"You're in the movies now and I'm in your cartoons..."

Sometimes the anticipation of Saturday Morning Cartoons was more than my little brother and I could bear. We’d be up before dawn, ensconced a mere six inches from the massive wooden console TV, the snowy white fuzz of an off-the-air station flickering softly in the dark living room. Just before 6 a.m. the three network stations crackled to life with a vibrant test pattern, which morphed into the morning sign-on of a waving flag and arousing version of the National Anthem, followed by commentary from a man in a suit sitting at a desk. His appearance signaled a mad scramble to the kitchen to scarf down a quick bowl of Franken Berry and glass of Tang (the drink of astronauts!) before the fun began. And what fun it was! We absorbed animated versions of The Jackson 5 and The Osmonds, surreal live action shows from Syd & Marty Krofft’s bizarre world of Lidsville, HR Pufnstuf and Sigmund and the Sea Monsters; motorhead cartoons like Wheelie & the Chopper Bunch and Speed Buggy; and tons of “spooky” shows including The Groovy Ghoulies, Scooby Doo Where Are You?, The Funky Phantom, Goober and the Ghost Chasers and The Addams Family. We got our first glimpses of different cultures with The Amazing Chan & the Chan Clan, Fat Albert & The Cosby Kids, and Johnny Quest, and even endured space-age versions of Josie & the Pussycats in Outer Space and The Partridge Family in 2200 A.D. Of everything we watched on Saturday mornings, however, my favorite was Bugs Bunny. I couldn’t get enough of the wise-cracking rabbit and his motley band of antagonists. Even with the daily dose we got weekdays after school we’d still eschew other Saturday morning cartoons in favor of Bugs & Co. 1. The Rabbit of Seville

As difficult as it was to choose favorite Warner Brothers/Merry Melody cartoons, I narrowed it down to two: both, incidentally, directed by Chuck Jones. The first is The Rabbit of Seville - a break-neck operatic production of the classic hunter vs. hunted set to the music of Rossini’s overture to “The Barber of Seville.” The story begins with bumbling hunter Elmer Fudd chasing Bugs into an opera house, where he is tricked by the rabbit into going onstage. Over the ensuing 6 minutes the pair race through a series of barbershop gags, mostly entailing Bugs giving Elmer brutal shaves and haircuts. It made me laugh as a child of six, and it still makes me laugh thirty some odd years later. The Rabbit of Seville was one of several WB cartoons that introduced me to classical and operatic music, for which I am forever grateful. 2. Feed the Kitty

Many may not be aware of this tender gem, which doesn’t include any of the famous WB clan. “Feed the Kitty” is a simple twist on the ole dog/cat cartoon rivalry: a gruff bulldog named Marc Anthony unexpectedly falls for a fluffy little black and white kitten named Pussyfoot. It’s a simple enough concept, and there is gentle humor in the bulldog’s clumsy attempts to keep the kitten a secret from his owner - pretending the kitten is a wind-up toy, a powder puff and a doll in a toy car - but it is the range of emotion shown by the bulldog that proves what a stunning animator Jones was: he brought the dog to life in such a way that the viewer knows exactly what the dog is feeling, and those feelings reverberate to the viewer, tugging at the heartstrings like no other cartoon can. It is one of the most sublime bits of animation I have ever seen, and I absolutely love it. 3. Schoolhouse Rocks

American kids watching Saturday Morning Cartoons in the 1970’s weren’t just bombarded with commercials for Funny Face Fruit Drink and Evel Knievel action figures, we were also treated to fun, educational cartoons that taught us grammar, math, science, history, and politics in song form. We learned our times tables (“Three is a Magic Number”), how bills are passed into law (“I’m Just a Bill”), that “A Noun is A Person, Place or Thing,” how our solar system works (“Interplanet Janet”) and the Preamble to the Constitution. I can distinctly remember my third grade class having to recite The Preamble, and the stunned look on the teacher’s face when we all began singing it instead. After thirty years the fashions and terminology are somewhat dated - kids today probably have little idea what a “record machine” is, for example - but the cartoons and songs are still relevant educational tools that make learning fun. 4. The Beatles - Yellow Submarine

Not every cartoon I watched as a youngster was shown on Saturday mornings, however. The first time I ever saw Yellow Submarine it was shown during prime time on one of the big three networks; in 1971 we only had three networks and channels, unless you counted PBS, which kids generally didn’t. I remember watching it with my older sister and being struck by how different it seemed than the cartoons I was used to. Parts of it didn’t seem like a cartoon at all, appearing more to be cut’n’ paste photos that had been hand-tinted in deliberately bold, strange colors. The feature length cartoon tells the story of how a music-loving paradise called Pepperland falls prey to the music-hating Blue Meanies, and how one escapee in a yellow submarine seeks help and finds The Beatles. The band agrees to help battle the Blue Meanies and travels back to Pepperland via a series of alternate universes. It amazed and scared me at the same time; I loved The Beatles and the whole idea that their music could triumph over evil, but the images in the Sea of Monsters section of the movie frightened me, as did the blue glove that chased and crushed fleeing Pepperland residents. This was the cartoon that expanded the limits of my already overactive imagination. 5. Ren & Stimpy “Space Madness”

Although I never outgrew my love of cartoons, I despised the politically-correct movement of the 1980’s which heavily edited out anything considered taboo, violent or bad for children. I was appalled and shocked at how lame these edited monstrosities were, and how the cartoons of my childhood had been ruined. Which is why, in the early 1990’s, I was completely wowed when I tuned in to watch The Ren & Stimpy Show and got a heady dose of violence, taboo and crazy situations, all in one episode. It was obvious that creator John Kricfalusi had soaked up every Tex Avery directed cartoon ever made. Of all the early Ren & Stimpy episodes, none pay homage to Avery quite like Space Madness, which combines the geekiness of Star Trek with an unparalleled, over-the-top anxiety born of being cooped up with your crew mates too long. It’s got all the hallmark Avery touches -extreme close-ups, oversized facial features, neurotic tics, riotous moodswings, hysterically funny - and like all the best of the golden age cartoons, it doesn’t dumb down while it’s cracking you up.

"See the way the shadows come together?"

Long autumn shadows made me loom large on the freshly mown lawn, and I would stand transfixed, my elongated shadow-self reaching from the sidewalk all the way to the covered swimming pool, my shadow-head bent at an angle upon the corrugated, round metal wall. Lifting my foot, I made note that shadow-self was wearing platforms. The higher I raised my foot, the bigger the shoe became, and soon I could see Elton John with little bird legs, stepping from the sidewalk onto a yellow brick road, via a poster tacked to crumbling concrete. But my yellow brick road was a green lawn, the concrete an invisible wall separating sidewalk from grass. Dad called to me, broke the spell, and I ran to him and climbed into the back seat of the car. He always smelled so good after he’d gotten home and had a shower. Clean and spicy. Mom opened the passenger door and with the push of a button moved the seat magically forward, giving my little brother the room to wiggle in next to me. Another press and the seat moved back to its former position. There was a lot of magic in Dad’s car: windows that raised and lowered with a button instead of an old chrome crank like we’d had in our old blue car, the car Dad had given Aunt Jewel when we got the new one; seat belts that recoiled when unclasped; wire in the rear window that warmed to melt ice and clear fog; and a thread-thin antenna encased in the front windshield that brought music into the car, except when we drove beneath highway overpasses or sailed through a city with tall buildings, or when we passed the the Land of Giant Radio Masts that Dad informed us belonged to The Voice of America. The name filled me with awe, and I stared at the tangle of towers intently whenever they grew near, hoping to hear snippets of what America sounded like. Usually, it sounded like static, interspersed with Merle Haggard or George Jones or Ronnie Milsap.

"Will you spin for me?"

I can pinpoint exactly when and where it happened: the junior high gymnasium, the spring of my seventh grade year. I can also remember vividly how it happened. Usually I worked out on senior Doug's mat, which was an honor, because it meant I was one of the “advanced” gymnasts. Doug was a good assistant coach, able to understand exactly what each of us needed in terms of help, repetition, inspiration, goal setting and praise. He had complete confidence in us, and we in turn built on that confidence until it shone in us as well. I learned fearlessness and loved working with him. He had a way of inspiring me to achieve perfection in floor exercises that I never thought myself even capable of learning. He instinctively knew when to step in and help with segments of my floor routine, and he knew when to step back and simply spot me as I sprung around on the mats. He was ACE. Doug was a brilliant gymnast, holding several state titles and tons of medals, but was not, however, a great looking guy. The poor guy seemed to have a rough case of acne year round, and so we silly little gymnast girls mooned over the assistant on a nearby mat. The assistant was a few years younger than Doug, which meant he was closer in age to us starry-eyed girls. We all harbored secret, and not so secret, crushes on him. His specialty was the vault, but since none of us were too interested in the vault, he assisted with floor exercises, taking the “beginners” under his wing. Whereas Doug was quiet, graceful and intuitive, John was loud, prone to mood swings and rather ham-fisted for a gymnast. We didn’t care though, because he was incredibly handsome, with dark, rugged Italian features and eyes you could swim in. As it happened, Doug missed practice to visit a college campus out of state, where he had been offered a full scholarship, and the head coach had no choice but to mix the advanced and beginners together for one session. We advanced girls couldn’t believe our good luck! As we readied ourselves for our session, John instructed us that on his mat we had to keep our socks on. We were used to working barefoot on Doug’s mat, so this was an odd request for us, but we happily complied because we were eager to please him. We sat on the bleachers watching the beginners, and John casually strolled over to ask what each of us had been working on with Doug. I was currently working on a salto/no-handed roundoff/whip back combination, which is a series of moves in which I flipped across the mat from end to end, without my hands ever touching the mat. I’d already mastered the salto/no-handed roundoff, but was still working on the movement from roundoff into whip back. I was momentarily rendered speechless by his request because he was SO GORGEOUS, but I managed to finally find my tongue and tell him what I’d been practicing. he nodded and wandered away. When my turn finally came, I soared through the first section of the routine until I got to the whip back. John was spotting me, and reached out to guide me over the whip back, and he was too heavy handed. I was used to Doug’s light touch, and John flipped me over too hard and fast. My socked feet flew out from under me and my spine smashed hard on the mat. It knocked me out cold. The foul smell of salts washed over me and I opened my eyes to find John and Coach bent over me, asking what my name was and what year it was and other things they should have already known. I, however, couldn’t remember anything for a few minutes, which someone later informed me was not a “few minutes” but around half an hour. I was eventually helped to my feet and John carried me over to the bleachers, where I remained, rattled, for the rest of the session. Coach was livid, screaming at him “What the hell did you do to her!?” John’s feeble response was that I was “a lot lighter” than he thought I was. I felt really bad for John, and apologized profusely for getting him in hot water. What an idiot I was. He should have been the one apologizing to me! I didn’t want to tell my parents, because they were already frightened of the stuff I was learning and constantly worried that I was going to hurt myself. Coach, however, made a point to speak to my Dad when he came to pick me up from class that day. On the way home I tried my best to downplay the incident, and I never told them about the recurring pains in my spine that would wake me up in the middle of the night for months afterward. I missed the next few sessions, recuperating. When I came back, Doug told me that he had heard what happened, and wanted me to start back slowly. I was fine with that. But I never perfected the whip back, and Doug didn’t force me, because he could see The Fear in my eyes. We both knew, although it was never mentioned, that my gymnastics career was over. Once you get The Fear, it’s difficult to shake. I never shook it. Free spiritedly springing around the mats is just a distant memory for me now, but I am often reminded of The Fear. It was there again last night, when shoveling a bit of snow caused the fragile lower back to throb and pulse. Was it the pain, or The Fear, that kept me awake most of the night?

"While the other kids were rockin' round the clock, we were hoppin' & boppin' to the Crocodile Rock"

From The Eggman to The Birdman My sister soon enough forgot about The Beatles and moved on to Elton John. Now to me, Elton was lumped in with The Scary Music, mainly because I didn't like the look of him. All feathers and monstrous glasses, he reminded me vaguely of a giant bird, and birds frightened the crap out of me. I could pinpoint my bird phobia to one night when Mom and Dad were out at a party, or maybe their Thursday night bowling league. Sue had been left in charge of babysitting me, and had spent most of evening on the phone arguing with her boyfriend. She'd hang up on him and ring her friend Lori to commiserate, then hang-up and wait for David to call her back so they could have another round. Engrossed in battle with the beleaguered David, she completely forgot to check on little sister, who was supposed to be safely tucked into bed. Unbeknownst to Sue, however, I had crept past the kitchen where she sat yelling down the phone, and hid behind Dad’s green leather easy chair. It was the perfect place to hide and listen in on her phone conversations. It was not, however, the ideal location to hide from the television, and I ended up viewing Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" in its entirety. By the time one of the actors got his eyes pecked out, Sue's phone conversation was long forgotten and all I could do was hold both hands over my mouth so I wouldn't scream and be discovered out of bed. Thereafter, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with anything remotely birdlike. That said, the first time I ever heard “Crocodile Rock” on WSAI-AM, I was hooked. It was simply unfathomable that Elton John could be said singer. So deeply did I feel that he was not the person responsible for such a wonderfully fun and catchy song, that I argued with both Mom and Sue about it one afternoon in the car on the way to the bowling alley. "That horrible birdman Elton John does NOT sing Crocodile Rock!" "Does too" Sue fired back. "Does not! He's too ugly and weird." "You're uglier and weirder than he is, creep" Sue wasn't persuaded by my argument. "Hey now," Mom cautioned, "don't call your sister names." "But she's wrong Mom, and you know it" Sue looked across the front seat to Mom and continued, "Elton John does sing that song, whether spaz wants to believe it or not. Gosh!" "I am NOT a spaz! Elton John is! He's a big, ugly bird and he's got a squirrel head!" I piped from the back seat. "Shut up twerp! You don't know what you're talking about coz if you did you'd know that Elton John DOES sing it and he wrote it too!" Sue thought she was soooo smart, and stuck her chin up in the air like an authority on the subject. Tugging on the seat-belt latch, I squealed "You think you're so smart but you're not! You're as dumb as Elton John looks!" Once free, I perched on the edge of the backseat and leaned over the front to bellow into her ear, "He looks like a bird but you're a bird-brain!" and I fell backwards, howling with laughter. "Mom!" Sue attempted an alarmed look, "did you hear what that little nimrod called me!? Aren't you going to do anything to her?" Mom shot her a cautionary look across the seat, but Sue wasn't sharp enough to leave it alone. She turned in her seat to confront me. "You are so stupid, you ignoramus little creep!" she spat at me, and I howled even louder, because I had never heard the word "ignoramus" and it struck me as just the sort of word to file away for later use back at her. "Elton John is not some weird birdman just coz he wears feather boas," she continued, "Only an idiot would think that!" She then reached over the seat and gave me a sucker punch to the leg, "And he DOES TOO sing 'Crocodile Rock'!" "That's enough from both of you!" Mom said, one hand on the steering wheel and the other hauling Sue back into the front seat by the shirttail. "Both of you sit down and shut up! One more word and I'll turn the car around and we won't go bowling." Mom's word was always final. I crossed my arms and pulled a face at the back of Sue's head, then turned my attention to the passing trees and buildings of our small town. "He does not," I muttered under my breath. Mom bowled in a league on Thursday nights, but every now and then she would bring us on a Saturday afternoon and let us have a go. On that particular occasion the lanes were full and we were resigned to the bar until a lane became available. Still muttering under my breath as we entered the dimly lit, medieval-themed barroom, what should I spy but a jukebox in the corner. The Elton argument was momentarily forgotten as I pestered Mom for a dime, and such was my persuasion that she gave me three, and told Sue to go with me while she got Cokes for everyone. Sue was never the brightest crayon in the box, and as she read through the listings for me, she emphasized that “Crocodile Rock” by ELTON JOHN was among the choices. It was red rag to a bull, and I hopped up and down excitedly and told her to play it. She obligingly punched the corresponding numbers into the machine, "E-5, and the E stands for Elton, spaz" and with that she dragged me away from the glowing music box and back to our table. “I remember when rock was young...me and Suzie had so much fun...” I knew every word and sang along in an off-key pipsqueak voice as the record spun its musical web. Sue hid her face in her hands as Mom joined in, and for the next three quarters of an hour Mom and I played the song repeatedly, with intermittent bursts of "This is NOT Elton John" issuing forth huffily from my little know-it-all self. Other patrons came into the bar, had a drink and left, all to the tune of our warbled rendition of "Crocodile Rock." I made a mental note of how many other people were putting their heads in their hands, just like Sue. Seven. Over and over we sang, until one of the seven, a drunken, disheveled man on a barstool, warned us that if we played it again he'd use our heads as bowling balls. He then turned to me and said, "And for Christ sakes, it IS Elton John, so shut up already." Sue shot me a look of superiority and said "Go eat a big 'I-told-you-so sandwich,' you little twerp!" and flashed a smile at the drunken man, who simply shook his head in thinly veiled disgust and turned back to his beer. Pouting, I stuck my tongue out at his back and decided that if Elton John really did sing “Crocodile Rock,” he would HAVE to be okay in my book, birdman or not.

"All my troubles seemed so far away..."

Six years old and already I was labeled an outcast. I rode the bus home with a heavy heart and went right to my room, where I put Neil onto my little pink and white close’n’play and cried. It wasn’t the first time I had wept over music, and as the salty tears slid quietly down my face, my mind drifted back to a few months prior, when my sister had come home from school bawling her eyes out. She didn’t even yell at me when I asked her what was wrong. She clutched a box of Kleenex to her chest and ran straight to her room, with me trotting along behind asking, "What's the matter Suzie? Why are you crying?" I hesitated before following her into the Inner Sanctum, but she seemed unaware that I had crept in behind her. Flinging herself on the bed, she punched her fists into the pillows, wailing all the while. Unsure of what to do but unable to contain my curiousity, I finally poked a finger into her shin and then retreated to a safe distance, sure that she’d leap off the bed and toss me out into the hall. But she didn’t. She sat up, blew her nose loudly and announced to me that The Beatles had broken up. A million images raced thorough my mind as I stared at her with gaping mouth. How could they break? Did they fall out of a window and smash? Did they get into a fight and somehow shatter? Every image my mind could muster spelled disaster and death for the four mop-topped boys who had given me such delight with their songs. Thoughts awhirl, I eventually concluded that she must have meant that one of her Beatles records got broken, and I chewed my lower lip and eyed her suspiciously. My mind flashed to a copy of "I Saw Her Standing There" with a crack in it. I knew she had stepped on it one morning as she readied herself for school. It had lain beneath the scattered clothing that dotted her floor like a rummage sale gone awry. I had heard the crack clear in the next room, where I sat busily building a make-shift home for my Fisher-Price people out of a shoebox. Sue dashed out the bedroom door and down the stairs without even checking to see what record had cracked. I raced to the window and watched as she ran down the hill toward the schoolbus, then ventured into her room to find out what had broken. “I didn’t do it!” I blurted out finally, and she rolled her redrimmed, watery green eyes and threw a pillow at me, halfheartedly. “They split up, dummy. Paul left the band and now there will never be any more Beatles music.” She stated it so matter-of-factly, and it slowly dawned on me that this was serious business. I wanted to ask why the band couldn’t go on without Paul but even at such a tender age I knew that Paul and John were the head guys in the band. It was their close harmonies I loved so dearly. "Never?" I asked in a hushed tone. Sue's lip began to quiver again. "Never." She patted the edge of the bed, inviting me to sit with her and look at their album jackets. I scampered onto the rumpled bed and we sat together, examining everything from Please Please Me, Help!, and Rubber Soul, to Sgt.Pepper, and Abbey Road. She told me all about the conspiracy surrounding the Abbey Road cover and how Paul was supposed to be dead, although she didn't believe it. I pointed out that George looked dreamy with both short and long hair. We spent the remainer of the day listening to those albums, and as the shadows fell long across the bedroom floor, we put on those early singles and danced, my hands clasped in hers as she swung me around and sang, "Help me if you can I'm feeling down...Help me get my feet back on the ground! It was the only time I was ever, and ever would be, granted access to my sister’s room, music, and inner thoughts, and it meant the world to me.

"Ain't it funny how you feel, when you're findin' out it's real?"

I went off to kindergarten with a Neil Young single in my plastic yellow tote bag. It was my first musical purchase, and as an added bonus, it was Show-and-Tell Day at Carlisle Elementary School. I had saved my allowance for weeks in order to buy the 25-cent record, and I felt an overwhelming urge to enlighten my peers with the heartfelt nasal twang of "Heart of Gold." It was important to prepare them for the more important things in life, something more than teddy bears and finger-paints. I squirmed in my seat, anxious for the moment when Miss Boswell would call upon me to go to the front of the class with my golden Warner Brothers label treasure. I could just picture the astonished looks on the faces of the other kids when they heard this song. I imagined their eyes gleaming with delight (as mine surely did), and yearned for them to feel the magic and begin to sway with the same glee I did when listening to it. I felt confident they would be unable to contain their joy, and we'd happily spend the rest of the day laughing and dancing, instead of settling down to the required naptime. After enduring an endless parade of baby dolls, Hot Wheels and, oddly, an egg-shaped Legg's pantyhose container brought in by Patti, Miss Boswell finally called my name. I scrambled to the front of the room, rambling breathlessly to the class about what a wonderful singer Neil Young was. Miss Boswell smiled patiently and nodded as she pried the gleaming single from my sweaty little hands and placed it on the close'n'play. She sent me back to my seat as the first strands of THE WRONG SONG burst from the tiny speaker. In a panic, I leapt from my chair, knowing full well that "Sugar Mountain" was NOT going to change anyone's life. This wasn't how it was supposed to be! Everyone was supposed to hear "Heart of Gold" and grin giddily, then gather around me to pat my back and tell me how great I was for showing them the light. Instead, "Sugar Mountain" was pouring from the box and I was screaming at Miss Boswell "Turn it over! That's the wrong song Miss Boswell! Take it off! TAKE IT OFF!!" I could feel my legs trembling and I knew I had to stop the song before further damage was done. I made a grab for the close'n'play but Miss Boswell was too quick. She caught me by the arm and gave me that kindergarten teacher glare. "Do NOT raise your voice to me young lady! We will hear the other side when this side is finished. Now sit down and behave." The damage was done. I slumped into my chair, defeated. I could feel my face burning, and it was all I could do to hold back the tears. I was certain that by the time "Sugar Mountain" ended three minutes later, all hopes of those 19 kids appreciating the fine craftsmanship of "Heart of Gold" would be gone. I had failed. Even when Miss Boswell flipped the record over and Neil's gentle harmonica peeked cautiously out of the speaker, no one even seemed to notice."I wanna live, I wanna give. I've been a miner for a heart of gold." I glanced around the room, holding my breath that someone would feel the magic and rise up to begin the mass gathering around me. But it didn't happen. "Keeps me searchin' for a heart of gold, and I'm gettin' old." It was obvious that no one in Miss Boswell's morning kindergarten class had a heart of gold. Kim stared at a flickering overhead light while chewing her hair. Jimmy picked at a scab on his left elbow. Patti twisted and turned the two halves of her Legg's egg. The rest of the class stared wide-eyed at me for yelling at the teacher.

"At the end of my rainbow lies a golden oldie..."

My dream, for as long as I can remember, was to own a music shop. Before I was even in kindergarten I was digging music and studying the labels of my Mom’s and older sister’s 45s. I couldn’t read much beyond a few three-letter words like C-A-T, yet knew exactly which records were The Beach Boys and The Beatles by the distinctive yellow and orange yin-yang label of Capitol Records. I’d get them confused at times, since both bands were on Capitol and began with the letter “B,” but either way I figured I was coming out ahead, because both bands were quality. I knew all the words to “She Loves You” and “Sloop John B” long before learning the normal kiddie songs like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “London Bridge is Falling Down.” Dragging a stepstool from the kitchen to the living room, I'd position it in front of the stereo cabinet (back when record players were large, polished wood furniture pieces) and stick the records on endless repeat. I would shimmy, dance and spin around and around until my tiny legs would buckle, sending me crashing to the floor, exhausted, laughing, and very dizzy. I was always careful with the tone-arm because not only did it resemble a long thin black snake, it also had a nasty habit of issuing an electric shock if there was too much static built up in the polyester/wool carpet. I dubbed the jolt a “snakebite,” and chalked up each "bite" as par for the musical course. In retrospect, it would have been easier on my current-charged fingers if the stepladder hadn't been metal, and would have been better still had I not had to drag it across that carpet. Early musical knowledge was certainly aided by the fact that Mom was a big music fan herself with a seemingly endless supply of Elvis (on RCA with Nipper the dog listening to the old phonograph), The Everly Brothers (on the purple Cadence label) and Sam Cooke (Specialty Records, label: yellow & white). She never made a fuss and in fact encouraged me to haul out those 45s and pop them onto the record player. When I ventured from the labels I recognized there were still more surprises. There was an entire collection of Hank Williams, George Jones and Mom’s favorite, The Louvin Brothers, among many others. Long before I came along Mom had been a member of The Louvin Brothers Fan Club and had gone to every show they performed in a three state area. She sang me to sleep at night with their standards, and even now, whenever I hear someone covering “In The Pines,” I feel sleepy and at peace with the world. My sister was another matter entirely. She forbade me to enter her room, let alone touch her precious Beatles records. Of course, she had to go to school and I didn’t, so Mom would happily let me play whatever I wanted, as long as the records were put away before the 3 p.m. bus brought my sister screaming back into the house. Rooting around through her records was my favorite hobby, one which gave me an extra thrill because of the clandestine nature in which I had to listen to them. It was through her that I first heard Van Morrison, The Rolling Stones and, of course, The Beatles and Beach Boys. She also had records with labels that looked scary, like Rare Earth’s “I Just Want To Celebrate,” which was a psychedelic forest of a label whose name escapes me now. There was another that showed a record with flames shooting out of the bottom of it. Had I been able to read, the name of the band would have given me more cause for alarm, as they were aptly named The Mind Benders. I usually shied away from the scary labels, because the music was too far out for a little pigtailed pre-schooler. Oh, no doubt about it, I’d grow to appreciate them in later years, but when I was a scrawny little girl the scary labels were too much of an aural assault. There were also innocuous looking labels that packed a real punch, several of which I discovered during my covert listening fests. One was a harmless looking red and white label with a cameo of a woman stamped on it. It was, of course, The Cameo label, but I didn’t know that back then. I gingerly put the record on and dropped the snakearm, only to be bombarded with a crazy man screaming “I NEED SOMEBODY TO HELP ME THROUGH” and it blasted me right off the tiny orange stool on which I so precariously perched. The band was ? and the Mysterians, and it became a quick personal favorite after I recovered from the shock. Taking a deep breath, I flipped the record over and quickly fell in love with “96 Tears” as well. Over time I wore the grooves clean through that record, and broke Dad’s chair in the process, spinning around and around in it until I was sick. The other record I discovered that same day was on a colorful label that resembled stained glass and had a many armed creature encircling the top. It was a very early Buddah Records design, and would be rather collectible years later. Excited over the Cameo find, I plunked the needle on the record and waited eagerly, as sounds of a train chugging into the distance wafted out of the speakers. "Train hurry up, bring my baby back...Halleluah hear it comin' on down the track..." I’d never heard keyboards played with such abandon, and the 1910 Fruitgum Company’s “The Train” singlehandedly instilled in me a lifelong love of powerpop. Now, the highlight of each weekend was when Mom packed me and my sister into the blue Buick and headed to Lakes, a combination jewelry, music and instrument shop. I’d wander along the shiny pink and cream tiled floor, peering at all the pretty labels and wondering what jewels they beheld. The place smelled of music to me, a heady combination of pine and freshly minted vinyl. It was on one of those trips that I decided that owning a record store was the best thing in the world. Mr. Lakes, the tall ginger-haired bluegrass musician who owned the shop, would always ask me what I wanted to hear, slide a footstool my way so I could choose from the many colored paper jackets and labels, and seemed pleased to oblige my many requests. My sister would stand with arms crossed, rolling her eyes and huffing as I plucked record after record out of the bins to hand over to kindly Mr. Lakes. It was from these randomly chosen records that "Solider Boy" by The Shirelles and Danny & The Juniors' famous "At The Hop" became part of the family collection. I could have happily stayed there forever, and my brain buzzed with possibilities. You got to listen to every record in the world, anytime you wanted, plus there always seemed to be folks sitting around playing guitars and singing. To an impressionable, music loving 5-year-old, it was nirvana. My future would be one continuous groove of excellent tunage, or so I hoped.

"And she did it just like that. When she wants something and don't wanna pay for it..."

My clothes were missing. I’d finished another grueling day of Flag Corps Squad try-outs and went into the locker room to retrieve my school clothes, only to discover my lock was missing and so were my clothing, shoes and belt. Sonofabitch! Being a junior high eighth grader (or “up-and-coming Freshman”, as we were calling ourselves with only two weeks left to go in the school year), I wasn’t very familiar with the high school locker room but I was sure I’d put my items into gym basket #318. I also knew I’d secured it with a padlock. I still had the key in my shorts pocket. Still, I pulled out the gym baskets surrounding #318, just to be sure. Gym baskets, for those unfamiliar, are metal mesh drawers, approximately 14 inches square. They had a hinge lock mechanism, and students provided their own locks. A few other girls began helping me look, but it was no use. My entire outfit was gone. Unsure of what to do, I told Flag Corps Captain Beth of my dilemma. She spoke to the other senior Corps members about it, but there was very little they could do. They were nice about it, but informed me that key padlocks were easy to pick, and that I should invest in a combination lock. Instead of being elated to have survived another round of squad cuts, I was dejected that someone would take the time to pick my little lock and steal my stuff. I’d only just bought the shoes two weeks previous. They were brand new! The following day after school, I walked over to the high school with the other eighth grade hopefuls for another round of eliminations. Each day we had learned new moves and maneuvers, and each day a few more girls were cut and told not to return the following day. I had been lucky so far, and had made it through three days of eliminations. Making my way through the high school toward the locker room, I saw my clothes. I saw my clothes on a mousy looking girl whom I vaguely recognized. She was a sophomore named Theresa who had also survived the three eliminations. I couldn’t believe this girl was actually wearing my entire outfit, complete with shoes and belt! Right in front of me! I casually strolled over to her and commented on her outfit, complimenting her on a lovely wardrobe. She smiled nervously and thanked me, which is when I shoved her into the wall of gym baskets and pulled the rust colored suede mules from her feet. She screamed and howled as I bloodied her pouty little freckled face with the wooden heel. That’s what I wish I had done. Instead, I chose a more cowardly route and ratted her out to Captain Beth. She in turn spoke to graduating senior Captain Julie to figure out what could be done. It was decided that I had to be able to prove the clothing was, in fact, mine. Now I was long past the days of having my Mom write my name inside the labels of my clothing, so how else could I prove ownership? Beth and Julie were loathe to accuse Theresa of theft without some concrete proof on my part. I felt myself welling up with tears. I KNEW the clothing and shoes were mine, but it would be my word against Theresa’s, and how could rightful ownership prevail without proof? Captain Julie went over to Theresa and asked to see her shoes. Theresa blanched at the request, but instead of asking why, complied by removing the suede mules and plopped them into Julie’s outstretched hands. Julie and Beth conferred over in the corner of the locker room, while the rest of the remaining squad hopefuls stood watching. Theresa glared at me with folded arms, and I glared right back, although I felt as though mice were playing tennis in my gut. Conference over, Julie came back and asked Theresa where she had purchased the shoes. Theresa replied that she couldn’t remember, but she thought it was either Kinney Shoes or Sears. Julie then asked me where I had purchased the shoes. I answered, “Gallenkamp’s Shoes in the Dayton Mall” and went on to say that there was a slight stain on the top of the left one because I’d opened a bottle of Coke, which my brother had shaken before handing to me, and it had spewed all over the place and the foam had dribbled down my arm and off my elbow onto the left shoe the very first time I had worn them. I had been so angry about it, but now it could be used as proof of ownership. My answer would have probably been enough, but once I started talking I couldn’t stop. Out spilled the fact that the shirt and trousers had been purchased at Jean Nicole. Then I blurted out that the goldtone stretch snake belt she was wearing had my name engraved on the buckle. Dad had recently bought an engraver, and that buckle was his first handiwork. Beth held out her hand for the belt, and Theresa sheepishly unclasped it from her waist. Sure enough, my name was etched on the heart-shaped buckle. Julie announced that the label inside the shoes, which was still visible because they were practically new, read "Gallenkamp's." Theresa’s face reddened as she bravely fought off the tears, letting only a sniffle out now and then. She was instructed to change into her practice shorts and shirt, and return my clothing. As the entire squad stood watching, she sadly removed the Jean Nicole outfit. Julie and Beth passed judgment that the squad had no need for thieves, and told her to go home. Theresa never attempted to join another extra-curricular activity. I went on to march in the high school marching band flag corps for three years. But I could never bring myself to wear that outfit again.

"Beetlebum..."

As I was listening to Blur’s classic “Beetlebum” today I was suddenly reminded of a kid with that name when I was a youngster. I can’t remember his “real” name to save my life, nor can I remember what his surname was. All I remember was that everyone called him “Beetlebum” or “Beetle” for short. Beetlebum was a couple of years ahead of me, and my memories of him are foggy at best. Mostly I remember that he looked a lot like Alfalfa from Our Gang, or rather what Alfalfa would look like as a twelve year old wearing a green army jacket. Beetlebum got me thinking about other kid’s nicknames I knew as a child. There was this girl we all called Peanut, and like Beetle, I couldn’t tell you her real name if my life depended on it. Peanut was a lot of fun though, and I was sad when she moved away. Another girl I was great mates with as a youngster was called Cricket. All her family called her Cricket, and until she passed away a few months ago of Crone’s Disease I never even knew her real name was Carol Ann. Cricket and I got into loads of mischief when we were kids, and almost every memory I have of her is of the two of us laughing--except when her family announced they were moving to Arizona. We cried and begged for her to be able to live with me and my family. Her mom and my mom were best friends, and we hoped they’d see reason and let her stay. But they didn’t, and we sobbed and wailed and carried on, and she tried to smuggle me into the car with her when they left. I was also friends with a girl nicknamed Tater, but we were not allowed to call her that in front of her mother, who was very strict. Tater’s real name was Dawn, a name she hated. She called herself Tater, so we did too. Then there was my cousin Chuckie. She was called Chuckie the moment she popped out of the womb and is still referred to by that name, although she likes to remind everyone that she DOES have a "proper" name. I wish I’d had a nickname.

"There are many paths..."

“The Dead Kennedys!?” Dad opened the brown paper bag and pulled out the album I’d just purchased. “Why would anyone want to name a band The Dead Kennedys?”

It was autumn1983, and I was a senior in high school. Since I’d gotten my driving license the year before I’d been seeking out record shops, and had finally hit upon a really cool one in Dayton called Renaissance Music Media. I’d just picked up Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables from them earlier that day.

“Oh Dad, it’s just a name,” I rolled my eyes and tried to convince him, “they’re really good!”
“I don’t see how a band named The Dead Kennedys could be any good.”
He turned the album over and began reading the song titles aloud. “Let’s Lynch the Landlord? Stealing People’s Mail?” He looked at me. “Holiday in Cambodia? What kind of stuff is this anyway?”
“They’re just a band,” I lied, not really wanting to delve into the issue of political punk rock with my father.
“They have a song here called Kill the Poor! That’s just not right.” Dad shook his head.

Then he surprised me. He handed the album back to me. “If this is what you want to spend your money on…” he trailed off and shrugged, then continued, “you’re old enough to make up your own mind about this stuff. I trust your judgment.”

Relieved, I grabbed the album and dashed upstairs to my bedroom. I unwrapped the jacket and slid the blue vinyl out. Etched into the runoff groove were the words “WHO ARE THE BRAIN POLICE?”

I realized right then that my Dad was the coolest person on the planet. He could have taken the album away from me. He could have forbidden me to listen to it, to own it. He didn’t. Even though he was pretty sure he didn’t approve of The Dead Kennedys or their message, he let me make up my own mind.

He was not the Brain Police.

"But the radio is playing all the usual...and what's a Wonderwall anyway?"

Taking Typing I & II in high school was one of the smartest things I’ve ever done, as it has continued to serve me well. Unlike, say, “Business Shorthand” and “Home Economics: The Art of Meal Planning” and the forgettable college courses I took, like “The History of Greece 404 to 146 BC” and “Case Studies in Organizational Communication.” But I digress...

Before the rise of the internet, I used to have loads of pen-pals. We swapped stories, photos and the occasional cassette tape. We shared aspirations and dreams. One penfriend in Japan was a huge Jesus & Mary Chain fan, like me. We shared photos--hers were spectacular--she stalked them to the Tokyo Shinkansen and took wonderful photos of Jim Reid. I, on the other hand, had to admit failure in that when I met Jim in Columbus a few months prior, I’d burst into tears in his face and compelled him to leg it onto the tour bus and the safety of a large bottle of Black Label Jack.

Then there were the scores of up and coming bands I corresponded with, most of which never “made it” but whom I still look back fondly at the letters we shared, and I still own and listen to their music. There was Bon Von Wheelie from Girl Trouble. We wrote back and forth several times and I’ve kept her letters tucked safely inside the Hit It Or Quit It LP. She hooked me up with Calvin Johnson, the head guy at K Records in Olympia, Washington. Calvin and I took up a spirited friendship for awhile and he sent me loads of great 7” singles released on his label. I sent him a bunch of I Wanna Label stuff in return. Somehow along the way I got hooked up with Robert Griffin from Scat Records in Cleveland and we shot letters back and forth for awhile. I adored his band Prisonshake and he sent me loads of music related goodies. Favorite item was probably the Scat Singles Box that had lots of silly toys inside. He later signed Dayton’s Guided By Voices (whose first LP was on I Wanna) and moved to Chicago. One time I got a lovely (and sexy) birthday card from Mark Kramer, head dude at Shimmy Disc Records and one half of the neo-psychedelic band Bongwater.

Then there is the penpal that I married! We sent countless letters and "FunMail" whizzing back and forth across the Atlantic. The day he sent himself across the big pond was one of the best moments in my life. We've been together ever since.

Ocassionally I still get a piece of FunMail from my best mate Rodney, a multimedia artist now living in San Francisco. Back in college we regularly stuffed each others university mailboxes with fun and interesting items (purple pantyhose doused in glitter, feathers, scratch & sniff books we’d made ourselves, bags of safety pins) and he still sends me an oddity every now and then, and it never fails to amuse and delight me.

It’s an even greater joy, however, to be able to meet up with friends face to face, and share laughter, stories and music with them. That's why I think the internet is such a wonderous thing. I've met a lot of great folks whom I have so much in common with, and who share the same interests as me, and for that I am forever grateful.

I know what I did before the internet and wouldn't change it for the world. But I can't imagine life without it now.