When I was little I used to read two fringe kid’s mystery book series. One was The Bailey School Kids, which I have now taken upon myself to rewrite for an older, more mature audience. The other was the Cam Jansen Mysteries, which focused on a girl with a photographic memory who always caught the bad guy by remembering something key about whatever she needed to remember to catch the bad guy.
Tonight I went to say goodnight to the household when I noticed my parents were watching some show where a woman can remember everything based on the scenes she sees. Turns out it’s CBS’s newest pointless crime-drama show Unforgettable.
“That’s Cam Jansen all grown up,” I said. My parents, who used to cart my tiny little nerd ass to the library to get all these books, looked at each other and nodded in agreement.
At this rate, I’m waiting for HBO to pick up my “Bailey School Teens” idea.
This is an excerpt from a “life journey” paper that was due early last week. Yes, I’m doing it right now. Shut up.
Childhood is the only time no one should expect anything from you. Except they do. I remember in elementary school only wanting to write silly little stories – the kind of imaginative, pencil-written, quick-to-climax-and-resolution tales that kids like to write. I remember getting yelled at for writing a story about fairies kidnapping children during a lesson I remember as “cursive practice.” Upon review of the story (found years later in a dusty box of field day treasures and favorite books with tattered covers), if the teacher had taken a look at what I was writing it would have punched me a ticket down to the school psychologist who would have asked if I was deranged. The teacher wagged her finger and told me I was expected to pay attention to the lesson on cursive, even though I was writing in cursive. I remember the teacher in her teacher-dress and teacher-shoes telling me with her stern teacher-voice I was going to need to write in cursive all the time when I was older. She was a liar. Just like every other teacher who told me I was going to need all the skills I learned in their class. If I ever have to figure out how to multiply matrices using some equation named after a dead guy, I will sincerely apologize. I haven’t so far, and I don’t expect to anytime in the near future.
For the first time in a few years, I made myself chocolate milk.
And for the first time since I was a kid, I just spent ten minutes blowing bubbles into my milk until they created a bubble-dome on the top of my glass.
I never wondered why you could do this until just now. If you ever wondered, here’s a pretty good explanation for those of us not privy to scientific jargon.
Every culture has its own path to adulthood. It could be a ritual, the end of education, or even mandated by law. Adulthood is a terrifying ultimatum for children of all ages - a strict rule that says “You are now an adult. You must follow the rules. You must act mature. You must take responsibility.” I shudder every time I think about it.
I’ve realized now, however, that my path to adulthood is unique. I have searched far and wide for what Robert Frost would call “the road less traveled by,” and I think I’ve finally reached the end of my journey without walking across hot coals or the ruling of a grand jury (and I’m fairly surprised that the latter didn’t happen).
My leap into adulthood was prompted by the fact that I can no longer relate to children born after the year 2000.
They think Star Wars: A New Hope is boring and Revenge of the Sith is the best.
The best video game system has a controller with more than five buttons.
“You can get books at the library?”
“I stay up until two in the morning sometimes.”
They have cell phones and never talk on them, only text.
They think the Twilight series is the best thing to happen since sliced bread.
None of them eat sliced bread. Just Lunchables and Uncrustables. Actually, most food has the suffix “-ables” now. I call them “disgustables.”
But the thing that bothers me most of all? Why, that’s the fact that they look at me like I have four heads when I ask,
“Hey, you guys ever just feel like digging a hole?”
I mean, come on. That’s an integral part of childhood - sitting in the dirt with a stick or a rock, digging a fucking hole. You think you can reach China. You find all kinds of stuff. Worms, cool rocks, more sticks, dirt. And the best part? You get all dirty.
Why isn’t that a part of childhood anymore?
This is Bob Barker. For those of you who have either never seen Happy Gilmore or never watched The Price is Right when Drew Carey still had Whose Line is it Anyway? to host, get the hell of my damn lawn.
When I was little, both my parents worked during the day, so after preschool, my grandmother used to pick me up and I’d eat a delicious dish prepared by Chef Boyardee. Then I’d settle into the couch downstairs, perhaps tinker with a plastic toy from McDonald’s if I felt so inclined, and then watch The Price is Right. My relationship with television began early and it escalated like a brush fire in a scarecrow factory. It got so bad that my five-year-old self loved “Bobby Barker,” as I dubbed him, so much that I would stage The Price is Right with stuffed animals with my own devious consumer chance games and the canned goods in the pantry.
Eventually, my grandmother got fed up with opening the pantry and finding all the canned peaches gone, so she sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. Barker explaining my enthusiasm for The Price is Right. He sent my grandmother and I back a signed photograph. And that was the best day of those five years I had lived.
