It was the summer of 1972, and as usual I was spending it with my grandfather in the Bronx. Why they call it “The” Bronx but not “The Brooklyn” or “The Queens” I don’t know. Anyway, I digress.

My entire summer revolved around baseball. We played baseball all day at Van Cortlandt Park, or we would venture over to Coyne Park and play against the kids from Yonkers. When not playing pickup baseball games, we would play stickball or go to Yankees games. There were no video games to play and no air-conditioned malls to hang out in. It was just baseball, all day every day, and I loved every minute of it.

Late one hot and muggy afternoon, I was involved in a spirited game of stickball in the schoolyard of P.S. 19. The kid I was playing against was twelve years old, two years older and much bigger. I didn’t like this kid because he was a Mets fan, and he was wearing one of those plastic replica Mets batting helmets, the inside of which read, “Not to be used for protective purposes.”

As the game moved along, we argued over every pitch, every ruling. It was getting nasty. I was pitching and decided “enough is enough.” I fired a pitch with everything I had in my skinny body, directly at his head. The rubber ball flew out of my hand and made a beeline to his noggin. Perfect aim. Pinpoint control. Bulls eye! I drilled this yappy Mets fan squarely in the head, his shiny Mets batting helmet shattering into hundreds of pieces.

The thrilling feeling I had didn’t last long. The big kid was somewhat perturbed. Actually, worse than that. He jumped off the asphalt quickly and threw his stickball bat (a broomstick) at me like a javelin. It missed. I may have said something about that, but I don’t remember. If I did it probably was, “Ha, ya missed!”

The 12-year old kid, after misfiring on his javelin throw, then took off after me.

Diplomacy would not work here, I quickly reasoned. I started running. The goal was now very clear and simple. Survival. I needed to get to Grandpa’s apartment on 235th Street before the helmetless maniac beat the stuffing out of me. The chase was on.

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It was probably 1984…or maybe it was 85. Either way, the day was cold; at least, cold for New Orleans. A wind chill in the 40′s threw most of our plans out of the window, all except for one–Mardi Gras.  I begged and pleaded with my father to take me downtown to the parade route, and against my mother’s best judgment he finally relented. So I got dressed in my costume, a handmade Rubik’s Cube costume, and piled into the station wagon. Beneath two layers of thermal underwear and gloves, I was all smiles. It was the festival of all festivals, the carnival of all carnivals. It was Mardi Gras, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

We drove uptown to the parade route and parked the car. My feet wouldn’t keep still in my lace up high tops; they were so full of excitement and anticipation. My father and I had worked on my Rubik’s Cube costume for weeks, and it was beautiful. In reality it was nothing more than a cardboard box with electrical tape and colorful paint, but in my mind, I was the best-dressed one out there. Most of the people we saw agreed, and I gladly posed for picture after picture on the cold neutraground.

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The mark of the best bars has very little to do with the sort of alcohol you can get, what beers are on tap, or whether the person behind the bar knows what really goes into a Mojito, especially in Dayton. I mean, I know what goes into a Mojito (this isn’t a bad recipe, actually), but it’s immaterial when considering the best places in this town. Of those, I’d have to say that the friendliest spot downtown has to be the Trolley Stop, on the corner of Fifth St. and Wayne Avenue on the main drag of the city’s Oregon District. This is a quintessential neighborhood bar, with a level pool table upstairs, live music three nights a week, and a crew of regulars more colorful and friendly than any other on that strip. On those nights, ladies, make sure to have a dance with the the bearded blond hippie in the open Hawaii shirt. He’s sure to give you a twirl and a smile, and you just might be able to get his name and send it back to me. I’ve met the guy at least twenty times, and I have forgotten to ask every time. Of course, he never asked me to dance with him.

We’re here to help you share your stories, memories, or whatever else you have on your mind. Feel free to stop by and just read and reminisce, or engage yourself in the community and keep the memories flowing. The important part is to have fun!

As for our inspiration, we happened upon a post over at BoingBoing.com (a great blog, by the way). You can see this post here. It started simply enough with:

I had so much fun reading the Casa Bonita comments from fellow Denverites and ex-Denverites that I wanted to continue the conversation. Consider this an open thread about Denver popular culture.

And then it quickly ballooned into a “I remember that, but what about this” free-for-all. It was a lot of fun to read and from what I gather it was a lot of fun to post about. That’s what I want this community to be about. So, what do you say?

If you want to get in on the fun and start your own conversation, just register for an account here. Once you have an account, you can create a new post. Once your post is approved, the discussion can get going. Once the discussion gets going, the fun can start!

Let’s get started!