Way way back machine!!!

Someone, commenting on the last picture to feature my sister, asked "what it is with big brothers and no boyfriends?"

This picture should do nicely as an example. This little girl is my sister. She is nine here. I will always see her as a sweet tiny sister i can lift with one arm and tickle until she pees. She will always be my little sister. I would like nothing bad to ever happen to my little sister. I would gladly give my life for my little sister. And so, the prospect of her having a boyfriend is worrying. It is worrying to me, and perhaps such worry is hard for some women to understand, because i am a guy. I know guys better than some women do. I know that a 17 year old boy(my sister is dating an older man, all the more reason to get to knife sharpening)has very few things on his mind. sports. sex. tv. sex. videogames. sex. videogames. sex. I know that this boy is more than willing to say things he perhaps does not mean to have sex(i.e. "i love you"). I know that this boy may perhaps, having gotten what he wants, will move on, unaware of the consequences. Sure, this may not happen, but it is a distinct possibility, because he is a SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD BOY, quite likely the most dangerous creature in the world.

Also, don't my brother just look adorable here? And isn't my dad's huge belly just the perfect place to rest one's head?

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Way way back machine!!!!

Five years ago my little brother was in foster care, and the only way to visit him was by going several miles away to the protective services building, where we could see him under supervised conditions. This was taken while i rode in the back of my dad's car as we drove there, after i'd grown bored with skimming through a copy of the bible i'd found in the back seat. I tell ya, that book? gibberish. can't understand a word of it. only slightly more coherent than that dianetics book, which i am positive was made with the William Burroughs Cut-Up method.

In any event, it was a weird day, my brother was, of course, out of sorts, my dad was uncharacteristically emotional, his at the time new girlfriend was surprisingly understanding.

And me? I'd long ago lost the ability to be surprised at the insanity of my own family.

But not to worry, everybody's back together, he and the girlfriend are engaged, my brother is the king of Grand Theft Auto, and I try never to go southeast of Downtown.

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Way Way Back Machine. The two of them met at Camp. And that was the whole problem. Or maybe it wasn't a problem at all. Maybe those few short months they were together was exactly what they wanted. Adrian wanted to date a hot girl. Kathy wanted to feel like she was worthy of dating someone who was above all that high school drama she was so intrisically part of. With nothing in common, I can only imagine at the conversations they had, or avoided, for fear of discovering the enormous gap between them.

Adrian and I drifted, as Camp friends do, several years ago. Kathy and I...well, that was a bit messier.

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Way way back machine weekend. This is what I used to see from the roof of my old apartment. When the sunset looked particularly awe-inspiring, I'd climb out my window onto the fire escape, sneak past the window of the building's shut in(who committed suicide several years later, after which they found that his apartment was so filled with...just stuff, man, so much stuff, the carpets had to be ripped up, the sink had to be replaced, of course new paint on the walls, fumigated, took a cleaning crew several days to make it habitable again), climb the rickety ladder up to the roof, camera swinging from my neck, hitting me on the back. it was even harder trying to convince someone to go with me. But once they were up there, they understood.

I miss having a roof, looking down and out at the city around me. Being someplace I wasn't supposed to be.

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Way way back machine weekend.

As a kid, I never went to sleepover camp. But that's not the reason I joined up with Camp Harmony. That was because of a girl.

I spent nine summers with Camp Harmony. Each summer, for one week, the camp would bring around 150 kids from shelters around L.A., treat them to a week in the woods, hiking, swimming, playing games, three square meals a day, a trip to the beach, a carnival at the end of the week. Damned good time, for them and us. And each year I became more comfortable in my skin, to the point where, by 2000, I felt more comfortable, more myself, at camp than anyplace else. Which, I suppose, makes it fitting that 2000 was my last year there. The camp had grown in those nine years, become more of a professional outfit, less grass roots. And many of us who had been around for awhile weren't too fond of that. People had changed, the environment had changed. So we left. Camp continues, I am told, and every once in awhile I miss it, but I feel like I'd had all the experiences worth having there. My first year I was scared, barely knew anybody, and couldn't for the life of me talk to a girl. Nine years later, I had made friends, helped some kids, smoked opium, had two girls fight over me, rock-climbed at midnight in the Off-Limits area, smoked pot, photographed other kids smoking pot, been part of the 'in-crowd'. I'd been an adult, had a few folk look up to me, given some good advice, given some shitty advice, gave a good speech, drove a van while somebody surfed on the roof, took a shitload of Polaroids.

Never did ask that girl out. But by the end of it all, it didn't really matter.

Oh, but I totally still remember her name.

Roll Call: Jake, Susan, Oyinda, Rachel T, Kendra, (Blank), Joie, Skylar, Scott, Jessie, Danny, Alexis, Mike, Alex, Gil, Sara G, Aaron, Sara S., Laura S., Rachel E., Gena, David, Lucy, Laura A.

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