It's Fun to Be a Human (¿Blogh?)

[ARTI GREENBURGH]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][style=background: url('http://i684.photobucket.com/albums/vv201/wildean_wit/watchakatella_header.png'); height: 250px; width: 470px; -webkit-border-radius: 20 20 0 0; opacity: 0.7; margin-bottom: -1px;] [/style]

[atrb=style, background-color: #494949; padding: 10px; -webkit-border-radius: 0 0 20 20; float: right; margin-top: -4px; width: 450px;][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px;][/style][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px; margin-top: 110px; margin-right: -103px;][/style][style=float: left; text-align: justify; color: #cacaca; overflow: auto; height: 210px; width: 330px; padding: 5px; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10px;] Listen: My birthday is coming up. I'm a Libra. I'm going to be turning six, but you'd never know it by looking at me. Instead you might guess that I'm a teenage girl whose pituitary gland ran a red light or two. I say this because I've been called "Melissa" before. I was a really sick kid, once upon a time; a tiny bug bit me and injected me with little animals called "spirochetes." Do you know what spirochetes are? They're bacteria. The kind of spirochetes I had (and still have, technically) were commonly known as "Lyme disease." Do you smell that? It's irony. Mommy used to give me pudding cups with rainbow sprinkles as a birthday treat. It was the only thing I could finish, thus the only thing she didn't feel she was wasting money on. Daddy was head of running the trains- when the trains actually ran through Nacrene, that was. He didn't get home 'til late-late, long after I'd gone to bed. The year I turned six, Mommy decided it was time for me to have a "big boy" cake. It was chocolate. She made it with Diet Cherry 7-Up in lieu of the usual eggs and oil because my paternal Grandmother had badgered her tears about how the traditional ingredients probably weren't kosher (I'm going to call BS on this one and assume that Baba only wanted to make things as difficult as possible for my poor Mommy; they didn't really get along). Mommy rarely cooked, so I guess that justified Daddy's staying home from work that day. It also justified the use of a special candle. It was white wax, outlined and accented with lines of blue, molded into a three-inch-tall number six. I recall Daddy marveling at it and saying, "Don't burn it, Golde! We can turn it upside down and use it for his 9th birthday, too." And his 16th, and his 19th, and his 26th, and his 29th, and so on. Being so young, I never made the connection of "six-shaped candle = sixth birthday." In my head, it was, "that very candle = the concept of 'birthday' as a whole." It wasn't a birthday unless that old familiar number six made its appearance. Mommy indulged me, though I can't for the life of me figure out why a rational woman would do such a thing. Possibly, her reasoning was that I was sick and any birthday could have been my last one (I admit, that might be a tad dramatic). The Six Candle survived many birthdays. As the years went on, layers upon layers of crusty icing formed around its base. It got to a point where they could be analyzed like geological strata. The white layer was from the birthday when one of the Redding kids called me gay and I cried about it. The pink layer marks the year Mommy made me wear deodourant for the first time on the day of my birthday party. I broke out in a searingly itchy rash and I'm fairly certain I cried again. The yellow layer was icing that made us all sick, thus prompting my Father to use the word "shit" in front of me for the first time ever. (If only I had known how to curse when I was first acquainted with spirochetes...) And so on. It also lost its wick along the way, thus preserving itself for even MORE birthdays by making the act of burning it nighwhat impossible. Most of the blue paint had worn off by the time I graduated high school, but the shape endured. Six saw the buckles and chains of my goth phase, Six saw the gray sweatervests of emo, Six saw my second cap and gown. If I was going to turn an age, then dammit, Six had to be there. Six, my most honoured guest. Six, my beloved friend. My birthday is coming up. I'm a Libra. I asked Mommy for some new floormats for my car. She said she'd work on that, but no promises. I don't drink, so I'll be celebrating by treating myself to a cheeseburger. I'm a vegetarian during the rest of the year, so it'll have about the same effect on me in the morning. Happy 6th Birthday to me. [/style]

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[ARTI GREENBURGH]

[ARTI GREENBURGH]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][style=background: url('http://i684.photobucket.com/albums/vv201/wildean_wit/watchakatella_header.png'); height: 250px; width: 470px; -webkit-border-radius: 20 20 0 0; opacity: 0.7; margin-bottom: -1px;] [/style]

[atrb=style, background-color: #494949; padding: 10px; -webkit-border-radius: 0 0 20 20; float: right; margin-top: -4px; width: 450px;][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px;][/style][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px; margin-top: 110px; margin-right: -103px;][/style][style=float: left; text-align: justify; color: #cacaca; overflow: auto; height: 210px; width: 330px; padding: 5px; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10px;]I've forsaken a lot of suburban conveniences upon moving to the city. Large expanses of green grass, grocery stores larger than the interior of a small moving van, drivable roads sans motorists with a collective deathwish... Things that I used to take for granted are now exotic; I'm aware that they exist- I've seen them before- but they lie tantalizingly on what seems like the other side of the world where I cannot experience them. Another thing I've given up is both a curse and a blessing: non-connected housing. Gone are the days when I could march around an empty house, screeching and bellowing just for the hell of it. A neighbour on the other side of the wall would surely hear me and complain. However, I can be offered a certain peace of mind here where buildings stand abreast, shoulder-to-concrete-shoulder with no more than three feet in between them. There are no sideyards. Anyone who has lived in a house can attest to this: sideyards are corking scary. They are the expanses of flat, barren land that stretch from the outer wall of one's own house to that of the neighbour's. Sideyards aren't very conducive to the imagination, as they never contain much more than the odd air conditioning unit or seldom-used spigot for a garden hose. Sometimes there is a creepy, half-buried window that leads to the scariest part of your basement. Children rarely choose to play in the sideyard, and many avoid it entirely in favour of the indulgent backyard and o-so-daring front yard. This utter dearth of activity puts the energy of the sideyard into uneasy doldrums. Any child who passes through the sideyard on their way to the backyard wonderland must pass quickly indeed. Should you linger, you will feel a cold tingle on the back of your neck, as if you are being lightly tickled by a set of wet, newly-lacquered fingernails. A voice inside your head but still external of yourself will whisper in its husky October tones, "You never play here. Why start now?" This is only the passive-aggressive portion of the sideyard's inherent capability for terror. While it is easy enough to avoid the sideyard while playing (go through the house, duh), woe betide you if you have a room with a sideyard-facing window. Growing up, I was one such individual. I was also unfortunate enough to be cursed with a wild, oft unmanageable imagination. During the day, I could co-exist with the knowledge of the sideyard with little to no issue. The blinds could stay up, as it afforded me a view of the side of the neighbour's house, as well as a small snippet of the poplar trees in their backyard. There was a window directly across from mine. To which room it led, I could not tell you, but I know I saw Mrs. Cornish (the neighbour lady) carrying a laundry basket past it once. She stopped to wave at me. At night, it was a different story. The moment the sun began to sink and show embers of red and gold through the leaves of the Cornishes' poplars, a slight but altogether palpable uneasiness washed over me like a gentle wave that barely disturbs the sand. I would continue to play or draw or lie still in utter pain (mostly a post-infection activity) until the sky was painted entirely in shades of deep gray and purple, prompting the orange glow of the streetlights and my parents to say in sweet, hushed tones, "Getting tired, Arti-Gee?" Never tired, only wired. No matter how involved I was in some cuckoo toy story, how concentrated I was on this or that abysmal marker-scrawling, how much my young joints ached and popped and scraped like steel-on-rusty-steel, I shot over to the window, knobby white hands groping and clawing for the blindpull three feet before I could actually reach it. During the summer, Mommy would insist on the blinds staying UP, her logic being that the blinds kept warm air in and cool air out. How physically sound this was, I couldn't begin to tell you, but it was absolutely murder on my little psyche. Once twilight had long since passed and blackest, star-studded night had enveloped Nacrene City, the sideyard's wicked play could truly begin. I knew next to nothing about the Cornishes, despite them being our nextdoor neighbours. They were either childless or had children who were grown and out of the house. Mr. Cornish worked for the survey company in Castelia. It was all well and good, but how I wish they had been night-owls. My room remained tolerable-teetering-on-the-edge-of-abject-terror when their one side-window was illuminated. When it flicked out, usually around 9:30 or 10, my world was plunged into utter darkness. The glow-in-the-dark stars and planets fun-tacked to my ceiling were mockeries of true light. They were far too dim to cast any sort of shadow. It was me and my wimpy plastic cosmos, existing together in vacuum until my eyes adjusted. The outlines of my closet doors and desk chair were gray spectres in my eyesight, but the big black square, the portal to gaping nothingness, was no more than three inches above my bed and silently terrorizing my field of view. With no daylight to expose it, the sideyard was free to express its enmity. It was a roiling sea of bad energy, ready to manifest as the scariest thing I could possibly conjure the moment I turned my head to stare into its ichor. The sideyard could be a gaunt humanoid, ashen skin as tight and thin as a deer-hide chamois, with two soulless pits for eyes. It could be a pack of wolves with teeth as sharp as polished porcelain needles. It could be the faceless kidnapper who claimed to know my Mother, the one so many after-school PSAs were eager to warn me about (though let it be known any kidnapper who finds themselves with illegal custody of Arti Greenburgh will be put through way more trouble than the whole ordeal is worth). It could even be the figure of a redheaded, green-eyed little boy with buckteeth and knobby knees, the doppelganger of legend coming to warn me about my quick-approaching death. Each night, without fail, I spent at least two turbulent hours wide-awake, clenching my eyes and pulling the covers over my head. It's not necessarily that I was afraid of something getting in. No. Rather, I was frightened of my own curious tendencies. I knew I'd be inclined to look, to take one fatal little glance into the seething chaos, if I did not physically strain to prevent it. The one time I did almost crack, I was beginning to pull the covers from my face when the air conditioning started up, creating a din that sounded uncannily like Tibetan throat-singing. That sent me right back to my place huddled in the safe-haven of my blue and red striped bedsheets. Luckily, the threat of the sideyard began to diminish once I got myself a Pokemon. Holga the Venipede had discovered a kind of crabgrass that only grew in the dewy shade and could often be found there, happily munching during the morning hours. Holga's devotedness filled the sideyard, for the most part. I frequently had to venture there to retrieve him when it was time to go someplace or do something important. The sideyard no longer tickled my neck; the energy lie flat and defeated. Mommy has gotten the bright idea to put a garden there. She hasn't done anything about it yet, but she has big plans to grow parsley, sage, and rosemary (no word on thyme, though). She even mentioned a pumpkin plant, which would have the potential to extend its fronds from my window all the way to the backyard fence. While things might be mostly fine, I still retain a certain conviction, call it a kind of honour if you like: I refuse to eat any vegetable matter grown in that dirt. I might get food poisoning, the parsley might be full of aphids. Who knows what kind of impish ill-will it could yet harbour? [/style]

[style=font-family: Courier New; font-size: 10px;]template by jayden of ote[/style]

[ARTI GREENBURGH]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][style=background: url('http://i684.photobucket.com/albums/vv201/wildean_wit/watchakatella_header.png'); height: 250px; width: 470px; -webkit-border-radius: 20 20 0 0; opacity: 0.7; margin-bottom: -1px;] [/style]

[atrb=style, background-color: #494949; padding: 10px; -webkit-border-radius: 0 0 20 20; float: right; margin-top: -4px; width: 450px;][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px;][/style][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px; margin-top: 110px; margin-right: -103px;][/style][style=float: left; text-align: justify; color: #cacaca; overflow: auto; height: 210px; width: 330px; padding: 5px; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10px;] There is a boy whose name is Art He's missing many body parts Much ado and celebration for religious mutilation That welcomed Art into this world And marked a brand new soul unfurled Thus began a lilting life Spent slumbering beneath the knife Tonsils red and swole with grippe Frenulum with scissors snipped A kidney here, appendix there And countless curly copper hairs Before the boy could six-foot grow Red spiderwebs began to show Along his shoulderblades and spine O, Arty-bell, you're doing fine Art trudged onward, minute by mile And never a once lost the smile That the man with drill bequeathed When Arty lost his baby teeth Amalgamated holes and pits And things that don't exactly fit Make a boy so kind and sweet Who stands upon unsteady feet But he is generous and kind Bodies blessed in his mind For who could have a bigger heart than one who gave up all those parts? [/style]

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[ARTI GREENBURGH]

in case you forgot how ugly i am

[ARTI GREENBURGH]

i think it's perfectly reasonable to be upset sometimes

[ARTI GREENBURGH]

[ARTI GREENBURGH]

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[atrb=style, background-color: #494949; padding: 10px; -webkit-border-radius: 0 0 20 20; float: right; margin-top: -4px; width: 450px;][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px;][/style][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px; margin-top: 110px; margin-right: -103px;][/style][style=float: left; text-align: justify; color: #cacaca; overflow: auto; height: 210px; width: 330px; padding: 5px; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10px;]I don't even know where to start. First of all, I'm engaged (aaaaah, omigod, look at my riiiing!). Did you look? Okay. Um, so. This isn't so much about that as it is about other things. I can write about being someone's ugly redheaded fiance once I've had a chance to let it sink in. (But seriously? Have you seen my RING? It looks like a corkin' RING POP. It's HUGE. AHHHHH.) One of my friends from art school, a fashionable but out-of-touch platinum blonde who goes by the handle of "Misske," saw that I'd changed my Facebook relationship-status and immediately invited me out for drinks. You know, drinks- pomtinis for her and tall frosty hurricane glasses filled to the rim with fruity, tangy 'no thank you, I'm straight-edge' for me. She insisted we go to this new bar over near the Big Pier. "PHUL," it was called. Apparently, it was hip and trendy. It was an artsy bar with mirrored walls and tall, cavernous ceilings that glowed throbbing purple during hours of operation. The moment I walked in, I pondered what the place would look like with the emergency floodlights turned on. Like an elevator shaft, probably. The floor was perforated with circular pits, each about three feet deep and eight feet in diameter. Within them were leather cushions and thick cement disks that served as tables. It was either "sit in the floor" (the words of the very European hostess) or at the bar. I, being six-foot-six and of notoriously fussy joints and spine, elected to sit at the bar. We balanced precariously on black leather stools. Misske did not remove her sunglasses. Not once. I thought I could see her eyes behind them, but it turned out to be the reflection of a white paper globe lamp that became visible when the door to the women's lavatory was opened. Conversation was sparse. I fussed with my scarf and picked at the scabs that were flaking off my mostly-healed cold sore. Misske took greasy sips from her pomtini and moved her hair from her face in a stiff, flat-handed way that made me wonder if she was wearing a wig. After a good long while, she said to me, "Burgh," because she just has to be so fashionable, "I respect you so much for your courage." Courage? To what? Disregard the "don't walk" signal and cross the street anyway? Drink milk after its sell-by date? Wear bike shorts like they're real pants? "I admire you for being brave enough to come out of the closet like you did." This confused me. Closets, to my knowledge, are for bermuda shorts and raincoats, not Arties. Now, if I may speak on my sexuality for a moment (for those who might be offended: I won't be hurt if you stop reading now), I was never in any closet. Growing up, I was Arthur Efrayim Greenburgh and nothing else. I was a boy. I liked Annie Lennox an awful, AWFUL lot and I had a crush on the substitute music teacher Mr. Keenly, but I wasn't "gay." Mommy could tell you that I was always an odd ducklett, so I doubt she was very surprised when I matched the word with the feelings. However, I won't deny that it was shocking to hear it stated explicitly. That brings me to the closest thing I have to a "coming out" story. Hebrew school proved difficult for an effeminate, gawky "late bloomer" in handmedown khaki shorts and forest-green polo shirts. My glasses were big, my mouth was big, my feet were big, and I wore tube socks pulled all the way up past my knobbly-wobbly kneecaps. Suffice to say, I was a social pariah. I was one of only two representatives from Nacrene East Middle School. The class was mostly comprised of kids from West. There was one other person who did not attend West, and that was Moishe Kirschenbaum. I think he went to The Heiman-Frank Private Academy in Castelia City. He wore his hair long like I did (well, not AS long), but his was slick and well-groomed. He carried a no-nonsense burgundy lunchbox full of coloured pencils everywhere he went. I never saw him use them. He rarely spoke in class, but when he did, I heard traces of my Father's ashkenazic accent in his voice. Thinking back, there wasn't anything particularly "sexy" about him. He had beady eyes, a prominent nose, and a buggy-looking mouth that seemed barely large enough to accommodate a throat lozenge. But something about Moishe intrigued me all the same. So I watched him. Yes, it was absolutely every bit as creepy as it sounds. I watched his every eerily fluid movement. I watched him as he took down notes, as he zipped and unzipped that burgundy lunchbox, as he tested his blood sugar during breaktime. Luckily, he was so involved with being Moishe Kirschenbaum that he never noticed my ceaseless, unblinking gaze (or, if he did, he never said anything). Eventually, I convinced myself that my fascination with him could be nothing other than sweaty young love. That was when I went home to my parents, definitively slammed a bony fist upon our dining room table, and said, "Mommy. Daddy. I am going to MARRY Moishe Kirschenbaum. He is going to be my husband. I am going to be his husband, too. We will have a lovely house in the fashionable art district and I, Mr. Kirschenbaum-Two, will keep it up smashingly. We will have tableware from the Castelia City Crate&Barrel and a sage green Cuisinart on our white marble countertop." My intentions were quite clear and Mommy was a little shocked. I say "a little," because it certainly wasn't the weirdest thing to come out of my mouth by that point (note: for those who are curious, I honestly could not tell you what the weirdest thing was; picking one would be as easy as calculating the exact length of the Cinnabar Island coastline). That night's dinner- thawed and reheated turkey lasagna with boiled celery (wtf)- preceded a month of conversational stiffness and strained parent-Arti interactions. Now, nothing was stated outright. There was no "Arti Greenburgh, you will be punished severely" or "Arti Greenburgh, where did we go wrong with you" or even "Arti Greenburgh, help us understand." If I recall, we just spilled things with more frequency than usual and used fewer contractions when speaking to each other. That was about it. One month later, however, the awkwardness collapsed under its own density, creating a insatiable, churning black hole of emotional itchiness smackdab in the middle of the Men's Formalwear section at a Holly Department Store in Castelia's Lower East Side. I was attending many bar and bat mitzvahs that year, one of them being my own (fun fact: "bar mitzvah" is Hebrew for "no fun at all") and Mommy couldn't have me wearing my usual pleated khaki dresspants. Heavens, no. I needed an identical, more expensive pair with an itchy tag in the back and a plastic baglet containing two spare buttons stapled to the waistband. This particular shopping trip occurred in the early spring, so the window displays had recently been switched to something to reflect the mood. White, faceless mannequin shapes stood among solid-color plaster forms of pokemon and animals. The two I remember very vividly were a hot pink deerling and a purple whimsicott. While Mommy was sorting through her archive of old receipts that accumulated in her wallet, I entertained myself by studying the display scenes. What I did not initially notice were the posters behind it all: muscular, steely-gazed men posing beefily with their CK-clad junk exhibited in the most prominent manner acceptable for public showcase. I don't know how such a ludicrous display of over-the-top, near parodic masculinity escaped me, but I was made quite aware when Mommy practically shouted, "Quit staring at other men's crotches and get over here so I can get your belt size!" I'm pretty sure everyone in a 25-foot radius heard it. At least 15 strangers were gonna go to bed knowing that a 5' 10" 7th grader with braces and red rings around his eyes fancied the gents. Cue the second most uncomfortable belt-sizing of my life. As expected, the ride home was spent in silence on my part. Most bothersome of all was Mommy acting like nothing had happened. Upon returning to the house, I grabbed Holga and confined myself to my swingset for the evening. I avoided the inside at all costs. Even after the light grew dusky and the streetlamps flicked on, casting orange and purple shadows across our out-of-control yew bushes and graveyard of long-forgotten potted plants. Even after mosquitoes made the skin on my legs look like that of an ostrich handbag. I did go back inside that evening, but only after my cranky bowels started to cry mutiny about the Castelia Cone grilled cheese and fries from earlier. It's now that I'm going to depart from the past and fling myself back into the perceived present of this piece. I didn't tell any of this to Misske; she wouldn't have understood. She pictured the stock images. The Lifetime movie staples. The brave and broken gay teens who were thrown out of their homes. The painful confessions made in the hush-and-hum, high gravity atmosphere of a school counselor's office. White knuckles, tear-stained pillowcases. I let her go on thinking of me with her sloppy, half-drunk respect. "Thanks?" I said to her. "What?" She shouted over the thumping music. "Nothing!" I yelled back. And there you have it. Those anonymous Holly patrons learned something new that afternoon, and now you know that much more than they do. By the way, check out my ring. Couldn't you just die? Because I could. [/style]

[style=font-family: Courier New; font-size: 10px;]template by jayden of ote[/style]

[ARTI GREENBURGH]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][style=background: url('http://i684.photobucket.com/albums/vv201/wildean_wit/watchakatella_header.png'); height: 250px; width: 470px; -webkit-border-radius: 20 20 0 0; opacity: 0.7; margin-bottom: -1px;] [/style]

[atrb=style, background-color: #494949; padding: 10px; -webkit-border-radius: 0 0 20 20; float: right; margin-top: -4px; width: 450px;][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px;][/style][style=float: right; border: 2px solid #333333; background-color: #333333; width: 100px; margin-top: 110px; margin-right: -103px;][/style][style=float: left; text-align: justify; color: #cacaca; overflow: auto; height: 210px; width: 330px; padding: 5px; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10px;]VIOLENT CONFRONTATION IN CENTRAL AREA: Gym Leaders Use Fists to Resolve Differences of Opinion Earlier today, Castelia City’s renowned Central Area was the scene of a very different kind of gym leader challenge when Driftveil City Gym Leader Clay LaMonte Carnegie faced off against Castelia City Gym Leader Arty Greenburgh (BURGH) in a brief but lively scuffle which started as a dispute about the separation of parental and romantic responsibilities. Greenburgh, 26, was returning from a charity benefit drum circle on the Upper East Side when Carnegie, 50, approached him. Initially, the exchange remained verbal and consisted mostly of accusations, but quickly escalated when Carnegie threw a punch. Greenburgh, a veteran of multiple civilian and league-mandated self-defense courses, dodged the blow and retaliated by pulling his large djembe drum from its holster and swinging it in Carnegie’s direction, effectively making contact with the left side of his face. Carnegie was stunned long enough for Greenburgh to escape to a nearby police precinct house, where he was questioned but refused to file a formal report. One witness, Sylvia Velasquez, a 28-year-old waitress and lifelong Castelia resident, recognized both leaders immediately from their profiles on previous episodes of the Monday night television tabloid National Gymquirer. When interviewed, Velasquez described such an encounter as long in coming. “It’s obvious that the two of them have conflicting personalities, so I always thought it would’ve been funny to see them going head-to-head in league meetings,” said Velasquez, “but I was surprised to see them duke it out like that in a public place.” As of September, Greenburgh is engaged to be married to Damon LaMonte Carnegie, 20, Carnegie’s only child and heir to Carnegie Enterprises. According to Greenburgh, the engagement itself was of no concern to his future father-in-law, but there had been increasing tension over the past few months stemming from a series of instances in which Greenburgh was believed to have overstepped his bounds as a future spouse and acquired family member. The most recent mitigating circumstance occurred only nights earlier, when Greenburgh presented his fiance, who has yet to acquire an official driver’s license, with the late birthday present of a 1976 El Camino. Shortly afterward, Carnegie contacted Greenburgh and claimed that automobile-related rites of passage were the responsibility of a parent and no one else. “It was bad enough that I was teaching him how to drive right under his Daddy’s nose, but buying him his first car was grounds for physical assault, I guess,” Greenburgh explained and then added, “At least I’m not like, a methhead or a werewolf or something. Geesh.” Greenburgh implored law enforcement officials not to seek out and apprehend Carnegie, as he doesn’t want to incite larger problems for Carnegie Enterprises or the Pokemon League. Perhaps puzzlingly, Greenburgh claims he harbors no ill will toward Carnegie, even after today’s events. When questioned further, he removed his glasses and stated very plainly, “Parents just don’t understand.” Carnegie himself has not been available for interview. [/style]

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I'm the damn gym leader and they can't even spell my first name correctly.