Tale Of The Tape

In the 1970′s and 80′s, my brother George had a complete weight lifting gym in our basement. When I say complete, I mean all the machines and thousands of pounds of weights. There was even a name for the gym.
Geo’s Gym.

The gym was open to all of our friends who wanted to lift weights. There were approximately 20 members who frequently came over several times per week. Most were just regular lifters, but a few were serious body builders.

One of the members was Phil, a school mate and friend for many years. He wanted to be the next Mr. Universe and started his training with a vengeance. Phil was dedicated and had a complete plan mapped out. He had wall graphs charting his weight gain and also his vital body measurements. Biceps, chest, waist, legs, and about 25 other body measurements.

George took notice of this and also of the tape measure Phil used and the frequency he measured. (Once a week, every Monday) George, being the prankster, had an idea and brought me and Hoover (Geo’s Gym member) into the plan.

On Sunday, George took Phil’s measuring tape and soaked it in hot water for an hour. Then he hung it over one of the pull up bars in the ceiling and tied several weight plates to it which would stretch the tape by about a half inch.

On Monday before Phil would arrive, George placed the tape back where Phil kept it. He and Hoover would then wait for Phil to measure his progress.

Phil began with his biceps and stopped and measured it again. In fact, he measured it three times. He had lost a half inch on his biceps. He then went to each body part measurement checking each several times.

When he was finished charting all the results, George asked how he did. Phil said he couldn’t figure it out but he lost almost a half inch. George played along and asked to borrow Phil’s tape to check his own measurements. He took the tape, flexed his arms and measured his bicep. Lying, He said he gained an 1/8th of an inch from last week. Hoover also said the same.

For about a month, George repeated the routine and Phil couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong. And then George changed directions. Instead of soaking the tape in hot water and hanging weights on it, George would soak the tape in cold water and then toss it in the clothes dryer for 20 minutes creating a shorter tape measure. About a half an inch. George then put the tape back and waited for Phil.

Come Monday, Phil began his measurement ritual. After the first measurement, he got all excited as he noticed a big jump in his bicep. When he was finished he told George that he had a break through in his training and that the results were significant. George continued this sequence for about a month.

George kept this up for more than six months, changing the tape making it shorter or longer on a whim all awhile Phil was oblivious to what was really happening.

Alas, all good gags come to an end. One Monday, Phil brought a new measuring tape and tossed out the old one. After he completed his measurements, Phil knew something was wrong. His chart zigzagged up and down each month and now his measurements were again completely different from last weeks. George decided to inform Phil what was happening and that he was being pranked.

George, Hoover, and myself were laughing hysterically as George explained how he would stretch the tape one week and shorten it the next and how Phil would get mad when the measurements were short and excited when they would get big. Phil took the news pretty good. Of course he had to. George was a beast and it was his gym.

Good times, good times.

R.I.P. Big G.

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The Bug Light God

The year was 1980. A new decade and a new job. I was 20 years old and was one step into a sojourn that would last several years.

As the days got longer and turned into night, we, the warehouse workers, like moths to a flame, would gravitate toward the almighty bug light. Looking for inner peace, solace, wisdom, meaning, and a little relief from the biting bugs that lived and fed in Youngstown.

Since we had to work outside the warehouse as well as inside, the summer months were brutal with swarms of pests buzzing around. Biting flies, mosquitoes, moths, gnats, grasshoppers, locusts, bee’s, wasps, and every other flying insect under the sun would zero in on the only source of flesh and light in the vast farmland that surrounded us.

Every year, right around this time, to combat these bastards, we dragged out the giver of light and reliever of itch from the biblical swarms of insects. Thus the religion of The Eternal Bug Light was formed.

After several years, the bug light became an icon and more importantly, a God to us warehouse workers. If we were in the bug lights good graces, it would have pity on us and bestow its powers shining its light upon us and protect us by killing and keeping the insects away from us. If we were to ever fall out of favor with the almighty bug light, the consequences were so severe that no one talked about them, not even under our breath lest the bug light god hear us.

To keep the god happy, we needed to pay homage. This was in the form of an annual ceremony, a sort of Fry Me A Bug Light festival to appease the god. We would prepare the holy power cord for insertion into the electrical outlet. We would also arrange and then pay homage to the enchanted nail that magically kept the god suspended above us, and of course prepare a feast for the entire cult to consume.

The festival seemed to work as the bug light god kept us safe in the summer evenings as we heard the humming of electricity coursing through its wire mesh screens. Sometimes we would gather round our god and cheer as loud crackling and zapping noises would announce each new bug checking into the bug light hotel.

And not just bugs either. Our bug light god was a little dangerous because unlike normal lights, ours did not have a front or bottom screen guard to keep out larger objects such as a very unlucky bird or the bottom of someone’s head. The light was suspended just under 6 feet in the air, and tall worshippers who lost sight of where they were in conjunction with the light would get rudely introduced to their god. As in the bible, they would carry the mark of the beast for several weeks until the burn marks healed.

Alas, one evening, a large bird entered the radar screen of the bug light god. In an instant, the bird dive bombed into the light and got caught inside. High pitched zapping sounds were heard much like in the classic movie “Frankenstein” when the monster was struck by lightning in an electrical storm.

A huge battle had begun. The bug light flickered and hummed, summoning up all it’s power while the bird began screeching and fluttering it’s wings, till finally, both burst into flames sending the worshippers running. The bug light came crashing to the ground and we watched as the flames engulfed bird and light.

We were free of the bug light god, and a rule was sent forth that no more bug lights could adorn our warehouse wall. We stocked up on “Off” bug repellent and continued to have the festival that quickly turned into our annual lamb roast.

I can still hear and smell the bugs as they sizzled in the screens. Man, that was living….

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No Laughing Matter

The Ultimate Church Gag

The Laugh Box, (Laugh Bag, Laughing Bag) has been around for many years. It is a favorite gag toy. The laugh box was a simple plastic box that when you pressed the laugh button, it would of course start laughing at a loud pitch and volume. The sound it made, a person laughing uncontrollably, was infectious and all around would begin to laugh. Great fun at dinner parties, get togethers, and school cafeteria’s. But not a good idea for Sunday mass.

My brother Jack had a laugh box. He would conceal it in his jacket pocket and turn it on when the time was right. Which was just about all the time for him. I loved it. But, he would rarely let me use it, saying I would break it because I was rough with it. I was 10 years old, of course I was going to be rough with it. Anyway, I would have my revenge one day.

Jack and I would usually go to church each Sunday morning at St. Dominic’s church instead of St. Charles because St. Dom’s was a quicker mass and you could stand in the back. I never quite understood the attraction of standing in the back of the church when there were perfectly good seats all over the church. Maybe Jack thought the priest would have a pop quiz on Catholic religion and call on the people sitting in the pews during mass. Anyway, Jack thought it was cool, and the grown up thing to do, and so did I.

Of course, we arrived a little late for mass, (We averaged about 5 minutes late each week) and took our place against the back wall of the church. I noticed that Jack had the laugh box in his jacket. He always carried it with him supposedly so that I wouldn’t break it, but I cannot confirm that.

Mass went as most masses go. Stand, sit, stand, sit, stand, kneel, procession, communion, kneel, sit, stand, leave. A few readings, a sermon, a few hymns, and a lot of Amens. All that within a 45 minute time frame.

Right around the middle of the mass, the sermon part, where the priest stands on his pulpit and tells us Catholics how bad we are and that we need to give the church more money so they can continue to tell us how bad we are, I exacted my revenge. Leaning in to Jack, I elbowed him slightly in his side, right where the laugh box was. (The beauty of the laugh box is that once it begins, it has to cycle completely through. There is no off switch. If you hit the laugh button again, it merely starts at the beginning again. Once you press the button, there is no turning back.)

Immediately, the laugh box went into action. People began craning their necks looking for where the laughter was coming from. I merely stepped a few feet away from Jack allowing him to bask in all his glory.

The entire church was looking back at Jack. Even the priest stopped talking, (And that is a feat in itself) and stared at my brother. Jack, who was trying to look like it wasn’t him making the noise, looked around like everyone else but no one was buying it. Thirty seconds later. Silence! The laugh box stopped. Jack attempted to make a discreet exit but an usher blocked his path to the street. That was a mistake on the usher’s part. Jack called him an asshole or something like that and left. I followed a few steps behind.

We skipped out on mass early that day. After we got in the car, we started laughing, and continued to all the way home. We didn’t realize it at the time, but Jack and I were banned from attending mass at St. Dominic’s. We were wanted men by the parish. We were marked men. That was so cool.

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Is That A Biker Bar

Sometimes I get bored. And when that happens, usually trouble followed. Back in the early 1980′s there was a popular bar on Glenwood Avenue in Youngstown. Of course there was the Park Inn, but right next to it was a grittier bar called the Crystal Tavern. It was sort of one of my hangouts where wild things occurred almost nightly. There was a fight at least every night, and not just a punch or two thrown, but knock down drag out to the curb type of fights. It was an FN awesome bar.

The Crystal was inhabited by a local biker gang, err, club, and other assorted roughnecks and hard Asses. How the hell I fit in I’ll never know. It was my older brother George’s hangout so I must have been a legacy member. (We need the dues!)

One evening, one gent, after about 1 to many shots, decided to call it a day and headed for the door. Just as he was about to go out, he pulled his gun out and took aim at the stop sign and emptied the gun into the sign. Not bad, he hit the sign four times.

On another occasion I watched my buddy Don down 11 shots of Ron Rico rum 151 before he fell off the bar stool in slow motion.

I won many a games of foos-ball with my buddy Benny, even with missing a goal man on one side.

I saw this one girl named Sue fall off the stool into the jukebox that made it go silent. Apparently it was someone’s favorite song on at the time because a huge fight broke out clearing the entire bar.

I won’t mention the girls and the flashing of the breastestis, but they were there.

Anyway, one night my buddies and I were riding around in my convertible Satellite and I had some flashing thunder candles. (Flashing Thunder is an 8 shot Roman candle firework with a very powerful report) We found ourselves riding down Glenwood Avenue very close to the Crystal Tavern. It was a summer night, the top was down, and I knew the Tavern front door would be open.

As we approached the tavern I slowed the car down, had my buddy light the candle, and I threw it towards the tavern with the intention of it landing outside and scaring the patrons inside. After all, the reports were as loud as gunshots. Well, my aim was true and instead of the Roman candle landing outside, it flew right inside the door into the bar. In seconds the flashing thunder went off.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, I hit the gas and got the hell out of there.

The next night I went to the Crystal and of course the buzz was the crazy MOFO who threw the M-80′s in the bar last night. Apparently, no one was hurt, (Very lucky son of a bitch am I) and it cleared the bar. It’s too bad I wasn’t able to tell everyone it was me that cleared the bar. Until now that is…….

A befitting ending for the Crystal Tavern was bonfire night. Of course the party got out of hand and burned to the ground. R.I.P. Crystal Tavern.

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LURKING, GOOD PIZZA THERE, ON THE GRASSY KNOLL