Of the many horror stories revolving around deprogramming camps, one in particular grabbed me. According to an article my sister showed me, a teenager was elected by his folks to be kidnapped and placed in an environment geared towards "fixing" troubled teens through rigid personality restructuring and the administering of hardcore religious fundamentalism. But all accounts of the boy's personality, from his friends to his teachers to even his grandparents, described the boy as very disciplined and as far from a bad seed as they came. Once inside the camp he was brutalized and brainwashed and his every attempt to get help from the "outside" went unheeded. Actually, his attempts didn't get ignored so much as destroyed. All communication from the troubled teens to "the outside" was run through censors. Once the boy figured this out, he wrote his grandfather a letter stating how formidable the place was (thereby passing censure) but paid particular homage to the height of the walls surrounding the place (hint hint). At press time the grandparents were still battling to get him out. This was the first song I had Bradley come over and play on. It was more of a freeform jamming set to tape. I just had him play along with some on-the-spot riffage, then let his drum tracks (both the Right and the Left) sit around till I came up with something to play over them (a few days later). It was like a drum machine with soul and fills already programmed in. Bradley is vegan so whenever he came over I could only offer him water and carrots, which was fine because I don't like sharing any of the 10-12 varieties of chocolate that could be found wherever I am at any given time.

Dear Gramps,
I'm a regular kid with a regular ID. I'm 16 years old, in high school with friends who've done a lot worse than me. But that's not difficult, you see, my parents (as you know, because you're my grandpa) are Christian fundamentalists. I have a real strict homelife, so I'm a good lad.

I read and write real well, but swimming is where I excel. My folks always act very proud but never ask if I need help. All they ever bring up is bible review, scriptures I can not relate to because I live life through a sheltered view. But I'm a good lad.

Dear Gramps,
I hope you ain't shitting your pants. You and grandma need to help me out because I'm a good lad. I came home late last night, prompting dad and I to fight. I was supposed to be home by 10, but I had to drive home my 3 drunk friends. Dad just couldn't understand, thought I'd suddenly become a heathen and he made me feel worse with a bible verse. The next thing I know, I awake in a blindfold, en route to this deprogramming camp.

Dad,
I never even failed you but you were too out of touch to even notice. I've been here 12 weeks and still no one treats me like a human being. And all this you'll never know because they go through my mail, Can't let the outside world know what they're doing to me.

Dear Gramps,
There's so much green in the grass. The food is really great. They're really setting me straight. I'm really learning a lot. I really enjoy this spot. There's so much pretty sky. And the pretty walls are so high.