Me, Black Lightning, and Playboy

At 14, my interest in deranged, charismatic leaders was already well developed.

My 8th grade teacher had been converted and whisked away to foreign land by a cult, then promptly disappeared. I subsequently found a book on religious cults, and read the harrowing account of a young disillusioned man that had fallen prey to the Moonies. The most interesting part of the story however was not how he got in.  That was the usual, "my family doesn't care if I eat worms" of many middle-class preppy boys. The nifty part was how he got out. Or rather, how he was kidnapped back by his parents, and subjected to the then-traumatizing experience of de-programming. This last bit was done by a badass mofo known as Black Lightning (or Satan, to the Moonies).

The story was sooo cool, I decided to write my 9th grade term paper on it. I encounter a small hiccup though... one of the needed sources for my term paper was an article in Playboy magazine. So imagine a 14 yr old girl walking up to the school librarian and asking, "excuse me, where do you keep the Playboy?" A stern look from the lady in glasses and bun, immediately taught me not to ask for pornography quite so loudly. Hearing my interesting tale, to my delighted surprise, my English teacher informed me that Black Lightning lived right in my hometown!

Amazed by my luck, and not considering how weird it would be: I ran home, picked up the phone book, looked up Black Lightning, dialed, and then heard my teen voice saying "Hi, is this Mr. So-and-so who de-programs Moonies?" It was almost as silly as asking if the refrigerator was running, but it was too late. "Yes it is," said the voice on the other end, "how can I help you?" I proceeded to tell him I was 14, writing a school paper, and not allowed to read Playboy. Being a very sympathetic man, Black Lighting offered to come to my house and help. I kid you not... he was coming, to my house!!!

He drove up in his caddy, looking sharp in a burnt-orange suit and a fair amount of gold jewelry... funny, he didn't look like Satan. He gave me his business card, and a xeroxed copy of an article (yep, Playboy.. nope, no naked pictures). He told me to call him if I had questions, but since he'd already done more for my teenage life than anyone else I'd ever read about, I decided not to bug him. I wrote my paper, for which I got an A, thank you! And I filed away the excitement that comes from learning how a badass can bust the bubble of mindless minions. Only now I realize that perhaps that memory wasn't as filed away as I thought.

Thanks for the tips T!    :D