The Happiest Days of Our Lives by Wil Wheaton Read Free Book Online Page A

the sunroof open and the windows down. I dropped Darin off at his house, and though I got back home around 3, I was so loaded with caffeine, sugar, and adrenaline that I didn’t fall asleep until the sun came up.
    The movie was campy and not especially good, but that wasn’t the point. It was a shared experience, a place for misfits of all stripes to gather once a week and fly our Transylvanian freak flags. For the next two years, Darin and I led an ever-growing group of our friends to Rocky at least once a month, usually more, at the Rialto theater in South Pasadena. I haven’t been since 1991 or 1992, but those years—and the film itself—hold a very special place in my memory. I’m sure the jokes have changed, and I’m sure I’d feel like a stupid old man, but just once more, I’d like to go there at midnight some Saturday, and do the Time Warp again.

i am the modren man
    M y car’s fuel light was on, and though it probably had enough gas to get the kids to school and return me back home, I wasn’t about to risk calling a tow truck in my bathrobe and slippers somewhere in between, so I used Anne’s car. When I turned the key to start the engine, her XM radio sprang to life. It was tuned to the ’80s station.
    Ryan hopped into the car a minute later. Even though I was seriously rocking out to NuShooz, he grabbed the radio and changed it.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
    “Changing the radio station.” Translation: You are so lame. I rule because I am sixteen.
    “Well, when you’re driving in your car, you can change the radio all you want. But when I’m driving, if you’d like to change the radio, please ask first.” Translation: I may be lame, but I’m still your parent.
    I backed out of the driveway.
    Ryan sighed and rolled his eyes. “May. I. Change. The. Station.” Translation: You are so lame. Now I will use the words you requested, but I will deliver them as sarcastically as possible. I rule because I am sixteen.
    “No,” I said. “You may not.” I took a deep breath and sang, “Baby! Ah-ah-ah-can’t wait! Muh-nah-nah-nah-nah-bop-de-bop Muh-nah-bup-bop-be-bop!” Translation: I can be just as annoying to you as you are to me. Age and treachery will always triumph over youth and vigor. I rule because I am thirty-three.
    From the back seat, Nolan said, “Wil, this is really horrible…‘radio.’ You will note I did not call it ‘music.’” Translation: I’m not going to join in the lameness this morning. Rather, I will make a joke to defuse the tension. I rule because…I just do.
    “I know,” I said. “But now that I have the power of horrible ’80s pop music, there is nothing that can stop me.”
    Ryan and Nolan both said, “What?” Translation: What?
    Before I could dazzle them with another brilliant non sequitur , the opening strains of “Mr. Roboto” filled the car.
    I stole a sideways glance at Ryan and caught him stealing a sideways glance at me.
    “Is this ‘Mr. Roboto’?” he asked. Translation: Uh-oh. I love this song, and I know you’ve heard me listening to it in my bedroom. How am I going to maintain my carefully crafted façade of universal indifference?
    “Yep,” I said. “You’re wondering who I am: machine or mannequin! With parts made in Japan, I am the modren man!”
    “Did he just say ‘modren’?” Nolan asked. Translation: What the hell does modren mean? Can I say “hell” in my thoughts? I guess I can, since nobody can hear me. Hell hell hell. Hell damn hell. Damn damn crap. Crap damn damn hell crap—
    “Indeed he did,” I said.
    “What is ‘modren’?” he asked.
    “It’s Dennis DeYoung’s concept-album version of ‘modern,’” I told him.
    “Does this have something to do with mullets?”
    “You know it.”
    “Because the mullet was the official haircut of rock and roll in the ’80s,” Ryan said. “I remember.” Translation: I was paying attention to you that one time. But you’re still lame. Nothing