Mindgrapes

Oh my god I am regressing to middle school. This is the awesome thing: I remember saying, perhaps to myself, possibly to my mom, in seventh grade or so, that Max should be some sort of critic or reviewer when he grew up, because it just seemed like something that would suit him and he'd be really good at. So it's kind of incredible to read this blog, which is almost entirely reviews of music and movies and books, and see how exactly right I was. Gratifying, in a way.

For anyone who doesn't know: I had a mindbogglingly huge crush on this guy throughout middle school. He was my first crush and remains, to this day, perhaps the most intense, certainly if you take the integral of intensity over time. For a long time he was part of my self-identity, woven completely into every instant of my life so that even when I wasn't anywhere near him I was likely to be thinking of him, and even when I wasn't thinking of him his existence still somehow altered my experience of the world around me. I couldn't imagine what it would mean to be myself and not to have this crush.

(I guess I'm kind of banking on his not reading this? Heh. But why would he? It's not even linked on facebook anymore...I think I'm safe. Besides, hell, that was middle school; it's not like I'm embarrassed by it now. At the time, of course, the concept that he might ever in any tiny way suspect that I cared about his existence in any way shape or form made me want to shrivel up and die....)

So it was with a wave of loss that I realized sometime in the first half of high school that all that really remained was the memory of a crush...and another few years later, that memory became like the memory of intense pain: you know in some abstract way that you felt it and it was excruciating, powerful, dramatic, all-consuming....but no actual, visceral imprint is left in your mind. I wish I could really remember how I felt, and not just that I felt.

I invented the word clellity to describe Max, and so, while I sometimes clumsily try to dance around the definition using preexisting words, he is the only true definition. It's satisfying to read his writing now and see that the clellity is still there (even though he's mostly talking about music I don't know and drugs and sex and other things that would have made innocent little middle-school-me feel horribly betrayed...).

I mean hey -- it sounds like he's living in New York right now. Maybe I'll shoot him a facebook message when I'm there next fall. You never know: I might even be able to string together more than three words at a time to him, after all these years. ^_^;;

Instead of lyrics, I'd like to continue with the things-from-my-childhood-that-are-awesome theme, and share with you some dialogue that happened to come up in conversation earlier today. The scene: The PiRats have captured the Rescue Rangers (Chip, Dale, Gadget, Monty, Zipper), and are debating exactly how to kill them. (Jolly Roger is the leader of the PiRats.)

Some PiRat: I say we make them walk the plank.
Jolly Roger: Nah, we did that last time.
Another PiRat: How 'bout we keel haul 'em?
Jolly Roger: No, we just painted the keel.
Stormy: *excitedly* We could dress 'em up like bunnies, and dip 'em in chocolate!
Jolly Roger: ...I'm afraid that ain't piratical enough, Stormy.
Gadget: Well, considering the time of day and all, you could bury us in the sand and wait for high tide to come in.
Jolly Roger: A fine idea!
Chip: Gadget!!
Gadget: Oh. Oops. You know I can't resist a challenge...

-__-;;