A remodeled room you'll never touch again-- one that was once yours, but is now mine. Each day, I lock myself away and clatter away at the keyboard, hashing out whatever incomplete thoughts cross my mind and mold them into something resembling legible prose. Some say my works are genius; myself, I'm tormented by insecurities that I can do better. Walls once decorated with Steve Austin, Bruce Springsteen, and South Park posters are now monuments to childhood mainstays -- Pikmin, Animal Crossing, and The Legend of Zelda -- as Japanese tomes await my self-teaching exercises.
Not a trace of you remains, but it's still here.
Most of your N64 and SNES cartridges are still locked away in my drawers. Some, like Donkey Kong Country and Bomberman 64,became lost to the ravages of time and were replaced accordingly; even now, I'm still haunted by a wispy, fleeting memory of you saying you gave the latter away, but I guess I can forgive you. Regardless, all were subject to physical degradation: a phenomenon I'm still amazed has never been widely documented within gaming media, let alone permeated among the medium's consciousness. As N64 polygons mesh and coalesce into disfigured forms and the fabric of two-dimensional backgrounds are ripped asunder by garish, intrusive flares, the heartbreaking contamination of relics I held sacred forced me to embrace a digital future.
You'll never play them again, but even so, they're still here.
I'm marathoning The Simpsons for the first time on Disney+ -- it's a cultural cornerstone I've always wanted to experience, but I only engaged in peripheral media like The Simpsons: Hit & Run to tongue-in-cheek family albums and self-help books. (Remember when despite your legitimate protests, Mom let me play Connect the Dots on that one Bartman comic's double-spread? Sorry about that.) Regardless, even as I analyze the laser-sharp social commentary and find myself in hysterics over its brilliant non-sequiturs, I'm always scanning for whatever you would've found humorous. As per my typical memory gaps, I don't remember what you particularly enjoyed about America's most dysfunctional family; as noted in my first tribute, you grew disenchanted after "kids started watching it", but maybe therein lies the clue: being prepubescent yourself, you came for the seamless conduit in Bart Simpson's mischief and stayed for the captivating sex underlying it all. (Why else did you get that T-shirt of Bart mooning his mirror? Of course Mom refused to let you wear it to school!)
Maybe you were a hypocrite, but like it or not, The Simpsons are alive and well.
I used your yellow CD player long, long after iPods and phones dominated the world; I still have a penchant for that colorful design, especially after my red one from middle school died. Your chain wallet's still strapped to my pants; with how forgetful I am, it's perfect for me. The Skull Mountain playset from Mighty Max, albeit stripped of all its miniature actors, rests in the other side of the basement alongside the rest of our toys. I'm too scared to let go of anything that defined my halcyon days. I don't want to be cynical; I don't want to grow up.
And yet, you're not here. Not once does Michael Pelone, my older brother, factor into my daily decision-making. After all, you're dead.
Even so, evidence of your earthly existence still lingers: photos of you, us, and our family serve as a stark reminder you'll never age beyond twenty-three. Misty photos of us as toddlers were printed onto Dad's favorite coffee cup; the first time I saw it, well after midnight as I emerge from a basement gaming session, I collapsed into darkness. Prank letters delivered to residents in our old Animal Crossing town, should I ever desire to power up my GameCube. (Admiral, that grumpy bird villager you always tormented, would undoubtedly show off your masterpiece -- "Anthony wants to make out with you")
And yet, as far as the larger world is concerned, Michael is forgotten. Irrelevant. Rotting in the ground. Another replaced cog in the machine.
Your voice still echoes in my brain; the warmth of your hug embraces my senses. Yet all that must be discarded for getting back into the grind.
In my second editorial about you, a casual observer would look upon my resolution towards college and nod sagely, proclaiming "Would you look at that: Anthony's ready to enter the big man's world. He's got it under control." I'd elaborate on how the following year would end up as, by a significant margin, the most emotionally excruciating, agonizing period of my life, but the point is, I didn't. For far, far too long, I aimed for an impossible dream: to create my eternal never-land of adolescence, where I'd write and play video games in eternal, nostalgic reverie, isolated from the rest of humanity and living according to my own rules. I'd get side-eyed, sure, but being treated as an outcast was nothing new to me -- I just had to achieve that romanticized center, that happily-ever-after punctuating so much of the media sheltering me from reality.
As expected by anyone not living under a rock, I crashed and burned. Repeatedly. You'd think from reading that article I'd have moved on, but as I endured the trials and tribulations of college degrees and fleeting friendships, of falling outs and private disappointments, personal satisfaction was my one true goal -- one that could only be achieved by cutting out excess negativity; in other words, I tried not to think about you. I had to forget you.
But grief still persisted. It should be so obvious now, in retrospect -- that time in the spring following your death, when I confessed to Mom I was dead inside? I thought I was growing apart from my lifelong passions, yet that was just me wrestling with your passing's natural after-effects. I don't beat myself up over that; even if I dared to, Dad's constant mantra following your passing -- "This will not define us" -- still pulses faintly as a deterrent. Your overdose didn't leave us in vulnerable hysterics -- we fought past it, found comfort in innumerable family and friends, and moved on.
They say the dead addict is finally in peace, that you no longer have to bear with the constant tug-and-pull of your disease. And yet, when you put it that way...it's almost like saying you're better off dead.
I don't know how I feel about that.
At least I emerged from my rock. I've still never dated, yet I've come to accept my autism and the innate weaknesses and idiosyncrasies associated with it. I'm still scared to approach people, but now I recognize it's not all about me; if anything, my bleeding heart for the rights of others to even dare dream the same goals I once did has firmly established my political beliefs. The pervasive Christianity at Eastern University may've flown over my head, but I know now to never wait -- always seize the moment.
How much has your invisible hand guided me through it all, I wonder.
Yes, I know I just said I didn't want to think about you.
Well, I'm doing that now.
When I've reached the climax of thelegendary Final Fantasy VI, when our heroes drag themselves out of despair and confront the mad Kefka far, far above the World of Ruin his newfound godhood had wrought -- nihilism and life-affirmation dueling among ascending peaks of raging fire and 16-bit operas -- are you there?
Every time I encounter the bonds of brotherhood in media -- Fullmetal Alchemist's trip to hell and back to restore Alphonse's body; Undertale'sstriking juxtaposition between skeletons Papyrus and Sans as molded by the player's morality, a certain SKET Dance character's retreat into isolation and self-blame following personal tragedy, Mother 3's fatal familial clash deciding the world's fate, and One Piece assuring a heartbroken Luffy he's not alone -- are you there?
Whenever I'm forced to confront life's sudden fragility, or the miracle of beating love between siblings in the real world -- be it comforting co-workers and bosses after they've lost their own brothers, or watching over the niece and nephew I know you would've loved very dearly -- are you there?
During the euphoric highs of achieving personal dreams -- looking out my plane window as we touch down in Los Angeles just before attending E3 2018, or when I interview a Nintendo game composer and inform him how much his work soothed the grieving process -- are you there?
Are you here now?
Can you hear me?
See me?
Feel me?
I can't do the same.
I'd very much like to.
But I can't.
I don't want it to be this way.
But it is what it is.
So what can I do?
I remind myself the world may not remember you, but I do.
I remember your humor -- the mischief compelling you to sneak into my room at night and introducing yourself as Jonathan, the man who lived in our attic. Maybe that evaporated in the last year I knew you, yet I still crack a grin at how you wrote "Rated R" on my fictional game posters.
I remember your smile -- the knowing grin that'd tease me as you'd recite the Pokémon opening theme, knowing full well how aggravated I'd get. Maybe that grew rarer over time, but I'll always treasure us reciting Spaceballs quotes in unison or how you'd provoke my juvenile gaming sportsmanship.
I remember your warmth -- the very same emanating from every hug you'd give me. Maybe I don't remember the last hug you gave me -- the one before you slunk off to rehab for the last time -- but I don't need that junk; all I need is that familiar glow circulating throughout my whole being.
I remember your passion -- the devotion to bands and music that developed our local musical scenes. Maybe our parents' aspirations for my becoming a fellow devotee of The Boss never came to fruition, but those occasions where they put his songs on full-blast were our household's most magical nights.
I remember the bad times, too -- but more than that, I remember how blessed we were for that drama-free summer before you passed. We played Mario one last time. We went to the movies one last time. There was no theft, there was no fear; just family.
More than anything, though, I remember your laugh, and the best part is, my brain's not necessary -- I just laugh at anything, and I hear you: that familiar, larger-than-life giggle that'd captivate the entire room. I don't need religious beliefs or enlightenment to recognize that.
Our parents love it, too.
Maybe I can do that, at least. Hearing you.
But it's through me.
You're not here, but I am. Maybe I'm not anyone special, but that only affirms my humanity: I'm struggling and living like anyone else. Even as grandparents die and cultural bedrocks lose their luster, I still have me; no, I still have us.
You might not be here, but there you are. Through the idealism I inherited from my mother, and the realism you obtained from our father, we can achieve anything.
Let's celebrate life together, for as long as I live.
Plays In: Various scenes Status: Original Composition Composed by: Yoko Shimomura
One of the joys of the Mario & Luigi games--and while I'm at it, Super Mario RPG--is affirming how much Yoko Shimomura gets the Mario universe. Her use of xylophones and the like don't just perfectly complement their respective games' playful, comedic nature: they bear the as Koji Kondo's original source material.
Bowser's Inside Story remains the pinnacle of the series, so it's no surprise its soundtrack remains Mario & Luigi's finest. Above is what's perhaps my favorite selection from the franchise: Have a Nice Talk, which is one of many names it's gone through no other apparent source but YouTube (aside from the fact that it's my personal favorite, we'll stick with that one for convenience). Often reserved for Bowser's overworld portions of the game, the Koopa overlord encounters a number of curious characters to this tune, not the least of which is Broque Monsieur and his horde of Blitties.
While short in length, this is probably my favorite Mario and Luigi song for more personal reasons. Back when Bowser's Inside Story landed in my hands during Christmas 2009, my life was in the dumps. My senior high school year was a bust in both social interaction and IEP management, my inability to speak up with my feelings set the course for a rather nasty online fallout, and the truth behind my disappearing video games would unravel an unspeakable betrayal...
My only solace, my one escape from the cruel world around me, was latest Mario & Luigi game and its antics.The return of Fawful meant NOA Treehouse's script-writing was at its finest, and the presence of Bowser --always the bratty showstopper in nearly every Mario RPG--was the icing on the cake. To this day, it still remains one of my favorite Nintendo localizations.
But it was Yoko Shimomura's score that captivated me most. From the treacherous winds of Cavi Cape to the funky Bowser's Insides rendition of Plack Beach, the music never failed to lift my spirits in the worst of times, even if it was only momentarily. Have a Nice Talk in particular was the most earwormy of the lot, and I was always turned to its respective YouTube uploads whenever I was sour. It was if it was saying "we know things with your brother are tough again, but Mario, Luigi and Bowser are still here to make you laugh, so please don't feel lonely."
To be fair, it took me a long time to believe that; overall, it took three different files in all to play through the game in its entirety, and it was soon only after my brother's death that I found the courage to complete it. It wasn't necessarily done in his memory, but rather as a means to once again escape from the pain (that fall's revisit of Mario Kart DS was far more relevant in regards to Michael). To my surprise, there was a finality to it all; for instance, I found the music's quality and message to be completely unfiltered, and not once were they ebbed away by imminent sadness.
It's undeniable that game music forges a strong, emotional people with gamers, but it never ceases to amaze me that even the tiniest of jingles resonate such evocative nostalgia. Much as people praise the final boss theme, the simple NPC conversation theme still remains my favorite. Not simply because it helped me through a dark time, but because now even now, I still have a future. Because even now, even when my social life is still in the gutter...
I'm still laughing.
Final Thoughts: Man, I can't wait to replay this next year!!
Plays in: Every night from 8 PM to 9 PM when your character avatar is outside.
Status: Original Composition
They say nostalgia is a hell of a drug, and I suppose that saying isn't so far off from the truth. Drugs are capable of granting euphoric highs, but their use only leads to suffering and a hollow existence. While nostalgia isn't quite as life-threatening, it can be equally cruel in breaking one's heart. It strikes suddenly, maybe upon the discovery of a long-lost photo album or the sight of an old friend. Gradually, the sugar-coated days of childhood and yesteryear flood your memory, along with the bitter realization that they are now a fantasy that can never be repeated. Get sucked into it too much, and you start living in the past. You know that feeling? I know it all too well.
For a while, Animal Crossing was the poster child of this tragic nostalgia for me. Animal Crossing is
unique in that each game possesses a "you had to be there" quality to
them. While the same could easily be applied to the earlier Pokemon titles, the melancholy associated with Animal Crossing is what makes it stand out to me more (that, and there was no mass exodus from the fanbase like Pokemon suffered from after Gold/Silver). With every new game, people flock to the latest entry and abandon their old towns. You have virtually the entire community shifting from one game to the next, and any form of villagers experiences immediately outdated. Of course, the games can still be played by newcomers, but I imagine there'd be a distinct loneliness to the experience (odd, given the large amount of intractable critters)
Much as I loved Wild World and dig New Leaf, the original Animal Crossing remains the series classic for me. It being an unexpected, overnight success in America eleven
years ago remains one of my favorite childhood memories of Nintendo,and I think so much of it has to do with that the style of the game hasn't really been replicated in future entries(since Wild World, every new Animal Crossing has followed in its footsteps). While the "scrolling world map" shift never bothered me like it did some people, the Gamecube game represents to me a version that is undiluted. I freaking adore the horned hats your player character wears .The village personalities are not the diluted pansies found in WW/NL, and will flip their shit at the drop of a pin. The soundtrack has only been finally rivaled with New Leaf's, and even then I don't believe it topples the masterful blend of eccentricity and forest life the original had.
Yet I can never play it the same way again. It's a completely different era now. No one trades furniture or NES game codes anymore. I'm no longer in fifth grade. I'm no longer interested in spamming the villagers' mailboxes with letters straight from my hyperactive mind. Not everyone who participated in the joys of Animal Crossing with me is in my current life, and I'll probably never speak to them again. Even with the references in New Leaf, I wonder if Nintendo even remembers it exists.
This song used to scare me recently. Before, the ten year old me sighed softly at it's entrance, knowing he was blessed with the mysterious reveries that soothed his heart, the presence wonderful friends, and the existence of the greatest cartoon comedy in the history of the world (that is, Spongebob Squarepants). It was beautiful. As a young adult, it's haunting. It makes me wonder if the magic of my youth was just fiction, something I just dreamed up. Was I really, in secret, a wistful old man trapped in a child's body? What if I was the only child in the whole country who reveled in hanging out with the internet "in-crowds," and knew that no one else at school would understand? Questions repeatedly flashed across my brain, and each one hurt more than the last. It didn't help that over the past year, I parted ways with my best friend, who loved the game just as much as I did, and I couldn't really bear to the think of Animal Crossing during the same period. Not since Mario Kart DS and its relation to the fiasco with my brother's drug addiction had I so desperately avoided a game.
Playing through New Leaf these days, I went back to my old Gamecube town recently to face my fears..Things weren't quite the same. Weeds and cockroaches flooded the fields and homes. Not every villager who'd been around before was still present. Out of the four people who made player profiles in the game, only three are still alive.
This song was playing, but I wasn't scared. I was laughing at how much I kept inducing the grumpy neighbors to endlessly scream at me, how Michael's memory was kept alive by the letters said neighbors were showing me (and who else would be? Admiral, the green bird he kept trying to piss off), closing my eyes in a familiar frustration as they were still mentioning that "Bob" happened to visit town just the other day (yeah, try ten years ago), wistfully shaking my head at the eye-assaulting, demented nature of my house, and smacked the shit out of Pompom the duck with my bug net. I wasn't really a kid again, no, but there's a certain joys to playing it with the mind of a matured adult.
Does 8 PM still haunt me? A little, but now I find the memories it evokes now resonate with fondness; in other words, the good kind of nostalgia.To this day, Animal Crossing is the perfect time capsule of who I used to be.
Origin: Donkey Kong Country (SNES, 1994)
Composer: David Wise
Plays in: Donkey Kong Country's four water levels: Coral Capers, Clam City, Croctopus Chase, and Poison Pond.
Status: Original Composition/Beloved Masterpiece
Analysis: I've said before that video games were once "just another toy" to me, which held true many years back. By this, I mean that my five-year old self wasn't in a rush to reach the Forest of Illusion in Super Mario World; rather, I'd tinker around with the first couple of levels or so--maybe dive for a bit into Mario's Fun with Letters and Street Fighter II--and then be on my way to force-feed peanuts into my Sesame Street stuffed animals. Having once dwelled in the playroom, the Super Nintendo was distinguished as being no different than the stack of cardboard blocks in the corner or my collection of Berenstain Bear books. Donkey Kong Country wasn't any special exception. Sure, my imagination with it went as wild as the child's mind could take it ("Mommy, does Donkey Kong live near Mario?" "Yes, dear."), and the lure of platforming monkeys isn't something so easily ignored, but was it what elevated my status to nerdom? No, that would be the N64's job. Donkey Kong and his family were just another host of cartoonish figures to be toyed around with for the day, not meant to spawn any actual meaning for me. Just a plaything, nothing more and nothing less.
Then you had the water music.
A vague memory still lingers of me, maybe five or seven, playing through the Coral Capers level and--save for the thumbs rested on the buttons--being rendered utterly still. I'm playing the game, but there's also that music. It's different, maybe a little haunting, yet kinda...beautiful? Whatever it was, it was something that entranced me. Like with every other game, I wasn't in a rush to reach the level, but it instilled an emotion I never felt before in a game.
Aquatic Ambiance still has that effect on me today. From a more adult perspective, it's inclusion is absurd. It has no purpose being in a game about two stupid primates beating up a gang of crocodiles just to get some bananas back, and yet Donkey Kong Country is all the better for it. When applied to the actual context of the game, what with being constructed with pre-rendered 3D graphics meant to capture a realistic jungle setting, the song successfully mingles with its atmospheric siblings DK Island Swing, Cave Dweller Concert, Northern Hemispheres, and the like.
Ah, but Aquatic Ambiance! That it's constantly singled out as being the best of the bunch is no secret. It was the first song David Wise composed for the game and holds the title of his favorite tune. It's the most popular song for fans to remix and publish for the world to see on OCRemix and Youtube. Shigeru Miyamoto demanded that the game's soundtrack be brought back for the Wii revival Donkey Kong Country Returns, but we all knew deep down he was just referring to Aquatic Ambiance. Orchestras, freaking orchestras, always focus on the piece in their Donkey Kong Country segments. It's beloved by game music fans the world over. But why?
At the end of the day, taste is taste, but the hypnotic beauty of Aquatic Ambiance makes it stand out from the rest. While its brethren take their time in setting up the stage, this one immediately embraces the player into a watery rapture and doesn't let go, sinking them into its euphoric depths. The other songs induce moments of danger, triumph, and isolation, yet Aquatic Ambiance is meditative throughout. A melancholic meditation, perhaps, but a calming one, too, nonetheless (push aside the thought that, again, we're discussing a game starring a gorilla. He's not the one meditating underwater. Actually, wait, scratch that, that's pretty fucking amazing).
And that's what's part of the secret (the calming effect, I mean). What's amazing is how the level design compliments the song: Donkey Kong's adventures above ground are cutthroat and precise, but the water levels bring the intensity down a notch and relax the player with dreamy music and calm direction. Sure, there's danger afoot, what with the pearl-spewing clams and crazy stalker octopuses hanging around, but the music makes it so they don't matter. It holds you tighter, saying "It'll be alright. And even if it won't, you'll get another shot if you die." Think about it this way: Whoever died in one of the water levels? It's always the mine-cart/ice mountain/factory crap that makes players scream in rage, yet no one pins the blame on the water levels. The funny thing is they're not even that great;I mean, remember how pissed off everybody was when the Donkey Kong Country Returns staff said they didn't want any underwater levels in the game because they'd distract from its exciting atmosphere? I guarantee you that no one actually gave a damn about whether or not Donkey Kong wanted to go for a swim; everyone was just secretly worried that this meant Aquatic Ambiance wasn't going to come back. I mean, don't gamers usually hate water levels or something? Donkey Kong Country fans are a feisty bunch (then again, when you're fed stuff like Donkey Kong: Barrel Blast, I don't really blame them).
But hey, it ended up being in the original game anyway, so there!
So since Aquatic Ambiance takes on a meditative state does it mean that, upon being introduced to its sound, gamers just zen out and reflect on life and the universe? Perhaps, it depends on who you are. Me? Typically, when I get absorbed into game music like this I envision myself exploring a more visualized replica of the level's environment and bask in its glory (Kirby games work wonders for this), but the water stages in which Aquatic Ambiance is featured tend to have really bland backgrounds so this isn't the case here. Aquatic Ambiance is rich enough to enjoy on a surface level, which is how I usually first approach it when I'm in the mood for a listen.
On a deeper level, what's really nice about Aquatic Ambiance is that it's a flexible meditation. It's both beautiful and melancholic, and I'm free to choose which direction to think in. On the more positive, thought-provoking side, you have the powerful awe of the ocean floor with the mysteries lying within. On the route the majority of the internet likes to take, a nostalgic sense of loss is laced throughout. The inaccessibility of childhood's magic, the simpler days of gaming, the disappearance of what we took for granted, and people who've come and gone.
That, and Michael. Readers may recall that after my older brother passed away three years ago, I forged this tribute that happened to feature Aquatic Ambiance. Other than the main theme from Mother 3, I couldn't think of a better song to embed. I used to watch Michael play, witnessing firsthand at just how much better he was at me, and I strived to be like that. Specific related memories regarding Donkey Kong Country and Aquatic Ambiance don't really exist, but the song struck a chord to the memory of a brother who grew more distant with each passing year.
If you dig deep enough into the actual page for the embedded video, you'll discover the previous bearer of the top rated comment: Me. Two months after his death, I wrote a quick comment about how whenever I was in mourning, I'd turn on Aquatic Ambiance and let the melancholy seep away. I was flooded with replies, and I was just sitting there absorbing the fact that total strangers on freaking Youtube were granting me well wishes and condolences. Like any Youtube comment section, it wasn't unusual for my post to receive deviant replies (special props to the guy who, after noting my usage of "up there", sent me a link implying my brother was burning in hell), but the whole experience left a warm mark on me. It's nice how video game music, of all things, connects people.
Does Aquatic Ambiance serve the same purpose two and a half years later? Kinda, but I've found I've unconsciously diverted Michael from the song. It's not as if I've outworn its use as a stress reliever, but the subject of a sibling's death is one I don't really want to mesh with Donkey Kong. Michael himself isn't a subject I solely dwell upon; rather, it's the functioning memories of a time when he was still himself that render his spirit alive. If anything, I've found that Masashi Hamazu's piano arrangement of Aquatic Ambiance for the German concert Symphonic Legends works wonders for the this. Don't blame me if you shed a tear.
And, for the heck of it, I'll throw in the Orchestral Game Concert's rendition as well. Wait for the minute mark.
Aquatic Ambiance still induces that trance-like effect on me. It's always wonderful when water music goes for that calming effect in games, but I've yet to find another track that emulates its level of hypnotic effect. Only Super Mario 64's Dire, Dire Docks comes close, which takes a different path anyway so I dunno if it's fair to compare the two (now in terms of best water music? Tough call). It's weird how much I heap praise on the song, since I probably wouldn't pick select Donkey Kong Country for a Top 25 Games list or even a Top 50 (love the game, but it's rather barebones these days), but that's the wonder of retro gaming for you. I'll always remember this as the first video game song I ever loved.
You rule, David Wise.
Final Reflection: I'm still kind of pissed they chose Stickerbrush Symphony to arrange for Super Smash Bros. Brawl over this, but considering how Michiko Naruke's arrangement ended up being far superior to the original, I guess it's not a big deal. No way they can overlook this for SSB4.
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And thus concludes my first installment of the music column!
i dont have much time on here so im going to be brief. i know youre still upset and still processing the situation, and thats completely fine with me. i know the gravity of what i did to you and that this isnt a situation thats going to be solved over night. i believe that the most important part of all of this is that there will be a positive outcome. i dont want to be the person i used to be and i am trying hard to make those changes in myself so that i can be the brother that you need and deserve. i know that i hurt you very deeply and i am willing to do whatever is neccessary to work towards rebuilding our relationship. i love you and care about you very much and i hope that in the long run this will be something that brings us closer. like i said, this isnt going to happen over night but through time i hope that this will make us stronger. i'm going to be home next thursday when you get home from school and we can talk more then. feel free to email me back with how you're feeling and what youve been thinking. i may not be able to check my account until next week but i promise i will write you back.
i love you,
michael
Written to me by my brother seven months before he died of a drug overdose at his apartment.
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It's been a year since my mother came home to tell me that Michael was dead.
A week after his death, I published a humongous tribute that took a tremendous amount of effort and perseverance to pen. The piece's worthiness was proven the moment my parents and Aunt Kathy approved of it before it was published, and it was celebrated by just about everyone in my family tree and even close relations. More than anything, though, it helped me. The thought of just taking Michael's death and just sitting there, something I had done for so long, didn't feel right, and creating some form of tribute would not only aid me in realizing and coping with my emotions, but allow me to share my feelings to the world and show that I wasn't just coping silently. Somehow I had unintentionally created the image of being a lonely recluse only interested in his hobbies over the years, and this one entry would aid me in coming out of my shell.
Seeing as how I've received comments that I'm beyond my years and that relatives had begun to see me in a different light because of that one entry, I suppose it was a success. It's not like that one post solved all of my problems; but it was a step forward, and for that I'm grateful.
And now, it's one year later.
They say that the first year is the hardest, and after last year's aftermath I still wonder if I've really processed it. I'd be lying if I told you that his death didn't have an effect on me, or that I wasn't trying to steel my mind for the week preparing for today, but the fact that he's gone is hard to comprehend. I think the best explanation for this is the mind tries to trick you into thinking that he's still alive despite knowing the fact that he's dead, as evidenced when my Mom and I were having a talk about him half a year later and she was just coming to terms that he was dead.
What really hammers this notion down is that he kept moving in and out of the house after his first brush with drugs. There was a pattern of him alternating between lodging with friends and then staying at our place after he screwed up with something. To me, I had become so used to this system that it just felt like he was never home, and his death hadn't changed that. In a way it was as if he had moved to another apartment, I would just never see him again. It softened the impact, but it still hurt.
This may seem irrelevant, but I want to bring up something I had discussed recently on here that I believe relates to this issue. I've been coming to terms with the fact that I suffer from an abundance of insecurities, all of which have hampered many aspects in my life and have defined certain unwanted qualities of myself that I've only recently begun to erase. Surprisingly, it's not as if I've only just become aware of them; several of these insecurities have been around for as long as I can remember and ingrained themselves as unconscious directives in my brain. It was during this summer that I finally sat down and not only acknowledged these insecurities, but why they were there and just how they hindered my life.
Case in point: My comfort zone. The one subject I didn't go into detail in my tribute was my brother's initial experience with drugs back six years ago. The reason why this happened was because 2005 is kind of a big blur to me (at least regarding anything past April) and most of what I remember wasn't really related to his addiction. As a result, I can't really give anyone any definite response as to how I felt about my brother's addiction back then. A good chunk of what I do remember, however, was basically all of the horrific bullshit hidden under the rug that one begins to notice after becoming a teenager. I won't bother going into the details, but I took it as a collapse of everything I had ever known and, being imbued with the trademark rebelliousness of young teenagers, concluded it as the world going to ruin and me being too good for nearly anyone. Other insecurities regarding peers and social skills (the "mentally retarded" issue I mentioned in my tribute works well here) solidified my beliefs, and my brother's addiction only served to be a footnote in my eyes.
Things weren't the same anymore. As 2006 rolled by, I had transformed into a completely different person, and it wasn't a result of maturity. Two years earlier, Spongebob Squarepants was still my favorite television show and I was hyped in anticipation for the Nintendo DS. Now, I was a meek, lonely individual who was fighting an internal battle in bringing back his past. I had become convinced that the events of the previous year had killed my interests and I convinced myself that it was a requirement to bring back everything I had ever loved. With the exception of my burgeoning interest in manga (Japanese comic books), everything else that was new became a kind of sideshow and it remained this way for years. Everyday conveniences and knowledge, from my cousins to manners to friends to worldwide issues and everything else became a distant memory.
My task, however, never succeeded. The habits that had begun in 2005, of which were lounging in my room and staring at my laptop all day and reading twenty year old Japanese books, had by then taken over my life. I had unknowingly developed a comfort zone that was my ultimate trap, and I was too scared to step out of it. I was too scared to spark my interest in old Mario games again, or try and communicate with my peers, or in reaching out to old friends, or anything. I was so scared of failure that I didn't bother to step out. I was torn between finding a new identity and being shackled to my past.
My ultimate fear, however, was the notion that as a result I had become an emotionless being who didn't harbor an interest in anything anymore. I took my disinterest in most games coming out or whatever was going on outside my life as a sign that I didn't care anymore, and I kept fighting against it. It hurt especially when in contrast to other people, who expressed the same glee I once had when in anticipation, and it only served to drive my point even harder.
And that's where this involves my brother. I also mentioned in my tribute how every other form of media described that losing someone in your family is the worst thing that can happen to you. It hurt to lose Michael, but it felt as if it was never as bad as other media had portrayed it. Sometimes, I was angry at myself for not caring more about the fact that he was gone even though it was obvious that I did feel it. Maybe it was just me used to the anguish I was embedded in years prior and I needed more of it so I could function in the environment I had lived in for what felt like an eternity. As this frustration eventually ebbed away, my previous explanation of him not being around made its mark on me, and I look upon it as my sole source of rationality in this ordeal.
This year has not been easy for me. As time goes on, I keep remembering certain stuff about him that will either never come to pass or now makes sense. We were watching the first volume of Kill Bill and he said we'd be sure to watch the second one. We won't be able to watch it together. After the truth had come out in regards to him stealing my video games and selling them off to score more drugs (the reason why he had sent that email in the beginning of this post), he bought a Lego Star Wars ship for us to build together. We'll never be able to finish it together.
Then there was the time Mom had mentioned to me when Michael had expressed he felt like he never had a great relationship with me. The more I think about it, the more I don't think that's necessarily true. He'd have a point if he was talking strictly about his drug years, where he was never really home and had more of a stern attitude, but we were tight before then. There were some notable differences, and my exuberance wasn't always a match for his more laid-back, serious tone, but we were genuine brothers. He gave me advice, we pulled pranks on each other, we both shared inside jokes regarding our parents, and we still played games with each other now and then. I'm not going to pretend Michael was some sort of saint, but he was just there.
And then there was one of my habits. Something I've done long since before his death.
I've always liked to daydream, but by far my favorite one is my future life. I'm living somewhere way, way out in the country, and my house is located in a beautiful greenery setting surrounded by trees and mountains. The interior of my house is much like the one I had initially grown up in, and is loaded with what everyone would expect me to have. Books and video games and systems are lined up across the walls, having evolved into a library of print and electronics. The flying pig figure I adored in my youth and the Mario figure in his Super Mario Galaxy pose are attached to my ceiling and are flying in circles in perfect sync. Posters and rare merchandise like the Super Mario World clock I bought last month are hung delicately on the walls. There is a room solely dedicated to my writing.
I am a famous writer. I have written numerous children's books and memoirs of my life. They're all best-sellers and I'm featured on the news. One day, I'm invited to make a speech and I arrive at the building that night. Whatever I'm saying lasts well over an hour, and I receive a standing ovation. My parents are there and engulf me in a bear hug. My cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and friends congratulate me on my success.
Michael is not there.
I've never imagined Michael being in my future. He's never come into my future house. He's never commented on my future writing. He's never read my future writing. He's not at my future family reunions. He's not at my wedding. It was just something I never thought about, something I took for granted, and what I never stopped to wonder why.
Now I know.
But right now, I'm happy.
We went to go visit his grave today. Today, there were no tears. Instead, there were the bird calls my Dad was still imitating from the Barney soundbook I owned god knows how many years ago. They placed flowers on his grave, which I'm sure violated his code of "nothing gay, Mom." My parents left me to be alone with him for a while, and then I placed my hands on the grave and just felt him for a while. Then I sat down and talked. I still loved him, everything was forgiven.
I parted with him for the day and then made the trek over to the giant cross right at the edge of the cemetery. It's an uphill climb, and it's not easy. But I made it. I clambered onto the oversized plaque and stared out at the rows and rows of hills and sidewalks and gravestones. I stared into the sky and then down at the sight before me and longed for the ability to leap way across into the greenery. The blessings from those who rest there would keep me afloat, and if by chance I did fall, he would catch me, and toss me back to where I started, and then I'd do it again.
I am a happy man now. I now know who I am in life and what I enjoy and what I love. The insecurities I've had were overblown factors from a terrible teenage life and now I'm ready to step out of them. Life isn't perfect. I'm still scared of certain things, and there's lag and delay in what I want to accomplish, but I feel. I'm genuinely enjoying and looking forward to what's happening in my current hobbies. I'm looking to reaching out to a whole new world in college and getting to know an entirely new social circle. I'm ready for my future.
And I know he'll watching me every step of the way.
I remember I was somewhat upset at the condition of the basement. There was some sort of leak with the air conditioner or whatever and it got onto the floor, so we had to pull back the carpets and crowd all of my game consoles and furniture onto one side of the room. There wasn't much space after it was done.
"I can't play video games in this condition," I mumbled. It had been a stressful week, and I intended to play Tales of Symphonia and Kirby's Adventure for the rest of the day to let it all out. After pacing back and forth, I realized there wasn't much point in fretting over this. There'd be plenty of time to play games. I'd just have to find something else to do.
It was an entertaining morning. A friend and I were texting inside jokes from our visit the day before, and I was chatting with another friend about the glory days of the Super Nintendo. It's so surreal how I wasn't around for it during its time, yet I still believe it's the greatest console ever made. I thought back to how my brother Michael used to play Super Mario World and Donkey Kong Country. "He sure used to love games," I commented, thinking back to how we played Goldeneye, WWF Warzone and Mario Party together. The technican guy came over later and took a look at our dilemma. It turned out he had a misinformed report, but he still had the necessary tools in order to the job done. Real friendly guy. All in all, it was a fun day.
Then Dad called.
There was something in his voice. I couldn't tell...he was just asking me if the guy came over. If I took Carlo out. He was weary with sighs. He hung up. I didn't really think much about it.
I was hanging around downstairs with the dog when Mom arrived home. She was staring at her phone. The moment I said hello, she told me to have a seat on the couch.
I recognized that tone instantly.
As I took a seat down on the ottomen, my mind raced with possiblities. Was everything okay? Did someone die? Was a grandparent in the hospital?
My mom took a deep breath and looked at me. "You know about your brother's drug problem..."
I flinched, then closed my eyes solemnly and my head drooped. It was just like the time when I was told back in May he had relapsed. I waited, preparing once again for the flood of details. Back to rehab, some douchebag friend sold him drugs, he committed some sort of backstabbing act. I was ready.
"He had an overdose."
My eyes shot back open and I stared back at her, unbelieving. It was so silent. I could feel it in my throat. Was he alrig-
"He's dead."
It was then I noticed how red her eyes were.
Then I took in what she just said to me.
I could feel my head shaking. I just stared at her face. My mind was repeating that over and over. He was dead.
Michael was dead.
"Let me look into your eyes," I begged her.
She choked up. "I wouldn't lie about this, Anthony..."
I wanted to say it. I wanted to say that I did believe her. I just wanted comfort. I didn't get it out.
I sighed. My eyes darted up and down and back to her. Then I just accepted it. Just like that. Michael's dead. All of a sudden, everything didn't matter anymore. I told Mom that I would live every day in his memory. I'd do it for him. We hugged so hard. I went upstairs to inform the world.
My brother is dead.
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It's been seven days since Michael's death.
A whole week. And it has gone by so fast since then. And life will go on. It will go on tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and so on.
In all of this, I keep thinking of back to when I was nine years old. I was an excited little boy, hyped up in preparation for the Gamecube console, recently introduced to the wonders of Cartoon Network, and had begun reading the newspaper. Thanks to two of those elements, there were a couple of thoughts that raced across my mind, of which I silently assumed would come true: I would play Super Smash Bros. Melee every day after it came out, and I will cry every single day after a family member dies.
I was wrong about both things. I haven't genuinely had fun with Melee in over six years, and it took me three days to shed tears over my brother's death.
It's weird. Through so many forms of media, whether it be the news or movies or books or games or television, it's been expressed so many times that losing a family member can be the worst thing to happen to you. And you know something? Until the viewing the other day, I was very composed about this situation, despite that this is the first death I've experienced in the close cluster of my family tree.
The fact that my first experience with death is my older brother is heartbreaking enough. I'm going to have to start my first year in college with this hanging over my shoulders, and my first job, and my first date, and throughout the rest of my life. And yet, I'm just sitting here. As of this writing, I'm sure it still hasn't really sunken in. Maybe it has to do with my brother being in and out of the house over the past five years. Maybe I'm just resilient and refuse to go down. All I know is that my brother is dead, I'm probably more in denial then I think, and everyone in my family, particulary my parents and those over fifty, are devastated.
I've decided to live in his memory every single day for the rest of my life. But that's not good enough for me. I can't just go on living and not forge some sort of tribute for someone who was in my life for eighteen years.
This is a tribute to my brother Michael. Someone who I thought would be with me my entire life.
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I remember a ton of facts about Michael when we were younger, and they're still sprouting up one by one. Batman was his childhood hero. He held a brief fascination with Wallace and Gromit. He played with Legos. He liked watching The Simpsons until "kids started watching it". He used to read Calvin and Hobbes. We adored forbidden material in South Park and Spaceballs.
And, of course, staying true to his title as a big brother, he teased the crap out of me.
I remember when I was planning up my imaginary video game, Anthony Pelone 64. I drew a poster for it and when no one was looking, he put "Rated R" on it. He warned me that the fire alarm in the basement would blow up the house. He imitated the creepy death notice from Oregon Trail. He'd sneak into my room late at night and say, "Hey, Anthony. It's me, Jonathan. I live in the attic."
Then he drew a picture of a robot stating, "Anthony is cool!" It's hanging up on the stairwell heading down to the basement. I still think it's a trick.
Michael never stopped at just pestering me. He would take jabs at virtually everyone else in the family. He delighted in mimicking my father's mannerisms ("HEAVEN ALMIGHTY GOD FORBID NEVER IN ALLLL MMYYYY LIFFEEE") and found it particularly hilarious when I would copy his every move during church. He liked to imitate voices of our grandparents, and our mom commanding us to "Sit on the step!" He wasted no time into twisting something around and reverting it to toilet humor. He even picked up on some of my own traits, taking part in the "Morning Dad/Evening Mom" gag, and of course the "Smelling Noise". He was the typical jack-of-all-trades smartass.
And yet, Michael would always be willing to lend a hand. He'd assist me with math he himself had done years earlier. He helped me get my amateur webcomic site up on Geocities. Every now and then, he'd help me get through a tough stage in a game. He'd always be serious about helping me, being honest and even blunt about what we could and couldn't do.
I think looking back, that was what I admired most about Michael. I've always felt insecure about voicing my concerns in fear of being criticized. I would always cower in an argument. Very rarely did I ever stick up for myself. That wasn't Mike. If he had a problem with something, he'd let it be known. He was headstrong about his beliefs, and yet at the same time he would feel guilty about his mistakes. He could admit he did things wrong.
..Most of the time.
I noticed Michael grew a lot more serious in his teens. It was weird. He could still joke around, but everything seemed to be serious business for him after his first brush with drugs. As the years passed by, his tone grew deeper, his speech slurred. The only things that really seemed to matter to him were going out with friends and listen to music. Maybe that's why it became hard to approach him over time.
But even then, there was a certain warmth to Mike. He wasn't always around for me, but I knew he loved me. He cared deeply for his parents. He had a large number of friends, many of which I know he had fallen out with. Being around Michael, one could be themselves and laugh and be happy.
I could. It felt nice to hug him.
-------
There's a song I've been listening to over the past week. It has, for some ungodly reason, helped me more than any other song in dealing with Michael.
And here it is.
The theme song to the cartoon adaption of Pokemon.
Yeah.
I have a large history with this song. When I was seven years old, I was an absolutely rabid fan of Pokemon. The games, the toys, the show, the movies, the card game, I loved it all. I pretty much ate, slept, and breathed Pokemon. My brother held a neutral interest in the series, sitting comfortably at the sidelines only dabbling into the card game every now and then. Of course, his smartass nature wasted no time in making fun of the anime origins of the show (and yes, you too, Dad), but thanks to a certain practice of mine, it was taken to the next level.
My grandmother gave me a radio one Christmas, and I think around the same time I received a CD that was based off of elements from the Pokemon cartoon. Track numero uno was the full version of the theme song. Every day, I'd turn it on full blast, and listened to that one song for hours on end. In no time at all, everyone in the house had memorized the lyrics. This, of course, included Michael.
And then he started singing it. It would drive me insane! Not only was it embarassing, it was supposed to be my song! He would receive a quick smack in the gut or on the back in retaliation. That never stopped him, though. It became a well-known running joke. Long after I outgrew the cartoon, he wouldn't stop. The song had grown into an abomination in my eyes, and he knew it. Mom told me the other day he'd crack up to himself before heading off to perform it, no doubt foreseeing my reaction beforehand.
When I visited him in rehab back five years ago, he said he drew a card for me. When I took a look at it, it was a crudely drawn picture of series protagonist Ash Ketchum, who sported a dopey look I'll never forget, telling me we had to go on an adventure. I'm pretty sure he belted out the song lyrics, too.
Looking back, that was probably my favorite moment of Michael. He was going through a period of suffering and even then he still found the time to poke fun at his younger brother. Classic.
I listened to this song for the first time in ages a few days ago on Youtube and surprisingly enough on iTunes, and no sooner did Mewtwo leap across space I was taken back to the days of 1999. Back when the only things that mattered to me were Nintendo, Pokemon and Nickelodeon. Back when Michael was still a troublemaker but was still a valuable member of the family. Back when everything was just right.
Back when Michael still liked wrestling.
-----
You know something? Once upon a time, Michael had a hobby other then music. It's an activity that's phased out over the years. It was wrestling.
The room I'm sitting in right now was filled to the brim with wrestling memoribillia. Posters of Steve Austin plastered the walls, various magazines made their home in Mike's growing closet, and I think maybe he even put some of the action figures on display. He was just as hardcore about wrestling as he was about his eventual permenant hobby, I'm dead serious.
Oh, and by the way, it was back when it was still called WWF.
Aforementioned "Stone Cold" Steve Austin was Mike's favorite wrestler. I still don't see the appeal, he looks like every other muscular guy out there. Now Kane, there was a badass. Anyone who is decked out in complete red and black and wears a mask has my approval. Naturally, those were who we played as in the Nintendo 64 wrestling games. He'd always beat me. In one of them, Warzone, there was a Create a Wrestler mode I spent a lot of time with. Another thing that amused Mike was that I'd always end up making big fat guys dressed up in a gaudy white outfit with glasses and high heels.
Michael would talk about wrestling all day. I remember while scanning through one of his magazines, he'd tell me how you can actually send fan mail to the wrestlers and they might even write back. I wanted to send one to Kane. I still might want to. I'd say, "Hey, back when my brother was really into wrestling, I thought you were the coolest guy ever. If you see Steve Austin, tell him how much my brother Michael admired him. He was his favorite."
One special memory I have with Michael and wrestling was about twelve years ago. We headed out with Dad to watch a WCW match, and I still remember being in awe of the size of the stadium. We could barely see the wrestlers from our seats, they were like ants. There is one, and only one thing I remember about this match. Goldberg, who I always thought had an uncanny resemblance to Austin, had performed an upset that sent the crowd wild. Cheers quickly arose, "Goldberg rules! Goldberg rules! Goldberg rules! Goldberg rules!"
I didn't like Goldberg, either. Before I knew it, I yelled out, "Goldberg STINKS!!!!"
We joke about that every now and then. Wrestling, good times.
And then ten years ago, all of that disappeared. Posters were in the trash, the magazines were gone, and I never saw those N64 games ever again. I asked him, "Why don't you like wrestling anymore?"
"Because it's fake," he replied. And that was the end of that. I don't think I heard him mention wrestling ever since.
-------------------
Everyone who knew Michael in real life shared some sort of connection to his one and only hobby: Music.
Michael loved music just as much as I love video games, and that is a hell of a thing to say. After his obsession with wrestling ended, Michael started picking up various bands like he had known them his entire life. The Get Up Kids. Jimmy Eat World. Alkaline Trio. Wheezer. Green Day. He even inherited our folks' love of Bruce Springsteen and started a band.
And you know what? I can't tell you a thing about any of them.
I largely ignored Michael's passion, and I could tell the feeling was mutual. He liked music, I liked video games. We were interested in each others hobby in one way or another (He preferred retro games, I like video game music), but we never made an attempt to dive into each others world. And we were cool about with that. We didn't try to force our hobbies onto one another.
When my brother was lodging in my uncle's apartment four years back, he took me out to see a concert for what I believe was for Saves the Day. It was an interesting experience. Michael got to take a photo with Chris Conley and later commented how stupid his face looked. I didn't see what the fuss was about, he looked like the same old Michael to me. Kind of like Mom and her reaction to my bed hair.
I've talked to quite a few of Michael's friends since the viewing and read the consistent stream of mourning on his Facebook wall, and they've told me how much of an influence Michael had on them with their music experience. Through this one hobby, Michael had touched so many people I never knew about. My cousin Joe, who had grown up with Michael, told me the very same thing.
It is for this reason that I am so proud of him. Thank you all for being there for my brother.
-----
I suppose considering that this is a blog about video games, I'd have to include them as well.
One of my very first memories is playing with Michael's Super Nintendo. We had Super Mario World. Donkey Kong Country. Earthworm Jim. Super James Pond (Yes, Pond). Mario's Early Years: Fun With Letters. Back then, he was always the one playing games. He played Mario World and Country daily. I wasn't very serious about them. Video games were just another toy to me.
Then he received a Nintendo 64 for his birthday in 1998. Everything changed. Before I knew it, the console gripped me into its clutches and I converted into a Nintendo freak for life. Michael began ordering from Nintendo Power magazine. The very first issue we ever received is lying shredded somewhere in the basement. Many issues from that era are, actually. I've begun replacing them.
Michael was big on the 64 during its first year in the household. We both played Bomberman 64 together, and he always beat me as the White Bomberman. Then we played Mario Kart 64. I stunk at it, I'd always end up at last place in Yoshi's dust. I'd always throw a hissyfit when I lost in the luck-based Mario Party. "It's just a game," he'd tell me.
"YEAH, BUT I LOST!!!" I'd scream back.
I think something changed after Super Smash Bros. came out. Kirby was his character of choice, but he was no match for Ness. I could beat him in a video game for once! Then Michael stopped playing. Michael slowly lent the reigns for the console to me, and it was pretty much just myself playing for a while. When the Gamecube came out, video games had become a thing in the past for him. He did participate in Animal Crossing, in which he created a girl character named "anthony" and his sole purpose was to piss off a grumpy bird neighbor by the name of Admiral. During the Gamecube/PS2 era, he watched me play a couple of games and made sparse comments on them, on which my personal favorite was on Donkey Konga ("Look at Diddy Kong, doing his gay little dance down there"). He seemed fascinated with the Wii, commenting on how cool it was you could download old games.
On August 4th, he spent the night at our house. He texted me at night, saying that he was playing Goldeneye downstairs and asking me to tell him when I got off the computer so he can do his business. I replied saying I was just about done, and he came back up. Before I went to bed, I told him he could use my computer as long as he wanted. "Thank you, good night," he told me.
I went back downstairs the next morning and saw that his favorite video game was still inside the Nintendo 64. The volume was turned down, just the way he liked it. It was the last video game he ever played.
And that was the last time I ever saw him.
---------------------
The day after Michael died, I walked downstairs and Mom was waiting for me with his laptop.
"I think he'd want you to have this."
Amazingly enough, it had been one of the few precious items he hadn't sold off.
I took it upstairs into my room. One of the first things I noticed was that he was still active on his Facebook. I logged him out for the last time. It runs okay. The web browser repeatedly freezes, and it's a pain. It could be a virus, his Norton service expired. We're thinking we should wipe the data off of it, but I'm not so sure.
His wallpaper is pure white, except for a photo in the middle of an ocean, baked in sunlight and accompanied by a cursive subtitle, "I want to remember how this feels". I wonder who took that photo, if my brother had a history with that picture. If you look it up on Google, it's on there. I'll never know.
I looked through his documents. There is a plethora of music tracks. His iTunes has played at least 15,919 songs. Joe tells me he has listened to so much more then that. Many of them aren't saved and don't play. Looking closely, there's still a CD inside: "The Best Of" by the Gin Blossoms. I listen to it for a bit, it's nice.
There's quite a few written notes and excerpts for school. One of them documents "Substance Abuse" and I shuddered when I read it. In it, Mike writes about a chapter in his textbook that covers the use of drugs. He rarely mentions his own addiction. He states the various categories of drugs, warning signs, the relative ease of locating drugs, and the supposed harmlessness of marijuana in comparasion to other drugs, a subject he once talked to me about before.
It was written five months before he took me on vacation.
--------
I've said this over and over again. There's a lot about Michael I don't know. I don't know all of the bands he listened to. I'll never know the true meaning behind his computer wallpaper. I'll never know why he did drugs.
But there's a bigger, more universal question that I've been asking all of my life.
Why do people use drugs?
To the younger generation out there, do you recall the D.A.R.E officials that would come over to your school? I remember them. They would carefully detail the effects of drugs. drunk driving, and smoking. The big three hazards. They'd write on the board, show (admittedly incredibly trippy) videos, and have us act out skits. Drugs, alcohol, and smoking. Don't use them, they'd say.
And I listened to every word.
To this day, I remain clean. I've never bothered with a cigarette, never even been near a harmful substance, and tested out beer under the watch of my father only to spit it out immediately and declare it to be the worst thing I've ever tasted. I'd like to think I'm still right. And yet, a lot of people out there didn't listen. People are ruining their lungs and gaining absolutely nothing while smoking, teenagers host drinking parties without supervision, and human lives are warped by drugs in the worst ways possible.
I want to focus on why teenagers abuse these hazards. I've asked the same question over and over to friends, acquaintances and family members: Why do kids do drugs?
"To be cool," they'd answer back. The lone exception was Mom, who'd say it was to relieve stress. It was the same answers for smoking. It was the same answers for drinking. I still don't get it.
I'm not going to pretend I know how drugs work. I'm not interested in looking the effects up, and I sure as hell don't want to find out for myself. But it all seems to be centered around in the pleasurable feelings these poisons provide. Knowing this detail, I gotta ask you drug addicts a question: Was your normal life not good enough for you?
I'm talking about your interests, your hobbies, friends and family. The things that mattered and were actually productive and made you feel good and have fun without hurting yourself. Instead, you abandoned all of that and decided to engage in substances that damage your body and kill you. Is this a joke? Are people so desperate to fit in that they'd resort to using drugs despite knowing the danger?
Being cool. I laugh. I want to tell you all a story.
I'll let you on to a little secret: I was one of the most popular kids in the 6th grade, and the one reason for that was I was a great storyteller. I could make my classmates howl into laughter by producing wacky voices, making rapid movements and create some really fantastic characters. It was one of the funnest periods of my life, and some of my finest school memories are erected in that era.
Then I stopped. I realized that popularity and being cool didn't mean shit. I slowly began to catch on how kids my age were treating me as if I was a preschooler, and then I caught the rumor that there was the belief I was mentally retarded. I stopped talking, I moved to the back of the classroom. Just about everyone forgot about the glory days of Anthony, and you know what? I was fine with that. If my middle school only saw me as the little kid who's sole worth was to act like a buffoon and not for who Anthony Pelone really is, then there really was no point. I never bothered to reenter my student body until 12th grade.
Being popular, while fun, did nothing for me. In fact, it hurt me. And I never once thought of using drugs to get me back on track or to relieve pressure.
The fact that teenagers are throwing away their well being by using drugs and cigarettes for the prospect of something so worthless pisses me off more than nearly anything else.
I don't know why Michael decided to use drugs. Did he think he'd fit in? Did he feel it'd ease the pressures of college? Did he do it for the sake of trying it? Whatever it was, it was a horrible miscalculation that sent him on a road of false bliss, deceit, guilt, and finally to his death.
If I see a drug dealer on the street, I am going to beat the living shit out of him.
-------
I celebrated my 18th birthday last year on November 12. How did I feel? Like a piece of shit.
My senior year was not turning out the way I thought it would. I clashed with members of my IEP team regularly, whom I had difficulty working with and I'm sure they found me tough to deal with as well. Looking back, only in a time of grief do I accept that half of them were new at their job and were probably just as scared as I was. Relationships gradually turned sour with certain friends online, and after some unusually insensitive arguments that really hurt my feelings (not to mention made me feel incredibly inadequate about myself for months), I realized it wasn't worth it anymore and I stopped hanging out with most of them. People, I thought, weren't taking me seriously.
Mom told me that Michael heard about the rough times I was going through and felt bad about it, so he proposed taking me out to New York City around a week after my coming of age. I jumped at the possibility. NYC is up there with Sea Isle City as my top favorite vacation spot, and while I'm someone who prefers the tranquility of the countryside, I feel like I can never get enough of that fresh city atmosphere. Most of all, I got to spend quality time with the brother who had been absent for several months. We could get to connect again.
He arrived the day before. We discussed our game plan and got up early. We arrived downtown via train and he started cursing out some bus driver, I smiled, knowing that he was the same old Michael.
New York City was just as big and frantic since my last visit three years ago. We once again nabbed a quaint hotel suite. The pretzel stands were as delicious as ever. I stared intensely at how tall the buildings were. I soaked in so much of the atmosphere.
I had so much fun when we set out on our seven-hour trek. We visited, where else, the Nintendo World Store and I ravaged everything in sight. We noticed a set of Mario wall decals we absolutely had to purchase, and that was the highlight of our day. We visited various Japanese-oriented stores and I browsed/bought anime DVDs/manga volumes. He bought me a calendar. I watched my brother enforce his street smarts numerous times to beggars. I loved it.
It was night when we got back. Michael told me he needed to get some rest, so he lent me his laptop and wandered off to his room. Not a problem, I thought, I had all of my new things to keep me company. I started watching Gurren Lagann and everything was okay for a little while.
It then became eerily quiet inside that apartment.
Abruptly, the room became hot. I didn't feel well. None of what I had bought satisfied me, for I had suddenly become incredibly lonely. I couldn't read, I couldn't watch, I couldn't play, and I couldn't browse. All I could think about was Michael. I had to check on him.
He was just lying there. Not moving. I was scared. I raced back to my room and called my parents and exclaimed how frightened I was. They told me to go wake him up. After several attempts, he swiftly rose up and panted like he had seen a ghost. After a brief talk with Dad, he informed me I should talk to him instead if there was a problem. He went back to sleep.
The rest of the trip went by uneventfully.
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What happened after that absolutely broke me.
Michael went up to my parents a week later and admitted he had relapsed and used drugs behind my back. Off he ventured once again to rehab, and I sat in my room, thinking of another problem. I had been checking through my gaming library recently, and titles were mysteriously absent. It was something I had begun noticing in the summer, and it was only then I had realized a disturbing pattern had begun. A third, if not nearly half, of my Wii library vanished; three of my DS games had gone missing; and even Pikmin 2 (GC) and Tales of the Abyss (PS2) disappeared as well.
It was then I realized a couple of the missing titles hadn't been touched since I had beaten them over two years prior. Games like that don't just slip away. They aren't taken to a friend's house. They aren't placed into a backpack somewhere, and they aren't shoved underneath a couch. I had kept them on display and they were gone. Someone was stealing my games, and I was intent on finding out who.
My parents weren't so sure about my deduction, and my brother was unbelieving when I told of him of my suspicions. "Who could have stolen them?"
But I knew. I took the games closest to my heart and hid them in a bag. I took pictures with my phone of my shelves, so I'll remember their exact order. I shuffled through my memory, trying to figure out who could possibly have done such a thing. Then it hit me.
It couldn't be him. It couldn't be. I spent a month and a half trying to convince myself it wasn't him. My life had become total hell. My school life still sucked, the echoes of the arguments repeated in my mind over and over, my brother was in rehab, and now the sources of entertainment that kept me close and comforted me during rough times and were just there were being taken one by one.
It was two days after the new year that Mom told me the newfound truth.
A week before he took me out on vacation, right after my birthday, and I'm sure even before then, my brother barged into my rooms and nabbed roughly 15 of my games and sold them off at Gamestop.
I was shocked. I was mortified. I was crushed. I...was heartbroken. The brother I had loved and trusted and stood by used my favorite things in the whole world as tools to further his addiction. All I did was lie in bed that day. I talked with Michael on the phone later. He talked, and talked, and talked, and talked, and he didn't let me have a word in. Not once.
The next morning, Dad called me. He had a talk with Mike about our chat, and he said that he "got a lot of things off of his chest". I reacted in rage. HE was the one who got to vent? HE was the one who had to get it out of his mind? HE was the victim now? I screamed. I cried so hard and screamed and pounded on my bed.
I began to go back. Michael first began using drugs back in 2005, which I'll always remember as the worst year of my life. The days where I spent withdrawn in my room, never interacting with the outside world, slowly made their way back to me.
It was like that for a whole month.
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I don't think I ever forgave him.
I tried to avoid him, long after he apologized to me in person and sat down and I finally got to speak from my side of the story. I asked him, "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" "Did you think about the consequences this would bring?" Even when he answered me honestly, even when I told him I wanted him home, I still couldn't forgive him.
Michael slowly drifted out of our lives after that. He lived in an apartment nearby a rehab center, and he looked okay, he seemed happy. But I still held a grudge. I didn't want to be near him.
It was only after our last family night out together, going out to see Toy Story 3 last month, did we all truly enjoy being together. Maybe this could work. Maybe I can just move on and improve our relationship.
I'll never get that chance.
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Tuesday was the viewing.
I'll never forget when I saw his body. It was just lying there, looking so thin. I calmly made my way over and took a good look. His eyes were closed. Guitar picks were cradled into his hands. He felt cold. He looked like he was sleeping. This couldn't be my brother, I thought. It looked like someone had made a wax mannequin of him.
I felt tears come to my eyes. But I sent them away. "Not yet."
It still didn't feel real.
Cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles filled the rooms. Some of them were crying, others silently looked on. I only just stared. Before I knew it, dozens of neighbors, family friends and so many people I didn't know were sitting down. The decon gave a sermon. He told us that we shouldn't be thinking of this as a time of Michael's death, but more of as if God had a special job for him to do. His speech ended quickly, the viewing went on. So many friends came by.
I stared at Michael's body. I looked back at the crowd of total strangers. I singled out people I knew. I gazed at the pictures of Mike, of his days as a child, teenager and young adult. I was looking at pictures of my dead brother. I couldn't take it anymore, I had to get some fresh air.
Joe and his girlfriend escorted me out. We took in the evening air and walked around to the curb. We sat down, I was in the middle. No one said anything. My head dropped and I stared at the ground.
"It only feels worse," I said.
"Yeah?"
It was the truth.
It was still silent. People walked by and gave me their condolences. As an aunt walked off, I remembered something.
I took out my phone, entered my messages folder and handed it over to Joe.
"Look."
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Six days ago.
It was August 4th, and I was worried.
I had decided to go visit a friend's house, and since my parents weren't available to drive me over, they thought it'd be a good opportunity for me to take the bus by myself for the first time. I was educated on where to wait, how much money I should have, and scheduling. Even then, I couldn't help but worry.
Michael walked in on our conversation and showed me a neat gadget on my new phone. If I typed in an address, I could actually find out bus times heading out to that location. It was definitely a great help.
The next morning, I sat at the bus stop and waited. And waited. It was ten minutes late, and I was beginning to worry it'd never come until it suddenly appeared in view. It was a fun experience, and unlike how I was told, there was hardly anyone aboard and I had plenty of room.
Later that night, I texted Michael about it. This was his reply.
"Good I'm glad it was successful. And remember you can always find out bus times on your captivate like I showed you!"
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Joe studied that message with keen eyes.
"That was the last thing he ever said to me," I told him.
"Oh, really?"
I started shaking. The tears were coming, I couldn't stop. "Even..even until the very end..."
He hugged me.
"Even until the very end...he was still looking out for me. He loved me."
Even after all of the horrible things Michael had done to me and my family, even after all of the suffering and guilt and pain he went through, he still loved me. He was looking out for me. Like a big brother should.
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I've been told so many times throughout my life that when someone goes to heaven, everything is automatically okay. They're at peace, they are no longer suffering, and are in the warm embrace of God watching over us.
I don't know. It's one thing if someone knew they were going to die, but what if you died in an accident? What if you didn't want to die?
I know Michael. When he went to heaven, the gravity of the situation must have hit him. I'm sure he was scared. He cried, cursed at himself, and realized he wouldn't be able to see me or his parents or anyone else he knew for a long, long time.
One of the things that Dad told me about this stuck to me. He felt that God realized Mike had suffered too much on Earth. He was embedded too much in his addiction, suffered so much guilt and shame that it was time for him to go. Maybe that decon was on to something. Michael was unable to continue living with us in life, but maybe up in Heaven he'd find his true purpose. I know that right now, he's looking down at us, just watching. He's helping God and the angels listen to the proper music, and guiding every one of us to the right path in our lives.
Michael once confided to Mom that he felt as if he never had a proper relationship with me. He won't be able to get the chance to improve it. I won't be able to introduce him to Video Games Live. I won't be able to show him the new Donkey Kong Country. I won't be seeing him for an extraodinary long time. But Michael's suffering is over. And he can watch over me. And that's what counts.
Mike, I just want you to know that even after everything you did...I still considered you my brother. I still thought of you as part of my life. And even when I tried to avoid you, I sincerely wanted you to get better. While you might not be here with us..as my uncle said, in our hearts you will live forever.
