Life In The Hive pt 1

Around the time of recording the band's demo in 1991, I was a bit of a mess.  I had effectively dropped out of school so I could 'party' with pals all day (I ultimately got my shit together and graduated), get high on whatever was available to get high on and create music and art.  This was a creative high point for me - I was putting together comics, making psychedelic line drawings that were getting some attention in the community and the band had a rented out practice room (that smelled more than a bit of piss, but was a good place to get drunk and jam all night) and a few shows under our belts.

Anyone who's seen my Youtube or Vimeo page knows I'm no stranger to the ways of The Pink Floyd and those epic, bloated conceptual double albums of the 1960s and 70s.  So my stroke of genius (heh) was of course to write a hardcore punk theme album, with a story that could be told both musically and visually but would not compromise on the down and dirty simple and loose structures of punk and the violent rage and 'moshability' of thrashcore.

The concept was called 'Bees' (as you will see, I had a thing in my head for always titling albums with a four letter word - my har-har inside joke) and the story is as follows:

Our hero has isolated himself in a small apartment type room (the cave) refusing to exit into the outside world, surviving only on food and drink and smoke and whatever he can order by phone and get delivered to his door.  His only entertainment and joy comes from drawing images on his walls with graphite pencil.  From his window all he sees is a large bee hive hanging from a tree limb and a steady stream of bees entering and exiting and doing their mindless thing.  Eventually he becomes paranoid of them and believes society as a whole have become giant thought-controlled bees who have been programmed to capture him and make him into one of their mindless drones.  For some reason the authorities (it is not revealed, but one can assume it is neighbors or family or his landlord or someone) kick in his door and he kills the first person to enter his room.  During the grand finale of the story our hero has been placed in some sort of  facility where he can be contained and perpetually drugged - which he perceives as having been brought into the hive for removal of his free thought.


A lofty concept, with obvious nods to other such concept albums - dealing with madness, isolation, violence and rebellion.  A string of songs were written by 18 year old FM, and were presented to the band with some positive reaction.  The opening track is actually what I considered a rather hard edged yet epic acoustic song which sort of sets the scene and the general feelings of our hero towards those bees out there beyond his window.  Here's the original solo acoustic demo of the track as recorded within hours of writing in 1991:



This song was a huge departure from the Too Baked To Skate punk we were playing previously, and the band (although sympathetic to the project) didn't really see it as something they could get behind.  There does exist a practice tape with a full band version of the track, but it was never formally recorded.

From here, the album was to take an unwavering hardcore stance with what I considered fairly brutal lyrics.  Each song was bridged with a hard spoken word segment that sort of led from one part to the next - a la Henry Rollins or Jello Biafra or Kurt Brecht.  Only one song - titled 'Society' was ever put together as a true hardcore song before the band fizzled out.  Only one recording exists of a band practice in late '91/early '92 where the 'Society' lyrics are completely illegible and the sound quality almost unlistenable.  If I can lay my hands on it, I may post it so you can at least hear what it was to sound like and the truth behind the intent that this was to be a true hardcore punk project.  That song had a level of complexity we had not achieved previously with lots of rhythm changes and catchy mosh riffs and all of us were really proud of it as I recall.  But it was not to be.

The Bees concept would stay with me for a few years and even today (at age 38) I am considering revisiting it.  The next couple of posts, we'll discuss what became of Bees and it's ultimate recorded structure and expansion.

Greetings, Starfighter…

When I was a kid, my Mom wasn't too keen on me rotting my brain all summer at the movie theater.  She felt quite strongly that, although I was "a bright boy with lots of potential," modern-day movies contained a level of sex, realistic violence and gore that she simply did not want me exposed to.  It was not always this way.  She and Pops used to bring me and my Sis out to see some of the big blockbuster movies on the big screen.  Here are a few movies that I WAS allowed to see that stick out in my mind as the ones that probably changed her perspective (using ‘confidence-in-my-masculinity-inducing’ flowery bullets):

1. Grease

I know, right?  Grease seems so innocuous by today's standards.  But my Mom was flat out disgusted by this movie.  Was it Olivia Newton-John’s skin tight leather pants?  No.  Was it the drive-in make-out scene where John Travolta gets his balls slammed in the car door?  Nope.  It was one single phrase in one single song that forever banished Grease to the household smut pit: “The chicks will cream for Greased Lightning.”  Perhaps the fact that I’ve never forgotten that phrase is testament that she was probably right.

1. Raiders Of The Lost Ark

 

Face-melt scene, FTW!  It’s completely awesome and classic and all that, but I was like 9 years old in the theater watching this.  I wouldn’t let my son watch it now, and it’s fairly tame by today’s standards.  This was like 1981!  ‘Nuff said.

1. Buck Rogers In The 25th Century

Before it was a classic, campy sci-fi TV series it was a classic, campy sci-fi movie with space shuttles, little robots with talking Flava-Flav clocks and Erin Gray in skin-tight spacesuits:



Let’s just say that Erin Gray had something of an impact on my dark and sticky path to manhood.  Hmmm…

Before this turns into a Cracked.com ‘why classic entertainment is actually stupid’ article, let me get to the point: Although my Mom was not willing to allow me to actually witness the movies of my day, she would buy me the novelization of any movie I asked for.  Her reasoning of course was “Well, at least he’s reading.”  That what I was reading was often more descriptive in its violence and sex than the movies were ever allowed to be was kind of my little secret.  You know like, until now.

For example – the commercials for the Michael Douglas/Kathleen Turner flick Romancing The Stone presented it as a comedic action/adventure romp through the jungle with a bumbling Danny DeVito as the ‘heavy.’  Mom decided it may be a bit too violent for me, so I got the drug using, graphic violence infused and explicit sex scenes filled paperback book version:



When I finally did watch the movie years later, I was a bit disappointed it was so tame.

Another – Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom… After getting burned by Raiders of the Lost Ark, Mom was on to Spielberg and Lucas.  And in this case, rightfully so.  No child under 16 or so should be allowed to see that scene when the creepy shaman guy tears the screaming slave-boy’s still-beating heart out of his chest and shows it to him as he dies.  But let me tell you, reading it is the stuff of nightmares… not because it’s so gory, rather you are left to imagine what it looks like – while knowing it has been filmed and you someday CAN see it:



The final film novelization I’ll mention is one that I picked up not because of a commercial or schoolyard rumors that it was cool.  I simply spotted it on the shelf, saw that it was based on a movie and grabbed it.  And man am I glad I did:



I must’ve read The Last Starfighter 20 times as a kid and teenager.  It’s a great book and I later found to be an equally great movie.  I watched it recently with my kids and was so wrapped up in it I actually got a little choked up at the end (stupid, I know).  I have such fond memories of this story that I think I’m going to run out and pick it up for my sons to read.  And maybe we’ll pick up a few other books while we’re there… Is there a novelization of Zookeeper?

Oral Pacification and The Unbroken Habit

My oldest son is the victim of our parental inexperience.  With our subsequent children we had learned from our mistake.  But it cannot be denied - there are few things cuter than a baby or toddler who soothes him or herself with a soggy, wrinkled little thumb.  Of course by the time he was four or five (and entering the sick and diseased world of pre-school and kindergarten) it was far from cute.  Rather it had become a source of endless anxiety: frantic calls from frustrated teachers, late night trips to pharmacies for infant illness remedies and visions of second-mortgage requiring orthodontal bills.

Over the years we have tried a variety of medieval devices and dissuaders to break this cycle of anti-hygiene: foul-tasting digit dips and Oriental foot-binding inspired wraps and straps - all to no avail.  Eventually, we tired of the battle and left our hopes to the schoolyard - secretly hoping for a mild jungle gym teasing that would both disengage the shriveled and foul appendage and encourage a little 'hair on the chest' masculinity.  But alas, it seems not to be.  Despite the early stages of dental deformity, the boy has been overwhelmingly accepted and left to his anxious sucky-sucking in relative peace.

Today, after a brave first day of Tadpole swimming lessons (which consisted mostly of small children putting their faces in water and blowing real hard) we stopped for a celebratory treat on the short drive home: the much coveted 'donut' stop.  To drive home the message of my paternal pride we not only stopped but actually got out to stand in line so the actual donut choosing could be personalized.  A special event indeed.

As we stared as glazed as the delicacies before us, we were woken from our fat and sugar anticipatory stupor by a sudden "OH NO YOU DITN'T!!" uttered by the large black woman before us in line.  "You think you can just go sticking that thumb in your mouth where other people 'bout to eat? Nuh-uh, mister!"

I looked to my son - white as a sheet - and then to the woman who gave me a large smile and knowing wink.  "Thank you," I whispered to her as she turned to pay for her flavored iced coffee.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act V - The Final Chapter

Interesting fact about Old Man Mungus: I have always lived in a home that required me to walk to school. In my first house in upstate NY I walked to Kindergarten with my sister, the house in Woodstock was right down the street from the local public school and Manchester was no different (although the walk was significantly longer). Now I’m not gonna give you that “uphill both ways” bullshit, but it literally took half an hour to walk to my new Junior High School. Not a problem at this point in life, but later on when the drugs entered the pictured, “perpetual tardiness” was a common label by the school staff for me.

I remember walking up to the school and there being a large crowd of people outside. I thought maybe there was a fire drill or something, but it turns out this was the “line” waiting for the doors to open. Like the line for a Kid ‘n Play concert: parachute pants, those angled hairdos with the lines shaved into the eyebrows, Adidas sneakers with wide laces and giant gold chains hung around necks. I was in “high-water” Husky jeans and a plain T-shirt. My hair was a sad attempt at Michael J. Fox’s in Back to the Future – but the dual cowlick (one dead center middle front and one dead center middle back like Alfalfa) never let me pull it off. I was the whitest kid in the world – a fish out of water and I really didn’t fit in. I was shit scared.

I hesitantly strolled up to the screaming mob that were my new peers and inched my way up to the outskirts. I knew no one of course so I stood with my hands in my pockets waiting for something to happen. 7:15 a bell rang. I could see movement at the front of the herd as we all started filing into the set of double doors that had mysteriously opened in the side of the large brick building. I had worked my way up to the middle of the group now and for a moment thought I might lose my balance and fall. I was pressed up against strangers in designer clothes and pretty girls with newly blossoming breasts. My heart was pounding as I was pulled into the building and we were marched into an assembly hall. I was led to the 7^th grade section and sat with a girl with long dark greasy hair and a pink sweater with large glasses and a boy who was wearing an Ocean Pacific shirt with a surfer on it and had a skateboard standing between his legs. Back to the Future was my first exposure to skateboards and I hadn’t actually seen one so close before.

“Cool skateboard” was the only thing I could think to say.

“Thanks,” he answered and turned to talk to someone else. First attempt at contact with the local populace? Fail.

The principal reminded me of a sweaty frog. He stammered when he talked (my mom would later refer to it as “babbling”) and sloppily welcomed us to a new school year. At the end of his intro, the 8^th and 9^th grade classes were dismissed and sent to their new home rooms. The 7^th graders were kept behind and called one by one to the front of the auditorium to receive their home room assignments. My name is down the list a bit (starting with “L”) so I was able to get a good look at those called before me. The usual cast of characters were present: the jocks, the skids, the povs, the preps, the shop class guys, the pretty girls, the popular girls, the slutty girls, the black kids (who marched to the front with such bravado as to receive a smattering of applause), and the loser hick kid who smelled. Oh wait, that was me.

There was bit of laughter as I walked to the front of the room. I am physically a large guy, nearly 6 foot by this time and heavy. Not obese, but just big. Turns out (and I hadn’t realized it before) that my size is quite intimidating. I honestly never realized it. Here (although I was clearly poor and it was assumed by my size, kinda stupid) I had an authority of presence. The laughter was followed by a few Flava Flav “DAMN BOYEEEE!!!”s at my size and at that moment I was flooded with a certain confidence that this would be OK. I would be left alone and I could just do my thing and get through this. Yes I may be laughed at; girls would be scared of me (this was the case for many, many years to come), and friends would be few and far between. But I would (and did) get through it.

I actually made few friends that first day. I had someone to eat with at lunch and eventually got myself to a level of acceptance with the boys in my new school. I became something of a class clown due to a vast comedic knowledge acquired through my hours of classic TV viewing and late night talk shows (by this point I had a TV in my room – a 3” TV/AM/FM/Cassette combo) and had taken to staying up late to try and catch Letterman. I always preferred Letterman to Carson. He was “dangerous” (at least in the eyes of a 12 year old boy) and had this odd way of seeing things. So Letterman and “The Best of Saturday Night” all fueled my wise-ass reputation. Luckily, my Woodstock education was well beyond that of the kids who had come through the Manchester school system. I really breezed through 7^th grade and wasn’t challenged again scholastically until High School. But I had changed by then. I wasn’t the innocent hick anymore.

By 8^th grade I had befriended Vinnie (I’ve spoken about him before) who influenced me toward the darker side of things. By 9^th grade I was experimenting with heavier drugs like coke and acid and drinking pretty heavily. Mom had no control over me whatsoever and I knew it. I feel guilty in hindsight as now Mom has passed on, but I was a kid and I certainly can’t be blamed for acting out. OK, maybe I can, but there was no Dad around to kick my ass and Mom had no idea what to do, so she hid.

The summer between 9^th grade and High School really stand out in my memory. I was flown off to stay with Dad and his wife in California. I was 15 and full of myself. I considered myself an artist by then and carried myself as though I really had something to say. And honestly, I did. Dad had recently moved north to Sacramento and was doing quite well. I was pretty excited about the trip and decided to stay clean and sober the entire summer. Sacramento was an artist’s city and I looked forward to the galleries and coffee houses Dad was telling me about. When I arrived, Dad informed me that he expected me to pick up a summer job while I was there. I had never worked a day in my life, but said what the fuck. I knew it would have to happen eventually so why not here? Why not now? I tried my luck at applying for all the Del Taco’s and El Polo Loco’s around but it turns out I wasn’t Mexican. Even the grocery stores were overflowing with cheap labor. I don’t know if Dad bought it that I couldn’t find a job, but he made me a deal anyway: go get a volunteer job and I’ll pay you an agreed upon amount at the end of the summer to go home with. Cool.

I volunteered to work at the Sacramento Downtown Food Bank and spent my mornings packing paper bags full of basic food items – beans and rice, cereals, canned goods, etc. I met a lot of really cool people there including some of the homeless. I really enjoyed my time there. Dad agreed to let me sign up for some guitar lessons in the afternoon a few days a week. I ended up hanging with this cool stoner guy who was a hair band casualty but played a great guitar. He showed me a lot and I ended up becoming a pretty good guitar player as a result.

I walked everywhere I went only stopping for the daily cup at Java City. I was young, healthy, sober and happy. Again, I spent almost all my time by myself, but that was OK. I was good at being by myself and really felt like part of the community there. I really liked Sacramento and could’ve seen myself living there had things not happened the way they did. Then I went back to Manchester for my first year in High School.

Within the hour of getting back into my closet of a room, I had sparked a bowl of weed I had stashed in my desk all summer. It was a revelation. I had never been so high and didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling. There were only a few days before school started and that was all it took to wipe out the positive energy from my trip to Sacramento. Things really spiraled out of control. The day before school, my Mom came home from work to find our bathroom all trashed and spattered with blood and hair stuck to the mirror and sink. Using nothing but scissors and a disposable razor I had given myself the world’s most fucked up Mohawk. I had nicked myself all over and still had open un scabbed wounds when Mom burst into my room. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE????”

The first day of High School I sat down in my home room to shock and nervous laughter from those around me. There were scabs all over my head, I was wearing a black FLAK jacket and combat boots and had a crooked 2” wide mess on top of my patchy nicked up head. Those who knew me said “What the fuck” and those who didn’t know me said nothing. I already had something of a reputation as a crazy fucker and this just cemented it for folks. I would spend the bulk of High School in isolation and that suited me just fine. I was anti-social and declared myself an anarchist (although I did nothing to demonstrate this and have always been the gentlest fella you could come across – it was all an act for the attention I outwardly said I didn’t want – ahhh, the teen years). The Mohawk was refined over the years and ultimately ended up as 5 beautiful spikes from my brow to the back and ended in a foot or so of thin straight hair. By college I had taken to simply combing it to one side although in a pinch it remained functional as a Mohawk until one day I simply shaved it off – a look I maintain to this day.

This story ends at the beginning of adolescence - an event marked by the end of Junior High and the scarring shave of my head. But here’s a glimpse at the future that awaited me:

The art career never panned out more from my lack of drive than lack of talent. The family fell apart, I took to heavy drinking and ultimately would have died penniless and alone had it not been for the chance meeting of my future wife. That’s another amazing story waiting to be told. But not today.

I went through many interesting potential careers and eventually happened upon my current job, one that I love and hope to keep for many years. Kids have come as has home ownership and a growing sense of stability. In the early 90’s, Manchester was revitalized through the building of a world-class shopping mall. This immediate revenue was reinvested into the schools and downtown area as well as police and fire equipment and staffing. My wife and I made the decision to stay here and send our kids through the newly reinvigorated school system. So far so good. Now it feels like Home.

The isolation of my childhood provided a skill for self-contained entertainment which has served me well over the years. I am hesitant to get close to people and let them in directly. But I am perfectly willing to express my deepest darkest secrets through song, illustration or anonymous internet posting. I have difficulty sharing my hopes and fears with my closest friends – even my wife occasionally. Often it takes me time to analyze an issue or concern and I share it only when I have a proposed solution (after a time of shitty attitude or emotional distance). I am wired to function alone and sometimes operate in a mode of forced co-habitation, though obviously I am not perpetually miserable in the company of others. I often hide my discomfort through humor and continue to be the class clown of yesteryear. The joy I get from the smile of my wife and the laughter of my children cuts through all the anxiety and fear. And for the most part, I'm happy.

I have so many more tales to tell of those teen years: the acid experiments, the music, the artwork and the ultimate maturation into the man I am. And that will take some time. And frankly, as much as I have enjoyed writing this I feel I have been selfish in my self-indulgent autobiographical story telling. And I have other stuff to write about.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act III

If you met me now you would never guess my backwoods upbringing. I can recall endless hours spent tromping around the woods building forts, finding new trails, swords and arrows - all that shit. I would come home FILTHY. Mom would have me strip down to my undies (or less) outside so I didn't track mud and dirt through the house. I would be marched straight to the shower and hosed down.

Nowadays, I'm seen as something of a city guy. Those around me are surprised when I speak of weekend camping trips with the family and cutting down tress in the yard and stuff. I'm like a closet hick. You can take the boy out of the country but you can't take the country out of the boy and all that.

So up until the age of 12, I lived in the woods. It was during this twelfth year that my father got himself a 16-year itch and moved out - presumably to bigger and better things. See, Dad (much as the man I have become) was a work-a-holic. He did the 60+ hour weeks and was driven by work primarily. Yes, he said his motivation was family (this is the mental justification for the work-a-holic) but ultimately he was out for himself.

Being a father of two myself now, I cannot imagine leaving my family under any circumstances. If my wife tomorrow decides she is no longer in love with me or is just up and leaving I would fight for her and my kids to the end. I would win her back one way or another - woo her.

You know, it's fucked up when you go through this argument in your head. Like, WHY DON'T I JUST WOO HER ALL THE TIME??? WHY WAIT FOR HER TO THREATEN TO LEAVE?? Now look, she hasn't threatened to leave. The old marriage is still in pretty good shape and healthy, but ya know... don't take it for granted dumb ass...

OK, back to the story:

So dear old Dad walks and leaves Mom, Sis and me to fend for ourselves. Mom gets a job as a computer programmer (pretty cool for 1985) and we move closer to where she works in Hartford. Welcome to Manchester, Mr. Mungus...

Before I get to Manchester, let me say that Dad DIDN'T quite leave us high and dry. Maybe for the first couple of years. But Dad DID get pretty successful and DID support us (and his eventual new family) pretty well from afar. And from afar I mean that Dad relocated to California - where (in the late '80s) there were big bucks to be made for the right folks in the right places. But yeah, it was pretty lean there when we moved to Manchester. We were semi-poor country folk in a bustling metropolitan suburb. And we got eaten up. All three of us.

It's kinda weird how it happened - it's like a blur: Dad invited me and Sis to stay with him for a few weeks over the summer. We still lived in Woodstock. Dad was already living with another woman - someone we knew from childhood. She was one of Dad's coworkers (he swears to this day there was no affair, but it's pretty likely that was how it went down). Sis and her, they clashed from day one. There was yelling and screaming and the like. Lots of "I hate you"s and "You're not my mother"s. But I got on with her pretty well. She was younger than Mom and a little hipper. We were there for maybe a week and we got the call from Mom. "When you get back to Connecticut, we'll live in a different town. I've enrolled you in a new school."

Sis exploded. Dad and poor new step-Mom had no idea what to do with a 16 year old girl. Slamming doors and hysterical crying was the mode of the day. And it was ugly. I don't recall getting wrapped up in my sister's madness; I was (am) more the brooding, internalizing type of guy who is much more comfortable staring at a wall, drawing a picture of people being chopped up or putting my face on my knees and slowly rocking for a few hours. This is before I really honed in my drawing skills and learned to channel anger and frustration into violent illustration so it was all quiet intensity from me.

Clearly, looking back my parents felt it would be "cleaner" to do the move while we were away - sort of an adolescent "trap." And for me, it was probably the best plan. Had I been there during the move I can imagine myself trying to sabotage the movers - setting up trip wires and piercing foot traps.

Sis and I flew back to Connecticut (I won't say "flew back HOME" - not yet) and were introduced to our new town. I remember the ride into Manchester: the shopping plazas and empty factories, the past-it's-prime Main Street complete with a dozen or so homeless living in the park by the library. We pulled up to a modest two-story house and got out. I was standing on pavement. A small patch of grass was pinched between our parking space and the parking lot of the adjacent flower shop. We had one tree. They officially took the boy out of the country.

I know I wandered a bit from the narrative of the previous posts with this one. But this is what came so this is what is. I do have an ultimate point to make with this, so bear with me. I'll get there. Act IV soon to come.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act II

I suspect those who grew up in the American Mid-West were in a similar situation: During winter months I spent endless hours in front of the almighty television. I'll go into further detail in future posts what shows had the biggest impact, but let's just say I ran the gamut from daytime PBS to 80's prime time. There were times my obsession was bad enough I would play sick just to stay home and watch TV. Sad in retrospect.

I was never really comfortable around groups of friends; I've always been a one-on-one kinda guy. And when there was an individual friend who was spending time with me, I was devoted to the one friend unwaveringly. Always been loyal like that. Got me fucked over a few times. I make "best friends" easy.

During summer months when school was out, my parents would send me traveling to visit with family for weeks on end. Looking back now, I suppose they were trying to save me from additional long stretches of solo time. They would plop me on a bus and send me to Brooklyn, New York to spend a few weeks with my Grandparents (on my mother's side) or upstate NY (Monroe to be precise) for my Dad's parents. They did their best to keep me occupied: Both sets of Grandparents had huge gardens. I spent many an afternoon pulling weeds. My Brooklyn Gramps had grape vines growing in his back yard. I was in charge of the annual wine-making. He'd give me loose instructions and once everything was fermenting in sealed bottles, he'd give me a glass of some previous year's vintage (I was too young to know any better, but I hear his wine was like turpentine).

Brooklyn Grampa and my Great Uncle (Dad's Uncle) Sonny (real name: Sylvester) were painters by hobby. They both worked in oils and attempted to pass on the skill. I actually took to it quite well although my patience got the better of me later in life. I do pen-and-ink illustrations now as a hobby. Despite some basic instruction and pointing in the right direction, all of the above activities were done alone. Yup, despite best intentions I still ended up in isolation - only now I was in a strange locale with no friends around or people my age. For the years between age 9 and 16, I spent my summer vacations with Senior Citizens.

It's funny: as I write this I realize how my wife is forever saying "God, You're like an old man!!!" I guess those summers really influenced my temperament and interests. More on that later...

Act III will be a study in how these early experiences affected my relationships and work life. I'm pretty pumped to see what comes of this, so expect an update within a week.

The Self-Absorbed Man in Isolation

At the risk of being perpetually self analytical, I'm gonna tell you a little about my childhood:

I was born in upstate New York. My family lived there until I was 6 or 7 when we moved to north eastern Connecticut; Woodstock to be precise. I can't speak for other places as I only grew up where I did. But it seems to me there is something unique about that corner of the world. The populace is very aware of their history - a history riddled with superstition and witch burning. At all times you are surrounded by thick vegetation and dark forest and are told early on to be in by dusk.

Woodstock also prides itself on having the last "active" one-room schoolhouse. Every year in public elementary school each grade spent a few weeks in there. You were required to dress in late 1800s period garb, learned to write with ink and quill and played all those colonial games that you see in reenactment movies. Thinking back sometimes it feels like I have a vision of a previous life: the happy, young Pilgrim boy who one day disappeared into the woods never heard from again.

My parents rented a big, yellow cube of a house. It was huge. We rented from the owner of Woodstock's (at the time) only manufacturing facility. They made foot switches for sewing machines among other things. The owner was an eccentric rich woman in her mid to late forties. Her husband had died and left her everything including the mansion on the hill, the switch factory a small boy scout camp, a 3 star restaurant and our yellow house - all of which were on the same thousands of acres piece of land I considered my personal playground.

My one sibling is my sister. I've mentioned her before - the one who had the accident. At this time she was pretty and popular and had no interest in hanging out with her geeky little brother. So I spent the majority of my time alone. I had friends; I wasn't an outcast or anything. But living in a place where it was a hike to get to the neighbor's house left me and my friends at the mercy of our parents. Geographically challenged, I'd like to say.

I learned very quickly to entertain myself, a talent I possess to this day. I spent endless hours tromping around the woods by myself - scouting locations for GI Joe adventures and building forts and shit. I spent a lot of time inside my own head.

Let's us consider this the end of act 1. I can't spend all day reminiscing... The bills must be paid and stuff. But now I've gone and started, so finish I must. Act 2 soon to come.