the Ladies of June 1987

I made a promise many years ago. I promised that I’d never forget the Ladies of June 1987. As time spun on, I’ll admit, the memory faded. It all came crashing back to me this morning. I’m not sure why, but it did – fully, in brilliant Technicolor. It’s time this story was told.

Ladies of June 1987. This is your story.

There was a junkyard right by my house. One-hundred percent authentic, complete with a rusty chain-link fence and slavering, barking dog-beasts. You’d have to walk “the path” to get to it. The path was this “wooded area” beyond the dead end of the street I lived on. Our parents were not too keen about us exploring the path, but you can’t stop little boys from being little boys. I don’t think our parents would imagine, in one-thousand years, we’d climb the mighty pile of dirt that stood between woods and junkyard. The barking of the dog-beasts that sounded when you walked to close should have been deterrent enough. It was not. Curiosity and dreams of adventure became too much. When we did climb that small mountain, it was like we looked upon Mecca. Before us lay a field of old cars, half-buried in weeds and tall grass, rusting into near nonexistence. There were a couple dilapidated buildings, too – completely caving in on themselves. And strewn everywhere was junk. Twisted bits of metal, old appliances, and rotting tires. The sight was terrifying but ridiculously cool at the same time.

I’m not sure who was first to crawl under the fence. My guess is it was Brent Franklin. He was pretty damn fearless. The rest of us, Adam, Eric, and I were quick to follow. I was filled with a mixture of trepidation, exhilaration, and that feeling that can only be described as the “I’m gonna poop my pants” feeling. Paramount on my mind was the slavering, red-eyed dog-beasts. The fury hulks were nowhere to be seen – probably feasting on some trespasser at the other end of the junkfield. We spent some time digging through bits of broken TVs, stereos, and bicycles. There were records and old newspapers. Then the discovering that would change all our lives was made. A June 1987 Playboy magazine was lying atop a pile of random magazines. I had only spied this tome of sin from afar. I had never gotten close enough to touch one. Yet, there it was. Fate had left it there for us to find. A scantily clad vixen was on the cover begging us, in all our pre-pubescence, to look within, to take in an eyeful. Open it we did. We went page by page with scientific deliberateness. We skipped past all the articles, of course. It was pure naked-lady magnificence. It was liberation. My parents weren’t there saying “don’t look.” I didn’t have to spy breasts through the cracks of hands covering eyes.

For a while, if I recall correctly, there was a time-share involved with the magazine. Eventually, we reached the consensus that it was just not safe to hide it at home. So, we found a hole in the woods and did what any self-respecting kid will do with their treasure. We buried it. The plan worked well. Our girls were hidden from “those that didn’t understand” and always available for a peek.

Until it rained.

We should’ve seen it coming. I mean, we hid the damn thing in a marsh. A high water table and a summer rain ended up being certain death for the Ladies of June 1987. We found the magazine the next day. Snug in its muddy tomb. All the pages were stuck together. The pictures had become translucent, multi-boobed collages of soggy, soil-ridden paper.

I think Brent started crying.

There was a moment of silence for the magazine. I wished that I had the emotional fortitude to say some kind words. I was speechless in my grief. Heads hung long, we strode out of the woods. Vowing to never forget.

flashback, ah ah

It’s pretty wild, the things you remember.  I was chatting with a friend from way back when, one of my very first friends, incidentally and I flashbacked to all kinds of odd things.  For example, the first time I went to their house, which was right around the corner, on Blue Berry lane, he and his twin (fraternal) brother were running around their home with baskets on their heads.   That made for an interesting first impression.  Not that I remember that impression so clearly. I’ll wager it was something along the lines of: “They are running around with baskets on their heads.”  At that age, the mind draws some pretty simple conclusions.

Ah, the adventures we had together, crawling around the woods playing army and whatever else our overactive imaginations could cook up.
He used to have this black, faux-tire swing in their back yard.   I was launched a good ten feet into the air by this thing.  Yes, poor, chubby little me was more than the old rope could handle. SNAP and I was sailing through the air.  Kind-hearted Adam tried to convince me it was the fault of the little girl next door.  But, I knew better. It was the rope manufacturers fault.   Not that I was a porker, by any stretch.  By comparison, though, my friend and his brother were extremely thin.  Maybe, that’s why I perceived myself as a little chubby.  Baby fat takes time to burn.  Rest assured, I was a cute kid with beautiful hair.  

In other news, I’ll be launching my first PodCast very soon. Details to come.

that's cinnamon and sugar, baby

So. The Cheez Its are gone. And thank god. Of course, I think they all went into my belly. Might I introduce you to the evil bastards pictured above. What these devil-spawn busy making? No, it's not plague. It's not hellfire nor brimstone.

It's Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Seriously, when is the last time you had Cinnamon Toast Crunch (the song is kinda catchy, I know). Well, the last time I had it was last night. Several bowls and and an upset stomach later I wondered how the box had gotten there. I think Jen is trying to plump me up so she can cook me and serve me to the pets...or maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Really, though. The CTC is one utterly-bastard delicious cereal. I think the progenitor of this line of whole-grain goodness, was a single square of holy wonder given to mankind by the baby Jesus himself.

General Mills has stormed my ramparts.

Current research:

i can't stop, i don't want to try

I have an addiction.

Colossal, looming. It's always there. Waiting.

I have no control around Cheez Its. I’m excessive by nature. That certainly doesn’t help. But there has got to be more to it than personal nature. There is something magical about those little, orange squares. It only takes one and I’m gone, spiraling down a cheddar rabbit hole into a magical land of unknown but oh-so-palatable pleasures. I dance the night away with my Cheddar Lady. Sometimes she’s sassy, sometimes she’s spicy.

But I’ll be damned if she isn’t always completely delicious.