There are also the forts whose construction involved a dozen teen and pre-teen boys in close proximity to each other swinging axes and hammers. Mind you, these weren't made from salvaged and/or liberated construction supplies. We picked a spot in the woods and started chopping down trees for materials.
Nunchucks and throwing stars were prevalent, with some friends testing their aim and ninja skills on rodents around dumpsters, if not each other. In his long-suffering attempts to elevate my street cred, Noel gifted me a pair of nunchucks, and it's a wonder I didn't give myself a concussion, at least I don't remember one. I do know my old bedroom furniture still sports divots from where I "momentarily lost control" of my swings.
That fact that Mike and I escaped serious maiming must have kept our guardian angels on their toes. After I got a recurve bow, we spent hours sending arrows downrange to a target my dad set up in the backyard. After a while, that got pretty dull so we decided it would be cool to mimic Hiawatha and started shooting arrows straight up into the air. Our addled brains at least had the wherewithal to find an empty field. We found we had trouble seeing the arrows as they came back down so we duct-taped lit smoke bombs to the arrow tips, adding an uncalculated pyrotechnic risk to the activity. I think jarts would have been statistically safer.
Once, Ken, another band geek buddy of ours came over to the 'hood. We all had BB guns so I think the intended activity was plinking away at target cans Mike had in his backyard. It devolved quickly when Mike took a potshot at Ken. Suddenly it was "weapons free" and we all dove for cover.
It was a bad idea. We knew it was a bad idea; our parents didn't raise blithering idiots. However, whatever hormonal cocktail was bathing our brains back then allowed us to consciously disregard all common sense. Pellets were flying and yowls were heard as hits were scored. Mike and I settled into a detente and double-teamed Ken (sorry Ken). From my position, I could see Mike pumping continuously on his gun.
"Mike! What are you doing?!"
One pump on his air rifle was enough to hit your target at the given range. Two pumps would definitely be felt. Three would sting, badly. Mike was on pump five. With a goofy Scooby-Doo laugh, he took aim at Ken's posterior just visible behind a tree, and squeezed off a shot.
The resulting tirade of expletives from Ken ended the Battle of Latil Street.
Ken, if it somehow evens the score, I still have scars from one of your well-placed shots. Good shooting, sir.
Ken, like Mike, is a frequent reader of these posts. Over the years he's sent me multiple notifications of Rock-Tober alums who had concert dates in our area, and even put together a Spotify playlist of Rock-Tober Year One.
A few years back, I got a link from him of an artist doing a cover of "Sweet Dreams" along with the question, "What do you think?". Unfortunately, the link has disappeared from my feed, so I can't refresh my memory, but I know I have an inherent bias against covers - especially if you're covering as iconic a voice as Annie Lennox.
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