Born to be Mild

Allow me to turn back the clock about fifteen years or so to a strange wrinkle in time when the fashion appeal of flannel shirts extended beyond the Midwestern states, but before the dark days of Swing music’s reincarnation (which, in my opinion, may have very well been the first sign of the apocalypse and a warning from above to prepare for the Rapture, though two Catholic priests and one Baptist minister have since refuted this belief), and introduce you to a former hometown firebrand named Christian Lord. That’s right: Christian Lord. This is legitimately the name that appears on his birth certificate. Ergo, the kids in school devised clever nicknames for him like “The Good Shepherd” and “Son of Man.” To this day, Christian is still somewhat of a high school legend in Eastern Pennsylvania. Stories are passed down from one grade to the next about the kid who religiously (no pun intended) ate near-fatal quantities of acid everyday during school hours. His provincial fame was solidified senior year when he had a “bad trip,” stripped off all his clothes in Physics class while yammering about amphibians, and sprinted out of the building, not to be seen for two weeks. Last I heard he dropped out of Towson University during his sophomore year to devote all of his energy to his lifelong passion – magic. Yes, magic – pulling rabbits out of hats, swallowing fire and all that happy horseshit. Supposedly, he’s a local Penn Jilette of sorts and generates more income than most people my age with master’s degrees and MBAs. This miscarriage of justice, coupled with the fact that I never liked the imbecile, overwhelms me with resentment. He is the most loathsome creature walking on two legs. I haven’t seen him in about nine years and, if I had my way, I wouldn’t see him for another nine lifetimes. Unfortunately, I rarely get my way.