In my neverending quest for the perfect website, I’m once again reworking the innards of this beast. I have a server and database running locally on my PC, so none of my readers (all 3 of you) will have to witness the constant test messages and crashes. When I’m done, running my site will be more about the content and less about technical kludges. It may be a few weeks before I post again. Until next time…

I remember going to school one day when I was about eleven, wearing two of my favorite things: A pair of faded overalls and a fuschia t-shirt Mom had bought for me. I loved that shirt, not because of its brilliant color but because of its texture: It was so soft and smooth. And, as I recall, it was not ordinary shirt. It was a pocket t-shirt.

I walked into my 5^th grade class about 20 minutes before the bell as I did every morning. All the cliques were present, neatly separated from one another by a row or two of empty desks. I took my seat at the front and sat there all alone as I usually did without anyone noticing (or caring to notice). My thoughts and I shared some interesting conversation until we were rudely interrupted by a hand upon the shoulder.

I turned slowly and looked up to see that the hand was attatched to Jimmy Turner. I had garnered the attention of him and his cronies. Jimmy was a bully of the oddest sort. He was tall, lanky and fairly weak, for I had seen him serve as the mop in one too many fights. Yet, he somehow managed to command between three or four guys to do his bidding. I guess they thought he was cool. I had my own opinion. When I won the Language Arts award in 4^th grade, he looks at me with all seriousness and says “That’s crap. I can draw better than you!” This is not the kind of guy I would follow to the ends of the earth.

Before I could say anything, he tightens his grip on my shoulder and sneers, “Only fags wear pink shirts.” (I had no real idea what a fag was, because I had lived a very sheltered life. From the way everybody used it, I just knew it was something derogatory.) I winced in pain, even though it was Jimmy’s weak grip, since I was probably the weakest kid in class at that time. (If the same scenario would have happened three years later, this story would end much differently.)

I replied with the only response that seemed logical to me: “It’s not pink. It’s fuchsia.” This was a great idea…

Jimmy and his minions exchanged a look that probably hasn’t been seen since Cro-Magnon man. “What the hell is fuchsia?” spat his lieutenant.

“It’s gay! That’s what it is!” came Jimmy’s response. “Get him.” With that, my fate was sealed. I don’t remember putting up much of a fight or exactly what happened. All I know is that when they were done punishing me and my shirt, I was lying on the ground with several brusies to my ribs and a knot on the head.

While my little thumping was nowhere near as gruesome as the curb biting in American History X, it had a profound effect on me. I think it was the root of my homophobia (which I finally gave up in college). When I found out what fag meant, I guess I figured it must be a horrible thing if it inspired others to wail on me. I ignorantly passed on the persecution throughtout high school, delivering a nice slap to the back of the head to anybody who I suspected was gay. I wish I could appologize to the people who I wronged, but I never actually knew their names. This is all a prime example of how hate breeds hate. And to think all that hate started because somebody didn’t like my fuchsia shirt.

I’ve been playing Castlevania: Lament of Innocence again, which I have not done since January. I love the game. The music, graphic, and atmosphere are absolutely awesome. The one problem, however, is that the game is 3D and suffers from some horrible camera angles. It’s not Leon Bellmont’s fault, though. The truth is, I just don’t fair well in 3D games, particuarily those in 3^rd person (like Castlevania). I don’t know what it is about 3D that gives me fits. Adding the third dimension has certainly made games much more realistic and immersive, but for the most part, I just get frustrated. Jumping puzzles were so much easier when all I had to worry about was x and y. I have literally spent and extra hour and a half in my latest Castlevania quest doing nothing but trying to make jumps. It takes a lot of the fun out of it.

I long for the days of 2D Mario, where controlling him meant nothing more than pressing 2 buttons and a D-Pad. Hardcore gamers of today love the analog stick because they say it gives them control. All it gives me is a headache. Modern games are impressive, but for those of us with the hand-eye coordination of a 10 year old, they have taken the game out of it. I thank God for my Game Boy Advance. They haven’t figured out a way to make portable games analog…yet.

Even while living in Eastern Kentucky, it is rare to see six, full-blown mullets sitting in a row. I managed to see such a sight while visiting the local theater to watch Shrek 2. I have seen a family of five mullets before, but not six. What makes this sighting even more special is that the mulllets were in an extended family configuration. There was the grandpa with the long, silver mullet extending to the top of the buttocks. Then there was the granny, with a gray mullet that barely came past her collar. This would indicate that she probably converted to a mullet only a short time ago. The third mullet was that of the new alpha male, presumably the son of the the grandpa. The alpha male had a curly nest that extended half-way down his back, and he proudly displayed his huge belly, a definite sign that he is able to obtain the most food stamps to support his brood. Next to him sat his prize, the mother of the brood, whose mullet was long and greasy, resembling a rat tail due to its matted state. Beside her were the children mullets (aka ‘chullets’). It was clear that the brood wanted their chullets to have the longest mullets in the world by the age of 18. The chullets’ rear locks had never been touched with a cutting device, yet the front locks were neatly styled in a flat-top. I only wish I would have had one of those phones that takes digital pictures, since I may never see an extended family, six-figured mullet configuration ever again.

Harry Potter and I share a very distinctive quality: A scar that burns when certain events are close. Harry’s scar is shaped like a lightning bolt, located on his forehead, and burns whenever he gets close to his arch-nemesis, Lord Voldemort. Mine, on the other hand, is shaped like a smiling mouth, is on my butt, and burns only when I hear others talk about things that make them happy. I could potentially make a lot of money, charging depressed people to talk to me for an hour, and then telling them what I think they should do to achieve happiness. All I’d have to do is pay attention to what they were saying when my butt scar starting burning. It’d be a win-win situation. Luckily for me, I don’t have the happiest friends in the world. Otherwise, it’d be hard to sit down and have a good chat. :) I guess you could call my scar my Hairy Potter.