1994c - Wanted

by the Cranberries

Sittin' in an Armchair
With my Head between my HandsI wouldn't have to feel like this
If only you'd oonly understand

Too Many Misunderstandings
Causing such delay
And if it doesn't work like this,
We'll try it another way.

+++++++++++++++  


It was summer 1994; maybe May, maybe June, or maybe July. Then again, it was all of them combined. It was the summer of pizza delivery, and chasing girls, whether they were strippers or Jehovah’s Witnesses, or Denny’s waitresses, or pet store clerks. It was also the year a collection of three people crammed themselves into a one-bedroom studio apartment.

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The three of us, Hair, Aly, and me, had just returned from a road trip to the pet store and Mark Pi’s to pick up dinner: General Tso’s, General Tso’s, Moo Goo Gai Pan.

.

“Phew!” I exclaimed as I thumped a finger against my belly, “full as a deer tick in autumn.”

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“So gross,” said Aly in a plain but dismissive tone. Then, we all found places to lay down in the living room. Hair and Aly sprawled out on the couch while I pushed the power button on the 5-disc CD Carousel. It was almost always loaded with a revolving assortment of They Might Be Giants, Police, Breeders, Pearl Jam, and Nirvana CDs. Tray 1, however, was always loaded with “Everybody Else is Doing It, So Why Can’t We?” by the Cranberries..I chose tray one and then stepped back into the living room and joined them.

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I plopped down on the love seat and threw my legs over the end. Then, I drew them up awkwardly and placed them on the floor. It was a passive-aggressive attempt to show Harry not to put his shoes on the couch – and of course, he didn’t read that deeply into my subtle signals. Still, I tried to ignore it as I sat upright, placing my cup of live crickets on the floor next to me.

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“You gonna feed em?” asked Aly.

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“Yeah, I guess.”

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“You haven’t fed him in a couple of days,” said Hair, “Maybe he’s ready to pounce.”

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We wriggled about until all three bodies were facing the terrarium and the rose-haired tarantula sitting inside.

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“Alright,” I said, “here goes.”

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I opened the spout, poured a couple of crickets into the cage, and dropped the lid behind them. They immediately parted ways and walked about the cage, investigating their new surroundings. Meanwhile, the tarantula (his name was Spencer), tensed up as soon as the crickets dropped into his cage. All eight legs articulated then recoiled until all eight pods sad below his torso and head. Then, he froze in place as the crickets continued walking around. One walked by him and then the other. Meanwhile, Spencer waited. Then, one squeezed between Spencer and the corner of the terrarium. Suddenly, he froze, realizing what the giant hairy thing was next to him. Spencer moved his legs about thoughtfully, turning his whole self towards the cricket.

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“Oh man…” I said.

.

His 9^th and 10^th legs, also known as pedipalps, were more of furry mouthpieces than legs. They pulled up and back, exposing these floss-like fangs.

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“Whew!” we exclaimed as we all recoied at the sight.

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Then, Spencer leapt forward and covered the cricket. As he did, everyone jumped; Hair, Aly, me, cricket two. Cricket two jumped the farthest, bounding against the edge of the terrarium and falling in the far corner.

@@@

1980b - Another Brick in the Wall [part II]

by Pink Floyd

We Don’t Need No Education.

We Don’t Need No Thought Control

No Dark Sarcasm in the Classroom.

Teacher Leave Them Kids Alone!

Hey! Teacher! Leave Them Kids Alone!

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

A few of us were ultimately blessed in the Spring of 1980 by the arrival of Edward Gwazdaskas. He was an English Major from Ohio State University who also happened to be the student-teacher for Mrs. Reis (later known as Mrs. Gwazdaskas) at the tail-end of my 5th Grade year.
.
Yeah…we all liked him (some more than others) – because he wanted to be something fantastic to everyone’s lives he touched. He took the most simple of lessons about “translucent” and “opaque” or the 13th President of the United States and turned it into a two-hour lesson which was fun, interactive, and (of course) educational.

It was a dreary winter afternoon when we just finished learning about the difference between transparent, translucent, and opaque. Mr. Gwazdaskas showed examples of each with pieces of plastic wrap, cellophane paper, wax paper, and aluminum foil. Additionally, we learned about a fictional lady who sat in front of us in the movie theater and how her head was opaque. “Hey lady, your head is opaque.”

 .

School lasted until 3:30 and after that, our teachers shooed most of us away. However, there was a group of four of us who stayed behind after school and hung out with Mrs. Reis and Mr. Gwazdaskas. Usually, it was Jeff Merritt, Mark Carpenter, and me. Mrs. Reis would finish grading papers while, Mr. Gwazdaskas cracked open Boggle, Monopoly, or Parcheesi and entertained us for a bit. I’d even made up some board games of my own and Mark, Jeff, and Mr. G. would play-test them for me and we’d make changes as we’d go, making sure the game had the right feel.

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It was not long until someone had talked Mr. Gwazdaskas into creating a class paper. Mark and I were the writers, and soon, Mike Klein joined in to cover the sports beat. We’d write up stories and Mr. Gwazdaskas would be the editor in chief, helping us create our first periodical together, the “MNM Journal”. It featured a few stories about the Olympics (this was 1980, the year of the “Miracle on Ice”) and my piece about the social impact of Pink Floyd’s album “The Wall”.
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I do remember we’d gone on to make a second issue in March – and it was mostly a list of scores for March Madness complied by Mike. Maybe I had written about the latest Electric Light Orchestra or Blue Oyster Cult album. Either way, the inspiration had vanished as quickly as it appeared. In the end, Mark, Mike, and I had all gone on to write for the Reynoldsburg Reporter during our teens. Mike and I had also worked together for the high school newspaper and TV News Programs with John Coffman and Bill Gathergood. After all, there was something truly unique about Journalism – we were expected to create something fresh and new every month – or even every week – and the long hours after school always seemed to pass by much too much too fast. .

Dreams

by Van Halen

World Turns Black and White,
Pictures in an Empty Room.
Your love starts fallin' down,
Better change your tune.

Reach for the Golden Ring,
Reach for the Sky,
Baby Just Spread Your Wings -  

We’ll get Higher and Higher,

Straight on Up We’ll Climb.

.

+++++++++++++
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In the late spring of 1987, my friends and I were mere months away from matriculation. As Seniors, we were antsy. That sense of anxiousness manifested itself in a lot of ways. Mostly, it made us creatively obnoxious. It also affected those poor teachers who were eager to dump us out into the world.

RHS had eight class periods with a staggered schedule. Seniors attended class from first to seventh periods while undergrads went to school from second to eighth period. With extracurricular activities equally available to all students, this left the seniors with 45 minutes of free time at the end of each day.

A mixed group of friends, including Eric Yavitch, Dennis Macy and Larry Thompson often gathered in the Compass Business room during 8^th period. The Business Room was located behind room 308 and was only accessible by passing through room 308 itself. During 8^th period, Mrs. Starner taught English in room 308, which meant that if we wanted to go to the Business Room, we’d have to pass through Mrs. Starner’s classroom.

While she conducted class, we were busy being seniors. We talked about cute Sophomore girls we were either screwing or trying to screw. We also made plans for summer vacation and for college in the fall. We were also doing anything that didn’t involve actual schoolwork

We joked and laughed while Mrs. Starner attempted to teach her students. Invariably, someone in the Business room was trying to get a note to one of the girls in room 308 or someone in room 308 was trying to get a pass out of Mrs. Starner’s English class to “do an interview for Compass or News Center 87, the RHS TV news program with which most of us had some sort of connection. Mrs. Starner was patient enough, as our conversations often drifted into her room and interrupted her teaching.

One day, however, she’d had enough as she marched over to the Business room door, poked her head inside and politely said, “alright boys,” as she pulled the door shut.

Still, the door’s window allowed us to continue wreaking havoc on her class. Larry Thompson casually placed a small metal trash cylinder in the center of the business room and got on top of one of the business room’s school desks. It was pushed against the wall, out of public view. Larry smirked as he unzipped his pants.

For the students outside, they could not see what he was doing. Then, he proceeded to pee into the basket from 3 feet up and 3 feet out.

A stream of bright yellow urine drew an arc across the open window like some magnificent public fountain as it flowed into the metal trash can, It made that singular sound that only a constant stream hitting aluminum could make. As the bottom of the cylinder filled, the sound changed from a hollow tinkling to a full on flow of liquid from one container (Larry Thompson) to another (the tiny metal trash can sitting in themiddle of the Compass Business Room).

Students laughed as Larry quickly zipped up and jumped off the desk. Without skipping a beat, he tied the plastic liner into a knot and lifted the bag out of the cylinder.

A large reservoir of yellow liquid coalesced in one corner of the bag. Larry proceeded to haul the bag through room 310 as Mrs. Starner continued to teach her English class. She paused as he pardoned himself and proceeded through the classroom, trash bag in tow. He lugged the bag to the boys’ restroom and quickly threw it away. He returned a short time later and we all laughed as he casually sat down and started working on something for the Compass.

The next morning, Mr. Coffman did something he rarely did as he stood at the head of the class and addressed us directly.

“Starting today, the Compass Business room will be locked during Mrs. Starner’s 8^th period English class and nobody will be granted access to the Business Room until her class ends. Are there any questions?”

Nobody said a thing. When Mr. Coffman was upset, nobody dared challenge his authority.

“Since that’s all taken care of, let’s get back to work.”

Mr. Coffman resumed his normal position behind his desk as we worked on our stories. There is no telling how the conversation went between the two teachers that shared rm. 310. Most likely, there was quite a bit of head shaking and quiet disbelief.

However, that would not be the last time we haunted Mr. Coffman or Mrs. Starner. We felt it was our duty to leave a legacy that would endure. We’d wind up as anecdotes overheard in the conversations of retired Reynoldsburg teachers long after we graduated. Mr. Coffman, however, took it all in stride as he gently shook his head.

“Only the names and faces change,” he’d always say as he shared anecdotes of students and classes long gone.

We tried to stand out like no other class, but Mr. Coffman had seen it all before. Only the names and faces had changed.

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1984d - Jam On It

 By Newcleus

And he started doin' this:
Wikki-wikki-wikki-wikki. Wikki-wikki-wikki-wikki.

Ah, man, this is too funky for me  - I'm goin' home
Hey, Mergatroid, let's go

+++++++++++++
As me and my friends from Boy Scouts (Ward and Kurt) moved from RJHS to Reynoldsburg High, the world around us was in a state of flux.

For all intents and purposes, the Cold War with the Soviet Union was still on and we all thought the world was going to end the day after tomorrow. There were TV specials we watched that reminded us that either President Reagan or Premier Kruschev could “push the button” at any time, starting World War III.
 
Still, we participated in "Hands Around the World" – joining hands with family and friends and forming a continuous link “around the world”. It was a feel-good moment for everyone. It was also the era of Live Aid and one-word-named musicians like Sting and Bono and Geldof that had a conscious – and made us feel guilty if we didn’t have a conscious, too.

There was also “Beat Street”, breakdancing, and parachute pants. I never got into any of them, but Ward and Kurt both wore parachute pants on a regular basis and often practiced their breakdancing moves on Wednesday nights while I watched.

On Wednesdays at 7:30pm behind the United Methodist Church on Graham Road, Boy Scout Troop 279 had their weekly meeting. Some of us arrived early and went up to Ward’s house, which was located just at the top of the hill behind the church. The group of us (usually just the three of us) headed to the gazebo outside the Scout Building. It was situated atop a 20x30 foot concrete pad, so Ward brought an old flattened cardboard box and laid it on the cement so he could practice the latest breakdance moves without getting too scraped up.
 
When Kurt and Ward didn’t breakdance, we might play soccer in the large unmown field behind the Scout Building, or kickball in the old baseball diamond at the farthest end of the lot.
 
I never remember specificially hearing the song “Jam on it” in those days, but Kurt would sing bits and parts and talk about scenes from “Beat Street” with Ward.

Meanwhile, I just stood idly by and took it all in.

It is, after all, a funny thing that I remember that more than most other things, since I never really liked breakdancing or ever owned or wore a pair of parachute pants. Those just weren’t my things – still, I was around “the boys” as Scout Leader Jeff Wyckoff always called us. He always considered it a weird mix of three very different personalities. I guess it was, but somehow, we congealed quite nicely.

And if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change a thing.
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1973c - Never My Love

by the Association

You ask me if there will ever come a time
When I grow tired of you.
Never My Love, Never My Love.

You wonder if this heart of mine
WIll ever lose its desire for you
Never My Love, Never My Love

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

In the spring of 1973, I was four years old. I was still full of fire and fuse, my head full of dreams. Life was a big, wide-open country.

Reynoldsburg was a city of barely 14,000 and the Tomato Festival was a town-wide event. The Festival occupied all of Huber Park, which only had one entrance, at the intersection of Haft Drive and Retton Road. A fence line of 40-year-old oaks and maples closed off the north side between the park and the Swim Club. In fact, the sight lines between the park and the pool were barely visible, except at night when the lights of one shined through the canopy of tree leaves to the other.

Most of America suffered through an identity crisis in 1973. College-aged kids had or had not come back from Vietnam. Attitudes towards institutions were changing. Everyone had also just lived through the era of burning flags and burning bras. Norman Rockwell portraits of Americana that splashed the covers of the Saturday Evening Post no longer resembled anything American.

Dad and I still went to the Pinewood Derby. On Saturdays, I sat in the bleachers between my parents to watch my big brother play Reynoldsburg Youth Football or my big sister cheer for either of the traveling teams, the Mustangs or Broncos.

Back then, we also made it a regular occasion to jump into the station wagon and travel south to Lynchburg, Ohio.

Like Reynoldsburg, Lynchburg was a bedroom community – a modern-day mix of “The Waltons”, “Family”, and “Eight is Enough”. Our family, however, was somewhat insulated from all of that. We were complete back then; five of us together, doing whatever families did in suburban Columbus in the seventies.

The car bumped and bounced as it twisted and turned along rural routes through southwestern Ohio. Us three kids hopped back and forth between the back seat and rumble seat, Angie in an old pair of khaki shorts and tank top, Boot in a pair of cut off jeans and a plain t-shirt, me in whatever mom pulled over my head. I usually wore plain scarlet t-shirts with “Buckeyes” and the number 45 emblazoned on the chest. I often had old red and gray sneakers to match.

Our tube socks were ragged by today’s standards, but they were general issue. We always pulled them up to the knee and they had three wide multi-colored stripes at the top. There were no tennis shoes in the early seventies, only sneakers. They were often run of the mill and flat-soled. They had plain cloth outers and plain gray shoelaces. It was 1974. Middle America hadn’t yet discovered Nike or Asics or Saucony. We just relied on our good old Converse and Hush Puppies.

Two hours after embarking on our journey, we arrived at our destination: the Irwin house. It was an old two-level with three bedrooms and an attic. The two oldest boys, Mark and Mike, lived together in the big room at the front of the house. Kelly lived in the cramped bedroom beside it. Shelly lived in the attic loft. Uncle Fred and Aunt Joyce lived upstairs, just down the hall from a bathroom with a bathtub that had brass lion’s feet. I remember it, because those metallic feet were the reason I tried to never go inside.

We always visited after Thanksgiving and Christmas, but we also dropped on other occasions, like marriages, births, and deaths. We also went to all of our cousins’ graduations in Lynchburg.

Sometimes, we went for non-occasions, too. We’d gather in the immense kitchen for an extended meal or a game of cards. Meanwhile, other family members (usually the oldest men) stuffed themselves into the cramped living room. It could not have been more than 6’ x 7’.

During holidays, it’s where four children crowded around a standard card table. Aunt Joyce moved the ottoman to one of the extra rooms. Sometimes, my cousin Kelly would join us, putting a TV tray in front of Uncle Fred’s recliner and leaning forward to eat.

All this reminiscing romanticizes things a bit. Uncle Fred suffered from alcoholism. Mike was Gay while Mark was soon to be a Baptist preacher. There are the same two brothers that shared the big bedroom in the front. With polar opposite views, it would be hard to believe that it was all smooth sailing. Aunt Joyce dealt with all that turmoil the best she could.

My mom and dad puttered along, living more like the people from “An American Family” than anyone from any other 70s TV family. They would be unhappily divorced within 7 years.

The Schuyler children, meanwhile, would follow in their parents’ footsteps, collecting marriages and divorces like they were going out of style. All of that simmered somewhere below the surface. Whenever we got together, problems seemed to drift away.

Maybe they didn’t. I was only 4 years old. Maybe I was sheltered, but I’d like to think that the outside pressures seemed to wither away when all of us gathered in that house.

….romantic recollections.

There is a mural of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” painted in Columbus’ Short North District. If you don’t know the painting, it’s the one where the old couple stands in front of their old whitewashed barn, dressed in their Sunday best. The husband grips a pitchfork in his right hand while the wife peers crossways against his direct gaze. It should not be the least bit funny that it stands in a gay neighborhood.

Then again, even in the most dysfunctional of families, all seems to be perfect more often than not.

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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 Deborah Frederick, my third grade teacher. she was the hip, young teacher all of our class had a crush on. On Fridays, she'd let one of us bring in an album and we'd play an entire side while we had freetime, where we'd color or paint. She was also the teacher who wore those high heels that clip-clopped down the hall to let us know we'd better be quiet or we'd get it. She didn't mind that, though. She never walked softly and never carried a big stick. She just had command of her troups in class 3D.

We arrived at our homeroom on the first day, with our seats assigned with name markers. Large name tags with bold print were securely taped on the corners of our desks. Miss Frederick 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 all that, the biggest thing any of us could remember about her class was the Blizzard of '78 and the bus trips from Mills Elementary to Reynoldsburg Junior High.

A brilliant golden rectangle was all that visitors saw when they approached the circle from Baldin Drive. RJHS was built like a futuristic bomb shelter, sunken-in to the ground approximately 10 feet. The classroom windows were too high to see out of and if you were looking in, you were looking down upon the class. Once you got inside, it was much less miraculous, but as third graders, we were just impressed to be where the big kids went to school.

1978 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. Back then, Frank Bowsher was my best friend and we always hung out togehter. Frank 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, new Green Machines or BMX bikes, while the girls probably got new clothes for their Barbie dolls or Easy-Bake Ovens. Of course, most of us also got newer and 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 epic snowball fights. At Mills Elementary, a patch of ice ran across one part of the playground and, of course, the children found it. Some of us would get running starts and slip quickly along the ice sheet. Finally, Mrs. Derr decided to stand on top of the ice patch to stop us from possibly falling and 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

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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.