I transitioned from opinionated film buff to suddenly-not-so-smug “professional” film critic in November 1991, ostensibly because I was 1) semi-reliable at delivering copy on time, and 2) willing to accept my compensation in weed. A regional Midwest music magazine to which I was contributing the odd album, concert, or book review had secured advertising from one of the major theater chains (AMC if memory serves) and needed a regular film column to dress up their new client’s page and hopefully keep an eye on the ads. I readily agreed when they asked, not because of the special remuneration (though it was certainly welcome at the time), but because my band had recently broken up and I had no idea what to do next with my life. 

Spring was always an evocative time for me during my school days. I could walk to school almost every day and enjoy the new warmth. The maple trees would be shedding their maple squirts which some of us kids used to stick between our teeth to make funny insect-like sounds, and girls were easy to notice again since the season of bundling up in warm layers had passed. I remember getting very restless, though, as I had dreams of going on nature jaunts, family trips and whatever other non-school activities I might anticipate. I couldn’t wait for the summer to come.

I remember those sweet, sweaty summer days when I’d grab my board and grease the pavement with my crusted wheels listening to Pharcyde and Tribe, Black Flag and Circle Jerks, feeling free and feeling invincible. I followed a strict schedule: hit up Burger King, fuck around over at my local 7-11, then return home, sopped and stoked from the mid-day melt. And at the end of the day, I’d always, without fail, crash in my basement to watch some classic Bones Brigade flix whilst drowning myself in liters of Mountain Dew, nearly falling asleep from pure exhaustion. To any young punk, it was the closest you could get to absolute bliss living in the ‘burbs. It was a fun, if lonely, time in my life.