Tag: life

1980's, Childhood Memories, Music

A Reunion With Lita Ford
Me, John, Lita Ford, Mike

Once upon a time, back in the 1980’s if you really must know, there were three kids who used to hang out together on the south side of Easton: James, Michael and John.

For the most part, these three friends would spend summer days playing Dungeons & Dragons, reading comic books, shooting basketball or occasionally, making Spiderman home movies.

Music was also a huge part of their lives. The boys loved buying the latest albums, wearing out the vinyl while playing state of the art video games on the Atari 2600, and attending concerts. Sometimes in pairs but rarely as a trio.

As time wore on these three people (let’s just call them “The Trio”) kind of lost touch with each other and went their own separate ways. Michael started college and entered the world of finance, John put down his imaginary +2 sword in favor of an army rifle and James entered the health care field and continued to play guitar on the side.

Prelude over….

Through fate, and the social networks, the three of us were able to reconnect a year or so ago. We had always talked about getting together for a drink and reminiscing, but of course talking about something and actually doing it are two different things. Work, families and other commitments tend to get in the way. Days quickly turned into months and although I’d see John at the gym every so often or receive a text message from Mike when our football team was playing, we never pulled the trigger and made The Trio reunion happen.

Then one day, a few weeks ago something really cool happened. I was offered concert tickets to see Lita Ford at Penns Peak. Now, readers of my blog already know of my admiration for Lita. Heck, I walked for miles in the summer heat with my guitar to lesson to learn how to play her songs. But, as I thought about the opportunity of seeing Lita some more, a huge smile came across my face. What better way to reunite The Trio than with the one thing we all had in common: our love of music?

So, instead of texting Mike I decided to do it “old school” and actually call him. You know, just like if it were the 1980’s. Mike and I had seen plenty of concerts while teenagers back in the day. From the first concert we both ever saw: The Scorpions and some new band named Bon Jovi to REO Speedwagon, Survivor, Cinderella, RATT, Poison, Night Ranger, Ace Frehley… the list goes on. Mike checked his schedule, and it was a go.

Next, a quick message to John, who also was also immediately on board. “Dude” he said, “I haven’t been to a show with you since we saw Stevie Nicks and Frampton back in ’86. You KNOW I’m there!”

Wow! I knew John and I had seen Stevie Nicks in Philadelphia, but had completely forgotten that Peter Frampton was the opening act. But that’s what’s cool about seeing concerts with friends; they help remind you of these things.

So…..

At approximately 6:10 pm on July 12th, 2012 The Trio were officially reunited in the parking lot of Penns Peak. The first time the three of us stood together in probably 25 years. In between handshakes, hugs and pats on the back was a bit of sadness too. How was it possible that the three of us all still lived within 30 minutes of each other and never got together?

My self-imposed depression was short-lived as we made our way to the bar (yes, it’s good to be an adult sometimes). It was there that we ate, drank and talked about how great it was to be together again and do something we all loved.

As we watched the concert, much like we always did back in our heyday, Mike and I would constantly look over at each other, nodding in approval of Lita’s performance. It was just like the days of yore and the three of us basked in the glory of metal. Lita was supporting her brand new album and never sounded better.

After rocking together at the show, we actually had the opportunity to meet Lita backstage. Of course, I already know that she’s the “Queen” so it was one of the coolest things ever for me to meet her personally. But for some reason, having the three of us there together at that moment bumped it up a notch in cool.

As we stood there for a group picture, another smile came across my face (this now seemed to be a recurring trend). I kept thinking that Lita was part of something really special and had absolutely no idea about it.

Afterwards, we made our way out into the late summer night, the last ones left in the now empty parking lot. We stood there for fifteen minutes absorbing what had just taken place.

“Jimmy, I KNOW you want to wait here and follow her bus!”, John said. I laughed out loud thinking that was probably something he would have said after we saw Stevie Nicks, and in both cases my answer would still the same: “Hell, yes!”

After a final handshake, high-five and promise to keep in touch we all went our separate ways again. Brothers in music, hoping the time between now and our next reunion isn’t quite so long.

1980's, Stories and Writing Prompts

After School
by Mark A. Hicks, illustrator

Here’s a little writing prompt. Would love to hear your thoughts:

It’s Wednesday afternoon and I’ve just gotten home from another ruined day of high school. By ruined, I mean having been told in the lunch line that “Johnny Marzetti”, the name given to a Hamburger Helper wanna be, was replacing pizza as the main entree.

Pizza day was something high school students looked forward to. When you saw “Pizza” on the lunch menu you knew that it was not a day to ditch school or go out for lunch. Pizza was THAT important. And being told at the last-minute that it would not be served was equivalent to telling a child there was no Santa Claus.

After dropping my books onto the kitchen table, I slowly made my way upstairs to my bedroom, a ritual I’ve been following since my scholastic career began.

I sit down at the foot of my bed and untie my sneakers, my white stocking feet now relishing in their new-found freedom. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the black electric guitar sitting on the stand in the corner. The only thing that has been the outlet for my teenage angst during senior year. The instrument I’ve put so many hours of practice into and one that will eventually lead me to bigger and better things, that being: rock stardom!

It was going to be a few hours before my brother got home from work and invade his half of the bedroom, plenty of time for me to work on guitar scales and the Mel Bay book. But first, there was another matter that needed my attention.

I opened the top drawer of my dresser and shuffled behind pairs of socks and underwear until my fingers felt it, the spiral bound notebook. The secret journal I had been keeping all year, this most important final year of school. The last year of my high school career and my last chance at any kind of romance.

You see, when you’re going to be eighteen and have yet to find any semblance of true love, writing is the only therapy you have. I’ve never so much as gone on a date, let alone kissed a girl, so almost every day since last November, I’ve been writing.

It’s not that I never wanted to find love or anything like that. It just, well, it just never happened for some reason. And the strangest part of all was, I would write about anything and everything that was going on in my world, everything of course, except for the one thing that wasn’t: Love.

My writing ritual was always the same: right after my brother fell asleep and before my own head hit the pillow I would write about my day. Nothing long or drawn out, just something to remind me of what was going on in my life. And the entries would always be the same too: A quick refresher on what was going on with me musically followed by an update on homework assignments, car trouble or some other teenaged obsession.

Certain details of my day I always kept hidden, even to myself. Some things were better left unsaid. But today would be different. Today, aside from the fact that I was going to be writing in broad daylight, was the fact that today’s entry was going to be a doozy. One for the books. So with pen in hand I feverishly began to write:

3/18/1987:

I’ve gotten close to three hours of guitar practice in yesterday and hope to accomplish the same today. Pit band rehearsal at school seems to be going well. I’m going to master that part of “Leader of The Pack” even if it kills me. Not too much else happening….

There was a pause. Actually, there WAS a lot happening. My hand began to shake and my heart began to beat faster. What I was about to write was going to be something I’ve never written about before. Oh sure, I’ve thought about it many times but never put it down in words. And for a moment, I began to think about the consequences of my actions if my brother were to ever discover the journal and the words that would soon adorn the page.

You see, there are a two unwritten rules every boy follows on his journey to manhood. The first being never, ever keep a diary or a journal. Those things are for girls to draw rainbows on and write down school crushes. Boys should be more concerned about Michael Jordan and Ozzy.

The second, but just as important, never, EVER show your sensitive side. The fact that I was about to break both commandments at once should have raised the red flag for me. I was risking eternal ridicule, but in the end, I knew this was something I had to do:

I’m still after her. Yep, I think just sitting two tables away from her at lunch and moving my chair near her in choir class isn’t enough. Even though I know she looks at me and smiles, there are times when that Bon Jovi lyric comes to me:

If only she would look my way (Hey Hey)
But, “She don’t know me. She don’t see me
She can’t hear me. Heaven help Me!”

Somehow I wish she would notice me. Deep down, I know she’s right for me. In all of my seventeen years I’ve never felt this way before. Maybe time will tell.

1980's, Movies and TV

The Wait Is Almost Over!

It’s almost like Christmas eve! The day before my home boy, Spiderman returns to the big screen.

To help honor this milestone event, it gives me great pleasure to present to you my post from last year on Spidey along with all four of my 1980’s Spiderman home movies!

If this doesn’t get you excited to see the wall crawler beat the crap out of Lizard tomorrow, NOTHING will!

Oh, and if you happen to be looking for me in the darkened theater tomorrow – I’ll be the one who snuck in a box of Count Chocula to go along with the popcorn.

Me and Spidey

1980's, Music, Thought and Opinion

My How Times Have Changed: Music

I’m getting on my soapbox.

You kids today don’t know how good you have it. Why, back when I was growing up thirty years ago….

Music was so much different. We didn’t have all these new fangled contraptions like eye-phones and you-tubes. We got our new music in one of two ways: radio or attending live concerts.

I remember we used to have to walk miles and miles (sometimes in a foot of snow in our bare feet) to the local record store to pick up a copy of our favorite artists’ new album. Then we’d spend the next few days wearing out the vinyl while absorbing the sonic nirvana.

Sharing music with our friends in those days was usually done via word of mouth. There was none of this copying files onto a CD or emailing an mp3. We’d much rather say: “Hey, so-and-so’s new album is awesome. You need to go buy it”.  And if your friend trusted your musical judgement chances are they DID go buy it!

It was an extremely rare event for someone to lend someone else their new album. Our music was sacred. If you want to hear my new music and you didn’t get your allowance yet, then come over to my house, sit in my bedroom with me and listen.

The alternative to our version of “file-sharing” was taking a portable cassette player (if we were lucky enough to own one – Who knows? maybe your Dad was a doctor or something) and copying the music coming from the speakers onto the blank tape. Sure, the sound quality went down tremendously but at least the song was there.

Most of the time though, going to concerts was the best way to hear our new music. A time when you could see four or five bands over the course of the summer for the same price it costs you to see just one of these new acts now. Don’t get me started on Ticketmaster.

And another thing….

You kids are over saturated with new music! Every time I turn on that damn local radio station they are playing the exact same six songs over and over again.

Why I remember you considered yourself LUCKY if you heard the big “hit” from the band you loved thirty years ago played in its entirety on the radio. Most of the time you caught it halfway through. I can’t tell you how many times the DJ would announce my “song” was coming up and I’d be glued to my radio (or sitting out in Mom and Dad’s car) waiting for it to come on.

And you could forget about calling them up and asking them to play it again if you missed most of it. They’d laugh you to scorn. But if they just got done playing a Katy Perry tune today and I called and asked them to do it again my gut feeling is they’d be more than happy to oblige. Either that or tell me not to worry because it’s scheduled to be played again in an hour.

And what’s with all of these artists collaborating with each other on songs? Seems like every new song title has the word “featuring” next to the artists’ name. What happened to the days when you rocked out all by yourself?

But you kids can take your Justin Bieber (Boyfriend), Nicki Minaj (Starships) and Katy Perry (Wide Awake) and stick it where the sun don’t shine.

I’ll take Survivor (Eye of The Tiger), Asia (Heat of The Moment) and Joan Jett (I Love Rock and Roll).

We’ll see which ones we’ll still be talking about thirty years from now when you whipper-snappers are taking care of me in the old folks home.

Life, Thought and Opinion

Live For Today
Robert Kennedy

I like to think that I’m a healthy guy. Oh sure, I’m someone who likes to partake in a slice of pizza (or 3) at times and make pit-stops at the drive thru on occasion.

The truth is, I’ve been lucky to have always been in somewhat reasonable shape. But shortly after I graduated high school it was a much different story. I weighed a measly 157 lbs soaking wet. I didn’t like how I looked and remember being obsessed with the guys I saw in the muscle magazines.

It wasn’t so much because they were these huge meat heads who did nothing all day but pick things up and put them down. My obsession with them was based on the notion that I wanted to look like them but on a much smaller scale.

I read “Robert Kennedy’s MuscleMag International” magazine religiously and learned that the only real way to get the body I wanted was to always eat “clean” (meaning absolutely no junk food) and exercising until I puked every day. The sound advice coming from guys who had ripped abs and tanned bodies sure was convincing.

Drinking weight gainer/protein shakes, eating only the freshest (and most expensive) organic foods and exercising ad nauseam worked well for me in the short run. But I always felt as if I was missing something. The strict regimen imposed by these chiseled abbed Adonis’ was something I just couldn’t stick with. I needed my carbs, particularly those of the bread and alcohol varieties. At least in moderation. As far as I was concerned, life was too short to deprive myself of such things.

I’ve since learned that using the advice in the magazine is important but the truth is, I’m never going to compete in bodybuilding. So although my weight had fluctuated over the years, by using modifications of what I had read, I was finally able to bring it under control. I am now in a regular exercise routine and eat good for the most part. (Bacon and Count Chocula aside of course).

So what’s my point?

Yesterday while standing in the Barnes and Noble bookstore I picked up the latest copy of “MuscleMag International”. With the alluring call of coffee and fatty pastries just a few feet from the magazine rack I read a letter written by Robert Kennedy. I had just discovered, by reading the letter, that Mr. Kennedy had passed away from an aggressive form of lung cancer back in April. Robert was the publisher of the magazine and is considered a titan in the world of bodybuilding and ironically, someone who before I picked up the periodical had absolutely no idea had died (bad news travels slow in these parts).

What was odd was that Mr. Kennedy had known since January that he was going to die and decided to write a final column to his beloved readers. I tried to imagine myself knowing that I had only a few months to live and writing a similar letter. What would I say?

Mr. Kennedy used his final column, with the knowledge of his impending demise wearing on him, to alert readers of the importance of regular checkups and avoiding excessive sun. You see, Robert Kennedy was an avid sunbather in his prime and had developed cancer. A cancer that, had it been caught earlier, been easily treated.

Rather than write out his entire letter, I took a picture of it. Even if you’re not a bodybuilding fan please take a moment to read his final words. (Click on the picture to expand).

Although regular medical checkups and limited exposure to tanning is sound advice, the real message I took from his last letter is this: no matter how much we exercise or how clean we eat eventually we all have to face our own mortality.

That’s not to say we shouldn’t take care of ourselves. On the contrary, we should always strive to be the best we can be both physically and mentally. The fact is, not one of us knows if we have five years left or fifty so lets live every one of them to the fullest.

But if I had to write a final letter like Mr. Kennedy someday, I hope I’m able to sum it all up in just four words: “I lived for today”.

RIP Robert Kennedy.

1980's, Life

The Graduate: 25 Years Later
Me, June 1987

Who would have thought how much could change in a quarter century? To think that at the time I received my high school diploma in June of 1987 the world was a much different place for me.

I’ll be honest, when this picture was taken I figured it would probably be about a year before I’d be on the cover of “Rolling Stone” magazine talking about my band’s debut album and world tour with Def Leppard. I had high hopes and wasn’t going to let anything stand in my way.

Twenty-five years ago the only thing I wanted to do was rock. I’m serious. I mean that’s ALL I wanted to do. I really didn’t want to go to college and I sure as hell had no interest in doing anything that resembled actual work.

On the contrary, my days were usually spent sleeping til around noon, practicing my guitar and mooching money off of my parents and grandmother for such things as gas for my car and coffee and cheese fries at Perkins. After all, a man’s gotta eat!

“Borrowing” money from them soon began to get old and my options were starting to run out. I was worried that I might be completely broke before fame came knocking at the door. What to do?

It wasn’t until I discovered that student loans were readily available that I began to have second thoughts about going to college. I mean, who wouldn’t want some free money? Money you wouldn’t have to pay back until after you graduated college!! Hell, that could take YEARS!! I quickly signed any promissory type note I could find and still recall running down to the bursar’s office every day at Penn State Allentown to see if there was a check for me.

And what did I do with this windfall of cash – the money I was supposed to use for tuition and school supplies? I bought a guitar and wound up dropping out.

This cycle was repeated over the next few years as I applied to community college and eventually West Chester University. I discovered that as long as I was enrolled in school I was “off the hook” for paying back the money. At least in the short-term.

It wasn’t until I woke up one morning, dug into my pockets and realized I had $1.37 to my name that I had an epiphany. I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing. I needed to contribute.

Here I was, twenty years old with $1.37 to my name and nothing more. The friends I had graduated with were now halfway done with college and were well on their way to bigger and better things. It was my wake up call. Rock and Roll would have to wait.

FullSizeRender(3)I started working full time on the 4-12:30 am shift as the head garbage man at Easton Hospital. That’s right, I literally started at the bottom. Any gum wrapper, cigarette butt or operating room bio hazardous waste was handled by me. I hated it with a passion but something inside of me kept me going. I knew better days were ahead.

A year later a position opened up in the pharmacy. It was a 2:30-11pm shift but was the perfect chance for me to get out of garbage. I worked that position for eight years.

Eventually, I made the decision to go back to school and get my degree in computers, married my high school sweetheart, bought a home and have a beautiful daughter. Although it might have taken me fifteen years, I even paid back all of my student loans.

Perhaps the best thing of all was that my own rock star dream didn’t die. I made it work. The point being, we can do anything we want to do. Be anything we want to be. We just need to realize our limitations and do what it takes to get there.

As I look back on this picture a quarter century after it was taken I see someone who had big dreams. And someone who twenty-five years later, in some round about way has achieved them.

Childhood Memories

It Won’t Be Long Now

I strolled downstairs this morning with a huge decision to make.

My eyes slowly adjusted to the light now beginning to break through the kitchen windows and I began rubbing the last bit of sleep out of them. A bit of a distraction but the need for a decision continued to weigh heavily on my mind.

What kind of coffee was I going to have?

After deciding I needed a little Ginseng mixed in with my K-Cup I felt the pressure leave my shoulders. I smiled and let out a sigh. Yes sir, today was going to be a good day.

As the Keuring brewed I decided to peer out my kitchen window and that’s when I saw it…my blueberry bush. The one that I had painstakingly planted last year. The one that almost didn’t survive the onslaught of two Boston Terriers rough housing around it. The one that was now at last beginning to bear fruit, albeit still hard and green. It wouldn’t be long now before hints of blue began to show on the small orbs that adorned the bush. I believed it was only a matter of time before I could enjoy the fruits of my labor.

Another smile came across my face. Only this time it was because I was about to once again take a trip down memory lane:

My family and I had spent my childhood living with my grandparents in their small turn of the century home on the south side. My grandfather had owned several acres of land where he had planted dozens of trees and shrubs. All of which he meticulously cared for himself.

Since he couldn’t afford one of those “luxury” gas-powered lawn mowers, my grandfather would mow all of the yard with one of those old school hand-held contraptions. It’s still hard for me to imagine that after spending an entire week working in a sweaty silk mill he’d spend one of his only days off every weekend doing yard work. His yard was his baby.

For a typical kid, summer mornings usually meant sleeping in but not for me. I’m not typical. I was always up early because I could not wait for breakfast. Now, those of you who frequently read my blog know of my affection for the chocolatey goodness of Count Chocula so what I’m about to say may sound like blasphemy so forgive me:

Summer time was perhaps the only time that I did not eat Count Chocula or some other sugary cereal for breakfast.

One of the things I really loved about summer while growing up was getting up early and pouring myself a large bowl of Corn Flakes. You heard me right: regular old Corn Flakes. But before a single drop of milk was added I would first grab a small bowl from the cupboard and head down into the yard.

For down there, in between the clothes lines my grandmother would hang socks and linen out to dry in the warm summer breeze stood a trio of blueberry bushes my grandfather had planted many years ago.

Every morning in late June there were always berries galore. Bushes that over flowed with the sweetest blueberries I had ever tasted. Blueberries that not one other member of my family even cared about. Blueberries that were literally, all mine.

I remember laughing to myself as I filled up my bowl with the bushes’ wonderful creation. I’d pick handfuls off at a time and eat them right there. I was convinced that the combination of warm summer sun, the smell of clean, wet clothes drying on the line and the taste of this fruit was what heaven must be like. Childhood was wonderful.

With my bowl now filled I would literally run back to the house with bounty in hand. I rinsed off the berries and added them to my cornflakes. While my parents and siblings still slept I was about to partake in the best breakfast ever!

On certain days when the morning harvest was exceptionally high it was like I was having corn flakes with my blueberries instead of the other way around. I OD’d on antioxidants but it was so worth it.

And now here I stood, still gazing out the window thirty years later looking at my own blueberry bush. One that is not hidden behind hanging sheets or tube socks. One whose fruit will now be the cause of countless battles between me and my daughter, a blueberry lover herself.

But I look at the bright side: I get up earlier than she does.

It won’t be long now.

Life

My Memorial Day

I usually can’t remember what I do specifically during Memorial Day each year although I believe it typically starts the week prior to the actual day itself.

I’m usually reading the stories from World War II veterans in the newspaper all week. Stories about the Greatest Generation and how they spent time “over there” fighting Nazi Germany. Most often the stories seem to reflect their accounts of the D-Day Invasion. True heroism and sacrifice that I will never be worthy enough to accept.

The Memorial Day weekend itself is usually quiet around my house. One day is typically set aside for the annual visit to some relative’s home for a cookout (or in my case a birthday party since many coincide with this time of year). Making merry, partaking of adult beverages and eating so much food someone has to wheelbarrow me to the car for the drive home since I can’t move. Good times indeed.

The actual Memorial “Day” is normally spent quietly for me. I’ll try to sleep late (something I don’t normally do) and lounge around on what feels like Sunday.

But this year was a bit different.

My daughter, who has an obsession with all things swimming, decided bright and early she wanted to visit the Palmer Pool today. I had thought she would have had her fill of aqua related activities yesterday in my cousin’s pool. A large in ground one she had all to herself for several hours. But she was bound and determined to drag her old man to the community pool.

I’ve only been to the Palmer Pool a few times. I grew up on the south side Easton which is quite a ways away. During my tenure there I was considered riff-raff by the township hoi polloi when ever I went. But now that I am a full-fledged card carrying member of the Palmer community, at least as far as taxes are concerned, I decided to partake of the opportunity once again.

When we arrived I noticed the flags were flying at half mast and I reminded my daughter as to why they are so. Mouthing the same old lines that countless other parents and teachers have spewn to young ears. Hoping that the meaning might somehow get across and that this day isn’t really “the start of summer”.

As we swam I noticed a few things that jarred my memory: The part of the patio that was reserved to the Dip and Dance crowd. The long lines to get funnel cake and french fries. And of course, the diving boards where children would line up to jump into rather chilly water.

What else did I notice you ask? Ladies that should be in bikinis and those that most definitely should not. Shirtless men’s bellies hanging over their shorts so far they probably could not see their toes. Then there were the ones who had their guts sucked in (most likely to impress the ladies who looked good in the bikinis).

I swore I even saw a guy there not wearing a shirt who looked like Magilla Gorilla. The guy’s back was covered with layers of hair. I’m talking werewolf here, not a good look. Although I ‘m not really sure what part of the lunar cycle we’re in this week.

I had an encounter with my old high school classmates too. Well, at least I thought I did. I believe I saw Jim Prendergast there with his children waiting in line. I haven’t seen Jim in well over twenty years and wasn’t 100% sure it was him. I believe his nickname in high school was “Stickman” or something like that. I was tempted to walk up to him and call him that but I was afraid that if it wasn’t him my nickname might have been met with a fist. So that meeting never happened.

Later on, while sitting pool side, I noticed a young girl throwing a hakee sack (do they still make those things?) with her Dad. I kept going over and over in my head that I had seen them before and finally I realized that it was Michelle Eck’s husband and daughter. I know this only because of Michelle’s Facebook updates. She and I had also graduated together but she was nowhere to be seen. Her husband and daughter I have never met and they would have absolutely no idea who I was so I let that encounter go by as well.

But the most important thing happened as I waited outside for my daughter to go in and change to go home. Out of the locker room came a woman who was rolling a wheel chair. I watched her wheel the boy who rode upon it to a grassy area where upon he slowly got up.

I’m not sure if he had cerebal palsy or some other condition that made him so frail but I watched him struggle to move independently down towards the pool. Time seemed to stop for me as I watched the woman (who I assume to be his Mother) catch up to him and meet him at the steps. They held hands together and walked towards the water.

I kept thinking about how difficult it must be for both of them in their day-to-day lives. Simple things like dressing, eating and getting around must be a chore. But come hell or high water they were going swimming today. And damnit, they did. It also looked like it was something they do quite often together. Meanwhile, I spend most of my time taking so much for granted.

So this Memorial Day was a good reminder for me. I enjoyed every minute I got to spend with my daughter but for the first time in quite a long time I’m also remembering why we are all able to enjoy the things we do.

I hope yours is special too.

1980's, Childhood Memories

Asia – 30 Years Of Rock

It was mid May 1982, a time period I remember fondly even though I can’t recall the exact date.

I was a young thirteen-year-old boy in the home stretch of seventh grade and actually loved going to school. And before you go making assumptions: no, I wasn’t on drugs or suffering from some serious mental ailment.

Just hear me out.

As a student, the end of the school year is always the most exciting time of the year. At least it was for me. Worries about final exams, peer pressure and girls would soon give way to dreams of summer sun, picnics and marathon sessions playing Pitfall on the Atari.

I actually looked forward to getting up in the morning and going to school. If for no other reason than to spend the day just hanging out with my friends in class. Because let’s be honest, there sure wasn’t a hell of a lot learning going on when there was a summer itch that needed to be scratched.

The middle school I attended sat in the center of the city’s west ward. A two-story brick structure that I think doubled as an oven from May through September. The building itself had no central air conditioning and by mid morning the temperature in the classroom rose to almost unbearable levels. And there’s only so much relief open windows and small portable fans can provide to a class of two dozen antsy students.

But the heat from the unusual May weather pattern did not deter my enthusiasm one bit. On the contrary, as the sweat ran down my brow it only reinforced the notion that before too long, summer would officially arrive.

It was during one of those final hot days when I was sitting, ironically enough, in music class when it happened. As I said, there was very little left to learn and aside from each student cleaning out their desks and getting old test papers back the teacher had pretty much given us a free period. As a sort of “going away present” he even offered to let students bring in some record albums to listen to rather than to just sit in silence.

That was when this kid, who I will forever remember as Danny, put it on the turntable. As needle met vinyl the crackling hum began and it would be the first time I heard that infamous guitar riff and opening line:

I never meant to be so bad to you.
One thing I said that I would never do..

My eyes lit up and my heart began to race as a smile ran clear across my face (did you like how that rhymed?). Anyway, I think if Mom and Dad would have been there what happened next would have been justifiable cause for having my mouth washed out with soap.

“Who the HELL is this?”, I almost blurted out. Thankfully, someone else said the exact same thing to Danny and spared me the trouble of a reprimand from the teacher thus keeping my goody-two shoes status in tact.

“Asia“, Danny replied with a smile. Danny was one of those lucky guys whose parents had just gotten him the record from the first real “super group” of the 1980’s. A band formed from the nexus of YES, Emerson, Lake and Palmer and King Crimson.

Not only was the first song killer but they even had a picture of a dragon rising from the sea on the album cover. I LOVE dragons!

I resisted the urge to reach out and “touch” the record album Danny held in his hands for fear that it might appear to be sacrilege. Or at least grounds for a punch in the arm.

As Danny explained the premise of Asia my ears were glued to the turntable. The music coming from the spinning disc was different and exciting. As “Heat of The Moment” played on not only do I recall thinking it was apropos to the oppressive situation we were experiencing in the school but I also remember thinking how great my life was to be able to bear witness to this new music.

The next song was just as catchy as the first: “Only Time Will Tell”.  An amazing keyboard intro and a video I would later find on the then fledgling MTV channel. You remember, the one with the girl gymnast jumping over TV sets with the bands faces on them?

Have I mentioned before how much I loved the 80’s?

I think we had just gotten half-way through the third song: “Sole Survivor” when it was time to pack things up and head out.

Although my tenure in seventh grade would soon be coming to an end the seed was planted for my love of hard driven guitars and keyboards.

It would be years before I would finally get to see Asia perform live. They are one of the very few bands from that era (RUSH, Mötley Crüe and Poison also come to mind) that are still performing with all of the original members and sound better than ever.

On July 3rd, 2012 Asia will release “XXX” (pronounced “Triple-X”) an album which celebrates three decades as the original super-group. Still with the same powerful line-up as when I first heard them in the sweltering heat of the middle school I’ll once again be able to hear new music and recall those care free days of youth.

Thanks Danny, wherever you are. Now bring on the heat.

Life

How I Got Out Of Mowing The Lawn

So yesterday I’m sitting down in the basement watching a MASH marathon. Something I don’t get to do too often since the show went off the air thirty years ago and is now on television in syndication only rarely.

And before you go and say anything about why I don’t just go and get the complete collection on DVD or streaming it someplace let me spare you the trouble.

Having every episode on some disk sitting around to play whenever I want is NOTHING compared to the euphoria you get when flipping through the channels and finding your favorite show on. Because when it comes my faves, I still get giddy when I turn on the television and there it is. Oh, and I also like the randomness of not knowing which episode it is too. Don’t judge.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes…. So there I was watching Hawkeye and BJ putting shaving cream on Frank Burn’s face for about the five billionth time when in walks my miffed significant other.  I know she can see the happiness in my eyes watching my boys from the four-oh-double-seven.  She is fully aware of my love for the show. I’m eating nachos and enjoying the good life of reliving the Korean War through the eyes of guys named Trapper, Radar and Klinger.  I am in my happy place. She none the less isn’t so amused.

Apparently, there is a jungle growing out in the yard. A runaway lawn has gotten too out of control and must be addressed. For me, such things do not take precedence over watching Klinger dressing like a woman and trying to eat a Jeep to get out of the army.

She had been wanting me to cut it for the longest time. I said I was going to, but that was before I stumbled upon MASH.  She didn’t say a word though. Just stood there. Staring at me.

So after the stare down has gotten to be too much I did something I rarely do. Please forgive me Colonel Potter….

I put the TV on mute.

That’s right, turned off the sound to one of my all time favorite television shows. There was another ten or fifteen second  moment of silence. The tension in the air was so strong you could cut it with a knife.  Then finally, she spoke.

“You know, you are wasting your life away watching a show that you’ve seen a thousand times already…”

Again, more silence.

I slowly took another bite out of my nacho. The beef and cheesy combination only reminded me that I needed to get back to Korea as soon as possible. So after washing it down with some cold beer,  I cleared my throat and responded with the following:

Honey? I did some research. The average person spends approximately 8-10 minutes every day going to the bathroom (both number one and number two). Mind you, the time could increase depending upon many factors such as drunken nights or eating bad Chinese but let’s just use “ten” as a baseline. This includes the act itself and assuming you use proper hygiene methods afterwards. That equates out to more or less an hour a week.

I multiplied that by 52 and got 52 hours for a year. Follow me? Then I multiplied that again by 75 for the years of an average life span. (I didn’t tell her, but I would have subtracted some time for those early years where we all have incontinence issues and Mom and Dad had to take care of hygiene. But I didn’t want to make this issue too complicated).

Finally, I divided this number by 24 for hours in a day.

Do you know what I discovered Sweetheart? The average person spends almost a full half-year of their entire life either taking a leak or dropping a deuce. Yep, each one of us will spend 6 months of our lives locked in the toilet. Amazing isn’t it? What a waste of time (pun intended).

Now I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather spend that time watching MASH then sitting on the pot. Wouldn’t you agree?

Silence.

She shook her head and walked away. I raised my bottle of beer and gave myself a toast. Looks like the grass will have to wait. At least until MASH is over.

Oooh…King Kong Vs. Godzilla is coming on next…sorry Honey!