Jimi Cagle was my best friend from the time we met in fifth grade, until my family moved right before my freshman year of high school. I'm not really sure why Jimi and I were best friends. I imagine we had some things in common, but for the most part I liked Jimi because he was Jimi. He didn't fit in to anyone's idea of cool. He didn't want to fit in.

At least that's what I thought. And that's why I liked him, because he didn't really give a shit what people thought. I have always pretended to be so care free about my image. I still do. But in truth, I am very concerned what people think of me. Even more puzzling that I would hang out with Jimi for three very formative years of my life.

At that age, we learn guilt by association. I was uncool, because I was Jimi Cagle's friend; and Jimi was not cool.

Jimi was the type of person that craved negative attention. On the days when the seniors would sell Nachos to raise money for some Episcopalian noble cause, Jimi would get a paper plate full of partially hydrated vegetable oil cheese spread and smear it all over his face. Jimi was very uncool.

One of my most memorable events I shared with Jimi was his first experience with electricity. Fashioning a crude conducting device out of a paperclip and #2 pencil, Jimi made himself into a channel for 110 volts of juice and literally flew several feet into the air. He had been kneeling, partially, on a rubber matt, which now held the melted imprint of a standard issue #2 and Jimi's Chuck Taylor high tops. His hair stood on end for several seconds and the smell was awful. It was probably the closest Jimi ever came to actually being cool in sixth grade.

Jimi took me on my first ever tour of Houston's Braes Bayou sewer system. It was also my first run-in with the law when we got caught comming out of a man hole. He taught me about stealing bikes and stripping them for the good parts to make the meanest BMX frankenstein creation you could imagine. He even proved to me that a twin mattress may cushion the fall from the roof of your house, but it won't prevent you from breaking your arm.

Jimi showed me what marijuana looked like. I carried the joint that he made me for nearly four months before I burned it in a small backyard fire for fear of getting caught with it.

Jimi's father was a pro wrestler. The 350 pound, hairy kind, before WWF and around the time that Andy Kauffman was challenging large women to join him in the ring. One of Jimi's favorite things was to have his dad body-slam him. A move that would have Jimi spinning over his dad's head three or four times before he was dropped like a sack onto the living room floor. I opted to skip my turn at the body slam. I still think it was a good move.

Jimi's mom was a Beatles fan. No...she was THE Beatles fan. She started her own fan club in college and wrote letters to the boys from Liverpool each and every day. Her name was Nancy McGill. No shit. And her nickname in college was Lil'. No shit. Now if you aren't familiar with the tune "Rocky Racoon," you have no idea what I'm talking about. But go out and listen to the words and you'll understand. As the story goes, her incessant letters were returned in the form of being immortalized forever in song. You can choose to deny the story if you like, but I chose to believe it.
It made Jimi Cagle...cool.