Coventry - 1
Mise en scene.
This is where the writer, or director, establishes the setting of a scene. Here is where the action will unfold, the story will be told.
Myself, Rold Gold, Spig (real name Ken), and a blue haired girl named Sadie were huddled in a structure that was part of the playground of Coventry Elementary School smoking weed. I was maybe 17 or possibly 18 at the time. We were listening to Alice In Chains on a Sony Walkman with the headphones rigged to a styrofoam cup.
The corner of Euclid Heights Boulevard and Coventry Road was christened "Harvey Pekar Park" in 2015 but I can't recall ever encountering the famous writer there. I recall brief sightings of Trent Reznor and his band mates. Nine Inch Nails guitarist Frank Cavanaugh's little sister Catherine, who had beautiful blue eyes, was a frequent presence.
I met Jon Bon Jovi on the concrete steps, and I didn't even recognize him until our local den mother and schizophrenic caretaker, Nebraxis Rock Star, pointed him out. I had a lovely conversation with him and his wife, smoking Camels, sitting on the stoop.
Harvey Pekar Park will forever be known to most of us, however, by its local nickname: Monkey Island.
Monkey Island transformed my life, and many others, and just writing those words feels like the understatement of a lifetime.
How do I begin to tell the story of Monkey Island? Through vignettes? Ephemera? Chronologically?
Before I had my first apartment, in East Cleveland, when I was still living with my mom at the house I am convinced "Little Fires Everywhere" is based on, I was given a half ounce of mushrooms. I ate all of it, not knowing what the correct dose was.
That's when I discovered Ween.
This is where the writer, or director, establishes the setting of a scene. Here is where the action will unfold, the story will be told.
Myself, Rold Gold, Spig (real name Ken), and a blue haired girl named Sadie were huddled in a structure that was part of the playground of Coventry Elementary School smoking weed. I was maybe 17 or possibly 18 at the time. We were listening to Alice In Chains on a Sony Walkman with the headphones rigged to a styrofoam cup.
The corner of Euclid Heights Boulevard and Coventry Road was christened "Harvey Pekar Park" in 2015 but I can't recall ever encountering the famous writer there. I recall brief sightings of Trent Reznor and his band mates. Nine Inch Nails guitarist Frank Cavanaugh's little sister Catherine, who had beautiful blue eyes, was a frequent presence.
I met Jon Bon Jovi on the concrete steps, and I didn't even recognize him until our local den mother and schizophrenic caretaker, Nebraxis Rock Star, pointed him out. I had a lovely conversation with him and his wife, smoking Camels, sitting on the stoop.
Harvey Pekar Park will forever be known to most of us, however, by its local nickname: Monkey Island.
Monkey Island transformed my life, and many others, and just writing those words feels like the understatement of a lifetime.
How do I begin to tell the story of Monkey Island? Through vignettes? Ephemera? Chronologically?
Before I had my first apartment, in East Cleveland, when I was still living with my mom at the house I am convinced "Little Fires Everywhere" is based on, I was given a half ounce of mushrooms. I ate all of it, not knowing what the correct dose was.
That's when I discovered Ween.
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