Cruelties Given: Matthew Blackman

Behind Pennington Elementary sat six little trailer-like classrooms called "portables," though I don't think they ever went anywhere. In one of them we had PE in the winters, which mainly entailed stretching and forced square-dancing. In remember one day sitting in a row indian-style, our backs against the wall. Most of us had our sweatshirts or sweaters on, and then the coaches kept the portable so hot. Our parents had lovingly layered us, we who shuffled from the heat of the main building through the cold to the steam of the portables. Everyone so afraid of the cold. We were in a row, faces forward likely receiving instructions for the next activity. No, now I remember, and this makes more sense (or because it makes more sense, I'm remembering it). Mrs. Gleaves had stepped out of the room for a moment and we had been positioned where we were and warned with the great ontological imperative: "Be good." We sat in silence, sure that the moment we did anything besides being good she would walk back in. We sat in silence and for reasons I can't now remember I got up and walked seven paces to the right in front of Matthew Blackman. I leaned down in front of him and punched him hard in the stomach. He slumped forward, crying, forehead on the floor as I walked back to my spot and sat in silence as before. Had I been waiting for such an opportunity? What had he done to deserve the blow? I don't remember. "Be good." Could be more constructively phrased. "Do good," maybe. "Continue to do what you're doing." Mrs. Gleaves walked back in with the cold behind her, and seeing Matthew doubled over said sternly "What happened?!?!" I don't remember if I confessed, or if the other kids outted me. Or if Matthew and everyone else were afraid to speak, and we all just silently commenced with the square-dancing, no one wanting to dance with the kid who punches people cold.

Senseless Moments: Paul Hunt

My first best friend was named Paul Hunt. He lived a few streets over from me on Maplecrest. He had a giant rottweiler named Charlie whose open mouth was bigger than my face. His father, Ron Hunt, was of the Hunt Brothers Pizza dynasty, currently served at 6000 locations in 27 states (although I think he was a cousin, not a brother). I remember one day on the playground I said something very insulting to him. He was getting on my nerves, saying things that I thought were stupid. I think this was partly because I had much older brothers, so I assumed I was much mature than anyone else my age. I had learned disdain at six. On this day, he had had enough and told me that we couldn't be friends anymore. I was terrified at the prospect of losing his friendship as he marched away, determined to move on with his life. I think perhaps he had been talking about Darkwing Duck a lot, and I thought that show was stupid (and let's face it, it was no G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero). I didn't know what to do, but I suddenly felt desperately alone. I do not understand the logic of the following: I found the dirty tangle of a popped balloon lying on the blacktop, grabbed it up and ran towards him with it, panicked and on the verge of tears. "Here, Paul! Here! I got this for you! Be my friend!" He looked at the weird trash in my hands, took it, and looked back at me. "You think you can buy my friendship?" I also do not understand his taking my offer so seriously. But it was clearly the principle of the offer that he was so disgusted with, his kindergarten moral compass clearly better balanced than mine in the heat of this 90s soap opera. I do not remember details from there, only that Paul forgave me. He moved to the country the next year, and last I checked (via MySpace) he's a bi-curious mechanic living in Clarksville.

Cruelties Received: Shannon Shelton

Shanon Shelton was a spacious woman with perma-flared nostrils like a crazed Spanish bull. She didn't like the word "No." She didn't like it when I spoke words. Her mother was the day care director at the small Baptist church, which had to account for her continued employment there. One day in her dominion --a dirty dining-hall sized spaced called "The School-Age Room"-- I said some word or words to the effect of "No." Shannon's visionary gift of punishment was poured out on me. She hoisted my fifty pounds up onto a rickety fold-up table and ordered me to lift my arms up in full cruciform. I complied. Then she ordered all the other children in the room to point at me and laugh. They all joined in without hesitating, and the laughter-on-demand seemed surprisingly authentic. I stood there and cried and when my arms started to hurt, I jumped down off the table and ran out of the room, upstairs to be comforted by my mother, the church secretary. I remember fantasizing about Shannon's death, though I don't remember if I was the one killing her. I probably didn't think I could kill her. She seemed to me like an invulnerable Final Boss who, even after you've launched several rockets into their face, just won't die. She still works at the daycare, but she has her own kids now. I'm sure she's gotten softer.

Suburban Childhood Recapitulated

My roommate Stephanie recently told me about a writing exercise recommended to her by a friend: write about one memory a day from your childhood. I thought this a good idea and once I started it, I fell in love. Thinking about such things brings me a peculiar mix of joy, sadness and wonder, so I hope that I can convey some of that.

This Other Thing (Since 5th Grade)

So music is the other thing I do. I've done it since 5th grade, actually, it just doesn't make it out there a lot, necessarily. I've been pretty obsessed with this Bandcamp opportunity lately and as such it has sucked up all my creative time. And for those of you for whom this is old news due to my completely oversaturating Facebook with the "Please come listen to my music" campaign, apologies : )

I Almost Picked Up a Prostitute

So Im on my way to a Nashville Sounds game and I get turned around the wrong way. Greer Stadium is off 8th Avenue but I turn down it the wrong way, back towards the Rescue Mission and the Greyhound Station, you know? I realize my error and start trying to find somewhere on the right to turn into, turn around and redirect. I come up alongside a woman walking in the same direction and Im looking at her because Im trying to time things right so I don't hit her when I turn in. Or, you know, not "not hit her" really, like there's really a danger, just not turn in and cut her off unexpectedly and create this weird "Oh excuse the nose of my Jeep" situation, right? So Im looking at her to communicate all these things with just a look, and she's looking at me like "What? What is it?" And I'm like "Well nothing, just. . . you know. Just put the pieces together, okay? Im trying not to make this awkward." But then I kinda get ahead of her a bit and I can turn into the little side alley I've chosen. And it's okay. Except these side alleys down 8th are really narrow. . . it's where Cannery Row is, and there's the train tracks there and the area is just kinda cramped with old, red brick factory buildings with weird little worthless, paved nooks that you can hardly fit anything into. So I'm in now and I couldn't have chosen better sooner, per se, I'm just trying to backtrack fast and not be late to this game. While I'm wheeling around making this tight little four point turn I notice the lady from earlier walks by again and looks at me with that same "What?" look, and there's no avoiding her gaze because I'm literally cornered in this tiny alley pointed straight at her. She passes by. I pull up to the curb to finally hang my left and get pointed back right, and there she is again, this time just five feet to the right of my passenger side window. My windows are down and she looks in at me and says (this time not just with her eyes, but with real words) "Did you need me?" And I'm confused so that I look at her like "What? Do I need you?" And of course, it all clicked together: where I was and the details of this weird little dance of gestures I had inadvertandly participated in. And it disturbed me that a different look on my face would have confirmed what she wrongly suspected, that I suddenly found myself receiving the look that one of her clients would get. A look that asked "Yeah?" and that would be returned with "Yes." And besides her somewhat jagged gait and ragged t-shirt and blue jeans, she kinda looked like one of the middle aged women at my church. Pretty in an elegant but careworn kind of way. I didn't know how to react. Nervous laughter at the absurdity of the situation didn't seem right, and pity wasn't good enough. I was just sad and didn't know what to think or do. The End.

"Lost" in the Supermarket: Why I Stopped Buying It -or- How my Favorite Show Got Jack-ed Up and it Makes Me Want to Hurley

My now soured relationship with the infamous show Lost began as a whirlwind romance. I remember my interest peaked by the pilot: the exotic location, the action, the mystery, the potential for growth and depth I sensed in characters like John Locke. I was soon hooked and we met weekly, with the days in between filled with an aching hunger for more information, deeper backstory, further developments. Rival commitments later presented themselves, such as academics and humans, and I found time in shorter supply.

Years later a neighbor let me borrow the Season 2 DVDs, and I was suddenly transformed into a TV Caligula, gorging myself for hours on the show, my narrative-libido insatiable for more about the island, more, still more. Then the Season 3 DVDs were at my disposal. Numerous classes were bullshitted and social events forgone, all for the sake of learning more about the Others, basking in the glow of new romantic developments, pondering: What the hell is the Dharma Initiative all about? What does the Island want? My curiosity and anticipation left me was primed for Season 4, ready to get back to the courtship days of old with the weeklong wait times. And then? Intimations of escape? Flashforwards, which started with the Season 3 finale, hint at a time OFF the island, the Oceanic 6, etc. But. . . this can't be. The whole thrust of the show is getting off the island. Were there to be an escape or a rescue. . . they would no longer be LOST.

Now some might argue "Oh, but don't you see that they were all lost without one another prior to coming to the island? They were broken and aimless before they got there and then found their true selves through the trials and adversities they endured together." Okay. Acknowledged. BUT, that emotional/moral content doesn't negate their basic, driving desire to get off of the hostile/crazy island back to the comparatively less hostile/crazy real world. Here the affair began to seriously break down. It was the claustrophobia of the island that made the situation so dire, that made the characters so close. It was the mystery of the island as a wholly Other place that made it so appealing.

The show should have been cut short, in my opinion. Let's be honest, it would have been impossible, were the writers given 7 or 17 more seasons, to satisfyingly tie up even half of the loose ends without creating a whole slew of other ones. The problem as I see it: in order for the show to survive it had to evolve, and in the attempt it devolved. New characters with meandering and ultimately irrelevant subplots were extraneously added (Desmond not being included in this indictment). Mysteries were piled on top of mysteries in such a way as to no longer suggest alluring complexity, but rather reveal a dangerous Jenga tower of questions destined to fall and destroy our foolish hopes for clarity.

The real moment of clarity came when I realized this: Lost will not be faithful to its promises. Lost was a silly cocktease who never had any intention of anything serious, just messing with my heart from the start, manipulating my emotions for her own sick penchant for feeling in control. Oh she got me all right. I hope she feels reeeeeeeeeal good about what she did.

You know what Lost? You had such a big budget and your stars might be featured in films and you had legions of faithful followers, but you know what YOU are?

You're a soap opera. You feature a cast of at times overly dramatic characters with outrageous back-stories. Your central characters weave in and out of unexpected liasons and love triangles difficult to follow. You leave us as an audience longing for the next episode and we don't even know why. You're an narrative-emotional addiction without substance, without telos, and you're not even ashamed of that. You're a fickle bitch and I'm glad it's all over. . .

I'm coming over later to take back the 80 plus hours of my life you stole from me. And my Clash Greatest Hits CD, I think it's in your car. It better not be scratched up.