Adults were always great at coming up with cool things to say when charging headlong into their probable demise. The Japanese had “Banzai” before guiding Kamikaze aircraft into U.S. ships in WWII. Likewise paratroopers, new to the art of falling from the sky, would shout “Geronimo,” before plummeting to earth.

As a kid growing up, the battle-cry of the child bent on destruction was the inarticulate, “Hey, watch this!” We did, of course, because we grew up watching cartoon characters tenderize each other with anvils or strap themselves to a giant ACME rocket.

As much as I would like to say that my friends and I were brilliant and misunderstood, the unvarnished truth is that we were well supplied and ill-supervised. With the posh Ask Your Mother in the Red Brick Building near St. John’s Church filled with science experiments and the well appointed hobby shop on Maine Street, we had all the makings of mischief in a short walk.

I myself inherited my oldest sister’s virtually untouched chemistry kit. Within the kit I found not only chemicals but a burner and recipe cards for everything from creating varying color sparkling flames to old fashioned stink bombs. Sure, they added the disclaimer, “under adult supervision,” which makes these wholesome and educational experiments. That said, being a latchkey middle schooler made this wondrous toy an anarchist-in-a-box kit.

It was an entire case of “watch this” moments.

Before you knew it, we were strapping sandwich baggies full of iron oxide onto the noses of our model rockets — sometimes adding sulphur or other concoctions to make the burning iron oxide change color.

Our frequent trips to the hobby shop would have been the stuff of nightmares had the Department of Homeland Security existed back then. Between materials there and things we learned from my mad scientist kit, soon there were craters in the yard made by homemade pyrotechnics. Often times, we would set the charges in the yard and run about 30 feet of wire from it through the garage window where we would shout, “fire in the hole,” before touching the wires to the lantern battery and waiting for the report.

Although there were a few mishaps, I’m still typing with all ten fingers.

Electricity also fascinated me as a kid. After being electrocuted a couple of times, I thought I had figured out just how lamps work. It was an easy concept, really. One wire made a connection with the side of the bulb and the other with the bottom, right?

I’ll be honest and say that I’m still pretty certain that’s how it works however when I attempted the experiment in my bedroom with a cut off extension cord, the results were unsuccessful however dramatic. I believe my words before my Edison moment were, “watch this.”

I blame the lack of equipment, really. I had to rest the bulb on the carpet while I touched the bare, live wires to the bulb. The side went just fine and you would hardly think there was juice running through the cord until I touched the bottom of the bulb.

There was a tinny “pap” sounding explosion and I was temporarily blinded by the arcing electricity as the smell of burning carpet filled my nostrils. I could smell fire — I was aware there was fire, however seeing was still an issue and everything looked like I was just staring at the sun — a feat that would have been more intelligent than what I just did.

I began slapping around on the carpet, hoping I didn’t make connection with the still live wires on the floor. I managed to miss the wires but not the glass as I launched into a string of expletives.

“Watch this” — it was the anthem of the daft. It preceded my broken arm and led to a mild concussion in high school.

It was the battle cry of the neighborhood boys, including myself, who were so impressed with the Blue Angles show that we decided to perfect the knife edge stunt on bikes. We failed, naturally, but not before each of us were reduced to a bloodied mess.

“Watch this” proceeded a BB gun war in what later became Crimmins Field. It was a call to arms in the great acorn fight of ’77 on Columbia Avenue and the last words uttered before I launched a tightly packed snowball at a school bus. In my defense, on any other day, I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at ten paces but this day not only did I hit my mark, but threw a dozing elementary student into hysterics as the snowball smashed the exact spot his head was resting.

I still do stupid things, mind you. It’s usually just preceded by a grin rather than an announcement. So, if you see me somewhere in town with a smirk — look out, or better yet, watch this!

Douglas McIntire is a writer and educator in the Midcoast and apparently after rereading this, a bad influence and can be reached at [email protected].