Le maudit Mo D.

troubled

Since writing yesterday's post about Harold the camp counseling child molester, I've felt really awful about the fact that I unwittingly aided and abetted his actions by not properly alerting the adults. In our ten-year-old minds, it was really cool that Harold, in his early twenties, had a romantic interest in one of us. I didn't want to kiss him because I didn't think he was that cute and the girl whose vagina he was inappropriately touching had dibs on him. I also wasn't really interested in kissing at that point, either. But the truth is, none of us kids in the cabin understood the gravity of the situation or took steps to get his creepy child-molesting ass in trouble. A sort of bittersweet moment of innocence there. Regrettable, but what should we expect from a ten-year-old?

Harold's name doesn't come up on the California Sex Offender Registry, but a Google search uncovers that the Harold of today, now in his mid-40s, has some sort of race car avocation.

I suppose I should also feel bad about stoking the everlasting flame of dissent between fans of narrative improv vs. thematic/game-oriented improv. This is the only Holy War I hope to ever find myself embroiled in. We improvisers worship the same god, but show our fealty in different ways. Our passions run as hot as that flame. I personally like to be told a story with a beginning-middle-end and have some sort of emotional payoff with my laughs. I'm just really excited about the stuff we're doing in Pgraph's class, so comparing the Harold to Harold the Child Molester is a sort of mean-spirited way to do that, I guess.