Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Greetings from the Mall

Another quickie from inside the mall...

Sweet Jebus I'm tired.  Only a couple more days to go, though.  In about 40 minutes, I get to present a PowerPoint!  Yippee!  Who doesn't love sitting through somebody's stupid-ass PowerPoint?  And mine are equally stupid to just about any others you've ever sat through.

Still haven't had much time to get out and explore.  A comment yesterday offered some great suggestions on stuff to do and see -- and I'd love to do and see all of them, and more, but this meeting generally runs me around from 6:15 am to 8:30 or so at night, and after that all I have the energy to do is order room service.  And unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I don't have the temerity to order Spankervision on the company's dime.

There's a chance I may get out to explore some on Friday morning.  There's a pretty groovy-looking Art Deco exhibit at the Museum of Fine Art.  I can never decide whether I love or hate Deco -- perhaps this will help me decide.

Partook in several of Boston's favorite, Dunkin' Donuts, this morning.  Mmmm, glazed.  They do not appear to have my favorite here, though, which is the "sugar raised."  Criminal.  But still better than Krispy Kreme.  I don't understand the fuss about Krispy Kreme donuts.  Those little sugar and lard bombs go through my system like the proverbial poop through the proverbial greased goose.

In closing to this utterly pointless post, I would like to add the following little poem, which somebody recited to me today.

Nibble, nibble, little sheep
In the meadow, on the steep.
Keep your schnozzle on the grass,
and let the kingdom come to pass.

Donut City

In the shops are shiny things
I can see them glittering....
Wish that I could buy them all,
I wish I lived in a shopping mall....
Guadalcanal DIary, "Always Saturday"

Boston's Copley Place is a gigantic combo of convention center, large hotels, and upscale mall.

I'm here all week, along with about 20 co-workers and 5,000 science nerds.  More about them later this week.  (Bloggage will likely be short and sporadic this week, by the way.)

It's nice having the entire meeting contained with this one giant complex.  Really, you wouldn't need to leave Copley Place the entire week -- and with crappy weather and whatnot, the temptation is to do exactly that.

When visiting another city, I like to get a feel for the local flavor.  I've actually been to Boston...oh...four or five times before, but unfortunately will not get much time to explore this week.  I'll get out and walk around some, and read the Globe, and that'll pretty much be my entire non-work-related Boston experience.

But after three days of newspaper reading and a couple of VERY short walks, I can offer two words that sum up my experience so far...

Dunkin' Donuts.

The local section of Sunday's Globe offered no fewer than four articles that in some way, shape or form revolved around Dunkin' Donuts -- and I've learned that you can't go more than two blocks in any direction here without hitting one. 

Copley Place, in fact, has the world's poshest Dunkin' Donuts.  It's a rhapsody in wood and lard. 

Oops, gotta run.  More later, if I get a second and a working computer...

Thanksgiving

Today, when you're giving thanks for all that you have, it might be appropriate to put in a good word for those who have not.

Worldwide, over 33,000 children die each day from malnutrition.  In the U.S., 34.6 million Americans live in poverty.  That's over 7 million families whose children are likely to go to bed hungry each night.

I mention this not to bring anybody down, or to promote any particular political point of view.  All I'm saying is that, if you're the praying type, you might want to put off diving into your meal a few seconds longer, and send up a few requests for those who don't have it quite so good.

Personally, I have a lot to be thankful for this year.  A wonderful little family that has been brightened immeasurably by a happy, healthy child (and with another on the way), a good job with people who I can actually tolerate being around, good friends, some nice beers in the fridge -- yup, I have it pretty good.

I should also point out that I truly am thankful that anybody actually reads my semi-daily ramblings.  This blog began as an exercise in learning html -- and surprisingly, it's caught on to the point where it has a readership in the low (VERY low) triple digits.  What really surprises (and pleases) me is when somebody who I've never even met takes the time to send an email or post a comment.  That's just cool beyond words.

Oh yes, I actually also appreciate it when somebody takes the time to point out that I may have lost my focus, or am focusing too much in one direction.  Those points are well taken, and I understand them.  I've always maintained that this here blog is a snapshot of whatever's on my mind at a particular time.  Sometimes -- most of the time, actually -- what's on my mind is inconsequential fluffery.  Goofy stuff, like my fixation with Mary Worth, or commentary on pop culture.

Sometimes, politically-oriented subjects enter my transom.  I don't pretend to be even remotely politically astute, and my analysis of these sorts of topics is rudimentary and sloppy, to be sure.  Nonetheless, if I see something going on that I feel is worthy of commentary, I'll comment.  Feel free to disagree -- I have that comments section down there for a reason, and the only comments I ever delete are the "spam" comments, of which I've been getting more lately.  (In case you haven't seen them before I swat them down like flies, spam comments usually tend to take the form of "Nice commentary!  You can learn more about the subject HERE"...and "here" takes you to some viagra site, or loan house, or whatever.)

Well, this turned out to be longer than I planned.  Anyway, thank you for reading.

Dear Jesusland -- I Want Out

I really didn't have anything for today -- but that's good, because a recent news item caught Mrs. Subdivided's attention, and she had the following to say.  Take it away, Mrs. S.!  (The following marks Mrs. Subdivided's blogging debut, by the way.  Enjoy!)
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As a follow up to my husband’s declaration that North America should now be divided between the United States of Canada and Jesusland, I offer my two cents on the issue.  Some may find what I have to say as offensive -- I offer to you the following advice, don’t read it.  And if you decide to read it, don’t complain to me that I have offended your sensibilities because I am tired of listening.

I WANT OUT…an open letter to the residents of Jesusland.

I am not one to follow politics, although this year’s election did have me more interested than usual, but that is another topic of conversation.  I will say that I was disappointed when the evil of two lesser won the election.  However, this time, you’ve gone too far.  That’s not to say that any of the other stories I’ve read about you and your antics haven’t sent me close to the edge, trust me, they have, but this time I am at my wit’s end.

I was reading the news headlines during my lunch today when I came across this story on ABC News.com :

Headline:  Religious Conservatives Demand Changes at Nation’s Parks -- Debate over ‘Moral Values’ Spills Over Into Nation’s Landmarks.

It seems that since your guy won the election you think you have the right, the obligation, and the duty to rewrite history.  The article above describes the fact that the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. screens a film for visitors which depicts the historical events that have taken place there, from civil rights marches to anti-war demonstrations.  No problem there you say, oh high and mighty residents of Jesusland.  However, this film is different, isn’t it?  Some of the marches have (gasp!!) liberal themes like gay rights and abortion rights; and the head of one of your ‘influential’ Christian conservative groups saw this particular film.  The Rev. Lou Sheldon, chairman of the Traditional Values Coalition, has indicated that the film only shows liberal, pro-abortion, pro-homosexual marches.  So he took his complaint to the government’s top levels (and I quote) “so they could reach down and work their system and cleanse in a proper manner and make it fair and balanced.”  Of course this would be done by editing the film to show some of the conservative marches that have taken place at the Lincoln Memorial.  (As a side note, the National Parks Service is unaware of any major conservative marches that have taken place at the Lincoln Memorial itself, which is the focus of the film.)

“Cleanse in a proper manner”??????  So, let me get this straight, not only am I currently living in Jesusland, but apparently somehow I’ve been transported back to 1939 where the phrase “cleanse in a proper manner” would be more appropriate. 

In case you haven’t picked up a history book during your lifetime, the Lincoln Memorial is one of the most profound symbols of American democracy in the world.  It’s a tribute to the struggles we as a nation have worked to overcome and a place where folks can gather to draw attention to the causes and issues which continue to divide this country. 

And you want to erase all of that by editing a film that shows highlights of historical events just because you do not agree with the point of view the people in the film are taking.  Erase history because those people are different from you. 

What’s next?  I’m guessing that editing the Constitution, the Bills of Rights, or the Civil Rights Act are all on the political agenda for the residents of the Jesusland, at least for the next four years.  I wonder if the Rev. Lou Sheldon saw this film while he was on a trip to Washington D.C. to see what he can get the government to do about those pesky legal documents which offer rights to minorities, yet offend him so.

The Constitution sets forth a principle that there should be a separation of church and state.  So as long as I am stuck here in Jesusland, at least until my visa application to the U.S. of Canada clears, my advice to you is to butt out of my life.  I do not need you to dictate what I should view nor how I should view it.  If I don’t want to watch something that I find offensive, guess what?  I won’t watch it, I’ll just simply walk away.  I won’t be inclined to make my personal concerns a political crusade and take the issues to the highest levels of government for them to cleanse in a proper manner.  It’s called taking personal responsibility, look into it.

Take Five

Five quick stories about the five members of our little family:

I would imagine that most, if not all, of the people who know us regard Julie as the more "normal" of the two of us.  Or, conversely, they consider me to be the more -- shall we say -- unusual.

To those people, I offer the following...

Julie has taken to making the dogs kiss each other.
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If I had to guess what rock band would be young Adam's favorite at 18 months, it's very likely that I never would have come up with the correct answer -- although I must say, it's a fine choice on his part.  A fine choice. 

He dances his little buns off to....

Smithereens.
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Thankfully, the ladybug infestation hasn't been as bad this year.

Which is good news for Kelsey (our Norwegian Elkhound/German Shepherd mix).  She eats the little buggers, and they have a paralyzing effect on her back legs.  After every ladybug feast, she spends a day or two pulling herself around by her front paws.  Pathetic. 

I guess she never wonders why those tasty red candies with the black polka dots sometimes move around.
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Smithers stinks.  Badly.  But that's what hounds do.

And besides, he's daddy's little snoogie boogie dumplin-wumplin', aren't you little Smitheepoo?  Yes!  Who's a good doggy? 
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Tonight, as I was taking the mutts out for their final curtain call, I heard a faint squawking sound.  Then another.  Then a whole LOT of squawkin' going on.

I looked up, expecting to see a small "V" of geese overhead, off towards warmer climes.

It took a few second, but eventually I spotted them -- WAYYY up there, much higher than I expected.  And instead of a dozen, there must've been 100, all in a perfect "V."  Eventually, they flew in front of the moon, which silhoutted them perfectly.  And in this moment of chilly, ephemeral natural beauty, all I could think was...

Fly on south, ya shitbags.

I friggin' hate geese.

Erin Go Blaaargh

UPDATE:  Sure, you can read my blather below if you want.  But for a TRULY exceptional read (especially if you, like me, are a child of the 70's), check out this listing of one guy's favorite 70's one-hit wonders.)

We actually managed to sneak out for a little date-night on Saturday.  We decided to go see a movie over at the new South Side cinema, which is pretty groovy.  (We saw "The Incredibles," which should be called "The Pretty Goods, But Not Quite As Good As Pixar's Other Stuff -- Story-Wise, Anyway, Although The Computer Animation Has Advanced To The Point That Large Portions Of It Don't Even Look Like Animation Anymore.")

We decided to join the rest of the lemmings at Pittsburgh's new Cheesecake Factory (slogan:  "mediocre chain food that's not really any different from what you'd find at a Applebee's, but more expensive and with a slice of cheesecake at the end"), but upon learning that there was a two-hour wait, we hoofed it across the street to Claddaugh, the "authentic" Irish Pub (if authentic Irish pubs were huge, corporate-run chain outlets that serve buffalo wings and try to pass it off as "erin-go-bragh" sauce.)

And actually, for all its faux-Irish-prefabbery, Claddaugh was pretty good.  They had some decent beers, which I enjoyed. 

The three women across the aisle from us were enjoying a girl's night out, gossiping and cackling about work and hitting on the waiter and his manager.  The manager-guy was coming by frequently, so the ladies appeared to be having some success -- at least up until the point where he tried to get them to put down their Coors Lights and try an Irish brew.

One of the shrieking harpies piped up...

"Is there an Irish beer that's, like, similar to Coors Light?"

At this point the manager just pretty much shook his head and walked away.

Meanwhile, Julie and I started a game -- and we invite you to join in.

• Excuse me -- do you have a French wine that's, like, similar to Boone's Farm?
• Excuse me -- do you have a Russian caviar that's, like, similar to Little Friskies?
• Excuse me -- do you have any Swiss chocolates that are, like, similar to the Clark bar?

Any more?

Monday Night Puritanism

It's amazing to me that this Monday Night Football/Terrell Owens/Tart in a Towel story has the legs it does.  Four days later, and people are still worked up about it.  A woman who spent the last 30 years of her life working to assist poverty-stricken Iraqis just gets rewarded with a bullet in the head, and we're worked up over bare shoulders.  Perspective, people...

Criticize it for being monumentally non-creative and un-funny, if you will.  To me, it's annoying in a "why can't the just let me watch the damn game without using every spare second to cross-promote your other crap" kind of sense.  From what I understand, they had one of their idiot sitcom stars in the booth for about 10 minutes during the game, with all of the guys yucking it up rather than calling the action.

That sort of thing drives me crazy.  I can barely watch a baseball game anymore -- in part because of the general suckitude of the Pirates, but also because of the relentless spinning, whirring, whoosing graphical annoyances. 

But for those of you working yourselves into a lather because they showed a woman in a towel -- get over it.  It really is time to divide this country up into Jesusland and Everybody Else.  Those of you whose immediate reaction to a woman in a towel on your tv screen is to send an email to the offending network -- off to Jesusland with you.  Feel free to dress your women in burqas there, if you want.  The rest of us can stay and enjoy our shlock in peace.

That is all.

Straight Ballin'

It's nice to know that no matter how inept a softball player you are, you can still claw your way up to middle management.  The single worst softplayer I've ever witnessed -- a woman so bad that you had to wonder if she even grasped the concept of the game -- gets some publicity in this week's Dateline P-G.  (It's not the woman featured as the "Profile of the Week, though.)

More about her in a minute.  First let's backtrack a bit.  Earlier this week, I shared some misery from my junior high years.  By high school, I'd managed to ditch those losers and worm my way in with a slightly better class of people.

Band fags.

That's what our school called us, and we more or less took that handle, made it our own and wore it as a badge of honor.  We WERE geeks, but entertaining geeks, I think -- and while we were miscreants and boozers, our shenanigans came nowhere near to the felonious nature of that of my previous pals.

At some point during our senior year, my fellow band fags and I began playing softball after school every day.  Talents ranged from moderately bad to moderately good, and it was fun.  At some point, one of the guys began bringing some fellows from his neighborhood -- for the most part, some very good players.  Very good.  We played mostly every day between my senior year and heading off to college.  (That places this story somewhere in the summer of '81, for those of you keeping score at home.  Also, others may disagree with my chronology -- in my mind, our softball shenanigans date back to the band fags, but perhaps these other guys were already playing elsewhere, and we just kind of mingled the two groups.)

During this time, I was dating my first girlfriend of any seriousness.  She was a pretty good athlete, and sometimes she'd play along.  Unfortunately, though, in addition to being a pretty good athlete, she was also pretty short and relatively slow.  She could hit a ball over the infielders heads on a regular basis, but eventually the guys learned to cheat in on her -- and they started throwing her out at first from the outfield.  Had to hurt.

Nonetheless, our little throng of s-ballers continued to grow.  Most of the band fags dropped out, eventually, but friends of the new bunch joined in until we had a pretty substantial crowd.  Eventually, it got to the point where no matter how good or how bad an athlete you were, chances were that you could join in -- and there'd be people both better and worse than you there.  Being a pretty mediocre athlete myself, that was pretty comforting.

Surprisingly, the softball continued the next summer, when a bunch of us got back from college.  At this point, one of the guys was dating a girl I'll call "Sally."  Offhand, I have three distinct memories of Sally (who was also a friend of my gf.)  In no particular order, they are:

• She shaved her toes
• When she joined me at Penn State a few years later, she developed a habit of coming over to my apartment every afternoon at 3 pm to watch Guiding Light with my roommates and I, and
• A story that I can't share and maintain my self-imposed PG-13 rating, but I will tell you the punchline, which is, "Well, what the hell do you think you just did?"

The last I heard of old Sally, she had dropped out of school, was following the Dead, and owned a goat.  The bet here is that she probably stopped shaving her toes around that time period, as well.

So Sally decided to play softball with us one night, and brought a friend -- the woman I mentioned way back there in the first paragraph.  And she was awful at softball.  Really, really bad, bad enough to make even the worst of our lot look, well, not so bad.

But at some point, she must've managed to get on base, and then to second.  At which point, the next batter hit one into the outfield, and her teammates told her to "go home!  home!"

Now this girl may have been no softball player, but she did have a solid grasp of certain mathematical principles -- in particular, she knew full well that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  Home she went...right over the pitcher's mound.  I'm not sure if this next part is true or not, but in my mind we called her safe and counted the run.

Anyway, the fun & games continued for at least the next two summers, and possibly longer.  Every summer, you'd get the call:   "Softball.  Tonight.  Mount Mercy."  There were too many characters to mention -- Smilin' Mike, the leftie who couldn't hit anywhere but right field to save his life -- Martin, the guy who seemingly took great delight in driving every first pitch about a 90-degree angle from home plate and across the road -- Juan the Torpedo...a guy with the inexplicable nickname of Fozzie, or sometimes Silk...C-Bubba, a guy named after the hiccupping refrain from a Tom-Tom Club song...hell, it was a good bunch, and we had fun.
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Speaking of fun, looks like Mary Worth is advising a neighbor to go after a married man:

This is a radically new approach for the formerly-dowdy old Mary.  Perhaps in the sunset of her life, she's decided that monogamy really ain't all it's cracked up to be.  What's next -- a naked romp in the apartment complex pool with Professor Cameron?  A three-way with Tommy and Smitty Smedlap?  Go for it, Mare, you dirty old broad.

Just for the record, I asked my wife to share her response if she learned that one of my old flames was trying to contact me. 

"Yeah.  I'd have a problem with that."

Barenaked Neil

Back in the day, there were plenty of bands whose cd's I would buy out of habit, within a few days of their release.

Elton John was the first of these.  I actually hopped on the Elton train somewhat late in his superstar years -- Captain Fantastic was the first album I ever bought, and while it's a classic, it was his last work of greatness.  I dutifully bought his next four or five releases, and there were diminishing returns with each. 

I gave up the Elton habit after Blue Moves, which was billed as his move towards a more serious, adult-oriented artist.  There were a few moments on it that I liked as a kid, but most of it just seemed like filler.  I've gone back and listenened since, and while I appreciate a couple of the tracks more now than I did then, there are a couple that I liked then that seem atrocious to me now -- in particular, a wretched piece of business called "Bite Your Lip (Get Up and Dance") which is every bit as bad as you'd expect by the title.  But while I was buying every new Elton album, I also went back and backfilled my collection with the rest of his catalogue, and most if not all of the older stuff is incredible.

During high school, there were any number of bands whose stuff I'd buy without even hearing it first.  The Cars, Van Halen, Genesis, and Neil Young come to mind.  Especially Neil, who we'll get to in a second.

In recent years, I can only think of one band whose music I purchase out of habit -- and that's Barenaked Ladies.  You could, and maybe should, dismiss the Ladies as lightweight fluffery, but I like them.  They're one of the few bands left who actually concern themselves with melody, and I dig Steve Page's vocals and the goofy energy these guys have in concert.

I bring all this up because I think I'm about to divorce the Ladies.  Their last effort, Everything to Everyone, was by far their weakest.  The songs were pretty lame, and the effort didn't seem to be there.  Nonetheless, I went out and picked up their new release, Barenaked for the Holidays, this past weekend.

If you've never heard BNL and Sarah McLaughlin performing "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen," do yourself a large favor and go download it post-haste.  It's sublime -- and there's a moment about 3/4 of the way through, when McLaughlin's voice does this harmonic jump during "halleluia, halleluia" that send shivers down my spine.

I expected the disc to be more of the same, combined with the usual BNL hijinks.  Instead, it's just kind of lifeless.  They try to pass off a couple of casio home-organ push-and-play tracks as actual new music, and a couple of the other efforts that at least seem promising end before they even get going.  (In particular, there's a Celtic-flavored "I Saw Three Ships" early in the disc that comes to an abrupt end about a minute and a half in.) 

Other than the McLaughlin tune, the only other thing of interest is a remake of "Do They Know It's Christmas," which is pretty darn good.  Download those two songs and spare yourself the rest.  (I will say, though, that I haven't listened much to the handful of original songs on the disc -- maybe those will change my opinion of the overall effort.)

Elsewhere on the shelves, I notice that Neil has finally released a Greatest Hits.  You could argue over which tracks should be on a Neil Young's Greatest Hits -- especially since, as far as I know, he's only really ever had one actual "hit" on the pop charts, that being "Heart of Gold."  He's had loads of songs that are staples of classic rock radio, but only that one has made the charts as far as I know.

Still, this is a pretty good place to dive in for the Neil novice -- I guess.  Personally, if somebody asked me where to start with Neil, I'd probably steer them towards Live Rust, which is Neil and Crazy Horse at their peak.  And as much as I love the many faces of Neil, it's Neil with the Horse that's my favorite.  (Another good starting point for Neil is Decade, a three-record retrospective of his 70's output squeezed onto two cd's.)

Anyway, I probably won't be picking up the new Neil Greatest Hits.  I have all of those songs multiple times over, in both live and studio versions.  And besides, I gave up regularly picking up Neil's stuff after "Sleeps With Angels," which got great reviews but which I thought stunk to high heaven on both of the times I listened to it.  I know at least one semi-regular reader of this site is a big Neil fan, and perhaps she'll share whether Silver and Gold, Are You Passionate, Greendale and the rest are worth picking up. 

Livin' Good in the Neighborhood

Now that's the type of weekend we used to have when I was a lad -- Gateway, PSU, Pitt, and them Stillers all winning....

(And yes, I'm well aware that my support of both PSU and Pitt makes me a pariah in both places.  Don't care.  I grew up rooting for both, and loyal to both I remain.  More to PSU than Pitt, but still...)

The pleasant weather and the good (well, at least winning -- I don't think even the most die-hard Paternoite would describe a 4-point win over the Loosiers as "good") football put me in mind of autumn, 1976.  I had just entered junior high, and my first class was way in the back end of the building, back by the band rooms.  Health class, with Mr. Paczek -- a converted gym teacher with massive biceps, and a pretty decent fellow as I recall.  Mr. Paczek began shilling Gateway football tickets, and I bought in.

Now by this time, my friendships with the kids in my neighborhood were strained, at best.  I'd known these kids since I was five years old, and we'd been pretty chummy most of that time -- but by seventh grade, their favorite pasttimes of petty vandalism and cigarette-smoking had advanced to tire-thievery and boozing and pot, and I was gradually becoming the object of ridicule for not going along with the pack on these issues.  I was moderately polite, reasonably intelligent and respectful of other's property in a neighborhood that valued none of these things. 

Nonetheless, when presented with the opportunity to bond over sports with my friends, I jumped in feet-first.  My pals agreed, reluctantly, to allow me to tag along with them to the opener.

What I didn't realize was that they had some pre-game festivities on the agenda.  We met before the game at the house of one of the older kids in the neighborhood -- a kid with older brothers who were widely known to be highly intelligent, and also mostly just high.  My two best friends were there, along with another kid from the neighborhood with whom I had once been friends, up until the time I began to realize that he was a major loon.  I think it may have been his habit of carrying his puppy to the top of his driveway stairs, lifting it over his head, and throwing it down, full force, onto the concrete driveway below.  Over and over again, until his mother would come out and suggest that maybe he should go do something else.

Turnpike Gardens was and is regarded as a nice neighborhood.  Certainly not the nicest in Monroeville, but not the worst, either -- and even the worst in Monroeville isn't (or wasn't, things may have changed) all that bad.  Most of the neighborhood dads were blue collar -- machinists, railroad men, and the like.  In Pittsburgh in 1976, being a union blue-collar worker meant a pretty decent living.  The rest of the neighborhood was filled with low-level engineers for Westinghouse and U.S. Steel.  So we were smack-dab in the middle of the middle class.

It was in this atmosphere that I experienced my first tailgate, Turnpike Gardens-style.  In the middle of the room was an object that, years later, I would be able to identify as a bong.  A gigantic, multi-stemmer, like something out of a Dragnet episode about drug abuse.  I was ushered over to a pinball machine in a corner, and told to play away to my heart's content.  And I did, only looking back once -- to see one of my buddies tying off and jabbing a needle into his arm.

The rest of the evening was a blur -- probably not so much for me as for my friends, but still, I don't remember much.  There were some shenanigans in the woods on what was known as Radio Hill, where I think more substances were ingested.  At one point, I know we walked down the hill to Winky's.  I'm sure there was a game, too, but I don't remember it in light of everything else that was going on.

That was the beginning of the end of my relationship with my neighborhood chums.  I do recall them standing by and cheering as some of the bigger kids in the neighborhood commandeered my bike -- my beautiful, green bike with the green metal-flaked banana seat -- and hauled it to the top of the park maintenance building and tossed it off, smashing it to bits. 

My last adventure with those guys came a few years later, after one of the miscreants had acquired a driver's license.  We went out for a big night on the town, stealing tires and smashing windshields in hotel parking lots, finally topping it off by turfing a lawn in the back of the plan. 

"These are the best years of your life," my parents used to tell me.  And they were.  Fabulous, fabulous years.  I miss them, and Turnpike Gardens, with all my heart.

Gotta get back there real soon.