Barely Illegal

for Bruce

I.

They tripped to the river
in two’s, three’s, five’s
Never alone on a summer day.

Wanting to be dangerous, risky, inventive
crossing boundaries to feel alive
With white shirts worn for stains and memories.

The water didn’t rush or plummet, offer a challenge
some guidelines make no sense until they’re broken
While old teenagers tight-walk the cement dam.

Feet wet, toes cut, heels hard with incident
matching up with no intention of romance
A cluster of kids walking a path not allowed for grown-ups.

All sun, smiles, fish, and friendship
not programmed for real law-breaking
A video camera present to mark the debut.

II.

It became “our thing”
grasping illegal labels
Feeling tough, or just bored.

The 1986 Honda Accord with pop-up lights,
a hatch-back trunk for firework gazing,
And indestructible bumpers.

Man, it wouldn’t die
treating cliffs like a springy mattress
Taunting us with its screaming, resilient transmission.

The ’82 Oldboatsmobile second strongest
wobbling over the pavement
Like the jet ski we beat our bodies with.

III.

Speeding, seemingly drunk,
chucking illegally burned CD’s,
And dancing on the dashboard.

Stuffing heads out the window and food in our mouths,
soberly crazy on the blacktop
Giddy with no plans.

One accelerates, leans back, brakes
eyes closed while the comrade steers
Shouting directions over the hip-hop and country.

IV.

Never sleeping before three, never waking before noon
the first one up barges in and starts breakfast
Showering at the other’s house to make the day interesting.

Dying hair, cooking junk, and instant messaging
pounding music against the walls
Dancing in skimpy clothes and trendy shoes.

Making fun of moms and our own sexuality
only doing chores together and when ordered
Often huddled in the dark basement with a movie on a sunny afternoon.

V.

There as two, you and me
june through august
Being lazy criminals.

Trick! No Treat!

Piles of perfect pretty boxes, holding hoards of gleaming gifts, beneath clumps of shiny wrapping paper, amongst loads of fattening food, eaten by long-lost witty relatives, beside off-key choral enthusiasts. Oh, and Jesus’ birth, of course! This, dear friend, is Christmas in all its, perhaps unintended, glory. It can hardly be compared to insincere construction paper V-cards stuffed into animal-shaped boxes (although that was fun, huh?) and eerie cemetery visits on Memorial Day, or is it Veterans’ Day? Christmas holds first place simply 'cuz it's Christmas, just as my Minnesota residence and job proximity to the Metrodome ensure my status as a Viking fan.

But Halloween. Yep. That’s where it’s at. I love Halloween! It’s the only day it’s acceptable to be someone you hate, just for the opportunity to imitate annoying habits. Well, I guess you could do that whenever you want. (Think of Jim dressed as Dwight).

Halloween--what a weird, twisted tradition. Who figured out that it’s easier to scrape a pumpkin than a watermelon? And who’s Jack? (I get the lantern part). Probably whoever convinced society that one day of the year should be solely devoted to harassing one’s neighbors. When I open the door to a stranger in outrageous apparel, shouldn’t I be concerned that his pillowcase is laced with chloroform and will be used to suffocate me at my own front door? Can I just start tear-gassing all the little chilluns? We always think the blonde cheerleader is stupid for opening her door and asking “Is anyone there?” just before she gets her limbs chopped off, but then we fling open our doors to all sorts of crazies. We must give candy at no charge or hide inside with the lights off so we aren't considered a-holes. “Quick! Close the blinds, I see another Tinker Bell and we’re out of Dots!” “How about toiletries or clothing? Nope. You want candy?” What would you do if I asked for the trick instead? When Halloween began was it “Give me some sugar or I’ll go grab the rotten eggs from my trunk”? Or a child shouts “Trick or Treat!” while his dad hides behind the oak tree flossing his teeth with a butcher knife. You never know…so you better just hand over the Skittles.

Oh fellow women! We fight for our equal rights and wonder why men picture us in fairy wings and a thong. Nowadays, All Hallows Eve is for confidently being a hooker and for guys to look at hookers. I went to buy a mask last week and all I could find was lingerie! Although, I do enjoy that one can wear underwear over his clothes and it’s perfectly kosher. Hehe.
We’re afraid of death, so we mock it; and we don’t understand the opposite sex so we dress up to confront our gender curiosities. Perhaps you’ll drink so much that you think you're a man, or, in fact, Tinkerbell. “Sure, you’re a Grim Reaper. What ever you say.” Tomorrow morning you feel like a poop stick. What’s a poop stick?
Wait until next year and I might be one for Halloween.

And what’s the deal with lime green masks that have hot pink horns, yellow fuzzy hair, and pencils protruding from the skull? If it doesn’t look realistic, it’s not that scary. It just makes people confused and certain you are, indeed, masked. How about a Scott Stapp mask? Now that’s scary! (Why didn’t I see anyone dressed as Michael Jackson this year? Where’s the love?)

Personally, my favorite part of Halloween is getting the chance to scope out the neighbors’ houses. I love when all the lights are on at night and I get interior design ideas from the rich couples. Wouldn’t Trick or Treating be a great way to plan a break-in? If you don’t get a good look, you still get some chocolate. Win-win for making the effort.

Ooo. I lied. Haunted Houses are my fave. I love being intentionally scared, which makes no sense whatsoever. “Do you have a hobby?” “Oh yes! Being chased around a corn maze by a chain saw!”

Yep. Uh-huh. Halloween is messed up. It’s justifiable considered Satanic alongside Christmas. But really, we just want to play house and dress up like the good ol' days. Have so much candy we get sick, threaten the old skeezer next door, try some foreign substances, and see which neighbor is a stingy miser. Oh, and have an excuse to wear our bloomers in public! Woo-hoo! Of course, it’ll start snowing the day of, so you better just dress as a gorilla.

King Dork

I'm currently reading "King Dork" by Frank Portman. It is utterly hilarious. It tops my list of favorite sarcastic, cynical, unbelievably funny texts, making it beat Colbert's stint at magazine editing slip into close second. To give you an idea of how wonderfully humorous this book is, let me just say that the author's picture is a black and white shot of him with a robot woman; and reviews of the novel note it as a " piercingly satirical and acidly witty" "occasionally raunchy and refreshingly clear [account of] what it's like to be in high school." Full of "realistic, self-aware teen angst" and "sharp/offbeat humor." Good stuff.

In the novel, the main character is continually coming up with new names for his semi-imaginary band--some of which are: Baby Batter, Helmet Boy, and We Have Eaten All the Cake. In light of Portman's genius and as a tribute to all lonely and misunderstood dorks, I have decided to begin my own list of potential band names (that I will never use):

Cupcakes in Soho
Acid-Free (double meaning)
The Muffin Tops
Metal Tea Party
Miley Cyrus' Best Friend's Neighbor
The Sparkly Chemist
Dampit and the Curvy F-holes
The Radiator Queens
The College Graduates
Tambourine Euphoria
Watch This
Muppets on Strike
Maid of Dishonor
The Yeowoman
Inknote
The Oxford Man
The Talented Mailmen
Discord
Broken Kneecap
Antifreeze Weekend
The Baby Blue Nuggets

I am a waste of space. Stranded in a college city that's quiet in its summer lull. I'm making $45 a week at a restaurant that has no customers. I'm using that $45 to pay the chiropractor to fix my back pain from the customerless, thus tipless, restaurant. I'm endlessly marking almost everything I own for a garage sale that might give me enough money to get out of here. My fiancee is going to New Orleans with camp friends, and I'm going to intrude at camp itself, hoping to find a sense of productivity or usefulness. Again, without any pay. I haven't even thought about how much gas money I will need to get there.
I'm always hungry, yet I don't realize I haven't eaten since the morning until it's already 9 pm, and then it's just awkward to eat. I need a sport to become obsessed with. Perhaps that would make my weight loss feel slightly more healthy.
Meanwhile, during this stretch of severe pessimism, the sun keeps shining, the grass is green, the plants are colorful, and I remain inside, pricing my possessions. I'm used to living my summer outside. Yet, I lack the motivation to step outdoors when there aren't any kids to play with, buildings to paint, and campfires to dance around.
What a depressing post.

Transformers Two: Return of the Hottie

The thrilling scene is set with Mikayla astride a motorcycle, languidly lounging with ass cheeks subtly slipping out her shorts and breasts grazing the hard metal of a glossy machine. Though twisted into an unpractical position for painting a motorcycle, she is able to flawlessly finish her pink airbrush design. On cue, Boyfriend Sam calls and listens to her threats of break-up, if he doesn’t buy her a new pony and kiss her passionately later that afternoon. Sam Witwicky is leaving for college today and Mikayla can’t join him, because her father needs an airbrush goddess to keep his mechanical shop running while he is never there.
Meanwhile the Decepticons are tearing up the Interstate, killing thousands of unsuspecting evening commuters. The general public does not catch on to the evidence of extraterrestrial invasion, or the death of said thousands, because the U.S. government is skilled at deception (ironic link to the enemy’s name?) and the thousand-plus commuters were not main characters. The U.S. military, complete with big guns for insecure boys and extra epic entrance music, works night and day to figure out what these giant robots want on Earth. With most natural resources sucked dry and growing unemployment, the Decepticons can’t be looking for job security. The U.S. mighty forces remain stumped, however, because their women officers are only telephone dispatchers who tend to blow things up when given a bigger paycheck.
The fate of baby Earth rests in the clumsy hands of Mr. Sam Witwicky, who is merely trying to be a good college man. Thinking that he no longer has to save people he’s never met, Sam moves into his new giant dorm room, with towel-clad freshman girls outside his door and a pot dealer down the hall. Really, he’s arrived at a typical American University. (Except the two that I attended had neither the room dimensions, nor the universally perfect body proportions of every female student.) Unfortunately, Sam must leave this educational haven, where it’s always a party, nobody’s broke, and homework doesn’t exist, to save the world. After suffering alien-symbol hallucinations, which he claims are unrelated to the availability of drugs at school, Sam joins the Autobots with Mikayla at his side—although she must always remain behind him and never lead the way. Girlfriend Mikayla forgives Sam for making out with a robot woman, who is strangely the only alien robot who can disguise herself in the form of a human rather than the form of a transportation vessel, and agrees to flaunt herself all the way to Egypt with him.
As the Decepticons destroy Optimus Prime, the key to Earth’s defense, and use the Matrix key to unlock the Sun Harvester, which will suck energy from the Sun into an Egyptian pyramid and regurgitate it into energy for the enemy, Sam and Mikayla run…a lot. I believe the stage directions for the leading lady included: run hard…let your boobs flop...act as if Sam is pulling you…and DO NOT get your white pants dirty. After bleaching her perfect pants every twenty yards, screaming “Sam!” every ten yards, and declaring her love for her dying boyfriend, Mikayla fulfills her role as the sultry sex object. Sam, however, must go to Prime Robo Heaven, where the elder Robots send him back with heroic merit to complete his mission. (I really hope that when I die, a half-robot/half-Hebrew Paul with Ashton Kutcher’s voice pretends that I’m being sent back to Earth to fulfill a bad-ass mission, but then says, “Just kidding!,” snaps a Polaroid shot of the two of us, and invites me into the Pearly Gates for chocolate cookies and campfire music. Oh, and the good guys better be called Christicons. That’s my heaven, but I’m digressing…)
Anyways, after all his sweaty hard work, Sam does not succeed in reviving Optimus Prime, and some old Robot who first sent him on his mission admits that he could have just combined his parts with Optimus’ to reenergize him instead. As with all Good Vs. Evil epics—especially ones involving the U.S. of A, the good side does triumph over the bad dude and his sniveling sidekick, though it’s often hard to tell which is which in combat, despite the intentional black appearance of the bad guys. Producers of Transformers (Return of the Fallen) made sure to keep cultural and social expectations intact, by placing camels in one of the Egyptian scenes, including unnecessary swearing (the f-bomb is excusable during dire situations), and throwing in an irrelevant man-thong scene for adolescent American humor.
Transformer Two: all in all, a good flick. I’m not sure why my friends and I were the only ones laughing throughout the whole film; did all other forty-eight viewers take the impending threat to Earth seriously for the entire two hours and twenty-four minutes? Well, despite the sexism, racism, and crumbling plot, I rather enjoyed Transformers. I definitely yelled “Yes!” and thrust my fist into the air multiple times during the film, especially during the actual morph moments. I know my fiancée enjoyed the movie, because his body gravitated towards the edge of his seat, his head leaned forward, his hands nervously pushed his glasses further up his face, and his eyes attempted to open wider than his mouth. On the way home, I longed for my weak Sanguine Ford Focus to morph into a robo-fighting machine and for the passing semi’s to become something more, while my fellow viewers went to sleep dreaming of purring engines and half-naked heroines, running through the desert waving their indestructible American flags.

This week I discovered that I really like provolone cheese.

The First Step to Recovery for an Academic Addict

With two days of my summer class left, and two days left of college, I've realized something quite profound. If you'd asked me even two months ago about the possibility of attending grad. school, I would have said that it can be assumed. I love learning, I love that I'm good at academics, and I love being in control of what seems to be a fundamental part of success. But I need to get out. Two months ago, I would have said that I can't imagine my life without school in it. I wouldn't know what to do with myself, without papers to write or tests to ace. Today I know that if I don't get out of school now, it will eat up my identity. Like a workaholic's self-destructive relationship with his office cubicle, I will become a robot devoid of anything other than the ambition to continue perfection, if I don't "Step away from the school!" Without my prestigious place near the top of the academic ladder, it is a sure thing that I'll feel inadequate at certain fundamentally-weak moments of the next few months. But I am absolutely certain I am finishing college at the exact moment before my homework-sucking, over-achieving soul would turn to programmed mush.
I want to know what it's like to chill out. To live without thinking about what I "should" be doing with my time. I "should" be enjoying myself. Not wondering if there's some glorious thesis waiting to be laid upon the world by my study-sustained mind. Like any addict, I might come crawling back to the land of the learning, begging to be put through more grueling assignments that will make me a "better person". As a true friend, don't give me what I seek. Tell me to let it go, and learn to "live a little."

The Visitor

Waiting upstairs
Those green shoes on the welcome
mat (you’re not welcome)
I don’t feel welcome.

Back in the car I turn to one
blank station (static)
While you pound again with
That hand.

The weak grasp that told me
You’d let me call the shots.

But now you’re up there
Beating the wall
While I hide again with
This hand.

The weak grip on the wheel
You’ll pound all night.

Just a Trim

Clipped around the ears
Measured space between the eyes
Parted to the past
Filed cabinets behind the face
Snipped to dark stubble
It’s as good as being clean
Razor burned
Folds too few to hide the sting

A Bogus Big Bang Beginning-Part One

Dear reader,
In my attempts to combat opposition to the Gospel, I have again used writing to release my frustration. The following is a mockumentary of sorts, and is not to be taken seriously. Normally, I would demand that readers of the Bible consider all context surrounding a verse, but in this case, I suggest that you only trust the verses as truth. The rest is my sarcastic attempt to mock mockery of the Bible. A little confusing I know...May you always remember to "Seek justice, encourage the oppressed" (Isaiah 1:17), and "Be confident...that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6). [I have chosen not to capitalize "he" or "god" as this is not about the actual Lord of my life.]

"In the beginning...the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep" (Genesis 1:11).
God was god, he was what he was, and if you asked him, he would say,"I am that I am" (Exodus 3:14). "I Am" lived up above this formless mass, for to live on or below it would indicate that he was of inferior rank to another great being. While "up above," he grew tired of guessing how many fingers He was holding up in the dark. (He, of course, has fingers if we are truly "in his own image"-Genesis 1:27). After completing the first two lines of the lord's-unappreciated-prayer, he hovered lost in writer's block and an overwhelming sense of loneliness. In one glorious moment of extreme supernatural genius, a light bulb popped out of the blackness to mark the air above his forehead, where a great scheme was beginning to take shape.
Without carefully considering the consequences to his plan, god spontaneously acted on impulse and broke the light bulb with his iron fist, and used a borrowed lightning bolt from Zeus to spread that light out like creamy butter over the surrounding void. Since he was the great "I Am," and thee Alpha and Omega, god knew that he must use a powerful authoritive deep voice in proclaiming his first bit of creation. Thus, he spoke, "'Let there be light,' and there was light" (Genesis 1:3).
To be continued...

A Letter From Your Friendly Waitress

-Dear restaurant customer/fresh food consumer-

If I didn't like your friend who's nice to me, I wouldn't still be a server after a year and a half. I appreciate your friend and others who don't think that their heart is going to fall out of their chest if there's a pen-sized dot of pink on their choice sirloin. I'm also quite fond of those guests who do not attempt to make me contemplate murder because they have one-thousandth of an ounce less alfredo sauce than they prefer to have on their chicken pasta. Also, I don't mind people who understand that it is not a contest to see who can drink the most Mountain Dew's in five minutes. (If you can down 5 in 5 minutes, you're hardly a hero. In fact, you're a severe pain in the ass and you'll only wet the bed). For the rest of you (those of you who I refer to by names I wouldn't say in front of my mother if I were paid to),
I have some things I would like to say:

-If you're drunk, don't tell me that you are every ten minutes. I'm aware. Being too intoxicated to determine the bathroom from the kitchen does not give you permission to treat me like I'm your personal nurse and low-paid mother. I give you booze, you give me money. We do not have a relationship beyond that.

-If you ask for a refill, drink at least half of it to humor me.

-If your friend (sitting right beside you) asks me for more crackers and a glass of water, and you also want several crackers and a glass of water, say, "Me too." It's easy, try it out. Doing so will save me more time than you could learn how to value and will prevent you from becoming an icon of severe annoyance.

-If you need more than fifty-five sides of ranch, you should get tested for unhealthy infatuation with salad dressings. Plus, your body will not last longer than next Tuesday. With this, keep in mind that I am a server (as in "general-everything we have in the restaurant-server, not "dressing attendant").

-When you change your mind four times, you cannot expect me to get your order completely accurate.

-What goes through your mind when you decide to put your body-acid-colored, saliva-saturated, germ-infested wad of bubble gum (that is the size of my face) underneath the nice wood of our sanitary tables? Is that satisfying for you? Is there a reason the napkins on the table are not worthy of your waste? How do you fit that much gum in your mouth? Do you realize that we have a day set aside for cleaning up your gum? That's right, Tuesday nights are scrape sugary-rubber off the bottom of the tables-night. We wouldn't need scrape sugary-rubber off-night if you understood the procedure for waste removal.

-If you pooped in the toilet, flush. Good boy.

If we have had a ten minute discussion about the pros and cons of ribeye steak and have come to the conclusion that it is indeed a particularly fatty chunk of meat, do you understand why I am frustrated when you attempt to get a discount on the ribeye you ordered which was “mostly gristle and I just couldn’t finish it.”

-If you bring twenty-seven friends with you to dinner, consider the fact that getting change for twenty-seven bills that are all paid in cash is quite impossible. If it is feasible, it is still impossible to keep all of those coins and bills separated. I do not have 27 hands. I don't even have 27 fingers. If you complain about the time duration that it takes to get you twenty-seven sets of change, I will beat you over the head twenty-seven times with the heaviest dish I can find.

-When you come in and order food fifteen minutes before we are planning to close, keep in mind that every employee in the restaurant hates you. One of them is bound to do something to your food.

-I am not your babysitter. If you would like to take one sip every fifteen minutes from your 32 oz. glass of beer that I gave you five minutes before closing time, please buy beer at a liquor store and sit in the comfort of your own home. I can't leave until you leave. Again, I am not a babysitter.

-If I walk past your table (obviously staring at you) 10 times in the course of five minutes (and ask every other time if you need anything else) -OR- if I ask if you want a refill or desert more than once after you're done eating, that means LEAVE ALREADY.

-Two pennies is not a tip. Neither is 75 cents. In fact, if you're going to leave less than 10 percent, don't bother. I'm gonna be pissed either way.

-If you're going to be cruel, be cruel the whole time I'm serving you. Nothing's more infuriating than a nice couple who says thank you many times, tells you the food was excellent, complements you on your pretty name, and doesn't complain at all-then stiffs you with no tip whatsoever on a seventy-dollar tab. I've had this happen. My boss had to hold me back so I wouldn't chase you down with steak knives. And so, if you're going to be mean, be continually mean. That way I don't consider you angels and go out of my way to give you every extra napkin and condiment you need.

-I like kids. But try to keep yours from using the carpet as a table. Also, be creative and come up with a new activity, instead of the same old dump-all-the-sugar-packets-onto-the-floor routine. We have crayons and activity sheets.

-When I say "We have Pepsi Products," don't say, "I'll have a Diet Coke." That only proves that you weren't listening to me and you're an idiot. If you get pissy 'cuz you can't have Coke, don't berate me. I'm not in charge of pop selection. And if I was, I wouldn't take your opinion into consideration. (With this beverage dilemma in mind, it is further proof you are ignoring me when you ask what else there is to drink after I listed every domestic tap, flavor of lemonade, types of iced tea, and juice options that we have.)

-Do not. Absolutely DO NOT ask me what the "soup of the day" is more than once after I told you. One repeat is a free-bee. Two or more is inhumane.

Well, that's all I can think of for now, but I'm sure I'll come up with more things that I don't like about you. I'm not a pessimist; I'm just honest. Thanks for coming in! Have a great night!

Make a Mess, Then Disappear

The game Risk is like taking a nap. It's fun when you begin; it's also enjoyable to experience alongside people you're comfortable with; and if you spend too much time partaking in it, you'll get a headache and feel worse than you did before you began.

The trick: don't aim to win.
Unless you have more patience than a seventy year old retelling his latest expedition to the mailbox, don't attempt to remain in the game long enough to win. Five hours later, you'll be angry that you control three continents and can't stop now because you're one man away from conquering your neighbor, Great Britain. You'll be so tired that you'll just go to bed pissed that you wasted moments of your life you will never get back, knowing you just acquired the latest new cold virus from lack of sleep, and wishing your eyes didn't feel like they fell out hours ago from staring at the board while your posture deteriorated and your thighs permanently reformed into the shape of the metal chair you were sitting on.

New goal: mess with all other players.
It is soo much more fun to keep anyone from winning, while not actually winning yourself. Picture it: Suzy has all of Africa and Asia under her belt, while you hang out in North America, pretending that the rest of the world doesn't matter to you (forgive the pun...hehe). Then bam! You swoop in through Greenland and Iceland to take over the world, only to leave such a small army in your tracks that you can't actually maintain any sort of stronghold.
It's so good. You won't win but you sure f+++ed with Suzy's plans, huh?! Yeah! Isn't that more fun than winning?!

I played Risk for the first time tonight, and found this strategy to be highly fulfilling. You can quit whenever you want. Simply cause mass chaos, then leave your soldiers vulnerable to attack from all sides. You get your butt kicked and then you go to bed with a smile on your face (and the knowledge that the other players will continue to participate until they're delirious with fatigue and can no longer even enjoy the satisfaction of winning).

While you count your sheep and drift peacefully off into sleepy-land.
Yes.
That is the way to play Risk.

Goodnight...

Working with Writers

I really enjoy tutoring students at the Write Site. Yet, I'm always hoping nobody will come in for help while I'm here. It doesn't make sense. It's similar to my experience with long distancing running: hurts like hell and I'd rather avoid it, but dang it sure feels good when you accomplish your goal. There's something so fulfilling about having a student leave a tutorial with excitement about her paper, or at least assurance that finishing it, and finishing it well, is a do-able aim. Sometimes I'm tired and brain-dead; thus I feel inadequate to help another writer. Once we get started though, I'm sucked into the passion I have for making that student's stress load lighter and his writing more focused and clear.
When a student understands my points and what will make his writing stronger, I feel that I have achieved what I set out to do. I trust my ability to be calm, approachable, honest but kind, constructive, and supportive as a tutor. Perhaps my gift is patience in the academic setting, while my vice is lack of patience outside of its walls. Ironically, I have an endless supply of endurance with teaching students how to value their strengths and improve their weaknesses. It's really pretty fun to tutor. However, I still hope that no one comes in the door again. Again, how does that make sense?
So much of life involves love-hate relationships. I know what I'm capable of, but scared of the work required of me. And so, I must end with a perfect quote on the subject:
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.."
-Marianne Williamson
Though directed more at a spiritual perception, this quote sums up my career goals: I know what I'm capable of; I know that the feelings of fulfillment are amazing; yet I'm terrified to take up the responsibility.

Happy Thoughts

-chosen for 2009 Red Weather Journal

For Pete’s sake, for Peter Piper,
for the juvenile Pan
I swear, I pick-how many now-
and fly higher than you can

Pipers’ songs are simple ploys
I’ll deny thrice that they’re true
Without fairy dust, you’ll age and trust,
for disciples are lost boys.