THE BLOODY GOOD OL’ DAYS
IT WAS OCTOBER 1982. I recall sitting on the edge of my seat in the Juliet Theater in Poughkeepsie, New York. Next to me was my dad, who watched while chain-smoking a full pack of Salems—impressive because First Blood had a scant 93-minute run time—as we rooted for Rambo to survive the onslaught of firepower from mean folks who hadn’t a clue what this Green Beret was capable of. John Rambo—the ultimate survivalist. My pals and I spent the rest of the fall acting out scenes in the woods, using pocketknives, of course. We weren’t quite ready to step up to the Bowie plate. We crafted spears and traps (never caught jack), and climbed through boulder fields and Laurel-laden hillsides hiding and avoiding being hit with BBs from our war-scarred 10-pump…