Permissions and Acceptance in Swimming

Life can sometimes be boiled to terms so simple that they can be cruel.  Most of the time, life is simply about having the right permissions or acceptance to do something.  You aren’t really sure why you MUST do this thing but not being able to or not accepted yet seeps its way into your bones like a lonely pathetic disease.  You MUST go to this college.  You MUST date that girl.  You MUST see that new rated R movie.

Childhood is a constant struggle in obtaining the right permissions.  It first starts with parents who surely are conspiring against you in an evil plot to keep your brilliant brain from experiencing all there is to experience.  And don’t even start me on teachers.  Who are they to dare have specific rules about raising one’s hand and asking if you can go the bathroom?!  And then they have the gull to snarkily comment “I don’t know, can you go to the bathroom?” at which point you’ll have to clear your head of the possibility of pissing (or shitting yourself) and ask in a tone dripping with disdain “May I go to the bathroom?”.

All these though are small apples compared to my biggest gripe growing up: not being able to enter the deep end of the pool.  Growing up a child with limited access to any bodies of water safe enough to swim in, the deep end of the pool represents Shangri-La.  It’s the biggest thing in your life.  You wonder, what could be hiding under all that water?  What would it be like to be free of a floor you can touch with your feet?

I first encountered the tempting fruit when my parents decided I was too much of a hassle and needed to be pawned off for a couple hours a day to some poor sucker.  They signed me up for the local Boys & Girls club in Queens and were always about half a mile away when they remembered to say “bye” to me.  The Boys & Girls club was fantastic anyways.  I was able to take arts and crafts classes or Tae Won Do, but what really captured my heart were the bi-weekly swimming lessons.  I’d never really seen a pool before so the sight of this enclosed body of water with a diving board at one end and countless small bodies struggling not to drown set my heart aflutter.  I joined the class the next day full of excitement.

During my first class, it dawned on me that I had never really swum before and this was my first time shirtless around strangers.  Sure I’d probably run around naked as a 1 or 2 year old but who remembers those sorts of things?  Anyways, it didn’t matter, I was ready to swim!  The teacher started the class in the casual manner of someone who is hung over or really just there for the extra $50 a week.  We got several meek warnings about proper pool safety (NO RUNNING! NO ROUGHHOUSIN’!).  We were also told to stay out of the deep end – which was sectioned off with buoys.  Then it was time to get in the water.

The lessons were standard operating procedure – holding on to the ledge, kicking, kicking, KEEP YOUR HEAD UP, kicking, kicking.  For some reason (alright, I had ADHD) these lessons bored me and I decided I would not be shackled by the tyranny of evil men.  I was going in the deep end!  I got out of the pool (because just swimming to the deep end would have been too obvious), walked to the deep end of the pool and got in.  Unfortunately, the instructor scolded me as soon as I entered the water.

“You can’t go in the deep end until you pass the swim test!”

“What do you mean swim test? How do I take one of those?”

“Well, you have to ask me for permission to take the test and then I’ll let you take it.”

“Ok so can I take the test?”

“OK…swim from one end of the pool width wise, back and forth.  Do that and you’ll pass”

Easy enough right?  I jumped back in the shallow end and told the instructor I was ready.  I started swimming and then realized I was getting tired so I would stop.  I alternated swimming and stopping along the way until I completed my test.  I successfully arrived back at the starting point without drowning, fully sure that I had passed this test and would now be awarded full deep end privileges.

“Sorry, you failed.  You have to swim both ways without stopping.”

This motherfucker had tricked 9 year old me.  He had consciously denied me access to the glorious deep end.  I was distraught about this lack of permission.  Why wasn’t I allowed to go in the deep end, because I could possibly drown?  Isn’t it the instructor’s JOB to ensure I didn’t drown?  Surely I would learn more from trying to survive in the deep end then holding on the ledge of the pool with the other sheep, kicking our legs in a depressingly static position.

I left class and vowed to eventually pass the test.  Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your attitudes regarding pollution) my family moved to New Jersey before I could attend another class.  I never got my revenge on that suck-hole of an instructor.  I never got the permission I so sorely needed.

Weekly Enemies of the State

Today's missive will be brief but decisive.  It's time to list out the weekly enemies of the state.  These are individuals whom I'm never met other then maybe passing them by on the street or subway.  Even though I don't know these people, I'm almost positive they are all horrible individuals.

1) Guys who wear pleated khaki slacks - Stop dressing like the lonliest child molester.

2) People who smoke cigars at lunch time - while you may have the same girth, you my friend are NOT Tony Soprano.

3) People who brush their teeth in the bathroom at work - you aren't clean, you're just the asshole with a brush and toothpaste at his desk.

4) Girl's who spell out OMG like "OH EMM GEE" - These girls need to immediately contract bird AIDS.

5) Guys over the age of 25 who still wear their college graduation ring - so did they teach you do be a douche at nondescript Ivy League school?

6) People who talk about how "big" they've gotten because of boxing - you know what's gotten big?  My urge to choke you out.

A "Fictional" Tale

He’d really never been a stylish individual, unless round and nerdy can be considered a style.  After his horizontal growth spurt, aided in part by fast food and his parent’s insistence on eating their product at the bakery, he entered junior year with a new fleet of comfortable clothing – sweats and pajama bottoms.  And so began another year of anonymity…in sweats and pajama bottoms.

That year also bought about his favorite class – Geometry with Mrs. DiGorda for 5^th period.  Besides the obvious allure of dealing with all sorts of angles, triangles, straight lines and segments, he had managed to grab a seat near Maria.  Positively sure that she’d never considered his existence, she had been his object of affection ever since the water fountain incident[1] of the prior year.  So they sat there, by the window overlooking

Pasley Boulevard

learning about proofs; Him in his sweats, her in all her mediocre beauty in the seat to the right.

The seat behind him was occupied by Omar, a friend by all the insane measures that one can consider someone a friend in high school.  Omar was square headed and by virtue of working in his father’s liquor store after work, one of the more gregarious students in the school.  He also suffered from tiny warts on his hands leading to much embarrassment.  He learned to cope by not shaking anyone’s hand but rather opting for hugs.  Hugging other guys in high school of course meant he was always the subject of gay rumors.  This being high school, rumors of being gay were far better then the reality of being perceived as physically deformed with warts.

One day, Omar began talking bout the latest Sega Saturn game, “Nights”.  Who he was talking to wasn’t really important since this was video games, the most important thing in the world obviously.  This game posited that the gamer take control of jester dressed flying blue beings.  It really wasn’t a great game but allowed one to image flying around causing havoc unencumbered by laws of psychics or sloppy bodies.  Omar was rambling on about the merits of this game when suddenly Maria interjected in her wonderfully shrill voice.

“Are you talking about “Nights”?  I was playing that last night.  It’s sooooooooo much fun like really.”

He turned to her and then to Omar.  Both of them were mouth agape at this interjection of interest.  A girl playing video games?  A girl with boobs playing video games?  AND the video game to end all video games that year?  He started to answer but the bell rang signaling the end of class.  Even the bell was bullying him around.  The class started to empty but he felt particularly odd.  And that’s when he realized why he felt odd.  He was sporting an unimpressive raging boner.

Suddenly he cursed his new fashion styles.  Why hadn’t he just worn denim which as all males know, is much easier for hiding an erection?  Why did he wear the dark beige wind breakers which now clung hopelessly to his erect member?  So he sat there quietly, slowly gathering his effects as the room emptied out.  Each student out the door representing a tiny paper cut in his dying dignity.

“Hey man, we’ve got to get to the next class” opined Omar.

“Yea, you don’t want to get detention” chimed Maria.

Great, NOW she was talking to him?  Apparently she only conversed with guys once they were fully humiliated.  He looked up at both of them but didn’t offer anything other then a shrug.  Omar squinted a knowing squint and let out a small chuckle then excused himself to the next class.  Suddenly it was just him and Maria as the new student started filing into the room.  He had to make a decision before it was too late so here it was.  He started getting up in sections.  First the knees swung to the left, then he bent over exaggeratedly hoping the pressure would squash his boner, then with his right arm he grabbed all the books on his desk, and as he prepared to get up, he slammed the books against his crotch to cover the offending member.

“Um what is that?” asked Maria.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t really athletic or quick in any sense so while his movements in getting up struck him as lightening fast, they were in fact slow and clumsy.  She had seen everything and was now pointing and staring at the mass of books covering his crotch.

“Oh ummm just some pens were sticking out my side.  You know, sweats and all” he nervously let out.

“…yea sure…” she said.  And that was the last time she ever spoke to him again.

---

[1] During the 1^st semester of sophomore year, not long after the school year had started, he suddenly found himself running down the eastern corridor of the second floor by the AV room.  Why he was running, he never really remembered since it was inconsequential (although knowing him, it probably had to do with a smart comment directed at the more popular types who dealt with such matters in fist-y fashion).  Regardless, he was running and not really paying attention when he hit a patch of wet floor caused by a broken and overflowing water fountain.  This sudden lack of traction resulted in wild arm and leg swinging and a general loss of control.  As he careened down the hall unable to control his expanding mass, Maria had exited her class to go to the bathroom.  She opened the door and started down the hall opposite of the direction in which he was heading.  He saw the door and was able to grab onto it and halt the momentum that would have surely led to a quick and painful meeting with the lockers down the hall.  Maria never turned around or realized what had happened but he fell in love after mentally taking note that she had saved his life.

Putting on Mood Music

In some movies of the adult kind, there will sometimes be a scene where characters are about to bump uglies.  One of the characters will go over to their stereo (what an antiquated idea huh?) and put on some “mood music.”  This mood music is usually classical in nature, some variation of jazz, or some boning easy listening R&B.  Putting on this “mood music” is the “Let’s Bone” bat signal.

Now I’ve spent a fair amount of time thinking about mood music since I started having sex.  I always thought it was what you were supposed to do.  Before getting it on, you put on some song and go about your business.  I never questioned why this was, just accepted that its how adults worked.  Pop culture never lies.

As I got older, just accepting things was no longer copacetic and so prior acceptance turned into panic; new neurosis cropped up suddenly.  No longer was it enough to worry about someone else seeing you naked or wondering if having that remaining slice of cake two days ago was prudent or hoping you didn’t have any dingle berries from the morning’s shit.  No longer would berating yourself for only shaking your penis twice after pissing, fully sure that some droplets of urine made their way onto your thigh, be enough.

Suddenly you are worried about the message being sent by your musical choices.  Do you go for easy listening, something for “easy riding”?  Do you dare put on some industrial heavy rock to send the message you are ready to fuck her not-so-gently?  What happens when you put on a song you actually like?  What if you find yourself humming or mouthing lyrics in between kisses, completely unaware of how awful you look?  What if you happen to put on a song that reminds her of an awful relationship or period in her life and she storms off in a heap of tears and barely understandable babble?

The other problem lies in the time.  All of a sudden you have an accurate barometer for how long you’ve been banging.  You’re fully aware that the song you picked is 4 minutes long and so when you cum 20 seconds into the session, you’re full of self hatred for having to sit through another 3:40 of a song that all of a sudden is sung in mocking undertones.  Fuck you Beatles for mocking my lack of performance!

Conversely, not putting on any ambient noise presents a different issue all together.  You become aware of the peculiar sounds that can emanate from the human body during coitus.  What the fuck was that popping sound?  Did we just make a fart noise with our chests?  Is that you or me moaning?  Also, the music helps break up the post sex session awkward silence.  Because as everyone knows, nothing says “sorry for being so disappointing” quite like a song.

Burnt Sugar Ice Cream

A couple months ago I purchased a basic ice cream maker from BJ’s at the bargain price of $24.  My original intentions were to occasionally make some vanilla or chocolate ice cream.  You know, not get too crazy with it being that it is a cheap contraction and my kitchen is the size of an opulent coffin.  As I started making ice cream, I stuck to vanilla and it’s boring cousins – mint, mint chocolate chip, etc – and didn’t really dabble in chocolate too much.  However, armed with free time, boredom, and idle hands, I’ve decided to try my hand at making some exotic flavors.  Today we’ll look at a recipe I found at Epicurious for Burnt Sugar Ice Cream.

Now contrary to it’s fancy name, Burnt Sugar Ice Cream is essentially just caramel ice cream.  However, saying “burnt sugar” is decidedly more badass and confusing so we’ll stick with the nomenclature.  This recipe called for the following ingredients:

• 2 cups whole milk
• 2 cups heavy cream
• 1 cup of sugar split into ¾ cup and ¼ cup portions
• 5 egg yolks
• Vanilla Bean

I made a trip to my local supermarket in search of these simple ingredients.  While the first 5 ingredients posed me no issues, I had a hell of a time finding vanilla bean.  I ended up asking one of the workers who was busy putting fresh putting up for sale.

“Excuse me sir…I wonder if you could help me find something”

“Sure”

“I’m looking for vanilla beans”

“What the fuck is that? Like beans?”

“Well I guess its for taste.  Like vanilla extract is made from it”

“What’s is for?”

“Uh well baking I guess”

“Then look in the baking aisle”

I trudged my ass back through the baking aisle where I’d been wandering aimlessly for about 10 minutes prior looking through the 900 variety of spices.  Cinnamon sticks? Check.  Whole all spice?  Double Check.  And then I found it – my white whale – the vanilla beans.

As you can see, these beans were $15.  And listen, I’m not cheap or anything but I’m not paying $15 for some beans for ice cream.  Cry me a river about purity of products and sticking to the recipe but I settled for the $5 (still too expensive) bottle of vanilla extract.  The only problem would be deciding what the equivalent amount of vanilla beans (2 per the recipe) would be in extract.  Either way, I headed home with my final load - at a total of $18 and change - pumped for some exotic burnt sugar treats.

The first steps in the recipe call for 3/4 cups of sugar to be added to a pot with 3 tablespoons of water and stirred over medium heat.  As you are measuring out the sugar, you might feel a slight pit in your stomach, which is totally fine.  That's just the oncoming Diabetes making its presence known.  Regardless, stir this saturated sugar water mixture until the sugar all dissolves.  At this point, you might notice that the mixture looks like a large load of semen.  That's when you know its time for the next step, when you are stirring what appears to be elephant cum.

Sweet elephant cum

At this point, please jack up the heat.  Slowly the elephant cum/sugar mixture will start bubbling.  Now science takes over for a fantastic chemical reaction.

As the sugar starts to heat up, the particles start to blast around rapidly in the pot.  Sure you can't see this because it's microscopic, but trust me, it is happening.  As these particles move around rapidly, they start to separate and break down.  Eventually they all realize they are running around like lunatics and get angry while joining forces.

I would be remiss if I didn't note that you shouldn't use your mixing spoon here to stir the mixture.  If you do, the mixture will stick to your spoon in jagged pieces and it'll just be an ugly mess.  Instead, just swirl the pot around to spread the heat evenly.  You'll start seeing the outter edges of the mixture start to brown slightly.  Then a tiny amount of smoke will start radiating from the mixture.  Please take this time to measure out the 2 cups of heavy cream.

One the mixture reaches a bubbly soothing brown, but not dark black because then it is REALLY burnt, color, add in the heavy cream mixture carefully.

This is about the right color you'll want your mixture to be.

Now again, please be careful when adding the cream.  The cream and hot sugar mixture will react with teenage angst at being paired together so pour slowly.  The mixture will start to bubble up like a small atomic bomb has been set off but don’t fret, it’ll be fine.  Finish adding the mixture completely.  Next up, introduce milk to the proceedings.

Now sugar, don't be so mean to cream.

This is where the recipe calls for an addition of 2 vanilla beans to smooth out the sugary/caramel flavor.  So if you have the cash for $15 vanilla beans then by all means go ahead and drop the beans in there you opulent bastard.  As for me, I decided that 3 small drips from the vanilla extract would approximate the 2 beans.

Once the milk and vanilla are added, keep stirring the mixture while it boils for about 10 minutes.  I should note that milk and sugar don't boil nicely.  They tend to increase exponentially in mass in the pot.  I had to keep shutting the stove off and on again because my mixture kept threatening to break the levees provided by the pot.  And by shutting the stove off and on I of course mean that I lost track of my mixture while I tended to the eggs only to turn and see it mushrooming over the pot and start to spill.  I'm a good cook.

After 10 minutes, you can lower the flame and let the mixture simmer.  In another bowl, start separating the 5 egg yolks from their 5 egg whites like some egg Nazi.  This was by far the hardest part of the process for me.  I started to think I suffer from a rare case of egg dyslexia.  The first two eggs I tried separating, I ended up throwing out the yolk while leaving the egg white in the bowl.  I had to stop for 2 minutes to clear my mind because clearly this task was above my mental acuity.  Eventually the process of separating the egg yolks resulted in egg spilling all over my kitchen floor and garbage can.  Fun times!

Once the five egg yolks are in a bowl, whisk in ¼ cup of sugar.  The eggs and sugar will combine to form a brilliant yellow sauce.

Now you'll want to take the sugar mixture you've been keeping over a low heat and slowly start to whisk it into the egg mixture you've just put together.  Please introduce these two partners together and watch them make sweet, sweet scientific, gastronomic love to one another.

Once these two are well acquainted, pour the big mixture back in to the original pot and heat over medium heat for about 7 minutes.  This is mainly a cautionary step to kill off any nasty microbials in the eggs like salmonella which will cause you to shit ice cream if you aren’t careful.

Once the heating period is over, grab your trusty strainer and hold it over a medium bowl.  You will need to start pouring the mixture into the bowl through the strainer.  You'll probably have to stop half way through in order to use a mixing spoon to move around the particles in the strainer obstructing the fluid from floating through freely.

Once the mixture has made it fully into the bowl cover it and store it in your fridge for an over night freeze.  This will help the flavors meld together better as well as solidy the mixture a bit which will make for better ice cream.

My Inner Fat Woman

I have a terrible secret, one which has caused me mental anguish and many sleepless nights.  I feel now is about a good a time as ever to divulge this secret to society (or my 2.5 readers) at large.  My inner fat kid is named Bertha.  That’s right; my inner fat child is actually an inner fat woman.  So how did we get here?

In 8^th grade and the summer leading to 9^th grade, my parents owned a bakery that carried my sister’s namesake.  Unfortunately, this bakery wasn’t that successful which meant my parents still had to keep their full time jobs and I as the oldest child had to help out.  I was the youngest baker in my hometown – true story – a dubious distinction not known for its glamorous coolness.  As it was, I GREW into my roll as a baker physically and mentally.  I became a fat 13 year old with a job which holds slightly more cache with the females then being the kid with a boil on his face but not by much.  Gradually the bakery closed and I returned to my normally scheduled program of TV, video games, and the occasional basketball game.  I grew from a fat kid into a fat teenager and pre adult.  But that’s the thing, once you grow up a fat kid, it stays with you.  You’ll always have an inner fat kid that needs to be indulged.  This was fine by me.  I just assumed my inner fat kid was a painfully shy chunky boy named Chico whose knees buckled anytime fried foods were present.

It wasn’t until recently that I started to question my own logic.  Sure fried foods would give my inner fat kid a tremendous boner but then I’d see something like chocolate truffles which would make me joyously apoplectic.  What was going on here?  Then it happened.  One night looking for anything on TV to keep my interest I stumbled onto a food competition show dedicated to desserts.  And I was in full rapture for nearly 4 hours - mouth watering, knees aching, heart palpitating.  I even developed that slim line of sweat above my brow like when you see someone so attractive your body temperature sky rockets – a lustful sweat.  That’s when I faced my own truth.  My inner fat kid had grown up into an inner fat woman.

The Karaoke Rules

The Karaoke Rules

I love me some good karaoke.  What better way to whittle down an evening then with some friends, drinks, and good tunes.  There’s always the possibility you’ll be reacquainted with an old song you loved but have forgotten about or partake in some audience wide singing.  Unfortunately there are the select few mongoloids who don’t respect the karaoke god.  Presented here are some rules to help you sort through the karaoke world and not be an asshole.

1)      Never pick a song that is over 5 minutes in length

Listen, I understand your enthusiasm for the format and maybe one of your favorite songs is “Stairway to Heaven”.  But please think about the audience.  We don’t want to listen to you warble your way through 5 minutes – its goddamn agony.  After 4 minutes we are just praying you'll get a heart attack and keel over so we can get on with our evening.  Stop being an asshole and hogging up the time.  Some of us want to sing our songs before closing time.

2)      Don’t pick a slow song

Karaoke is supposed to be a fun time.  Enjoying time with friends, drinking various things you’ll regret in the morning, eating gross bar food during and after the drinking and telling anyone within hearing distance how AWESOME the food is, possibly flirting with the OK-looking stranger because he/she sang a song you liked, etc.  We don’t want to be bummed out.  Please for the love of god don’t sing that Enya song.  It's great that it reminds you of a lost love or a dead relative.  We don’t want to see you cry, unless it’s because we are insulting you, which is fun.  Even still, cry at home listening to your depressing shit while drinking some wine.  It's the only respectable thing to do.

3)      It’s not open mic night

I’m sure your friends think you are the second coming of George Carlin.  I’m sure your insights and wit burn bright like a comedy Sun which us lowly beings can’t look at directly.  Fantastic, but stop talking into the microphone cunt nose.  Sing your song and be done with it.

4)      Pick a song you know reasonably well

Call me cantankerous or unreasonable, but nothing is as gratingly annoying as when someone picks a song and proceeds to rape the joy out of it.  Why would you pick a song you have never heard before?  Do you enjoy standing in front of a large group of strangers mumbling you’re way through a strange song?  This disease is usually seen when people decide to indulge their inner rap fantasy by choosing a rap or reggae song.  It always ends with 2 or more people on stage in a muddled mess screaming out random words from the song.

5)      Keep a reasonable distance between your mouth and microphone

I’m not a germaphobe.  I’ve been known to extend the “five second rule” to how ever long time period suits me.  Even still, I don’t feel like grabbing a microphone with your disgusting drool all over it.  Don’t eat the microphone my friend, its deadly.  Just remember, like the line in that song, it’s electric.

6)      Thank the karaoke person

      Don’t be an asshole.  Thank the person for putting on your song and going through the gulag of your performance.

The Greatest Song Ever

Now I don’t consider myself by any means necessary to be an authority on music.  However, for the purposes of my blog, I will consider myself a goddamn master at sonically pleasing sounds.  I will attempt to explain why the Jackson 5’s “I want You Back” is the greatest song in the history of humanity, inclusive of Neanderthals.  To do this, I will use a performance of the song by the band on Dick Clark’s “American Band Stand” in 1970.  Without further ado:

0:00-0:15 It’s odd watching this performance now especially that the 12 yr old Michael Jackson is worm food while Dick Clark is reanimated yearly from his cryogenically frozen grave to host a new year’s show.  What odds would Vegas have given in 1970 for “Michael Jackson will die before Dick Clark”?

0:16-0:34 God bless Jermaine Jackson for the opening bass notes of this song.  It’s instantly recognizable and has a direct injection into your dance bone.  Go ahead, try not to start dancing to the beat, I dare you.

Now would be as good as time as ever to discuss the psychological damage endured by the non-Michael Jackson members of the band.  Let’s say you are Jackie, Tito, Jermaine and Marlon.  You’ve started a small group which is middling and unheralded.  All of a sudden your younger brother starts singing and moving and people realize he’s the most talented family member.  So now you find yourself having to ride the coattails of the youngest member of the group and hoping you don’t piss him off because he is your meal ticket.  So what do you do?  You can’t be a big brother picking on your little brother and putting him in headlocks.  All of a sudden groupies want the youngest member and are wondering why a bunch of weird old dudes can’t be successful on their own.  How would you feel?  Would you buy 50 cats, start hoarding trash and drinking milk on hot days?  I probably would.

0:34-0:44 There he is! Little Michael!  He’s not even saying words and yet you’ve immediately forgotten there are other members of the band.  He’s 12 years old and a superstar which begs the serious question:  If he owned a time machine and was alive, would old Michael go back and molest his younger self?

0:44-1:06 Now it can be argued by smarter people then myself that this song is silly.  There’s a twelve year old singing to a jilted lover asking her to give him a second chance.  What the hell could he have done to break someone’s heart?  Did he steal her fruit roll ups?  Did he not give her a promise ring-pop?

1:06-1:31 I will give the non-Michael members some serious dap for this portion of the video.  They are all dancing in unison even though some of them are playing instruments.  They deserve a reserved golf clap.

1:55 Michael whips out what would later be one of his best moves – the arms out, head nodding exaggerately, half spin move.  I’m not afraid to say 12 year old Michael is a better dancer then I’ll ever be.  At least I’m not dead I guess.

1:55-2:13 Sorry about that, I took a quick break to dance along to the song.  I mean how can you NOT dance along?  It’s so dance catchy.  I almost want to break up with someone just so I can sing them this song while dancing.  It would be worth the trouble.

2:21-2:23 Michael let’s loose the “All I NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED” with such emotional force that it makes you wonder if he was already suffering from psychosis.  No one needs someone else THAT badly, especially at 12 years old.

2:23-3:10 We finish the song with a musical breakdown and Michael killing a bunch of “OH!”s like a seasoned pro.

Great song.  Great performance.  Now I DARE you not to replay the song and get it stuck in your head for the rest of the day