Yes, this is awesome!
I actually grew up (from like birth to eight) in Tinley Park! It didn't use to have a music venue. I had these Italian friends, Bobby and Stevie. Their dad was a lineman. It was just starting to get built up back then. It's like near the highway, I85, so of course it was. We used to ride our dirt bikes on this road that was under construction and jump off the end of it into this farmer's field. It was like a 20 foot drop. I tried to do a back flip once and hurt myself really bad. Bobby ran to someone's house and called an ambulance. That was one of four times I was in the hospital as a kid for a head injury. I was like, "I think I can do a back flip." Stevie was like, "dude, you can totally do a back flip"... and I was like "heck yeah I can. Watch me!" It did not end well.
Their mom wouldn't let me hang out with them anymore because I was a "bad influence". Not because of the back flip thing. But, ok, this is gonna get weird. They invited me to sleep over at their house. My dad had a xerox machine for his company. And, he had some dirty magazines. So, I made xeroxes of this guy you know doing stuff (because he would have noticed the magazines missing). And, I brought these xeroxes over to show Bobby and Stevie. And, so, it's like 3 AM and I'm like let's sneek out. And, Stevie's like "No, my mom stays up late and night listening to music. She'll catch us!" And, I was like, Stevie, she's not gonna catch us... let's go. So, we walked right past her while she pretended to be asleep... music playing. And, we just like walked around the neighborhood in the middle of the night. While we were out, she found the xeroxes of the naked dude and demanded I write an apology letter to her. (She even called my mom and they had a whole hen cluckery with tons of drama.) Which I never did. I never wrote the letter. Because, I keep it gangsta like that. So, I couldn't hang out with Bobby and Stevie anymore.
I wonder what happened to those guys. They were cool dudes. They are probably still living in Tinley Park.
