TEEN BEAT PART 1

Out of a class of 25 boys, I definitely lingered at the bottom five on the popularity rankings at the small catholic boys school I attended. I had zero coordination in the outfield, talked real funny, and had a brief Tori Amos phase.

This is a year after I listened to Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails on heavy rotation to get me through seventh grade. This self-diagnosed prescription for my angst problem led me to believe that I really was Billy Corgan. Such to the extent that I begin penning my own lyrics for the band's follow up to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. Fortunately, Adore would come out that summer before publication.



(Let's pause for second to think about how fabulously melodramatic that title is. If I ever compile a list for a Listener's Guide to Seventh Grade in the Mid to Late 90s, Mellon Collie would be firmly ranked as number one on its title alone.)

Anyway, I envisioned myself as Billy Corgan because, as an only child with strict parents that banned everything R rated and above, I had to entertain my penchant for all things grotesque and macabre somehow. Smuggling contraband (Parental Advisory CDs and other offensive materials from the local mall) and the petty theft from my mother's purse to fund the operation was not enough. My delinquency was too small scale, and I needed to escalate to something more permanent. Plus, I had a lot of time to kill on the hour long bus ride from Bryn Mawr to West Chester. So, under the influence of the Smashing Pumpkins' discography, I wrote my first poem.

I'm not sure how to describe my seventh grade sonnets. I'm sure I lifted lyrics like "I lie just to be real and I die just to feel," peppered with "fuck you," images of severed body limbs, and post-apocalyptic landscapes. Suddenly, the other kids noticed me scrawling away and I was a hit on the bus. I was even commissioned by a devoted few. I knew the humor was at my expense, but no longer was I the kid that hid under the bleaches during gym, or who kept the bench warm outside of the school psychologist's office. So what if I was still a loser. At least I secured a position as back seat poet with a mean publicity machine.



Soon enough my English teacher would get word of my nascent literary career. Some eighth grade snitch found a draft buried in my desk. My school was too small for lockers so personal property was easily subject for confiscation. I was too shocked and embarrassed to build a defense case at the time. Not that it would save me in a catholic school where you're guilty until proven innocent in the eyes of a nun. Besides, I'd always shutdown in the face of male aggression and think of a happy place. A place where the teacher would instead tell me to lighten up and rewrite the poem in the form of a dirty limerick.