{"id":10022,"date":"2011-01-14T12:13:43","date_gmt":"2011-01-14T17:13:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=10022"},"modified":"2011-01-14T12:14:52","modified_gmt":"2011-01-14T17:14:52","slug":"things-change","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/01\/14\/things-change\/","title":{"rendered":"Things Change"},"content":{"rendered":"

The final installment of a five-part story. Read part 1<\/a>, part 2<\/a>, part 3<\/a>, and part 4<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

The author in his backyard, alongside his head shots from his teenage years.<\/p><\/div>\n

Sometimes my friends tell me I should get high and go on TV. They say it might blow my mind\u2014to reach a twisted reality as I act out a fake me on a made-up television set, looking through altered eyes into a camera that projects me through little boxes into living rooms all over Nashville. <\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019d be a crazy trip, man.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cToo crazy,\u201d I say. \u201cI don\u2019t think I could handle it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m content to get high quietly, mostly alone. Lots of my friends are in it for the party, to take their acid and lose their clothes, run around like rednecks, doing cartwheels and staring at tracers. <\/p>\n

But I try to take it seriously. I read a little Timothy Leary, feel like I\u2019m some psychedelic pioneer working through important, meaningful, universal things in my own spinning mind. I feel, in fact, like I\u2019m finally reaching the real me, walking through the wardrobe and discovering the acid-drenched Narnia that was there all along. Some nights I feel like I might be the king of the whole damn place. <\/p>\n

It’s just that the paranoia grows, too. Everywhere I go, every gas station or shopping mall or skate park, people start whispering, “Hey, that\u2019s the Kids Club<\/em> dude.” I\u2019m never sure if they\u2019ll want to fist fight or ask for my autograph. <\/p>\n

I project a vivacious, wholesome, ridiculous me to a few hundred thousand viewers every day. And as soon as the cameras click off, I use my earnings to buy a hundred, a thousand chemical portals, highs and trips and all kinds of pills to creep further and further into myself\u2014to the only place where I can close my eyes and feel peace. <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

MY PARENTS<\/small> go to church and believe. Mom likes to watch gardening shows and Dad, after painting houses all day, likes to come home and watch the news. My brother just got out of juvenile detention. Something about stealing liquor from the locked cabinet of a friend\u2019s dad. He quit television after he shaved half of his head and started drawing skulls and crossbones on his skin with a Sharpie. <\/p>\n

I stuck with it. I\u2019m on eight times a day, even a half-hour show on Saturday mornings called Kids Stuff Connection<\/em>. When I\u2019m not on television I\u2019m finding ways to get to the next Grateful Dead show. I\u2019ve been to twenty-five so far. Once, after a show in Atlanta, I was driving an old Volkswagen bus, kaleidoscope-eyed and reeling. I shot through a red light, almost running over a girl before screeching to a halt. She looked through the dirty windshield in a kind of euphoria and said, \u201cOh my God! It\u2019s Josh from TV.\u201d I waved a frantic apology before drifting off into the humid night. <\/p>\n

I\u2019m failing high school. I hardly ever go, and when I do, I never bring my gym clothes or art projects. I\u2019m failing gym and art. <\/p>\n

Professional wrestling has gotten weirder and weirder. Hillbilly Jim is more of a tertiary character, and the guys who are center stage are maniacs. I don\u2019t believe in any of it anymore. <\/p>\n

I believe mostly in these LSD-fueled explorations and the me who comes alive the second those altered synapses fire. It\u2019s like stepping into the ring, and the ring is full of spotlight and warmth. It\u2019s like fans screaming nothing but love and affection. It\u2019s like trouncing an opponent and doing a victory dance.<\/p>\n

Then one day I go to school and meet a kid I\u2019ve never met before. He has long, braided hair and he is wearing dark sunglasses. We\u2019re sucking down cigarettes in a little nook in the courtyard, scanning for teachers. He\u2019s heard I\u2019m in the market for acid. <\/p>\n

\u201cDepends,\u201d I say. <\/p>\n

\u201cThis stuff is intense,\u201d he says. \u201cStraight from California.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never had California acid before. I nod, ask him how much, buy two tabs. <\/p>\n

\u201cMy name\u2019s Josh, by the way.\u201d<\/p>\n

He chuckles. \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

I put the tiny pieces of paper on my tongue just before my last class so I\u2019ll start to feel it by the time I\u2019m leaving for home. It doesn\u2019t take long, though, and there is a growing buzz halfway through English. I\u2019m staring at the scribbles of white chalk on the board, blinking furiously. <\/p>\n

\u201cJosh, you okay?\u201d asks my teacher, whom everyone calls Coach.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, Coach, just spacing out a little.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m smiling uncontrollably. <\/p>\n

\u201cTry and focus, Josh. You need to get this right.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure thing, Coach.\u201d <\/p>\n

I ride home with friends. They are on their way to play paintball in the woods. They ask me if I want to come. I feel like I\u2019ve lost my gravitational pull, like I\u2019m pressing harder and harder against the roof of the car, like if the roof wasn\u2019t there I\u2019d rocket off into the atmosphere. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll just hang out in the woods and watch.\u201d <\/p>\n

I\u2019m grinding my teeth, rubbing my thumbs hard against the fulcrum of my pointer fingers. My friends gather up their paintball gear, and we all walk off into the trees. <\/p>\n

\u201cCan you hear me!\u201d I scream as they disappear into the woods. <\/p>\n

\u201cShut the fuck up,\u201d says a friend. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m right here!\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cWe can see you.\u201d<\/p>\n

But I can\u2019t see them skulking around in their camouflage, finding perfect brushy spots from which to snipe each other. <\/p>\n

I go deeper into the woods. I stare at everything and everything pours in through my eyes. The world is inflating in me; I\u2019m blowing up like a balloon. This is always how it feels\u2014it all rushes inside, and I expand with it but never pop. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m alone,\u201d I say to myself. <\/p>\n

I hear the thwap thwap<\/em> of paintballs flying by and exploding against nearby trees. There is the crunching of leaves as my friends reposition themselves, take aim. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m so high,\u201d I say. <\/p>\n

Thwap thwap thwap!<\/em><\/p>\n

It\u2019s true: The LSD is taking me to a place I\u2019ve never been before. I can feel it growing in me, the portal getting wider than it\u2019s ever been. I\u2019m way through the wardrobe, smack in the middle of the forest, which suddenly morphs into a wrestling ring with the lights pouring down, and they\u2019re hot as hell\u2014thwap thwap thwap<\/em>\u2014I am so high that, for the first time, I\u2019m afraid I might actually pop. <\/p>\n

I look into the sky. White clouds with blue in between. Look harder into the sky. Something is changing. Something with my perception. Look harder into the sky and squint, try to get my vision to clear up again, but the clouds suddenly lose their dimensionality and go flat. Look at the trees and they are a glossy blur, the print of a postcard. Turn around 360 degrees, scanning everything, see a camouflaged friend darting from one unreal tree to another. Blink and rub my eyes. But the disconnect is deeper than my eyes. It is behind all that, down in my brain or synapses or neurons. I don\u2019t know how any of it actually works; it\u2019s been so simple up until now\u2014take the tab, wait for the ride, go to sleep eventually, and wake up back to normal.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh my God,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

Everything around me looks as if I am watching it through a television screen, watching myself through a grainy television screen. Then I close my eyes, and the screen clicks off and\u2014this is real\u2014I am trapped inside. <\/p>\n

THINGS CHANGE.<\/small> <\/p>\n

Chuck Norris went from ninja to rabid Republican and started selling cheap exercise equipment made in China. <\/p>\n

Hillbilly Jim trimmed his beard, cleaned up a little, and now hosts a satellite radio show called Hillbilly Jim’s Moonshine Matinee<\/em>. My brother said he heard it once and remembered everything.<\/p>\n

The Earthquake is dead, eaten up by cancer. His real name was John Tenta. Not long after that match with Hillbilly, he changed his name to the Avalanche, then the Shark, and, finally, Golga, a large man behind a mask. He left behind a wife and three kids.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m just me. Alive. Stopped cutting my hair. Stopped brushing it. Never finished high school, but that doesn\u2019t bother me too much. I felt like I had better things to do. No more drugs, because the damage from that day in the woods never reversed. It was physiological, permanent. I didn’t wake up okay the next morning, never found my equilibrium. It\u2019s been years now. It\u2019s like I walked into the woods and never walked out again.<\/p>\n

But I never got fired from TV. I quit, when I was eighteen, after five years on the air. There wasn\u2019t much fanfare. I simply slipped out of the public eye as two new kids slipped in. A boy and a girl, both young, both smiling and wholesome with perfect, spit-shined faces.<\/p>\n

I shook their hands, once. Smiled. Walked as tall as I could out of the studio and into the bright Nashville sun.<\/p>\n

Josh MacIvor-Andersen lives in an old house in Wilmington, North Carolina, with his wife, a cat named Baby Kitty, and a second-trimester child named, for now, Baby Human, forthcoming in May. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The final installment of a five-part story. Read part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4. Sometimes my friends tell me I should get high and go on TV. They say it might blow my mind\u2014to reach a twisted reality as I act out a fake me on a made-up television set, looking through […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":106,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1160],"tags":[1678,1653,862,1171,1633,1640,54],"class_list":["post-10022","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-television","tag-acid-trip","tag-chuck-norris","tag-drugs","tag-high-school","tag-hillbilly-jim","tag-josh-macivor-andersen","tag-television"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThings Change by Josh MacIvor-Andersen<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"January 14, 2011 \u2013 The final installment of a five-part story. 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