Boom, boom in the room of the new groom. Tied to his shirt, he was raring to go and make that move, that move too smooth. Life was a fine oil painting for our groom who crooned, "Boom, boom" tying his fly bowtie. Lying, dying. Flying. A painting with blue hues, spotted specks and flecks of those up and down colors. A masterpiece, his golden fleece. He was at peace, boom. Boom, groom, baby. Those specks and flecks thrown to the canvas, flown to the canvas by a great man with a wild plan. A plan just crazy enough to work. And boom, boom went the room before, during, after, and on into the night of wedded bliss, amiss with the lisp of a stuttering siren. And the groom boomed and boomed on into the wild world with a new girl and a new twirl for the whirl of that very same world that doted the depths of a man without a plan. Dig?

The boom, boom left the room one day, dogged and down with the taste of a chariot chaste. The Emperor lost his crown, fell down and his twirl whirled to a curl, a sputter, and a crash. Bash, smash went the thrash in that room that once sounded boom, boom from ceiling to floor, window to door. At the time of this mash, girl had a stash of little boom in her womb. Boom cheats soon those with a plan so grand to ignore the great man hurling specks and flecks at a canvas so smooth that color fades in spades, leaving an empty room without much boom but plenty of ruin. 'Boom, boom.' And the white girl sings...

Recently I took a trip back to my hometown, Phoenix, Arizona. I'm actually a Scottsdale boy, but the folks took to moving after I had matriculated to my current roost. They live in another suburb now. My friends all live here and there, few have actually really left. By default I simply consider myself a Phoenician.

My old neighborhood is dead. I didn't really see my room before the folks took to moving. I never had a chance to recheck the hole in the wall that I patched up with duct tape, spackle, and some left over paint. No, I don't think anyone ever found out about that. So, I kicked a hole in the wall. Hey, I was in eighth grade and I had some adolescent angst. That explains everything for that age group, right? Sure.

I loved that house. It was relatively small for the area. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths. Upon entering the front door, you stepped into an open foyer/living/dining room area. This large room extended away from the entrance towards the backyard where two large planes of glass revealed a quaint patio, modest pool, and assortment of red gravel and sparse desert foliage. To the right of this room nestled the garage, master bedroom, and one and one half bathrooms. To the left lay the kitchen (nearest the backyard) and "animal house," or the three converted bedrooms and one bath, my "wing."

As a senior in high school my dad had a banner made up that said something to the effect of: "Go #77! Beat Chaparral!" He hung it between two desert tree in our minimalist front yard. Chaparral High School was my school's rival, and the bizarre parent-football culture hyped up the game a good deal. That was great, and I certainly appreciated my father's exuberance (though I never understood the importance of a football game). The fun didn't come until the banner disappeared days before the game. I found Zima bottles strewn about the gravel beneath those two desert trees. Zima bottles? I figured some punks were having a laugh at me, and they were probably males from my rival high school. I was right. The nonsense culminated in the hoisting of a slightly reworked banner as I walked out to witness the coin toss with the other team captains. "Chaparral Beat #77!" I believe it worked out to be. Clever. So I waved to the crowd and promptly had a number of police officers return the banner into my possession. I still have it.

It's not over just yet. I was dating an ineffectual princess from said rival school, and she relayed the name of my culprit. One Chris Schatzberg. Or was it Schatzman? Like a smug hunter regaling colleagues of the Big Kill, "the Schputz" as I later dubbed him, couldn't keep his mouth shut. Not even when his prey lived down the street and was a notoriously big, mean kid. I made a point to drive slowly past his house a few times a week blaring some sort of menacing death metal or gangsta rap. I found death metal to be particularly effective. Friends and family often took late-night pilgrimages to his house after evenings of good company and strong drink. I believe we managed to scare the poor kid to death, as I never once saw him in the flesh.

Speaking of good company and refreshment, I remember long nights of both at my lost house. I believe that same father of mine once took a long trip somewhere, most likely with his would-be wife (thanks for the opportunities, Gayle). A week during winter recess that will live in infamy. I had just finished a successful campaign as High School Football Player. My grades were good. I was confident in my imminent wrestling championship. I didn't have a college to go to, but I figured it would work out. If only for a week, life was good. The pressure was off for the most part, and I was ready to celebrate the people I would soon be leaving.

Most of the nights blur together, but I do remember waking up one morning to utter destruction. Fortunately my mates were trustworthy so my initial concern was replaced by astonishment at the sheer magnitude of "aesthetic reappraisal" a house can endure without major damage. Remnants of firecrackers littered the patio, interspersed by bits of salsa and plastic. I imagine the two were related, but I'm not sure how. Boxer shorts floated at the bottom of the pool and from the tree above it. A Mickey Mouse vignette, if I remember correctly. Cigars, cigarettes, and empty beverage containers found secure homes amid the thickets and brambles that spotted the backyard. An empty keg bobbed serenely in the pool. He was dented but happy.

What a great week. Nothing bad happened. No one drank and drove or got (seriously) ill or hurt himself or bid a premature farewell to his chastity or got arrested. Life was good because we were happy and no one could touch us. I remember being loud and obnoxious. I hugged friends that I love. I ran around. I kissed a couple of girls I probably shouldn't have. My friends kissed some girls they probably shouldn't have. We probably had the Schatzbergs fingering 911 nightly. We stayed up too late. We made macaroni and cheese at dawn. We pilfered pizza from my father's store. I spent time with the people that made an otherwise high-school-colored blur slow down for a moment. I had fun.

I am a few years removed from all that now, but the shadow of companionship and fun-for-fun's-sake remains. I have struggled successfully through two very intense, difficult years in college and I have decided to do something drastic. I am removing the cancer that has been draining me since I left high school. I am returning to the roots of my own humanity. I am picking a goal that I respect and appreciate and leaving behind others' expectations. I am going to attack it until it is mine, and I am going to have fun. I will stay up too late. I will be loud, obnoxious, and stupid. I will kiss a couple of girls I should not. I will hug friends that I love. I will pull Mickey Mouse boxers out of a tree. I will no longer rush between events, in longing for my current endeavor to end. I will spend time with the people that are making an otherwise college-colored blur slow down for a moment. I will take a moment to appreciate the life that I still have while taking advantage of the future I cannot deny.