Revelations were few and far between in those days of yearning ennui, wondering what I should be-- if I was offending "the great gods of tradition" as a young person. This, as the '90s see-sawed at a mid-point where the world was still a dark unknown, if there be dragons or a treasury of hip, sacred power residing in the back offices of "Rolling Stone" magazine with totems and idols, falling to your knee with the sickly, green orb light of hip decay-- or thoughtful young maidens moonlighting with their hands clasped in want of male company such as myself. One knew not what to think of those feelings of scratching restlessness you'd get on Friday night, when one felt keenly ashamed of being marooned home alone listening to Metallica and playing computer games in wistful despondency-- in mourning for all the significant things others were surely up to above and beyond your secluded isle of existence, but you were definitely not a part of.

There were certain kids who had photo album after photo album of get-togethers, but what you figured out over time was that these party-goers were offering forced smiles in the blink of an artificial Polaroid moment when they were expected to do nothing less-- and there really wasn't a whole lot "going on" at that scene. When they'd talk, they'd always brag about "some other party" where there was "that one hot minute" but wherever it was, it was sure not in evidence tonight where you were standing around with a Dixie cup of Coca-Cola and questing like a diplomat on a secret mission. . . . . seeking a home for your forsaken heart that wanted desperately "to belong" and "find a home".

To get your hands on that elusive thing that everybody dreams about, that marketers sell the illusion of. And boy, was I sold. . . . .

As I look back with wisdom, I come to realize that throughout our lives we live in boxes of constriction and pace the perimeter of what we know or are even capable of knowing. As we mature, the box gets bigger with depth. Back then as a young man inclined toward transcendental fancy, I was dissatisfied with the inherent pacing limits of my so-called box, the walls invisible like a fish-bowl that yet you keenly felt the limits of being teenaged and young and almost free. . . . . the stirring, revved-up motor of young-pup vitalism without the rubber, grooved grip of traction "hugging the track" and speeding away from one's rut "at escape velocity". I would gravitate toward the westernmost wall and kneel, mediating in speculation on what could possibly be on the other side. Romance? Enlightenment? Perfect happiness? All the things those psychics assured you they could deliver as they stared into a crystal ball over the phone for $4.99/minute?

Or then again, maybe not.

I figured that with some huge, life-transforming experience like something seen on t.v. I would be able to scale the wall of my box-- all boxes in fact (-- with a big question mark) and ascend to "the next level" utterly without bounds or limits.

What was "the secret"?

I was convinced that adults knew something I didn't, which was why they seemed graceful and unbothered, if not self-assured as they conferred in a huddle like umpire and batting coach "in some kind of conspiracy". I felt like an unknown quantity, and brooded upon this on my 3rd floor area-- like a young Jedi knight meditating in a cave. Intuitively, I tried to gauge myself-- to figure out what I'd do in a real world situation if it should ever present itself. But I knew that I felt more ready than ready than what the limitations of life-as-is offered.

For what was "maturity"? Just a thousand eternities strung end to end, and an inexplicable line you "crossed" when society arbitrarily crowned you 18. But not even "crowned" so much as the door leading out from the suffocating prison being opened and you rolling out on your knees, gasping.

There was no niche for an intelligent young person. You were either old enough to get drunk and shake light posts in a college riot outside a football stadium, or to put your future on hold playing obnoxious computer games and killing time with petty sniggles. One decided it was better to make oneself at home and settle into things, waiting for a "big break" to prove one's maturity and worthiness of the good things in life aside from one's pathetic limitations placed over their station like a soldier confined to base. And this became my timid existential authority. . . . . showing school spirit, paying attention while hopefully gleaning something useful, interesting or life-affirming "while following directions to the letter".

"Life-as-is" had a beautiful, yet wistful pathos that pained the back of my throat like a strip of iron, or the braces of FDR making faltering steps, having enough "can-do" optimism to try many different things. . . . . including one's contemplation in the healing springs of natural mineral water steaming from the earth like a healing soak.

The world was very still. . . . . a sump of parsimoniousness like a pale, sickly wind. What seemed to sum up the cultural zeitgeist were the talk show hosts Bob n' Tom singing "Prison Bitch" on the morning drive with a band of back-up blues musicians to canned music before they started up their inane "bozo chatter" about hooters and beer. Dare to be "bad"-- dare to be tame. Approaching the line like black, dubious ooze, but barely held back by the minimum limits of the law that could only rule on specifics, not on "the spirit" of these pathetic chiselers and their hurtfulness.

What you have is a dumb, overweight white male between the ages of 35 and 50. He sits there in the sports bar with his basket full of "place kickers" (-- fried chicken wings, greasy mozzarella sticks) and when his team scores, he stands up and raises his arm in a "V", shouting. In a perfect world, the busty, blonde waitress would come over and give him a little teeth-bearing hug for his very ineptitude and endearing stupidity.

Sometimes what you see is what you get, and "the big mystery" is nothing but an ass's head hidden behind a veil as you learn something about the rude, crude, and indifferent nature of the cosmos that throws stones at the infirm until they can either turn the tables with "victim's rhetoric" or a flower of universal brotherhood, two talismisms that rapidly lose their power as soon as the other side stops believing and starts bringing the bottle up to their lips again.

Be sure to sweep up in here, kid. Better think of something else.

And turn off the lights. . . . .

*******************

"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

("I heard that, Missy!")