, "Once Upon a Potty," is emblazoned on the film for eternity.
However, seeing as I do not have a conscious memory of these events, I will not describe with the excruciating detail I intend to impart on the rest of these entries. To set somewhat of a stage, I was born in Houston, and my family and I lived for a short year in an apartment there. We then moved to Beechwood, a small neighborhood to the north of Angleton, Texas.
My first memory is my first day of kindergarten. In those days, I slept in a T-shirt that was far too large for me. I would routinely envelope myself in its folds, like a hermit crab burying itself in the sand. In this memory, the light-blue shirt came down to my knees. I have no memory of what I had for breakfast, but I imagine it was a simple, unassuming bowl of Rice Chex. I walked outside into the dark breeze of my driveway to see my brother off. The wind was blowing calmly, as a mother blows on a bowl of hot soup for her child. I asked my mother, "What are we doing today?" She responded, "You're going to school, too."
My recollection skips ahead now to the classroom of Mrs. Brit, a wonderful, wispy kind of woman. She was small, but she would surround you lovingly, like sunlight on a windy day. On the floor are rows of colored duct tape, on which the children are meant to sit. Many of my fellow amoebas in this room I would forget until middle school, when we would be reunited. We sat "Indian style" on the rows of duct tape and, after reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, reviewed the letter 'A.'
"A, A, A, A, A. Good, now what sound does the letter 'A' make? Repeat after me. Aaaah, Aaaaah, Aaaah, Aaaah."
"Aaaah, Aaaaah, Aaaah, Aaaah."
"Very good."
I remember being terribly bored during this year. Mrs. Brit would ask us to write our names on our papers, and I would. Meanwhile, the vast majority of younglings surrounding me would shoot their hands up like fireworks. "Can you help me, Mrs. Brit?" "Of course." Meanwhile, I would continue with the assignment. Connect the dots. Very well, if you insist. As I passed my pencil from point to point, I would munch on the Skittles on my desk. "Can I have some?" asks a piercingly cute girl sitting across from me. Her name is Amanda Ochoa. "Okay." She reaches into the bag and picks out a red one. "Not the red ones," I say. She makes a face, but agrees, and takes a purple one instead. I am in love.
We return to the stripes on the floor and Mrs. Brit holds up cards with pictures of clocks and coins. We talk about time and money, the backbone of American Consumerism, the first thing I am taught in my standardized education. Wonderfully American.
Bathroom break. Everyone lines up, in the same order we were sitting on the colored stripes. We walk single-file to the bathroom, and two at a time, we are directed into the bathrooms. As we exit, we are led to a community sink-and-soap station to wash our hands. From here we go outside to the blacktop to play. I mostly sit around and watch. I play one or two games of hop-scotch in the corner of the playground.
I am picked up in a blue van and taken to Noah's Ark Day-Care. My teacher here is Mrs. Sue, a large woman with blazing red hair. I learn that we are allowed to bring one toy each day to day-care. I don't have a toy today. Instead I play with green plastic army men, using a Playskool plastic kitchen as a battleground. I play with Justin Williams, a skinny black boy. We discuss the Power Rangers and the Ninja Turtles. I vehemently claim that the Blue Ranger is the best, but he disagrees and heralds the Red Ranger as the mightiest defender of good. We agree to disagree.
We are directed to play outside for a short time, then to a play-room, and finally, to a large sitting room. A single television set is wheeled to the front-center of the room. The children clamor to the front, and debate rages across the room. I sit in the back. We settle on Legends of the Hidden Temple. I cheer for the Silver Snakes. After the Red Monkeys (much to my disappointment) rebuild the Shrine of the Silver Monkey and win their bikes, we watch the Power Rangers. The time passes, and the various television shows continue, and I notice that one by one, the murder of children sitting "Indian style" has thinned down. This continues for quite a while, until I am left alone with three other little children.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"A little after five, sweetheart."
"Where's my mommy?"
"She'll be here soon."
"Did she forget me? Did she leave me here?"
"Of course not, baby!"
I erupt into tears.
Happy story, really. I assume my mother appeared shortly after to retrieve me, but my memory fails me, and understandably so. I came to expect soon after that I would typically be the last one picked up from day-care. That trend continued in the summers at Our Lady Queen of Peace summer school, when my father would routinely pick me up long after all the other children had disappeared.
You will come to learn soon that I had a relatively pathetic childhood. Full of happy moments, to be sure, but with an overarching tone of my own depression leaked in. My family lovingly called my attitude "crabby" until I reached the age of twelve.
I was not a happy child.
Enough of me for now. I hope you enjoyed some sense of comfort as you read about my first memory. Perhaps I have sparked your own minds and pulled you back into an angry, lonely world which you long to forget. Enjoy the grueling climb back out, and I'll return to my mind-figments soon. You will join me, won't you? Wonderful.
Inception
Great movie, right? Right.
From this point forward, read this and every future entry with a pretentious English accent. It will all come together swimmingly. And, go!
"Inception" is the planting of an idea. Luckily for me, my mind is full of fertile soil awaiting the seeds of creation. A good friend of mine asked me today, "Travis, why don't you have a blog? You have interesting things to say."
Thank you for noticing.
I am taking an Acting class, and our assignment for next week is to write an autobiography, a telling of our accomplishments, fears, hopes, dreams, struggles, and of course, the facts surrounding our coming into being.
Mission: Accepted.
She said our autobiography only needed to be a few pages long. At this statement, I found myself struck with disappointment. I don't want to only write a few pages! My life demands a higher word count! I am more interesting than a few pages!
Thank you for agreeing. You are so kind.
And I wondered, "In what way can I truly capture my trudging journey through the human condition?" Answer: a blog! Truly hum-drum, I know. However, I find myself gifted with a firm grip on the English language, or so I've been told. I am truly convinced that my life is interesting and worth sharing, and my goal is to convince the cosmos of the Internet the same!
Furthermore, to do my autobiography justice, it must contain more than my first twenty-one years of life. What can one accomplish in two short decades? What have I accomplished?
I'm glad you asked. I'll tell you: a blog on the Internet.
That's right! I'm just getting started! This will be an ongoing project for me. My goal is to write down every significant memory I have and have ever had (which should be all of them). After all, if the memory is of or concerning me, it must be significant. I will write down every slight sliver of memory while grossly over-embellishing the minutiae, whether the details are true or fantastical.
In the creation of this adventure, I will maintain the integrity of some names, while fabricating others. It is in the interest of national security.
Really? Yes, really.
Strap yourselves in. It's going to be a bumpy, bumpy ride through my consciousness. My consciousness is, after all, quite bumpy.
From this point forward, read this and every future entry with a pretentious English accent. It will all come together swimmingly. And, go!
"Inception" is the planting of an idea. Luckily for me, my mind is full of fertile soil awaiting the seeds of creation. A good friend of mine asked me today, "Travis, why don't you have a blog? You have interesting things to say."
Thank you for noticing.
I am taking an Acting class, and our assignment for next week is to write an autobiography, a telling of our accomplishments, fears, hopes, dreams, struggles, and of course, the facts surrounding our coming into being.
Mission: Accepted.
She said our autobiography only needed to be a few pages long. At this statement, I found myself struck with disappointment. I don't want to only write a few pages! My life demands a higher word count! I am more interesting than a few pages!
Thank you for agreeing. You are so kind.
And I wondered, "In what way can I truly capture my trudging journey through the human condition?" Answer: a blog! Truly hum-drum, I know. However, I find myself gifted with a firm grip on the English language, or so I've been told. I am truly convinced that my life is interesting and worth sharing, and my goal is to convince the cosmos of the Internet the same!
Furthermore, to do my autobiography justice, it must contain more than my first twenty-one years of life. What can one accomplish in two short decades? What have I accomplished?
I'm glad you asked. I'll tell you: a blog on the Internet.
That's right! I'm just getting started! This will be an ongoing project for me. My goal is to write down every significant memory I have and have ever had (which should be all of them). After all, if the memory is of or concerning me, it must be significant. I will write down every slight sliver of memory while grossly over-embellishing the minutiae, whether the details are true or fantastical.
In the creation of this adventure, I will maintain the integrity of some names, while fabricating others. It is in the interest of national security.
Really? Yes, really.
Strap yourselves in. It's going to be a bumpy, bumpy ride through my consciousness. My consciousness is, after all, quite bumpy.
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