The Dreams of My Younger Self

I'm depressed today. I found a crumpled note in the back of my filing cabinet written by my younger self, aged ten. The little Jarred was full of ambition and idealism. Somehow in the course of growing up and becoming responsible, I've lost sight of the dreams that the ten year old Jarred with a red crayon and a goal decided to capture in a simple, maybe naive, to-do list. I am impressed that at that young age, I had the foresight to establish my ultimate goal and devise the necessary preceding steps to achieve it. So, today, in honour of that precocious child, I pledge to no longer neglect the dreams of my younger self. I've tacked above my desk little Jarred's simple list of things to achieve and I'm going to do him proud: 1. Get Rich, 2. Become Above the Law, 3. Raise Private Army and 4.(my goal) Hunt Man for Sport.

The Emperor's New Season

I happened to be in Paris during their fashion week. I highly recommend it, but not for the reasons you might think. We spent the afternoon sitting outside the Café Ruc. As our bottles emptied, our laughter got louder and our pointing became less discrete. There was of course a share of truly beautiful and well-dressed individuals, but they were a rarity. More often it looked like the circus was in town and the clowns had gotten hold of fake tan and Botox. The flow of fashionista wannabes tended to totter up the Rue Saint Honoré. Out of the hope they were massing in one place like neon-colored ladybugs with eating disorders, we followed. Our hopes were fulfilled at a shop called Colette. S_ went inside. I stayed out.
A large black Mercedes docked at the curb side. The driver got out and opened the back door. A well-heeled gentleman stepped from the car and disappeared into the shop in a swish of camel hair.
A man in a bicycle courier's outfit put his nose against the glass and searched the interior of the car, examining the occupants. He did the same to the passengers in the backseat then back to the front. He did this over and over. They stared forward and pretended that he didn't exist. The lips of the woman in the front seat pursed like an asshole under her perfect quaff.
"Anybody interesting?" I asked the courier.
"No. Just piles of shit in a car," he responded and led his bike away.

Jump to the Left, Put Your Hands on Your Hips, And...

I was ten the first time I saw Rocky Horror Picture Show live. I know now that I have a genetic pre-disposition to deviance and weirdness but that night, although I didn't understand most of what was happening, I knew what I witnessed in the theater aisles and on the screen were right and good.
My best friend at the time ruled his mother with a bratty whine and temper tantrums that pierced the ear. She bought us near-beer and gained a promise that I wouldn't tell my mother as a comprise when he started in on his dad's supply of Milwaukee's Best. Somehow he had heard about the Rocky Horror Picture Show and decided that it was something he also wanted.
Back then (am I really old enough to use that phrase), Rocky Horror was only shown in shabby dollar movie theaters at midnight.
Dutifully she drove us to the theater, bought us tickets and popcorn and sat down with us for the show. His mom was a southern Belle of the genteel persuasion. Her perfect coif was shipped directly from the fifties. She spoke in the most polite and honeyed southern tones.
The show started and I had found my world. I leaned forward eyes wide, darting to and fro the costumed people in the audience throwing hot dogs, doing the time warp, trying to fuck the narrator's butt chin. Beside me my friend greedily chomped at his popcorn and chuckled at the tits on screen. The mom didn't move. She tried to entreat her son to leave but he silenced her with a 'shut up, Mom'. She gripped the theater seat and squeezed her eyes shut the entire time. On the occasions she opened them, there would be a huff and an 'oh my god'. I tried to feel guilty but the pull of weirdness was too much for my ten year old soul.
As I got older I became more refined in my tastes for the odd but that first Rocky Horror, like a first love, will never be forgotten.
When the lights went up and we dusted the rice and confetti from our laps, the crowd began to leave and one of the audience members dressed as Frank-N-Furter pointed us out and yelled, “Holy shit, this lady brought her kids.” They all laughed. The mom was horrified. I felt like the baddest ass ten year old in the world.