Think about the things kids today will never know or experience that was once just a part of life.
Kids today can only look at things like the cold war, glam rock and Crystal Pepsi through the prism of history. They'll never watch in horror as Michael Jackson turned white. They'll never know a world where tobacco commercials were on TV.
This one's for you kids. If you look closely you can actually see testosterone dripping from your screen. Don't worry if your monitor, phone or tablet grow a pair of testicles after watching this video. That's completely normal. Things were more manly back in my day.
But the greatest tragedy of all is the loss of the one thing that bonded us all together. The thing that allowed us to convey our feelings to that special girl or to copy that rad Falco song from the radio.
The Cassette Tape
Even more exciting was the tape that you forgot to label. What could be on there?
What's on here? Only one way to find out. Get the jambox, Jimmy!
Is it the mix tape you made for Tammi? Or is it the mix tape for Chasity? It could be the one you made for Jennifer. Does it matter? You obviously still have it so you didn't have the nuts to give it to anyone. Maybe if you would have watched more Red Man commercials as a child ...
Every teenager in the 80s and early 90s had a room full of cassette tapes. If you were like me you labeled some. A few that I remember were "Outlaws" and "Skynyrd."
I knew exactly what was on some of my unlabeled ones. Bands that a good Baptist boy shouldn't have. It was just prudent to leave these blank and it was also wise to spring for the more expensive blank tapes when getting your copy. After all, you wanted Venom and Danzig coming through in as clear a stereo sound as a reproduction could give you.
Was this Danzig or Venom? Oh no, it's my copy of A Flock of Seagulls.
Thank goodness I found this, I have a date tonight!
The cheap ones were reserved for making those mix tapes filled with wall-to-wall power ballads that expressed your emotions more than words or flowers ever could. They were also handy for copying your favorite Top 40 song from the radio.
Copying songs off the radio proved to be trickier than it may seem. You'd wait and wait. You'd suffer through Whitney Houston, Wham and Ready for the World waiting for Starship's We Built This City.
What? We Built This City is an awesome song. I'll slap anyone across the face with the entrails of a rabid skunk who disagrees.
Then, as the lyrics start, you hit the record button. It's perfect. You got it just as Grace Slick and Mickey Thomas start with "We built this city ..." But when the bridge begins the DJ starts talking over the music.
ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME?
The rage would fill you from head to toe. You couldn't help it. You'd throw your head back and scream. "DAMN YOU DJ! DAMN YOU TO THE PITS OF DJ HELL!"
This seems like appropriate punishment. Throw in some Jay-Z and we're getting somewhere.
A mix tape seems so innocent now. Kids today just take a picture of their crotch and send it to the ones they like. Who knew a ballad by Ozzie Osborne and Lita Ford could seem so innocent?
There's a head biting joke in here, but it seems too easy.
Very few things in this world send a chill down my spine and a put a heavy burden of dread in the pit of my stomach.
In fact, I can only think of a few things off the top of my head: Thinking about my first job; Doctor's appointments for my kids; Ever being called for jury duty.
But the one thing that trumps them all and sends a shiver of fear down my spine can be summed up in two words: Church Camp.
Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with the concept of church camp. I can even see where it would be fun if you and your best friend were there together and you went VOLUNTARILY!
There's my rub. I never had a choice in the matter. I was always forced to go to church camp. I hated church camp. My mom was always a counselor and dragged me with her.
Let me paint a verbal picture for you. My first taste of church camp was at a camp outside Huntington, WV, near the Ohio River. The camp "cabins" were essentially barracks. The buildings were simple, cinder block structures with metal and wire bunk beds with mattresses that smelled of mold.
Yeah. Something like this.
It was always hot.The last week in July is a particularly special brand of hot in West Virginia. The humidity clings to you like cling wrap and you're always sweating, even when you're taking showers with cold water. It was like Satan was trying to broil the juicy sin deep in our souls with the heat before he ate us. Or it could have been God giving us a taste of what Hell would be like. Either way, count me in as not being a fan of what Hell has to offer.
Adding to my misery was the fact I was going during those awkward tween and teen years. I was awkward. I mean seriously awkward. I was fat with huge, industrial-grade glasses and a face and back riddled with acne. It's a shame to think that the only thing that's really changed in that description of me is that today my glasses are a little more fashionable.
There are far too many church camp stories to illustrate how awful I felt it was. Studies show you don't have the attention span to read them all. In fact, many of you quit reading a paragraph ago.
But I digress. Back to the horror stories.
There's the time I fell off the back of a moving car. The time I learned I was going to hell for listening to the country music band Alabama. The time the girls opened the doors to the boys shower and I was the only one in there. It was the first time I was brave enough to shower without wearing my swimming trunks. They saw it all. All of it.
It probably looked something like this. Yes, the rubber ducks were there. Don't judge me.
Those were just a few in the virtual torrent of awful memories that flood back to me when I think about church camp. But one stands out as both funny and sad. Even more sad than the shower incident.
The final night of church camp was always the night of a bonfire, s'mores, songs, staying up all night and much crying. I never understood the crying. Was it the collective sigh of relief that we all had survived another year of camp? Who knows.
One year on the final night it was the normal order of things until a rumor spread to the counselors that a resident of a nearby home for the mentally disturbed had escaped. Seriously. I know it sounds like the opening to a bad horror movie, but it's true. So they gathered the boys in the chapel while the girls went to their "cabins."
A couple of the older boys in camp decided they were going to sneak in the woods to the girls cabins and perform that age-old camp tradition. The panty raid.
Somehow in the execution of this raid one of the boys got lost in the woods. Naturally, with the alleged ax-wielding mental patient on the loose, everyone suspected the worst. The older men took to the woods in search of Steve.
As the search went on the counselors took a head count. There was another one missing! Could two have fallen to the blade of the murderer in the woods?
Everyone in the camp was praying for the safe return of the camper lost in the woods. Now there were two! One of the counselors quickly ran to my mom's cabin and told the girls, who were in a prayer circle, that another camper had gone missing. Then the counselor dramatically looked at my mom and said "It's Scott Parsons."
I'm
not mentioning the name of the counselor that dropped that bombshell
on my mom. But this particular human being is known for their
gossiping abilities, saying awful opinions at inappropriate times and
the inability to simply shut up. (Wow. That paragraph got a little
personal didn't it?)
One of the men counselors who hadn't gone on the hunt for Steve in the woods decided to check the "cabin" to see if we might be there. Guess what he found? Me sleeping and minding my own business.
Steve was later found in the woods. He was hiding because he thought he was in trouble. He was right.
I remember the flashlights being shone in my eyes and getting a good lecture about leaving the group. Then I was dragged back to the chapel for the all-night festivities where there was much hugging and crying. Mom laughed about it. Others weren't so happy. But the good news is I was forgiven for scaring everyone at camp.
If only ...
Church camp has its place in the world. If you and your child enjoy it, that's great. But my kids won't be forced to attend church camp. If they want to go I will support them and help them anyway I can. But I won't make them go. After all, one person's fun is another's horrible, horrible week at camp.
Barely and with only moderate psychological damage.
That was the last time I sat in front of a Blogger screen and updated this blog. That's a long time. I know nobody missed my musings. After all, blogs are like buttholes nowadays.
A lot has happened in that time. My second child was born in October of that year. Levi Scott is his name and he's an absolute delight to be with. Even if he fancies his big sister Claire's hair bows and princess crowns and walks in a very sassy manner.
I was working to fix all the damage done from a year of unemployment in 2009 to 2010. I was bringing home a fraction of what I was making at my previous job, but our little family was barely making it with the help of my parents.
If you don't know me, I'm a journalist. Not one of those pretentious, shove my beliefs down your throat journalists, but a damn fine one if I say so myself. I also have a truck load of awards to back up that bravado. Those awards and $1.25 will get you a bottle of Pepsi from a vending machine.
As I have gotten older and matured in my craft I drifted more away from the writing aspect of journalism and focused more on content, design and editing. I am really talented in Photoshop and making nice, eye-catching designs. I received a lot of kudos from my bosses and the writers for making their stories "pop" off the front page of the small daily newspaper in which I was working.
Then came April 19, 2013.
The Editor (my boss) texted me during the day asking if I could come in an hour early that evening for my shift. I did. I clocked in at 4:01 p.m. It's weird to think I remember the exact time I clocked in, but I'm a weird guy.
I went about business as usual to start my day. I put my night's dinner in the freezer in the break room and then went to my desk where I started my computer. The background image of both Levi and Claire popped up on the screen of the MAC Mini I'd been designing pages on for the past three years. I started the programs I would need to complete my night's work. The only thing strange was that one of my coworkers wasn't at her desk. I thought this was the reason I was called in to work early because my work load would increase in her absence.
The editor came by my desk "Hey Scott. Let's run down to (the publisher's office) real quick."
"Am I in trouble," I asked.
"(The publisher) wants to see you," was the reply I got.
My inner voice told me I was screwed. Just how hard I didn't know yet.
"Hey, Scott. Grab a seat." The publisher said as he sat with two small stacks of paper in front of him. I saw my name at the top of the business-style letter. I was being let go.
I don't remember anything he said other than "we've had some hard financial times and we've had to cut some money from out division's bottom line." Nearly $3 million to be exact.
Everyone was worried about cutting $3M. But with so many weeklies and the latest trend in newspapers being regional copydesks, our small department of one salaried full time employee, two hourly full timers, a part timer and one who split time between writing and editing, we figured we'd be safe. I figured I'd be safe.
I WAS WRONG
The American Heavy Metal Band Lamb of God released a song last year called Ghost Walking. I know some music is open to interpretation so when I was cleaning out my desk and fighting back tears I heard this song playing in my head. Check out the video and I'll tell you how it describes the state of journalism.
The main character, well, that's me. I'm walking alone in a dangerous world trying to salvage what's left of a cause. In my case, print journalism.
There are others like me, but they've been cut and left for dead. That's the dead man with the can of spray paint.
The masked men with rifles watching my every move and eventually attacking me are traditionally-trained journalists in the blogosphere, TV journalists and bloggers in general. They'll destroy and steal your work. Given the chance, they'll metaphorically kill you and they're trying to destroy print media. Sometime the traditional journalist will strike a blow for the old way. But as the video implies, it's all for nothing.
The swirling red clouds and beam coming from the sky are the corporate giants who own media. They are destroying the last holdouts of unbiased, just the facts, journalism and journalists.
I'm left alone on a desolate plain. Bleeding out from a gut shot to my soul and what I took pride in doing. Two layoffs in four years is a bitter pill. All that's left is to lay down in the sand and die.
Journalism as I knew it, and how trailblazers like Edward R. Murrow, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein built it up to be, is dead.
