I was thirteen years old when Radiohead's first album, Pablo Honey, was released. For several months I had been hearing the single "Creep" on the radio, and as a fan of "college and alternative rock" music, particularly from the United Kingdom, I considered myself a harbinger of this burgeoning genre. The album was released in February, so I found myself bicycling downtown after school on a Tuesday to purchase it in particularly nasty winter conditions. Five months earlier, I had had my Bar Mitzvah, which is a Jewish rite of passage symbolizing one's progression into manhood. It is customary to receive money from extended family members in celebration of this occasion, and pledging to put the largest amount of money I had ever possessed in my life to good use, I purchased a stereo for my room that included a CD player, which was a relatively new technology at the time. Compact discs replaced cassette tapes and vinyl records in a technological shift more abrupt than any other within my lifetime. Suddenly, these shiny, iridescent pieces of plastic were musical gold, empowering listeners to experience music in ways never before imaginable. I vowed to amass the greatest library of music I possibly could, above and beyond of any of my peers at school, and now, almost half a year later, my budget was running out, but my tastes and collection had expanded to the point that all of the record store employees in town recognized me by name. I considered myself a bit of an expert with this expanded knowledge, and even fancied myself as a fledgling journalist, a conossieur of cool, and an expansionary educator of impressionable fellow middle school minds. I started a column in my school's newspaper, The Communicator, and even created charts for those interested in discerning the truly hip from the tragically overhyped, the red hot to the just plain not of future musical crops. Along with this great perceived power came a tremendous amount of perceived responsibility; I vowed to scour any and all channels of information to discover real talent amongst a carnival of dizzying rides and rigged games being pimped by the carnival barkers of the music industry. I spent most nights glued to the radio, flipping between college stations from Ann Arbor, Detroit, and Windsor, often with blank tapes loaded in my stereo's dubbing system, eagerly awaiting the next new creative influence or sound that exuded all previous influences. When I found something I liked, I spent hours studying it, listening to it over and over until every note had been branded in my brain like a tattoo and I had broken the combination to the safe that held the secret formula to concoct the most powerful speeds and sedatives of rock and roll. I discovered new bands that would eventually destroy all notions of popular culture in music, like Nirvana, and Nine Inch Nails, and Pearl Jam. I also discovered artists who would not go on to achieve the same level of commercial success, like the New Fast Automatic Daffodils, Ned's Atomic Dustbin, and the Mighty Lemon Drops. There were hundreds of bands that became my obsession; in an era that pre-dated the notion of an Internet that resembled one gigantic web rather than several hundred small nets, I relied on magazines, record stores (and their employees), and radio DJs to help me win the scavenger hunt of self-definition through awesome musical tastes, and this included more than just the new and current artists and sounds. It included a back-catalogue that required extensive research and absorption as well. I joined various record clubs, quickly schooling myself on the sounds from the past that had paved the way for the sons and daughters of the revolution such as myself: The Smiths, The Doors, and one particular hero from my own hometown, my own neighborhood, in fact, a man who had attended the same middle school as myself, walked the very same halls, drank from the same water fountains and probably even written for the same rag of a middle school newspaper: Iggy Pop. Realizing that I was walking in the shadows of greatness, I knew that I would never view life in the same way; I now had real potential. But the manipulative voices of the mainstream media had other ideas for me; they were the talking snake in my otherwise innocent Garden of Eden. In the same week that Radiohead's landmark album Pablo Honey was released, a catchy pop song sung by a duo of Scottish identical twin brothers had been re-released and re-packaged five years after its original release. The song had arguably one of the most infectious progressions in the history of music, and to top it all off, the lyrics were fun and equally addictive. That song was entitled "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" (henceforth referred to as just: 500 Miles), and the band who gave birth to this anthem of universal appeal was The Proclaimers. Whomever the record executive is (or was) that envisioned the relaunch of this half-decade old ditty was a genius. The song was everywhere, and the CD too; as I went to check out with my Radiohead CD in hand, there at the register was the seductive CD from the Proclaimers, boasting the hit single "500 Miles" in a bold sticker on the cover. I knew I wanted to purchase the Radiohead CD, even though I had only heard the single "Creep," but now I found myself facing a difficult decision. I was almost out of my Bar Mitzvah money, so I felt myself in the throes of a real quagmire. I could hear the catchy chorus of "500 Miles" in my head, on repeat, proclaiming over and over "I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more, just to be the man, who walked one thousand miles to fall down at your door, SURRENDER!!" as I got closer and closer to the cash register on my way to check out. My middle school mind could not resist the temptation. Like an outer-body experience, I found myself surrendering, super-sizing my purchase, doubling down on my bet on Radiohead with a copy of the Proclaimers' CD as well. With a quick cash transaction and a plastic bag in hand, I was on my way home with twice the usual dosage of new alternative music, feeling a small rush of excitement as I rushed to my room to crack open these new gems for my collection. That evening I recall being angrier than ever before at music, and for the first time in my life, truly pissed off at the commercialization of what had otherwise been to me a purer form of art and culture. In short, I was no longer just an angst-ridden teenager, but also now the victim of corporate assault by the music industry, and armed robbery by the record store that dared to put that Proclaimers CD so boldly in front of the cash register as if it was endorsing this manipulative ruse from the record industry. Not only was "500 Miles" the only decent song on The Proclaimers' CD, but it was also the first song, meaning that I had just been duped into wasting an hour of my life trying to convince myself that I had not been so foolish as to fall for such an underhanded trick, for taking a sucker bet on a game of Find-The-Queen with a dealer whose deception was now completely obvious. The Proclaimers' CD was such a disappointment that I had made up my mind to do something I had never done before; I was going to attempt to return the CD the very next day to the store, and if they refused to take it back, then I would sell it as used at a different shop up the street, where I knew I could at least recoup $8 or $9 of my terrible investment. I knew that returning an open CD would be difficult, and that I was going to have to settle for store credit most likely, but I was determined to rid myself of the curse that was this abomination of a music release. As I formulated my plan, I also realized that my receipt stated that I had purchased two CDs, and that one of the two was still unopened. I figured that this would help my case, that it would provide me with leverage, for lack of a better term. I could use the Radiohead CD as both collateral and a bluff, to show them that I was ready to return that CD for a full refund, and never do business with the store again if they did not agree to my terms of giving me a refund in full for what was basically now just one obnoxious ditty. In my head I rehearsed my plan, covering every possible scenario for how I would pull this off. The Radiohead CD was not only my leverage, but also my hostage; I would accept no surrender, and by any means necessary, I would get a refund or get rid of The Proclaimers' shit album. This was only fair, after all, it was the store's own forceful marketing that had caused me to err in such an amateur way, and deep down inside, I believed that I deserved a second chance. After all, I was just an innocent kid, a rookie at this, and in point of fact, a good new customer that the store's purveyors had already come to know and like. The next day after school, I left school on my bike and headed back to the store downtown. The ride up to Packard felt like 500 miles, then along Packard felt like 500 more, I biked a thousand miles just to be the man that never even made it to the store. I didn't even make it halfway; I was hit by a city bus while attempting to use the bike lane on the street. The sidewalks were covered in ice, and an Ann Arbor Transportation Association Driver named Martha, on her very first day on the job, didn't see me as she pulled in toward a stop that overlapped the bike lane. Being hit by a bus does not feel like being hit by anything else; most things that hit you in life tend to obey the laws of Newtonian Physics, wherein the action of you being hit by somebody or something has an equal and opposite reaction on whatever is doing the hitting. This is not the case with a bus hitting a thirteen year old boy on a bicycle. There was no equal and opposite reaction acting upon the city bus; the force and momentum were entirely attuned to pummeling me. I was harpooned over the curb, my bicycle transmogrified into a metal parenthesis, and my body covered with snow, slush, dirt, and blood. I did not know what had hit me, but my head was whirring, the sound of my body and bicycle crunched against the side of a bus, an enormous grunting beast of steel and aluminum transporting miserable people to and from places they didn't even really want to go, had acted like a hard reset for my soul. I was hurdled twice over and had landed face down in six inches of old, loose snow, wondering what hit me and how badly I was hurt. Instinct dictated my next move; nobody lying face down in the snow after being hit by a bus and surviving would ever do anything except this: I stood up, brushed the snow off my face and body, and stepped back to assess the damages. It was in this instinctive action that I learned the meaning of the phrase "things can always get worse." Not only was my bike destroyed, my body throbbing in pain, my left leg bleeding profusely, but I had managed to step backwards into a gigantic pile of fresh dog shit. Now, in addition to the agony of pain and suffering, shock and uncertainty, there was also an immediate "FUCK MY LIFE!" moment that had a powerful stench to compliment an otherwise shitty situation. The driver came off of the bus in a state of shock as well. I could hear her swearing loudly, and radioing to her dispatcher the worst thing one could possibly hear on the other end of the radio; something like this: "Oh lord, I hit a kid! He's hurt real bad, oh lord have mercy, what have I done!" After getting a grip on herself, Martha came off of the bus to check on me. Her first day on the job and she had done the unthinkable; no test or training video couldn't ever possibly prepare her for this scenario, and she was stir crazy with commentary about the whole thing. She called out to all the Gods in all of the universes, eulogizing her newfound career as a Bus Driver. Getting a minor handle on the situation, and seeing that I was alive and now standing, albeit covered in blood (and dog shit), she calmed down enough to ask me if I was okay. I said "Yeah, except that you just hit me with a bus!" I was not happy, and I knew that at the very least, my day, and probably week, were ruined. She told me someone was on the way to take me to the hospital. I asked her if she had any bandages or anything to stop the bleeding. She went back on the bus and came back with a small disposable napkin that had been underneath her coffee. There wasn't even a first-aid kit on the bus. She was apologetic, but I could tell she was just as much a mess as I was; although we did not share the same physical injuries, something existed far greater than the field of Physics can explain - the equal and opposite reaction of emotions when two people could not possibly be connected in any worse way than either had ever previously imagined. We were inextricably linked, and both of us could feel the angels mocking us as we awaited any possible rescue to remove us from this time and place in history. Meanwhile, a bus full of angry passengers were haranguing the world with all kinds of extra concern and frustration, and they to were trying to find out what would happen next to get them out of this time and place as quickly as possible. While I assume that most of the passengers wanted to know if the kid was alright, I remember hearing somebody asking the doomed driver how long it would be before another bus came along to pick them up. An ambulance arrived on the scene first, and I was rushed immediately to the hospital, my bike and CDs never to be seen again. On the day that I had planned to get back at the system, and if necessary, use Radiohead as leverage, like a hostage being used as a human shield, all in order to rid myself of the belief that I was fallible and prone to making mistakes when it came to picking music. We are all prone to the same failures in life, whether we acknowledge it or not. And now, to teach me this lesson once and for all, the Karma Police had taken me away, taught me what you get when you mess with them.
