I stared morosely out of the backseat window of the family car, quietly watching the sweet cityscape of Louisville fade into the countryside of outer Bowling Green. We were temporarily moving into my grandparents’ house because, once again, my parents had decided to move without having first found some manner of home to move into. At least this time they didn’t leave behind every scrap of furniture we owned.
I spent the entire trip wishing they had left me behind. I was doing just fine in Louisville – great, in fact. I was attaining godhood at my middle school and had come so close to getting my first girlfriend since my balls dropped. They could have just let me live with my aunt Cyndi and my four female cousins, although I would have grown tired of that lifestyle quickly. With so many people under one roof, they often burned through groceries quickly. Most of the time they would have all of the components for meals, but none that fit together well, unless you were a culinary Macgyver. Sometimes, when staying at their place alone, I would find myself wondering how one could feasibly make expired green onions, stale Captain Crunch dust, ¼ cup of Grape Juice, and Bisquick pancake mix into an eatable meal. On one such occasion, while staying at their place alone for a whole day, I had to subsist by eating frozen pies (cooked, of course). They had three pies, each one a different flavor: apple, cherry, and peach. I baked the apple pie first, and consumed it all immediately. Feeling guilty for eating the entire thing, I baked the peach pie, with the intention of having a freshly cooked pie prepared for whoever came home first… then I ate that one whole. Now, on the verge of panic, I baked the last pie, the cherry, with the plan to present it myself, on my knees, to the first person that walked in, expressing my most sincere apologies.
Needless to say, when someone finally did come how, my apologies were there, but the pie, alas, was not.
I remember my aunt was more awestruck than angry: “You… you ate all THREE of those pies? All three? Those were huge pies! Why did you eat them all?” After I explained how they were the only food in the house, she said: “That’s nonsense – we have a whole jar of relish in the fridge, half a bag of stale saltine crackers, and a packet of Swiss Miss cocoa powder!”
So, yeah, living at Cyndi’s wasn’t an option. It looked like I was heading to Russellville or bust… then again it might as well have been Russellville and bust.
***
As I mentioned before, we lived with my grandparents for awhile first. They had moved into a decently sized house in the Bowling Green countryside, but because they were so far out, they didn't have cable. Already, this entire moving enterprise was looking grim. My brother and I spent most of our days at the house watching one of the two VHS tapes they owned: Jurassic Park or Homeward Bound: the Incredible Journey. We watched those two movies so much they began to blur together to the point that now I’m not sure if Jurassic Park is the one where the people get attacked by cloned dogs and cats, or if Homeward Bound is the one about the dinosaurs finding their way back home to their owners.
We would also play in my grandpa’s RV, pretending that it was a massive interstellar starship. Did I mention that my Super Nintendo was packed up with all of our things? Yeah, so playing “interstellar RV starship” doesn’t sound so dorky now does it? When my brother was gone, or indisposed watching Homeward Bound for the 424th time, I’d bide my time rereading the same issue of Gamepro or WWF Magazine that I had left Louisville with, or draw comic book adventures featuring my original super hero Red Fox. No, he didn’t have the powers of a surly black comedian; he was a Native American who could summon the powers of the fox, whatever those powers may be, though I seem to recall that it involved a giant robot of some sort (I watched Power Rangers a lot in those days). Occasionally, Spider-man, or Wolverine, would help Red Fox fight his arch-nemesis, Skull Head (if I had known what an “oxymoron” was back then, I still wouldn’t have cared). Skull Head was a large, muscle-bound cyborg with a gun for an arm, and, well, a skull for a head. He used to be human until a horrible accident transformed him into villainous Skull Head. I pretty much neglected to explain why Red Fox and Skull Head hated each other.
I would like to add that Skull Head was my original character and in NO WAY a complete, shameless rip-off of the obscure Marvel character Death’s Head:
Anyway that you sliced it, I was miserable, and the boredom only augmented the experience. I began wearing a lot of black, as if in mourning for the death of my former life. My little brother and I would walk to a nearby country store to buy candy, magazines, and comic books in desperate attempts to stave off malaise, but the tiny shop was woefully undersupplied, and all of their magazines were at least two months behind. I didn’t like going there, because the cashier would eye me with suspicion, and constantly ask me a barrage of questions centered on my very existence in his store and what my intentions were while I was there. I think my black attire, coupled with my disheveled hair (because I felt there wasn’t much point in taking care of it anymore), gave him bad vibes. I was not the “good ol’ boy” clientele he was used to. Eventually, his constant fear and loathing of me got to be annoying enough that I stopped going there.
Then one day my parents announced that they had finally found a house for us to move into, and my month long exile in Purgatory was over.
II. Welcome to Russellville...
As we drove through Russellville, on the way to the house we would eventually move into, I somberly took note at how small everything seemed. Right as you enter town, there is a tiny service station that is owned and operated by the man who would later be my 8th grade English teacher, named Mr. Smith. My mom stopped by to say hello to him, because he had taught her in 8th grade as well once upon a time. He walked out wearing a greasy jumpsuit, his long hair tied up into a ponytail, and extended a friendly greeting, immediately recognizing my mother. They talked about the old days for a bit, before he turned his attention to me, sitting glum faced, dressed all in black.
“Do you like comic books?” he asked me.
“I guess…” I answered, looking away as I’m wont to do when being petulant.
“He draws characters from them all the time,” my mom supplied. “He wants to be a comic book artist one day.”
“I got a bunch of ‘em in my garage over there. Go take a look.” He pointed to a tiny room attached to the already modest service station. He tossed me a set a keys, and I gladly left the car, itching to stretch my legs after the thirty minute ride from Bowling Green. Despite my moodiness, I was rather curious to explore this strange man’s comic collection. My mom had told me that Mr. Smith had always been an avid comic collector and probably had some valuable, rare comics just collecting dust… not that I would know what to do with them. I unlocked the door and it opened only a little before it met resistance with the veritable sea of boxes that was stacked inside. I slipped in, and immediately found a box of old comics for a character I hadn’t heard of named The Spirit. He was just some dude in a blue suit and fedora, with a red tie and a mask. It seemed kind of lame to me – where were the adamantium claws? Did this guy even have cool gadgets, like Batman? His other comics were just an assortment of Disney comics and generic superheroes from long defunct publishing companies. It was a depressing bunch. I had been hoping to find a box containing a magic book along the lines of something from The Neverending Story. Instead, it was a bunch of moldy comics about nobodies, garnished with what looked to be a long dead Black Widow spider.
“See anything you like?” He asked from the crack of the open door.
I jumped, startled. “Ah! Uh… well… um… it’s all pretty cool…”
“Why don’t you take that box there?” Of course, he pointed at the spider box. Blegh.
“Oh, uh, that’s alright…” I said, trailing off as I do when I’m too uncomfortable to be more assertive.
“Nah, it’s alright, I don’t need these dusty old things anyway.” And I do? I thought, as he picked up the spider box and handed it to me. A cumulus cloud of dust, and mummified arachnids, billowed into my face from the box, causing me to sneeze uncontrollably. I squeezed through the door, barely managing a “thank you”, as I trudged back to the car, tossed the box in the backseat, as far away from me as possible, and gave my mom the unmistakable expression that it was time to go. Mr. Smith waved good-bye, saying he was looking forward to seeing me in 8th grade, which is a story for another day.
***
The rest of Russellville was alarmingly unimpressive, especially after having lived in the “big city” for so long. It was fairly big as far as quaint Southern towns go, with a bustling town square, plenty of businesses spread around, and a large aluminum factory that was the heartbeat keeping it all alive. My mom pointed out an old bank that had been preserved as a historical landmark, because it had been robbed by the notorious outlaw, Jesse James. The robbery is reenacted every year at the annual Tobacco Festival that is held in town. So, essentially, the town of Russellville prides itself on two things: historical crime and cigarettes. We also passed by a supposedly haunted house, where the specter of a girl can supposedly be seen in the attic window during a lightening storm. The window in question was boarded up, to discourage any tourism whatsoever, because Russellville is nothing if not progressive in its unwillingness to grow or evolve.
I discovered, with relief, that Russellville had a Wal-Mart, which has unfortunately become the universal beacon that a civilization of some sort is in progress within at least a 30 mile radius. We stopped at the Wal-Mart to pick up some things. I was elated to see a group of arcade machines at the entrance, as a thirsty man in the desert would be to discover a functioning Coke machine. As my parents shopped, I pumped quarters into a game called King of Fighters ’94. I had never played this game, but I recognized some of the characters from Fatal Fury, especially Mai Shiranui…
http://maishiranui.50webs.com/images/ms15.gif
The game blew me away. I had never played a three-man style fighting game before, and the concept was so brilliant, I couldn’t believe it had never been thought of before. The flashy graphics, the music, and the general fun of the game was addictive, especially after having gone a month with nothing, so when it came time to go, I had to be pulled away kicking and screaming.
With a game this amazing in the local Wal-Mart, I began to think that perhaps this town wouldn’t be so bad after all. I didn’t know it at the time, but my love for that video game would also lead to one of my most enduring, and valued, friendships of all time.
***
We stopped at a barbecue joint that was highly recommended by Mr. Smith, and everyone else vaguely familiar with Russellville, called Roy’s BBQ. The restaurant was located in a small, wooden house on the edge of town. We found a table and a waitress was helping us immediately. Her Southern accent was very thick. I couldn’t help but notice an autographed picture on the wall of famed horror writer, Stephen King, posing in front of the restaurant. I asked her about it.
“Oh yeah,” she said, with her heavy accent. “Stephen King was ridin’ through and he ate rat here. Do you lack Stephen King?”
I looked at my mom, with my eyebrow cocked in puzzlement. I replied, “Do I lack Stephen King? Are.. are you asking me if I don’t have Stephen King? Like, his books or something?”
Now it was the waitresses turn to look at me cockeyed. “What? No, do you lack reading his books?”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, as if I solved a particularly vexing riddle. “Do I like Stephen King! Uh, yeah, sure, he’s alright…” Truth be told, by this point, I had yet to read Stephen King – I was only familiar with the movies based on his books. I wouldn’t get into King’s writing until high school. My difficulty understanding the waitress should have been an omen as to how well I was going to fit in to this town.
III. ...and Welcome to Not-Quite-Russellville
My spirits were visibly brighter; before leaving Wal-Mart, I had bought the newest issue of Gamepro magazine, and now my stomach was filled with delicious BBQ. Thumbing through the magazine at the latest video game reviews, I felt like I had reconnected to the world at long last. My cheer didn’t last.
“Why… why are you leaving town?” I asked.
“We’re going to the new house,” my mom informed me.
“I thought it was in Russellville.”
“Well, it’s more… outside of Russellville. It’s a small town called Lewisburg.”
Once again, I had to watch as traces of civilization faded into more countryside, only to replaced with… well, more countryside. Lewisburg was a town so small it made Russellville seem positively-fucking metropolitan. Lewisburg consisted of a Minute Mart, a grocery store called The Piggly Wiggly (a name I found quite hilarious, because I couldn’t believe a place with such a name even existed), and not much else. It had the advantage of being better than where my grandparents lived, but only slightly. At least the Minute Mart was within walking distance from our new neighborhood, and contained not only the newest issues of my favorite magazines, plus a spindle of comics, but it also had a couple of arcade machines.
Our new house was significantly smaller than the one we had moved from in Louisville, which didn’t make sense to me, seeing as my family had grown by one since the birth of my sister, Lindsey. The next logical step up would seem to be moving into a larger house, one would think. As an adolescent, the veneer of my parents’ infallibility as wise and incorruptible adults was quickly fading, to be replaced with what, in reality, they were: two teenage kids desperately trying to be responsible parents, while also trying to maintain a semblance of a youthful lifestyle. By this point, my dad was in his mid-30s, and my mom was about 29. As I write this, I am 29-years-old, and cannot imagine having spent the past 13 years raising kids, as I am barely capable of taking of myself. My parents were always hustling to keep a roof over our heads, but keep a roof over our heads they always did, no matter their failings. Nevertheless, try explaining that to a bitter 13-year-old who is convinced that his parents were vindictively and methodically destroying his life.
Looking around the shoebox of a house we were to move in, I was certainly convinced of that. My brother and I were to share a room, AGAIN, which had already been quite a trial before in Louisville. One might think that isolation away from the opposite sex for a couple of months would curb one’s hormonal craving for them, but it’s actually quite the opposite – it made me more ravenous than ever. What made it worse was, while living with my grandparents, I rarely had any opportunities to, er, release the sexual tension I was building up, as there was almost always people around. Any chance I had usually amounted to extended bathroom sessions, which can get uncomfortable quickly when members of my family banged on the door to ask what was taking so long. Now, here I was, looking at the prospect of sharing the bunk bed with my brother again… it was going to be a long year.
As I was leaving the house, a van pulled up to the house next door. A family spilled out of it, including a mother, father, a boy my age with a bowl haircut… and a girl that looked to be a year younger than me, in a cheerleader uniform, with her sandy, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She had piercing gray eyes, which hit me like laser beams when she briefly looked over in my direction out of curiosity, which quickly turned into indifference as she entered her house. Suddenly, my feelings towards the move changed completely – this was officially the best idea ever!
IV. My Other Cousins
My parents attempted to endear my brother and I with the prospect of living in Russellville by telling us that we’d get an opportunity to hang out with our “other cousins”, Jeryn and Justin. I had to be honest: after so long of only being acquainted with my female cousins, I was actually rather interested in hanging out with these guys. I had met them before on a couple of occasions, both of which were fun times, but I was a kid and easily entertained. All I remembered from those experiences was watching Godzilla movies and playing Nintendo… lots and lots of Nintendo. Unfortunately, one of my most vivid memories of spending time with Jeryn and Justin was that it was the first place I ever got to play The Adventures of Lolo:
I also remembered how liberating it was to hang out there, because my aunt Robin was not as strict as my father about certain things. At Jeryn and Justin’s, I could drink Cokes and eat Fudge Rounds with impunity, which was something I never really experienced anywhere else. My aunt Cindy’s house was just as lax, but to the point where they would almost never have anything to eat or drink. It seemed like Robin was always stocked, in bulk, with whatever snack a kid could ever want. My point is, although I had not spent much time with my other cousins before moving to Russellville, I held mostly positive memories, which did grudgingly make me somewhat optimistic about this move.
Not much had changed since my last visit – snacks were still plentiful and abundant, while my cousin Justin had upgraded from his Nintendo to a Sega Genesis. As far as brothers go, the two of them could not have been more dynamically opposed: Jeryn was a die-in-the-wool athlete, who played pretty much every sport imaginable, and seemed to be very much into gangsta rap, while Justin was, like me, more interested in video games, movies, Beavis and Butt-head, and other such indoor activities. Not surprisingly, it was Justin that I tended to hang out with more, as I just couldn’t connect with Jeryn’s lifestyle.
Nevertheless, it was something Jeryn said a year or so later that would finally bring me out of my shell in Russellville. I was spending the night over at their place, and just goofing off, cracking jokes, basically being myself, and, while losing his breath in laughter, Jeryn asked, “Why don’t you act like this in school?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re always so quiet in school. If you acted like this, you’d be really popular.” It was advice that made my life in 8th grade much more enjoyable than how 7th grade went down…
V. Aloha 7th Grade!
I was to attend Russellville Middle School for 7th grade, and my mom took me by there for an informal orientation. The school was completely empty, and was much smaller than I was used to… much, much smaller. Literally, it seemed like the ceiling was much lower than it should have been. The halls were lined with ugly, vomit green tiles much more suited to a crime scene in a David Fincher movie than in a place meant to enrich young minds. The fluorescent lights, mixed with the green hue of the tiles, gave people a sickly, almost alien pallor. The actual classrooms were your standard, soul crushing cubes of cinder block specially designed by the government to encourage conformity, while also demoralizing any proclivity one might have to resist authority figures. Really, there isn’t anything quite as depressing as a wall made of dull, cold cinder block. If concentration camps weren’t built of this material I, for one, would be very shocked.
The tour was led by my soon-to-be homeroom teacher, Mrs. Smith, who was also the 7th grade math teacher. She showed me where I would be sitting in homeroom. All the desks were bunched into clusters, for the students to work together as groups. She pointed at the desk next to mine and said: “That one belongs to a student named Johnny – he’s from Hawaii!” She said this last part with a peculiar level of excitement, as if this were supposed to be particularly enticing for me. One would think my mom had taken Mrs. Smith aside and secretly told her of my affinity for the native peoples of Hawaii, when, in reality, I never gave Hawaii much thought, beyond wondering if it was anything like that video game Adventure Island.
A week after orientation, school started, and I could not have been more nervous. Every bit of confidence that I had accrued in 6th grade had completely evaporated out of my body over the summer, to be replaced my good ol’ fashion “shy and introverted” persona. All students had to hang out in the tiny lobby before class. I clung to the walls, hoping that, through sheer will, I could blend into them, like a chameleon. Instead, I stood out quite a bit, with my poofy blond hair styled into a pompadour and solid black attire, only offset by my plaid over shirt. Kids asked me if I was supposed to be grunge or Johnny Cash. I didn’t understand either reference, being almost completely ignorant of music, beyond whatever catchy single I’d occasionally hear on the radio. One kid pointed at my t-shirt, and snidely asked, “What the hell does your shirt say?” I regarded it, perhaps for the first time ever. Most of my clothes at the time were hand-me-downs from my uncles, Mark and Scott, and I wore them without a care of what was on them. I looked down at my shirt, and stupidly read it out loud: “It says, ‘Van Meter Fun Run’.”
“What the fuck is Van Meter?” someone asked. “Is that your name?”
“No, no,” I politely corrected. “My name is ‘Craig’.”
“Pfft, more like Beavis,” someone else said, referring to my hair. Several people laughed at this and began goading me to say things like “Heh heh, cool” or “Fire! Fire!”
I responded by laughing pitifully out of anxiety, as I am apt to do when my nerves are frayed in a social situation, and don’t know any other way to respond. Unfortunately, my “nervous laugh” sounded exactly like Beavis’. My tormentors ate this up, laughing loudly, as if they had managed to get a monkey to perform a neat trick. Somebody asked, “Where are you from Beavis van Meter?”
“Heh heh heh, um, heh, heh, Louisville, yeah, heh,” I said.
“LOOL-VULLE?” He mocked. “That’s not how you say it. It’s pronounced ‘LOO-EY-VILLE’. Say it with me – LOO…?”
“Heh, heh, I know how it’s pronounced,” I replied, “I mean, I used to live there. Heh heh.”
This elicited more laughter, followed by mockery of the way I said the sentence “I mean, I used to live there.” At some point, I looked for my cousin Jeryn to back me up, but unfortunately, I realized he was part of the mob.
I was fuming with rage by the time the home room bell mercifully rang. I saw that “Johnny the Hawaiian” was already there, quietly waiting for class to begin. At that time, he was rather scrawny, although he would bulk up considerably in high school. He had jet black hair, the bangs of which drooped over his forehead. He had a swarthy, Hawaiian complexion, and wore a pair of the thickest glasses I had ever seen. A massive, calculator watch, which was the size of a Zippo, was strapped onto his wrist, completing the nerd outcast look he was going for. Back then, he was a man of few words, but then again, so was I. Considering the gauntlet of smart ass remarks I had to wade through within my first hour at that school, silence was an entirely welcome change of pace. He wasn’t just quiet though, he was damn near stoic, not even expressing a speck of emotion, if he could help it.
We didn’t speak much that first week, and then one day he saw me doodling a picture of a character from King of Fighters ’94. “What are you drawing?” he asked, startling me, as I was not used to sound emanating from his direction, specifically, from his vocal chords.
“Oh, um, Terry Bogard… um, from, you know, King of Fighters,” I answered.
Johnny’s eyes lit up, his expression betraying emotion for the first time since I had met him. “King of Fighters ’94? You mean the game in the Wal-Mart?”
“Yeah!” I said, excited to find someone in this miserable town who seemed to be into other things besides sports and unsolicited elocution lessons. “Have you played it?”
Well, let me tell you, that moment, Johnny changed from a solemn and silent statue, to gushing, geeky fanboy in an instant. The transformation was so sudden, and complete, that I didn’t know quite what to make of it. He was telling me about his favorite team, the Brazilian team, otherwise known as the Ikari Warriors:
He gave me a complete, and exhaustive, breakdown of the pros and cons of this team, compared to the others in the game, including my favorite, The Fatal Fury team (aka, Team Italy). So, there we were, forming a last friendship over an energetic discussion of fictional fighting teams in an obscure video game that, at the time, seemed as if we were the only fans of. It sounds silly, but this is the day before the internet – we couldn’t just find likeminded KoF fans in a chatroom or a forum. In a town as small as Russellville, finding anybody with interests outside of Nascar, Jesus, and crystal meth was a goddamn rarity, so meeting Johnny was like finding a life raft.
It wasn’t long before I was going over to his house to spend the night every other weekend. The first time we hung out I had rented Street Fighter II: the Animated Movie. I was still obsessed with the game, and was anxious to watch the movie because I had heard that it was not only good, the female character, Chun-Li, had a nude shower scene. This little bonus appealed greatly to my hormonal brain, as I had been known to play as Chun-Li just so I could pause the game while she was in midkick for just a glimpse at what she had going on between those massive, tree trunk-like thighs. We watched the movie in his mom’s classroom, at Russellville High School, during the school’s basketball game. If the fact that we skipped watching a basketball game, for the sake of watching an anime based off a video game would give you any indication of the trajectory our lives would go, I don’t know what will. We both appreciated the incredibly detailed animation of the fight sequences, just as much as we ogled over a nude Chun-Li, in all of her curvy glory (though most of her, er, prominent features was frustratingly obscured by steam).
I enjoyed spending time over at Johnny's. His house just had a really warm, welcoming feeling for me that even my own house didn't quite have. Johnny's mom was one of the most gracious hosts I'd ever encountered. Almost every time I'd spend the night, she'd take us out for Pizza Hut, bus the table herself (which I found puzzling), and she'd make homemade waffles for breakfast. When Johnny and I weren't having late night discussions about the mysteries of women, the hypocrisy of religion, or the general awesomeness of Star Wars, we would watch TV on his satellite dish, which was a luxury I had never experienced up to that point. My mind was blown with all of the channel options I had never even heard of. It goes without saying, in these days when internet porn was in its infancy, that we spent the bulk of the satellite’s raw power accessing channels such as Cinemax, or the infamous Spice Channel for the chance to see whatever nudity was available for our viewing. At the risk of sounding old and stodgy, teenagers today have no clue how easy they have it, what with the veritable sea of streaming porn sites available to them now. Back in my day, one had to carefully look through the TV Guide, highlighting any movie that was rated “R”, or even better, “NC-17”, and featured nudity and “sexual situations”. Then one had to schedule one’s life around whenever these movies were set to come on, and if your family decided to stay up late to watch late night TV, you were screwed. I remember spending many a night, pacing about the hallway, wondering when the hell my parents were going to bed so I could catch, and if I’m feeling really saucy, tape Emmanuel in Space. We never ran into these problems at Johnny’s, as he had satellite access in his bedroom, so we could watch whatever we wanted with impunity.
Softcore porn aside, it was through Johnny’s satellite dish that I was able to become more familiar with a little show called Mystery Science Theater 3000. The influence that this show has had over my sense of humor cannot be overstated. I had first stumbled onto it when I was still living in Louisville. I was channel surfing one day, when I recognized a movie on TV that I had seen before called Alien in L.A., starring 90s hottie, Kathy Ireland. However, I noticed something peculiar about the film this time around: three silhouetted figures on the corner of the screen, making funny little comments throughout the movie. Transfixed by the sheer oddity of this, I stopped to watch, and fairly quickly, found myself laughing uproariously at the riffs these guys were making at a movie that I knew, even at the age of 12, was a piece of crap. What’s more, the three characters, one of them a person, and two of them his robotic sidekicks (who could not be more obviously puppets), would periodically leave the movie to perform a sketch about the film, or just discuss a crazy aspect of the movie, before going back into the theater for more abuse.
The concept of the show was that an average, likeable fellow named Joel is shot into space, and is forced by mad scientists to view awful movies. In order to nullify the pain of these films, Joel creates a duo of witty robots named Crow and Servo to assist him in making fun of these movies. The simplicity, not to mention originality, of the concept, coupled by the rapid-fire, and clever, barrage of witty remarks thrown at the movie, served to completely blow my mind, and I became obsessed with finding out more about this odd little show. Unfortunately, MST3K (the acronym most fans use, as Mystery Science Theater 3000 is not the most succinct title in the world) was a really difficult show to find on a regular basis back then. So much so, the creators of the show actually encourage, at the beginning of every episode, to record and distribute episodes on tape, to increase exposure. Could you imagine a television show encouraging what is now considered piracy? Nevertheless, Best Brains, the production company behind the show, was a small outfit out of Minneapolis, were painfully aware of the obscurity their little puppet show would be destined for if they wholly relied on networks to promote the show for them.
I’d be able to catch an episode here or there, each time being a sublime comedic experience for me tantamount to getting a fix of crack, but I could never figure out how to watch the show consistently. Then I discovered that the show was regularly broadcast on Comedy Central, which was brand new back then, and only accessible if one has a satellite… such as the one Johnny had. I became obsessed with watching the show, and spent the night at Johnny’s frequently for even a chance to watch an episode. Johnny was never as into the show as I was, but the peculiarity of the premise was enough for him to be interested in watching it. Part of the appeal of the show was the “Mystery” aspect of it, as one never knew what kind of god-awful movie they’d watch next. I’d see a title such as Manos: The Hands of Fate, and practically salivate to watch them tear it to shreds, as I knew just by the title the movie was a one-of-a-kind piece of a shit.
Eventually, as I got older, they began to release episodes onto video, which I collected, and when the show was renewed on Sci-Fi Channel, an event that nearly made me shit my pants with excitement when I saw the first commercial for it, I would record each episode religiously. One of the reasons the show was so influential in my comedy was that, until that point, my sense of humor amounted to whatever poop joke I heard on Beavis and Butt-head or mimicking Jim Carrey’s talking butt gag in Ace Ventura. My comprehension of comedy was the raunchier, the better. MST3K opened up an entirely new avenue of comedy for me to consider – that comedy can be intelligent, clean, and still funny. I also began to learn that the subtle nuance of delivery, not to mention perfect timing, is a critical element of being funny. The show was a launch pad for me to develop my own brand of humor – one which didn’t solely rely on fart jokes, unless done so with a sense of irony or self-awareness. One might even say, MST3K was what pushed me down the path of doing stand-up comedy, as opposed to being the douchebag in a stand-up audience, screaming “Play some Skinnard!” or some other such tragically unfunny, unoriginal heckle designed to pathetically, ineffectually steal attention from the comedian, but I don’t have enough talent or comedic acumen to get attention in other way. Yep, that pretty much sums up hecklers, or even hack comedians: people who never learned to have a comedic voice of their own, and so desperately appropriate the voice of others.
I realize this seems like quite a digression from my time in 7th grade, which is already a digression from my experiences with Chelsea, but as with all of my previous blogs, I must paint a complete picture of my life at the time to put my experiences with girls into proper context. My romantic failures make more sense, for example, when I write about how I brought a Super Nintendo to my cousin Jeryn’s birthday party, and spent the entire time playing Donkey Kong Country in his bedroom, as opposed to playing Spin-the-Bottle in the living room. My entire 7th grade was spent as a social pariah, my only friend being himself an outcast, which could not be more opposite of my life in 6th grade, where I was the center of attention. I was a lost soul, already experiencing an identity crisis just by virtue of going through puberty, but now it was magnified by the sudden and drastic change in my social environment. So it was no wonder that any attempt that I made to get with Chelsea, my new next door neighbor in Lewisburg, was utterly and completely doomed.
VI. The Cheerleader Next Door
I might as well have been practically invisible to the girls in my 7th grade class, but that didn’t really bother me, as I was far too concerned with survival for that to matter. However, back in our small house in Lewisburg, I was becoming more and more infatuated with the girl who lived next door, named Chelsea.
As I had described earlier, Chelsea was very athletic, and not only into cheerleading, but soccer and softball. She reminded me of Samantha, the girl I had liked in 4th grade, not only because of how sporty she was, but because, due to my total lack of athletic ability whatsoever, I was not even a footnote in Chelsea’s life. Every encounter I had with her seemed awkward, maybe even slightly hostile, because of our mutual inability to understand each other on a basic level. I believe, in her mind, every boy was supposed to not only be into sports, but at least be comparable to her skill level, if not better. So I was a total anomaly, and not one of the good ones full of mystery and wonder; more like one of the bad ones, to be feared and avoided. There are two response people have when confronted with something they don’t understand – fear or curiosity. Chelsea’s response to meeting me seemed to lean towards the former, rather than the latter, although she didn’t fear me so much as hold mild contempt for me.
This was odd, since her best friend was an effeminate boy my age, named Chris, who lived across the street from us. Chris spoke with a lisp, walked with the grace of a 1950s movie starlet, and was a devoted fan of Elton John. I had never met anyone more destined for homosexuality, but most likely doomed to hide it for fear of violent reprisal, as was (and remains) the sad truth of living in a small Southern town. Even now, I imagine him living in a sham marriage, complete with kids, his wife constantly suspecting the true nature of his sexuality, but much to desperate to maintain the illusion of happy married life to investigate any further than the occasional gay porn site that pops in the browser history of his persona laptop (which she really had no business being on anyway, but she needed to check her email, as they keep the family computer disconnected in order to keep their kids from accidentally discovering “Two Girls, One Cup” at too young an age, although, is there really a right age to discover that?). I imagine him trying to live out this farce: going to work every day, playing basketball at the YMCA, keeping up with the NCAA tournament, and reluctantly having sex with his wife maybe once every two weeks, if she’s lucky, but all the while, living a wholly miserable existence built on lies, and feeling deep pangs of guilt and shame whenever he feels a stirring in his crotch while watching a Matthew McConnahey movie.
My point is, this guy was gay as shit, and the idea of him doing activity that involved turning his already dainty walk into a full on femme run would, in that county, be a confirmation of many suspicions, and an invitation for a beating. So I couldn’t understand why she had no problem hanging out with him, but could not seem more uncomfortable when I was around. Looking back on it now, it makes all the sense in the world: for Chelsea, hanging out with Chris was like hanging out with another girl, so there’s an instant comfort level there. As far as I was concerned, though, it probably was obvious I was infatuated with her, and being about one year ahead of her 12-years-old at the time, it probably seemed intimidating, not to mention bewildering, to her… or laughable. Most likely laughable. Seriously, there exists a family video tape of all of us playing softball in the park. At one point, I’m seen feebly pitching the ball to Chelsea, who watches with bemused pity as each of my pitches is thrown with so little velocity, the ball never even comes into frame. I couldn’t come up with a more perfect visual illustration of our relationship, or lack thereof, if I devoted an entire day to think about it. In fact, I’m tempted to just sum up my experiences with Chelsea, and most of the girls I’d meet later in life, with that pathetic, sad tableaux, and just end this blog right now. Really, I wish I digitized the video, and uploaded it to Youtube, so I could show you all, because I have a feeling that many of you might suspect I exaggerate my ability to play sports with such spectacular incompetence. Too bad a video doesn’t exist of me scoring in the wrong goal while playing soccer (which led many of the parents who were watching to wonder if I was mentally handicapped – for real).
My interactions with her were limited to the times I hung out with her older brother, Jared, who was my age. Jared had the same sandy blond hair as his sister, and was just as sporty, if not more so. I honestly haven’t a clue as to why we got along at all, as we didn’t have much in common, but I hung out with Jared quite a bit in the Lewisburg days. He’d often come up to my bedroom window to see if I wanted to play Super Nintendo, walk up to the Minute Mart, or just watch a movie. We’d play basketball every now and then, where I showcased just how incapable my hand-eye coordination really was. Anyone watching would think I was trying to control the basketball with the Force, the way it would dribble away from me. Despite Jared’s proclivity for sports, he was also an avid video game fan, so we connected on that level at least. It was actually by his insistence that I tried out a little game called Final Fantasy III… and trust me when I say that I am using every bit of my willpower to not launch into a one page tangent about the role that game played in my life. I’ll save it for my next blog. I suspect I probably already have tried many people’s patience with my nerdy rant about MST3K.
Chelsea detested video games, creating a further rift between us. There was absolutely nothing we could relate to each other with. It was safe to say, if I weren’t friends with her boyfriend, she probably wouldn’t have wasted a breath on me at all. Now, to set to record straight, I don’t want to paint a picture that makes Chelsea seem like a terrible person. In fact, I’ll go ahead and say that this blog isn’t designed to do that with any of the girls featured on here, even the ones that probably deserve it (oh, and believe you me, they exist). The purpose of this blog is for me to write about my failure to connect with these girls, not the other way around. Sure, it’s not always my fault when things with a woman don’t go the way I’d prefer, but most of the time, I’d wager dollars-to-donuts that it is, especially in my teen/college years.
It wasn’t any different with Chelsea either. All of my ineffectual attempts at conversation with her that were met with cold indifference, or outright contempt, might be due to a frigid aspect of her personality, but it could just as easily be because she found me to be too obnoxious (probably rightfully so), dorky (definitely rightfully so), or just plain boring (certainly a possibility). Sometimes in life, we meet people that, for whatever reason, we just cannot bond with, despite our goodwill. This may have just been one of those moments. It wasn’t as if I was really all that into Chelsea, beyond the fact that I had spent the better part of a summer virtually exiled from contact with the opposite sex while living at my grandparents’ house. She was a cute girl for me to fixate on, while I struggled to be accepted in school, and adapt to my new surroundings. No more, no less. I think a part of me knew this, because I never really dwelled on Chelsea’s outright rejection of me as anything but a minor annoyance really. I never tossed and turned, spending sleepless nights imagining making out in the woods behind our house. Instead, I just hung out with Jared and stole glimpses of Chelsea in her cheerleader outfit (short skirt and all); in once instance, I even stole a glimpse of her in the bath, totally by accident (I swear!).
I had come over to hang out with Jared, and I was walking down the hall to his bedroom. I went by the bathroom, the door slightly ajar, and casually looked in, not expecting anyone to be in there, much less taking a bath, with the door standing wide open as it was. As it so happened, Chelsea was lying in the bathtub, and my brain, having registered that I was in a potentially awkward situation, overrode any desire I might have had to admire, er, the situation, as it were, directing my nervous system to snap my head back in the direction of the hall way, walking quickly and quietly to Jared’s room. It was all so quick, that my memory of the incident, even immediately thereafter, was a total blur, and I could never clearly picture what I had seen. In fact, I even asked Jared who was in the bathroom, just to confirm what I thought I had seen. You must understand, that was the second time in my life I had ever been confronted with a nude female, live and in person. It’s a jarring experience, especially if it is someone that you are attracted to in the first place. I don’t know if Chelsea ever realized the incident ever happened, though I do remember hearing the water in the tub sloshing around suddenly, as I walked by, which would indicate the she was startled by something. At any rate, she never spoke of it, and it certainly didn’t help alleviate the tension between us.
Eventually, when the next summer came around, it was time to move again. My aunt Robin moved out of her house, and so we took over the lease and moved in. Now this move I approved of, because Robin's house had an above ground pool, and I'd FINALLY get a room of my own... albeit one without any air conditioning whatsoever. At that point, things in my life began to change for the better, and I started to slowly reacquire some of the confidence I had lost when we had moved from Louisville, resulting in one of the most fun school years I'd ever have. It was also that year that I met someone that was a game changer to how I'd perceive girls from there on out... but that's a whole other story.
VIII. Flash Forward
As I begin covering my more mature years, it will be necessary to jump ahead chronologically, as my experiences with some girls cover the span of my high school years, and beyond. For example, when I moved away from Lewisburg, an event I’ll cover in detail next time, I didn’t see Chelsea again until my senior year of high school.
By this point, I had grown overweight, started wearing glasses, and I had grown out a mullet to distract people from noticing that, at the ripe old age of 17, my hair was beginning to thin. I’m not quite sure what kind of logic I was working with there, besides the notion that bald in the front, and long in the back seemed to work for Hulk Hogan. My style of clothing had taken a turn for the worst, too, as I had developed an attachment to cargo pants, which is step up in slacker wear from sweat pants. I looked like shit, and whenever I have too much time on my hands, to the point that I begin to descend into a depressing bout of self-pity, I have only to look at my senior year book to immediately counteract the whiney question of “Why didn’t I get laid in high school like everybody else??” Which is a ridiculous assumption anyway – despite what movies may have you believe, most people don’t get laid in high school… they get laid in middle school.
Anyway, I also had a fairly foul, selfish personality to match my slovenly appearance, so it wasn’t much of a stretch that I found myself desperately searching for a prom date when I encountered Chelsea again. She had been going to school at Logan County High School, the “arch-rival” of my high school (whatever), where my mom ended up working as a sign language interpreter for a deaf student that went there. My mom, having remembered Chelsea from Lewisburg, enlisted her to help out with my sister’s birthday party. I had decided to emerge from my Cave of Wallowing & Masturbation, as I had named my bedroom, long enough to help out too, which resulted in an unexpected reunion of sorts.
Naturally, Chelsea had grown into a beautiful girl, and still had an unbelievably fit body, as is expected of someone as active her. Her face was riddled with acne, but then again, so was mine, besides which, it didn’t mar her natural good lucks much, especially those piercing gray eyes. We got along much better that day than we ever had in all the days we lived next to each other; chalk it up to maturity, I guess. We spent the day, standing next to each other, just shooting the shit and bantering. Her parents had split up, and Jared had elected to live with his father in another state. I actually managed to make her laugh a few times, which amazed me, as I vividly recalled how difficult it was to break her icy exterior when we were kids. I found the older Chelsea to be entirely warmer than I had remembered. By the end of the day, I managed to get her phone number, and suddenly the prospect of prom seemed a lot less grim.
That is until I called her. Our conversation was brief, awkward, and full of enough dead air to fill a dirigible. I was sick with nervousness, having dialed her number and hung up several times already. From her tone, I could tell she had regretted giving me her number, and had this been her cell phone number, she probably would have ignored my calls until I gave up (or, more my style, left an outraged, scornful voicemail, then gave up). As it was, she lived at home, making it nearly impossible for her to dodge my calls, unless she explicitly instructed everyone in the house to tell me she wasn’t home. It never came down to that though – one awful phone call was enough for both of us to go our separate ways in peace. Even though the phone call was the unmitigated disaster by which I measure all other phone conversations with women, I still had the nerve to actually ask her to prom. What a fucking idiot I was back then – the master of good timing! She politely declined – no excuses, no “I’ve already been asked”, nothing – just plain: “No.” At least she was honest and forthright, which is more than I can say for a lot of the girls I’d meet later, who were older and should, one would assume, have more common sense.
I never saw, nor heard from, Chelsea after that phone call, which was probably for the best. Even in this age of Facebook, I have been able to find neither hide nor hair of her anywhere. She has somehow avoided the fiery eye of Google, which I didn’t think possible unless one lived in a third world country, or was dead. Yeesh, I sure hope she isn’t dead…
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