listening to them rant on about the ghost, but as our legs began to cramp and we heard the crack and hiss of beer cans being opened, we realized that they didnít have any intention of leaving soon- effectively trapping us in our hiding spots.

The others were more patient than I, and at about forty minutes I began to mutter Kung Fu mantras under my breath. I was convinced that the only way out was to fight them. Both Max and Damon hissed at me to quiet down, but I wouldnít be calmed. Another ten minutes went by and I was afraid that I was near my snapping point. There was going to be a fight, I knew it.

Scott whispered, "Iím going to scream."

Max was skeptical, doubting that the scream would effectively scare the occupants of a car a few yards away. He underestimated the unearthly intensity of the scorching howl that erupted from Scottís lungs. It echoed through the night and the formerly verbose squatters on our hill top, dropped suddenly silent. For five seconds there was dead silence, then we heard the ignition of their engines one after the other and they roared off into the night.

They hesitated inviting me back for another of their phantasmal expeditions, after my high strung performance of that night, but eventually they got to experience me in a much calmer frame of mind.

Many of these same friends became or were also involved in musical endeavors. Iíve always loved music, and I envied their talents and their abilities to strike a few metal strings- and somehow make music. Once Max was visiting me at my grandparents house and he picked up my grandfathers old acoustic guitar. It was missing two strings, and was horribly out of tune- yet he managed to pluck an acceptable tune on it.

"I hate you," I said.

"What?" he asked puzzled.

"You can pick up a piece of crap guitar and still make it sound like something."

I was given the opportunity to participate however. One band adapted a poem I wrote, Eye of the Storm, and put it to music. I loved that song; not only was it a great piece of music, but part of me was in it. Somehow I had managed to worm my way into the creative process somewhere and make a contribution.

I enjoy almost all types of music, because of the different moods that each are capable of evoking. The one kind of music that I just canít seem to relate to, however, is Country. I get tired of hearing songs about how these guys have such a screwed life and theyíre getting drunk all the time. I guess, itís because it reminds me of my life.

I have several bands that I consider my favorites. I like an obscure English band the best. No one likes Man Oí War. They are extremely unpopular, but I like their in your face attitudes and the lyrics can be very inspirational. Theyíve got destiny in mind when they sing.

Another band that has gotten short shrift is Iron Maiden. Everyone thinks that Iron Maiden is satanic, but they are totally opposite. They were more about alerting people to the dangers out there. In the Number of the Beast, a song that many people considered satanic, my interpretation is that someone falls in with a group that he thinks is really cool. Suddenly he realizes what they are all about and the rest of the song is about him trying to get out of it. This is not a song about worshipping Satan. This is a song about a guy who is trying to decipher right from wrong and in the end he chooses right.

Eventually I did take the plunge and bought a bass guitar, which Iíve played regularly and even become fairly proficient with. Itís been a great creative outlet for me.

Another more violent outlet that I became involved in is the