There was a PTA meeting. PTA stands for Parent Teacher Association. This meeting was at my elementary school, Northwood Elementary. It was an elementary school like one you might see in a movie.
I was at the meeting, which is to say I was at the school where the meeting was happening. More specifically, I was out on the playground, a place with which I was well familiar. I was there with my big brother and some other kids whose parents were in attendance. One such child was Adam Wheeless. He was a nice fella, and I always got along with him, which is more than I can say for some of the other dudes he ran with. I harbor no hard feelings about this, for you see, I was a wanksta from time to time.
Anyway, back to the fucking action, right? So, we (somewhat as a group) make our way out to the dugout, whose intended purpose was to facilitate baseball, kickball, or softball (in no particular order). We arrived and decided that some of us should climb onto the top of the dugout. It follows then that we decided to huck things at the people on top of the dugout with hopes of knocking them off. Naturally, we didn't really anticipate accomplishing this, and had we really thought about it, we'd have realized that our intention wasn't actually to be successful in this endeavor. In fact, the thought of it, in hindsight, 17 years later, is quite violent.
Of course, on this fateful day, I was unlucky enough to realize this goal. Wheeless was my victim. The tool? We had earlier discovered a dirty sock and filled it with pebbles and dirt. It was this which pelted Adam in the forehead, causing him to fall off the dugout. He was upset, naturally, and I was terrified, naturally. I ran to into the meeting to seek shelter from a pending attack. Running like a mama's boy. It worked. Adam chased me until the door of the meeting, yet the pomp of the meeting clearly was sufficient to shut him down. I was saved by pomp.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
February 4, 2011
I had a friend named Brian. He was a little bit of a strange kid, and I don't think he had lots of buddies. We played on the same basketball team, and I imagine (in hindsight) that he was really quite smart. Anyway, his parents owned a fancy restaurant outside of San Antonio. I was invited by him to spend the night one night, which is to say that his mother invited my mother to request that I spend the night out there with her son.
It wasn't altogether a bad experience. Brian had money and therefore, game genie, and he also lived outside of the city, which meant exploring, spelunking, fire-lighting. We were exploring an old, broken-down building, and we were chased by a large mongrel of a dog. It was rainy and damp, which dampened our outdoor time.
In the evening, we were to have dinner, obviously eating the food of the restaurant. So, we're sitting in the back room, eating what was perhaps the nicest dinner I'd ever had. In the middle of dinner, Brian, who would later perhaps be diagnosed as affected by hyperactivity or attention deficit. Regardless, his attention was easily distracted, and this night was no different.
I sat, eating some sort of chicken thing that I didn't understand, though I unimaginably was very excited about. During our dinner, which also involved playing some ancient computer games (at the time not so ancient), and some horseplay. During the horseplay, two very memorable events happened.
First, Brian, in performing some act we might call "play," bumped me from behind, spilling my cherry soda all over my food. Being that we were in the room alone, I wasn't ever offered, nor did I have the guts to ask for, more food. Later in the same dinner, as I choke down my chicken a la cherry soda, Brian (who clearly doesn't have the same level of food appreciation as his humble guest), fires a rubber band at me from across the room. Brian's aim in basketball was atrocious. Seems he was more talented at firing rubber bands. He hit me square in the eyeball, causing me to cry. It wasn't an emotional or body-cry, rather a physiological reaction to an uninvited stimulus.
At the end of the dinner, I was sick of being Brian's friend. I asked my mother never to acquiesce to such a proposal.
It wasn't altogether a bad experience. Brian had money and therefore, game genie, and he also lived outside of the city, which meant exploring, spelunking, fire-lighting. We were exploring an old, broken-down building, and we were chased by a large mongrel of a dog. It was rainy and damp, which dampened our outdoor time.
In the evening, we were to have dinner, obviously eating the food of the restaurant. So, we're sitting in the back room, eating what was perhaps the nicest dinner I'd ever had. In the middle of dinner, Brian, who would later perhaps be diagnosed as affected by hyperactivity or attention deficit. Regardless, his attention was easily distracted, and this night was no different.
I sat, eating some sort of chicken thing that I didn't understand, though I unimaginably was very excited about. During our dinner, which also involved playing some ancient computer games (at the time not so ancient), and some horseplay. During the horseplay, two very memorable events happened.
First, Brian, in performing some act we might call "play," bumped me from behind, spilling my cherry soda all over my food. Being that we were in the room alone, I wasn't ever offered, nor did I have the guts to ask for, more food. Later in the same dinner, as I choke down my chicken a la cherry soda, Brian (who clearly doesn't have the same level of food appreciation as his humble guest), fires a rubber band at me from across the room. Brian's aim in basketball was atrocious. Seems he was more talented at firing rubber bands. He hit me square in the eyeball, causing me to cry. It wasn't an emotional or body-cry, rather a physiological reaction to an uninvited stimulus.
At the end of the dinner, I was sick of being Brian's friend. I asked my mother never to acquiesce to such a proposal.
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