“Ambition, Plus 40”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Ithaca High School, Ithaca, New York

September, 1978

Miss Nolan: “Attention, class. Our assignment today is to explore your career goals, after graduation. I would like each of you to write an essay about where you see yourself in 20 years. But first, let’s get an idea of what paths you would like to choose. I want to have volunteers give their plans for tomorrow!”

Johnny Falko: “I want to be an astronaut. That would be awesome! Like Major Tom, you know.”

Cheryl De Sayle: “I like art. I want to travel the world and paint what I see. Like making a diary on canvas.”

Don Cortelli: “I am joining the Army next year. America needs people to defend our liberty!”

Audrey Ainge: “I enjoy working with books. I want to study library sciences in college.”

Sharon Hrezick: “I want to design clothes. And work with pretty runway models.”

Rod Ice: “I want to be a newspaper columnist. You know, write about what is happening on a regular basis. Maybe have my work syndicated around the country. I enjoy reading the words of Mike Royko, Jimmy Breslin and Erma Bombeck...”

Miss Nolan: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Cult Radio A Go-Go, California

September 2018

Tiffany May DuFoe: “I would like to welcome our guest for the evening, Rod ‘Swindle’ Ice from Cleveland, Ohio.”

Rod Ice: “Greetings from Lake Erie!”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “Rod, how did you get started as a creative writer?”

Rod Ice: “Well, I always wanted to be a newspaper columnist. That section of the paper was always my favorite as a kid… and the comics, of course.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Rod Ice: (With embarrassment) “Okay, I have gotten that kind of reaction before...”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “A newspaper columnist? Really?”

Rod Ice: “It sounds a bit nerdish, right? But one of my earliest memories is sitting in my Dad’s office at home, when he was away. I would put a sheet of paper in his Underwood typewriter and try to make up a story about my day at school. He wrote all the time and watching him work set the pattern for me as a junior scribe.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “So, you started writing at what age?”

Rod Ice: “Well, I remember drawing pictures and jotting down prose ideas while visiting my grandparents in the 60’s. I was just a little kid. When I had turned nine years old, my parents got me a functional, plastic typewriter for Christmas. I used that to set up my own office, the next summer. My desk was a square of plywood on top of a steel trash barrel.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: (Snorting) “That sounds crazy!”

Rod Ice: “It worked. This was in the basement, across from our washer and dryer. I would wait until nobody was around and then the ideas would appear. I wrote adventure stories with stuffed animals in the household as characters. My younger sister and brother thought it was stupid.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “Do they write?”

Rod Ice: “No.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “So you were ten years old and reading Mike Royko in the newspaper?”

Rod Ice: “Yeah.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “Did your friends think that was strange?”

Rod Ice: “Of course. I had a lot of interests. Old cars and motorcycles, music, comic books, even radio broadcasting. My father did a five-minute devotional program that got run on one of our local stations. I recall going there with him to deliver the tapes. It was on reel-to-reel, you know. I enjoyed being in the studio with all that electronic equipment. One of my friends knew how to make a crude transmitter and I set it up with a homemade microphone, also in the basement. I would play records and create my own shows. I called the station WOLF after Wolfman Jack, one of my heroes.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “So how did you get into television?”

Rod Ice: “I happened to find an apprenticeship program sponsored by Cornell University. Studies in radio & television production. Of course I wanted to be a disc jockey. But the wait list was long for that opportunity, apparently everyone had the same idea. I could get right into the TV part of the program, at Channel 13, our cable access station.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “So you hosted a ‘Punk Rock’ show?”

Rod Ice: “Eventually. But first, I learned about putting a broadcast together. I started stringing cables, setting up lights and microphones, and then doing camera work. After that, I moved to the control room. At one time, I worked on everything produced at the channel. About a dozen different shows. On subjects from world music to community affairs to local history.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “How did people react when you brought ‘Punk’ music to the channel?”

Rod Ice: (Laughing) “They reacted badly at first. There were different organizations who wanted us off the air. My father was a member of one group, so that did not help.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “WOW! So where did the ‘Swindle’ name come from?”

Rod Ice: “I was told that my antics on television were soiling the family name. So I took inspiration from the Sex Pistols. From their movie, ‘The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle.’ I thought it sounded good.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “So, outrage helped make the show a success?”

Rod Ice: “Right. We used to take live phone calls and averaged 75 – 100 per night. This was on Friday at 11:30 p.m. right after the local news. We had a live studio audience and things could get raucous. The police visited sometimes, although they were very professional. We had local students in the audience, kids from Cornell and Ithaca College. The atmosphere was unpredictable. Once, a guy approached me on the set and handed off a quart of Miller High Life beer. I did not know what to do, so I chugged it and gave him back the empty bottle. That got us in trouble. Some regulation about consuming alcoholic beverages on the air.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “Hee hee!”

Rod Ice: “Nelson Rockefeller died, he had been governor of New York. There was some controversy about him having been with a mistress or something like that... I saluted him on the air and the mainstream citizens went nuts. There were a lot of angry letters to the station. But the audience cheered my comments.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “Sounds ‘Punk’ to me!”

Rod Ice: “The show lasted 14 months. After that, I worked on a band project called ‘Absolute Zero.’ Our bassist was a younger brother of Tommy Hilfiger, the fashion designer. We made two 45 rpm singles and were working on a third when I ended up homeless, and living under a bridge.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “Then what did you do?”

Rod Ice: “The family had returned to Ohio. I crawled home at the end of 1983. Earlier that year, I had begun to write for a west-coast magazine called ‘Biker Lifestyle.’ My editor was Robert Lipkin, who went by the moniker of Bob Bitchin. When I crashed back in the Midwest, the typewriter provided therapy for me… that brought my life back to the beginning.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “Back to being a writer. And a newspaper columnist?”

Rod Ice: “I wrote a letter to the editor of our local newspaper in 1998 and he reacted by asking if I had more content for the publication. That started a series of columns called ‘Thoughts At Large’ that ran for 16 years.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “What was the column about?”

Rod Ice: “I used to say it was like the ‘Seinfeld’ show. A column about nothing. But more specifically, it drew energy from my everyday life, like Harvey Pekar’s “American Splendor’ series. My editors at the paper never suggested any subject matter. I made it up every week.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “So, what are you doing now?”

Rod Ice: “I published five books. The last in 2015. Now, I am doing a new column series called ‘Words On The Loose.’ It is online and also at Facebook.”

Tiffany May DuFoe: “Okay, Rod, we are out of time. Thanks for joining us here on CRAGG Live! Goodnight everybody and ‘happy trails’ to you!”

Comments about ‘Words On The loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“After G.L.O.W. Part Four”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Good vibes from the 80’s.

The appearance of Jeanne ‘Hollywood’ Basone and Cheryl ‘Lightning’ Rusa on Cult Radio A Go-Go evoked many personal memories. In particular, watching the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling program on Saturday afternoons, many years ago. With Terry & Tiffany DuFoe, they interviewed other members of the cast, via telephone. The yield was a time-travel adventure to an age of big-haired glory.

For this writer, the streamcast of Internet radio revived a moment not so fettered with cares and concerns of adult life. I worked a regular job, had a wife and kid at home, and used spare hours to hammer out motorcycle stories on my Royal KMM typewriter, a post-war relic from Cornell University.

My interaction with Jeanne about her colorful career helped inspire three columns. Afterward, only one task remained. I needed to have a look at the cause for this lady-wrestling revival. Namely, the recent Netflix series, GLOW.

With a soundtrack of familiar tunes from that era, it was easy to slip into the groove created by Liz Flahive and Carly Mensch. The theme of ambitious, young women caught in a whirlwind of seedy business practices and harsh, alpha-male culture seemed compelling. Was this satire or dark comedy? I reckoned a bit of both.

The series began with Ruth Wilder, played by Alison Brie. Her fresh-faced optimism seemed enticing. Yet she quickly developed a bad case of emotional sunburn in the overheated scene of California entertainment. Her counterpart and opponent, Debbie Eagan, played by Betty Gilpin, exuded the sort of glitter and glitz much loved by the camera. But with a brokenness underneath.

Director Sam Sylvia, played by Marc Maron, provided a foundation for the show. His persistent appearance as a low-budget, cinematic guru-wannabe, with the shallow soul of a braying ass, worked in terms of the script. His focus was on the outcome of production. Not on the players or even on the woman revealed to be his daughter. Still, this single-mindedness was voiced with vacuous authenticity.

If anything, his character hit too close to the bullseye for my own comfort.

I could see a sad bit of myself in this character. The sin of exclusion to reach personal goals. Of putting aside family and friends in the name of creative fulfillment. Failings too familiar to admit willingly. Guilt made me redden with embarrassment. I had sometimes stumbled as a husband and father. But never as a wordsmith, pursuing the elusive goal of one big career strike to keep my professional mojo in motion.

I had faith that a finished manuscript would bring absolution.

My favorite from the GLOW cast came unexpectedly. After watching a couple of episodes, I realized that Sheila the She-Wolf, played by Gayle Rankin, was a mirror-image of my un-girlfriend and partner-in-obscurity, Janis. Both she and Sheila were outliers, socially awkward, not given to manifestations of prevailing feminine style, and intriguing. Though my friend would have been a grade-school child in the middle 1980’s.

With each new episode, I wondered about her back story.

Janis entered my personal orbit as a companion for visits to the local Chinese buffet, about nine years ago. She was someone I saw on the job in Geneva at a time when two divorces, bouts of unemployment and financial ruin had humbled my cockiness. I eschewed going out to eat alone. Her company was welcome relief from my gloom. Eventually, our paths began to mingle with purpose. Not in a traditional, romantic sense, but as two dissimilar spirits with a need for warmth against the cold of night.

She often looked like a She-Wolf, with a long mane draped over her tattered hoodie, T-shirt and work pants. For months on the job, she wore a plastic spider around her neck on a cord. No one had the courage to inquire about its heritage. While others basked in the rays of summer, she exuded joy when skies turned gray. She was cheerfully anti-social. Not with malice, but simply with a love of being alone. Her circle of friends stayed small. Somehow, I entered that group after a few meals of General Tso’s Chicken. Even after retiring in 2016, my membership card remained active.

I soon discovered that Janis lived near Lake Erie, on a rural road. She liked to walk together and engage in conversation, while smoking menthol cigarettes. At first, I had reckoned her to be numb in terms of current events and popular culture. But she began to relate a growing fan-fascination with ‘The Walking Dead.’ After hearing various episodes described in detail, I was motivated to find the series on my Roku device. I binge-watched it while grinning over familiar scenes.

Eventually, our jaunts down the tarmac encompassed more than television reviews. She began to peck away with questions about psychology, politics, religion and mortality. I watched her in silent wonder. Who was my new companion? Each page of her spoken-word-diary seemed to cover many more, as yet unread.

As with the character of Sheila, I had wondered about her back story.

For myself, the modern GLOW offered a moment of synchronicity. A tendency of similar things to happen in harmony with each other. As retirement and disability had me looking backward, toward distant echoes of joy, the series fit that mood completely. I felt eager to watch how the tale would develop, in season three.

Meanwhile, the real-time saga of Janis also had me anxious to listen, and learn.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Dog Detour”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Distractions.

For a creative writer, blocking out the static and background noise of life can be useful in focusing on the task of creating a finished manuscript. Yet occasions arise when a detour from the real-time continuum of existing may be desirable. Even welcomed as a blessing.

The current year began with promise, as always. But when only one page had been torn from the calendar, it quickly spun out of control. In February, my sister visited West Virginia, discovering that the situation of our parents had become dire and unsustainable. After battling for years to retain their independence, age and fatigue had won the battle. They left the homestead, never to return.

Dad passed away in April. Mom remained at Mansfield Place.

Handling the care of our mother, in this local nursing home, proved to be more difficult than expected. And all the details had to be directed from across state lines and at a distance of many miles. My own health issues made each journey difficult. I was disabled and on a fixed income. My career as a retail manager had ended, unexpectedly, in 2016. All of these issues created a din of chaotic tones. I struggled to find balance amid the conflicting demands made from one side or another.

Then, last week, I noticed that the left ear of my Black Lab would not lie down.

Suddenly, the gloom that had dominated much of this year blew away in a rush toward necessity. I had only one point of reference – getting Wrangler to the vet. He had not visited since 2015. But I remembered that the ladies at Geneva Veterinary Clinic, near my home in Thompson, were friendly and helpful. A bit of home doctoring seemed to reveal that my pooch had an inner ear infection. I tried to clear away the wax buildup but had only limited success. When making the appointment, I related these facts to the assistant on duty. She agreed that he should visit right away.

The plan was simple enough. Get my canine friend into the passenger seat of our truck and head north. But he had grown older and heavier than three years ago. Meanwhile, I was walking with a cane to support my exhausted knees and debilitated left hip. Also, the F-150 pickup truck I now owned sat higher off the ground than our old Ranger XLT.

Wrangler was able to get his front paws onto the door sill, with effort. He huffed and scratched and whined and wheezed, but climbed no farther without help. I had to steady myself while lifting his hindquarters in the air. Eventually, he spilled onto the truck floor like a sack of Kibbles n Bits, no worse for the experience.

He found a place on the back seat. I felt like his chauffeur, taking the wheel.

At the clinic, he received a friendly welcome. Their scale measured his weight at 94 pounds. We found a place in one of their examination rooms, where Doctor Christi said that his infection woes had caused exaggerated fits of ear flapping. This created a hematoma on one side. Their prognosis was for cleaning, antibiotic treatment and possible surgery in the future. First, however, he needed a steroid to promote healing of the sideways ear.

Wrangler wandered a bit on the way out, stopping to visit everyone and socialize.

At home, I dispensed the mutt medicine hidden in a Vienna Sausage. He took each dose gratefully. After only one day, I noticed that his pain had begun to vanish. A sense of relief took hold.

Our follow-up visit required a similar boost-and-lift entrance to the truck cab. On our way, a traffic hazard appeared, south of Interstate 90. We had to make a sudden stop. I tried to keep him on the seat but his weight overwhelmed my grasp and he crashed on the floor mat like Evel Knievel. 

Fortunately he was no worse for wear after the impact.

Once again, my Black Lab navigated the clinic with undisciplined curiosity. He wanted to visit with the other pet patients. Or, find treats in the drawers. I was embarrassed when he managed to shed a small heap of hair in the exam room. But our cheerful assistant found it amusing.

The ride home had Wrangler perched on his seat like an anxious kid. The no-belt, safety warning kept going off as we drove toward Geauga County. I fiddled with the radio to cover this aggravating sound. He panted with satisfaction while sniffing cool air from the dashboard vents.

At home, after he found a comfortable spot in the living room, I sorted through forwarded mail for my parents. A task not filled with fun. My eyes grew wide upon realizing that, for a few days, the stress of duty and diligence had evaporated. I felt rested by this brief escape.

A dog detour made it possible.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Senator Joe, Part Three”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Mailbox 365.

The ritual of checking for mail at my post office box, in Chardon, has become familiar over the years. Originally, I leased this space to direct correspondence relating to my newspaper column for the Geauga County Maple Leaf. Then it became a portal for orders of my various printed volumes under the banner of Icehouse Books.

But more recently, my P. O. box has been useful in receiving information about the ongoing effort to care for my widowed mother. A task that has tested our reserves of stamina and patience.

On three occasions, I have found a letter from the office of Senator Joe Manchin III, D-West Virginia, when I checked this space. With each new discovery, I drove to the home of my sister and her family, where we read the document, together.

The last of these indicated that the mountain-state official had investigated our work with their Department of Health and Human Resources. His words calmed our fears about paying the considerable nursing home bill that had amassed since the struggle began, in February:

“Dear Mr. Ice, Thank you again for contacting my office regarding your mother’s eligibility for Medicaid assistance… I was happy to contact the appropriate officials about this matter and hope you will find the enclosed information useful. I hope that you will always feel free to contact my office in the future if there is a matter in which I might be of service to you.”

Enclosed was a report from Ken Pinnell, Supervisor of Client Services for the bureau. He was writing on behalf of Bill J. Crouch, Cabinet Secretary and John V. Lopez, Director.

“Our office reached out to… (the) Economic Services Supervisor (for) Barbour/Taylor County DHHR for her assistance… The DHHR received the application for Gwendolyn Ice on 6/13/18. Her husband passed away and she was placed in Mansfield Place. (The local nursing home.) Gwendolyn’s assets cannot be verified until the hearing that is scheduled...”

The response had a timeline that deviated somewhat from literal facts. Mom went to Mansfield Place in February. Dad had been sent to Broaddus Hospital, then to Ruby Memorial Hospital in Morgantown, before returning to the nursing home. He passed away in April. Certificates of deposit that were present in the bank had been turned over immediately, to go toward the bills on hand. The applications for Medicaid assistance on behalf of Mom were numerous. And, unsuccessful for a variety of reasons. Each incident seemed to uncover another fault. Meanwhile, she was diagnosed with senile dementia and could not care for herself. My sister grew fatigued with the conflict and decided that I should take over. But the delay continued.

Meanwhile, mother’s backlog of charges grew at an alarming rate.

My first contact with Senator Joe had been to suggest a ‘Rhoderick’s Law’ on behalf of my late father. Legislation that would compel institutions to work on behalf of families affected in this way, rather than opposing them to reduce or delay costs. We were horrified by the conundrum before us, a situation where we could not effectively handle the responsibilities required of surviving children.

But Manchin’s diligence as a servant of the people gave us hope.

I remembered his time as governor of West Virginia. Once, when visiting the family home in Philippi, we saw a photo of Joe astride a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The image made me smile. I gained even more respect for this gentle soul. A genuine citizen servant. Reflecting on this struggle, I wondered if it might be appropriate to send a copy of my book, ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond’ to him as a token of our appreciation. It was an idea to be explored later, once the needs of our mother had been met.

An updated bill from the nursing home arrived in August. It stated the current charges at $29,847.24. I forwarded a copy of this document to our contact at the DHHR.

Meanwhile, a familiar tune reverberated in my head. One that my mother could sing from memory when we were children:

“Oh the West Virginia hills!

How majestic and how grand

With their summits bathed in glory

Like our Prince Immanuel’s land

Is it any wonder then

That my heart with rapture fills

As I stand once more with loved ones

On those West Virginia hills?

Oh the hills, beautiful hills

How I love those West Virginia hills!

If o’er sea, o’er land I roam

Still I’ll think of happy home

And my friends among the West Virginia hills.”

Football season was about to begin. I knew that Mom would be ready to cheer her WVU Mountaineers to victory, once again. Even as she battled to remember us, face-to-face, as her kids. Quietly, I prayed for a victory of a different sort, in being able to take care of her needs from my home near Lake Erie, in Ohio.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Kindred Souls”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

The joy of junk.

In recent weeks, my immediate family has been involved in the task of clearing our parental homestead, some four hours away. This ongoing struggle has unearthed tidbits of childhood fun and some relics never seen before. We are reliving old memories and adding pieces to the life-puzzle composed by our mother and late father. Unfinished projects are again meeting the light of day, after long periods of slumber.

Like a Sears & Roebuck television set from the late 1940’s, that I purchased three decades ago.

Dad once took a course on television repair, when such devices were becoming popular. I had reckoned that he might heal the vintage receiver, which still had the ability to play audio signals but yielded no video output. He promised to have a look. Then, the long, little box was stashed in a corner of their living room. Mail, magazines and miscellany soon shrouded it darkness. Only my sister remembered its fate.

Like a time-warp adventure, cleaning up after years of neglect gave us a vantage point where yesterday and today were the same.

One sentiment has dogged our efforts in this moment. The conclusion that those who brought us into the world were avid collectors by nature, not design. Steeped in depression-era traditions. They literally saved everything, to be relocated again and again, and again, then studied later and pondered with an air of mystery adding spice.

Predictably, their path became our path.

We of the next generation followed this habit closely. In our own homes, the familiar bent toward gathering useful trinkets has become obvious. But instead of noting these items with affectations of grandeur, we name them lovingly, with a more common touch.

We call them ‘junk.’

The term, in our lexicon, does not connote a lack of worth or significance. Instead, it is one we use as a proletarian bit of verbiage. One expressing our mission as hunter-gatherers without any pretentiousness. We are librarians and urban-archaeologists. Archival hoarders. Students always of what has gone before.

The journey began with my grandparents, and their farm in Columbus, Ohio. A place inhabited by a university professor, his schoolteacher wife, and many children. They remained close to the soil despite their education. My parents turned this art of keeping things into a more mobile experience, relocating many times over the decades. I grew used to the continuity of stuff while the outside world continued to change. My own home is short on usable space, yet long on artifacts. Pieces of yesterday that offer numerous opportunities to peer through the mist and write creative reports.

All of this provided a foundation for my personal enjoyment of ‘Cult Radio A Go-Go’ by Terry & Tiffany DuFoe.

I discovered their station when clicking on a link for Davie Allan. The legendary California guitarist has been a long-distance compadre for many years, after I ordered compact discs from his website. He mentioned having given an interview on a west-coast, Internet station. Initially, I listened to the chat in hope of gaining more understanding about his career. But then, I read of the team responsible for this interaction. I saw photos of their posters, books and bobbleheads, records and movies on disc and tape. I watched Facebook Live posts that toured their studio. I read their manuscripts, penned for fanzines, and interacted with them about music and pop culture. We traded instant messages across the miles between the Pacific Ocean and Lake Erie. Suddenly, I knew these people whom I had never met.

They were kindred souls.

When I recorded a short cellphone glimpse of my office, Tiffany commented with excitement:

“Yes! You are one of us...”

My personal work station is a bulky, metal desk, left by Wife 2.0. This wordsmithing platform is flanked by towers of file cabinets, bulging with yellowed manuscripts and photographs. On top are rotary-dial telephones, beer bottles, a USB radio microphone, and various toys. The room walls boast images of sports, music and motorcycles, in no formal order.

It is my cradle. My crib. My launching pad for ideas-in-print.

The audio stream from CRAGG has provided a proper soundtrack for work done in this space, with unpredictable variety. Songs by Tiny Tim? Show excerpts from ‘Hazel?’ Interviews with ladies from G.L.O.W.? Obscure recordings of old-time radio? Snippets of dialogue from adult films?

Yes, yes, yes.

My only regret is that Paul Race, my spiritual mentor from New York, did not live long enough to hear of this connection with the DuFoes. As a rabid keeper of comic books, vinyl records, guitars, beer signs, pop bottles, antiques and such, he would have been another kindred soul in the group. I often think of him when sitting at the keyboard. Or when listening to T & T with their stream-of-consciousness take on pop culture.

Or… when hauling boxes out of my parents’ home, south of the border.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“After G.L.O.W. Part Three”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Gorgeous. In sight and sound.

Having Jeanne ‘Hollywood’ Basone and Cheryl ‘Lightning’ Rusa on Cult Radio A Go-Go was a treat for the ears, in terms of their interaction with callers and other veterans of the ‘Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling.’ But when I clicked on the Facebook live feed provided by Tiffany May DuFoe, another of my senses was piqued.

They still looked incredible.

I was transported back to the 1980’s while listening to tales of their athletic and theatrical prowess. Fans had been thrilled with this new wrinkle on the sport. In hindsight, the series seemed to have come and gone far too quickly. But with a modern show on Netflix reviving interest, once again, the ladies were front and center in the public view.

My preparation for writing about G.L.O.W. involved messaging with ‘Hollywood’ herself. Almost as an afterthought, I mentioned that Terry & Tiffany of CRAGG had promoted my book, ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond.’ It was a collection of stories I had written for the California magazine during years when her show was becoming a national sensation. In those yonder days, my strategy was to test the limits of creative thought by submitting stories that pegged-the-meter. With each manuscript, I wondered if editor-in-chief Bob Bitchin would lose patience with this line of thinking. My work veered from typical themes of roadgoing wanderlust, to political intrigue, social commentary, and life after death. Only one offering missed being published. I reckoned that G.L.O.W. also pushed the confines of TV grappling, with extreme participants like ‘Palestina’ and ‘Colonel Ninotchka.’

Jeanne offered an unexpected bit of personal trivia in response:

“I did the cover of Easyriders in 94 or 96… I think it was ‘96.”

I was breathless,

Her comment offered a tempting detour from the road to my intended destination. I tried to regain focus on the task before me, out of a sense of duty. Words took shape in a column about her notable career in the ‘squared circle.’ But then, the rumbling sound of customized Harley-Davidson motorcycles returned.

A patient Internet search revealed that her modeling appearance had been in the April, 1995 issue of the magazine. I found back issues for sale on various websites. Tingling with excitement, I asked her how this had come to pass. Her response sated my appetite for details:

“I think a friend referred me to the photographer Raiko Hartman, the studio was located in Hollywood for the shoot. They also needed a girl who was tall because Grady’s 1990 FLHTC Ultra was a big bike. I had heard that Easyriders would hire women who were more petite as to not make the bike look so small.”

Hartman has long been active as a professional photographer, with many notable clients over the years. His list of credits is stunning. He also has also given technical lectures about the methods involved in commercial advertising.

I asked for more thoughts about her experience and she explained the connection in depth:

“I had been been doing many photoshoots with Playboy, several calendars and bikini postcards (the postcards you find at Venice Beach) before I did Easyriders. Truckin’ June 1993 was another cover I had shot. So this shoot went as smoothly and professionally as the others. When I got to the studio located in Hollywood, I met with the owner of the bike Grady and the photographer Raiko and then went straight into hair and makeup. The bikini you see in the shot was one of the ones I suggested and they loved it! The accessories and heels were mine too!”

I asked if other celebrities from G.L.O.W. had ever appeared in the publication. She said no.

As before, I was struck by the parallel nature of her participation in the 80’s television hit, and my own fond memories of having written for the west-coast biker rag. Echoes still resounded with raucous tones of an age when social media had not yet begun to bind the public consciousness with real-time shaming. When over-the-top literally meant going headfirst across the upper rope of a wrestling ring. When MTV videos, haute couture fashions, and sports competition blended into one.

When I was still in my 20’s, and able to party, years before 1999.

Jeanne invited me to participate in an online chat, through the ‘Independent Pro Wrestling 24/7’ Facebook page. At the risk of appearing out-of-place, I continued my thought detour, asking if she had received any feedback about the chopper-magazine cover. And if she had any personal interest in two-wheeled machines. Her reply made me smile:

“I really don’t remember getting tons of feedback like I did in Playboy… perhaps that magazine was not as widely read by our wrestling fans… and I love Harleys just as long as they don’t break down… like they used to back in the day.”

My face was red, remembering a past motorcycle of the same hue. A tricked-out, 1977 XLH 1000 Sportster. My first hawg from Milwaukee. I had purchased the bike in Madison, while living in Lake County, Ohio. It drew compliments and attention wherever I rode. But being from the company’s dreaded ‘AMF’ period, it had a demonic soul. When properly tuned-up and polished, the old ‘Ironhead’ ran like a beast, thundering mightily through its shotgun pipes. Yet just as often, it ended up being hauled in my pickup truck. A rolling sculpture in metal. Parts vibrated loose. Oil leaked constantly.

But I loved it, with devotion.

In modern terms, only the good moments remain. Just as recollections of watching G.L.O.W. with my kid have deleted any dissonant notes of marriage angst or work fatigue that were present. Now, the pure essence of that era has been distilled to a fine liqueur. One sweet on the palate.

Like the image of ‘Hollywood’ herself, still gorgeous and still wrestling in the 21^st Century!

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024+

“After G.L.O.W. Part Two”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Pro Wrestling.

David Mark, friend of my erstwhile video co-host Manic McManus, once described the genre as ‘spart.’ Sport and art combined.

Hearing Jeanne ‘Hollywood’ Basone and Cheryl ‘Lightning’ Rusa discuss their memories from the television program G.L.O.W., via Cult Radio A Go-Go, was thrilling. But it also aroused dormant memories of an era less concerned with political correctness and more with raw entertainment value. A time when macro-brews like Miller and Budweiser mattered, while thoughts of brie and imported wines seemed foreign.

It is likely that those outside the United States must view TV wrestling with the same bewilderment we might feel for Spanish bullfighting or for fox hunting in Great Britain. Though once a thing of grizzled veterans sucking down pickled eggs and bar sausages, in the 1980’s, such exhibitions joined mainstream culture thanks to celebrity competitors like Hulk Hogan and ‘Macho Man’ Randy Savage.

The ‘Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling’ series exploded this modern paradigm shortly after it began. Though many of the themes were familiar, they found new life when delivered with big hair and glossy spandex. One might have expected a less serious approach to the actual physical competition. Yet the women involved were relentless. Bodies, furniture and foreign objects flew around the ring with abandon.

CRAGG, the Internet media sensation, provided a perfect venue to relive memories of this moment in time. I tuned in on a recent Saturday night through the use of a Roku app on my Vizio receiver, as always. Jeanne and Cheryl interviewed other participants in the bygone program, via telephone. Included were Johnny C., Corporal Kelly, Olympia, Daisy, Jungle Woman, Justice, Tanya the Russian and the Royal Hawaiian.

I had promised to call in and participate, but failed. 

The tempo of this live broadcast was breezy, out of necessity. Not unlike one of the matches featured on G.L.O.W. itself. ‘Hollywood’ moved from guest to guest with skillful discipline. The stories and personal anecdotes were compelling. Interspersed were popular tunes from the period like ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ by Def Leppard, ‘Still Of The Night’ by Whitesnake, and ‘Rock Me Amadeus’ by Falco.

I was stunned to hear that the ladies themselves were sometimes treated like valuable livestock. Multiple matches could take place in the same day. They endured a grueling schedule. Injured participants were simply pushed to the side while production continued. Perhaps most shocking of all was the revelation that they were kept largely in the dark about their own white-hot status with viewers:

Hollywood: “So Lily, I got a question… when G.L.O.W. was over, where did you go or what did you do…?”

Corporal Kelly “I went back to singing and my band and you know, working a straight job and that’s pretty much it.”

Lightning: “How was it in your straight job, after your experience with G.L.O.W., was it like, odd…?”

Corporal Kelly “You know the funny thing is that G.L.O.W. has been that constant thing where people are like ‘What? You were a G.L.O.W. girl?’ And it has always blown my mind because they kept us so kind of cloistered and secluded from what was going on… “

Lightning: “Sheltered.”

Corporal Kelly: “Yeah. That I felt like we didn’t, or personally, I didn’t realize the impact that G.L.O.W. was having while we were involved in it. You know?”

Hollywood: “I think you’re right because I didn’t. There is no way, I didn’t feel that either… somebody asked about us getting our fan mail, there were bags and bags of fan mail...”

Lightning: “Hollywood, you gave me like a dozen letters and that was it, that’s all I ever saw because you were there and you stole a few of them for me… she ‘Hollywooded’ them...”

Hollywood: “I had to pick up my check on Wilshire Boulevard. So I went in there one day and I saw these bags of mail. And I’m like ‘What are those?’ And Jackie says ‘That’s the fan mail.’ And I go ‘What??’”

The evening passed like a flashy, frenzied Heavy Metal video on MTV.

In personal terms, I was transported back to working my ‘real job’ at a local supermarket in northeastern Ohio. Something I did to aid my less-than-sufficient income as a professional writer. Managing on the weekends and learning the trade to support my family. The store staff and crew existed outside the realm of normal business operations. Much like G.L.O.W. shattered the framework of typical sporting events. On duty and after hours, we bent the rules. Breaks could involve beer, wine coolers and pizza or nachos. We smoked constantly. Pretty cashiers sometimes visited when the store had closed. Being young and rambunctious, we encouraged their misbehavior. Our bosses were very tolerant. We played Frisbee in the parking lot, at 3:00 in the morning. Local police were amused and looked the other way.

My wife went on the road for her company, from 1987 to 1989. This meant I had to raise our son with help from her parents. That part of life remained serious and stable. It provided an anchor as I drifted on the rowdy seas of my unconventional employment adventure.

When the CRAGG session had ended, I felt spent. In a good way. Like the sensation tingling over your skin after a thrilling roller-coaster-rendezvous. I switched off the television and sat with my cell phone, reviewing new posts about the show.

Now, it was time to return to my home office, and get to work!

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“After G.L.O.W.”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserve(8-18)

The 80’s.

It has become a popular decade to relive. Especially for those who experienced youthful abandon in that span of years, before entering an adult world of regrets and responsibilities. In print, in song and in the visual arts, it is a subject often touched upon with fondness.

For this writer, that focus was shifted a bit by chronology. I graduated from high school in the 1970’s, so the time that followed has always seemed more ‘recent’ in nature. The soundtrack of New Wave and Heavy Metal tunes provided a tonal backdrop for my first family experience, raising a son with Wife 1.0. Working many long hours at one job, or two, or even three for awhile.

I had little time to ponder that era.

But years later, when children in the family were grown and I had burned through two marriages and several stops on the real- job, retail-management-rollercoaster, a lightning bolt of energy struck from that distant time. Unexpected and yet welcome.

Hollywood and Lightning, to be exact.

Terry & Tiffany DuFoe, the creative duo behind Cult Radio A Go-Go, posted on their Facebook page about an upcoming episode of their nationwide Internet radio broadcast. It would feature two celebrities from the bygone ‘Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling’ program. ‘Hollywood’ (Jeanne Basone) and ‘Lightning’ (Cheryl Rusa) were slated as guest hosts, with several other show veterans to be interviewed on the telephone.

I was struck by a flash of recollection. My wife had been fantastic as a mother and steward of the household. Incredibly adept with handling money. Only one nagging issue stained our marriage. Jealousy. She was given to fits of irritation and suspicion with any hint of misbehavior. I learned quite literally to keep my head down, as looking innocently in the direction of a female nearby could arouse an argument that might last for hours or more. I had to be discreet with my purchase of magazines dedicated to the motorcycling lifestyle. Explicit record album covers could be a topic of furious debate. I was careful not to linger on videos for Heart, Lita Ford or Vixen when they appeared on MTV. Rhonda Shear could only be enjoyed when I was ‘Up All Night’ after a long shift at work. With everyone in bed, I sometimes had dinner and a six-pack of brew alone, with the TV as my companion.

Those moments were happy, even liberating to enjoy.

As parents, neither of us had much time to discuss current events with our kid. He depended on the helpful embrace of his grandparents, who lived up the road. But at some point, he mentioned having become a fan of a series popular with other students at his grade school. One with which I was not familiar.

G.L.O.W.

On a Saturday afternoon, as my wife busied herself in the kitchen, our precocious boy asked if I wanted to watch his new favorite show. I had worked overnight and slept only a couple of hours. Groggy clouds still cast shadows across my brain. But, I did not have to work again until Sunday morning. With a bottled beer in hand, I took a seat next to his revolving, bamboo chair. I expected some sort of cartoon adventure, or a mirthful video descendant of H. R. Pufnstuf. But instead, the screen brightened with attractive, athletic women who had big hair and wore sheer, shiny outfits.

I choked on my brew.

My wife did not notice at first, being content to enjoy a day away from her position as supervisor of personnel matters and the store cash office. I kept peeking around the corner to be certain we were safe in watching the program. There was lots of hairspray, makeup and spandex flying around the wrestling arena. The kid cheered and snorted and giggled over each match. I took a more serious view, appreciating the limber nature of each colorful competitor, while sipping my beverage.

I knew pro wrestling, having grown up with an uncle who watched such programs in the black-and-white era. My aunt gave us RC Cola and bologna sandwiches for lunch while we enjoyed these performances. The bombastic, blue-collar nature of this sport was perfect for us as children. And for my relatives as humble, working-class folk.

Yet what I saw on that day was wholly different in nature. Not loud and crude but instead, glamorous, chic and erotic. Sort of an extended music video with acrobatic flights of fancy. I could not help but wonder if other dads were also in front of their TV sets, feeling as confused and entertained as myself. These ladies jumped from the ropes, flipped and flopped, twisted arms and bit noses. Things that were expected in the genre. But seeing it happen with the glitz and sheen of appealing curves in stretchy attire had me stunned.

Gorgeous ladies, indeed! They were fierce, fearless women, as well.

Predictably, my wife appeared from the other room before long. Her distaste for the broadcast was immediate. “What… are… you… watching??”

“Mom!” our kid protested. “It is called G.L.O.W., the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling!”

She seemed to throw up a little bit, inside her mouth.

“He wanted me to check this out,” I pleaded in my own defense. “Have you ever heard of this show? It is nothing like watching Classy Freddie Blassie or Harley Race.” My uncle the baker would spill his RC Cola.”

She was not amused.

I pretended to have no further interest in the show, and followed my wife into the kitchen. The moment of carnal joy had passed. More brews followed, while I received a lecture about watching “women who thought they were pretty.” Later, I mentioned the incident to friends on the crew at my store and many confessed to being avid fans.

I felt stupid for needing our son to introduce me to the series.

In modern times, Terry & Tiffany had sparked a new reflection on this yonder tale. I brought up the 1985 pilot episode of G.L.O.W. and watched it on YouTube. Coffee was my beverage of choice instead of Miller or Budweiser. Yet the images remained compelling. Strangely, Matilda the Hun evoked a look and disposition similar to my mother-in-law with Wife 2.0, a completely divergent take on the show. I did not want to dwell on that fact, however. Now, I was middle-aged, retired, and twice divorced. Safe to see such sights without fear of scolding or shaming. 

After watching for an hour, I wanted a beer. And a time machine. In that order.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024