this is what concerns me:

Last summer I lived in the Lost Boys (and Girls) camp of 206 Classon Avenue, across the street from the well-appointed complex for retired Catholic nuns, and down the block from the Hasidic housing “bldg” and the Pratt art school. I wrote on the history of 206 for the Syncopated 3 anthology, from dairy pasteurization compound to illegal loft (to luxury condos?). While I still think that piece did the place justice, I don’t think it captured some of the subtleties of the 206 petri dish. Subtleties like Rick.

Rick was an ex-ad photographer and current dolly grip for film and television, and a former resident of a small Midwestern town, Venice Beach, Canada, various rehabilitation facilities and the L train. He had an impressive collection of stories that involved a colorful cast of characters including, but not limited to, Ron Jeremy, David Bowie, Katey Sagal of Married with Children; and though nearly 50, he showed no sign of slowing down. I haven’t spoken with Rick in nearly eight months, but here I recount Rick’s Greatest Hits: some of my favorite things he ever said to me and various other roommates. Rated M for Mature.

On Jocelyn’s family complaints: Why don’t you just kill everybody in your family and live like me?

On John acting douchey: I’ll jump on you like a fuckin’ lizard. I’ll never get off your face. [Pause] It’ll be like you stepped on a landmine.

On Stephanie joking that 206 uses resources like a community center: We are a fucking community center.

On me, to Chris: Don’t you wanna just bash her in the head?

On himself, wearing my sunglasses: I remind myself of Jackie O. Don’t I look like Jackie O?

On himself, forever young: The Picture of Rick Morrison. How about me? 48 and I have a zit! Do you have a zit?!

On himself, waiting to get old: I can’t wait to get Alzheimer’s. I can say crazy shit and people will just feel sorry for me.

In my unemployment I’ve been reading a great deal more than perhaps I ever have before, and that means exhausting my usual outlets – and yes, it’s true, I have begun perusing Slate. Which is how I came across this article by culture editor Meghan O’Rourke, and laughed for at least fourteen minutes.

Ms. O’Rourke attended the Center for Talented Youth (CTY) summer program in 1988, and writes about her good, clean fun (minus the making out during Mandatory Fun! scandalous!) at “nerd camp,” where she still remembers feeling “the sense of relief at finally being in a place where people felt, in some sense, normal. It was a place where kids could be cool without having to downplay their interests.”

Okay, Meghan, I’ll grant you that one. And I also agree on the intellectual-growth points: I can say with a fair bit of confidence that CTY is what made me want to become a writer.

But here is where our memories diverge a bit (or perhaps just our divulgence of the juicy details). I attended CTY about ten years later, and while I, too, remember “the sense of relief,” I also remember the 14-year-olds ditching Mandatory Fun, getting drunk, dealing ecstacy, having sex in the bathrooms and being shamelessly courted by their residential advisors.

Meghan writes, “Each [dance] concluded with either “Sympathy for the Devil,” “Ana Ng,” or “American Pie,” at the end of which students chanted “Die! Die! Die! Die! Live! Live! Live! Live! Sex! Sex! Sex! Sex! More! More! More! More!” Delighted, we would go home invigorated and exhausted—a kind of clean high.”

C’mon, Meghan. That’s just what you wanted them to think.