metal insects (part 2)

   I hope it doesn't put any of you off to know that no one was shot that day. Just bear with me for a little while. The inhumanity and death will come all too soon.

   In the beginning I had serious problems in school. I was always dancing on the edge of failing.

   By the commencement of my kindergarten year, the administration informed my parents that they were not convinced I was emotionally ready for advancement. What ensued was a closed-door meeting which resulted in my enrollment in Ms. Short's 1st Grade class and weekly meetings with a counsellor.

   My counsellor - I wanna say his name was Tim Rice - was baffled. He'd take me to the library and watch me pour over books like a madman. Why wasn't I learning?

   Over the course of the year, between our interviews and my gradual advancement to the adult stacks, he came to a startling conclusion:

   Having learned to read at such a young age, I never felt the necessity to ask questions. There was no need. I could find the answers myself. I developed my own inner comprehension skills, and by the time I began grammar school they were sharpened to a knife-point.

   Lesson plans are designed to flow at a pace conducive to teaching a full classroom. My absurdly high comprehension level made it nearly impossible to follow a lecturer, and as I've mentioned before, you were called out for not playing the game if you ventured off the trail and did your own thing.

   The jury was out. The school faculty was convinced I belonged in Special Education.  My counsellor was down to 2 options. I was either:

   a) a genius

       or

   b) some sort of idiot savant

   Before I knew it, I was sitting alone in Mr. Tim's office taking lots of tests. I was determined an 8th grade level and suggested for enrollment in Gifted & Talented classes, but Mom refused, saying that the tests shouldn't be the yardstick that measures their expectations of me. Maybe she figured I would come around sooner or later.

   Eventually the teachers decided to leave me alone, maybe because I didn't cause a disturbance. At least not yet. Each year thereafter, I would get my new textbooks and read them all in the first couple of weeks. That taken care of, I had time to read and write (some of the writing got me in BIG trouble). I'd complete all my assignments and pass every test without ever studying.

   I'd sail through the year, but it was harmful. It was cutting me off from learning one-on-one communication skills - a void which would lead to much suffering in the future.

   During my childhood I was quite accident prone. I've had my nose sliced nearly in half: stitches in every nook and cranny you could possibly imagine; broken my wrist, foot, collarbone and nose; been shot and stabbed. I had a hernia at 9, but that was cool. My dad and I got to meet one of the Saints in the recovery room.

   During the fall that resulted in my left wrist being encased in plaster, I suffered the first of two head injuries. I'm told I had amnesia for 2 or 3 days. I sometimes wonder how much permanent damage was done.

   One of my accidents was a bit traumatic.

   I began to walk home from school in the 4th grade. Eventually I stopped using the crosswalk. It was so much faster to go out the side door (next to the counsellor's office, no less) and cut through the student parking lot.

   One day it got the better of me. I guess I didn't look both ways before crossing and was struck by a car.

   The next thing I remember is that I felt hands touching me. I began protesting that "I'm getting up, I swear. I know it's time for school."

   Then I opened my eyes.

   I was on a stretcher and the ambulance was surrounded by people. One of the  EMT's took out a pair of surgical shears and proceeded to cut off all of my clothing.

   "Don't do that! That's my favorite shirt!"

   (Favorite shirt? Jeez, at this point Mom was still dressing me like the 40-year-old Virgin!)

   My protests fell upon deaf ears.

   So here I lay, in my underwear and babbling like a madman, in front of the entire student body. I couldn't get up or move to cover myself, being strapped to the gurney by this point.

   I became the talk of the school.

   "Did you hear?"

   "I heard he was crossing the street with his nose in a book and never saw the car coming!"

   "I saw it! His shoes flew right off of his feet!"

   I mean, come on. Weren't the Abraham Lincoln jokes bad enough?

   At the hospital I learned 2 things.

   One was that road tar is very painful to remove when embedded in the skin.

   The other was that one of Dad's friends was the driver of the car that struck me. He was quite distraught and begged that we let him pay my medical bills.

   Maybe two years later we were informed that he had passed away. I hope I didn't jinx him.

   Mom says she began to be embarrassed when she'd have to bring me to the emergency room. It was quite obvious the entire staff believed we were being abused.

   Once I reached adulthood all that changed, but that's a story for another day.

   During my 7th year I began to take an interest in music, particularly Prince, who was becoming a household name that year with Purple Rain.

   I know that's a far cry from where I stand personally as a musician these days (depends on the day, of course. I do have to be funky sometimes.), but it was very important. The first artist I ever took notice of had a proclivity to play every instrument and genre of music known to man - and recorded albums alone, sometimes in a basement.

   The possibilities seemed endless to me. I began to beg my mother for piano lessons, but there wasn't enough money for it.

   This initial interest led to others - James Brown, Sly and the Family Stone, Hendrix, Santana.

   Beginning in '87, I spent a few summers with my aunt, a confessed "wild child."

    I discovered 2 amazing things there: her record collection (massive) and Stephen King.

    I got well acquainted with so much history. The Rolling Stones. T-Rex. Jethro Tull. Queen. The Cars. I could go on for millenia.

   But I will say this much:

   If you have a turntable, you must hear the White Album before you die. There is almost nothing greater. It will change your life.

   Punk came later.

   She had some wonderful books on her shelves. One, the Bachman Books, was a paperback collection by King's alias, Richard Bachman. I've read 3 copies to tatters.

   Charlie Decker, the hero(?) of Rage, has stayed with me for a lifetime. But to be honest, they all have.

   Our lives were about to enter a new phase.

   My father had sustained a back injury in '86 that led to two operations for slipped and hemorrhaging  discs. 3 years later the insurance company finally settled with him - not for an incredible figure, but it was enough for a brand new Mitsubishi Galant and a nice down payment on a house.

   We packed our possessions, grabbed our loyal collie, Crockett (Dad was a Miami Vice fan), and hightailed it 15 miles north to Port Sulphur, Louisiana.

   It was there that I entered my teens, got religion - which turned out to be a bittersweet elixer, began making money while most were playing Nintendo, began my musical instruction, and picked up a few habits that maybe weren't so good.

   It was also in this town that I first experienced the rollercoaster emotions of love, loss, and doubt.

   The '90's were almost upon us.

   All of this and more you will hear soon.

   "As for me? I've lain down my scrivener's pen. These days I prefer not to."

         - Michael Noonan (paraphrased)