Days Were Golden

When I was about 6 or 7 or about the age when days are golden and long and filled with fun, the time after school and before bed time, you would find me in the “wee” room.  It was a messy little loving room.  Toys everywhere, table in the center, and eventually a large shelf, with a TV and computer, a Commodore 64—all constructed in maybe 10 x 10 feet, if that.  Our family had called it the “wee room,” just as the Convenient Store was the “wee store.”  I assume it came from Irish origin OR Wee people, the toy people with holes for bottoms.  Nonetheless, there is Irish somewhere in all of this.

But you would find me shaggy dark brown haired, red Izod shirt, and blue shorts, and probably Keds.  Or Kangaroos, I think they were called, had little zippered pockets you could stuff stuff in, like a quarter, per se. I would have my nose to the TV, if I wasn’t playing Nintendo or games for the Commodore.  Literally, my nose was almost touching the little TV in the wee room.  And I was a wee guy too. 

I watched cartoons like Thundercats, GI Joe, Heathcliff, and so many on after school or on Saturday morning.  There were other TVs in the house, one in the living room for grownups, and, eventually, one in just about every room, including my teenage bedroom.   In school, I remember kids who didn’t have TVs, which was confusing.  And like any confused boy he makes fun of what he doesn’t understand.  Like John.  John was a friend of mine, but the fact he didn’t have or wasn’t allowed to watch TV was in fact a funny bone of contention as far as I was concerned.  Just how could you not watch TV?

So I had my nose to the TV, watching all the Gen X and Gen Y goodies.  Stuff that was just original as all get out.  And the commercials that came on—whatever the toy was, I had to have.  I mean, seriously, like kicking and screaming, until I had the latest toy water gun or whatever the fuck.   If you watch a commercial for toys, they really do make it irresistible to be without that toy.  Just ask any 7 year old.

I think by 13 videogames, films, and primetime TV, were my main forms of entertainment, aside from interesting tidbits at school.  Right there, I was with you.  You would find me and Seinfeld smiling and laughing at Kramer, or tears rolling from my eyes with laughter from Al and Peggy’s 5 minute sex routine, that was implied by only a clock.  And if you would see me beat Mother Brain with finesse, you could.  I was in the pop culture thick of 1993 just like everyone else.  And this routine of videogames and films and primetime TV didn’t stop until puberty and friends in puberty.   We would hang out or go to parties or do what school commanded of us.

The myriad of different teenage activities of small town American life soon blended with boredom, horniness, and, eventually, a burning desire to escape the town from which I came.

Around 1995, a book came from nowhere.  Like a note just dropped on the table and I look and nobody’s around.  Like I really don’t remember why I picked up the book, why I desired to read it, or anything of that sort.  It was not school related.  It was Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

And now I have a Bachelor of Arts in English, a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, and I don’t watch TV, play video games, or watch many films.  I am aberrant because I don’t do these things.  And there are many reasons I don’t, but you would think me crazy.  I know you would.  A TV in every household, 60 year olds playing videogames, and derivative films sold by the millions.  I’m not going to try to persuade you that any of that last statement is strange or anything.   I will say, however, now, when my folks or friends or whomever are watching TV or go to the movies, I would rather be jerking off stories, essays, and poems.  I’m crazy.  Deal with it.