It's a tale of childhood innocence.

Of overcoming the differences on the surface to discover the similarities beneath. Of the bonds of friendship, and how disagreements and misunderstandings cannot break them.

As I dropped another quarter into the Jr. Pac-Man machine in The Corner Pocket last week, Jr. and Yum-Yum (the red offspring of Pac-Man's arch nemesis, Blinky) fought past the reactionary nature of Ms. Pac-Man to form a lasting friendship. And as much as this pastoral story should've lifted my spirits, instead, my mood dropped faster than the techno beat of the dance simulation game around the corner.

This wasn't where I wanted to be. I was just pouncing on the only scrap of blinking, beeping entertainment I could find, like Sonic the Hedgehog frantically rolling around the landscape in search of one ring, just one ring.

Every time I put a quarter into an arcade machine, and every time I gaze down College Avenues' endless conga line of pizza, sweatshirts, drink specials, and ... more sweatshirts, I'm wishing I could go back to Playland.

For you young tykes who are too young to remember Playland, formerly located at 350 E. College Ave., in all its glory, it was a dark, noisy slice of heaven 20 yards from campus. Room after room, crammed full of as many video games as could possibly fit. Open all day, every day; it was like passing through a time warp to the amazing arcades of our forgotten youth -- only better.

Some people will contend that it was a dank, smoky hole, but I have it on good authority that everyone who says that totally sucks at Galaga.

Much of my first semester here was spent inside this virtual Valhalla, this eight-bit Elysium. And then, one night, just as I was singing the praises of Playland, the pinball of my heart slid down a side hole and a flashing "Game Over" was forever emblazoned before my eyes.

Playland was closing, they said. Forever. I had only months left.

Frantic, I tried to pack in as much time as I could during Playland's dying days. Meals, sleep, class -- none of these obstructions came between me and one more game of Track and Field, one more go at the high score on South Park Pinball.

On the night that Playland drew its last smoky breath, I almost couldn't bear it. I'd like to say that I sat by its bedside until the final moments came and the musical, beeping din turned into the tragic tone of a flat-lined heart monitor. But the pain was just too great. One last round of Virtua Tennis, and I disappeared into the night, lost.

A semester later, the corpse of Playland had been gutted and repackaged. What could maintain the spirit of this great building?

What could draw in college kids like Playland, where, 25 years ago, young students had lined up hundreds deep around the corner to try this new machine called Pac-Man? What could replace an arcade that pre-dated Pong?

Apparently, The Family Clothesline.

If my calculations are correct, by the year 2045, College and Beaver avenues will contain nothing but 138 Penn State Clothing Stores, 18 Uni-Marts, 12 Subways, McLanahan's, and Ye Olde College Diner. And yes, it will be easier to find sweatshirts that contain the word "State" in every feasible color and font. But as much as the university benefits from this obsession with Penn State, we're losing something here.

Maybe not everyone misses Playland, and maybe I should've spent less time beating Quiz & Dragons and more time going to class freshman year. But maybe we need to throw a little money in the direction of the unique and loving businesses that make State College special.

So buy your books at Webster's Bookstore Cafe, spend your weekends at Tall Shiva Hookah Lounge, support the resurrection of the State Theatre and grab your movies at Mike's Movies & Music.

And if you see me in the Corner Pocket with a tear in my eye, pop a quarter in the machine. Let's share a game for the good old days.