In my insanity-fest household, escapism was a prized commodity.
I had an entire arsenal of trivial pursuits and mindless interests
from early on.
And, since my parents guiltily spent every spare dime on
gifts (a doubly dubious divide between guilt over their usual
treatment of me and their own shame over such impoverished
upbringings,) I cleaned up in the swag department!
I was a comic book fiend; those four-color enterprises that
were always viewed as the red-headed stepchild, and now
have come to prominence as more of the cool uncle who
has all the latest gadgets. (Make no mistake; back then it
was Nerd City, though!)
There was nothing better than the perfect microcosm of
comics, where everything made sense--no matter how outlandish
the explanation--and inclusion was a regular part of the mix.
Freaks and geeks were the good guys, and good won out.
I marveled at my early exposure to multiculturalism and just
how right that felt; the Legion had a different kid from every
planet, including every color of the rainbow!! I liked the friendships
and camaraderie (that I would know from no other source,)
and the sense of endless excitement and fantasy that was
available within those pages. The continuity of those stories,
the established canon and personalities and histories, it was
oh-so-significant for an adopted kid who knew nothing of where
he came from.
Music was huge for me as an outlet; I would play LPs on the
stereo at full blast, only later learning that kid's rooms aren't
soundproof and not all neighbors are drunken lushes who
stay passed out. I belted out some of the cheesiest Donna
Summer, Pat Benatar, Linda Ronstadt, Kim Carnes, Bonnie
Tyler, and other divas' greatest hits like a pro, losing myself
in the pulsating music and the words. Sometimes they were
schmaltzy love-broken fool songs, which I equated with my
heartbreak of loneliness and powerlessness, and sometimes
they were defiant ass-kicking "Ain't nobody gonna settle me
down" numbers that fueled my sense of outrage and injustice.
My juices got flowing with the aggressive eroticism of wrestling,
and it was a strange sensation to know that the Briscoe Brothers
lived right down the road from me, as did good ole Dusty Rhodes.
There was something about the visceral, combative sport that
engaged me. The spectacular lack of clothing didn't hurt things
either, but mostly it was the power struggle that triggered such
an emotional response.
I also had a heaping helping of stirrings from such impressionable
sights as a red Speedo-clad Robert Conrad on "Battle of the
Network Stars" and Jim Palmer's infamous Jockey ads in every
single magazine published in the late 1970s and early 1980s!
My appetite for sexual imagery was insatiable, and I memorized
every soap opera's cast list to get an idea on when some hunk
might go shirtless. I think the suppression of feelings leads to the
intensification of feelings.
I had every toy ever made, especially those related to the
comics and super hero TV shows, which were pervasive in that
era. I had no playmates, so I enacted all my own storylines with
a cast of dozens. If a character didn't have a produced figure,
I bought a discount bin Fischer Price action figure or Pocket
Heroes figure and painted, glued, and accessorized until I had
that figure in my collection. Broken toothpicks super glued onto
the back of plastic hands make for excellent Wolverine claws,
in case you ever need to know. (Yes, I am totally Redneck Gypsy
Recyclable Boy.)
And TV and movies were a drug for me; they had everything!
Drama! Intense emotion and crazy dialogue! Interesting people
and finite problems! And perhaps greatest of all was that back then,
justice was typically served up on a regular basis. Good and bad was
absolute, and wrongs were righted. That was key for me.
All of it was all representing somewhere that wasn't where I was;
I could imagine that escape was possible.
The visual stimuli, the verbal stimuli, the ability to zone out of
my less-than-stellar reality...and people said what they were
really thinking, or you could at least see what they were thinking
when the doors were closed! That was huge for me, growing
up in a house of secrecy and duplicity.
Literature taught me language and insights and that there
were others in the world like me--"Catcher in the Rye", "To Kill
a Mockingbird", "The Great Gatsby", "The Outsiders" and more--
and allowed me to understand a little more of life as if I had
actually lived it among my peers.
As an isolated kid, all these entertainments formed one very valid
purpose; befriending me. This inanimate objects and works
of art provided me with reassurance and fun and connection
where there would have otherwise been none. In a tiny
southern town where you're an odd duck the equivalent of
Boo Radley (which they actually called me in high school,)
there are limits on what you can do. Unless you believe otherwise.
Although I now understand the inevitability of interaction, and
on occasion the value of it, I still cherish my oldest friends
that gave me an outlet and a lifeline through some of my rockiest
years. Let others mock and squawk, and let the accusations of
'social wallflower' commence; I love all my pass times!
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