1976a - Lonely Boy

by Andrew Gold

His Mother and Father said, "What a lovely boy,
We'll teach him just what we learned,
Ah, yes just what we learned.
We'll dress him up warmly and we'll send him to school.
We'll teach him how to fight and be nodoby's fool.

+++++++++++++

My first kiss was in Kindergarten. There were twin sisters, Karen and Stacey Jewell. Karen was a scrawny black-haired girl and Stacy had strawberry-blonde hair with blue eyes. I don't remember whom I kissed first, but I do remember hiding inside pretend kitchen cabinets in Miss Luber's Kindergarten class with both them. I remember trading kisses and trying to figure out why I was doing just that.

For a five-year-old, none of the parts work together. It's like an old used Tinker toy set, with broken ends and half-gnawed spindles and missing pieces. Kissing a girl at five-years-old is like kissing the back of your hand now. It just doesn't feel right.

During indoor recess, our kindergarten class played with over-sized plastic Tinkertoys, wooden blocks, crayons and colored chalk. We also brought our Barbie sets and our GI Joe's with the Kung-Fu grip, pretending we were the things we would sooner or later turn out to be.

We all wore some sort of nylon blend. The girls wore little nylon dresses, often with sunflower or daffodil prints. These were the "pre-Garanimal" days of fashion, where everything looked as if it were made with Butterick sewing patterns, regardless of where they were actually made. They didn't match anything but the kitchen drapes.

The boys looked twice as bad: long pants made in the leisure suit age, half polyester, all clashing. I have a picture from that year, where I went to school. I wore these white pants with thick red and blue stripes running the length of them. Oh god, how our parents tortured us.

Our moms led us around Eastland, stopping at Sears, JCPenney, or Lazarus. We'd try on polyester outfits, walking up and down a small runway of carpet, with our mother's approval.

The first step across a street without the helping hand of a mom or a dad was also an adventure, but the crossing guard was always there to help us.

There were countless new mountains to climb: art class with Mr. Baus, music with Mrs. Bauer, and gym with Denny Brake. All of our elementary school teachers seemed to be a frustrated "something else."

Our art teacher, Mr. Baus, had childhood dreams revolving around becoming a world-renowned artiste, traveling to Paris and London and Milan. Over the summers, he even traveled to Europe. When he spoke of his summer vacations, there was a glimmer of lost youth in his eyes. He was teaching art in grade school, but his mind was always on the French Riviera dining with other artists, talking about oils and acrylics and eating french bread, dipping it in extra virgin olive oil.

He stood in the front of his classroom, teaching five year olds how to fingerpaint and make chalk drawings. During the holidays, we explored such projects as "handprint turkeys" and "egg carton caterpillers" using plastic google eyes and pipe cleaners. One year, he did manage to teach us how to make real wax candles. We were given a piece of string that we tied onto a pencil. We waited in a line, ready to dip our strings into the hot green wax. Mr. Baus warned us not to touch our candles, because they were hot and they would burn us. Slowly, layer upon layer of wax built up until we all had green candles that didn't match anything we had at home. That seemed to be the way the 70s were for everything.

When ten minutes remained in art class, Mr. Baus would tell us to round up our art materials and put them away. We placed our unfinished works into this strange art contraption that let our paintings dry, stacking them neatly in blue wire mesh holders, separated by class: 1B, 2A, 3C, 4D, or 5B.

As we dragged along like confused puppies, too young to be organized on our own, Mr. Baus impatiently herded us along. Mr. Baus was infinitely single - and with children, it sometimes showed. The intensity in his voice grew slowly, building towards eruption. As kindergarteners, we hadn't learned how to bend or break the rules. We were just confused, little children, led by loud voices that said, "No!" or "Stop!"

Had we been just a few years older, we might have sent Mr. Baus to an early retirement. Then, he could move to Europe and escape us.

Mrs. Bauer, on the other hand, was a frustrated church choir leader. Her tired strawberry blonde hair curled around her head. Small wire-rimmed glasses framed her tired face. She gave us handouts, which we sang aloud in a choral group while she strummed her auto-harp with a rubber pick. If we were lucky, she would let us strum the harp as she pressed one button, then another.

We also participated in old traditional dances while Mrs. Bauer manned the turntable, placing the needle into the groove for the correct track. The needle tracked unevenly over the wax album's surface, hissing and cracking as it fed into the next song. Then, the emcee would announce the next song, followed by a count-down: 3...2...1...

Children reeled around, boys moving clockwise and girls moving counter-clockwise, doing dosey-dos and grab yer partners as we went. All in all it was a lesson in cooties.

Dancing was also a trial in patience as we struggled to find the right dance partner. I had always feared being paired with a girl named Dawn Norris. Dawn's father had obviously hoped for a prize-fighting welterweight.

instead he got Dawn.

Mrs. Luber and Mrs. Bauer constantly placed Dawn in the corner. She wagged her tongues at teachers and bullied the other students. There was never a moment. She wasn't scared to punch anyone who argued with her.

I usually had to hold hands with Mindy Warren, Alisa Limbers, Missy Waldorf, or one of the Collinsworth girls. Ick. They all had sweaty girl hands that I made a point of touching only when necessary.

Mr. Baus had always fought to get us out of our art smocks so we could wash up. Mrs. Bauer just struggled to get the boys to dance within five feet of the girls and hold hands.

In the passage of time, the boys would hold hands with the girls. In time, the teachers would have to pry boys and girls apart at homecomings and proms. For now, their chores were elementary, like playing "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

Grade School was the place where the rules were simple: don't make teachers angry, try not to get cooties, and no ditching in the lunch line just because it's pizza Friday.

Ah, what a rough life it was.

.

2001d.New York New York

by Ryan Adams

And love won't play any games with me
Anymore if you don't want it to
The world won't wait and I watched you shake
But honey, I don't blame you
Hell, I still love you, New York
Hell, I still love you, New York
New York

+++++++++++++

September Eleventh fades, even for those of us who were at some imminent place in our own memories. It was my first day back to the Hospitality Industry - Sept 11, 2001, Hampton Inn, Columbus, Ohio.

But that's not really important. In fact, it's very selfish to think of your life in a time like that - I was here on this day - and OF COURSE, I am connected to those people, because I witnessed it.

But, although I can tell you where I was, I think it's more important to tell you where I wasn't. I wasn't in New York. I wasn't in Washington DC. I wasn't in a plane over our country after 8:58am that day.

I wasn't covered in ashes or coughing up blood. None of my ribs were bruised, broken, or crushed. Not my mom, nor my dad, nor the Uncle and I always went to Mets and Jets games. None of them were huffing 150 pounds of fire hose up the North Tower stairwell.

No, I wasn't the guy who WENT UP to rescue others from the 89th floor, when wreckage and devastation had already decimated the 88th floor. I wasn't there when a fireball engulfed fire-treated fabrics of cubicle walls and office furniture.

I wasn't the one using my cellphone, calling a fiancee who was M.I.A. - a civilian stranded in a civil building on an ordinary, unremarkable blue-sky day. I didn't spend the next two weeks stapling and taping and gluing photocopied wanted posters of my father/mother/brother/sister/lover on telephone poles, light posts, or subway walls. My fingers weren't covered in mucilage from all this hopeless work.

I wasn't the one standing in the 2 square blocks of zip code 10048, tiny by zip code standards, watching a snow-fall of office papers, carried about by battling thermal currents. I wasn't the one hearing constant firecrackers.

These weren't firecrackers or explosions: these were 150 pound bodies colliding with concrete after a 1200 foot free-fall.

I wasn't sitting in a hospital waiting room, putting on the bravest face after hearing news about third degree burns, inhaled toxic chemicals and carbon residues - everyday ordinary chemicals, clogging the air and infesting my organs for the next one-hundred years.

I can bore you with my stories of where I was on September 11th.

But all I can remember really is where I wasn't.

1976c - Cats in the Cradle

by Harry Chapin

And he was talkin' 'fore I knew it, and as he grew
He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you dad.
You know I'm gonna be like you."

+++++++++++++

When I was seven years old, I played T-ball. I was on the 'Yankees' - a team coached by Maury Mills' dad and we were the victims of several 20-0 shutouts before the game was called by forfeit / superior decision. This was a time when teams were also limited to 10 batters (the full rotation) before having to switch, three outs or not.

I played third base, a unique distinction for any lefty. I suppose it was because I had a pretty strong arm and could throw the ball from third to first without having it bounce before it hit the first basemean's glove.

I remember one of the Griffey boys (can't remember it if it was Charlie or Keith) was up to bad and that particular day I was playing the pitcher position. Griffey hit a line drive right at me. This was before anyone realized I needed glasses, so I didn't see the line drive until after the baseball left an imprint in my forehead.

After being hit, I collapsed to my knees. It ended up being an in-the-park homerun, seeing as nobody rush to field the ball sitting in front of me.

Mr. Mills and my father were there after the commotion settled down. Mr. Mills told me I should've fielded the ball before worrying about the bruised forehead (and ego). I am pretty sure that i sat out the rest of the game. The bump turned into a large welt. I laid on the couch afterwards, applying an ice pack to the large bump.

It wasn't however, my only learning experience that year. One practice, we played the boys versus their fathers. My father played second base. By coincidence, i hit a line drive straight at him. He caught it in his glove and I was out.

I stopped running to first and went toward the dugout.

Mr. Mills was shouting towards me, "Run it out! Run it out!"
I turned around and took a few steps towards first. My father had dropped the ball that I had hit to him. It was an honest mistake any father would make, "accidentally" committing an error to let his boy get on base.

Only I did not run it out.

When I watch baseball games today, I notice professional players loping from home to first after a slow looping pop fly or a grounder towards first. I guess it's human nature to give only the lowest amount of effort necessary for any given situation, when we should be running it out.

It's also notable that we have a picture of me playing third base in my black Yankees uniform and grey fielder's pants. The same hoop-like baseball glove I own now (and plan on giving to my great nephew Bryce, who is also a southpaw) was the one I used then. In the picture, it sits on top of my right knee. I'm sitting on the base, waiting for someone to hit a ball toward me.

At that point, I suppose I planned to spring into action, running down the grounder or field the line drive. I also suppose several balls were hit my direction, since there was all this space between shortstop and the place where I sat comfortably on third base.

Mr. Mills probably coached me about that, too. Who knows? I liked baseball in theory, but not in reality. Never enough to play baseball and wait for someone to hit a ball my direction. Lots of waiting and very little action.

I preferred throwing the ball back and forth on the sidewalk in front of my house with my dad or my brother. Even more so, I preferred playing wiffle ball with Mike Klein, Doug Leonard, or Victor Lombardo, who lived directly behind me. There were four brothers in his family, all around my brother's age. There were also some other neighborhood kids that lived nearby and played baseball in our backyard, hopping fences to field long fly balls while the batters raced around the bases - either pieces of torn cardboard or patches of dirt that had been worn from use and overuse.

Still, there are few things like a baseball game, no matter the field. Maybe it's just because we tend to romanticize those special moments when the whole game is on the line. We all want to be Casey at the Bat - even when the mighty Casey strikes out - or fails to run the entire way from home to first base.

Better than Nothing

by the Outfield

Let's find a hideaway tonight
Somewhere where we can be together
I'm tired of waiting for the right time
If this is not the Ritz whatever.

+++++++++++++

Imagine any four-door sedan built around 1982.
Now imagine a dance club parking lot filled with high school students from all over the East side on any warm Sunday night in the summer of '86....

Muted pink, sea green, pale yellow, and powder blue were the colors to wear. And, as Scott Davis always jokes, a majority of us were wearing Izod polo shirts with the collars up and a Members Only jacket to match.

Each of the cars was filled with the same usual suspects: Bruestle, Rowe, Poirer, and Cripe; McHolland, Klein, and Leonard; Yavitch, DiSalvo, Weible, and Macy; Davis, Bussard, Lane, and Love; Patty O'Neal with Jean and Jane Collinsworrh; Rina, Tonya, and Heidi; Friedman, Moore, Warschauer, and Butler; Gorgias, Schmidt, and Shalosky.

Green plastic 2-liters were stowed between legs and under bucket seats. Cans of beer were covered with fake plastic wrappers that said 'Caco-Calo' and 'Spryte' that someone had bought at Spencer's in Eastland or Waterbeds and Stuff. It didn't matter. Just something to conceal the truth.

Just before "After the Gold Rush" opened for teen night, everyone gathered in line behind the old building. Its walls were covered in 1970s era dark oak paneling. There were one or two police officers patrolling the line. These were the same guys patrolling the parking lot, trying to find anyone drinking or smoking pot in the parking lot. There were never any arrests, just requests to put it out or pour it out.

I remember someone carrying whip-its - small nitrous oxide cartridges, which they'd 'huff' to get high, basically cutting off oxygen to the brain. Whomever it was, he did a few huffs while the rest of us watched. Others still drank or smoked in line, careful to hide between the crowd and the side of the building. Sometimes you'd smell beer-breath or a breeze of pot. Again, the security was always a few steps behind.

I remember someone in class saying "I couldn't imagine going to 'After the Gold Rush' without being stoned or drunk. It must be boring as hell." I think it was Donahue, but I can't say for sure.

Being one of those sober ones inside, it wasn't really boring, because there was a lot to fill the sense - girls dressed in their best, Mitch Brown was playing good music (for the time) in the DJ Booth, People were trying to pick others up or be picked up. This all happened in a bar with a cowboy-bar theme. It was probably part of the 'Rhinestone Cowboy' movement right at the end of the Disco era, where every bar had a mechanical bull and a bar full of drunk macho men dumb enough to prove their manhood.

Even something as boring as going to the restroom had an element of interesting to it. - in the same way as going to the bathroom at the CI near Ohio University or the restroom at the Indy 500 is - a sensory overload.

People were pressed together - the line for the boy's room had a long wait. The line for the girl's room was beyond a long wait. So much so, that I remember a few pre-going-in excursions with girls for alternative places to go to the restroom.

Sometimes it was the Burger King or Taco Bell on Tussing Road. More often than not, girls would find an exterior wall to the Racquetball Club or they'd drop trow and lean up against a car in the back part of one of the car dealerships along dealer's row.

I remember specifically took down her pants. I will tell you this - she had long blond curly 80s hair and a leather jacket on at the time. She squatted and leaned against a car in the back of the Honda parking lot. She made me hold her leather coat. I stood next to Doug Leonard and Brian McHolland - a 'safe distance' away.

The sound of her (and her friend's) peeing as it hit the blacktop made either Leonard or McHolland laugh. We were told to stop, but we couldn't. It only got worse as two rivers of urine zig-zagged downhill through the parking lot, cutting through rows of brand new cars.

And, even though we were in the less lit part of the lot, it didn't matter. The whole lot was illuminated in bright white light. So...unlike Bryan Donahue, I could not imagine how much more funny going to Teen Night would've been if I had been numb to experiences like that.

Drunk people are too funny to miss.

These Happy Days.

by Norman Gimbel and Charles Fox

Sunday, Monday, Happy Days.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Happy Days.
Thursday, Friday, Happy Days.
The weekend comes,
My cycle hums,
Ready to race to you.


+++++++++++++

I remember Miss Victoria Campbell, my second grade teacher. she was the first teacher crush I ever had. She was also the teacher that loved to draw pictures of Snoopy and Clifford on everything. She put them just about everywhere in the classroom.

We arrived at our homeroom on the first day, with our seats assigned with name markers. Little cut-outs of Clifford the Big Red Dog were taped to the backs of our seats. Miss Campbell also gave us the standard "grade school teacher" list: one box of Kleenex, one dozen No. 2 pencils, two booklets of third-grade ruled paper, with the alternating blue and red lines on non-bleached news print, a box of 64 Crayola Crayons with every color then imaginable: from blue-green to green-blue to burnt sienna.

Beyond her being a cute female twenty-something, there isn't much else to remember, except for field trips and visitors. Oh, and of course, what would 1978 have been without the blizzard that kept us out of school for nearly two months.

1977 was the year that the snow just kept on coming. Teachers lined us up outside the front of Herbert Mills every morning. We waited in the cold for 8:45 to come, so they would let us into the warm building. Frank Bowsher had one of those dark blue parka coats with the fur on the hood that looked like dead squirrel. He always pulled it up over his head and zipped the
zipper up to the top of the neck. His tiny face poked out the round hole, surrounded by squirrel fur.

We stood in line for ten or fifteen minutes every morning, but it felt like an hour, as we huddled together in line, making sure not to cross the thick yellow line that told us how close we could get to school before it actually opened.

Christmas 1977 came, and we received our Gi Joes with the kung-fu grip, green machines, new BMX bikes, new clothes for our Barbie dolls and, of course, warmer winter coats.

January came and Winter reared its ugly head, inch after inch of snow piled in front of our houses. We made snowmen and snow castles and had snowball fights. A patch of ice ran across one part of the playground and, of course, the children found it. Mrs. Derr had to stand on top of the ice patch to stop us from sliding across and possibly breaking our necks.

About half-way through January, we'd already run out of "free" snow days. Local school boards were looking at coming up with a solution or making the school year extend deep into June. For approximately two weeks, the temperature didn't even break over freezing. Then, on January 23rd, it all got worse.

Reynoldsburg Middle School was having problems keeping operable in the horrible weather. On January 23rd, over a dozen inches of snow fell on Ohio. It was the first and last time that all of I-71 and I-70 were completely closed to all traffic, including snow removal equipment. It looked like Jack Frost had won. We weren't going anywhere.

Joe Endry and the school board decided to host split-session classes at Reynoldsburg Junior High. Our third grade class went to Mills and waited in the Gymnasium until busses came by to pick us up. Then, we were whisked off to the Junior High for classes three times a week (M,W,F) from 8 AM to 11:30 AM. A childhood friend, Andy Motz, was in fourth grade. He went to classes in the afternoon, which meant he got to see re-runs of Happy Days and Laverne & Shirley every weekday morning at 11 AM.

The Junior High was a large, foreign building half-buried in the ground. It looked like a warehouse. It looked like a coffin. Inside, there were hallways with tall yellow and orange lockers. There were school rooms that were separated by large wall dividers. Noises from other classes travelled freely from one part of the building to the other. We also got to enjoy actual student desks. We fought over desks that had fold-down tops and plastic chairs that had three slots across the back, instead of the old yellow chairs with the large bucket seat, which were uncomfortable and left our legs dangling awkwardly over the front side.

We were given simple grab-bag projects: Molding clay objects, finishing basic dittoes for spelling and math classes. We used our regular textbooks. We wrote lists of spelling words, including those pesky Snerks, special words that were spelled differently than they sounded. We drew large letters in print, then in cursive. Back then, everyone's cursive Qs looked like giant 2s and cursive Zs were totally foreign objects. I always wondered how Jo Zari coped with having to write that stupid capital Z every time she signed her name. Maybe that's why she went to college a year early.

One of the reporters at WBNS channel 10 (Carol Chaney) hosted a morning TV show called "Schoolies." Sometimes, teachers would assign projects based on Schoolies episodes, sometimes we would just do the projects the best we could.

We also just watched anything that was on the tube, since the weather was cold and bitter. We watched Bob Barker and Richard Dawson in the morning, then soap operas in the afternoon. We would still manage to get outside to play in the snow, but for the most part, we just waited it out.

It was, a cold, cold winter that we all suffered through, travelling by big yellow bus to a strange and distant place called Reynoldsburg Junior High. When it ended, it was just another year down and nine to go.

Where the Streets Have No Name

by U2

I wanna run
I want to hide
I wanna tear down the walls
That hold me inside
I wanna reach out
And touch the flame
Where the streets have no name

I want to feel
Sunlight on my face
I see the dust cloud disappear
Without a trace
I want to take shelter from the poison rain
Where the streets have no name

+++++++++++++

It was likely to be March Eighteenth when Greg Love and I went shopping for a Compact Disc.

Just a week earlier, U2 released "The Joshua Tree", which was now the #1 LP in the country. MTV had the video "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" in heavy rotation. Every teenager in America knew the band members by their names: Bono, Larry, Adam, and The Edge. Girls wore black rock concert Ts with a silhouette of Bono and the trademark large white flag from the "New Years Day" video.

I still hadn't gotten my driver's license, so I had to rely on everyone else (including Greg Love) to drive. Just after the final bell at school, Greg and I went to the parking lot and got into his pale yellow Mazda with the tattered black leather seats and sun-bleached dash and console.

We went west on I-70 to Hamilton Road, turning south at the traffic light. About a mile south, we looked for "the Big Green E".on the sign outside.Eastland Mall.

Greg parked near Lazarus and we headed inside. The General Cinemas Duplex Theatre and Recordtown sat on either side of Lazarus.

We'd decided to buy "The Joshua Tree" even before we left RHS, so it was no surprise that we headed directly to the back of the store, where the U2 CDs were located. Although the CD was a birthday gift, we didn't wrap it. We just taped a birthday card directly to the CD, without removing the plastic theft-proof guard.

We returned to Reynoldsburg, heading east on Main and turning left onto Briarcliff. Passing Tanya Terrace, Prior, and Nocturne, we turned left again, this time onto Roundelay Road.

As we approached our destination, cars lined both sides of the street. Tina Wiese was standing in front of the house. Most likely, she was talking to either Hallie or Shelly. Bernie and Myrna's place was full of high school kids, ready to party.

Eric Yavitch, the birthday boy, was there, too.

Tina had a crush on Eric as long as she attended RHS. Eric, on the other hand, didn't feel the same. He begrudgingly accepted the idea of a surprise party. Luckily, Greg and I lost track of time at Recordtown. This meant we missed the 'surprise' part of the party.

We went inside the Yavitch house and watched the misery unfold. Tina had a heart to break and Eric was eager to break it. Mrs. Yavitch helped Tina plan the party, so she attempted to push Eric into awkward situations with Tina. Eventually, Eric won out and Mrs. Yavitch quit trying. When that happened, the party unfolded beautifully. Small clusters of people gathered in various areas of the house.

At one time, Eric and I were hanging out in his bedroom with Pete DiSalvo and Cassie Martin. I think Eric was dating Cassie at that time, but maybe not. It's hard telling after 20+ years. Anyway, Pete started telling one of his favorite stories about his grandpa.

Pete imitated his grandfather's voice, which creaked. It sorta sounded like his Doug Leonard impression, which always started and ended with an "Awww, gee." Instead, you knew it wasn't a Doug Leonard imitation within one question his grandpa always asked him:

"Peter, did I ever tell you about the time I got a hand job in the back of a rowboat?"

It was classic Pete, always to tell simple jokes that kept you laughing, no matter how many times you'd heard it.

Since unrequited love seemed to be the theme of the party, we talked about the girl I had a crush on at that time. The funny thing was, Eric remarked he thought she was too cute for me and he thought "I bet she has one tasty beaver."

It was a bet nobody wanted to take. Maybe it was the fact that we all thought, in fact, she had a tasty beaver. Maybe it was just the fact that at age 18, you cannot argue these kinds of things, since all boys are in agreement.

Sex of any kind, whether real or imagined, is good sex.

We laughed and joked, mostly about girls we'd dated and the time Eric had to do laundry because one of his ex-girlfriends had messed up his bedsheets.

Anyway, that's all gossip. What matters is that friends celebrated together, whether it was perfect or not. Had it turned out perfectly, there probably wouldn't have been a thing to talk about. So, maybe the blemishes were what made it perfect, after all.

Video Killed the Radio Star

by The Buggles

And now we meet in an abandoned studio
We hear the playback and it seems so long ago
And you remember the jingles used to go

Oh-a oh
You were the first one
Oh-a oh
You were the last one

Video Killed the Radio Star.

Video Killed the Radio Star...

+++++++++++++

The move from Middle School to Junior High was yet another transition period in the collective lives of the Class of '87.

We moved from a century-old three-story 'bomb shelter' to a modern half-buried 'strip mall' with two long corridors, one for the 8th graders and one for the freshmen.

From the outside, one could only view a strip of two-foot high windows, topped by a long rectangle of reflective gold metal to top off the roof. People passing by the Junior High while driving along I-70 often thought it was some sort of warehouse. It wasn't until someone decied to put "Reynoldsburg Junior High School" on the facade that people realized what was really inside: hormonal teenagers.

Every morning, I'd leave the house about 7:25, joining Tim Phillips and Scott Newberry at the bus stop near Greentree Apartments. The bus would normally pick us up around 7:30 and take us to the Junior High.

The familiar golden stripe of roofing would appear at the horizon as we made our way to the end of Baldwin Drive. Busses curled around the circular drive and parked in a row. The students who didn't ride mopeds emerged from the busses and gathered in front of the central doorway. Some would lean against either of the brick walls that extended from the doorway. Some would gatheer near the island where a few pine trees were planted. Still, others would gather near the bike rack. The greater majority would huddle in small, divided groups all along the blacktop.

I cannot remember the group I hung out with most. It may have been Dan Jones, Rob Partlow, and Mike Reddy. It may have been Mike Klein and Doug Leonard. It could have been Ward Singer, Kurt Dieckmann, and Tony Johnson. As I moved from one building to another, it wasn't the only thing that changed. Life at home had become quite different, too.

Mom had just divorced Dad a year earlier. She decided to move out of the house on Terry Drive and into one of Apartments in Greentree, on Wind River Drive. In fact, it was the same Apartment that Lynn Breweer and her family had just moved out of a few months before we moved in.

Being displaced that year had some sort of profound effect on me. I don't remember much about that year, except I was playing soccer, wrestling, and getting into fights with everyone who lived near French Run, except for this red-headed kid named Gary who always reminded me of the guy in the Brawny commercials.

For some reason, one of the most outstanding pieces of clothing I remember from Junior High belonged to Don Houser. He was the first kid from Reynoldsburg I remember that owned a Camouflage MTV Shirt, with the giant Pink M and orange t.v. inscribed on the front.

For all of us, it was one of the things we all wanted to own: an MTV T-Shirt. Even if we wore red and black leather 'Michael Jackson Thriller' jackets, parachute pants, or a couple dozen little rubber bracelets and lace fingerless gloves, we all wanted the MTV Shirt.

At RJHS, it was also the year of the blondes: Tammy Fast and Tammy McCaleb represented the ninth grade blondes. They could always been seen hanging out together, sporting their purple wind jackets. The two Loris (Frnacis and Pyle) represented the 8th graders. Lori Francis also had an MTV shirt and Lori Pyle always seemed to be wearing her Pink Izod. Stephanie Harris and Jen Sasfy were there, too. There were even blonde guys, most of which were on the wrestling squad.

Whether you were a blonde guy or blonde girl, you were sure to feather your hair like the bad guy or good girl in Karate Kid. Regardless of your hair color, you always made sure to own a black or purple Goody Hair Brush, just in case there was a hair emergency and you need to fix your feathers.

I also remember Lori Pyle and Stephanie Harris wearing those Izods with some stunning effects. It was the eighth grade, and both boys and girls were 'discovering themselves'. Girls were stuck with the curse of developing bodies and boys had the curse of their latest joystick. Everyone eventually had to pay the price for turning thirteen.

And it was the one time I had a crush on any blonde other than Kathy Winship - and that was with Stephanie Harris. Of course, she wore clothes that led me into this trap. She wore tight-fitting tops and even tighter fitting jeans. I also remember she was in Mr. Beech's Geography class, which was the first class of the day. One more than one occasion, she bent over, showing her back side to the rest of the class.

At that time, I definitely remember hanging out with Rob Partlow and Dan Jones. We were in a few of the same classes together, including Geography. When Stephanie bent over, not only did that get our attention, but it also got Dan Jones to make an audible gasp. I think Rob Partlow gasped and gawked, too. While she acted surprised at our reactions, I sat there slack-jawed and wide-eyed. To her, we probably seemed like a bunch of Lennys and Squiggys, over-reacting to a simple flirtation.

I also remember Rob Partlow talking about his barber.

He went to the Barber College that sat next to Harts/Big Bear. A female barber student used to always cut his hair. She'd lean over him and her perfume would catch his nose. Additionally, her hips would catch his elbow. He got into a habit of poking his elbow out just a little further, trying to cop 'an elbow feel'.

We were 13. You probably could not expect anything more or anything less from us at that point. We were all about 90% hormones and 10% Music Television.

Not quite ironically, MTV was about 90% hormones, too.

We Are the Champions

by Queen

I've paid my dues - time after time.

I've done my sentence - but committed no crime.

And bad mistakes - I've made a few.

Ive had my share of sand kicked in my face -

But Ive come through

We are the champions - my friends
And well keep on fighting - till the end -
We are the champions! We are the champions!
No time for losers
'Cause we are the champions - of the world -

+++++++++++++

In the early Winter of 1977, I was introduced to Roger Anderson and his Reynoldsburg Raider Wrestling program. I'd tag-a-long with my big brother, who is eight years older than me, and participate in some of the wrestling practice or sit next to the Mat Maids during the more intense parts of practice.

.

This is where I was introduced to 'Classic Rock' and Q FM 96, long before most of my friends listened to, or even liked, harder rock. I was one of the kids at Herbert Mills Elementary School who had an older sibling that went to High School. Paul Unger, Maggie Gebbie, Sandy Back, and Sara Fluck were the others I remember.

.

Sandy, Maggie and Paul's older brothers were wrestlers, too. Sometimes, I saw them at wrestling meets, but mostly I hung out with Danny Dobbs. I was the one who introduced Danny to wrestling in 5th grade when I invited him to Roger's Wrestling Camp. Once he was introduced to wrestling, he never looked back.

.

Before I realized how much I was NOT a wrestler, I spent those years looking up to my brother, who qualified for the State Tournament during his Sophomore and Senior years. During that time, RHS won the Ohio Central Conference (OCC) in wrestling about 4 our of 7 years.

.

My brother wrestled at 126 pounds. That was one of the lighter weights. The last to wrestle was the Heavyweights. Marc Unger (Paul's older brother) was next to last. Mike Moyer was last.

.

Usually, Reynoldsburg posted team scores like 65-0 or 45-12. They really dominated every team they went to at the local level. After the home meets, Roger played "We are the Champions / We Will Rock You" at the end of the matches until the coach from Westland High made a complaint of 'unsportsmanlike conduct' and demanded the song be pulled.

.

As far as I can remember, it continued playing for the next few years. The song encouraged Raider fans to stomp their feet on the heavy wooden bleachers that surrounded the gym floor. By the time the song reached a crescendo and transitioned into 'We Will Rock You", kids (including me) ran down to the center of the gymnasium and helped to roll up the wrestling mats.

.

There is something fiercely primal about wrestling. It's probably one of the two ultimate sports (the other being boxing), that's out there. It's truly 'me vs. you' - a modern gladiator match between two teenage boys who focus only on one person, while cheered or booed by a crowd of one-thousand.

.

The day I quit wrestling was the day I became Varsity. Although I love watching wrestling, I was just never a 'me vs. you' person. I always preferred me + you - like team sports or large multi-person events.

.

I prefer to sink into the scenery and be one of the thousand, cheering, booing, and celebrating those who prefer to be gladiators.

Close to Me

by The Cure

I've waited hours for this
I've made myself so sick
I wish I'd stayed asleep today.
.
I never thought this day would end
I never thought tonight could ever be
this close to me.

+++++++++++++

It was sometime around Christmas break of my Senior year (December 1986) when I went with Alan Moore and Mike Butler to Mike Gidley's house in Bexley. Mike's house was tucked into this quiet cul-de-sac. The house was two stories with a full basement. By Reynoldsburg standards in 1986, it was huge.
.
Alan, Mike and I split our time between three rooms: the basement, the entertainment room, and a small bedroom.

.

The basement had a pool table and a boom box. Three or four of Mike's friends from Bexley High spent a good part of the night there, chain-smoking cigarettes and shooting pool. There was only one girl in the basement, named Carly. She was a Goth chick before Goth chicks really existed.
.
We split up from the rest of the party and went up to the 2nd floof of the house. Someone was in Mike's parent's bedroom and someone else was in his sister/brother's room. Mike, of course, was in his bedroom.
.
We went to the entertainment room, which was bigger than the great room at most houses, tiled in wood, with another pool table, a full (but unstocked) bar, and a sound system, complete with a CD player and Quadrophonic speakers ringing the room.
.
She put in "The Cure - Singles" and we made out on the couch, girl on top.
.
Somehow, the guy who had also been chasing her came in and broke it up, then stole her away to the basement and I didn't see her the rest of the night. Alan and Mike, and I think the Beals sisters, too, came up and we listened to "Close to Me" off the 'Standing on the Beach' CD - which was the first time I'd heard the song or the album.
.
We moved onward to one of the free bedrooms and hung out. - About six of us crammed into a very small bedroom - I think it belonged to Mike's little sister. I'd even called my mom to say I was going to spend the night at Mike's house. She demanded the address, and I made up an address in Whitehall so I could stay there. I had hoped to hook up with Carly again, but she disappeared shortly after midnight, I think.
.
Alan, Mike, and I did what grown-up boys did best - we played around in the Entertainment Room, including slipping around on our socks. I'm sure we played a game where we tried to see who could slide closest to Mrs. Gidley's China Cabinet or played paper-wad basketball, no blood/no foul style.
.
We ended up crashing in the Entertainment room, listening to a mix of CDs, including 'Standing on the Beach', 'Sticky Fingers', and 'Ziggy Stardust' (on random mix) until morning.

.

When I arrived home, my mom scolded me and sent me to my room to 'think about it.' I was probably grounded for 1 or 2 weeks. The trip was entirely worth it, though. After all, I can still remember most of the details of that one short night with Mike, Alan, Beth Beals, Christy Beals, Carly and Me like it was yesterday.

The Load-Out / Stay

by Jackson Browne

But the band's on the bus
And they're waiting to go.
We've got to drive all night and do a show in Chicago.
Or Detroit, I don't know.
We do so many shows in a row.
And these towns all look the same...

Please, please stay, just a little bit longer.
We wanna play just a little bit longer.
If the promoter don't mind, and the union don't mind.
We can take a little time and we'll leave this all behind
Singin' one more song.

+++++++++++++
.
In 1980, my life was full of change. I went from the comfy confines of Herbert Mills Elementary to Hannah J Ashton Middle School. My sister was in her Senior Year at RHS; my brother graduated in 1979. My parents also managed to fit a divorce somewhere in there, too.
.
During that time, one of the things I remember most is my sister's music rotation of Jackson Browne, Tom Petty, and The Eagles. 1979 had been the year of the 'Naked Taco' at our house. Mom prepared all the ingredients for tacos: chopping tomatoes, onions, and lettuce, grating cheddar cheese, and browning ground beef. She'd place the ingredients in separate tupperware bowls and everyone would eat dinner whenever they got around to it.

My father worked 3rd Shift in the year before the divorce. Sometimes he'd be awake for dinner, other times he wouldn't. Being a night-owl myself, I understand the feeling all too well.
.
Still, the breakdown of the family unit began. My big brother Ron went to Miami University in the fall of 1979. He became homesick every time we took him to the Greyhound station downtown. One time, I remember the entire family packing into the station wagon and taking him to the station. It must have been the fall of 1979, during his first Freshman quarter. He had his shaggy red hair and a large burnt orange down-filled jacket and a duffel bag full of freshly laundered clothes.

Mom just said, "Don't look back," to everyone in the car as we drove away from the bus station.

Then, my sister graduated a year later, going to Ohio University. Ron transferred to OU, where most of his friends were going, anyway.
.
And in that year, my father decided to leave - he'd been unfaithful to mom for quite some time, and I guess there was a last straw in there somewhere. I ended up being one of the only of my friends who had divorced parents. For me, it just meant a longer Christmas with two sets of gift wrapping to rip apart. It also meant weekends with Dad.
.
I wasn't bothered too much by it. Ryan and Jason Vaughn or Mike Poirier or Bryan Donahue would come over and spend the weekend at my Dad's apartment, over in Carnaby Village. Our weekly road trip was usually to an OSU hockey game.
.
My big brother Ron often says he feels guilty for not being there for me during that time. In all honesty, that didn't bother me half as much as his reluctance to make it back home for Chistmas nowadays - when he has more control over the things that get in his way.

Still, in this time I've become closer to my sister and I've always been close to my mum. For all of that, I should be thankful - and I am.

Kayleigh

by Marillion

Kayleigh - I just want to say I'm sorry,

But Kayleigh
I'm too scared to pick up the phone.
To find you've found another lover
to patch up our broken home.

Kayleigh,
I'm still trying to write that love song,
Kayleigh it's more important to me now you're gone.
Maybe it'll prove that we were right
Or it will prove that I was wrong.

+++++++++++++

I remember the day I met Diane Burchett. She was the first girl I truly loved. I'd stumbled into 'Campus Life' - a Christian Youth group that I sorta hung out with during my Junior and Senior year of high school. I think it was a time-filler, mostly, but it was also the eternal 'search for God'.
.
In December of my Senior year, I met her on the band practice field. I think it was Mark Brennan who brought a Nerf football out and we (Mark Brennan, Kevin Brennan, Randy Reisling, Andy Van Buren, Jay Fulton, Diane Burchett, me) were all throwing it around. Finally, the football landed in Diane's hands. I tackled her full-on, but still landing on my forearms to cushion the fall.
.
By the time I tackled her, she heaved the ball into the air. As I got up, I kissed her smack-dab on the lips, then pulled her to her feet and just ran away - like a 6 year old playing kissy-face on the playground. half-serious, half-not, 100% infuriating to the girl involved.
.
We talked a few times, here and there, until I asked her out for Senior Prom. After Prom, Brian Long joked, "I got more than you at Prom and all I got was a good-night kiss."
.
But, the funny thing was that I didn't even attempt to kiss Diane goodnight. Just another way that the perception of the click got in the way, I guess.
.
That Summer, I went to Summer Camp for the entire Summer. In the afternoons when the Boy Scouts were too busy swimming to come to the Nature Area, I wrote letters to Diane - and Christa Smith, and Tammy Blanke, and Amy Froehlich...bored.
.
Anyway, Diane and I started swapping notes more and more until I returned from Summer camp. During my Freshman year at Ohio U and her Senior year at RHS, we started dating - and in fact, we dated for almost two years.
.
It was my longest relationship (including my marriage) - and probably the one I miss the most. Diane had a lot of soft qualities I loved in a female friend. I wrote her several poems, but I doubt any one captured the feeling. I guess that's how it goes with love.

Time Stand Still

I turn my back to the wind to catch my breath,

Before I start off again

Driven on, without a moment to spend

To pass an evening

With a drink and a friend

.

I let my skin get too thin

I'd like to pause, No matter what I pretend

Like some pilgrim

Who learns to transcend

Learns to live

As if each step was the end

.

Time stand still

I'm not looking back

but I want to look around me now

.

Time stand still

See more of the people and the places

that surround me now

.

Time stand still

Freeze this moment a little bit longer

Make each sensation a little bit stronger

.

Experience slips away...

Experience slips away...

Time stand still.

.

+++++++++++++

.

There are places in our past that leave indelible imprints in our hearts and minds. For my friends and me, that place was Pickerington Cemetery.

.

Although I think Steve Gorgias was the first to find the cemetery, I'm sure half a dozen others will claim the find as their own. Throughout the Summer of 1987, our group ("The Pit", we called ourselves) began most nights by gathering at Burger King.

.

Dennis Macy took the brown Gran Torino, Davis took his yellow "Le Car" (not just a car...it's Le Car, as Poirier often reminded us), Andy Van Buren took his baby blue VW Beetle and Poirier took his bright orange Fiesta. Other cars went, too. So, it was a parade of teenagers speeding through the streets of Reynoldsburg and Pickerington to go to the cemetery. Pickerington police must've figured we were looking for our drinking spot.

.
But we weren't. We were just hanging out. Hanging out and hanging on to our friendships.

.
A small gravel drive led up the hill to the cemetery. Approximately 300 gravestones lined the cul-de-sac and the tiny turnaround at the top of the hill. At the bend, you could see the surrounding lights of Meijer's to the left and 33 South to the right. For 18-year-olds, the view was impressive. Better than the view around us was the view above. Yabo (Eric Yavitch) and Pedro (Pete DiSalvo) told us when there were meteor showers or planets or constellations to look out for.
.

After we parked our cars, we'd all get out and lean on the bumpers or sit on the hoods of the cars. Sometimes, Yavitch would lead a group through the cemetery to the nearby apple orchard.

.

One time, we'd heard a dog barking at the top of the hill near the orchard. I remember Eric and me being there, but I also think Tiffany Reddy and Allie Woodall were there in the orchard, too. As soon as the dog began barking, we all took off, every man (and woman) for themselves.

.

I managed to avoid the barbwire fence that separated the graveyard from the apple orchard. Eric, however, did not. He tore a six or seven inch gash in the upper inside of one of his thighs. I don't remember if he got a shot for it, but he never got tetanus, as far as I know.

.

We stayed out 'til 3, or 4 in the morning, worrying our parents to death. But, we weren't drinking (well, not too much). We weren't smoking pot. We played a game we called "conversations", asking questions like "who was your first?", "If you could marry any girl from high school, who would it be?", and "best original album ever?"

.

In college, I had to write an essay, visiting a high school memory. I chose the old Pickerington cemetery. I took classes at Ohio University's Lancaster campus and the Pickerington Cemetery lay halfway between college and home.

I went to that old cemetery in the light of day. In daylight, and 5 years later, the cemetery was just a small plot of land with some gravestones. The rusty wire fence that encircled the graveyard was broken down and worn out, although it was probably still strong enough to rip another gash in Eric Yavitch's leg.

.

Maybe it was just the timing. Maybe it was just the romance and mystery that moonlight gives to a place that sunlight does not. Maybe it was being eighteen years old.

At eighteen, we were too old to be kids, too young to be adults, but we we desperately wanted to be both. We wanted to play baseball in Doug Leonard's backyard. We wanted to make out with that girl who sat next to us in Chemistry class. We wanted to know where our separate lives would take us.

.

We just wanted more time.

Afterimage

by Rush

Suddenly, you were gone
From all the lives you left your mark upon

I remember
How we talked and drank into the misty dawn

I hear the voices
We ran by the water on the wet summer lawn
I see the footprints
I remember

I feel the way you would
I feel the way you would

Tried to believe
But you know it's no good

This is something that just can't be understood

+++++++++++++

Here it is, February 15th, 2009 at 5am. Its a Sunday, which means the 5 percent of the world I'm living in is completely quiet. I stand on the sidewalk in front of my childhood home and listen.

Eric's birthday is in a month and I think about it often - he wouldve been 40. There is a large handful of schoolhouse friends who have left me in the last few years. I find it very sad...especially about the ones who have taken their own lives.

Even at its most trying, life is not that difficult. Most of the problems we face are self-wrought. Those that aren't are brought about by people who careen in and out of our lives, like balls on a pool table. Unlike the metaphorical 8-ball, we have some control over our direction and angle of attack.

I think it was lucky for me that Chuck's suicide came first. He and I were not close, even though we were on the same team in Reynoldsburg Youth Basketball during the eighth grade, we hung out together every lunch during our senior year, we went to the Winter Homecoming with a bunch of guy friends and we shared many of the same friends.

Even though there's a cloud-filled sky tonight, it reminds me of the year between high school and college. After Chuck Lane's funeral, Eric Yavitch confided to both Mike Butler and me. He'd said he had been having thoughts of suicide over recent months. He also said "I know we see what Chuck deals with on a different level."

I didn't know what to say, really. I had walked into his law office in 1996, wanting to throw myself off the bridge passing over the Scioto at I-70, just west of downtown. I have dealt with sucide and depression since I was 15 or so. I think it's odd that these two guys both committed suicide and I did not.

I still struggle...

But I don't dare to "flip the switch", because I just have things left on my "To Do List."

Mostly, these deaths of people close to me has brought me to a bigger conclusion: Life isn't about much. It's about the people in your inner circle - the parents and siblings and cousins and children and closest friends.

I had a falling out with one of these people in my Inner Circle about 3 years ago. Although we've made amends, the relationship still isn't on the same course it once was. I think it's time to make full amends. I miss his friendship very much.

Magic Power

by Triumph

Something's at the edge of your mind,
You don't know what it is.
Somethin' you were hopin' to find,
but you're not sure what it is.

Then you hear the music
- and it all comes crystal clear.
The music does the talkin',
says the things you want to hear

"I'm young, I'm wild and I'm free...
I got the magic power of the music in me."

+++++++++++++

Just about the time Spring Break came around in 1986, some life-long friendships really began to to take shape. Although our friendships would still grow after that, we all could identify the people we'd still surround ourselves with (even if it was in some small way) during the rest of our lives.

On the Friday before Spring Break, I sat at lunch with the people I always hung with: Jon Trickey, Alan Moore, Mike Butler, Matt Warschauer, and Danny Friedman. We sat in the next to last table, nearest the bus parking lot.

We had been wondering "What are we gonna do for Spring Break?" all week long. It could have been the same old routines: Go to Burger King and hang out for a bit, hit Eastland Mall for awhile, then maybe return home after we watched movies like Platoon, Color of Money, Aliens, or Hoosiers.

Instead, Jon Trickey was itching to do a little bit more.

"I was supposed to go to Fort Walton Beach for Spring Break with mom, but I told her I didn't want to go."

"So you have the house alone? We could hang out and drink or something," said Jon.

"Hang out? I say Nick has a party," replied Alan Moore. Of course, Alan was joking. He always said things half-heartedly when it came to mischief. He was always the one to suggest mischief. I was always the one to act upon it.

"A party would be great," said Jon.

"Maybe something small. Jon, can you bring a band?"

"Bring a band? I can bring two."

I thought Jon was joking. Unfortunately, he was not. Because of my hi-jinx during Spring Break 1985, mom made me stay at the Singer's for 1986. I got a call around 8pm from Betsy Filmer,

She said, "Nick, you gotta get over here. There are two bands setting up their equipment."

So, I went over and tried my best to clean up. I didn't do too good of a job, though. At the end of things, I just kinda gave up, telling Greg Love to watch the house for me before going back to the Singer's for the night.

Hahaha. My god, I should NOT EVEN BEGIN to consider having offspring.

I returned to my house early on Sunday morning. Ward and I placed the outdoor trash can in the middle of the living room and filled it up. After we did, one of us took the full bags to Wendy's, down the street. We must have hauled 20 trashbags to Wendy's that afternoon.

Lord, there is so much more to this story....

Anyway, we had a great time and the song Magic Power reminds me of that time. It also reminds me of the party at Doug Leonard's house where someone turned off the heater and we woke up half-frozen.

Good times.

Too Late for Goodbyes

by Julian Lennon

Ever since you've been far away,
I've been wanting to fly.
Now I know what you meant to me.
I'm the one who should cry.

And it's much too late for goodbyes.
Yes, it's much too late for goodbyes.

+++++++++++++

During my Sophomore Year, Julian Lennon came out from his father's shadow and released "Valotte." The album was produced by Phil Ramone (more commonly known as Billy Joel), which meant it had top hit potential from the get-go.

The song was a fringe Music Video hit on MTV, but found a place in the rotation on VH-1, the adult conemporary station. In ways, I liked Julian a lot more than his father's solo works. It didn't explore too much, and although the comparisons to John Lennon were evident, it still stood alone, mainly due to Billy Joel's efforts.

In 10th grade, I fit uncomfortably between the jocks and the nerds, not really being the center of either group, but a fringe player in both. During lunches, I roamed from group to group, sitting with different people on a regular basis.

The songs from this album seem to bring back memories of later years in high school. Mostly, I remember playing touch football with the bandies while I waited for Soccer practice to begin. Steve Friend, Mark Brennan, Kurt Dieckmann, Ward Singer, and the rest.

Then, I'd head off to Soccer practice and hang out with Mike Klein, Eric Yavitch, Mike Weible, and Pete DiSalvo. Even in social ways, the two groups had such a different dynamic. I can't explain it - it just was different.

Even now, I watch "The Breakfast Club" with great reminisince; that was the movie of Generation X. I secretly root for Judd Nelson, Molly Ringwald, Emilio Estevez, Ally Sheedy, and Anthony Michael Hall to trade places for more than one Saturday afternoon.

I grow older every day and each day, my life becomes more about the next generation and less about my own. My friends have children of their own and these kids now roam the high school halls that we once called our own.

"And these children that you spit on,
As they try to change their worlds,
Are immune to your consultations,
They're quite aware of what they're going through."

- David Bowie, "Changes"
(as proscribed in the opening credits of "The Breakfast Club").

And so it goes...

.

Whenever I hear a song from Julian Lennon's "Valotte", I think of Rodney Metcalf. He committed suicide sometime during our Junior Year or Senior Year. I hung around a bit with Tim Zag. As a consequence, I also hung around a little bit with Rodney Metcalf.

Rodney was the 'doubting thomas' of our class. If there was anything he could be 'too cool' for, he'd be the first to roll his eye and shake his head. Often, it was just him and Tim hanging out for lunch at one of the benches that surrounded the courtyard. This is how I'll always remember Rodney. It'll probably also be the way I always remember Tim, too.

.

Now the courtyard is gone, along with everything but our memories. Our kids have taken our place, and as John Coffman always said, "Only the names and the faces change."

.

How can you beat a quote like that? I look back fondly on my school days and remember the faces that entertained and challenged me. In all honesty, is it ever too late to say goodbye...or even hello again?

Secret Garden

by Bruce Springsteen

She'll look at you and smile.
And her eyes will say
She's got a secret garden.

Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away.

+++++++++++++

Although the song doesn't remind me of Chona, the lyrics do take me back. And, Bruce Springsteen is the favorite band of one of my friends, Mike Pestich.

A young girl of only 17 came into my life when I was 26. She was soon to turn 29, but still, there were implications to a relationship of that difference in age. I was torn between young and old. I knew there was still a tender, undamaged part of Chona in both her mother and father's eyes. I was this strange older man, looking to rip that out of her.

At least, that's what some may say...

...but I cared for Chona in a way that no 17 or 18 year-old boy had the horsesense to have. At times, Chona was stoic and withdrawn; at other times, she was willing to be intruded emotionally. I think I have that way with people. I come off as abrasive on my outer layers, but deeper within, there's something more. I've often compared it to the layers of an onion revealing very different flavors, from bitter to bland.

After a dozen years or so apart, we still keep in touch quite a bit. Although we had a great emotional relationship (the Capricorn and the Pisces), we still tore each other apart. The things that made our relationship great also tore it apart. The love was great, but we frayed each other at the edges until we weren't the people either of us were intended to be at the end of the road.

Still, the song also reminds me of the basement at her parent's house and hanging with her friends or living at 380 West Third, in Victorian Village. I also remember watching her practice the clarinet, although her parents didn't allow her to actually play it, only practice the finger placements. Very odd that she was a great clarinet player although she couldn't practice in the proper way.

Still, I miss Chona from time-to-time. I miss how we got along beautifully and how she was one of those people who made me feel like there were ghosts of books waiting to be born with my name on them.

[sigh-smile]

Overkill

by Men at Work

I can't get to sleep
I think about the implications
Of diving in too deep
And possibly the complications

Especially at night
I worry over situations
I know will be alright
Perhaps it's just imagination

Day after day it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat, shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away

Alone between the sheets
Only brings exasperation
It's time to walk the streets
Smell the desperation

At least there's pretty lights
And though there's little variation
It nullifies the night
From overkill


+++++++++++++

This song had so many good lyrics, I couldn't stop afterthe second stanza.

This is another of those songs I discovered on MTV when I was a teenager. I thought MTV was the next coming of Jesus: music 24 hours a day, interrupted only by people talking about music or selling music-related items on commercials. Ah, the good ol' days.

Often, after a current girlfriend made the transformation into ex-girlfriend, I found myself killing time in any way available. Usually, I took hour-long showers, hoping it would literally wash the time down the drain, go for a bike ride or weight lifting. Sometimes, I rode around the streets of Columbus in my black 1980 Mustang with Mike Smith.

Mike went to grade school at Reynoldsburg until 6th grade, when he moved to Groveport, 10 miles or so from my house. That was 1981. In 1985, he moved back to Reynoldsburg. Almost seamlessly, our friendship picked up where it left off. We were only in one class together, and I spent more time with another of my friends, Scott Davis, working on news stories for our High School TV newsprogram.

By default, Mike hung out with my high school friends. When we hung out, though, we broke off into our own group of two. Eventually, we just split from the main group more often than not.

I remember one night in Groveport, near an old Catholic church playground. Mike pointed me down the gravel road to the abandoned playground. We parked the car and walked along a railroad. The night sky was midnight blue with a full moon hanging overhead. Its faded blue light cast the fields and trees in th same dream-like hues of blue, gray, silver, and black.

Since Mike freshly turned 18 years old, we explored the few things we could do now that we were "adults"- one was a trip to the Lion's Den - an adult bookstore. As soon as we entered, the place gave even me, a person of dubious morality, a case of the heebie jeebies. The place was just downright filthy. I'm guessing it hadn't really been cleaned in as many as five years. Of course, it didn't help that everything was covered in plastic. It was like walking into an old dead grandma's living room the day after her funeral - with bookshelves of naked women doing 101 unimaginable things.

We went down the narrow hallway to the coin-operated movie booths. They were like small stalls with a coin box and a small, stained bench. Each stall was also surrounded in cheap plywood. We went from booth-to-booth, laughing hysterically at the descriptions of the bad movies each booth had to sell.

Mike urged me to watch the movie he was watching. We squeezed into the stall (about the size of a phone booth) and watched about 2 minutes of this horrible porn movie. What was better was our fear of touching ANYTHING in the stall. We balanced ourselves in two separate spots, allowing the overhead projector to show the film while not touching any of the walls or the back of the door, which also acted as the movie screen.

The door was stained, too. I'm sure the place would .glow in neon blue if a black light was brought into that place.

Luckily, we escaped without much more trauma than that. Mike's an attorney in Seattle now and I miss his friendship quite a bit. In fact, I think any of the friendships we encounter from the age of 16-22 are irreplaceable - not only for the friends themselves, but for the wild adventures we take together when we're set loose upon the world.