"Go Ahead, Bang On It."

There are days when I miss vinyl records.

The CD revolution occurred in the mid 1980's; in 1985 "Brother In Arms," by the band Dire Straits, was one of the first pushed in a CD heavy format, leaving the cassette and 33-rpm record to waste away with the 8-Trak. Though CD's are easier to care for, lighter and smaller, and though digital recording creates endless sonic opportunities, there is a warmth to the record that has yet to be replicated. For the life of me, I cannot listen to Pink Floyd's The Wall on CD; the hisses and pops that accompany my turntable copy of the song "Mother" add as much to the listening experience as does an understanding of the lyrics and overall theme of the album.

The first record I bought was "Double Platinum," by KISS. I already owned several KISS albums, but Double Platinum was the first one I actually purchased myself.

I lived in Milwaukee, on Sherman Avenue, with my father. I didn't know why then, and the story varies even to this day on how I ended up there without my mother or sister, but it was the two of us and I was an original latchkey kid. Every morning I would wake and eat a little breakfast while watching Fury and The Little Rascals, then hike my mile to school; every evening I would walk home, let myself in and either watch Voltron or other Japanamation--UHF channels 18 and 24 saved my life from boredom back then. Occasionally I would spend time with the family that lived upstairs, the Koneznies (spelled phonetically, because there ain't no way I'm getting that correct from memory).

Dad and I lived across the street from Sherman Park, 3rd house from the corner of Burleigh Avenue, and the park provided a nice path both to and from school; instead of walking past houses to the corner of a block, I shortcutted it across the open space twice daily. Shrubbery surrounded it back then, but it's gone now. Around the time we left Milwaukee a few years later, the rise in crime created the need for a clean line of sight as robbers and rapists and junkies (oh my!) began hanging out in the hidden areas. Those hidden areas, then, were thusly removed.

But, while I lived there, the bushes existed and they were to me a Godsend on several levels. Though my morning walk to school was an easy one, the trip home was trying. At school, one day when I should have been in 3rd grade but instead was attending a progressive 4th/5th grade mix, I went to the bathroom to relieve my bowels.

I'm not sure anyone likes dropping a deuce in a public place, but I had to had to had to go, so I cautiously entered into the stall, lowered my pants and sat down, embarrassed to be doing something so awful in public. While sitting there, I heard the door open and the footsteps of an entering arrival, which then paused. While I'm no Charles Xavier, there are moments when we are all psychic, and I knew that whoever walked in had seen my little legs dangling below the door and frozen in response. I froze, too, tightening my small sphincter in fear. "He knows I'm in here" raced through my mind, and I felt shamed.

The footsteps started sounding again, only this time more slowly; cautiously, if you will. They were now shuffling, and in no way headed over to the urinals. Perhaps he was looking to use a toilet himself? Indeed they did enter into the stall next to me, but I heard no belt buckle unfasten or zipper lower. What I did hear was a scuffling against the stall wall next to me.

A panic infused me, and I fixed a cold, dead stare on the door ahead of me.

There is a feeling one gets when they know they are being observed; a sixth sense of ours that springs into action when needed. Personal reactions differ, whether it be raised gooseflesh of the skin or a tension tightening muscles, but at that moment, I knew someone was staring at me.

Slowly, I raised my eyes and looked directly up.

Leaning over the wall, staring down at me was a little black head shaped oblongly, not unlike a football. A Stewie Griffith head, if you will, only the oddity of the shape was nose to crown, not ear to ear. Though I now know he was just a kid being a kid, playing "So… what's going on in here?" at the time it traumatized the hell out of me.

I became Paul Finch, a boy only able to use the urinal in a men's room, but nothing else save the for the sink. Back then, it created the problem of what to do mid-day when my young little bowels wanted to release the combination of my breakfast and lunch. I could make it most of the afternoon, but every single day, or close to it, I would hold what I could as long as I could, then on my walk home after school, would have to shit. So every single day, or close to it, I would stop in the shrubbery of Sherman Park and relieve myself. I learned to bring napkins with me, that I not walk home squishy.

Of course it was more than odd, a boy who could not crap in public if enclosed by a locked stall able to do so hidden away in bushes in the wide-open air of the city, but nine-year-olds do what feels right to them. (Sometimes we carry this through to adulthood, which has both its advantages and disadvantages--it's all in the difference of maturity: are you childlike, or childish? One is fun, the other petty.) Regardless, one day, tucked away in those very bushes, I saw a little red change purse. The sparkle of a stale sequin is what caught my eye, so I picked it up, looked inside and found a delight: $50.

An honest child, on a weekend visit, I informed my mom of the find and she reported it to the police. Milwaukee's Finest asked us to bring it in, that they may return it to its rightful owner, but my mom was more savvy than to fall for that old ruse; the rightful owner of a small change purse with no identification inside, turned over to the MPD, would most likely become an afternoon treat of beer and pizza. Mom instead gave her phone number, that anyone who might report the item missing be directed our way to claim their two lost twenties and one lost ten.

Time passed, my mom and sister eventually re-joined the family and we all moved into a house on North 41st street where, after several months of waiting, I was told the purse and all it's belongings, were mine.

I knew exactly what I wanted to buy: a record.

I didn't know which one; I already had a fine little collection building. I owned The Star Wars Soundtrack, where both the opening track and "Cantina Band" had been played to death ("Cantina Band" being my subconscious connection to my father and his Big Band Jazz recordings from mid-century--Woody Herman, Glenn Miller, and the like. And oddly enough, those two men now serve as a mini-arc for my own life, as Woody Herman was a Milwaukee native and Glenn Miller a son of Iowa), "Class Clown" by George Carlin, where I dutifully memorized "Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television," that I may impress my classmates, and The Wizard Of Oz Soundtrack, which is fine for a nine-year-old boy, but were I to have it today… *types firm wristedly*

The thing I loved about The Wizard Of Oz Soundtrack was the skip. The album had bits of dialogue before each song--snippets of each scene from the movie--and my copy had the most perfect chip in its grooves that as it played the intro to "If I Only Had A Heart," the needle would up, jump, and scoot back to the phrase "Go ahead, bang on it."

Like the Little Engine that Couldn't, my needle would not pass that phrase. To the irritation of my parents, I didn't always help it along its intended path. Not that I could listen for hours, but for a good goddamn minute or two, I could sit, enthralled by the perfection of repetition, "Go ahead, bang on it. Go ahead, bang on it. Go ahead…"

(And I was supposedly in the advanced class, go figure)

Repetition isn't a horrible thing; it is said humans need to hear something 7x to remember the message and I'd agree, but add that sometimes they need a ball peen hammer driving home the point--you can warn someone of an impending storm, but it is on them to seek shelter. Digression aside, I loved records, I loved my little turntable and the cheap speakers that went with it. My bedroom was a home inside my home, where I could escape the world outside and isolate myself with music.

So with $50 in hand, my mother, sister and I went to a record store just across from the Capitol Court Shopping Mall--a place I would soon learn to shoplift erotic books thanks to my friends and mentors James and Loy, and that's not a typo; even then I was a nerd. Sure I could have stolen Hustler and/or Penthouse--the first porn I ever saw was the latter, and it was an awkward introduction indeed as they were having a fetish issue, showcasing pregnant women in ways I didn't really want to see them--but no, I was shoplifting sex books and reading them. Not Danielle Steele, type-erotica, I stole Science Fiction sex books, where the hero was always nailing female extraterrestrials with more boobies than their earthly counterparts. I wish to Christ I could remember the name of the series, but I wouldn’t even know how to google it to attempt to re-discover my youthful overtures to sex--and I purchased my very first record, the aforementioned Double Platinum. Many hours of air-guitar and air-drumming would follow.

After the purchase, my mom decided to treat us to Mc Donald's, the closest location simply a few blocks away fringing the Capitol Court parking lot. Though I cannot recall what day of the week or what time of day we were there, I do know it was busy. Not overly so, but neither was the restaurant empty. Three registers were open, and we waited in our line until our turn to order came when a shouting match erupted next to us. Like the parting of the Red Sea, customers, my mom included, suddenly shunned the ordering counter for the back of the store; an angry man had pulled a switchblade out and was screaming at his clerk. My mother gripped her daughter in fear from her (hopefully) now-safe vantage point, then realized she was only holding one young hand. Looking up, my mom discovered that while everyone with half a brain had rushed away from the angry man with the knife, I was standing right next to him, staring up with what my mom describes as a "Wow… cooooool…" look on my face.

(Again: advanced class, that's me)

The man jumped up onto the counter and thrust the knife towards the clerk; not in a stabbing manner, still just a threatening one, more "LOOK, I'VE GOT A KNIFE," than "I'M GONNA CUT YOU," and that's what makes all the difference. I don't remember exactly what happened, I just remember feeling oddly safe. Like the event was occurring outside of me, and I was simply watching an event that didn't pertain to me. Neither do I remember exactly how it all ended, but I'm pretty sure I didn't get my Mc Donald's that day. No matter, I had always preferred the now-disappeared Burger Chef anyway.

The neighborhood had already been "transitional" when we arrived, which is the politically correct way of saying black people were moving in, and white people were moving away. As crime in the area increased, the shrubbery went away, and we probably left around the same time. Dad had yet another "job opportunity," and after the incident in the hamburger joint mom didn't want to live there anymore, so I readied to leave behind yet another batch of friends I'd managed to make.

Appleton, Wisconsin, home of Houdini, would be my next stopping point in life.

.