365 # 84: Kenny G.

Your first name-last name initial combination is, shall we say, unfortunate. Lucky for you, you don't have long curly Sideshow Bob hair, and your musical tastes don't venture anywhere near light jazz. In fact, I think you know the lyrics to damn near every rap song written before 1992.

I think it was our third or fourth year working together at summer camp when you got the extremely unKenny-like idea that you wanted to brand yourself. Like a piece of cattle. You wanted searing hot iron applied to your flesh so as to leave behind a permanent mark, the mark in this case being the brand of the summer camp/ranch that had employed and come to mean so much to us over the years. And you wanted me, your friend, to man the irons, to be the guy to put brand to flesh.

Come on, Tee-ravis, you gonna do it?

It seemed like a joke at first, the kind of thing you could never possibly go through with. So I humored you.

Sure buddy, I'll brand you. Why the fuck not?

As the summer passed, it became clear that even if it had started as a lark, the idea had taken on a level of grave seriousness in your mind. It was some kind of test, a portal that you felt you needed to pass through. When I realized that it was no longer a joke, that perhaps it never had been, I did what any reasonable non-frat boy would do and stated emphatically that no, I would not place red hot metal against your skin, and that I didn't think anybody else should either. Brands are for cows, cows have much thicker skin than people, and I'm not even sure they enjoy it all that much. You really think a cow views getting branded like it's a fucking vision quest?

My failure to come through on my commitment pissed you off so much that you threatened to just do it yourself. You got as far as fetching the iron and a bag of charcoal from the quartermaster before you pussed out came to your senses. Thank you for not being a fucking idiot.