When I was in junior high in 1981, everyone was talking about Ozzy Osbourne.
We were too young to remember when Ozzy was the lead singer for Black Sabbath (the band that finally fired him in 1979). But we all liked Blizzard of Ozz, and Diary of a Madman, the two solo albums of his that were then available.
Back then, we bought them in vinyl, or maybe cassette. There were no lame streaming platforms in 1981. In 1981, Taylor Swift would not even be born for another eight years. It was a grand time, indeed.
There were concerns about some aspects of Ozzy’s persona. His music, like that of Black Sabbath, had a quasi-occult vibe. That was typical for heavy metal music of the 1980s. On at least one occasion, Ozzy had bitten off the head of a (already deceased) dove. That was not so typical, even for heavy metal artists.
I still like Ozzy’s music. But as is so often the case with still-thriving Boomer artists whom I discovered in my tender years (like Stephen King, for example), I have a strong preference for the early portion of Ozzy’s oeuvre. And even that is something I have to be in the right mood for.
I never tire, however, of my interest in Ozzy the individual. A few years ago, I watched several of Ozzy’s reality show series with my dad. I could never get my dad to listen to Ozzy’s music back in the 1980s; but he liked Ozzy the reality show star.
Now 76 and beset by health issues, Ozzy is closing out his long career. This weekend marked his final solo performance. Not bad, for a man whose first stage performances date back to the late 1960s.
I was driving through my neighborhood the other day when I saw…a group of kids riding their bikes.
No, seriously. Kids. Riding. Bikes. There were no electronic devices involved. No one was checking Instagram. There were no hovering, fretful parents, either.
For a moment I thought I had strayed into a time slip, and wandered back into the 1970s or 1980s, when the “free range” childhood was the norm. During the summer months, I used to take off at 8 o’clock in the morning—maybe come back for lunch—and disappear again until dinnertime. The bicycle was the cornerstone of that style of summering.
But that simply isn’t done anymore! Someone might get hurt! And think about all the screen time that the kids are missing.
I had to be back in 1978 or 1982! Time travel is real, I told myself.
Then I noticed that the kids were all wearing helmets, as if they were commandos assaulting the Taliban headquarters in Afghanistan. A concession to the hyper-vigilant, ever-nervous present. No—I was still in 2025! Whew! That was a close one!
Me, with bike, summer of ’78. The older adults in the photo are my grandparents, members of the WWII generation, who grew up during the Great Depression.
Nevertheless, this was reassuring to see. For years now, childhood has become increasingly screen-based and indoors. This trend accelerated during the pandemic.
The result is a young generation that is more disturbed than ever—even more than my grandparents’ generation was; and they came of age during the Great Depression—when there was actually a lot to worry about.
According to one recent study, 30 percent of adolescents today are affected by anxiety disorders. Some pundits blame social media. I don’t disagree with that analysis. I’m 56 years old, and an hour on Facebook or TikTok gives me anxiety, too.
I will interpret the kids on bikes as a positive sign, then. Perhaps there is a collective realization that the kind of childhood enjoyed by Generation X and the Baby Boom generation was much healthier—even if we didn’t wear bike helmets.
Now let’s turn our attention to something really important: the future of the rock band AC/DC.
I’ve been a fan of AC/DC since the early 1980s, when Back in Black was the latest thing. AC/DC isn’t my favorite band. (That honor goes to Rush.) But AC/DC is definitely among my top ten.
The members of AC/DC, just like the rest of us, are getting older. Angus Young, the group’s iconic guitarist, is now 70. Lead vocalist Brian Johnson is now 77.
No, it isn’t 1981 anymore. (And oh, how I wish that it were, for any number of reasons.) But AC/DC still gives a pretty solid live performance, by my estimation.
I took guitar lessons for a while in the early 1980s. But only for about a year.
I did not have a knack for music. I lack the sense of timing that is inherent in all great musicians. Writing comes naturally to me. Practicing the guitar was always a chore. I wanted the result, but I did not enjoy the process.
Forty years later, I can still manage most of the basic chords. But where music is concerned, I am content to remain in the audience.
Nevertheless, music is an art form that I appreciate. But I appreciate it selectively. There is music I love (most of it 1980s rock) and music that I will simply never enjoy. I acknowledge Taylor Swift’s commercial success. Her music is not my cup of tea.
But I’m a 50-something male, and we all hate Taylor Swift. Right? Well, maybe, but that’s an oversimplification. Even in the 1980s, there was popular music I never developed an appreciation for: A Flock of Seagulls, Prince, Bruce Springsteen, most of Michael Jackson’s catalog.
On the other hand, I loved Rush, Foreigner, Triumph, Def Leppard, Bryan Adams, Journey.
I think that’s normal, where music is concerned. We all have preferences. No one, I’ve found, is neutral about music. No one likes all of it.
Which makes the public soundtrack all the more annoying. Whenever one enters a restaurant, retail establishment, or waiting room, one is immediately assaulted with random music, piped in from overhead speakers. They play music at my gym, even though most members wear headphones.
Another problem with music in public places is that it is usually played too loud. I won’t get technical here, and speak of decibels. If when addressing my lunch or dinner companion, I have to raise my voice to be heard over the music, then the music is too loud.
Almost as annoying is the street guitarist, tambourine player, or vocalist. I admire the chutzpah of those who publicize their art this way. But I quicken my pace whenever I pass by a street musician. Similarly, I would not stand on the sidewalk and read from one of my novels, stories, or essays.
I want to consume my music selectively: the music I choose, at a time and a place of my choosing. I don’t want a restaurant, fitness club, or a grocery store to tell me that listening to the music of their choice, at the volume of their choice, is the price of admission to their place of business. This is especially true when I find their preferences actively annoying.
As a long-ago failed musician, I understand how difficult it is to become a real, skilled practitioner of that craft. How many hours of practice is required to perform music at even a journeyman level.
All the more reason not to cheapen music, by turning it into aural wallpaper.
In the fall of 1984, I was a junior in high school. I had a passion for the novels and short stories of Stephen King.
My high school English teacher, not so much. He was a devotee of two twentieth-century writers: Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. So I read a lot of Hemingway and a lot of Fitzgerald that year.
I was 16 years old, and really two young for either writer. Hemingway and Fitzgerald wrote about adult concerns, and concerns of what was already a long-ago, bygone era. As a teenager of the Reagan-era American suburbs, I had little interest in the social conventions of the Jazz Age, or the moody ramblings of World War I veterans.
As an adult, I’ve developed a new appreciation for both writers.
I’ve recently begun digging into The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald: A New Collection. This collection, edited by Matthew J. Bruccoli, contains all the Fitzgerald short stories I remember as a junior in high school: “Winter Dreams”,“A Diamond As Big As the Ritz”, “Babylon Revisited,” etc.—as well as many that my high school English teacher never assigned.
Fitzgerald wrote his short stories long. Not all of them can be read in a single sitting. Many of his short stories resemble compressed novels more than typical short stories, as they deal with events stretching out over many years, even decades.
Fitzgerald’s writing style is accessible to modern readers, but his subject matter is a hundred years removed from our time. It takes some effort to put oneself in the mindset of an adult living in 1925. (I am soon to turn 57 years old, and that is the era of my great-grandparents. The one great-grandparent I knew was born in 1895, one year before Fitzgerald.)
Still, there are some universal themes in Fitzgerald’s fiction. One of my favorite stories is the aforementioned “Winter Dreams”. This is the tale of a man who, between adolescence and early middle age, mistakenly projects all of his ideals onto a woman with whom he has a fleeting romantic relationship.
1922 magazine illustration for “Winter Dreams”
“Winter Dreams” is basically a story about the pedastalization of femininity. The theme is as relevant in 2025 as it was in 1922, when Fitzgerald wrote the story.
(Note: When I first read “Winter Dreams” in 1984, I “got” what Fitzgerald was trying to say. Some years would pass before I learned the real-life lesson.)
You might be hesitant to dive into a book of century-old stories. I would encourage you, though, to give Fitzgerald a try. Many of his tales, like The Great Gatsby and “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”, have been adapted for film in the modern era.
There is a reason why Fitzgerald endures, when so many other writers have fallen by the wayside. Fitzgerald was a skilled and insightful storyteller.
This was the scene in my part of the world last night. (The photos below were taken about 5 miles from my house.) Storms moved through the area, with high wind and hail.
Tree fell on this home in Newtown on Church Street! Spoke with the home owner and fortunately nobody was injured! @WLWTpic.twitter.com/AykH3PstXa
My electricity remains on for the time being (fingers crossed). This morning, however, I did drive by a utility pole that had been snapped in half, presumably from last night’s wind. That was less than a mile from my house. Hopefully the electricity stays on.
Never a dull moment in the badlands of Clermont County, Ohio.
Whenever I go to Japan, a book haul is always near the top of my to-do list. Japanese-language books are not impossible to acquire in the United States; but it’s seldom as convenient as placing an order on Amazon.
This title would loosely translate as History of the Showa Era that Citizens Don’t Know.
As the cover image suggests, there are numerous chapters about the Japanese Imperial Navy and World War II.
One of the many rewards of learning a foreign language well is that your potential reading list will be vastly expanded. Some of my favorite books are Japanese-language titles.
During the 1970s and throughout most of the 1980s, it was common to see full-page cigarette ads in glossy magazines. Advertisements for cancer sticks had already been banned from television, but print ads were still legal, and considered fair game.
Camel ad, circa 1978 to 1983
Much has been said about the “Marlboro Man” over the years. But the Camel Dude (shown above) got a lot more female attention. I remember seeing variations of the above ad in a number of magazines that ended up in my hands during the late 1970s and early 1980s, including Field & Stream, which I read with some regularity.
We can assume that the Camel Dude got lucky on the day presented in the above ad. But one wonders: is he still alive? Perhaps not, with that smoking habit of his.
I was a pre-adolescent and adolescent in those days; and I may have been slightly influenced by the marketing message. A “great-tasting blend of Turkish and domestic tobaccos”, and hot women on the beach? Count me in, said the adolescent version of me.
Speaking of which: I haven’t smoked cigarettes at all as an adult; but I did smoke them on occasion when I was 12 to 13 years old. Another thing about the 1970s/80s: cigarette vending machines were everywhere, and underage people had no difficulty accessing them.
I certainly tried Camels. The hot blonde, as I recall, was not included.
I am a resident of Cincinnati, Ohio, and a frequent visitor to Indiana. My father grew up in Indiana. I have many childhood memories of family holiday gatherings in Lawrenceburg and nearby rural Switzerland County.
I have always considered myself an “honorary” Hoosier (the nickname of a person from Indiana), because of my familial ties, and also because of my affection for the state.
Family reunion in Switzerland County, Indiana, 1987.
But there are famous Hoosiers, too.John Cougar Mellencamp was born in 1951 in Seymour, Indiana, and he grew up there. Mellencamp, now in his seventies, is a proud son of Indiana. He has long incorporated small-town Indiana into his musical brand.
Mellencamp was one of the most popular solo artists of my teenage years. He was also a frequent presence on MTV. (This was back when MTV actually played music videos, as every Gen Xer will remind you.)
Many of Mellencamp’s songs and MTV videos incorporated small-town themes. Whenever possible, he inserted an Indiana-related Easter egg or two. I have become aware of some of these only decades later.
Consider, for example, the MTV video for “Hurts So Good”. This song hit number 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1982. In the summer and fall of that year, it was hard to turn on FM radio without hearing “Hurts So Good” within the hour.
The “Hurts So Good” MTV video was also popular on MTV. Little did I know, back then, that this video was filmed in the small town of Medora, Indiana. Medora is close to Seymour, where John Cougar Mellencamp grew up, and about ninety minutes from Lawrenceburg, where my father grew up.
The lesson here, for me, is that great art—and great artists—can come from anywhere. John Cougar Mellencamp would not have been the songwriter and musician he became, had he spent his formative years in Los Angeles or New York.
Many people grow up in small town or rural environments and do not find art, of course. But it is a mistake to assume that every denizen of LA is working on a screenplay, or that every NYC resident is an aspiring novelist.
I was in a minor accident in January. As a result, my Toyota Venza spent a week in the body shop for repairs. During that time, I drove a rental vehicle, as provided for under the terms of my insurance policy.
When I arrived at the Enterprise office, I was given two choices: a Chevrolet Equinox or a Jeep Wrangler. I had to make an on-the-spot decision.
Without any hesitation, I opted for the Jeep. The Equinox, I knew, would be another hyper-computerized, overly engineered vehicle marketed at suburbanites. Boring! But the Jeep Wrangler would be, for me, a novel driving experience. I had never driven a Jeep before, nor even ridden in one.
The novelty got to me. Driving a Jeep is a fun exercise in driving. And I do mean exercise. When you drive one of the basic Jeep models, you feel every bump in the road. Steering the Wrangler reminded me of steering my grandfather’s 1975 Ford pickup truck, back in the day.
But hey, it was an adventure. For a few days, I imagined myself as a Jeep owner.
Then I learned about this Jeep ducking thing. When I was first told about it, I thought that my interlocutor was pulling my leg.
Then I started paying attention: I began to notice Jeeps with little rubber ducks mounted on their dashboards. They were everywhere.
If you’re unaware of the trend, look around a parking lot sometime: you’ll see that at least half of all Jeeps have dashboards adorned with rubber ducks.
Apparently, Jeep owners leave ducks on each others’ vehicles as a way of expressing their esprit de corps. And when a fellow Jeep owner gifts you a duck, you’re supposed to mount it on your dashboard.
Jeep ducking is just a bit too cutesy for my tastes. But it’s harmless; and if Jeep owners enjoy doing this, why not?
Nevertheless, I’m glad that there is no similar custom of placing bath toys on Toyotas. No way I would drive around with rubber ducks mounted on the dashboard of my Venza.
In early April of 1974, I was but a wee lad in kindergarten. My dad worked in sales. My mother and I sometimes accompanied him on business trips.
And so it was that on April 3, 1974, my father, my mother, and I traveled to Louisville, Kentucky—just in time for that city’s historic 1974 F4 tornado, which was part of the equally historic “super outbreak” of that year.
Why was it called a “super outbreak”? Between April 3 and 4, at least 149 tornados were documented across 13 states. Over three hundred people lost their lives. It was a big news story, for anyone alive and sentient then.
My parents and I were staying in a one-story motel not far from the Louisville F4 tornado when it hit. I was not yet six years old, and so I had only the vaguest idea that something bad was happening. But I realized that all was not well.
For one thing, my parents were visibly alarmed. When you’re a young kid and your parents are nervous, that probably means that you should be concerned, too.
I remember the high winds and the freight train sound of the tornado. I did not see the tornado itself, but I certainly saw its aftermath. Louisville looked like a war zone. On our drive home to Cincinnati the next morning, I recall seeing a swing set thrown into the middle of the highway by the tornado. I particularly remember that.
So far as lasting traumas go, there were some minor ones. For a number of months, I had recurring dreams about a giant lifting off the roof of our house. And to this day, I don’t like violent spring and summer storms. I learned at an early age how quickly such storms can turn deadly.
It is difficult to believe that 5150, Van Halen’s seventh studio album, is now 39 years old. But this is indeed the case. 5150 was released on March 24, 1986. Has that much time really passed? I’m afraid so.
I can still remember when “Dreams” and “Why Can’t This Be Love” were new songs on FM radio. I immediately liked what I heard; and I became one of the thousands of people—mostly teenagers—who purchased the album in its early days. (More than 6 million copies of the album have been sold since then.)
This was the 1980s, and so we bought all of our music in record stores at the mall, of course. The album cover featured a muscle man holding up a metallic sphere, Atlas-like. This struck me as both interesting and strange, but I shrugged and went with it. (I was an avid reader of Muscle & Fitness in those days.)
The big news about this album was that Van Halen had a new lead singer. David Lee Roth was out, Sammy Hagar was in.
Sammy Hagar already had a following of his own as a solo artist. So this was rather like a merger between two companies with established brands. I was already a fan of Hagar, so I was predisposed to like the new, changed Van Halen.
Speaking of which: I had been a very lukewarm fan of Van Halen until then. Like everyone, I appreciated Eddie Van Halen’s unique guitar skills. But the Van Halen songs of the David Lee Roth era were banal in the extreme, even by the standards of a high school kid. The Roth-era songs were all about girls and parties, or they were about nothing at all.
I also suspected, even back then, that David Lee Roth was something of an egotistical jackass. These suspicions were confirmed for me decades later, when I read Runnin’ with the Devil: A Backstage Pass to the Wild Times, Loud Rock, and the Down and Dirty Truth Behind the Making of Van Halen. Written by former band manager Noel Monk, Runnin’ with the Devil describes Roth’s self-indulgent, often vindictive behavior in detail. I didn’t know any of these details then; but I was glad to see Sammy Hagar replace the compulsively peacocking Roth.
5150 was a different kind of Van Halen album. The songs on this album had a mystic, almost aspirational quality. And yet—5150 was still upbeat, fun, and accessible. It wasn’t one of those dreary, navel-gazing rock albums that people claim you have to smoke weed in order to appreciate.
Van Halen would never be its old self again. The new trend—of better songwriting—would peak over the next two VH albums: OU812 (1988) and For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge (1991).
Should Sammy Hagar be credited for these changes? Given the magnitude and the timing of the shift, it is difficult to conclude otherwise.
“Love Walks In”, the second song on Side 2 of the album, is one of 5150’s most interesting pieces. The song’s lyrics suggest time travel, fate, reincarnation….who knows?
Some years after 5150 was released, Sammy Hagar stated that “Love Walks In” was written about communication with extraterrestrial aliens. I took a very different meaning from the song at the time—which I’ll spare the reader. And I still do. But that is one of the hallmarks of successful art: each person can walk away from it with a slightly different interpretation. For decades now, millions of people have regarded the Beatles’ “Let It Be”, as a Catholic ballad about the Virgin Mary. Paul McCartney actually wrote the song about his deceased mother, who was also named Mary.
5150 is one of those albums that, for me, will always represent a specific time and place. The spring of 1986 is long gone. I will turn 57 this year, and I don’t try to pretend that I’m still a senior in high school…not even when I listen to my favorite music from that bygone era.
I still have my own interpretation of “Love Walks In”, though. And I still enjoy listening to this almost 40-year-old album. Its songs never get old. If only the same could be said for this particular listener.
If you want to maintain your abilities in a foreign language, you have to use the language regularly. And one of the best ways to practice a foreign language is by reading.
Forget the “apps”—read an old-fashioned book.
(Note: Yes, certain apps can be helpful when you are first learning a language. I’m not anti-app. But once you’re proficient, real-world materials will help you make the most progress. If you’ve been studying a language for years, you should be well beyond the Duolingo stage.)
I first read Pet Sematary—in English—in 1984. Back then, the book was new to all readers, and widely billed as, “the novel that scared Stephen King while he was writing it.”
Like The Dead Zone, which I recently discussed, I remembered the basic plot line and main characters of Pet Sematary. But I have forgotten enough to make the book entertaining the second time around. Also, when I first read this novel, I was a teenager. I’m now in my mid-50s. That makes a big difference.
What about the Spanish?
I sometimes get tongue-tied when chatting in Spanish, but my reading and aural comprehension abilities are quite high. I can read just about any modern text in Spanish, with only an occasional reference to a dictionary.
Lest this strike you as braggadocio, I will also point out that I had my first exposure to Spanish as a high school student more than 40 years ago. I took one year of intermediate Spanish in college. I used Spanish on the job during frequent trips to Mexico in the 1990s and 2000s.
My Spanish is good, by the standard gringo yardstick, and it should be, after all this time. I’m not a language-learning virtuoso, by any means. But I am a dedicated language learner, and one who has been at it for a number of years now.
This week’s cold wave brought record, or near-record, lows to much of the country. Temperatures fell below zero here in Cincinnati. In Pittsburgh (I have a friend who lives there), the low reached -11 F.
In January 1977, the Ohio River froze over. I was only nine years old then. But one of my older friends, then in his late teens, claims to have driven his car over the river that cold January. Many people did, after all.
That said, I’m relieved to see the weather forecast for the upcoming week: afternoon highs above freezing, and one day with a forecast high of 50 F.
I’m no fan of this weather we’ve been having. But it could always be worse.
