Category: reminisce

Thoughts about the good old days… memories.

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my curse


Hey guys, here goes the customary intro paragraph. Which is odd because I usually come back and write it last, after I’ve gotten the “meat” done and am out of stuff to say (don’t worry, you’ll be able to see it all happen in “behind the blog,” soon to be shown 600 times a week on VH1). No but for real. This weekend was good. Friday night Kings game at my place, Saturday worked in the yard and went mini-golfing, Sunday on the river all day and another Kings game. Next week sounds good too, Tuesday we catch the Shins/Decemberists show in Davis (a local show? awesome!), Wednesday Kings game. There, see – we’re all caught up on the junk and I can write what I’m here for.

Watching TV the other night, I saw a commercial for these new condoms that produce a “warming” sensation. Are you for real? Dude, if there’s on time I don’t need to be any warmer – it’s humpin’. Considering my natural internal body temperature is lava-hot compared to most humans, and that I’ve been known to break into a fevered sweat from just thinking too hard – artificial warming is the last thing I want. I mean, especially when I’m doin’ it. I gotta open the windows and turn on the fan as it is, I’d have to be insane to want to turn up the heat anymore. I’ve been cursed with a Bikram existence that has me sweating from a shower and while swimming. Now come up with a condom that chills the room to meat-hanging temps and you’ve got a lifetime customer.

I’ll tell you a story that haunts me to this day. Back in my first year of high school I used to ride the bus. Now, yes, there are some great bus-stories (carefully placing homemade pungee-sticks to pop the bus’ tires and render it useless for transporting us to school; removing one screw from a different place each day until every window and seat was ready fall apart; etc.), but in this story the bus in only the setup. We were ridging home one afternoon, headed towards the corner where we’d be dropped off to walk the block or so home. This day it so happened that the man who lived in that corner home was out mowing his lawn as we drove up. Only thing was, this guy had what was quite possibly the hairiest back I’d ever seen. So, here comes a bus full of young kids – and there’s this old, slightly overweight, sasquatch-looking dude mowing his lawn. We did as all good kids would, we laughed till we cried and made fun of this poor sap. I mean, why would someone so disgustingly hairy mow his lawn without a shirt?! Surely he knows how utterly repulsive he is as an example of the human form, right? Hairy man, do you have no shame?! If I remember right, I actually yelled some comment out the window at this sad man – although I’m sure he didn’t hear me over his lawn mowing.

So, what’s the point you ask? Well, for those of you who don’t know – I am now that man. And I can’t help but think that my cruelty that day has spun around on the wheel of fate and dealt me this Teen Wolf hand as some ironic justice. The God of body hair looked down on me that day and put me on his list. Then, as I reached my late teens – he sent his demons nightly to slather my back and shoulders with Rogaine. These follicle-awakening imps took me from baby’s butt to missing-link with a quickness, and one morning I awoke to a hideous sight. That sad man, that poor sap – he had nothing on me. My hair had reached a thickness and luster to rival Pantene commercials. And as the years went on, not only did the Black Forest that is my back and shoulders continue to flourish, but the hair that I’m supposed to have started to take off. Maybe those “good guys” hairs from the top of my head were forced out by the urban sprawl of my back hair, I don’t know.

That’s it, I’m outta here.

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living in a treehouse or driving a skateboard to work

Hi what goes here?
Oh yeah? What you gonna do about it then? Mess me up huh? I’d like to see that. Step to me fool and let’s see. Don’t make me drop the hammer on your ass, ’cause I’m ready. Step back.

Guys, for real. I’m so excited about my sprinklers almost being done. How gay is that? It’s a huge accomplishment for me though, so I can accept the gayness. Oh, and by the way, I still haven’t stopped using the word “gay” to mean stupid or lame. I think I’m fairly conscious of political correctness, and can operate within its standards most of the time – but I’m just not ready to give up that gradeschool “gay means stupid” thing. So to all you homos, I got mad love for you – but gay means stupid. Sorry. Wait, homos isn’t PC either? Aww man, a brother can’t win.

The other night at Anthony’s, Bronte was playing MASH with some of the ladies. For those who didn’t have a childhood, or whose brains are time-addled and have forgotten – MASH was a kind of “fortune telling” game centered around how your life will turn out. In the 80’s version (which I played), you picked four chicks, for cars, four kid counts, and four locations on earth. Then you draw a spiral and count through all the options to see who you’ll marry, where you’ll live, what kinda car you’ll drive, and how many kids you have. Man, I remember always having my fingers crossed for Alyssa Milano, she was so friggin’ hot on Who’s the Boss. To make it fun you always had to stick one stinker in each category, you know, like, living in a treehouse or driving a skateboard to work. Then there was always that one cootie-ridden girl who’d be the “gross” one in the wife category. For us we had to marry Beth Somethingorother, oh how we hated her. An ugly boy-hating girl with a penchant for nuts-kicking, she was always the “stinker.” She was so butch, I bet she turned out gay (and this time I mean gay-gay, like gay. Y’know?)

Anyway, we were playing MASH and making “cootie catchers” (which are little four-peaked origami fortune tellers), and I was transported back to the 5th grade. All I needed was a swingset, a game of dodgeball, and to be overly proud of some crotchal peachfuzz – and I’d be back in time. I think I ended up marrying Hilary Duff and having “a google” of kids (that sucks), driving a ’63 Stingray and living in a shack underwater. Improbable? Yeah, sure. Horrible? Hard to say. I can kinda see myself transporting our immeasurable offspring across the coral reefs in the Stingray. Yeah, Hilary Duff, what?

Dudes, I can’t tell and didn’t notice at the time… but is that a bare titty in my post’s image from yesterday? I swear I see nip. OK guys (and gals), I’m outta here.

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i bet i was passing killers

Some kinda watchgroup is gonna have problems with this one...
The other day I was driving around, looking at all the people in their cars and on the street, thinking about them. I wonder how many of those people have killed someone? I know it’s a morbid thought, but surely there’s a percentage there. Whether or not they killed someone in service of their country or police force or something, or they accidentally killed someone through negligence, of even if they are a good ol’ fashioned murderer – I bet I was passing killers on the road.

I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of “collective statistics,” for lack of a better word. I mean, I’d drive down the river road in high school, peering into the picture windows of the houses lining the road. Seeing pictures hung on the walls and families watching TV, thinking about how each of those families, each person, has just as many, if not more, memories and experiences as I do. Think of all those memories and anecdotes and stories and emotions. I always thought that if you could somehow harness all that into a central repository – how cool it would be to just browse through it. Kind of voyeuristic I guess.

Subject change, ready?

Man, the more I listen to this new Of Montreal album, the more it gets bombs. Total 60’s brit-psych, so syrupy with harmonies and strings and dings and funky whimsical melodies. Sickening really, but really good. The Pitchfork reviewer calls it California psych-pop, wrong – it definitely mimics UK psych more than any west coast US stuff.

That was a long paragraph. So this weekend I got for real and dropped the dosh on the sprinkler ingredients: pipes, joints, risers, sprinkler heads, etc. Totaling out at $250 for most of the materials for the backyard irrigation (sans the drip system for the retaining wall slope and the will I/won’t I drainage materials), not a bad amount. Anyway, Ben helped me go buy the ~600ft of PVC and whatnot on Sunday – and then Sharaun helped me hook it all up. By 5pm on Sunday we had “zone one” complete and tested with sprinklers and all. It was really cool to see the little sprinkler heads pop up and start watering the Martian landscape that is my backyard. The rest of the job should go pretty quickly, and I anticipate being done with sprinklers (burying them and all) by this weekend. It’s a big step in terms of progress, because as soon as the sprinklers are in and I’ve taken care of the yard drainage (either with drains or just proper sloping, haven’t decided) – the next step is sod! That’s right, we can finally have something green in the backyard! I’m still working towards the July deadline, trying to be done in time for Sharaun’s folks’ visit.

The weather lately has been awesome, the kind of days that tend to draw me outside, that make it increasingly hard to concentrate on all things work. Well, at least work where the work’s happening indoors, trapped inside four cramped cubicle walls. Work where I’m outside in the sun, hunched over a ditch fitting two pipes together while Forever Changes blares out the windows, however, these days scream at me to do that work. A blue sky with no clouds on the way to work seems to make my brakin’ foot resist that turn and want to just keep on driving. Maybe pick up Sharaun and head to Yosemite for some camping or hiking. Stupid weather, so tempting. It’s like God’s communicating to me, just urging me to stick it to the man and call in sick or take vacation. Hey, who am I to argue with God?

Coming up in July, Sharaun and I will have been married for four years. I know that’s not very long compared to some, but dang man. That’s a long time! Considering we’ve been dating since 10th grade (way back yonder in 1994), it’s kinda crazy. Even way back in high school we used to joke about getting married, and now we’re for really married and far from what was then “home.” Funny to think about, but I’m glad things went down the way they did.

In middle school there was this kid with a prosthetic leg. The sad thing was, on top of the cool-detriment that having a fake leg alone brings – this kid was a total nerd. I mean, being one-legged is enough of a uphill popularity battle, but this kid was facing the Everest of uncool with no hopes of ever reaching the summit. Now, I know, it’s not nice to make fun of people, especially people with physical handicaps – but there’s no law (aside from what you squares call “morals”) against recounting hilarious stories about said people.

Story #1: The one-legged kid (OLK), had a huge crush on Kyle’s sister (yeah, the same sister who I’m proud to call my “first love”). One day I was walking with her up to the office, it was during class so there was no one in the hall. OLK must have been going to the office too, and he was walking in front of us. In what must have been an effort to look cool in front of his crush, he did a spin-move to try and open the door to the office. He spun around and used his fake leg to “kick” the door open. The door did open, but in the process of spinning or kicking, his fake leg came off. The door snapped back closed, suspending the detached limb mid-fall to the floor. OLK stood there in shock for a minute, then opened the door and retrieved the leg. He was refitting it as, stifling guffaws, we turned the other way pretending we weren’t headed for the office at all.

Story #2: Gym class. OLK would wear sweats all the time instead of shorts. One day we were inside the gym, and several of us were using the big integrated weight machine. It had all sorts of equipment bundled into one beast of a machine, including an inclined sit-up board. The guys in the class loved to set the inclined board at its steepest and have sit-up contests to see who was the coolest. This day, however, no one was using the board. OLK jacked it up to the steepest setting, and climbed on, hooking his sneakers under the pads at the top and laying down. After a few sit-ups, I guess his fake leg came “unhooked,” and his other foot slipped under the weight of his whole body on the incline. Now, remember, he was wearing sweats – so imagine the resulting scene. One “foot” and “leg” are still hooked at the top, but are detached at the knee. The other leg ha slipped from the top and with nothing to hold him, OLK is sliding down the incline. So to the observer, we see one leg seemingly “stretching” as the rest of the kid slides down the ramp. Some girl screamed, and one actually puked. We laughed for days.

Story #3: The cool thing to do after school was to steal candy from the convenience store on the way home. The pilfering was so bad, in fact, that the store was forced to implement a “two students at a time” policy in an attempt to curb their losses. I guess OLK wanted to get in on the fun, but for some reason decided to one-up everyone else by stealing a lot more candy than we were accustomed to. His modus operandi? Why, fill his fake leg with candy, of course. In the end, OLK got caught, and we all watched as the cops made him remove his fake leg to reveal a pirate’s booty of sweets.

OK, I’m done. I got nothing left. Sorry for the dumb and exploitive stories. Dave out.

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there’s aardbarks up in there

Finely tuned scientific equipment.
I dunno if it was just laziness or what, but we were all supposed to go see another show tonight (Pretty Girls Make Graves, right here in Sac) – and I bailed. Mostly because Sharaun had a late meeting at school and wouldn’t be getting home until 8ish – and I knew she’d be tired from her 2hrs sleep last night. I just felt the evening would be better served if we just crashed on the couch and hung out with each other. So, we did. She picked up some Mexican on her way home – and we ate our dinner out of styrofoam boxes while watching the season finale of the OC. Well, I watched it at least – she fell asleep about halfway through. Which is good, because it’d be awful embarrassing if she’d seen me bawling as Marissa hit that bottle of vodka. What have you done Ryan?, what have you done?!

Dan (the same guy who’s insinuated in the comments that the blog has, or is about to, “jump the shark” – punk) has been taking karate lessons for a while. While he was telling me all about what he’s learned, which thus far has been limited to defense moves, I got an idea. See, I’ve always been curious about how effective karate lessons really are. I mean, I’m led to believe that a black belt in karate could kick my butt. But what about the karate noob? How much better are your defense skills for a couple month’s lessons? So, Dan and I devised a plan. I will attack him with all I’ve got – no holds barred street-brawl-ignorant fighting. Just a hail of fists and throwing my weight around. During my furious assault, Dan can only use the defenses and blocks that karate has taught him. This way, we see if karate is real. I know, totally scientific, right? We figured there’d probably need to be some beer involved – just to loosen up the muscles and improve mental focus… and video documentation couldn’t hurt.

In high school, I was messing around with the tape recorder one day and figured out I could wire the microphone input directly into the earpiece of the phone. This inevitably led to the tape recording of prank phone calls. In the beginning, it was simply a few guys sitting around drinking, smoking (cough, cough), and recording prank phone calls. But shortly after our first 90min compilation tape, “Volume One,” made it’s way around school – each “recording session” became a small party. More and more people heard our pranks and wanted to be around when “Joey Cora” and “Pete Metacalf” made the calls. Over the course of a couple years, we made so many prank phone calls we couldn’t count them all. After each “session,” it was my job to edit down the resulting hours of calls into the best and funniest for inclusion in the next “Volume” of calls. We ended up with four 90min cassettes, Volumes One through Four, and one 45min unedited tape dubbed the “sober session.”

The goal was always to be as stupid as possible, to see how much people would put up with. There was always an unwritten rule that you should try to cram in as much foul language as possible – because everyone knows cussing is comedy gold. Often the calls were so thick with our stupid sense of humor and drunken notions of jokes that they were only side-splittingly funny to us, but listening back on some of them I still get a laugh. The dumber the response from the people on the other line, the bigger the kick we got out of it. The angrier and uglier you could be right off the bat, the better. It’s amazing what people are willing to put up with, especially when you can clearly hear several kids just cracking up in the background.

Although I’ve never fully converted the Volumes to CD, a few years ago I began a project to digitize them all and give copies to the prank crew for Christmas. I never got finished, mainly because we don’t own a cassette deck – but I did get the whole of Volume One ripped to CD. While working on the GDM project last night I happened upon the raw CD rips. So, I decided to clean up a couple calls an turn them into MP3s. So, here – for the first time on the ‘net – some samples of our first prank calls. I estimate that Volume One was made sometime in 1992, and you can tell we were just warming up. Some of the stuff on Volume Four puts this stuff to shame. Anyway, for your listening pleasure:

[audio:SCUBA_tanks.mp3]
SCUBA Tanks

[audio:Fireplace.mp3]
Didn’t Catch on Fire Like a Fireplace

[audio:Gold.mp3]
I Have an Allergic Reaction to Gold?!

[audio:Aardbarks.mp3]
There’s Aardbarks Up In There

That’s if for today folks, I’m outta here. Enjoy.

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delusions of grandeur

This is the sound... the sound of the underground!
Running while sick is crap. I thought my lung capacity would be worse because I’ve been congested and coughing, but I actually ran fairly well tonight. I still loathe the act, but I’m getting more and more used to it. Maybe if I keep doing it, I’ll lose some weight – either that or my ankles will collapse under me. Either way, I’ma make like Forest and keep run-ning.

So I actually got a couple takers on my “guest blog” offer, not sure anyone will actually deliver, but it’s kinda cool that I at least got some tentative OKs. I’ll print ’em as they come.

Tonight (tomorrow, whatever) is the Death Cab for Cutie show at the Fillmore in SF. Been a nice long while since we’ve made that trek to see a show, and I think this one is worth it. Ben Kwellar is the opener – and I dig his new solo effort, so I’m looking forward to the entire fête. I guess this will be the 4th time I’ve seen Death Cab, and as long as they keep turning out stuff like Transatlanticism I’ll keep shelling out ducketts for tickets. They really are one of my favorite indie (some might argue that anyone on the OC ain’t “indie” anymore) acts out there right now. I like to think the magic is in the chemistry, but I can’t get over the fact that Ben Gibbard’s other material is nearly unflappably perfect as well. I mean darn, Postal Service, All-Time Quarterback, that dude is some kinda lyrical Midas. Ahem, enough fawning.

Oh man, I’m just sitting here listening to some compilation I grabbed off the newsies called something like “Old Skool Hardcore.” What a trip down memory lane. Wanna walk with me? OK. The year is 1992, my best buddy Kyle is gone for a month of the summer vacation between our freshman and sophomore years of high school – as he is every year, visiting his dad in Plano, TX. Every year Kyle came back from his dad’s place with mass amounts of new music, but this year was different. Whereas he’d usually come back with tapes full of rare 60’s or 70’s gems he’d unearthed from his dad’s huge music library – this year he brought back something new. God forbid! Seeing as we were both “too cool” for modern music (“Hammer Time” indeed), this was a huge step. He didn’t know it, but those two albums Kyle brought back were gonna change everything.

The Prodigy’s debut, “Experience” only just released that year, and Utah Saints’ self-titled 1st LP, also placenta-covered; back-to-back on one blissful 90min Maxell. Seems Kyle’s dad’s long-time girlfriend’s two no-good sons had gone and got into the whole “rave” scene. Being as I had no idea what a “rave” even was, the whole thing was new to me. As were these beat-heavy, chunky-jangly tunes. But man, it was like a natural fit. Overnight we went from Derek and the Dominos and Bob Dylan to breakbeat’s #1 proselytizers. What’s now known affectionately as “old skool hardcore” was the muzak-du-jour for us. And much like the elitism I revel in now by enjoying non-radio indie – being on the bleeding edge of a new and underground genre was an attractant in and of itself.

From then on it was a friendly competition, who could score the roughest most underground tunes and share them with the other. Scouring record bins in Orlando DJ pits like the Drop Shop – trading for obscure mixes and LPs with contacts met while using teachers’ PCs during Biology in the internet’s swaddling days. Never satisfied with the standard 4/4 “fairground” techno bullshit which eventually made it into mainstream musical consciousness – we were always searching for the most brokenest and choppy beats. Eventually, with our friendship waning, the acquisition of new tunes became somewhat of a pissing contest (at least, in my head it did). I would hear from Jeremy that Stacy got a new mix from Kyle and it was badass. Jealous, I’d find something new and try to get it circulating within the “network” – all the while hoping Kyle’d eventually hear it came from me.

Soon enough drugs and girls drove us apart for good, but during later “reunions” we’d always be surprised to find out how much our musical tastes tracked each other. From breakbeat to some new stuff called “jungle” out of London, morphing into the Chicago jungle scene from the US side of things, and finally dying under the generic “drum and bass” moniker. Release parties for Moonshine records at Orlando skating rinks, sacks of weed and doses, despite drifting down differnt paths of personal taste, we pretty much stayed neck-and-neck until he shattered my thinking by playing me Pavement’s “Wowee Zowee” one day.

That bitch was always one step ahead. Guess it served me right. Prodigy sucked after “Jilted,” and arguably sucked during “Jilted” too. Don’t even talk to me about that bitchass group with a crab on their record that sang “Firestarter,” whoever those dicks are – they ain’t the same Prodigy that did “Experience.” Liam might still be able to whip up beats, but ugh. Jungle was getting stale, and while happy hardcore tried – it just couldn’t recall the early nineties. It was time to move on, and as always – Kyle was my catalyst. So onto Pavement and Built to Spill I moved… still loitering around the genre today.

Holy crap y’allz. I just wrote several paragraphs on the kind of music I liked in high school. What the eff? But you know, I don’t care if it’s boring. It was easy to write – and that means it needed to be written. When I forget I’m writing and concentrate on telling the story, I know it’s a story worth writing down. Even if it is about nothing at all. Anyway, it’s not a complete “Dave’s musical tastes” evolutionary chart (man, how awesome would it be to actually make one of those?!) – but it’s a slice of time. I mean, somewhere either before or during all that was the Skinny Puppy/Front 242/Ministry phase, y’know, the all-black and combat boots era? Ahh, music, way too important to me.

Anyway, I wrote all that because I was originally trying to “introduce” a story about my eternal quest for a long-lost mix tape from the breakbeat days, but the “intro” morphed into a story of its own. I’ll just get right to the point: I’m always looking for songs which mighta been on this mix, as it was, in my opinion, the defining mix for early 90s hardcore. Alas, I lost the tape – only to one day years later hear the exact same mix on some alterna-radio’s Saturday night “club mix” or something. So I know it was a popular mix, perhaps commercially released or local to some big Orlando DJ. For nearly five years I’ve had a text file on my desktop called “mixtape.txt” in which I track songs in two categories: “definite,” and “possible.” One day I’ll find that mix, I swear. Stupid “underground” music, hard to find by definition, bah!

Maybe if I stop chugging Diet Cokes I’ll realize it’s nigh’ on 1am and I gotta go give my eight hours to the man again tomorrow. I’ve impressed myself with such a voluminous tome today, at three pages in Word it’s bound to look impressively page-filling sandwiched between the sickly-green borders of the blog.

And he even took time to link it up proper, good night all. Dave. Is. Out.

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drop bricks on our hot wheels

I have the power.
Saw the music industry sued another 500 downloaders today, sucks to be them. But for really guys, if you’re still using some kind of crappy centralized P2P app – what can you expect? Last night I stayed up until 1am for no apparent reason. I was ripping CDs and listening to the results, and writing like I am now. Tonight I went on a solo run around 10pm, so now I’ve got some juice keeping me awake.

Ben and I were talking today about all the toys we used to play with as kids, and which ones were our favorites. I think the whole conversation started around Legos, as we were both discussing the large tupperware container of random Legos we had as kids. You know, it was a jumbled mess of your standard primary-color Legos, some brown pirate-ship ones, and maybe some gray moonbase-five ones as well. My brother and I could have hours of fun with Legos. We’d dump out that tupperware container into a huge pile, and build crap for hours.

Also ranking mutually high on our lists were G.I. Joe, He-Man, and Transformers. I guess those were just the toys to have back then. I remember getting Castle Greyskull for Christmas the same year my brother got Skull Mountain. We had a lot of cool toys. The Rancor, the Millennium Flacon, the self-destructing Ewok-carrying Speederbike, an X-wing with popup R2D2 action, Ewok Village. Shoot, I think I was the only kid in town who had the Tundertank. I also had some ridiculously unpractical Transformers moonbase-robot-train thing, which was utterly stupid as a toy. The key to toys isn’t more motors and assembly, any idiot knows kids gravitate towards the most rock-simple concepts when it comes to toys. At least, in my day we did. I don’t know about these Poke-Digi kids of today? but give me a sticky spider thing that crawls down walls or a slingshot, and I’m good to go.

We also agreed that whoever thought of the whole “crack-ups” gimmick was a genius. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, crack-ups (or maybe it was crash-’ems) were Hot Wheels cars that had spring-loaded sections which would rotate quickly upon impact to show a “wrecked” version of the car. You could roll a normal looking car at a wall and the little rollover portion would switch to a fake dented hood or something. Pretty soon the rollover-change thing made it’s way into other toys like Battle Armor He-Man and such. Anyway, what a brilliant idea. Boys love to wreck their toys. My brother and I used to drop bricks on our Hot Wheels anyway, just to wreck them. Who was the genius who was smart enough to realize that a perpetually wreckable car would be a boys dream? Wish I woulda thought of it.

I’m outta here.

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the smooth licks of carlos

You think gold bars leave a mark?
Hot-damn people. What’s happening with this week? I haven’t been this distracted from writing since my last year of college, trying to worm my way through those last classes so I could escape from academia. I need to write, I gotsta write… here I go! Hold me back!

In the seventh grade I met Kyle. We were best friends in no time, my bond with him eclipsing those of my other friends almost immediately. He became the closest of my friends in the middle school crew. Not long after I started hanging out with Kyle, I developed a huge crush on his little sister. I mean, it was only natural. She was awesome, fun, cute, and ultimately accessible. I had “liked” girls before, but this was different. You know that first girl you were ever completely infatuated with? That was Kyle’s sister. My first “love.”

At first, I think it was a one-sided thing. I would flirt as best I could without making a big deal about it so Kyle could notice. However, as the years passed – it became something more serious. Eventually, we were sneaking around – sitting on either side of Kyle while we played Leisure Suit Larry on his mom’s computer, all the while holding hands right behind his back. It became the most exhilarating thing in the world.

Sometime in 8th grade, Kyle moved across town. I would still spend the night at his house often, and I would use those times equally to hang with my best friend – and flirt with his sister. Around this time, she and I had started passing notes in school. I don’t know how it happened, but we had to be super-secretive about it. The whole note-writing phase of our courtship was right around the time that the boys and I had cracked the Astro code, and having taught the code to Kyle’s sister – we added an extra layer of security to our clandestine missives by encoding them.

I’ll never forget trying to pass these secret notes to each other between classes, slipping them in locker slits, dropping them on the ground in view of each other, and plain being sly while exchanging them with Kyle right there. I would read each note with such attention, savoring each and every word. If there was ever a boy so painfully in love, it was me. We kept writing notes, and I kept spending the night, and things started getting worse. Kyle was starting to notice things.

One night, we had gone over to Kyle’s grandmother’s house – which was walking-close to his place. I was spending the night that night, and Kyle, his sister, and I were all walking back from his grandmother’s. At some point in the walk, she managed to slip me a note she’d written sometime that day. I remember barely being able to contain myself, I wanted to read it right then and there. As soon as we got back to the house, I went to the bathroom and took the note with me. I could read code like it was plain english by this point – and what I read made my heart race and head swim.


“I can tell you this now, I love you.”

She loved me? Holy crap! My heart must have been going a mile a minute. I can remember hurriedly writing a note in response the very next morning. Kyle had left me alone in his room while he mowed the lawn, and I broke out paper and pencil to confess my reciprocal pining to his sister. Santana’s “Samba Pa Ti” was on the stereo, the window was open, and I wrote a love letter to my best friend’s little sister to the hum of a lawnmower and the smooth licks of Carlos. After we had confessed our undying love for each other, we just had to keep our “relationship” a secret from the world.

What a great year or so. I remember holding hands on the couch in the dark, watching the “Lost Boys” while Kyle busied himself flirting with a friend of his sister’s who was also spending the night. In honesty, we had the best arrangement ever. Kyle got all his sister’s friends, and I got to keep busy with his sister. This hormone-filled middle school boy’s utopia was short lived though, and it was all do to one fateful double-sleepover night. The castle came tumbling down the morning Kyle’s mom walked into his room to find her daughter and I sharing a blanket on the floor while her son lay in bed under the covers with her daughter’s sleepover guest. What an awkward over-pancake discussion that breakfast was. In the end, we nearly lost simultaneous sleepover privileges – but it was worth it.

Not long after, Kyle asked me point-blank if I liked his sister. He said it was no big deal, and that every friend he ever had always ended up liking her. I wanted to be different, so I lied to him. I didn’t want to be “using” him for her, and I wasn’t. Anyway, before I knew it – his sister was “dating” some dude. I never got so much as a breakup note or a “goodbye.” Just found out one day that she was dating this dude in her grade. Crushed, I eventually grew out of my gradeschool puppy-love – but not without some amazing memories of hidden car-ride hand-holding, the smell of her wet hair in the morning, and my first-ever head-over-heels love.

This just in, this entry wins 1st place for use of hyphenated compound-words. Seriously, what’s up with that? Dave out.