Today, while absently sitting typing working I had a memory return to the top of my thoughts that I took special interest in because (a) it's been a really long time since I thought of this happening and (7) this memory had crossed an exaggeratedly long period of time to arrive back into my conscious (or the next closest thing) mind.
I was in band in the sixth grade (surprised? disappointed? couldn't care less?) and I clearly remember these kids, and there was this spray disinfectant that the instructor used to kill the bacteria and other invisible junk that young people's mouths' leave on instruments. Well, one could hardly expect a public educator to pay attention to his classroom indefinitely, so while his back was turned or whatever, these kids took this spray can, and, like four or five of them, started spraying the shit directly into their mouths. At the time it was just another one of those things about middle school that did not fucking compute, and I sat there flabbergasted (if I may be so bold) that they would spray this toxic stuff designed specifically for the purpose of KILLING ORGANISMS onto their waggling, now-burning tongues. I'm not trying to pass judgement on them or anything, cause I can't deny I did some weird shit, too, but why is it that I get the feeling that all of them are, on this present day, dead. Dead or in the army, right? Maybe not. Lord knows that what doesn't always compute with me has made cultural icons out of intellectual cripples and, conversely, heroes out of ordinary joes. There's always so much to see in the betweens.

(editor's note-uhhm. . .next time)

You scratch my back. . .