CodeNameSarahToo many secret identities for just one person.

Anyone who has any knowledge of my taste would tell you that I have very little of it, and what I do have is twisted.

Case in point: I love Pet Shop Boys. A lot. And sometimes love hurts.

Now, Pet Shop Boys didn’t tour for years, but once they finally got around to it, there was no way I was going to miss them — I mean, I could have been bleeding from my eyes, and I was still gonna go. Luckily, my eyes were fine (though my mental health was debatable) and somehow I talked my Mom into going with me. (This would have been in ’99, I think.) And it was awesome! There was a crazy floor show, and dancers, and fantastic/terrible electronic dance music loud enough to kill. The entire floor was filled with gay men and Asian club kids — and you know, my Mom and me — dancing around like crazy.

Mom and I were standing/dancing up on these risers, and when the encore started we noticed a little skirmish of some sort down on the actual dance floor, but we didn’t think much of it. I mean, this was a Pet Shop Boys concert, not a mosh pit at Motorhead — how out of hand was it going to get? They were playing their remake of “Go West,” which is my all time favorite, and I was reeeeeaaaally into it — so much so that I did not notice that the skirmish had grown and was traveling up the risers toward us.

The crowd suddenly parted and this cluster of teenage boys engaged in what can only be called a free-for-all fistfight came right at us. I was so shocked I didn’t quite get out of the way, and these guys weren’t really looking — they were just punching.

Yep, I got punched at a Pet Shop Boys concert.

I took three blows, one right on the chest below my collar bone, which kind of knocked the wind of me, and two more on my upper back as I turned to get away. Then security came and dragged the boys away, but the magic had kind of gone out of the concert for me at that point.

I had a fist-sized bruise on my chest for a week.

Apparently sarcastic, gay dance music just brings out the worst in some people.

In the early ’90s, shortly after I moved to Texas from Missouri, I saw the weirdest thing at the Kroger.

Mom and I usually did the grocery shopping at Randall’s, mostly because it was closest to the apartment. But once in a while, there would be a great sale at Kroger, and we would head over there for a quick trip.

This particular evening, my Mom had picked me up from rehearsal, and we went to the 24 hour Kroger to pick up a few things on the way home.

There was only one guy in front of us in the checkout line, and his cart was full of nothing but giant slabs of red meat. There were no side dishes, no vegetables or fruit — just meat, and lots of it. His bill was over $200 — and that’s in 1993 dollars.

Mom and I were both freaked out by this guy, and his terrible craving for massive quantities of meat, and when we walked out to the car, we realized that it was the full moon.

So we decided that the guy was a werewolf, and only eating raw meat on the full moon kept him from transforming into the depraved beast he really was. Sure, we made that up — but we had no other explanation.

Dude was creepy looking, too. Very hairy. I think that just went to support our theory.

He’s probably still out there, you know. That kind of meat-based craving doesn’t improve with time. Now people probably just think he’s on the Atkins diet.

But Mom and I, we know better.

When I was in fourth grade, our teacher sometimes let us listen to the radio while we worked on various projects.

On one such afternoon, I got into a heated argument with Robert Naylor over the lyrics to a Don Henley song.

He swore up and down that Mr. Henley was singing, “Down at the sausage grill.”

I disagreed, and maintained that he was in fact singing, “Down at the Sunset Grill,” which Robert wouldn’t believe — despite the fact that it was the song’s actual title.

We got so loud that the teacher had to separate us.

But, dude, seriously. Sausage grill? Come on!

In the fall of 1992, Express had a white cotton lace shirt that I wanted more than anything. It was a regular oxford-style shirt, with buttons and a collar, and long sleeves — but made of this fantastic cotton lace fabric.

I tried it on at least 3 times, but I couldn’t afford it at full price. By the time it went on clearance, my size was sold out.

Here’s the sad thing: I still think about that damned shirt. It would be completely out of style at this point — and hell, it wouldn’t even fit.

But I still think about The Shirt That Got Away. Let it never be said that I am not shallow, eh?

One day in college, I hauled off and slapped my best friend across the face. I have no idea why — I mean, I know what compelled me to do it — but I had never hit anyone in my entire life. (Except my Dad, who I accidentally kicked in the stomach once, but that really was an accident.)

I don’t remember what we were talking about, but I was getting angrier and angrier, and I told her to stop talking. She kept on, and I told her to shut up. Still, she kept on, and WHAP — I smacked her right across the cheek.

I think I was almost as shocked as she was, though I wasn’t the one crying.

I actually sent her flowers the next day, all Ike Turner style. I don’t think the card said, “I love you, baby — I’ll never do it again, I promise,” but it was some variation of that.

And I really meant it — I never hit her again. How many Ike Turner wannabes can say that?

I don’t think I have a memory for today, or rather I had one picked out, but I couldn’t find the MP3 to post, so it wasn’t worth mentioning.

Hmm.

I seriously don’t have 10 memories worth sharing? Wow, that’s sad.

It’s just that so much of what I remember is really painful, or at the very least uncomfortable. I spent my childhood withdrawing, and my adulthood dreading the inevitable. You know that study that proved that depressed people have a more realistic grasp on probable outcomes, while “mentally healthy” people are sort of positively deluded? I’ve spent enough of my life depressed to know that my life isn’t especially special, or likely to be well-fated.

And my memories reflect this. I’ve made a conscious decision not to bring up the worst things during this project, and I’m starting to run out of neutral territory. I mean, I wrote about a lot of funnier things on my old blog at Perverse Osmosis (RIP), so I feel those memories have already been catalogued. Omitting the truly painful stuff leaves merely the obscure, or the vaguely bittersweet.

However, I can’t leave today blank, so I will share a sense memory of my very early childhood.

When I was about three, my paternal grandparents lived in a green house with a long driveway. My grandmother took care of me most working days, so I spent a lot of time in the yard and in that driveway — which was a perfectly normal size, I’m sure, but seemed very large to my pre-logical self.

I have this wispy memory of riding my red tricycle in long ovals up and down that driveway one early autumn day. It was breezy and sunny, but not too hot, and I had this strange sense of contentment as I rode back and forth for a long time.

I’m sure that I grafted the emotional content of this early memory years later looking back, but it was almost as though I knew as a toddler that this was as good as it was going to get, this endless circling in my grandparents’ driveway. The sun, the breeze, the sound of the leaves, the squeak of the pedals, my general contentment — that was it. That was my peak experience.

My grandma came out and said it was time for lunch, so I rode the little trike into the garage.

As I walked away from the red tricycle, I felt a little twinge of sadness.

And I’ve been mostly sad ever since.

Two quick Christmas memories: The best presents I received, both as a child and as an adult.

The Christmas I was 11, I got both the Lord of the Rings trilogy in hardback and these giant fuzzy slippers with claws that were supposed to look like bear feet. The sheer, unadulterated joy of those two things together has probably never been topped for me. Both things were a total surprise, and both were completely coveted by the time the wrapping paper had been ripped away.

Several years ago I got a chest freezer for Christmas from my parents, and I was so pleased I almost cried. I know that’s completely weird, but I couldn’t afford one, and I really needed it. I don’t mind practical gifts at all — in fact, sometimes I prefer them.

When you get down to it, I think those three presents examined separately explain a lot about me.

I should have some sort of nice Christmas Eve memories, but I just can’t think of any.

Most of my Christmas Eves were spent in the terrible childhood affliction of it-not-being-Christmas-yet — a sort of general frenzied state of agitation. But they were not really noteworthy, like getting-a-jet-for-Flag-Day noteworthy. (“Best Flag Day ever!”)

Instead I will explain how I managed to have chicken pox twice as a child — which is not supposed to happen.

I first had chicken pox when I was very small — I was practically still an infant, possibly not even walking yet. Mom said she had to keep tiny little mittens on me to keep me from scratching my face. I had the sores and everything, but it wasn’t especially lengthy or protracted.

So, chicken pox started making the rounds the winter I was in third grade. My parents weren’t worried about it, since I had already gotten it — and neither was I. One day I started feeling really, really sick in class, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong. I was an old hand at respiratory illness, but this was completely different. I just felt weird and sort of weak. But it was near the end of the day, and I was a strangely stoic sort of kid, so I didn’t tell anyone and went home on the bus as usual.

Of course I had a fever, and Mom sent me to bed really early.

It’s hard to describe the shock I had when I woke up covered in spots.

It was much worse the second time around. I had pox everywhere — from my scalp to the bottoms of my feet, literally. (In fact, the only pox scar I have is on the arch of my right foot.) The itching was horrible. It was only my budding vanity that kept me from scratching welts everywhere.

Since then I’ve been afraid that I’m some sort of mutant that can’t build up an immunity to chicken pox. It’s more likely that I didn’t get sick enough the first time to create enough lasting anti-bodies. (That’s what they told me, anyway.)

But I’ve spent the rest of my life avoiding chicken pox like a more literal plague, just to be safe.

There was a coffee shop on Alabama, near the Whole Foods, for a couple of years. I don’t remember the name of the shop offhand, but it also had good tea. We used to go over there very occasionally for a random cup of hot stuff, but it always unnerved me. It was too quiet in there.

I mean, I’ve been in libraries noisier than that place. No matter how many people were present, it was like a freakin’ tomb. There were no signs outlawing the practice, but no one ever talked. I actually saw people sitting together at tables messaging each other on their laptops instead of talking. If a person sat alone, they had an iPod as well as a computer.

Crazy. Creepy, even.

Lennox and I met some friends over there one day last year, since it was both centrally located and not a Starbucks. And we talked. Out loud. For a long time.

I have never seen such pissed off laptop-bearing people as I did that day in that particular coffee shop.

When did techno-bubble silence become the rule? When did the simple art of conversation become taboo in a public place? Why leave the house at all if you just want to be alone? Coffee shops used to be the one place where one was almost guaranteed some social interaction. Coffee shops helped to birth the American Revolution — do you think we would ever have had the Declaration of Independence if all those disgruntled gentlemen farmers had simply sat quiet in the coffee houses of Philadelphia, glaring at those who dared speak?

That silent coffee house went out of business shortly after our visit, and I was not sorry to see it go.