You Gotta Believe in Foolish Miracles

The mood was somber as Mrs. F lit the candle. I pressed play on the tape. Revelation (Mother Earth) began playing softly. Mrs. F and I placed our hands lightly on the Ouija indicator, and then I, generally considered the paranormal expert among my 8th grade friends, got to work.

"We're looking for Randy Rhoads," I said. "Randy Rhoads, are you out there?"

Nothing happened. Despite the fact that we'd arranged the Tribute tape case, all of the pictures of him we'd cut out of Metal Edge and Hit Parader magazines, and lit a candle, nothing happened. And then something happened. The indicator moved to "Yes."

"Oh my God," I mouthed to Mrs. F. Her eyes were wide.

"Are you sure it's him?" she whispered.

"I'm not sure," I whispered back. "It could be an evil spirit trying to mess with us."

"When did you die?" I asked.

The indicator spelled out March 19, 1982.

"It's definitely him," I whispered, authoritatively.

We asked Randy Rhoads how he was doing (Fine), who he'd been hanging out with (Cliff Burton and Elvis), if he was sad he'd died (Nope) and if he thought we were pretty (Yes). At one point, Mrs. F pointed out that the candle was flickering in time with the music. We were beside ourselves.

Randy Rhoads was a big part of our lives in 8th grade. And 9th grade. And maybe even a little bit of 10th. We talked to him whenever we could. When we felt it was time, we introduced him to Julie and the Heathers. We took the Ouija board everywhere -- Mrs. F's house, my house, we even hauled it up to Julie's lake house.

Eventually, we outgrew Randy Rhoads and channeled that energy into other things -- mostly living boys our own age with long hair who played in bands. In hindsight, I don't think we ever really believed we were talking to Randy Rhoads via Ouija.

It was obviously just some dead wannabe rock star pretending to be Randy Rhoads.