![]() ![]() mixtapes and Spy magazines on top, moving downward through strata of Star Trek novelizations and Thor comics and ending on the most primal bedrock of my youthful nerdiness: a copy of Hammond's Medallion World Atlas from 1979. The box was like an archaeological dig of my adolescence and childhood, starting with R.E.M. I didn't find the Legos, much to my six-year-old son's chagrin, but I was surprised to come across a box with my name on the side, written in the neater handwriting of my teenaged self. The last time I was home, I waded into the chaos in hopes of liberating a plastic bucket of my childhood Legos. It looks more like the warehouse in the last shot of Raiders of the Lost Ark. I know, everybody's parents' attic or basement has its share of junk, but the eight-foot-tall mountain of boxes filling one bay of my parents' garage isn't typical pack-rat clutter. ![]() If that's true, I believe I will stay young forever, ageless and carefree as Dorian Gray while the cardboard at my parents' house molders and fades. They say you're not really grown up until you've moved the last box of your stuff out of storage at your parents'. ![]()
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