It was New Year’s Day, 1986. Penn State was in the Orange Bowl, my dad was in his Penn State shirt (a story in itself) and I was four years old.
My dad almost never drank, and there was rarely any beer in the house, but there was that day, because Penn State was doing well. It wasn’t my dad’s collegiate standard, Rolling Rock. This was beneath that. It was worse than Natty, or Keystone, or even Herman the German. It was Beer Beer — as in generic beer.
No, Generic Beer is a step below Beer-30. I’ve seen Beer-30 before and it at least comes in a colorful package.
See, back in the day, there were no store brands, or stuff like Grand Union, Sam’s Choice, or Food Club. There was one, universal store brand called “Generic,” which was situated on an isle isolated from the rest of the store that was completely devoted to this line of products. They all came in white packages with the name of the contents in black capital letters, and nothing else. There weren’t even any nutritional labels, because Congress wouldn’t pass the Nutritional Labeling and Education Act for another four years.
For example, rather than having, Ruffles, Lay’s or Troyer Farms potato chips, there was another option across the store called “ONE POUND POTATO CHIPS.” If you wanted pop, there was Coca-Cola Classic, Pepsi, RC, and “COLA.” Thus, by induction, in addition to Rolling Rock, Natty, Keystone, and Herman the German, there was also a beer called “BEER.”
“What’s that?” I ask my dad, unfamiliar with the can.
“This son, is beer,” said my dad.
“Beer?” I said quizzically. “What’s that like?”
He looks left, he looks right. Then, my dad said the magic words:
“Don’t tell your mother.”
I nodded in agreement. He handed me the can, and I took my first drink.
It tasted like homeless people boiled in dumpster swill.
“What do you mean?” said a surprised August. Liefeld was not on the list of guests, but about three booths to the right of the door was “Liefeld” in that sketchy, completely linear Rob Liefeld font.
“Oh shit!” said August. He still has a soul, so he worries about other people and their feelings. I, on the other hand, have nothing but my dreams, and apparent they came true. I knew what to do. We were joking about this on the car ride over, what to say if Liefeld were to magically show up. I knew what to do.
I walked up to him and spake: “Hi, my name is Ryan Coons…”
“Hey!” said Rob Liefeld. He didn’t even look up at me; he just kept sketching away at yet another blocky, disproportionate, and overly-linear picture of one of my beloved childhood heroes. This time, it was Wolverine, in a mirrored swipe of Jim Lee’s cover for X-Men #11.
“…I am a huge Captain America fan…” I tell him with jazz hands and a huge fanboy gleam. “…and as such, I demand an apology for Heroes Reborn.”
Rob stops. He gives me an action hero sneer and said, “Hey, it was nice to meet you,” and followed it up with a fuck-off get lost nod. You know, the upward one. I walk off and hyperventalate for a while, because I can only process a set amount of awesome at one time. That’s why it took me four hours to watch 300 the first time.
Rummaging through the boxes when I came across a copy of Lee & Buscema’s seminal text How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way. We were in awe.
“Coons! You need to buy that!” shouted Mike. I was thinking about it, because I’ve wanted a copy of that for some time now. “You need to give it to him!”
“You’re right! Rob needs it more than anyone!” I said.
“That’s why we’re here Coons,” said Mike. “The planets have aligned.”
“What’s this?” asked Javier, the dude who was working the booth we were at.
“We’re going to by a copy of How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way, then he’s going to give it to Rob Liefeld,” said Mike.
Javier was awestruck.
“How much is this?” I ask.
“All trades are five dollars, but if you’re giving that to Rob Liefeld, then I…I…well, I can chip in,” said Javier, digging through his wallet. “Here’s two bucks.”
I give the man three.
“I’ll be back,” I tell Javier.
I waited for a bit, I wanted him to forget about me, I wanted him to think he was in the clear and have him let his guard down. Also, I fully expected to get thrown out for these shenanigans, and I wanted Mark Millar to sign my copy of Superman: Red Son, and that wouldn’t be for another few hours.
In the mean time, I took the time to personalize his gift.
On the blank front page, I wrote:
Rob,
I know you aren’t willing to apologize right now. This manual will help you in you future endeavors. Please study it carefully, and consult it before rebooting another comic title. If you still wish to apologize for “Heroes Reborn,” you can do so by emailing me at YellowHatGuy@gmail.com.
Let’s make things right.
Sincerely,
Ryan Coons
Then, I slipped my business card in between the pages, to make sure that Liefeld knew my name, website, email address, and cell phone number. Then I put his gift in a nice bag…
…and I was ready.
“So, you’re going through with this?”
“I have too. It needs to be done,” I said.
“What are you going to say to him?” asked August.
“I’m not going to say anything,” I told him. “I’m just going to set it in front of him, and then walk away.”
“…and then what?” asked August.
“I don’t care,” I sad. “I don’t care what happens. You can watch if you like.”
I started sweating pretty bad, and started to hyperventilate. “You okay Coons? You gonna make it?” said August.
Immediately, I regain my composure.
“No, I have to do this. I’ve waited thirteen years for this,” I tell August.
So I walked over to Rob Liefeld, who was busy ignoring everyone in the entire convention center. I set the package in front of him, and patted it a few times, and the walked away. According to Mike, the following ensued:
“Rob didn’t look up, but the bald guy did, and pulled it out and showed it Liefeld. He shook his head and got all pissed off. Then the bald dude opened it up and red the inscription, and busted out laughing, and laughed for like, five minutes straight, and Liefeld’s face just tightened up and he just got more and more pissed off.”
In 1995, finding some decent 80’s music on Erie radio was an exercise in futility. Those bastard DJ’s wouldn’t even consider my requests:
“What? There is NO WAY that I will play ‘Tainted Love’ by Soft Cell! OH MY GOD! That song is SOOOOOOO lame! You wanna hear ‘Boom Boom Boom’ by The Outhere Brothers instead.”
Grrr.
I couldn’t listen to the music I wanted too, since no one would play it, and I was strapped for cash. So after enough denial of the 80’s cheese that I so desperately needed, I hatched a brilliant scheme to get my songs played. I would sit around and write sob stories, and then I would send them in to Casey Kasem as “Requests and Dedications.” I sifted through my archives and found a few. They went something like this:
“I’m Casey Kasem. Well now we’re up to our request and dedication. It’s about friendship. It comes to us from Trixie, who writes:
Dear Casey,
I’m a seventeen-year-old girl living in Pennsylvania. All my life I felt lonely and awkward. It seemed that I always felt like nobody was there for me. That was until one day, when I met Alex. Alex was cute, charming, smart and witty. No matter how bad things got, he could always brighten my day with a joke, and he helped me get though the toughest moments. One day when I was at his house, we were listening to the radio, when I told him my true feelings. He told me that he had a crush on me for years, but was to shy to say anything. We both agreed that “This will always be our song.” We were in love and were to be engaged as soon as I graduated from college.
That was until he was killed in an automobile accident last year. When Jessica, my best friend since Kindergarten, told me that he was dead, I just couldn’t believe it. How could it have happened? How could somebody so wonderful be dead? There isn’t one day that passes that I don’t think of my beloved Alex.
Casey, could you please play “Wishing,” by A Flock of Seagulls for my late friend Alex? It was our song. Oh, and Alex, if your out there listening, I just want you to know, that I love you.
Thanks,
Trixie
Trixie, Here is your request, and dedication.”
What? You honestly thought those people were real? A few weeks later they played this one too (its my favorite):
Dear Casey,
I am writing this letter today to tell the world about the woman, who I had loved so dear. Linda was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was funny and outgoing but also kind and gentle. During our junior prom, her boyfriend left without her so that he could attend a wild party. She was distraught by his callous action, but I managed to calm her down and give her a ride home. Soon after that, Linda and I became the best of friends, a friendship that grew — into love.
Linda and I did everything together. We’d spend hours after school talking about nothing at all. I cherished every moment I spent with her. I would learn to cherish it even more after what was yet to come. You see, about a year ago, she was diagnosed with melanoma.
When we found out, we cried for hours, but soon found out that we had to make the most of the little time we had on this world to spend together. And as she fought the cancer that was slowly eating her life away, I was there to support her, every step of the way.
That was up until last month, when cancer claimed another life, and I lost my beloved Linda.
Casey, there isn’t one moment of one single day that I don’t think of Linda. So could you please play “Look of Love,” by ABC, for Linda? I want her to know that even though she has passed on, I shall always love her.
Thanks.
Adam
Adam, Here is your request, and dedication.”
Writing fake letters got old after a couple of months, so I found a new hobby – submitting false information to “Unsolved Mysteries.” I would just walk up to a payphone and dial their 1-800 number:
“Unsolved Mysteries.”
“I saw Jessica in Toledo last week boarding a Greyhound bus,” I’d say, then I’d quickly hang up and scurry away. I couldn’t wait for “Unsolved Mysteries” to come on, and I would tingle with anticipation until Robert Stack got to my story:
“Update! Sheriff’s deputies have stopped dredging the Florida Everglades for the body of Jessica Johnston, because there is a chance that she is still alive. Thanks to an anonymous tip from one of our viewers, Jessica was reported as boarded a Greyhound bus in Toledo, Ohio and traveling to some unknown destination.
Jessica Johnston was reported as being a dark haired female between five and six feet tall. She may be suffering from amnesia, and may fervently deny that she is Jessica Johnston. If you see anyone who matches this description, call your local law enforcement agency, the FBI, or our toll free hotline, 1-800-876-5353.”
Life was so boring before the internet, you have no idea…
Long ago, before cell phones, when caller ID and *69 call-back were fine luxuries only seen in aristocratic telephony, prank calling was a great way to stave off the ennui of adolescence.
For years, Ryan A. (name withheld to protect the overtly guilty) was thought to be the greatest prank caller of all time for creating the legendary Suicide Hotline Routine:
Ryan A.: [Haggard, frantic tone, near tears] “Hello… is this… the suicide hotline?”
Chump: “No…”
Ryan A.: “Damn it! I can’t do anything right!”
One stormy night, in the eleventh grade, I was cleaning my room, and sorting through what I wanted to keep and what I wanted to give to Salvation Army, when I stumbled upon a wooden train whistle from my childhood.
I knew what had to be done.
I grabbed our cheap-ass cordless phone, and unscrewed the antenna most of the way before calling Luc, who is highly astraphobic, and I knew this.
I called Luc when the storm was at its peak, and screamed:
“Dude! Get in your basement dude! Tornado warning dude! TORNADO WARNING!”
“What?” said Luc. I could hear him turn pale over the phone. It was priceless.
“Dude, there’s a supercell of storms that they’re tracking on Channel 35, it’s right over the ‘Boro and it’s headed your way!”
“Shit, oh shit…” said Luc. “How far is it?”
“Dude, you need to get to your base–,” I say, as I start blowing lightly into the train whistle. “–ment and…”
Then I start blowing into the train whistle fairly hard.
“Oh shit!” I screamed. “No! Fuck no! NOOOOOOOOO–” at that moment, I pulled the telescopic radio antenna out of the worthless-ass cordless phone that I had at the time, so the line crapped out into a torrent of static. Then I shut the phone off.
The phone immediately rang. I didn’t have caller ID, and I didn’t need it to know who it was. I dashed into the other room to unhook the answering machine before the fourth ring. Then I chuckled to myself, and went back to cleaning my room.
Luc’s house didn’t have a basement. I knew this. He ran full sprint in a torrential downpour down the street to his neighbors house, who did have a basement, and frantically banged on his door in hysterics. His neighbor, from what I was told., had to spend some time to convince Luc that there was in fact, no tornado. Luc walked home alone in the rain, knowing that he had been had. Rather than holding this against me, Luc bowed to my skill.
I’ve never prank called anyone since, because until someone, somewhere can top this story, there is simply no reason to do so.
