I was fourteen, starting eighth grade and the world made no sense whatsoever. That year before high school begins is a dumpster fire of terrifying self-discovery for everyone, but mine happened to kick off in the fall of 2001. I didn’t exactly make this connection at the time, but it was a hell of a thing to feel like the entire world was going through some sick, tragic puberty on a massive scale, just as I was realizing I couldn’t even trust my own body anymore. Bear with me here—I swear this all relates to cartoons.

Like most junior high boys, I found myself gravitating toward all things edgy. I never really got up to any delinquent behavior, but I was just dangerous enough to be intrigued by cartoons cussing on the TV. It was the dawn of Adult Swim, and I was exactly the right blend of animation nerd and angsty teen to be thrilled by this illicit new world of dangerous, anti-establishment programming, but I needed my mom’s help.

Our home on the secluded shore of Lake Metigoshe couldn’t get Cartoon Network, but when she went into town to work the night shift at the nursing home, Mom would bring a VHS tape with her and record the entire Adult Swim block in the empty resident TV room for me. The next night, after she had gone to work again and my dad had fallen asleep early as usual, I would play the tape back and inject the experimental cartoons into my eyeballs like a junkie in the dirtiest of back alleys.

The main attraction, of course, was Brak. I had been a Space Ghost fan since I was ten (those four years are a lifetime at that age), and the news of my bean-eating cat monkey idol getting his own show was life-changing. The Brak Show ended up being, well, fine. But after Brak’s rapid-fire shouting and singing came a quiet, stuttering show of stilted conversations and animation that gave only the subtlest suggestion of movement. It was Home Movies, and I was uncertain but intrigued.