Stupid Things That I Have Done (part the first)
When I was four years old, I saw a juggler on television. He was riding a unicycle while juggling machetes and chainsaws, and I thought this was the coolest thing ever. What's more, I was 100% certain that this very cool act could be mastered by anyone, with no training or practice whatsoever.
Bear in mind, I was also 100% certain that I would grow up to be Spiderman. I was four.
So I ran into the kitchen just as fast as my footie-pajama-clad feet could carry me and grabbed three steak knives from the counter. I threw them all into the air. I reached out my hand to catch one, practically tasting the fame and glory that would come to me as the world's first knife-juggling four-year-old.
Then came the blood. And the screaming.
When I was thirteen I became infatuated (as boys often do) with fire and explosions. In the mind of a young teenage boy, the ability to make things catch fire and/or explode is most definitely the best way to impress girls. That, or being good at sports, which I patently was not.
Having made the decision to master explosionology and thereby become Bruce Willis, my friend Justin and I grabbed as much combustible material and science stuff as we could carry and walked on over to a mostly abandoned parking lot near his house. There we combined two crushed-up model rocket engines, a film canister full of black powder, and the entire contents of a chemistry set in a mortar-and-pestle. I lit a wooden match, tossed it into the bowl and jumped back like a startled cat, shieling my eyes from what was sure to be a spectacular conflagration.
Nothing.
Dismayed, I marched over to the still-inert bowl of death powder like an ill-fated cartoon coyote, lit another match, and held it in the bowl with my hand.
Still nothing.
I was about to give up and go track down some pizza when all of a sudden, the bowl erupted in the brightest, smelliest, hurtingest ball of fire I had ever seen. White-hot flame sprayed into the air like dragon's breath, along with a billow of caustic smoke that I swear formed into a skull and crossbones before fading away.
My shirt was on fire. My hair was also on fire. My eyes and lips stung like I'd been making out with a burning cactus. Most of my hand was coated with a thick yellow-black crust. And three of my fingers had melted together.
"WOW," I said, "that was a terrible idea. Let's go seek medical attention immediately."
At least that's how it sounded in my head. What I actually said was "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" and started running around like an idiot who'd just set himself on fire.
I did not end up seeking medical attention, as this would have alerted my parents to the fact that I'd been playing with explosives. Instead I walked calmly into a nearby restaurant, passed the horrified maitre'd and strolled into the bathroom, where I did a pretty respectable job of cleaning myself up and un-sticking my fingers. My hand was in horrific pain for several days, which I managed to hide from my parents with a stoicism that can only be achieved through fear of a monumental ass-whupping.
Oh, and when I was seven, I stuck a paperclip into an electrical outlet. That didn't end well, either.
Bear in mind, I was also 100% certain that I would grow up to be Spiderman. I was four.
So I ran into the kitchen just as fast as my footie-pajama-clad feet could carry me and grabbed three steak knives from the counter. I threw them all into the air. I reached out my hand to catch one, practically tasting the fame and glory that would come to me as the world's first knife-juggling four-year-old.
Then came the blood. And the screaming.
When I was thirteen I became infatuated (as boys often do) with fire and explosions. In the mind of a young teenage boy, the ability to make things catch fire and/or explode is most definitely the best way to impress girls. That, or being good at sports, which I patently was not.
Having made the decision to master explosionology and thereby become Bruce Willis, my friend Justin and I grabbed as much combustible material and science stuff as we could carry and walked on over to a mostly abandoned parking lot near his house. There we combined two crushed-up model rocket engines, a film canister full of black powder, and the entire contents of a chemistry set in a mortar-and-pestle. I lit a wooden match, tossed it into the bowl and jumped back like a startled cat, shieling my eyes from what was sure to be a spectacular conflagration.
Nothing.
Dismayed, I marched over to the still-inert bowl of death powder like an ill-fated cartoon coyote, lit another match, and held it in the bowl with my hand.
Still nothing.
I was about to give up and go track down some pizza when all of a sudden, the bowl erupted in the brightest, smelliest, hurtingest ball of fire I had ever seen. White-hot flame sprayed into the air like dragon's breath, along with a billow of caustic smoke that I swear formed into a skull and crossbones before fading away.
My shirt was on fire. My hair was also on fire. My eyes and lips stung like I'd been making out with a burning cactus. Most of my hand was coated with a thick yellow-black crust. And three of my fingers had melted together.
"WOW," I said, "that was a terrible idea. Let's go seek medical attention immediately."
At least that's how it sounded in my head. What I actually said was "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" and started running around like an idiot who'd just set himself on fire.
I did not end up seeking medical attention, as this would have alerted my parents to the fact that I'd been playing with explosives. Instead I walked calmly into a nearby restaurant, passed the horrified maitre'd and strolled into the bathroom, where I did a pretty respectable job of cleaning myself up and un-sticking my fingers. My hand was in horrific pain for several days, which I managed to hide from my parents with a stoicism that can only be achieved through fear of a monumental ass-whupping.
Oh, and when I was seven, I stuck a paperclip into an electrical outlet. That didn't end well, either.