Brian Rankin was old for a 12 year old. He had connections like no one's business: he was the hookup for cigarettes, booze and most importantly, porn. The year was 1985 and porn was one of the hardest things to come by. Before wack-off stations like Cinemax was on cable, before even a haphazardly crafted a internet search could yield millions of naked breasts, before scantily (and barely) clad women were delivered directly to your email account daily, porn was a commodity - a veritable currency used by adolescents all over the world, traded and sold for anything from baseball cards to bullets to a week's worth of homework. Entire platoons of boys were formed and deployed to scour the stomping grounds of perverts nearly every weekend, turning over piles of leaves in abandoned lots, rummaging through trash cans in public parks and searching shacks and shanties in the poor side of town for porn magazines. Today’s kids don't know how lucky they have it. I have had to give away so much of my dads blank audio cassettes, his tools, his AA batteries, his bullets - the currency of '80's era adolescents - just for a short glimpse at Miss November. That gaze lasted me several nights.
So, naturally, you can see how important it was to have a friend like Brian Ranking. Because of his cigarette, booze and porn hookups, Brian was surrounded with servile sycophants that fawned over this every move - the most unashamed one being Michael Sargent. This kid was only good for swiping his mom's Virgina Slims (or, Vagina Slimes as we called them) and passing them out in the schoolyard. We had been caught smoking several times and had the packs taken away and because of that, high school was something we all looked forward to. It was filled with metal-head and stoners and every corner of the school grounds had a sanctioned smoking section. No matter how many packs of cigarettes were confiscated, Michael came through again and again, week after week. He was tolerated because he knew his role and complied. We all knew our roles and complied.
Michael’s parents went out of town and for some strange reason, he was left alone in the house. Natch, we jumped on that deal, weaving detailed and meticulous lies about Michael's parent-sponsored "Slumber Party" while Brian's oafish older brother Keith impersonated Michael's dad for those adults that wished to discuss the weekend’s activities on the phone. It's a miracle that this plan actually came together because it truly was a house of cards; Keith was 17, so to us 12 year olds, he sounded like an adult but any parent with any sense and a little bit of digging would be able to unearth our whole scheme. But, thankfully, that never happened.
The next part of my story will undoubtedly be the hardest for my younger readers to fathom. My older readers will woefully remember these dark, gloomy days long since past and thank their lucky stars for DVD's and computers and other gifts of miracles bestowed upon us in the mid-90's by their Creator. Mark my words, children, you will rue the day that you actually have to work for something rather than have it all handed to you on a silver fucking platter.
Carson Smythe, another member of the crew, was particularly adept at theft and smuggling. Carson's dad had a friend who was a millionaire and owed boats, cars, houses and what seemed like the largest collection of pornography on Super-8 film in the world. Or at least that's the way Carson described it. The last time Carson was at the millionaire’s house, he snuck into the bedroom and ripped off three reels of film. Of course, we held the film up to the light, but could hardly make out anything. There's only one person we knew of that had a Super-8 film projector: my dad. The meanest dude on the block, and half of my friend were banned-for-life from my house for the slightest of infractions. The proverbial baseball had been hit into the junkyard guarded by the old junkyard dog, and I had to climb the fence. But, even as a child, I knew that fortune favored the brave and this was not the time to be meek. In the middle of the night a few days prior to the party, I grabbed my dad's projector and carried it to Rankin's house. I snuck back into the house undetected. If my thievery was discovered, I would wake up dead. It never was, and the projector was returned a week later and my dad was none the wiser.
Saturday rolled around and it was time. Friends from all over came to Michael's house. For many of us, it was the first time we had been away from our parent’s supervision. Most kids had some type of contraband to contribute. I had the film projector. One kid brought a pretty big bottle of whiskey. Brian Bein brought his dad's handgun. Of course, Carson had the reels of porn. Other contributions were less outrageous, but important to the evening nonetheless: cigarettes, Cheetos, heavy metal cassettes, candy and fireworks. But, the core group that brought the booze and porn were instant champions. Cowards turned into heroes overnight. Pure admiration by your peers is a rare and intoxicating thing. We were only ten minutes into our evening and I was already planning my next shenanigan. I had to keep my rank and reputation safe in the group. A white sheet was hung on the wall and the porn began to play, in silence. My dad’s projector performed magnificently. If he only knew the filth and perversion it was participating in... Since the films didn't have sound, Thin Lizzy and Iron Maiden was piped in from Keith's room.
Pretty soon, the whiskey was opened up and the bottle was handed straight to me. Everyone seemed hesitant to take a drink. I wanted so bad to stay the hero for the night that I grabbed the bottle, held my breath and took the biggest swig of whiskey I possibly could, swallowed it down and let out a bellowing laugh and shouted, "Damn that's some fine drink!" That was something I had seen my uncle do every holiday. My insides were on fire and my face grimaced with pain, but undeterred, I took another swig and passed the bottle on. Porn continued to play while the Thin Lizzy was turned up louder. Out of nowhere, Michael stood up and walked over to Brian (the kid with the gun), and punched him in the face. Brian's hands went over the head as he looked up. Michael was smiling and motioning for him to get up and fight. Brian got up and jabbed him in the gut, followed by an uppercut to the chin. After a few exchanges, they collapsed on the floor, bloodied and laughing. We each took turns fighting each other until we were soaked in sweat and dripping blood everywhere. It was a booze, nicotine and violence filled rite of passage.
For several millennia, men proved themselves with physical feats of strength as a part of tradition in a rite of coming of age. Modern boys are denied and robbed of this because the typical things that turned boys into men have been replaced with an obsession of the accumulation of wealth. The measure of a man has change in fifty years. We no longer have to be fit nor brave. Anything that is difficult or could potentially cause any type of physical or emotional harm to children is frowned upon; around the age of 13, boys spend the next 20 years getting in touch with their feminine side. Kids today can’t even play dodge ball at school because some might get their feelings hurt. My brothers and friends and I played dodge ball every week, but with rocks and BB guns. That night back in 1985 certainly wasn't the last time I felt like a man, but it was the first, and the most poignant. I've been trying to recapture that feeling ever since.
And you're probably wondering what happened to Brian Bein and his handgun. Ah, you think everything's that easy? You’ll have to keep reading to find out about that one.
So, naturally, you can see how important it was to have a friend like Brian Ranking. Because of his cigarette, booze and porn hookups, Brian was surrounded with servile sycophants that fawned over this every move - the most unashamed one being Michael Sargent. This kid was only good for swiping his mom's Virgina Slims (or, Vagina Slimes as we called them) and passing them out in the schoolyard. We had been caught smoking several times and had the packs taken away and because of that, high school was something we all looked forward to. It was filled with metal-head and stoners and every corner of the school grounds had a sanctioned smoking section. No matter how many packs of cigarettes were confiscated, Michael came through again and again, week after week. He was tolerated because he knew his role and complied. We all knew our roles and complied.
Michael’s parents went out of town and for some strange reason, he was left alone in the house. Natch, we jumped on that deal, weaving detailed and meticulous lies about Michael's parent-sponsored "Slumber Party" while Brian's oafish older brother Keith impersonated Michael's dad for those adults that wished to discuss the weekend’s activities on the phone. It's a miracle that this plan actually came together because it truly was a house of cards; Keith was 17, so to us 12 year olds, he sounded like an adult but any parent with any sense and a little bit of digging would be able to unearth our whole scheme. But, thankfully, that never happened.
The next part of my story will undoubtedly be the hardest for my younger readers to fathom. My older readers will woefully remember these dark, gloomy days long since past and thank their lucky stars for DVD's and computers and other gifts of miracles bestowed upon us in the mid-90's by their Creator. Mark my words, children, you will rue the day that you actually have to work for something rather than have it all handed to you on a silver fucking platter.
Carson Smythe, another member of the crew, was particularly adept at theft and smuggling. Carson's dad had a friend who was a millionaire and owed boats, cars, houses and what seemed like the largest collection of pornography on Super-8 film in the world. Or at least that's the way Carson described it. The last time Carson was at the millionaire’s house, he snuck into the bedroom and ripped off three reels of film. Of course, we held the film up to the light, but could hardly make out anything. There's only one person we knew of that had a Super-8 film projector: my dad. The meanest dude on the block, and half of my friend were banned-for-life from my house for the slightest of infractions. The proverbial baseball had been hit into the junkyard guarded by the old junkyard dog, and I had to climb the fence. But, even as a child, I knew that fortune favored the brave and this was not the time to be meek. In the middle of the night a few days prior to the party, I grabbed my dad's projector and carried it to Rankin's house. I snuck back into the house undetected. If my thievery was discovered, I would wake up dead. It never was, and the projector was returned a week later and my dad was none the wiser.
Saturday rolled around and it was time. Friends from all over came to Michael's house. For many of us, it was the first time we had been away from our parent’s supervision. Most kids had some type of contraband to contribute. I had the film projector. One kid brought a pretty big bottle of whiskey. Brian Bein brought his dad's handgun. Of course, Carson had the reels of porn. Other contributions were less outrageous, but important to the evening nonetheless: cigarettes, Cheetos, heavy metal cassettes, candy and fireworks. But, the core group that brought the booze and porn were instant champions. Cowards turned into heroes overnight. Pure admiration by your peers is a rare and intoxicating thing. We were only ten minutes into our evening and I was already planning my next shenanigan. I had to keep my rank and reputation safe in the group. A white sheet was hung on the wall and the porn began to play, in silence. My dad’s projector performed magnificently. If he only knew the filth and perversion it was participating in... Since the films didn't have sound, Thin Lizzy and Iron Maiden was piped in from Keith's room.
Pretty soon, the whiskey was opened up and the bottle was handed straight to me. Everyone seemed hesitant to take a drink. I wanted so bad to stay the hero for the night that I grabbed the bottle, held my breath and took the biggest swig of whiskey I possibly could, swallowed it down and let out a bellowing laugh and shouted, "Damn that's some fine drink!" That was something I had seen my uncle do every holiday. My insides were on fire and my face grimaced with pain, but undeterred, I took another swig and passed the bottle on. Porn continued to play while the Thin Lizzy was turned up louder. Out of nowhere, Michael stood up and walked over to Brian (the kid with the gun), and punched him in the face. Brian's hands went over the head as he looked up. Michael was smiling and motioning for him to get up and fight. Brian got up and jabbed him in the gut, followed by an uppercut to the chin. After a few exchanges, they collapsed on the floor, bloodied and laughing. We each took turns fighting each other until we were soaked in sweat and dripping blood everywhere. It was a booze, nicotine and violence filled rite of passage.
For several millennia, men proved themselves with physical feats of strength as a part of tradition in a rite of coming of age. Modern boys are denied and robbed of this because the typical things that turned boys into men have been replaced with an obsession of the accumulation of wealth. The measure of a man has change in fifty years. We no longer have to be fit nor brave. Anything that is difficult or could potentially cause any type of physical or emotional harm to children is frowned upon; around the age of 13, boys spend the next 20 years getting in touch with their feminine side. Kids today can’t even play dodge ball at school because some might get their feelings hurt. My brothers and friends and I played dodge ball every week, but with rocks and BB guns. That night back in 1985 certainly wasn't the last time I felt like a man, but it was the first, and the most poignant. I've been trying to recapture that feeling ever since.
And you're probably wondering what happened to Brian Bein and his handgun. Ah, you think everything's that easy? You’ll have to keep reading to find out about that one.
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