1983

The favorite year.  Most people have one.  It usually occurs in one's late teens or early twenties, and involves some sort of coming-of-age event, like a first job, first love, first sexual encounter, first drug experimentation, first out-of-body experience, first murder, first space flight, first arrest and so on.  For some, it comes later, and centers around becoming a parent.  For a few, the favorite year comes late in life - retirement, grandchildren, enlightenment, transcendence.

I have a lot of favorite years, and I'd love to bore you with tales of 1978, 1988, 1996, and 2000 - but I won't.  Tonight, let's take a quick peek at 1983, because really, it was all downhill from there, in so many ways.

I was fifteen when the year began, and younger than my years, so my world was an amalgam of music, movies, video games, and a few TV shows... Oh, and my first job.

First, there was snow.  We don't get a lot of snow, in the DC area, but in February of '83, we got this:

Thirty Inches of White Sky-excrement

I know that by now, if you've read what I have to say about winter, you know that I am not a fan.  I hate snow - because I'm an adult, now.  In 1983, however, it was pure white fluffy frozen MAGIC.  Anyway...

Television.  I had outgrown "Little House On The Prairie," and "Automan" proved to be a giant lie - with trailers that deliberately made it look like "TRON," but a show that was beyond terrible.  I was too young to care about "Dynasty," and even at fifteen-going-on sixteen, I could not wait for "M*A*S*H" to just end, already.  Also, I really thought "Just Our Luck" and "Mr. Smith" had a chance, but they were dead on arrival.  But there were bright spots.  "Taxi" showed promise, "Cheers" was good, and "V" did not disappoint, but in early '83, we obtained our first VCR, and suddenly it was MOVIES that we wanted on our TV screen.

"Cujo" was, as almost all big-screen adaptations of Stephen King stories are, a gigantic disappointment, but "War Games," "Risky Business," "Flashdance," "Monty Python's The Meaning of Life," "The Outsiders," "Return of The Jedi," "Vacation," "Scarface," and -helLO- "A Christmas Story?"  It was not a bad year.  Not enough?  How about "Eddie and The Cruisers," "The House On Sorority Row," and "Krull?"  Yeah - top that, 1984.

Of course, at 15-16 years old, I couldn't help but be ruled by music.  Whether it was on the turntable of our first real component stereo system, on my first boom-box, or in the too-powerful headphones of my first-generation FM Walkman, it was one of the driving forces behind my adolescent psyche.

There's entirely too much music to even begin to attempt to think about doing justice to, here.  Rest assured, if Bowie said "Let's Dance," we danced.  If the Plimsouls were "A Million Miles Away," so were we.  When the Stray Cats were "Sexy and 17," and demanded that we "Rock This Town," we did.  Thomas Dolby couldn't find "One of Our Submarines," Kajagoogoo was "Too Shy," Peter Schilling hijacked "Major Tom," and Men At Work said it was all "Overkill," and we were all like, "I'll Tumble For Ya," it's just "The Politics of Dancing -" no, "Don't Change" "My Ever-changing Moods -" "Goodbye to You."

I'll be brief on the video games, too.  I mean, it's not like anyone remembers Congo Bongo, Tapper, Blaster, Mappy, or Gyruss, right?  Everyone's all about Pac Man, Ms. Pac Man, and Q*Bert, blah blah blah.  But does anyone want to join me in a rousing adventure in Mr. Do's Castle, or a round of Crossbow, or the Journey (as in, the band) video game travesty, disaster, and money-grab?  No.  You're all off playing Missile Command, or Centipede.  Harrumph.

Now, about that first job.  In the late summer of 1983, I graduated from delivering newspapers to making bad pizza, cleaning up after bad pizza-eaters, and entertaining bad pizza-eating children - at Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theatre, in Rockville, Maryland.  Yes, they actually spelled "theatre" that way.  Anyway - click on that link, read that story, and you'll get a feel for why 1983 was special.

That's about it, really - although I would appreciate a little credit from you sports-haters, for not mentioning the Redskins' Superbowl victory or the Orioles' World Series victory.  You're welcome.

Anyway.  This post-a-day thing is already dragging a bit, but bear with me.  There's much for which we will be THANKFUL, as well as the highly-anticipated by no one TWO-HUNDREDTH POST!  I know!  The all-caps should arouse some excitement.  No?  That's okay.  Just don't leave me.  Yet.  

Please?

This Season, Remember The Reason For The Treason

Waning Sun...

Two hours after the funeral, five minutes past sunset...

"I've never seen Grandma act like that," Jeremy said, absently tossing another stone into the creek behind the elementary school.  "Why wouldn't she let them bury your dad in the family plot?"

"She says traitors aren't allowed there.  Something about defiling the sanctity of the graves of her kin.  It's bullshit." Greg sighed, shaking his head.  It wasn't the first time he had cussed in front of his younger cousin.  At 16, he now had little in common with 12-year old Jeremy, but somehow, they had remained inseparable at family gatherings - perhaps because Greg never talked down to him.

"A traitor?  How was he a traitor?" Jeremy asked.  "He worked at Wal-Mart.  No offense."

"Why would I take offense at that?  He made over one hundred, thirty thousand a year."

"Really?  Wow.  Wait - is that a lot?"

Greg snorted.  "It ain't bad, in this economy.  At least, that's what Mom says."

"So, how was he a traitor?"

"He supposedly tried to buy yellow cake gunpowder, and he was supposedly going to use it to put on a fireworks show for the newly naturalized citizens at the big ceremony at Arrowhead Stadium, next month."

"I don't know what that is," Jeremy said.

"Which part?"

"Everything except 'gunpowder.'"

"Well, Grandma has a thing about letting foreigners become citizens, so to her, doing anything nice for them is High Treason."

"That's stupid," Jeremy scoffed. "We learned about the Constitution in social studies class, and that ain't treason - let alone high treason."

"Well, in her mind, it sure is," Greg said. "It's at least bad enough to keep Dad out of the family plot.  "You're right, though - it is totally stupid.  He's dead.  Everyone in the cemetery is frickin' dead.  Who cares where we put him?  It doesn't matter."

"It's getting dark.  We should be getting back, before our moms send out a search party for us.  One question, first..."

"Yes?"

"Who did he try to buy yellow cake gunpowder from - Saddam Hussein?"

Greg let out a hollow laugh.  "Nope.  Satan."

"Satan?" Jeremy almost managed to fully stifle a giggle.

"Yes."

"As in, the devil?"

"Ugh - That's the guy," Greg groaned.

"Ah.  I bet that's the part that Grandma thinks is treason."

"I thought of that," Greg admitted. "Could be.  I'm thinking a deal with the devil, and doing something cool for immigrants are pretty much the same thing, in her book."

"Poor Grandma," Jeremy said.  "She's just so... old."

"Yeah.  Old.  I try to keep that in mind."

"I really liked your dad, Greg.  I don't care who he tried to buy stuff from.  He was always my favorite uncle."

"Thanks.  He liked you, too."


And this, my 7th post in as many days, was prompted by the fine and clever people at LIGHT AND SHADE CHALLENGE.  I used "Gunpowder, Treason and Plot," and tried to keep it under 500 words, which - for once - I did.  Check them out.  Wonderful prompts, excellent writers.  I hope they like this piece. 

Stingo the Bandana Origami Prodigy

You know how I'm always telling you about hoboes whose names did not suit them in any way?  No, I don't have any examples for you - just take my word for it.  Okay?  Thanks.  

Stingo the Bandana Origami Prodigy is not one of those hoboes.

Born Stingo Jones, he officially joined the ranks of the nation's train-hopping transients in 1933, at the tender age of six.  He never found out what had happened to his parents; they simply didn't come home, one day.  It was just as well.  He would not have coped well with knowing that they were on display in a downtown department store window, having been shredded alive in a wood chipper, then minced and baked into a couple of plus-size mannequins.  

He spent exactly five minutes in the East Stroudsburg School for Boys Whose Parents Just Didn't Come Home One Day, before running- no, sprinting away, carrying only his bandana collection and some grapes.

From his earliest days on the rails, his innate ability to make fabulous bandana origami was obvious.  He was a prodigy.  So they called him Stingo the Bandana Origami Prodigy.

The End.

A Beer Event

So, this is totally cheating, but it keeps my blog-post-a-day thing going.  I'll do some actual work tomorrow, maybe.  What follows was more typed than written.  It comes from a hurriedly-composed zombie novel, which I spewed forth this past summer during Camp NaNoWriMo.  Zombies are easy, so I get bored with them, and find myself focused on the interactions of my ensemble cast.  This excerpt comes from-- oh, just read it.  It's fun.  And please forgive these young men - they say some things they shouldn't say.

 

Miles was the second to arrive at the Inner Harbor Hotel, where Bruce Schwartzman had booked a suite for post-reunion partying and eventual crashing/DUI avoidance.  The original plan was for just one room, but when they learned that the girls - Phaedra McKinley and Colleen Horvath - would be joining them, Bruce decided that there should be two rooms, "in case the girls want their own space - or anyone hooks up."

"Miles!  You're just in time.  I was about to start pre-drinking, but I can't decide what to start with."  Bruce gave his best friend a crushing handshake, and pulled him in for a still-shaking-hands, one-armed, back-slapping man hug.  At five-ten, he was at least six inches shorter than Miles, and their hug ended with him looking up, and feigning a doe-eyed gaze.

 

Miles was tall, but slight, so pushing his stocky, muscular friend away required considerable effort.  "Get off me, you queer," he groaned.

"Hey - watch it, dude.  My aunt is a queer."

 

"I'm aware of that, Bruce.  She's also only three years older than us, and hot.  Also, I don't think they like to be called queer.  It's lesbian, I believe.  And how is Meg, by the way?"

Bruce shook his head.  "A - that's Aunt Meg, to you.  B - she prefers just 'gay,' these days.  C - she's doing great.  Just got her masters in English.  And D - yes, she's very hot, but she's totally gay.  And no, she's still not interested in screwing you, 'just to be sure,' so give it up, already."

"She's not my aunt," Miles said.  "Dude - let go of me!"

"I know, but I don't like that whole 'Miss Meg' thing.  It's too..."

"Alliterative?"  Miles suggested.

"What's 'alliterative?'"

"When things start with the same letter.  Peter Piper, Miss Meg, Mighty Mouse..."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at Miles.  "Mighty Mouse?"

"Yeah.  Both start with M."

"I know both start with M.  I'm not retarded.  But why Mighty Mouse?"

"Why not Mighty Mouse?"  Miles shook his head, as if trying to free pool water from his ears.

"It's weird, that's why.  You could have gone with Mickey Mouse--"

"You owe Roy Disney a dollar fifty,"  Miles interrupted.

"Or Minnie Mouse--"

"That's three bucks."

"Or Donald Duck--"

"Four-fifty."

"Shut up!  I'm just saying, you've got like, tons of examples of names that start with the same letter, and you pull Mighty Mouse out of your ass.  It's weird."  Bruce gestured at the kitchen of the suite, where he had arrayed nearly a full bar's stock of liquor and mixers on the breakfast counter.  "Come on.  What's your poison?  Time's a-wastin'."

"You don't remember Mighty Mouse?"  Miles asked, sincerely and rather defensively.

"Nobody remembers Mighty Mouse, you freak!  Not even Mighty Mouse remembers Mighty Mouse!  Now, what are we drinking?"

"Liquor," Miles said.  "Something clear.  Gin and tonic, maybe.  Start slow.  And it was on right before the Little Rascals.  How can you not remember that?  Next, you'll try to tell me you don't remember Heckle and Jeckle."

Bruce stopped, jigger in one hand and Tanqueray bottle in the other.  "Heckle and who?  What is wrong with you?"

"Come on, Schwartz - you have to remember Heckle and Jeckle.  The talking magpies?  On channel 2 - part of the Mighty Mouse show that bridged the gap between Looney Toons and Little Rascals?  It wasn't that long ago, man..."

"Okay.  Right there.  You see, Miles?  This is why you don't have a girlfriend - why you never have a girlfriend - why you couldn't even get into the pants of the one girl who desperately wanted you to, for whatever reason..."

"Yeah, yeah.  Don't be a dick."

A knock rattled the door with an odd rockabilly rhythm.  Miles and Bruce looked at each other knowingly.  "Ray," they chorused.

"Beer man!" the door announced.  Bruce held it open to allow Raymond Christopher, laden with a duffel bag and two cases of Milwaukee's Best, to enter.  He crossed the room, found some open space on the kitchen counter, and dropped the beer.  "Whoa.  What's with all the liquor?  I thought this was gonna be a beer event."

"If it's a beer event, then what's with the Milwaukee's Beast, Ray?" Bruce asked, joining Ray in the kitchen to resume the gin and tonic project.  "That ain't beer."

There.  Interested?  Yeah, neither am I, but you'll love Colleen, if ever I should post an excerpt that includes her.  Thanks for coming.  Night!
 

Uranus John, the Star-Traveler - A Misnomer, Probably

One of the most challenging things about researching the ridiculous hoboes on John Hodgman's list of 700 is finding corroborating sources.  These men and women hiked and rode the nation's rails as much as ninety years ago and rarely left any offspring, so eyewitness accounts are few and far between.  Finding more than one person who remembers the same hobo from the list is a feat which I have only managed once, and with endlessly frustrating results.

I had only one hour in a nursing home cafeteria with the Trixies, and I was unable to give either of them a copy of Hodgman's list of 700 names prior to our meeting, so I spent way too much of that precious time reading the list aloud, as fast as I could.  Trixie of the East had heard of Ol' Barb Stab-you-quick, but Trixie of the West had not.  Zaxxon Galaxian was familiar only to Trixie of the West, and so on.

I was well past number 650 when I found one that they both knew.  His name was Uranus John, the Star-Traveler.  Trixie of the East had accompanied him and a group of hoboes from New York to St. Louis, in the summer of 1938.

"He got his hobo moniker from a bully named Günter, who loved to say 'Uranus.'  The 'Star-Traveler' part was about his navigational skills.  He had been a junior navigation officer in Hoover's secret hobo navy in 1932, and had a gift for using the stars and planets to guide him from place to place.  It came in handy, even on land.  Hoboes didn't just ride trains, you know.  We walked for miles on end, through the middle of nowhere--"

Trixie of the West interrupted with a bang of her tiny old fist on the arm of her wheelchair.

"That ain't it!  That ain't it at all!  He was a dual-hobo," she said. "He roamed the American plains, but his time here was just a pause in his real journey - through the stars.  He came from some faraway world - he said it was green, and a lot like earth - and he was marooned here, waiting for our industry to mature to the point where he could obtain something he called 'electronics,' to repair his damaged starship."

Trixie of the East grumbled, and West shooshed her with a hiss and a few wags of her bony finger. 

"Of course no one believed him.  So many hoboes were touched in the head, and there was as much opium in the west as there was lint, but I bought his story - I really did.  He talked about wormholes and time dilation and inverse gravitational dropkick tunnels in such exquisite detail.  Also, he got so very sad, when he spoke of his true home.  He said that, even with his advanced spaceship, he couldn't avoid the pitfalls of relativistic velocity.  He explained that when he had set out from his home world for 'a quick errand,' as he called it, our planet - our entire solar system - had not even begun to form."  

"What depressed him so was knowing that his world and the star it orbited were already long-dead, or certainly would be, by the time he would be able to return.  Apparently, hopping from star to star for a few decades, as he had, took upwards of a billion years, to something stationary, relatively speaking.  The price that star-travelers pay, he said."

"I found him deeply unsettling to be around.  His eyes were so odd.  It was as if you could see in them the vastness of what he had seen, and the interminable time his travels had consumed.  I mean, worlds were born, lived, and died in the time it took him to get from there to here."  Trixie of the West shuddered, and pulled at her tattered hobo shawl.

The Trixies began to argue, talking over each other with increasingly-shrill insistence.  My hour was up, anyway.  A pair of kindly Jamaican-accented nurses came into the lunch room and wheeled the old hobo women away.  I stood and thanked them for their time, but I don't think they heard me.  

I was left with these two stories - one short and relatively unremarkable, and the other sounding like the elevator pitch for a new low-budget Playstation game.  

How will I choose...

Relativistic Velocity

Here we go again with the writing prompts from STUDIO 30-PLUS.  I've been hoping for something spacey, to combine with this hobo name from the John Hodgman list, and this week's prompt was perfect - "stars."  It was plucked from fellow blogger Laura's post, NEWBORN.  Please take a minute to check out her work - this is a big part of why I'm here.  "Newborn" is a sweet little morsel, but do read on - she is indeed a fine writer with a clean, clear voice.

Daylight Savings and Loan

don't end don't end don't end don't end don't end...

Person:  I'd like to borrow some daylight, please.

Banker:  Splendid.  How much did you have in mind?

Person:  Six months?

Banker:  I'm sorry, we don't provide daylight loans over - or under - one hour in duration.

Person:  Um...

Banker:  So?

Person:  So what?

Banker:  So, how much daylight would you like to borrow?

Person:  Really?

Banker:  

Person:  Geez - an hour?  I'd like to borrow one hour of daylight, please.

Banker:  Excellent.  And how do you intend to secure this loan?

Person:  If you're asking for collateral, I have... I don't know - my soul, I guess.  But you're not the devil, so never mind.

Banker:  Well, you're right about that.  I'm certainly not the devil.  However, I do have bosses, and in lieu of collateral, we will require at least a business model.

Person:  For daylight?

Banker:  Yes.

Person:  For an hour of daylight?

Banker:  Yes.

Person:  An hour of daylight that I am only borrowing - that I will have to pay back?

Banker:  Precisely.  What will you do with this hour?

Person:  I want to have a picnic--

Banker:  Let me just stop you right there.  We don't give loans for picnics.

Person:  I... I need it.

Banker:  Listen- I'm really busy, here...

Person:  I just need to survive the winter, okay?  This hour of daylight will help me do that.  If I'm paying it back, what difference does it make what I do with it?

Banker:  Young lady, this is a business.  If you don't have viable business plan, and you don't have a ready means to repay the loan, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

Person:  Okay, okay.  I just want another hour with my family.  I don't know how I'll pay it back, exactly, but I know I'll figure it out.  I'm not here for a handout.  I'll find a way to repay it.

Banker:  I'm listening.

Person:  We were in that accident on the interstate - the drunk driver going the wrong way - it was all over the news.

Banker:  I heard about that.  You're the lone survivor, then?

Person:   Yes.  And if your bosses could just lend me this one hour, I swear I will find a way to repay it.  I'll work two hours in a soup kitchen.  I'll pick up trash by the highway.  I'll help out at the animal shelter - or the hospital, or hospice, or whatever.  I just want to say goodbye.  It happened so fast...

Banker:  I sympathize, but I don't think we can help you.

Person:  Just name your terms, sir.  I'll find a way.  I'll do whatever you say.  It means that much to me to just be with them for another sunny sixty minutes.  I'll repay double - I don't care.  I'll give you a two-hour--

Banker:  Excuse me!  We don't just give away hours of daylight, here.  Tell you what - come back next spring, and we'll talk.  Good day.

Person:  But--

Banker:  I said good day!

Spectral Love Finds David No-Ears

Stop, Look, and Listen.  Death owns this right of way.  Photo by [Maris].

Tennessee Ernie Dietz sat by his small campfire, scraping the dregs of his hobo lasagna from the bottom of his favorite bean can/sauce pan/sauté pan/storage tin/urinal.  He stared at the flames as they danced and hissed.  An exceptionally disheveled hobo emerged from the woods, shuffled up to the fireside, and grinned madly at Ernie.

"Jeepers, mister - you scared me half to death!  Say... David?  David No-Ears?  Is that you?"

"Well, sure it's me, pal."  The man's face was encrusted in dirt so thick and chunky, it might as well have been a western omelet.  He doffed his raggedy, poorly-knitted lint cap, revealing his bald head and noticeable lack of ears.  The open holes looked rather like scars, and as such were best hidden away under a hat.  To be fair, he had ears.  He could hear as well as anybody; he simply didn't have the external cartilage that makes up what most people envision when they think of ears.  But "David No-External-Cartilage-Only-Ear-Canal-Holes" was way too long for a hobo moniker.

   

"I'll be damned - it is you!  What you been up to, David?"

"No good.  I can promise you that.  Just got back from pickin' cranberries, up north.  Been hoofin' and ridin' southbound for weeks, chasin' what's left of the sun.  And get this - I'm in love!"

"No foolin'?  In love?  You?" Tennessee Ernie had a reputation on the rails as being gullible, and he was making a concerted effort to be more skeptical.  "I don't believe it," he added.

"Hand to God," David No-Ears affirmed.  "Mind if I share your fire?"

"Have a seat, friend.  My fire is your fire.  Got a few beans here, somewhere..."  Hoboes never asked, "are you hungry?"  Hunger was always assumed.  They just offered. 

 

"I'm much obliged, Ernie.  No beans for me, thanks.  Just want to warm up for a bit and get back on the road.  Got to get to Little Rock to see my girl."

"What girl?  Who?  And no offense, but... how?"

"I'm tellin' you, Ernie.  It's the genuine article.  I love this woman, and I'm gonna marry her.  I met her in New England, a month ago.  I hopped a New Haven freight outside of Providence, and there she was, curled up sound-asleep in an empty cattle car."

Tennessee Ernie wrinkled his nose and chortled.  "Cattle car, huh?  Romantic.  Must have been love at first sight."

"Laugh all you want, bub.  You know me.  I barely believed in love, let alone love at first sight - until I saw this gal.  I dropped everything I was carrying, and of course the clatter woke her right up.  She jumped up and hissed at me and waved a stick and gave me a profound death stare, but I just stood there smiling at her.  She had skin that looked like it might never have seen the sun, or a hard day, or a speck of grime.  Her eyes were like a child's - twinkling like diamonds in the snow - yet it seemed she might have been looking right through me."  No-Ears sighed happily and rubbed his hands in the warmth of the fire.

"Yeah, yeah.  Get to the good part, you old tramp.  I'm tired."

"If you mean for me to talk about her figure, I won't.  She may be a hobo, but she's a lady, and I ain't here to talk about her poetic caboose, or her pinup-girl legs, or her perfect bosom, which might have been sculpted out of marshmallow by Alexandros of Antioch himself.  I could tell you that she sings like an angel, kisses like the devil's daughter, and seems to scarcely touch the ground as she glides from place to place.  She emits her own light.  She's cool to the touch, and no one gives her any guff.  She's gonna be my wife, I'm tellin' you.  Since I met her, the sun rises and sets on her.  I can't think of beans or cops or dogs or lint or anything - only her.  She is the reason for every beat of my heart, these days.  I get younger, just thinking about her.  I have to meet her old man and all that, and then she'll be mine."

"Gee, David," Ernie said, "that's swell.  I'm happy for you.  Congratulations."

"Thank you very much.  And thanks for the fire.  You're a good man."  David No-Ears rose to his feet and extended a grateful hand.  "I should be on my way."

"Not at all.  Help each other - whenever and wherever - right?  Say, if you don't mind my asking, what's your dream girl's name?"

"It's Jane.  Itinerant Jane."

Tennessee Ernie Dietz swallowed hard, and what little color his face had possessed to this point utterly vanished.  "Itinerant Jane?"

"Yep."

"Blonde?  Western Pennsylvania accent?  Loves pierogi, and sandals?"

"That's her."

"And you met her when?"

"About four weeks ago, in Rhode Island," David said.  "Why?"

Ernie put his hand on David's shoulder - a rare gesture, for a hobo.  "I don't know how to say this, brother, so I'll just say it.  Itinerant Jane died over a year ago.  She got shot by a hunter, walking the tracks between Syracuse and Buffalo.  It was an accident."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?  You bent or something?  I spent a week with her, before she went on home - ahead of me - to break the news to her folks.  I'm on my way there, now.  You must be thinkin' of someone else."

Ernie shook his head sadly.  "Maybe you're thinkin' of someone else, friend, but I was there, not thirty minutes after the accident.  I watched Itinerant Jane die.  I don't know what to tell you.  I'm sorry.  Your fiance is a . . ."

David No-Ears waved a dismissive hand at his hobo friend, and laughed as nonchalantly as he could, but as his time with Jane replayed quickly in his mind, a sickening, sinking feeling took hold of his stomach, and refused to relinquish its warm black grip.

"Super," he said eventually.  He left the campsite, not spooked, not haunted, but utterly and completely defeated.  

Okay, here we go.  Instead of the insanity of this year's National Novel Writing Month, I'm going to attempt to complete National Blog Post Month, cranking out a little bit of drivel every day for all of November.  Yes, I am a glutton for punishment.  Anyway, the little bit of drivel through which you have just finished slogging was inspired by the STUDIO 30-PLUS prompts "best hidden away" and "scar," from NOT JUST ANOTHER MOTHER BLOGGER, whose material lives up to her blog's title.  29 more posts to go.  Come with me, won't you?