THE SAMHAIN PROJECT, SEASON 6: WHEN THE "HALLOWEEN" THING STARTED

SEASON 6

There’s a handful of movies out there I’ve seen so many times that I can tell you what the next cut is going to bring or what the next line of dialogue will be throughout the entire picture. Those movies fall into a very short list and they include: 

Halloween 

The Warriors 

Jaws 

Star Wars 

Back to the Future

Silent Rage (hee hee)

….among a few others. 

The first time I saw Halloween and The Warriors was a Friday night.  It was October 31, 1980.  Two of my sisters, Randee and Dee, shared a Racine, WI apartment where they used the television that I have in this picture below as their source of entertainment.  I spent the evening with my sister, Randee, some popcorn, and a pair of movies.  Randee took me out for burgers before we headed back to her apartment.  I was excited as I could be in that moment, as a lot of people had been talking about this Halloween movie for a long time. 

They couldn’t pick up a whole lot with that television, but they did subscribe to HBO with it. 

Yes, folks, as I recall, they subscribed to Home Box Office with this tiny 9 inch television.  Or at the very least, one just like it.  It doesn’t matter; it worked, and especially on Halloween night, 1980.   Randee and I watched The Warriors, followed by Halloween, both first time viewings for me.  That slightly grainy black and white picture may have lent both films something they needed for me in that moment. 

Also, Randee and I watched this pair of movies before I went to sleep, and I had some pretty intense John Carpenter-induced nightmares to say the least. But I’ll never forget that night.  A cinema breakthrough moment for my beginning years as a movie buff. 

It’s interesting how the descriptions that my mom‘s friends had given to me that month in relation to Halloween didn’t measure up to what was on the screen in John Carpenter‘s film. The main focus of that night was of course, Halloween, but I got an extra glimpse at the work of what would become my second favorite filmmaker,  Walter Hill,  and his cult curiosity, The Warriors.  The latter being an unexpected gem that Randee talked up before we watched. 

The former marked my autumns for the rest of my life.

The image quality of 9 inches of black and white television matters not.  Both movies struck a permanent chord.

Talk about scores.  My mind welcomed both John Carpenter's and Barry DeVorzon's orchestrations for the films.  Such great stuff, and they were an inspirational cinematic sparking for my 9 year old mind.  They rattled around the rafters of my head for weeks. 

                                            

                                            

The HBO guide's image selection and description for Halloween, as well as The Warriors up above remain a core memory. 

MY TEACHERS: JABBERWOCK & ROLL

 My 8th grade year, 1984-1985,  was spent at Kenosha's Washington Jr. High.  A building that now has gotten the knock down and rebuild treatment.  I suppose it was due in some way, as it was first constructed in 1920.  But still, that brick & mortar construction complete with neatly placed marble, and an early 80's addition that extended out into a vacant lot will be missed.  I will have to ask around if its twin building, McKinley Jr. High, is still in existence. 

Or was it Lance?  I think it was McKinley. 

Anyhoo.  In 1984-85, my English class (not grammar, but Lit in this case) was taught by Mrs. Bergquist.  I remember her to this day because she did this killer reading of Lewis Carrol's Jabberwocky, a genius piece from Through the Looking-glass, and what Alice Found There.  She read it with such enthusiasm and vigor.  She conjured a low throw-down to her voice that brought the words to magical life:

"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

did gyre and gimble in the wabe"

It caught me off guard, pricked up me ears, and brought my attention to attention.  She finished the piece in the same enthusiasm, and did it incredible justice.  The other kids in my class were either irritated or laughing at her, but they obviously didn't get it.  I didn't care.  I thought it was amazing. 

I remember a day or two after, when a friend and I were gathering our Trapper Keepers and grocery-bag wrapped textbooks together, another kid gave his unfettered review of Mrs. Bergquist's reading.

"It's so stupid", he belched.  "It doesn't even make sense."  Then he began his classy impression of the work and performance:

"It was all goobly! and the jingly mobes

were gimblin' and gamblin' up my butt."

My friend and I of course erupted into laughter for a couple of reasons.

1.  The routine was admittedly hilarious.

2.  It was ridiculous.  He was doing exactly what he was mocking Carroll's piece for doing.  Creating nonsense words for the purpose of prose. 

Regardless, Mrs. Bergquist's selection also brought something out of my dusty past.  As a kid, we had these Walt Disney book and record items.  You know the ones.  You listen to the record and hear dialogue, narration, and music as you followed along in the book. 

 We had Peter & The Wolf, Bambi, Jungle Book, among others.   But the one that stuck out for me was Alice in Wonderland.  Terrific illustrations inside, including the one sparked by my English teacher's reading that day.  The Jabberwock himself.  With his pear-shaped Tweedledee & Tweedledum body shape and creepily flaming eyes.  This image was a memory Mrs. B. brought storming back.

That Jabberwocky reading is among the most strong, and definitely most positive moments that I remember happening during my time at Washington.  I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking "If that's the best you got, the rest of it must have been pretty grim." 

You wouldn't be wrong.  It’s scattered all over this blog.

As an addendum:  After my brief 16 month swing through Waco, TX, circa Fall of 1985 through January 1987, Tremper High was the school I attended upon my return to K-Town.   That's right.  The High School alma mater of one Mark Ruffalo.

Now, Tremper was intentional.  My parents gave me the option of which two Kenosha Unified School District High Schools I would wish to attend.  All of my siblings attended Bradford.  And most of the kids that I knew and who would possibly remember me would have gone there too.  But my bestie upon leaving Kenosha in October of 1985 was still my best friend thanks to letter-writing and phone calls. He was also a 10th grader at Tremper. So I made that my choice. 

Bad idea. 

He met me at the campus and shook my hand on a cold January day. He showed me what was what and where was there on the Tremper campus.  Then we headed back to his place to hang out and watch a little television. 

And I never heard from him again. 

He dodged me in the hallways, and never returned my calls.  Don't ask me why.  I have a couple theories, but it has been almost 40 years, I don’t dwell on it.  Anyway, on that day that we re-connected, I dropped into the office to talk to the staff.  While I was in there, I saw a familiar face.  None other than my favorite English teacher from Washington, Mrs. B!

That didn't go well either. 

Despite my enthusiastic introduction and subsequent discussion, she didn't remember me.  Even though at most, it had been two years since I saw her last and was under her tutelage.  I was truly disappointed.  I only attended Tremper one semester, as my folks and I picked up the tent by spring and were headed North. Luckily, Linda & Don, (mentors, both) allowed me to stay with them until June, so I didn't have to start up fresh again at another school with 7 weeks left in the school year.

I recently called Tremper.  For some reason, I had been unable to remember Mrs. Bergquist's name. I know I had it firmly in my mind a few months back but last week Friday when I intended to begin this odd trip down memory lane, it was gone.   

A very sweet individual named Amanda from the Tremper student services office went above and beyond helping me out.  She dug up the 1987-1988 yearbook and assisted with deducing the name.  Even if I weren't writing this piece, Amanda's assistance would have been therapeutic, because my former English teacher's name's dance upon the tip of my tongue was driving me to the brink of insanity. 

Now if I could only remember the name of the Tremper instructor who got me off the hook on 10th grade Algebra.

THOSE QUIET MOMENTS: EAGLE RIVER?!!: MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, 1983

There's a family transition story that has a minor legendary flair to it.  When Ma and my stepdad (again, term used for differentiation alone) were first "a courtin'", as it were, they were leafing through some photo albums.  Their breezing of memories lit upon a sunblasted photo of me with a tiny little fish on a beginner rod that was taken in the late 70's.

Dad recognized the pier I was standing on in the Kodachrome snapshot and let my mom know the familiarity.

He'd been there as well.  As a matter of fact, he used to live up in that area and was close friends with the owner.  As were my folks. Kismet!  Sandy of Eagle River, WI knew both of the families very well that were about to become a dramatic Brady Bunch and nobody knew this. 

EAGLE RIVER?!

 

Well.  St. Germain to be more specific.  But then I wouldn't be able to tie Jon Cryer and Hot Shots into it.  A genius scene included at the top of this piece written by Wisconsin's own Jim Abrahams. 

Ma arranged for her to bring her new beau up to Eagle River for the "introduction" on Memorial Day Weekend, 1983.  Of course, I was 11, so I would have to come with my towhead and everything.  

Now I remember it being a chilly gray Memorial weekend in Wisconsin.  That can happen.  Many rainy Memorial Day weekends have their moments in my memories.  Cold and Damp arrived at many functions over the years, whether they were big family get togethers or camping trips.   It didn't stop the festivities, of course.  Like I said, this was Wisconsin.  Let the beer happen.  

And some cheese.

There was a night I was left with Sandy's teenage son while my parents hit a local "tavern".  Upper midwesterners know that term.  It's key language.  J showed me how he utilized nunchuku, his drum set (that I found out in retrospect that my parents almost bought for me), and he took me out to a bar and grill for burgers and fries.  I gotta say, and I mean it with all that is me, no place has better comfort food than an out of the way, on the verge of the woods, hole in the tree, rural Wisconsin pub. 

Towards the end of the evening, he decided to curl up in his room and watch the classic nuclear sub drama Gray Lady Down.  Not really interested at 11 in high tension military hardware dramas, I retreated to my constant companion, the comic book. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, very late, I heard a shriek from Sandy.  I was about to get out of bed to see what was going on in this nifty lakefront property in the wee hours of the morning.  It was about the time that my socks hit the carpet that I heard Sandy's trademark uproarious laughter.  Everything was alright.  I rubbed my eyes and rolled back into bed. 

Hours later, I had to use the facilities.  It was very early.  Pre-dawn.  I ambled down the steps, shuffled past the kitchen, turned the corner and headed toward the restroom just off of the living room.  It must have been the only non-bedroom john in the house, otherwise one wouldn't have needed to make that jaunt.  With my eyes half closed, I began to do what I came here to do, when something shuffled next to the toilet.  In the dim light, I couldn't tell what it was, and I was scared shitless. I stumbled backward into the sink, nearly urinating all over the place in the process. It struggled to stand and shuffled out toward me. 

A white-tail fawn. 

Everything was fine.  Sandy had a rep as a wildlife rehabilitator, and all that late night howling was her excitement at someone dropping off an orphaned whitetail deer baby.  She took him in, got him healthy, and I believe Henry, as he was named, became a regular on Sandy's gorgeous lakefront property.   As a sidenote, when we moved to 21st Street in Kenosha, it became evident the area was too small and confining for Ginger, the wonder dog, and my heart was broken as she was retired off to Sandy's place.  Where Ginger could run like she did all those years when we lived "out in the county".  She lived her best life with Sandy. 

I've got more to say about Ginger in the future.  She deserves much more than a series of supporting performance mentions.  I promise, I'll get there, girl.  You've earned that much.  It's just that I need to do right by you.   

Anyway, it was said Ginger and Henry became fast friends.  I wish I could have seen it.

There's not enough stories like that. 

THOSE QUIET MOMENTS: UNDER THE SKY

Photo by Gregoire Jeanneau on Unsplash

Sometimes when I take my dogs out at night to use the puppy restroom, I take a long gander up at the sky.

And I often fixate on Mars.

There's been talk by rocketheads for decades about an expedition there.

But what if something went wrong?  What if there was no return from the red planet?

Looking up, that grips my chest.  It takes my breath away a bit.  Even though I won't even remotely approach being in that situation, someone else may be.  I know that in the big picture of the galaxy, in the chessboard that is existence, Mars is in the square right next to us. 

A goddamn neighbor, really.

So that puts things in a darker perspective.  In and amongst the monstrous maelstrom that is the universe, we are all but an infinitely insignificant dot in a massive pointalism painting.  A grain of sand in a vast beach.

So, with the incredible size of our current political situation, peppered with the apocalyptic fuel of what despotism and authoritarianism may mean to all of us, including mutually assured destruction, it all seems so...

petty. 

It means nothing in the grand context of the universe.  

The wrong side of history?  Who will be reading that book in 1,000 years?  And as I'm still gazing up, maybe still at Mars, maybe a guest appearance by Jupiter, I realize it.

I'm terrified.

Horrified by my own insignificance.  

And when my thoughts go down that rabbit-hole, I don't have the slightest clue on how to dig my way out. 

Its been asked.  "What does all of this mean, this life?"

Does it matter?

You have figures crushing other people, inflicting hurt and loss for their own gain.  Dancing to an evil song with its notes written on the sheet music of the wrong side of history, indeed.  Taking us back instead of forward, pockets filling as they step on the throats of others, the helpless, the innocent, who they profit from regardless.  These people are elected to represent us, to benefit us.  And they take it to the bank.  A bank they can't take with them.

And if they were to do the unspeakable.  To hit the launch codes, to be the matching hand that is needed to hold the other key to make nuclear war possible, don't they see the stupidity?

Nothing gained. 

Just a flair on Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot that wouldn't be noticeable anywhere in the cosmos. In the event of the remote possibility that there were an intelligent and sentient being out there to witness it? It would be nothing more than what a sunstorm looks like to the rest of us. 

And we were lucky enough on this sphere to be given awareness, life; life that grew from the lowest levels.  Life that figured out the wheel, the boat, languages, the printing press, commerce, science, medicine, the telephone, television, and eventually?   

Religion and Politics.  Climate ignorance.

And we are capable of destroying thousands of years of human history, over what?  Profit?  Protection from accountability?  We have the first trillionaire, and he's not capable of even the most remote displays of philanthropy.   Somehow this country elected TWICE a guy with designs on nothing but self-improvement, and avoiding being held responsible.   We may be teetering on the brink.

I'm not even coming close to saying we are the only living beings out there....

But what if we were?  

We could wreck it all on account of a handful of overpampered despots who want to have it all.  We all fight, and we all lose due to the thinking of a few.

We are the stewards of that existence?  In all of that infinite eternity out there, we may fuck it all up because of human vanity and greed.

And the only record of us would be the recording thats headed out toward the heliosphere aboard Voyager 1 that stopped its time capsule before Reagan took office.  And really, that's appropriate.  It was the Reagan administration that started the spiral we're in now.  A slow rambling gait, that is now in a full-on sprint towards the cartoon character kakistocracy that is now in the driver's seat. Anyway, that space probe that is so far away, it can't be seen.  And it signal takes 22 hours to get here and a ridiculously powerful antenna to translate its information.

That's what I think about under the stars at night. 

THOSE QUIET MOMENTS: ASPARAGUS HUNTING

Photo by Art Rachen on Unsplash

Late Spring, Somers, Wisconsin revisited. 

This goes back something like 50 years. 

Dad and I went asparagus hunting.  Yes, it is what it sounds like.  

We'd drive out to a rural train track area, tall conifers on either side, slight slopes rising from the tall grass to the tracks on the East and West sides of the iron thoroughfares.  

The asparagus grew close to the metal.  Dad and I walked along, Bob's frame leaning down with his pocket knife in his right hand grasping the stalk with his left.   He'd push the blade through the thick gree veggie with his thumb until it sliced the stalk, and then drop it into a paper bag.  I'd run along beside him, my hero, grabbing the tracks to feel for vibrations, (I feared the train much more than the old man did, after all he made his living loading cars on them for American Motors) and collecting shotgun shells that he allowed me to pocket.

I often found the glass electrical insulators from power lines laying around too.  With his cockeyed grin and a mop tousle with his free hand, he allowed me to keep those too. 

I can't stand the stuff now, but I loved asparagus back then.  We'd drive back home where mom would substitute it for the chipped beef in the gravy for the Wisconsin staple, "Shit on a shingle".  Or creamed substance on toast. 

God, I loved that stuff.   And I miss and love my Dad. 

This is what core memories are all about, brothers and sisters. 

CLICK HERE FOR COOL WISCONSIN ASPARAGUS INFO

My Sister and Red's Roller Rink

My sister Pee Wee used to wake up in the night shouting.  Freaked me out.  It was leg cramps.  I used to get them in high school and college a lot when I would bike everywhere on my Huffy 314.  Nothing like crawling around on the floor, trying to push the calf muscles down against the cold concrete to get that muscle to let go.  The ones Pee Wee used to get had to be fifty times worse. 

Why, you ask?

Because my sister spent more time on those damn Cyclone roller skates of hers than she did her Pony high tops. 

It was trendy amongst the early 80's youths in Kenosha, WI to hang out at Red's Roller Rink.  It was more a way of life for the high school set than it was a hobby.  Pee Wee would attend long sessions at the joint to hang with her friends, a veritable microcosm of southern Wisconsin life, ensconced in metal, concrete, cheap carpet, cheaper food and a top flight sound system playing Kool & The Gang, April Wine (couples skate), and Steve Miller Band's Abracabra. (all skate, skate slowly, please!)

I believe she socialized with her besties (I think she met Bon Jovi-lover Cindy there, who to this day I see as another sister) her crushes, the refs, and probably the maintenance staff and the cooks too.  

I frequented the place occasionally too, don'cha know.  However, I was a below average skater at best.  I could get around on the things, but I couldn't skate backwards or anything like it.  I sucked at braking, as evidenced by the fact that if I even approached anything remotely resembling above-average speed, I was going to hit the wall on the rink corners at the turns. 

My sister was a badass.  I can still see her tearing it up in reverse, the spins, taking corners with such intensity that she'd get low enough to touch the floor with her fingertips, navigating the place with ease, taking and exiting the ramps like she was floating.  Fuckin' unreal....and she did it all on those Cyclones.  Top level skates, those. Mom and Dad hooked her up with them for her birthday, or maybe Christmas, I can't remember.  But girl had game.  She was an athlete.

I'm sure Dad (Richard "LeSkate" Torcaso) thought it was cool Pee Wee was into the sport, as he was something of a legend himself on roller skates.  That noticeable scar on Pop's shiny head was due to his Montgomery Ward's days.  'twas a demonstration of roller skates in the Ward's parking lot.  He turned backflips in the fuckin' things, kids.  Didn't quite nail the landing on one and that's the scar's creator.  Dad's love of skating and respect for Pee Wee's devotion to the sport couldn't have hurt my sister's chances of getting those Cyclones. 

Anyways, Pee Wee spent way more time at Red's than I did.  Long-ass sessions on the weekends, but I don't know how much time was actually spent skating.  This was the social circle's center point.  A place for gathering where everybody knows your name. Not me, so much, but the frequent fliers for sure.  I can remember my sister regaling me with tales of her friends and even the refs (who maintained order and skater safety on the floor).  I even think one of them was named T.C. or something. 

I told Mom I wasn't sure if I understood the obsession with spending so much time in the place, but I can see Mom setting down her crochet hooks as if it was yesterday.  A pre-emptive Ma move that was the predicate for either advice or a story about to be told. 

Ma did some skating herself, yo.  She told me about her time on the floor a bit and how the organ instrumentation from the then current Kinks' hit Come Dancin' reminded her of the music playing while roller skating (A few years later, she said the same about the sounds of Dire Straits' Walk of Life). Mom had a very similar gathering of friends and cohorts while the wheels below their feet rolled along.  It was a pretty great story.  

I didn't know anybody at Red's for the most part, but I dug the game room.  This was the early days of the Atari 2600 that we had at home, but the arcade machines held a certain glimmer that was different.  Red's had Defender, Ms. Pac-Man, Centipede, and a table top football game with the X's and O's as the avatars. The room also had a big projection screen that showed rock videos (I think recorded off mainstay must-see TV program Friday Night Videos), I remember seeing Michael Jackson's Thriller there once.

Red's made Pee Wee happy.  She was always smiles when she came home (unless there were teenage romantic bummer moments), and the smiles only made bigger if she were leaving to go in.  She often came home with one of her friends from the joint, and the party would often continue on.  Laughter and giggles that could be heard up and down Lichter Road.  Well, to be honest, I'm sure Pee Wee's 45s of I Ran, Shakin', Who's Cryin' Now, or Chilliwack's My Girl probably drowned them out, but I digress.

Regardless, it made me happy to see my sister happy.  She (and others) carried my weight during some real tough fuckin' times. But she lived at home.  And she listened.  And watched.  And protected me. 

So if Red's gave Pee Wee joy?  It gave me joy. 

They put a parking lot on a piece of land
Where the supermarket used to stand
Before that they put up a bowling alley
On the site that used to be the local palais
That's where the big bands used to come and play
My sister went there on a Saturday

Come dancing
All her boyfriends used to come and call
Why not come dancing?
It's only natural

Come dancing
That's how they did it when I was just a kid
And when they said "come dancing"
My sister always did

-Ray Davies, "Come Dancing", 1982.

Those Quiet Moments: Music is a Time Machine

I've probably said this at some time before but music is a time machine. 

Particularly when it's a song that you heard repeatedly during an era when there is a LOT going on.  Sadly in my life, there are clusters of songs that pull me back, HG Wells style, to another time period. 

The passage of time does not wear down this effect in any way, either. 

My Dad died in late August of 1980, and songs of that era, particularly from August, 1980 to July of 1981, flick some sort of internal switch, that brings an unease to my gut.  And back then, in that time period, my head and my heart hurt constantly for obvious reasons.   Unfortunately, my stomach would eventually then take on some of that pain.  

I would probably need to count on an abacus how many times I asked my mom to stay home, even a few times calling to be picked up from school.  It was too much for this 9 year old.  Dealing with not only the gap that now existed in my soul with the permanent loss of my father, but the fear that Mom wouldn't be there when I got home one day, either.  

Unproductive and irrational thinking, yes.  But this is how the mind of a child works. So some of these physical gears of melancholy begin to turn when I hear songs of that era.  

Music charts were more organized back then, because you were far from streaming, and still solidly entrenched in the era of physical media: LPs, cassettes, and 8-tracks.  And due to the way those charts worked, entertwined with radio, often songs crossed over from country to pop and back, more so then, than now. 

One time, waiting in line at a department store, I heard a song very faintly but clear enough to recognize over the sound system.  It was Juice Newton's Sweetest Thing (I've ever known).  My gut began to twitch, as I suddenly was that sad little 9 year old boy again, and right on the brink of tears while paying for my Diet Mountain Dew, an Anchor Bay C.H.U.D DVD, and a Clark bar. 

I couldn't get over the power. All those years later.  It was just as strong as it was when I would hear it over my Seville combination stereo in 1981. This happened lying on my side in my bedroom, hearing that overwhelmingly melancholy melody, floating in the same air as the AM/FM band's light glow, and the red "stereo" light's piercing of the dark.  I'd beg whatever powers that be to allow Dad to walk back into my room again.  At least one more time.

There's a slew of those songs that still have the power to break my heart and rend my soul.  The country and pop chart crossovers being Ronnie Milsap's Smoky Mountain Rain, Eddie Rabbitt's I Love a Rainy Night, Roseanne Cash's masterful Seven Year Ache, and Teri Gibbs' Somebody's Knockin'. 

Most of these anchored my mom's favorite radio station, WMAQ out of Chicago.  A hybrid station that specialized in country, but it wouldn't be out of place to hear 50's oldies mixed in with regularity, and the occasional pop chart tune. 

Oldies stations, man. They can kill me.  And for more than one reason. that name pisses me off, because what was once classic rock, is now oldies. 

Fuck, that's stupid.  

As time moves on, it's become necessary to change radio format lingo. Because what are real oldies called now then?  Tomb tunes?  Figure it out, people.  Oh, and another thing, I hate hearing Hall & Oates followed up by Guns N' Roses.  Who's running these stations anyway.  Radio sure has changed a lot since I got out of the game.

Anyways, back to the matters of the heart: Other songs can include Kim Carnes' Bette Davis Eyes, I Love You by the Climax Blues Band, Alan Parsons Project Time, Journey's depression farm Who's Cryin' Now? and the Petty and Nicks duet Stop Draggin' My Heart Around all have the ability to pluck my heartstrings and make my heart and gut get soaked in the downpours of sadness, because I'm pulled back to that one year window where I was a little kid spun up in the vortex of grief. 

One of the most nervous moments of my life was during my early days of broadcasting school, sitting in the booth awaiting my first shot at the microphone.  I hosted a show called "Ancient Alternatives" which had the premise of playing "deep cuts" from classic rock.  So, when the jock before me's last track ended, I faded into Nazareth's Please Don't Judas Me from their classic long player, Hair of the Dog.  Which was a mistake.  It's a long track, some 9:50 long, actually.  So, I had to sit there and wait through that mammoth tune, holding on for that moment where I would flick on the mic and say my first ever words to a listening audience.  It was unnerving and arduously tortuous.  To this day when I hear Judas, that apprehensive sensation in my gut returns, even if I have nothing to anticipate of a negative variety in the moment. 

It reminds me of something Greg Nicotero said when describing his first time seeing Dawn of the Dead.  It involved his DNA unraveling and being re-arranged. That applies to this moment. My first employment love was indeed radio, I wanted it to be my career, and I miss it.  So, even though that was a fearful, negative moment, it changed me. 

Coincidentally, our cat Frenchie doesn't usually allow me to listen to that Nazareth album, so much like getting Bloo to let me borrow The Night Before Christmas and Raylan to loan me the 1979 Christmas Batman issue, I have to ask permission of one of my pets to utilize something of mine.

Life has moments that craft us into what we eventually become. And the arts play a role in that.  Anyone that reads this site can see how books, film, and music have shaped me. 

For better or worse. 

Those Quiet Moments: The Ranker Event

 My wonderful in-laws celebrated their 60th anniversary this past November.  We had a great party with family, friends, food, and other "f" words, but not what you think.  Frivolity, fun, and fantastic vibes.

That's what I'm talking about.  60 years is a heck of an achievement.  Congratulations, I do love you both deeply.

So, my wonderful in-laws, Frank and Mary, received a slew of meal gift cards from the many guests.  So, of course a Friday evening a few weeks back, they invited us to have dinner with them courtesy of the gift card extravaganza, this particular one from Red Lobster (For the Seafood Lover in You!).  

I hate seafood. 

Me and the youngest had cheeseburgers. But, I must say, for a seafood establishment it was a pretty damn good cheeseburger.  Cameron would agree with me.

We enjoyed our dinner and conversation thoroughly and had reached the point of being ready to go home.  Now Frani and her Dad are given to the occasional sweet tooth.  Both of them were lamenting the fact that McDonalds no longer has the fried apple pies that were a pretty cool dessert choice back in the 1970's.  I believe that it was some sort of litigious event involving the hot apple interior and people who don't read packaging safety instructions that led to McDonalds converting to a rather bland and much cooler turnover style apple pie in the modern day. 

Either that, or the health kick that has also led to Baked Lay's Potato Chips. 

But not Whataburger.  Oh, no.  They're still slingin' the real deal to this day. 

So, as the dinner gods would have it, there is a Whataburger right next door to the Red Lobster (For the Seafood Lover in YOU!) that we were dining at.    We decided to go through the drive thru and that's where this story gets stupid. 

Frank pulls up to the speaker and here is the exchange; scripted, and with permission of the federal government, unredacted.

Speaker:  "Hi! Welcome to Whataburger, how can I help you?"

Frank: "Hey there!  I'll take 3 apple pies, please."

Speaker: "3 apple pies?  That'll be 5.49.   The name please?"

Let me interject here.  At this point all of us in the car were a bit surprised by him asking the name as this order was not placed using a mobile device or internet connection.   A bit odd.  

Frank:  "Frank"

Speaker:  "Ranker?"  (My father-in-law's head cocked back in utter confusion at this)

Now, we're in trouble.  Frani, Cameron, and myself have begun struggling to attempt to restrain laughter at this.  Cameron reminds us of the time that we stopped at a hotel on a trip, and the concierge couldn't find the name that my wife got the reservation with.  After 15 minutes of keyboard-clacking and conferring with management, she asked Frani:

"Are you Rrances Will?"   This irritated me.  I wanted to say something along the lines of "How many Frances and Rrances with the same last name do you expect would make a reservation for the same day and time?"   But I didn't. 

Ranker?

Frank: "No, it's Frank"

Speaker:  "Okay, please pull around the drivers ahead of you, to the stop sign"

Now, I'm thinking this is no biggie.  We just ordered 3 apple pies, and they probably need to be dropped into the deep frier.  I was wrong.

Now as soon as my father-in-law pulls up to the stop sign, someone comes flying out of the door and down the steps of the side entrance of the Whataburger, and begins racing for the car.  In an extremely surreal exchange, he hands over the bag, and asks for the money.  Frani hands Frank $6.00, which he hands to the Whataburger employee, now panting like a dog in a 100 degree room.  With that he said "thanks" and bee-lined back to the restaurant with not a single mention of change. 

We were all caught off guard. Chortling laughter had begun with the word "ranker" and went on through the pull up to the stop sign and the track-star Whataburger apple pie messenger.  It continued through his complete ignoring of the fact that the money handed him exceeded the price of the purchase, before he pulled a speed trial rocket run back to his place of employment.

Frank was baffled.  Mary was laughing hard, and Frani and I were roaring in the back seat, as everything that happened in that 60 seconds was so stupid and bizarre (and a tad surreal) we could do little else. 

Regardless of it all, 3 people had their apple pies, and all was right with the universe, even if it was tilted in a somewhat odd way.

Ranker?

Those Quiet Moments: The Debut of Van Damme and the concept of the movie theatre

 

 February 26, 1988. It was a cold night in central Wisconsin.  A friend of mine, Mark, and myself decided to go see what was the first mainstream martial arts film in America since Kill or Be Killed. or perhaps Best of the Best.    There was some bullshit marketing here of course, as Jean-Claude Van Damme was billed in the advertising as being a former competitive martial arts champion.  

Yes, we were there to see Bloodsport.

Now, I guess there's some truth to the championship pedigrees, but it was some off the fringes association that he was the champ of, not any well known international or even American conglomerate.  However, Mr. Van Damme was not only a snappy martial artist nonetheless, but had extensive ballet background as well, giving him flexibility that exceeded even many of the best martial arts purveyors. 

So.  Was he great?  Probably not.  

Did he make it look good?  Hell yeah, he did. That ballet really helped.

It's legendary lore that after JCVD came to America, he appeared in a couple things here and there, but didn't stick. He eventually hung out in the Cannon Films waiting area, trying to get Menachem Golem to give him an acting job by displaying kicks and punches in the lobby, sort of an impromptu audition.  (see the doc Electric Boogaloo or The Cannon Film Guide Vol. 1.). 

One half of the go-go boys was impressed enough to greenlight Bloodsport, but hated it and buried the flick.  Once Cannon began to struggle financially, it was resurrected and led to the brief stardom of JCVD, a guy I still have a soft spot for, not just for this film however. It was admittedly bad, and acted so awfully that it had to embarrass the legendary Roy Chiao.  OK, Donald Gibb and Bolo Yeung carry their weight. 

I was also a great admirer of Timecop, Universal Soldier, and the films he made as the first stateside actor (Yes, I know he's originally from Belgium) to work with the Hong Kong greats John Woo, Tsui Hark, and Ringo Lam.  He also practiced pretty damn solid script selection once he fell into direct-to-video purgatory, as many of those films are much better than those of his fallen 80's contemporaries, and his series on Amazon, Jean Claude Van Johnson is a goddamn hoot to boot.

Anyway, I remember snow falling lightly on that quiet Friday night as Mark and I got out of our shared cab at the Rogers Cinema near the Wausau Center Mall.  The snow-covered ground crunched on our approach, a bite of cold in the air stinging our cheeks as we entered the theatre, then descended to the basement screen, complete with a pole in the middle of the seating.  It's an old building, still there, but no longer a cinema.  I remember sitting there in the cheap upholstery, warming up in a seat not far from the pole. 

There's something fascinating about a theatre with ceilings that low.  There was barely enough clearance for the projected beam to reach the screen.  (This was before digital after all, nothing but good old 35 mm in 1988).   Being from the Milwaukee area originally, I was not unfamiliar with theaters like Kenosha's  Lake 1 and 2, where I saw Bambi with my mom as a child, Star Trek: The Motion Picture with my ailing father,  and Silent Rage with my Dad as teen. An old-ass building with ornate balconies, classy furnishings, and employees in full usher regalia.  It was, after all, a former opera house.

There was also the monolithic United Artists Cinema 5, Kenosha's first true Multiplex, where I saw E.T. the Extra Terrestrial in 1982 (on a second try, the first attempt was sold out, Thanks, Mom!!), and Die Hard 2 in 1990.  I was alone for that one.  But the Lakes were a special situation.

By the way, if you're looking for a great place to see a movie in Wisconsin in a house that's been around forever and still flickers a pic to this day, try the Plaza in Burlington.

The Rogers, however, was a mini-multi-plex.  An oxymoron if there ever was one. Mark and I sat there quietly waiting for the lights to dim for the trailers, hum of the heating system filling the air, me chewing my Dots as I was really taken aback by how just about any space can be turned into something else with creative engineering, elbow grease, and a lack of concern for aesthetics. If you click on the Rogers link a couple of paragraphs back, you can see its original intent was not as a movie theatre, let alone five of them.

I've mentioned this prior on this blog, but there was an even smaller screen in house upstairs, where I saw Good Morning Vietnam very late in its run, on a Rogers screen not much bigger than what's in most peoples living rooms these days.  Why was that screening room so bright, anyway?  Ridiculous experience, that one.

Anyhow, God rest the Rogers. 

And the resident spirit, Bob. If he still dwells there, rattling things.

And long live the Plaza. 

Those Quiet Moments: Comic Book Pacification in Beaver Dam

 

As my Dad's battle with Cancer neared an unfortunate end, a trip was planned to Beaver Dam, WI, where my aunt, uncle and Grandmother lived.  At the time, I thought it was another of the common trips to that town we made to visit those folks.  Some things my Mom did and said, however,  brought the hammer down that this trip was different.  Not exactly the same social gathering. 

I didn't know that Dad was terminally ill at this point.  Before we headed Northwest, my Mom took me to the drug store to stock up on comic books.

I would need to spend some time by myself on this particular go-round.  Reading was a good way to while away some of that weekend.

The trouble was I couldn't find the kind of stuff I normally got at this stop.  No Batman, Daredevil, or other costumed heroes were in the racks.  None of the silly Harvey or Gold Key cartoon comedy that I could often entertain myself with.  My mom was frustrated, so I did what I could and chose what I thought would be the best options.  

The two issues I remember were a copy of Marvel Presents, which was a special monthly used to introduce a character.  This one was gunslinger Caleb Hammer.  The other was a jumbo sized "Dollar Comic" of G.I. Combat .  That's right, war stories for kiddos.  I actually enjoyed the cinematic nature of that book, to be honest.  There may have been one or two more, or a Mad Magazine thrown in there, too.  So I did some heavy newsprint page turning that weekend.

If Mom meant to help me occupy myself and my own time, it worked.  If she meant to distract, the plan failed. 

Family members were wandering in and out of rooms, cheeks wet with tears, emotions on full display in full ugly color, more vivid than the pages of the comics I was reading. 

Something was awful wrong. Something which I had a vague notion of, but I buried it, until this particular day arrived:  January, 1980.

At that age, I didn't know how to empathize easily, how to hold those in pain, especially as confused as I was.  Everyone's behavior was a dance of mysterious grief, so I elected to perform an act of obliviousness to the suffering.  I hate myself for that now, even though my mom's intent was to shield me from that emotional struggle filling my aunt's house that weekend.

Knowledge was being shared, and the best way to avoid being educated as to what it was, was to act like I had no clue what was going on.  Which I really didn't completely.  Not yet.

A 9 year old really does battle with himself in situations like that.  So I read until my eyes were so tired that I had no relief for them, but to sleep.

After all, tomorrow might be different.

Those Quiet Moments: Night of the Nazgul

 

It was a nice gesture on my Mom's part.  Way back in 1978, when I was only seven, she elected to take me to an animated film.  It's just a cartoon after all.

That movie, The Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship.

This is far in advance of Peter Jackson's efforts obviously.  This was an animated take by legendary 70's animator Ralph Bakshi.  He of classic groundbreaking filmdom.  He of unmitigated trash.  But I suppose, that in 1978, the only way to transfer Tolkien's tale to the big screen would be through animation.  Nonetheless, between Gollum, (who my mother would mock in whisper for years: "My preciousssssss") and the fucking Ringwraiths, I was at the least uncomfortable, at most, terrified. 

So I still remember the nightmare.  

I wake up; the house is cold.  I begin to stroll out of my bedroom and into the living room.  The house is well lit, but there's no one to be found.  Nothing to be heard but the sound of a steady and moderate wind.  I make my way through the living room, and begin to go down the hall to the kitchen.  I'm apprehensive at this point.  I don't know what to expect.  Where is everybody??  Something is not right.  As I enter the dining area, and turn to my right, I freeze.  And see why I feel the way I do.

Across that room, through the kitchen, is the back door.  That door is open and behind the screen door, which is lightly tapping the frame with the breeze is a room that some would call a mud room, or a tool room.  Either way, there's not much to it in my memory but people's shoes, dad's tools, and then the doorway out of the house. 

In this moment; however, standing in the middle of this room is a horse.  

Saddled by one of Bakshi's Ringwraiths. 

The Nazgul, with his glowing red eyes staring straight into me, and whatever's behind me.  Hooves clopping on the concrete floor of that room, as the horse awaits an order.   That humming wind still making its throaty drone. 

I awoke there.  But in some ways, I'm still there, 44 years later looking directly into the eyes of what my 7 year old mind had determined to be the essence of pure, unfiltered evil. 

I know part of my mind is still there, because the thought of this product of my Bakshi-fueled imagination still draws shudders to this day.

Those Quiet Moments: Spooked on a Bike

In my college days, due to epilepsy, my 10 speed bike was my only mode of transportation when I had to go it alone.

Usually my best friend out of a group of us gave me a joust home at evening's end, but I stayed up a bit too late at his house and he wasn't feeling well this October night.  I would be pedalling it.

As Halloween was approaching, the three of us were engaged in the topic of "frightening songs".

We weren't into the bands Suicide or Throbbing Gristle at this point, so tapping into the intro to ELO's Fire on High or Bloodrock's DOA, maybe King Crimson's Court of the Crimson King was about as far as it went.

You know, the commonalities.

Well, the evening drew to a close, my friend Sean, a Prince fanatic, handed me a clear store bought cassette. He knew when I was alone my headphones were glued to my head.  Shit, everyone knew this. 

"Bro, listen to the second track on your way home.  It might change your mind a bit about what we were talking about."  Thinking nothing of it, I clicked the tape into my Walkman, said my goodbyes, and was on my way. 

The night was brisk, and I wanted to feel the bite of the breeze and watch the lightning from an approaching storm dance on the sky, so I took a bit of an alternate route home.  What I was hearing over my headphones wasn't all that scary, so I guessed that my friend must have misjudged. 

I was wrong. 

The tape needed to roll forward a few minutes to what Sean had intended me to hear. 

Prince's Others Here With Us began to play.

I readjusted my route home almost immediately as with every moment forward into the song, I swear things were moving in the shadows of my periphery, the lightning took on grinning shapes, and things were dancing up and down my spine. 

I should have been smart enough to stop the tape, right?

No, because I was stupid. 

And it was October….

Those Quiet Moments: The Hum

                                       

I have a distinct memory of being a small child.  Kindergarten, or maybe pre, and being awoken in the middle of the night by something to this day I'm unsure of.   A low level, quiet, and distant humming. Barely there, but enough to make me get out of bed and wander the house, eventually looking out windows.  It was baffling, I found no answers, and went back to bed. 

This continued for years.  I have memories of being in elementary school, living in rural Wisconsin, hearing it, chalking it up to distant traffic and disregarding it.  Then later in life, I lived in places nowhere near highways, or even roads with frequent traffic and hearing it.  The Hum. 

The Hum.  Out there, lurking.

In High School, there I was, during the Witching Hour, peering out my bedroom window, head cocked to one side like a curious German Shepherd.  In Trade School, hearing it seep into my ear canals as I slept to a pause in my sister's basement in Kenosha, WI.  Oh, still getting up, walking the house, checking the windows, wanting, needing an explanation so rest could come.  

Wanting confirmation that I wasn't crazy, schizophrenic and hearing things that weren't there.

"What the hell is that?"  An eerie, consistent, and ethereal deep hum.  I told no one.

I heard it through the days in the 90's when my oldest was an infant, then the 2000's.....the break of the early 2010's, the year I lived in my brothers upstairs bedroom, following me like a magnet on an anvil.  Now, in Texas, it still sometimes crawls into my ears in those overnight hours when slumber cracks open and drops me out onto some kind of ledge...

It brings to mind the album cover of Manfred Mann's 70's album,  The Roaring Silence.  Just faint enough, but present enough to drive me insane.  Will I ever have an answer for that goddamn hum?

I have tinnitus now, after 20 years of working in a loud factory environment.  Bad enough that business took two knees and a pair of discs functioning capabilities, it had to screw up my ability to truly enjoy music. Then I had a severe sinus infection 10 years ago that reduced my hearing capacity in my left ear even further.  

But under that grinding, staticky, high pitched whine that is tinnitus' calling card, often in dead silence of night...

Welcome my son.  Welcome to the Machine.

Underneath all that.  The Hum does return, just to remind me that it's never going to go away.

But I guess I'm not alone:

Those Quiet Moments III : Dirt

Wisconsin cornfields in very late fall are hard, unforgiving, and almost untravelable areas where if the weather had been right a few days early, webs of ice can collect, covering the grooves between the peaks of the rows, that sound like glass should your boots penetrate them. 

As a 4th grader, I had a pair of friends that lived across that field, in a dutch colonial house.  They were a couple of years younger than me, my older sister thought they were cute.  We played catch a bit, ran around barnyards and fields and talked about The Incredible Hulk and The Dukes of Hazzard the night prior on Saturdays. 

An older chap, owner of the property, had a fully functioning soda bottle machine in his office which was in a small building just behind the house.  When he pulled up, he would give us an ice cold pop, pat us on the head and send us on our way.

These two, Randy and Stevie, had a great mom with a great smile that would chat with me at the door while the two youngsters got ready to come outside, she'd offer a treat, and giggle when the three of us ran around the yard like goofs.

This short period of pleasantry was just that: fucking short.

One day, when over there, Randy and Stevie's dog (who hated me, which was an abnormality in canines) was inside his huge, flat-topped house, making loud occasional chirping noises.  It was then that I noticed the shirtless owner of the dog, father of my friends, on all fours on top of the dog house.  He was peering over the entrance, swinging his belt which caused the chirps, yelling at the poor thing to stay put.

I'm not the king of bravery, especially at 9, but I must have said something, cause homeboy here told me to "mind my own business and keep my mouth shut."  Which I did, as I was little and he was big, and I left, covering my ears, because I couldn't take the sound of the abuse any longer.

During this time in my life, which was a matter of a few months after my father's death, I kept my head down.  A real shoe-gazer.  I kept a close eye on my mom, at all times for fear of losing her too.  Everything I saw, thought, or found, I seemed to think it necessary to later report to her.

I wouldn't have a regular ride-or-die friend for a couple of years, and I liked the idea of having someone nearby I could play with.  On what must have been only my 4th visit was the dog experience which sent me home quickly.  The 5th, Randy and Stevie introduced me to a cousin who they played with, but was much bigger and faster than I and believed in being a punk.  While running around over at Randy and Stevie's house, I found a stick of smooth Oak, about 7 inches long, solid, with knots and long-ago rubbed off nubs of branches that could double as switches or buttons that gave it almost the appearance of a light saber handle.  I stuffed it in my pocket, so I could show it to my Mom later that night.

While showing it to the other youngsters, this older cousin decided he wanted to see it.  I tentatively showed it to him, but wouldn't hand it over.  This resulted in a foot race.  I made it awhile, headed toward an oasis in the middle of a cornfield with tall, high and stiff grass and a wet dirt base, that I could enter, cut one way or the other, and emerge leaving my pursuer unsure of where I was long enough to make it to my yard, and thusly safety.  Unfortunately, just as I was about to leap into the "oasis" I felt him shove me hard from behind.  I went down hard, chest first, and lost my breath and the light saber stick as it sailed from my coat pocket.  As I lay there, gasping for my breathing to return,  this kid walked around me, uttered "What have we here?", picked up my stick and flung it. To where I don't know, and disappeared from the hiding spot.  It took me several minutes to regain my breathing enough to get up, at first to my knees, then to my feet.  Dusk was quickly settling in, and I spent the rest of the day in a futile search for the stick.  I went home, shoe-gazing and empty-handed.

Visit 6, and the final one.   Randy, Stevie and I were running around in the dry field, flinging dirt chunks, watching them explode into dust clouds like Tanks in a World War II movie.  Just having fun.

Until Stevie fell.

It didn't look like much of a tumble, but he was crying pretty hard.  I rushed to his aid and found out the reason for the tears was he had gotten some dirt in his mouth and thought he was going to die.  I actually smiled, knowing this was a fear I had at one time myself, and began consoling my wounded friend.  

Then his dad came around the corner, and brought with him a hailstorm of hellfire and blame. I tried to explain what had happened but couldn't get in a word edgewise.  He shouted at me to go home.  I replied "I'm going!"

He shrieked for me to fuck myself, smartass that I was.

I never went back.  I couldn't even talk to them, something was poisoned after that and both kids spoke in a horrible way to me going forward, drawing a quizzical shrug and correction from their mom.  I felt her empathy, but their dad wore the pants in that unmarried family.  

Now as an older adult, I shudder at the thought of what went on behind closed doors in that house.  As I walked home with tears forming, I wish I knew then what I know now.  My mom had friends.  Quite a few actually;  friends capable of, lets just say "evening the score".  Hell, I had people like that in my family too, but I didn't know that then and didn't say a word. 

This was the beginning.  A quiet moment that still lingers in my memory.  The start of what my sister would years later call the era of "Rob spending a lot of time alone."  There weren't faces with smiles at school, on the bus, or even in my fucking neighborhood, it seems. Too many exchanges ended with vulgarity, shouting or violence

I kept my mouth shut and my head on a swivel.  

I wasn't the one that fell that cold afternoon, but I was the one tasting dirt.  And for years, it stayed.

The Library

 In the summer of 1983,  I officially fell in love with the Public Library.   We had moved into a small house off off the alley behind a strip mall that had a liquor store, a drug store, and my barber.  Also adjacent to the corner of my yard (where my buddy Jon and I practiced head first slides) was a doorway that led to a downstairs establishment that sold accessories for train sets.  That place must have been the bomb for those into that hobby, as it was stacked.   Across the street from that alley and our house was another strip mall that was anchored by a Sentry grocery store. Next door to that was my home away from home. 

The Washington Branch of the Kenosha Public Library opened in November of 1977.  It would be six years before I discovered it.  

And practically moved in. 

It was here that I discovered that there was something called the Encyclopedia of Rock.  That a novel was written that picked up the storyline after Star Wars called Han Solo at Galaxy's End.   An aside here, one time I was early to pick a kid up from his job, which was fairly adjacent to a Half Price Books.  Having to use the restroom, I braved an intense thunderstorm to run inside and get some relief. On the way out of the lavatory, I glanced to my immediate right, and there sticking out of the clearance section was a copy of Han Solo at Galaxy's End, twinkling at me with a God's power lens flare.  What a find.

The Library was where I found Michael Medved's Golden Turkey Awards, which gave me a different way of looking at films, even some I had been fond of. Where I checked out the Urban Cowboy soundtrack so I could listen to "All Night Long" by Joe Walsh, The Clash's Combat Rock, and Steve Martin's Let's Get Small.  Speaking of Mr. Martin, Washington was where I checked out his oddball collection of musings, Cruel Shoes, and couldn't decide whether it was hilarious or disturbing.  This was where I purchased used books removed from the library's shelves, as that helped bolster my own collection. 

There was a large, high quality television there, where you could select from a monthly list of films to watch (with headphones on, of course) and I must have watched Jaws there 5 times. The librarians were strict about the rules, so if you started a film, you needed to finish it.   At one point, my sister had to come and get me in the middle of Steven Spielberg's masterpiece because there was a family event that was unbeknownst to me.  I lost my movie privileges for a month thanks to that shit.  The librarians were NOT happy.

They were never happy, or perhaps I would remember them as individuals, which sadly I do not.  That's unfortunate, because it would have added significantly to this piece. 

A pretty awesome periodicals section existed there, which proved awesome for school research. It also happened to have the only magazine I know of that had my childhood hero, Green Bay Packer's quarterback Lynn Dickey, on the cover. It was the fall of 1983's edition of Football Digest.  I often gave thought to sneaking out the door with that, but I knew it was wrong, and that kind of behavior didn't fit into the code I lived by.  

It was a place I snuck to on more than one occasion to duck bullies.  For some reason, my neighborhood was like the fucking Fire Swamp from The Princess Bride, but instead of Rodents of Unusual Size, it had, well.... Rodents of Unusual Size.  They may not have been large individuals, but they congregated in groups of congealed asshole that travelled in pre-pubescent attitude and odor.  On several separate occasions I had dashed into Washington Library to avoid abuse at the hands of the cults of Charlie, Franco, Scott, and Tim whatever the fuck his name was.  

These future Ted Cruz robots who thought they were David Lee Roth, seemed to enjoy being up in my shit for the horrendous acts of, oh say, bumping into them when the bus lurched, bumping into them at the bowling alley, bumping into them in the hall at school, or merely existing in their line of sight. For further on this, check out my piece, Bullies and the Revenge Fantasy right here on this blog-type thing.  Suburban America shouldn't be the kind of place you need to have your head on a swivel, but I guess Kenosha will be Kenosha.  As it ever was, and still is.  A combination of fear and Cheng Chao-an pacifism (until the medallion is torn off) made me not react more often than not, and that was smart, as I was always outnumbered.

I wonder how those guys are doing today.  Is the barren, empty void that was behind their eyes as they issued threats for no plausible reason of worth, called me names, regurgitated offenses I never committed, shoving me after sticking their noses in my face, still there today?  I often wonder.

Actually, no, I don't.  Not even a little.  Fuck them.

One of my personal favorite characters of television, Seth Bullock, once said in a particularly heated exchange with George Hearst on Deadwood: "Can't shut up!  Every bully I ever met can't shut his fuckin' mouth... except when he's afraid."   

I only experimented once to test the validity of that statement, but the end result is of a dark and scary place that I don't want to revisit. Sometimes victory is a spoilage, not a spoil for the victor.

Despite all that, the library WAS basically a truly happy place, a place of mostly calm, education, knowledge, entertainment, music, film, humor, protection from the storm, and in combination with life legends cited here, I'm grateful to it's gifts and inspirations.  

Many of my pieces end with expressions of gratefulness.  Just letting you know that I'm aware of that.  As I reminisce, I'm often reminded; reminded of reasons I'm still here, as imperfect as I may be.

Those Quiet Moments II :35th Ave sound absorption

It wasn't long before Christmas.  Anticipation of the holidays was firm in the air literally and figuratively.

I had a job at a local convenience store, known then as SuperAmerica before Speedway changed all that.  I generally worked there until about 10:30 at night several days a week as a full time college student.   This was back in the days of impulse VHS rentals, credit card imprinters, and checking tank levels with an abominally long wooden yard stick device in blistering horizontal rain.

There was no rain this night.  As a matter of fact a pretty strong snowstorm had just moved through during my shift, and the plows had only just finished their work before I clocked out, locked up and started my brief walk home to my sister and brother-in-law's home where my student ass rented out the basement.  I had an improvised apartment down there complete with waterbed, splitter-fed cable tv connected to my miniature (albeit color) television. Since it wasn't a digital channel model, I was limited to the 12 channels on the dial. (I watched a LOT of CNN back then.)  I was also blessed with an extra heater, for those abnormally cold nights, which some would call a pair of panty hose affixed to a disconnected dryer vent.

As I turned down 35th avenue to my sister's place, I noticed the sounds that had been gathering behind me, wind, police and fire sirens, truck-bolstered traffic, began to lessen.  Almost deflate.
The further I made it down the street, the quieter it became.  Snow was built up on the numerous trees thickening them to three times their normal size. The snow was this close to falling off, but just quite wasn't coming down.  The plows had pushed the snow on the curbs to a good four feet high.  The only audible sound was the dense crunch of my boots crushing the already flattened snow (courtesy of snowblowers) into the concrete of the sidewalk.

For those unfamiliar, snow absorbs sound.  But the powder on the street, gathered on the rooftops and hanging from the trees was litterally creating a vacuum of noise.  I kept stopping several times, closing my eyes to listen to what effectively was.....

a complete void of sound.

The streetlights lit the white of the snow that hadn't had a chance to get dirty yet, and against the pitch black of the night sky, it formed an accompaniment to the silence that was almost breathtaking.

I actually took a knee at the end of my sister's driveway to take it all in a little longer before going in to throw some clothes in the dryer.

Those Quiet Moments I : Schofield Summer Sky

After an 18 month stay in Waco, Texas and 6 more in Kenosha, Wisconsin, my parents decided a more slight nudge to the north was needed.   We scooted another 300 miles north to central Wisconsin to the town of Schofield, a quasi-suburb of Wausau, the metroplex of the center of the state.  This would be home for only my next couple of years, as trade school would soon call me back to Kenosha.

But this is about an evening.  Some moments in an evening, actually.  We had only been in an apartment complex on Mount View in Schofield for a few weeks, and for some reason sleep had been difficult.  My bedroom was smaller than I was used to, and I was sleeping on the lower bunk of a heavy wooden set of bunk beds.  It was a very balmy June evening, one not quite warm enough to prompt mom to turn the air conditioner on, but kept me under a single sheet as I struggled to find slumber somewhere. 

As I often did back then, long before sharing a bed with another, I wandered to fight off insomnia.  I sat up, in my sweat pants and tee-shirt, yawned, and trekked over to my small bedroom window.  

The sky looked odd.  Strange enough to stir a weird and uncomfortable feeling in my gut.

What the hell is going on up there?

I pulled my shoes out from under my bed and made my way down the hall and out of our apartment entrance.  It was the middle of the night, the witching hour, so I was as quiet as I could be as I walked out the pair of huge heavy doors that constituted the entrance to the apartment building.  There was a large empty field adjacent to the complex that I made use of.  When friends and family came, we threw the ball around out there for hours, played pick up football games, occasionally pitched tents for an evening of sleep outdoors.  I walked out to the middle of this grassy anomaly, surrounded by other apartment buildings, a large quantity of deciduous trees, and a quiet, seldom used road.  It was then, with a Coke in my hand, that I looked straight up into the sky.

And spilled the Coke that I had just opened.

The stars.  I had never seen so many in one place, and thought skies like this were impossible. Unless it was an image on TV that I always thought was somehow doctored, even long before the era of PhotoShop.   I no longer felt that way.  It wasn't just the sheer volume of stars, it was the way they were positioned across the sky in waves and in clusters, both crystal clear and soft-lens blurred.  this  created a twinkling glow that wasn't like a full moon but provided enough light to make out my surroundings....

I rubbed my eyes.   Closed them.  Rubbed them once more and looked back up.

Nope, still there.

Good God, it was beautiful.  It looked like someone has spread the astral bodies across the sky with a butter knife. I'd never seen it like that before, and don't know that I ever have since.  I'd read somewhere that northern midwest skies are sometimes given to unnatural clarity and even appearances of the Northern Lights, which years later I would actually see myself resulting in more spills.  (that's another story) But here above my head, was the proof.  Those skies that I had always chalked up to special effects and visual man-made magic were not only possible....

but right in front of my face.

I don't know how long I stood there. It may have been an hour.  I was afraid it would never happen again so I wanted to cement in my memory as much as humanly possible.  My only regret was given the late hour, I had no one to share it with.  No one would believe this when I relayed it in the morning.

But as the years have gone by, I'm kind of glad that I have it to myself.

I

Drawing Sharks

It was the best shark I'd ever drawn. Not perfect, mind you, but it had some three dimensional qualities, noticeable roundness in the right parts. The gills looked like gills instead of inverse letter Cs. The tail appeared to be, in a less than overbearing way, pointing out at the viewer of the picture.

Drawn by a 9 year old, on college ruled paper with an old Ticonderoga number 2 pencil.
As good as that shark, (which I had been trying to draw since my interest in the Great White had been peaked by movies like "Jaws" and "The Deep"), appeared on the paper, my mind wasn't on it.

I was thinking about the strange place my parents had taken me to early in the day. A foggy memory today, I still remember it enough for it to disturb me. I sat in a room with my mother and a strange guy. In a fold up chair, scrunched down, I face him as he leaned forward, elbows on knees and asked me that question.

"Are you afraid your father is going to die?"

I felt a cold raindrop roll down my spine, and lied through my heavy metal teeth.

"No."

This chap, who I now assume was a child psychologist, looked over his right shoulder at my mother, and told her we could leave. She nodded back, and that's exactly what we did.

As I was penciling this Great White, trying to model it after a shark drawn by Neal Adams in a pocket Batman compendium I owned and treasured, this day's event was what I thought about. The shark, as good as it looked, was a secondary value.

I had to do this now, before my balls backed up any further into my anatomy than they already were. Mockingly, a picture of "The Last Supper", a mirror painting I would steadily lose faith in over the next few years, hung over the entryway to the kitchen, the same influx my Mother would have to go through to answer the question I was now aching to ask, before I couldn't hold the guts to do it anymore.

I called her into the room. She sat across from me as I added unnecessary touches to the Great White, never looking up at her.

"Mom?"
"Yes, Honey"
I cleared my throat. It was getting hard to breathe.

"Today, when we went to see that guy and he asked if I thought Dad was gonna die? I lied to him. Is he?"

Mom looked at me long and hard, and the eyes started to glisten with wetness. I didn't need to hear the answer for I now knew it. Finally, she nodded. As much as I expected that response, it was like a 2X4 to the testicles. Breathing became rushed. My dear mother was only 3 feet away, but getting there took an eternity. I stood, and instantly my knees locked, my calves tingled and became weak as I stumbled that horrible distance, huffing breath, finally falling into her arms.

I was crying that awful cry, that indescribable weeping, where breathing is not an option, where your chest feels like an anvil is resting on it. Screaming feels like the only way out. Crying so hard your body is as sore as your soul.

Even at nine, I still knew this was mile marker number one, in what would be many landmarks, that would act as chapter number pages in my life. How I knew that at nine is beyond me.

This was, and still is the most painful moment of my life. Going to Dad to answer his question of whether or not I understood, was not worse. Watching Ray Bradbury's "Martian Chronicles" on TV while absorbing this disease of a piece of information was not worse.

I cried that awful cry off and on for several hours. Mom did what she could to soften the blow, made me a strawberry shake in a big Superman glass, told me I could stay home from school tomorrow, even called my dear aunt over to try to talk me through this. This was wisdom, my first experience with awful, acidic wisdom. Not the death of a pet, not a fish that gets flushed down the toilet, this was the fucking crash course in black knowledge.



Later that night, at the table, suffering with a bout of insomnia, I found that shark still sitting in the kitchen, swimming in what appearing to be puckered paper from my tears. In the same room as the mirror/picture of "The Last Supper", I took my last look at that excellent Great White.

I would never cry that hard, or for this reason again.

I stood in the dark slowly ripping it to shreds. I wafted the confetti into the trash can and closed the lid. It was late, and I would try sleep again. Switching off the light in the kitchen, I walked back through the entryway to the hallway that led to my bedroom, completely ignoring "The Last Supper"

For Jesus held no comfort.