Any baseball fan worth his/her salt remembers (or is at least aware of) Pete Rose’s infamous collision with catcher Ray Fosse during the 1970 All-Star game. Rose was waved home by third base coach Leo Durocher after a single by Jim Hickman. Possessed of a “win at all costs” instinct, Rose bowled Fosse over, wresting the ball from his grasp, and scoring the winning run. Fosse was never the same again, and chided Rose over such a maneuver during a game that was essentially meaningless.
About ten years later, I had my Pete Rose moment during a little league playoff game, which has gone down in history as one of my most vivid childhood memories. My other sports related memory is of a hand injury I suffered while at the plate, so this is the one I like to relive.
All of us daydream of that one heroic moment where we single handedly win the game – that moment in the sun where all eyes are upon us, and our teammates heave us on their shoulders in jubilation, like Bobby Thomson after he hit the “Giants win the pennant!” home run that sent them to the 1951 World Series.
That moment is perhaps best exemplified in the final scene of “The Natural” (best baseball film ever!), when Roy Hobbes as played by Robert Redford, hits a climactic home run to clinch a desperately needed victory. It’s a moment of shattering cinematic brilliance that manipulates that heroic desire in all of us.
The suspense builds, the music swells, and Hobbes smashes one out in slow motion. As the entire stadium erupts, he rounds the bases amidst a shower of dazzling light sprinkling down from the lights he shattered with his mighty blow. If you’re a baseball fan, there’s no greater moment (on film) than this one.
I was a better than average hitter in my day. I had natural ability at the plate and always found myself batting either first or second. Near the end of my “career,” I had gained some weight, and my strength increased to the point where I was the clean-up man. I never hit one out, but was always good for a double.
I played third base, and while I could field grounders effectively, I prayed the ball would never come my way because I couldn’t manage an accurate throw to first. If anything, I’d throw it over the first baseman’s head. Thankfully, my bat made up for my fielding inadequacies.
My memory for dates is fuzzy but I believe the historic game happened in 1980, when I was ten. Yes, my moment of glory happened early, but at least it happened.
I was part of a very strong team that made it to the playoffs that year. Unfortunately, I can’t remember much of the game leading up to my moment in the sun. I know we were losing, but were still very much in the game.
During the late innings, I came up and smacked one of my trademark line drives, but it was only enough for a long single. With runners at first and second, and two out, the next batter hit a screaming line drive that was definitely enough to score at least one run.
Here’s where my memory shifts gears into slow motion. I knew I couldn’t score, but the third base coach was waving me home. I knew I was a dead duck at the plate, but to hold at third meant disobeying the coach. No matter how stupid the direction, that was verboten.
I can remember trying in that split second to shake my head, "No," but he was flailing like a madman to send me home. Not only would I be out, the rally would die with me, as there were already two outs.
I was a goner on so many levels. The ball beat me home by a mile and I never learned how to slide, so I couldn’t hope to get in under the tag. Instantly, I flashed to the climactic moment of the 1970 All-Star game, and I knew what I had to do.
I crashed into the catcher with all the fury of Charlie Hustle himself. No doubt the young man was expecting a slide, but I was drawing on my vast store of baseball knowledge to turn a hopeless situation to my favor. I really doubt the kid was as much of a student of the game as I was. Bowling over the catcher in a little league game was apparently entirely legal.
We were both stunned by the impact, and he, of course, dropped the ball. The slow motion continued as I reached out to touch home plate before he regained his composure. I can’t remember for sure, but I believe the ump called me out, but quickly recanted, screaming, “Safe!” several times to be abundantly clear.
The next few seconds were awash with insane jubilation. Just like in the fantasy, my teammates held me aloft briefly, screaming and hugging me. I can vividly recall my Dad jumping up and down in the stands, as though the Brooklyn Dodgers had just won the World Series. My Mom was pretty happy too.
It was such a chaotic scene that no one realized the runner behind me (who had driven me in) was tagged out at the plate. Obviously, the third base coach got greedy and tried to sneak one more in, but the catcher was prepared. The inning (and the rally) were over, and truth be known, we lost the game, but it was hard to shake that joyous feeling.
The one glorious moment was seared into my brain. 28 years later it remains a potent memory that always brings a smile to my face. True, I was ten years old. It wasn’t a home run that won the game, but for those few seconds I was the hero. Everyone was screaming my name. Never more would I have to fantasize of such a moment. It really happened.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Geekerati
Around the year 2000 something happened that I never expected to see. Super heroes became cool. Thanks in large part to the “X-Men” film, and cemented two years later, with the release of “Spider-Man,” super heroes attained rock star status in American pop culture.
Oh sure, now they do.
I am 38 years old and have been reading comics since….well, since I could read. In fact, comics, God bless them, taught me how to read. Let’s not take anything away from my parents and teachers, who surely got the ball rolling, but comics made me love reading, and thanks to them, I read and spoke at much greater levels than my peers did in kindergarten and first grade.
The first memory I have of comics is of being 4-5 years old and going with my Dad to the local stationery store every Saturday morning with a .50 allowance burning a hole in my pocket. Back then, that bought me two comics! I can’t remember what prompted me to start buying them exactly, but I probably correlated them with their Saturday morning cartoon counterparts.
I instantly fell in love with the heroic icons of Marvel Comics. While I later came to appreciate the DC pantheon my first allegiance was, and always will be, to Marvel characters like Spider-Man, The Incredible Hulk and Captain America.
I was entranced when The Incredible Hulk was realized as a live action TV series in 1977. I was the perfect age for the show. Of course I loved seeing Lou Ferrigno as the big green guy, taking out bad guys, but as time wore on I came to appreciate the subtle grace of star Bill Bixby, as tormented hero David Banner. It’s a portrayal that has stayed with me for years.
I will never forget the night of the premiere. I was so excited that I spent the afternoon in my basement, pretending I was the Hulk. I got a bit too excited, and smashed the tv antenna. My mother was not happy, and forbade me from watching the show. I was utterly devastated. Seeing this, she relented (as was her nature) and allowed me to start watching just in time for the very first "Hulk out."
Unfortunately, back in the late 70s, comics were far from the in thing. I attended a grammar school populated by the children of tough, blue collar families. Despite the fact the school drew its kids from quaint, suburban middle class neighborhoods, the kids (mainly the boys) were a hard-nosed, bullying lot.
My friends and I, all of whom could accurately be described as geeky to varying degrees, bore the brunt of their torment and insults for several years, before it ultimately died down around the 7th grade. Not all of us read comics but our pursuits ranged from those new fangled gadgets known as computers to video games to Dungeons and Dragons, etc. You get the picture.
Ironically, for several of these years, I played little league (quite well as a matter of fact). I was a savage line drive hitter, and guarding the hot corner, could scoop up any ball hit my way (although I couldn’t throw to first worth a lick). However, because I played baseball in a different town than where I went to school none of the little apes knew I was something of a jock. They associated me with the comics and nothing else.
Thankfully, the torment was more verbal than it ever was physical. Still, it made grammar school a pretty horrendous experience for me, but for that strong group of friends who kept me going.
Things got a bit better in high school, but reading comics was hardly a badge of honor. By this time I had given up on playing sports after receiving an injury that left me fearful every time I came to bat, and had a bad experience with a coach who treated me unfairly.
In high school, it was refreshing to meet at least one other person outside my small circle of grammar school comic-reading friends who shared the obsession, and I’m pleased to say we’ve been friends for the last 25 years. I also did not get the sense he and his friends had been ostracized the way my friends and I had for reading comics. I guess every school had different dynamics.
As I said, I did my best to hide my geekier tendencies in high school. One friend used to pick up my weekly books and would slip them to me on the sly before classes began as if we were consummating a deal for illicit substances. To be fair, our school was extremely strict so we probably would have gotten in trouble. I would read them in study hall, hoping no one notice what was underneath my textbook.
By the time college rolled around the distinctions between jock, geek, etc. were not nearly as clear cut, and the social derision one felt for indulging in these hobbies was pretty nonexistent, unless you were a total and utter social misfit. It was refreshing to meet a group of people who really embraced the “geek chic.”
Concurrently, I and my grammar school buddies had started our dating lives, and were stunned to find that the girls we met didn’t even care we were geeks. Not to speak for them, but I think they found us unique and somewhat amusing, compared to what they were used to.
I never stopped reading comics. As the years progressed I read more and more, and my tastes expanded beyond the original staples. I also spent buckets of money on them that I would never recoup sadly. Throughout all this time heroes remained in the purview of both children and hard-nosed collectors like myself, who stuck with these characters after childhood.
Despite blockbusters movies once a decade, like the original “Superman,” in 1978 with Christopher Reeve, and the original 1989 “Batman” starring Michael Keaton, and their attendant sequels, super heroes couldn’t crack the mainstream.
That is, until the year 2000. Fox gambled on a very high-profile “X-Men” film, with an A-list director, top flight talent and state of the art special effects. It hit big, and even though it did not crack “Batman’s” stratospheric numbers, it did well enough to spawn an entire generation of super hero films. By this time, the technology of special effects had caught up with the abilities of these fantastic characters, and they could be fully realized on screen.
I was not really an X-Men fan growing up, and while I loved the film, I did not feel the same joy others felt at seeing these characters realized in a live-action setting. For me, that occurred two years later with the release of “Spider-Man.” I’ll admit it – the first time I saw Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker using his new found powers I felt a surge of joy that nearly brought me to tears. I had waited for that moment for 25 years and it was executed brilliantly with total reverence to the source material.
For the next eight years, to varying degrees, a host of these films have brought me back to those childhood days. I felt a similar surge this year when “The Incredible Hulk” was released, and the Green Goliath uttered that time-honored phrase he’s so well known for. You know what it is, don't make me repeat it.
As super heroes have become fodder for Hollywood blockbusters and accepted by the mainstream (and I’m sure by all the children of those who bullied me in grammar school) I find myself sneering “I told you so,” to anyone who will listen.
I don’t want to sound bitter about my childhood. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. A good portion of the people who went through it with me are still around (and still reading comics!) I’ve sold a good portion of my collection, which was sad, but I just don’t have the room anymore. Plus, I still have every comic I ever owned, and many thousands more, stored digitally. I also kept hundreds of physical copies – mainly the childhood favorites. I could never part with those.
Comics have been a wonderful constant in my life. Thanks to them I learned to read well. I had a better understanding of the “big words” at a much earlier age. They provided a great escape to a world populated by heroes dedicated to the common good. That these characters now enjoy mainstream appeal is sort of the icing on the cake. All the films are rife with sly in-jokes that only those “in the know,” like me, would understand, and that makes the experience that much more satisfying.
I can’t imagine a time when I’ll never read comics, as frustrated as I get with today’s story lines and the trend toward darker tales that supposedly mirror the world we live in now. They are a tangible connection to my childhood and a thread that runs throughout my life that I embrace wholeheartedly. If that makes me a geek then so be it.
Oh sure, now they do.
I am 38 years old and have been reading comics since….well, since I could read. In fact, comics, God bless them, taught me how to read. Let’s not take anything away from my parents and teachers, who surely got the ball rolling, but comics made me love reading, and thanks to them, I read and spoke at much greater levels than my peers did in kindergarten and first grade.
The first memory I have of comics is of being 4-5 years old and going with my Dad to the local stationery store every Saturday morning with a .50 allowance burning a hole in my pocket. Back then, that bought me two comics! I can’t remember what prompted me to start buying them exactly, but I probably correlated them with their Saturday morning cartoon counterparts.
I instantly fell in love with the heroic icons of Marvel Comics. While I later came to appreciate the DC pantheon my first allegiance was, and always will be, to Marvel characters like Spider-Man, The Incredible Hulk and Captain America.
I was entranced when The Incredible Hulk was realized as a live action TV series in 1977. I was the perfect age for the show. Of course I loved seeing Lou Ferrigno as the big green guy, taking out bad guys, but as time wore on I came to appreciate the subtle grace of star Bill Bixby, as tormented hero David Banner. It’s a portrayal that has stayed with me for years.
I will never forget the night of the premiere. I was so excited that I spent the afternoon in my basement, pretending I was the Hulk. I got a bit too excited, and smashed the tv antenna. My mother was not happy, and forbade me from watching the show. I was utterly devastated. Seeing this, she relented (as was her nature) and allowed me to start watching just in time for the very first "Hulk out."
Unfortunately, back in the late 70s, comics were far from the in thing. I attended a grammar school populated by the children of tough, blue collar families. Despite the fact the school drew its kids from quaint, suburban middle class neighborhoods, the kids (mainly the boys) were a hard-nosed, bullying lot.
My friends and I, all of whom could accurately be described as geeky to varying degrees, bore the brunt of their torment and insults for several years, before it ultimately died down around the 7th grade. Not all of us read comics but our pursuits ranged from those new fangled gadgets known as computers to video games to Dungeons and Dragons, etc. You get the picture.
Ironically, for several of these years, I played little league (quite well as a matter of fact). I was a savage line drive hitter, and guarding the hot corner, could scoop up any ball hit my way (although I couldn’t throw to first worth a lick). However, because I played baseball in a different town than where I went to school none of the little apes knew I was something of a jock. They associated me with the comics and nothing else.
Thankfully, the torment was more verbal than it ever was physical. Still, it made grammar school a pretty horrendous experience for me, but for that strong group of friends who kept me going.
Things got a bit better in high school, but reading comics was hardly a badge of honor. By this time I had given up on playing sports after receiving an injury that left me fearful every time I came to bat, and had a bad experience with a coach who treated me unfairly.
In high school, it was refreshing to meet at least one other person outside my small circle of grammar school comic-reading friends who shared the obsession, and I’m pleased to say we’ve been friends for the last 25 years. I also did not get the sense he and his friends had been ostracized the way my friends and I had for reading comics. I guess every school had different dynamics.
As I said, I did my best to hide my geekier tendencies in high school. One friend used to pick up my weekly books and would slip them to me on the sly before classes began as if we were consummating a deal for illicit substances. To be fair, our school was extremely strict so we probably would have gotten in trouble. I would read them in study hall, hoping no one notice what was underneath my textbook.
By the time college rolled around the distinctions between jock, geek, etc. were not nearly as clear cut, and the social derision one felt for indulging in these hobbies was pretty nonexistent, unless you were a total and utter social misfit. It was refreshing to meet a group of people who really embraced the “geek chic.”
Concurrently, I and my grammar school buddies had started our dating lives, and were stunned to find that the girls we met didn’t even care we were geeks. Not to speak for them, but I think they found us unique and somewhat amusing, compared to what they were used to.
I never stopped reading comics. As the years progressed I read more and more, and my tastes expanded beyond the original staples. I also spent buckets of money on them that I would never recoup sadly. Throughout all this time heroes remained in the purview of both children and hard-nosed collectors like myself, who stuck with these characters after childhood.
Despite blockbusters movies once a decade, like the original “Superman,” in 1978 with Christopher Reeve, and the original 1989 “Batman” starring Michael Keaton, and their attendant sequels, super heroes couldn’t crack the mainstream.
That is, until the year 2000. Fox gambled on a very high-profile “X-Men” film, with an A-list director, top flight talent and state of the art special effects. It hit big, and even though it did not crack “Batman’s” stratospheric numbers, it did well enough to spawn an entire generation of super hero films. By this time, the technology of special effects had caught up with the abilities of these fantastic characters, and they could be fully realized on screen.
I was not really an X-Men fan growing up, and while I loved the film, I did not feel the same joy others felt at seeing these characters realized in a live-action setting. For me, that occurred two years later with the release of “Spider-Man.” I’ll admit it – the first time I saw Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker using his new found powers I felt a surge of joy that nearly brought me to tears. I had waited for that moment for 25 years and it was executed brilliantly with total reverence to the source material.
For the next eight years, to varying degrees, a host of these films have brought me back to those childhood days. I felt a similar surge this year when “The Incredible Hulk” was released, and the Green Goliath uttered that time-honored phrase he’s so well known for. You know what it is, don't make me repeat it.
As super heroes have become fodder for Hollywood blockbusters and accepted by the mainstream (and I’m sure by all the children of those who bullied me in grammar school) I find myself sneering “I told you so,” to anyone who will listen.
I don’t want to sound bitter about my childhood. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. A good portion of the people who went through it with me are still around (and still reading comics!) I’ve sold a good portion of my collection, which was sad, but I just don’t have the room anymore. Plus, I still have every comic I ever owned, and many thousands more, stored digitally. I also kept hundreds of physical copies – mainly the childhood favorites. I could never part with those.
Comics have been a wonderful constant in my life. Thanks to them I learned to read well. I had a better understanding of the “big words” at a much earlier age. They provided a great escape to a world populated by heroes dedicated to the common good. That these characters now enjoy mainstream appeal is sort of the icing on the cake. All the films are rife with sly in-jokes that only those “in the know,” like me, would understand, and that makes the experience that much more satisfying.
I can’t imagine a time when I’ll never read comics, as frustrated as I get with today’s story lines and the trend toward darker tales that supposedly mirror the world we live in now. They are a tangible connection to my childhood and a thread that runs throughout my life that I embrace wholeheartedly. If that makes me a geek then so be it.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Valedictory Validation
Back in 1996, I was asked to be the valedictorian at my grammar school’s commencement ceremony. It was an incredible honor – one of the highlights of my life really. As I stood there about to deliver my speech, in front of approximately 300 people, I was immediately struck by the journey it took to get me to this very unexpected place.
In the span of about 18 months, I experienced a roller coaster of highs and lows in my life that I would not care to repeat anytime soon, or ever. That’s certainly not realistic, and when I reveal the traumas I experienced, I can imagine more than a few readers being like, “And?”
The year 1994 was pretty rough for me. In fact, to date, it was the worst. I’m speaking on a personal level. The hardships I felt then were nothing in comparison to the death of a loved one, a debilitating illness, divorce, etc. However, these moments represented the first time I felt truly despondent, and it took me a long time to recover from them. I certainly don’t want to imply these difficulties were worse than anyone else’s – they were simply the first time I felt beaten.
I’ve been enormously fortunate throughout each phase of my life – raised by loving parents who sacrificed everything to make my life easier, devoted friends who have stood the test of time, a wife I certainly don’t deserve, and a fulfilling career that allows me to utilize my finest skills.
I didn’t have to work very hard to get where I am. I often say I “backed in” to my career, having only the vaguest notion of what I wanted to do (i.e. write, but write what? For whom? Where?) Foresight was not among my repertoire of personality traits. Coupled with an unhealthy fear of change, I was a ticking time bomb in most respects.
This time bomb was set to go off in 1992, when I graduated college. I really had a great experience in college, and since I got involved fairly late in the game, I felt robbed – as though someone else conspired against me to steal my valuable time there, when it was no one’s fault but my own.
As I much as I hated anything associated with school like studying, tests, busywork, etc. it was the norm for 17 years. Sure, the venue changed every so often, but the process did not. Some kids have a very clear idea of where they want to go in life – a passion that drives them. My Dad knew he wanted to be a teacher since grammar school. He not only accomplished that goal, but he went very far in his profession, earning much respect along the way.
I had vague ideas about my future that vacillated wildly. I wanted to be a cartoonist (couldn’t draw), and a broadcaster (I could speak but was too scared to do it as a profession). I loved the media in all its forms, so when college came around it made perfect sense to major in Communications.
Unfortunately, once I got there I decided to major in Girlfriends 101. I was in a new relationship at the time and in a state of such bliss I couldn’t see straight. I also had a part-time job where all my friends worked (as did the girlfriend), so why stay on campus? The great majority of my friends stayed home for college. No way was I going to give all that up just as life finally got interesting! Plus, being an only child did not exactly foster a desire for me to share my living space with a stranger!
I was a commuter student in every sense of the word. I went to school for class, and zoomed home as quickly as possible, either for work, or to meet my girlfriend. It wasn’t until sophomore year that I took the first tentative steps toward my future, when I entered the offices of the student newspaper, asking if they needed writers.
I soon became the newspaper’s movie critic and for me, it was the best of all possible worlds. I was getting involved in a way that required no additional time be spent on campus! I went to the movies all the time anyway – why not write about them? Still, it made my parents relatively happy.
Part of me also knew that my girlfriend was ready to shake the dust off this crummy little town as soon as she possibly could, and that I was history the minute she filled out her college applications. Only then, did I consider getting more involved on campus. Like clockwork she left and I was bereft. I took some more proactive steps that included getting a part-time job at the campus television station, and joining the TV Club at the same time.
Those were giant leaps, to be sure, but I still did not go as far as I could have. You see, just as quickly as the first girlfriend left, the second one entered the picture. In fact, there was a certain overlap in the death knell of my first relationship with the tentative beginnings of the second one. Originally, I assumed my next relationship would be borne out of campus life. Instead, it came from the same place as the first, further cementing my ties to “home.”
So my involvement on campus was tentative and hesitant at best. I did the bare minimum while I was there so I could race home to - you guessed it, the job and the chick. I worked one class each semester. Sometimes, I would zoom home for some early afternoon QT with my girlfriend before racing back to school and (barely) making the class I was assigned to work. My new friends at school were somewhat incredulous at my behavior and rightly so. Hey, they all got jobs when they graduated!
For the next two years the pattern was the same. I felt a certain pull toward campus because I really liked the people I was working with, and we became a very close knit group. However, that became problematic in terms of my relationship with the girlfriend, as I developed a close friendship with a female colleague who tried to keep me there as much as possible.
In essence, I started leading a double life. The morning and early afternoons were devoted to school, and the rest of the day to home (girlfriend/job/buddies). I was getting so swept up in the operatic dramas encircling me that a job was the last thing on my mind. I was upset that I was graduating but I felt like, as things ramped up with my friend, I needed to get out for the sake of my relationship.
My friends were all doing internships, readying themselves for the future, and securing themselves in a way I certainly was not. The end of school was an explosion of drama that I kept away from my girlfriend (although she knew something was up), and what preoccupied me then was, "How can I keep these two disparate worlds from colliding?" I made a conscious decision to commit myself to her and to the world that held my first allegiance – home. That’s all well and good if you’re just talking about a relationship, but I was staying put – not looking for a job, treating my part-time job as though it were somehow a full-time job with benefits and a future. I was in full avoidance mode.
My attempts at finding work were half-hearted at best. I was sending resumes to “dream jobs,” which I suppose everyone does, but all I got out of it was a collection of rejection letters on cool corporate stationery. My lack of movement did not go unnoticed, but I have to say my parents and my girlfriend did give me a wide berth at first. All that did was allow me to become more comfortable with an unhealthy situation.
Months dragged into years, and I managed to get one job as a proofreader (note to all you writers out there – proofing skills do not go hand in hand with writing skills – they are two completely different animals!) The situation I found myself in was ugly. I was being employed by a small family-run company that published test preparation guides for civil service exams.
It was run by a shrewish mother and her recently-divorced son. The employees were a collection of never will be's who remind me of the cast of characters from “The Office,” only not as endearing. They had this distant, far away look in their eyes, and it was safe to say all of them had missed the boat. Was this my future? I was a (modestly) talented, college educated writer, and I knew I was better than this situation.
Still, I was not beating the bushes to make things happen. I grew complacent and the longer I avoided the job market, the more I came to fear it. All around me people were getting on with their lives. People younger than me were finding jobs and starting their lives. I started to stick out like a sore thumb.
Another more promising situation presented itself when I was hired as a reporter for a local community newsgroup. I soon learned that I was not cut out for this kind of work. Reporters need to uncover the grit beneath the surface. They need to hound people who don’t want to talk to them, all for peanuts.
It did not take long for them to realize I was not a good fit. To their credit they tried to find a place for me, but I botched a few stories, and basically wrote my ticket out of there.
So here I was, two years from graduation, and getting to an age where people would start to wonder what was wrong with me. In retrospect I’m surprised the girlfriend held on as long as she did, but in the end, she saw my situation as hopeless, and gave me the boot not two months later (that wasn’t the only reason but it certainly was a contributing factor).
In a symbolic sense, I was on skid row. I blamed no one but myself, but that didn’t stop me from holding quite a few pity parties. I had finally hit the bottom, and as clichéd as it sounds, there’s nowhere to go from there but up.
This was the moment in my life where I lost all faith in my ability to be successful. Throughout all of it I knew it was my own fault. I never denied the reality of the situation, but thankfully those around me refrained from reminding me of that fact – quite the opposite in fact – my parents and friends were incredibly supportive.
Slowly I crawled out of this wreck, and I wish I could say that I completely changed tactics and became this incredibly self-motivated go-getter. Divine providence or blind luck entered the picture, and my fortunes changed almost overnight. I got a job at another newspaper, and while I failed miserably in my first stint as a reporter, this environment was much better suited to my personality. Consequently, I embraced my role with vigor (even though I was paid peanuts!)
There was a quantum shift in my fortunes – I soon met my future wife, and I was finally traveling the road of life with the rest of my peers, instead of watching it go by. The job gave me an excuse to revisit many of the formative places of my youth, and I hit upon the idea of doing a first-person account of visiting my grammar school.
I was welcomed back there with open arms and was treated like the conquering hero, being held up to students as an example to be followed. Me! If only they knew where I was the year before! About six months later, the school principal (and a former teacher of mine) invited me to be the valedictorian at their graduation ceremony.
It was one of the most humbling moments of my life. Eighteen months earlier, I considered myself an abject failure, and now I would be addressing the next generation, trying to impart some words of wisdom. I avoided as many clichés and platitudes as I possibly could, and spoke to them from the heart, as someone who was not that much older than they were, who recalled vividly what they were going through, and who was still finding his way.
The speech killed, if I do say so myself. A neighbor begged me to give her the text and it was published in the parish bulletin shortly thereafter.
While I don’t recommend the path I took to get where I am, you have to wonder if everything really does happen for a reason, because I wouldn’t change anything. Those bumps and bruises I got along the way taught me more than anything that preceded them. And really that’s all they were – bumps and bruises that healed. They were hard lessons that hopefully made me stronger.
I have witnessed people I care about very deeply endure far worse than what I did during that time in my life, and I would never seek to draw a comparison or hold myself up like some kind of champion, but the experience proved to me that it’s those moments where we find our true strength, where we either fold up and die, or we soldier on and become better for the experience.
I think I’ll save this post for when the shit really hits the fan.
In the span of about 18 months, I experienced a roller coaster of highs and lows in my life that I would not care to repeat anytime soon, or ever. That’s certainly not realistic, and when I reveal the traumas I experienced, I can imagine more than a few readers being like, “And?”
The year 1994 was pretty rough for me. In fact, to date, it was the worst. I’m speaking on a personal level. The hardships I felt then were nothing in comparison to the death of a loved one, a debilitating illness, divorce, etc. However, these moments represented the first time I felt truly despondent, and it took me a long time to recover from them. I certainly don’t want to imply these difficulties were worse than anyone else’s – they were simply the first time I felt beaten.
I’ve been enormously fortunate throughout each phase of my life – raised by loving parents who sacrificed everything to make my life easier, devoted friends who have stood the test of time, a wife I certainly don’t deserve, and a fulfilling career that allows me to utilize my finest skills.
I didn’t have to work very hard to get where I am. I often say I “backed in” to my career, having only the vaguest notion of what I wanted to do (i.e. write, but write what? For whom? Where?) Foresight was not among my repertoire of personality traits. Coupled with an unhealthy fear of change, I was a ticking time bomb in most respects.
This time bomb was set to go off in 1992, when I graduated college. I really had a great experience in college, and since I got involved fairly late in the game, I felt robbed – as though someone else conspired against me to steal my valuable time there, when it was no one’s fault but my own.
As I much as I hated anything associated with school like studying, tests, busywork, etc. it was the norm for 17 years. Sure, the venue changed every so often, but the process did not. Some kids have a very clear idea of where they want to go in life – a passion that drives them. My Dad knew he wanted to be a teacher since grammar school. He not only accomplished that goal, but he went very far in his profession, earning much respect along the way.
I had vague ideas about my future that vacillated wildly. I wanted to be a cartoonist (couldn’t draw), and a broadcaster (I could speak but was too scared to do it as a profession). I loved the media in all its forms, so when college came around it made perfect sense to major in Communications.
Unfortunately, once I got there I decided to major in Girlfriends 101. I was in a new relationship at the time and in a state of such bliss I couldn’t see straight. I also had a part-time job where all my friends worked (as did the girlfriend), so why stay on campus? The great majority of my friends stayed home for college. No way was I going to give all that up just as life finally got interesting! Plus, being an only child did not exactly foster a desire for me to share my living space with a stranger!
I was a commuter student in every sense of the word. I went to school for class, and zoomed home as quickly as possible, either for work, or to meet my girlfriend. It wasn’t until sophomore year that I took the first tentative steps toward my future, when I entered the offices of the student newspaper, asking if they needed writers.
I soon became the newspaper’s movie critic and for me, it was the best of all possible worlds. I was getting involved in a way that required no additional time be spent on campus! I went to the movies all the time anyway – why not write about them? Still, it made my parents relatively happy.
Part of me also knew that my girlfriend was ready to shake the dust off this crummy little town as soon as she possibly could, and that I was history the minute she filled out her college applications. Only then, did I consider getting more involved on campus. Like clockwork she left and I was bereft. I took some more proactive steps that included getting a part-time job at the campus television station, and joining the TV Club at the same time.
Those were giant leaps, to be sure, but I still did not go as far as I could have. You see, just as quickly as the first girlfriend left, the second one entered the picture. In fact, there was a certain overlap in the death knell of my first relationship with the tentative beginnings of the second one. Originally, I assumed my next relationship would be borne out of campus life. Instead, it came from the same place as the first, further cementing my ties to “home.”
So my involvement on campus was tentative and hesitant at best. I did the bare minimum while I was there so I could race home to - you guessed it, the job and the chick. I worked one class each semester. Sometimes, I would zoom home for some early afternoon QT with my girlfriend before racing back to school and (barely) making the class I was assigned to work. My new friends at school were somewhat incredulous at my behavior and rightly so. Hey, they all got jobs when they graduated!
For the next two years the pattern was the same. I felt a certain pull toward campus because I really liked the people I was working with, and we became a very close knit group. However, that became problematic in terms of my relationship with the girlfriend, as I developed a close friendship with a female colleague who tried to keep me there as much as possible.
In essence, I started leading a double life. The morning and early afternoons were devoted to school, and the rest of the day to home (girlfriend/job/buddies). I was getting so swept up in the operatic dramas encircling me that a job was the last thing on my mind. I was upset that I was graduating but I felt like, as things ramped up with my friend, I needed to get out for the sake of my relationship.
My friends were all doing internships, readying themselves for the future, and securing themselves in a way I certainly was not. The end of school was an explosion of drama that I kept away from my girlfriend (although she knew something was up), and what preoccupied me then was, "How can I keep these two disparate worlds from colliding?" I made a conscious decision to commit myself to her and to the world that held my first allegiance – home. That’s all well and good if you’re just talking about a relationship, but I was staying put – not looking for a job, treating my part-time job as though it were somehow a full-time job with benefits and a future. I was in full avoidance mode.
My attempts at finding work were half-hearted at best. I was sending resumes to “dream jobs,” which I suppose everyone does, but all I got out of it was a collection of rejection letters on cool corporate stationery. My lack of movement did not go unnoticed, but I have to say my parents and my girlfriend did give me a wide berth at first. All that did was allow me to become more comfortable with an unhealthy situation.
Months dragged into years, and I managed to get one job as a proofreader (note to all you writers out there – proofing skills do not go hand in hand with writing skills – they are two completely different animals!) The situation I found myself in was ugly. I was being employed by a small family-run company that published test preparation guides for civil service exams.
It was run by a shrewish mother and her recently-divorced son. The employees were a collection of never will be's who remind me of the cast of characters from “The Office,” only not as endearing. They had this distant, far away look in their eyes, and it was safe to say all of them had missed the boat. Was this my future? I was a (modestly) talented, college educated writer, and I knew I was better than this situation.
Still, I was not beating the bushes to make things happen. I grew complacent and the longer I avoided the job market, the more I came to fear it. All around me people were getting on with their lives. People younger than me were finding jobs and starting their lives. I started to stick out like a sore thumb.
Another more promising situation presented itself when I was hired as a reporter for a local community newsgroup. I soon learned that I was not cut out for this kind of work. Reporters need to uncover the grit beneath the surface. They need to hound people who don’t want to talk to them, all for peanuts.
It did not take long for them to realize I was not a good fit. To their credit they tried to find a place for me, but I botched a few stories, and basically wrote my ticket out of there.
So here I was, two years from graduation, and getting to an age where people would start to wonder what was wrong with me. In retrospect I’m surprised the girlfriend held on as long as she did, but in the end, she saw my situation as hopeless, and gave me the boot not two months later (that wasn’t the only reason but it certainly was a contributing factor).
In a symbolic sense, I was on skid row. I blamed no one but myself, but that didn’t stop me from holding quite a few pity parties. I had finally hit the bottom, and as clichéd as it sounds, there’s nowhere to go from there but up.
This was the moment in my life where I lost all faith in my ability to be successful. Throughout all of it I knew it was my own fault. I never denied the reality of the situation, but thankfully those around me refrained from reminding me of that fact – quite the opposite in fact – my parents and friends were incredibly supportive.
Slowly I crawled out of this wreck, and I wish I could say that I completely changed tactics and became this incredibly self-motivated go-getter. Divine providence or blind luck entered the picture, and my fortunes changed almost overnight. I got a job at another newspaper, and while I failed miserably in my first stint as a reporter, this environment was much better suited to my personality. Consequently, I embraced my role with vigor (even though I was paid peanuts!)
There was a quantum shift in my fortunes – I soon met my future wife, and I was finally traveling the road of life with the rest of my peers, instead of watching it go by. The job gave me an excuse to revisit many of the formative places of my youth, and I hit upon the idea of doing a first-person account of visiting my grammar school.
I was welcomed back there with open arms and was treated like the conquering hero, being held up to students as an example to be followed. Me! If only they knew where I was the year before! About six months later, the school principal (and a former teacher of mine) invited me to be the valedictorian at their graduation ceremony.
It was one of the most humbling moments of my life. Eighteen months earlier, I considered myself an abject failure, and now I would be addressing the next generation, trying to impart some words of wisdom. I avoided as many clichés and platitudes as I possibly could, and spoke to them from the heart, as someone who was not that much older than they were, who recalled vividly what they were going through, and who was still finding his way.
The speech killed, if I do say so myself. A neighbor begged me to give her the text and it was published in the parish bulletin shortly thereafter.
While I don’t recommend the path I took to get where I am, you have to wonder if everything really does happen for a reason, because I wouldn’t change anything. Those bumps and bruises I got along the way taught me more than anything that preceded them. And really that’s all they were – bumps and bruises that healed. They were hard lessons that hopefully made me stronger.
I have witnessed people I care about very deeply endure far worse than what I did during that time in my life, and I would never seek to draw a comparison or hold myself up like some kind of champion, but the experience proved to me that it’s those moments where we find our true strength, where we either fold up and die, or we soldier on and become better for the experience.
I think I’ll save this post for when the shit really hits the fan.
"I can see Russia from my house!"
Believe me when I say I have no hidden agenda by posting this video. I think it's just freakin' hilarious and want to share it with the two or three people in the country who haven't seen it yet. I hope Tina Fey can be enticed back to "SNL" as a recurring guest star because she was born to plan Sarah Palin.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
One Hit Wonder
When I graduated college I had one goal in mind. No, silly, it wasn’t getting a job! Why would I want to do that?? I wanted to get an article published in a national magazine, and committed myself to that objective as wholeheartedly as I should have done with the job search (sometimes I think this blog has become a monument to my own stupidity).
At that time, all I knew was that I wanted to be a writer. It was the only thing I did well, and the only thing I had any sort of natural aptitude for. I had no head for math or science, and while I enjoyed the liberal arts “stuff,” like English and Social Studies, I had no intention of teaching.
Writing always came naturally, and I enjoyed it immensely. I was the type of person who was juiced about writing the book report, not reading the book. I took to writing scores of letters to anyone I had an excuse to write them to (my apologies to all those ex-girlfriends inundated with correspondence as well as “away at college” friends – no one could ever keep up with me!)
In some respects, I believe I was destined for another age, where written correspondence was not only the norm; it was a way of life. I look at the incredibly prolific correspondence between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, and long for that kind of a relationship with a "pen pal." Any takers?
While it’s generally accepted I’m a pretty good talker, I despise opening up about myself (which I’m kind of doing right now), and the best way to glean any insight into what makes me tick (if someone cares) is to read a letter from me. I’m too protective and defensive in verbal situations, but the parlance of the written word is my true element.
As usual, I’m straying. Unfortunately, despite the persistent encouragement of both my parents and my girlfriend at that time, I did nothing by way of preparation for the real world. I was on a collision course with reality, and the faster it approached, the more I denied its’ impending arrival. I worked at my part-time job as if it was a full-time job, hung out with my friends and girlfriend, and considered graduate school only as a way of staving off the inevitability of finding a job and working eight hours a day.
I grant you it was not a healthy attitude and I paid dearly for it, in the end. However, I had one ray of light amidst all the turmoil that would eventually engulf my life. As I noted earlier, I was determined to prove my worth as a writer, and have an article printed in a nationally syndicated publication right out of the gate. You know what? I did. And while I may go down in history as the Right Said Fred of the publishing world, I did get my 15 minutes in the (admittedly narrow) spotlight.
During those years my interest in film exploded. I always loved movies, but thanks to the influence of older, wiser mentors I began to explore the world of films beyond my generation. I was obsessed with horror films of the 30s and 40s, and the undisputed King of Horror, Boris Karloff.
At the behest of a good friend I devoured as much of Karloff’s work as was available at the time, traveling the highways and byways of “grey market” video recordings to obtain as much as possible. In later years, the Internet helped me expand this collection exponentially, but at this time I was limited to what was commercially available, as well as what was being offered by collectors in the back of horror magazines.
One particular period in Karloff’s filmography entranced me like no other. In the mid-forties he teamed with RKO B-Unit producer Val Lewton, to produce a trilogy of films that has become the gold standard of horror of that time. Now, a lot of ink has been spilled on Karloff by more talented writers than me, people who have conducted exhaustive scholarship on his life. However, at the time, not much had been written about this particular moment in his career. In later years, interest in Val Lewton exploded, but for its’ day, my idea was a novel one.
I contacted the editor of Filmfax magazine, the premier “film nostalgia” publication of its day (and still going strong, I might add). In a letter, I enthusiastically pitched my brilliant idea, and then hoped for the best. At the same time I began my half-hearted attempts to secure “real” employment, beginning with certain dream publications that I had no real hope of ever cracking.
To my great astonishment, the editor of Filmfax responded to my letter with a phone call, and told me to go ahead and write the piece. Of course, there were no promises made as to its’ publication. I was elated at the prospect though, and immediately set out to craft my masterpiece.
Since I worked part-time in a library I had a great deal of research material at my fingertips. However, it was a public library, so the material I unearthed was not as in depth as I hoped. I uncovered much on Karloff, but the information available on Lewton was sparse.
If I remember correctly, the entire process took about two months. My horror-loving friend and mentor proofed the article, and I sent it off. As the rejection letters piled up for my dream jobs, the hope that this article would see the light of day was all I had to go on. My ego was deflated on an almost daily basis by what arrived in our mailbox, and I soon realized I had no hope of finding a writing position in the arena of film- or comic-related publications.
I simply had not done the requisite work before I graduated to even get my foot in the door anywhere. Most of my friends from college applied for, and received internships at places they wanted to work. To me an internship meant lots of work for no money – that was it. Yes, I’m fully aware of how shortsighted and myopic that view was. Like I said, I paid the price for my lack of vision.
During that time I spent the early hours of the day at home, pretending I was still in school so my boss at the library would not fire me. He told us that once we graduated college our jobs expired, and I was terrified my head was now on the block. I concocted a story about being a “super senior,” and that I had dropped too many courses to graduate on time, thus necessitating one more semester of college. I figured that bought me at least another 6-8 months of gainful employment. It turns out I bought myself another 15 years, but that’s another story.
On one of these “pretending days” the phone rang and my mother answered it. It was the editor of Filmfax wanting to speak with me. Immediately I thought, “She wouldn’t be calling if this were a rejection.” I was right – she claimed to love the piece and promised it would be published “in about six months.” I barely contained myself while speaking to her, but the minute I hung up I screamed for joy.
Here was the proof. Here was the validation I so desperately sought. I was going to be published in a national magazine, and this meant (to me, anyway) I was a professional writer. Of course, I shared my elation with anyone who would listen, and it made for a heady few days that gave a brief respite from the soul crushing job hunt.
I think I purchased every issue of the bi-monthly magazine (whether any article interested me or not) in the hopes seeing my piece advertised in the next issue. As the months dragged on there was no mention made, and soon despair set in. I wrote the editor inquiring as to the status of the article, only to learn she left her position. That made me a little nervous, but I was assured by her replacement that the piece was still slated to appear.
Months dragged into years, and, despite encouraging words from the new editor, I despaired of ever seeing my masterwork on the newsstands. My life was rapidly entering a tailspin on several fronts. My girlfriend was ready to give me the hook for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my lack of direction and focus in the job search. Said job search was going nowhere despite stepped up efforts on my part that lead to several interviews (all fruitless).
Then, one day, nearly 18 months after I wrote the article, I received a call from the new editor of Filmfax. My article would finally be published in the April 1994 edition, and (drum roll) it was to be the cover story! I can’t point to that many moments of pure joy in my life – it’s a rare commodity, but this was one of them. He spoke glowingly of how the article would be illustrated with wonderful stills and poster art, and apologized for the long delay.
Perhaps six weeks later my “author’s copies” arrived and I had my Dad bring them to me at the library. The article was edited heavily, but no so much that my “voice” was lost. The opening sentence was changed dramatically, but it sounded so much better that I couldn’t argue. As a writer you tend to develop a thick skin where editing is concerned - best not to take it personally.
Like everything the wave of enthusiasm and excitement died down and I was faced with my disturbing reality again. The girlfriend gave me the boot about six months later and I was fired from my first true writing job as a reporter for a local community newspaper. The boost I enjoyed from my status as a nationally-syndicated writer was all too short, but it was a crucial moment for me in an otherwise disquieting period in my life. Someone had paid me to write something ($118!), and my work was viewed all over the country (to what degree anyone approved of it I’ll never know).
Eventually, my life regained its footing. In a fit of desperation I ripped out the “publications” page in my local phone book and blanketed these companies with my resume. One of them called me in for an interview while I was still at the newsgroup. I did not get the job, and subsequently was fired from the newsgroup. However, three months after I got my walking papers from the girlfriend, this company called me again, and offered me the position. Apparently their first choice was a plagiarist.
I accepted the job gratefully, and spent five productive years there, establishing my credentials as a local reporter, having some amazing experiences in the process. From there I obtained my current position, which has lasted nearly a decade.
I remain one for one on the freelance front. I hit one out of the park my first time at bat, and never made another attempt. I suppose part of it is laziness. I write for a living, and it’s kind of difficult to muster the energy to do it in my free time. It would be a nice way to supplement my income, but when I examine my interests, and I see the scholarship that has already been produced, I often wonder what story hasn’t been told? There are writers who devote their entire lives to the study of a certain subject, and I can’t see myself doing that.
Still, I cherish that one moment in the sun. One day I was in a comic shop with some friends and someone held up the magazine with my cover story on it. The owner told his customer that he enjoyed the magazine. I couldn’t hold it in. I said, “You might not believe this, but I wrote that article on the cover!” He replied, “Why wouldn’t I believe you?” He didn’t ask me to autograph it or anything. Now that would’ve been cool.
Anybody who wants one just let me know! I’ve got plenty!
At that time, all I knew was that I wanted to be a writer. It was the only thing I did well, and the only thing I had any sort of natural aptitude for. I had no head for math or science, and while I enjoyed the liberal arts “stuff,” like English and Social Studies, I had no intention of teaching.
Writing always came naturally, and I enjoyed it immensely. I was the type of person who was juiced about writing the book report, not reading the book. I took to writing scores of letters to anyone I had an excuse to write them to (my apologies to all those ex-girlfriends inundated with correspondence as well as “away at college” friends – no one could ever keep up with me!)
In some respects, I believe I was destined for another age, where written correspondence was not only the norm; it was a way of life. I look at the incredibly prolific correspondence between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, and long for that kind of a relationship with a "pen pal." Any takers?
While it’s generally accepted I’m a pretty good talker, I despise opening up about myself (which I’m kind of doing right now), and the best way to glean any insight into what makes me tick (if someone cares) is to read a letter from me. I’m too protective and defensive in verbal situations, but the parlance of the written word is my true element.
As usual, I’m straying. Unfortunately, despite the persistent encouragement of both my parents and my girlfriend at that time, I did nothing by way of preparation for the real world. I was on a collision course with reality, and the faster it approached, the more I denied its’ impending arrival. I worked at my part-time job as if it was a full-time job, hung out with my friends and girlfriend, and considered graduate school only as a way of staving off the inevitability of finding a job and working eight hours a day.
I grant you it was not a healthy attitude and I paid dearly for it, in the end. However, I had one ray of light amidst all the turmoil that would eventually engulf my life. As I noted earlier, I was determined to prove my worth as a writer, and have an article printed in a nationally syndicated publication right out of the gate. You know what? I did. And while I may go down in history as the Right Said Fred of the publishing world, I did get my 15 minutes in the (admittedly narrow) spotlight.
During those years my interest in film exploded. I always loved movies, but thanks to the influence of older, wiser mentors I began to explore the world of films beyond my generation. I was obsessed with horror films of the 30s and 40s, and the undisputed King of Horror, Boris Karloff.
At the behest of a good friend I devoured as much of Karloff’s work as was available at the time, traveling the highways and byways of “grey market” video recordings to obtain as much as possible. In later years, the Internet helped me expand this collection exponentially, but at this time I was limited to what was commercially available, as well as what was being offered by collectors in the back of horror magazines.
One particular period in Karloff’s filmography entranced me like no other. In the mid-forties he teamed with RKO B-Unit producer Val Lewton, to produce a trilogy of films that has become the gold standard of horror of that time. Now, a lot of ink has been spilled on Karloff by more talented writers than me, people who have conducted exhaustive scholarship on his life. However, at the time, not much had been written about this particular moment in his career. In later years, interest in Val Lewton exploded, but for its’ day, my idea was a novel one.
I contacted the editor of Filmfax magazine, the premier “film nostalgia” publication of its day (and still going strong, I might add). In a letter, I enthusiastically pitched my brilliant idea, and then hoped for the best. At the same time I began my half-hearted attempts to secure “real” employment, beginning with certain dream publications that I had no real hope of ever cracking.
To my great astonishment, the editor of Filmfax responded to my letter with a phone call, and told me to go ahead and write the piece. Of course, there were no promises made as to its’ publication. I was elated at the prospect though, and immediately set out to craft my masterpiece.
Since I worked part-time in a library I had a great deal of research material at my fingertips. However, it was a public library, so the material I unearthed was not as in depth as I hoped. I uncovered much on Karloff, but the information available on Lewton was sparse.
If I remember correctly, the entire process took about two months. My horror-loving friend and mentor proofed the article, and I sent it off. As the rejection letters piled up for my dream jobs, the hope that this article would see the light of day was all I had to go on. My ego was deflated on an almost daily basis by what arrived in our mailbox, and I soon realized I had no hope of finding a writing position in the arena of film- or comic-related publications.
I simply had not done the requisite work before I graduated to even get my foot in the door anywhere. Most of my friends from college applied for, and received internships at places they wanted to work. To me an internship meant lots of work for no money – that was it. Yes, I’m fully aware of how shortsighted and myopic that view was. Like I said, I paid the price for my lack of vision.
During that time I spent the early hours of the day at home, pretending I was still in school so my boss at the library would not fire me. He told us that once we graduated college our jobs expired, and I was terrified my head was now on the block. I concocted a story about being a “super senior,” and that I had dropped too many courses to graduate on time, thus necessitating one more semester of college. I figured that bought me at least another 6-8 months of gainful employment. It turns out I bought myself another 15 years, but that’s another story.
On one of these “pretending days” the phone rang and my mother answered it. It was the editor of Filmfax wanting to speak with me. Immediately I thought, “She wouldn’t be calling if this were a rejection.” I was right – she claimed to love the piece and promised it would be published “in about six months.” I barely contained myself while speaking to her, but the minute I hung up I screamed for joy.
Here was the proof. Here was the validation I so desperately sought. I was going to be published in a national magazine, and this meant (to me, anyway) I was a professional writer. Of course, I shared my elation with anyone who would listen, and it made for a heady few days that gave a brief respite from the soul crushing job hunt.
I think I purchased every issue of the bi-monthly magazine (whether any article interested me or not) in the hopes seeing my piece advertised in the next issue. As the months dragged on there was no mention made, and soon despair set in. I wrote the editor inquiring as to the status of the article, only to learn she left her position. That made me a little nervous, but I was assured by her replacement that the piece was still slated to appear.
Months dragged into years, and, despite encouraging words from the new editor, I despaired of ever seeing my masterwork on the newsstands. My life was rapidly entering a tailspin on several fronts. My girlfriend was ready to give me the hook for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my lack of direction and focus in the job search. Said job search was going nowhere despite stepped up efforts on my part that lead to several interviews (all fruitless).
Then, one day, nearly 18 months after I wrote the article, I received a call from the new editor of Filmfax. My article would finally be published in the April 1994 edition, and (drum roll) it was to be the cover story! I can’t point to that many moments of pure joy in my life – it’s a rare commodity, but this was one of them. He spoke glowingly of how the article would be illustrated with wonderful stills and poster art, and apologized for the long delay.
Perhaps six weeks later my “author’s copies” arrived and I had my Dad bring them to me at the library. The article was edited heavily, but no so much that my “voice” was lost. The opening sentence was changed dramatically, but it sounded so much better that I couldn’t argue. As a writer you tend to develop a thick skin where editing is concerned - best not to take it personally.
Like everything the wave of enthusiasm and excitement died down and I was faced with my disturbing reality again. The girlfriend gave me the boot about six months later and I was fired from my first true writing job as a reporter for a local community newspaper. The boost I enjoyed from my status as a nationally-syndicated writer was all too short, but it was a crucial moment for me in an otherwise disquieting period in my life. Someone had paid me to write something ($118!), and my work was viewed all over the country (to what degree anyone approved of it I’ll never know).
Eventually, my life regained its footing. In a fit of desperation I ripped out the “publications” page in my local phone book and blanketed these companies with my resume. One of them called me in for an interview while I was still at the newsgroup. I did not get the job, and subsequently was fired from the newsgroup. However, three months after I got my walking papers from the girlfriend, this company called me again, and offered me the position. Apparently their first choice was a plagiarist.
I accepted the job gratefully, and spent five productive years there, establishing my credentials as a local reporter, having some amazing experiences in the process. From there I obtained my current position, which has lasted nearly a decade.
I remain one for one on the freelance front. I hit one out of the park my first time at bat, and never made another attempt. I suppose part of it is laziness. I write for a living, and it’s kind of difficult to muster the energy to do it in my free time. It would be a nice way to supplement my income, but when I examine my interests, and I see the scholarship that has already been produced, I often wonder what story hasn’t been told? There are writers who devote their entire lives to the study of a certain subject, and I can’t see myself doing that.
Still, I cherish that one moment in the sun. One day I was in a comic shop with some friends and someone held up the magazine with my cover story on it. The owner told his customer that he enjoyed the magazine. I couldn’t hold it in. I said, “You might not believe this, but I wrote that article on the cover!” He replied, “Why wouldn’t I believe you?” He didn’t ask me to autograph it or anything. Now that would’ve been cool.
Anybody who wants one just let me know! I’ve got plenty!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
"No Longer Yesterday and Not Yet History" (A September 11 Memory)
(Note: I can't lay claim to the headline for this entry - I found the phrase in an excellent article featured in this week's issue of Newsweek.)
I grew up fascinated with the events surrounding the assassination of President Kennedy. It happened seven years before I was born but the event was something of an obsession of mine. I read books, watched incessant documentaries and quizzed everyone I knew who lived through the event about where they were at the time. I can't quite put a finger on why it so fascinated me and still does. Perhaps it was the notion of living through such a seminal moment in history, one whose every detail is scrutinized by future generations. Little did I know I would have that sad opportunity visited upon me on September 11, 2001.
I lived in Nassau County, Long Island, at the time and worked (and still do) at a large private university in Queens, New York. This school (I believe) sits atop the highest point in Queens and I had a perfect view of the Manhattan skyline from the building I worked in. The day started like any other but on this day I was scheduled to meet a friend in lower Manhattan to see a special screening of the film, "An American Werewolf in London," and meet its' director and star. I was going to work half a day then go back home and hop a train into the city around 3.
My first recollection of the day was opening a package left on my stoop containing a special medallion that would be my "press pass" for the screening. I always left early for work, and made plans with my wife to coordinate getting me to the train later. I arrived at work about 7:30 and was writing movie reviews for a now-defunct website I ran.
I used to work in an office with no windows that was set apart from the rest of my department. It was very insulated and news usually took awhile to filter down to me. I had a radio but for some reason it wasn't on that day. About 8:30 my friend called me to finalize our plans for the screening and we were chatting for about 20 minutes when he told me that he heard a plane had hit the World Trade Center.
Like so many that day I assumed it was a small plane, and didn't really consider it could be anything worse than that. We got off the phone at somewhere between 8:55 and 9:00 and I brought up CNN's website on my computer. The first image I saw of that awful day was a still photo of the gaping hole left in Tower One after the first plane hit. I looked up from my desk and saw someone running past my office down the hall in a panic.
I walked down to my boss' office to tell her, and she was crying. I left her alone and went back down toward my office when I passed the office of the media relations director. He had a television and people were already gathered around it. I immediately sat down to see a replay of the second plane hitting Tower Two. I spent the next 20-25 minutes sitting there awestruck in horror with my colleagues. The flash came in that the Pentagon had been hit and I viewed that first coverage live. I sat there numb while people all around me with loved ones in Manhattan were making frantic calls.
I went back to my office at some point and tried calling my wife and my parents. I left a message for my father but the phone lines were jammed and I couldn't get any more calls out. I ran to my car, got my cell phone and reached my wife who had heard what happened but hadn't seen it. She had no idea of the enormity of what was going on and was surprised at how shaken I was.
The last thing I did before I went home that morning was walk outside the building with my boss and another colleague to see firsthand what had been wrought. It was a beautiful sunny morning with clear blue skies but for the miles-long train of smoke billowing out from lower Manhattan. The towers had not fallen yet and I could see them clearly. It was a searing image from an unforgettable day.
The University closed almost immediately. Police and emergency vehicles were screaming westward as I traveled east towards home. Another enduring image for me was that of firemen assembled at public bus stops deep into Long Island, waiting for city buses to take them in to that hell. I arrived at my parents’ house and sat with my father for about an hour. Both towers fell in the time it took me to get there.
I returned home and sat in front of the television and watched as much coverage as I could stand. I alternated it by watching a DVD of "Citizen Kane," which was waiting for me when I got home. I needed some escape from the day which had become too overwhelming. I spoke to a friend in the afternoon and waited for my wife to arrive home. I saw Mayor Giuliani utter his famous response that the casualties would be "more than any of us can bear," when asked for an estimate. My last recollections of that Tuesday were when I finally spoke to the friend who was supposed to attend the screening with me that day to hear he made it home safely.
I immediately knew I had lived through the worst moment in my country's history, a day that, in my opinion, eclipsed that of the Kennedy Assassination or perhaps even Pearl Harbor in terms of its' sheer horror. I now knew what it was to live through a moment, a day, a time forever frozen in history, one that would be remembered with stunning clarity and analyzed for generations to come.
As with the Kennedy Assassination I collected the requisite books and documentaries but this scholarship was tainted with my own memories of the event, my own personal horror at having (at least peripherally) experienced something that forever changed the world I lived in, for the worse.
Seven years later, I find the day quickly receding from the view and I fear that, while it is essential we move on as a city and a country, we are quickly forgetting the lessons we learned. I was extremely fortunate not to have lost anyone. The closest it came to hitting me directly was through "friends of friends," or past acquaintances from many years ago.
What I lost was a measure of innocence and naivete. I gained a harsher, more cynical view of the world than I already had. That being said, I will never forget the heroism and bravery of firefighters, policemen, emergency service workers and ordinary men and women on display that day. Their selflessness is the one beacon of hope I retain from that awful day. They restored the faith I had immediately lost.
I grew up fascinated with the events surrounding the assassination of President Kennedy. It happened seven years before I was born but the event was something of an obsession of mine. I read books, watched incessant documentaries and quizzed everyone I knew who lived through the event about where they were at the time. I can't quite put a finger on why it so fascinated me and still does. Perhaps it was the notion of living through such a seminal moment in history, one whose every detail is scrutinized by future generations. Little did I know I would have that sad opportunity visited upon me on September 11, 2001.
I lived in Nassau County, Long Island, at the time and worked (and still do) at a large private university in Queens, New York. This school (I believe) sits atop the highest point in Queens and I had a perfect view of the Manhattan skyline from the building I worked in. The day started like any other but on this day I was scheduled to meet a friend in lower Manhattan to see a special screening of the film, "An American Werewolf in London," and meet its' director and star. I was going to work half a day then go back home and hop a train into the city around 3.
My first recollection of the day was opening a package left on my stoop containing a special medallion that would be my "press pass" for the screening. I always left early for work, and made plans with my wife to coordinate getting me to the train later. I arrived at work about 7:30 and was writing movie reviews for a now-defunct website I ran.
I used to work in an office with no windows that was set apart from the rest of my department. It was very insulated and news usually took awhile to filter down to me. I had a radio but for some reason it wasn't on that day. About 8:30 my friend called me to finalize our plans for the screening and we were chatting for about 20 minutes when he told me that he heard a plane had hit the World Trade Center.
Like so many that day I assumed it was a small plane, and didn't really consider it could be anything worse than that. We got off the phone at somewhere between 8:55 and 9:00 and I brought up CNN's website on my computer. The first image I saw of that awful day was a still photo of the gaping hole left in Tower One after the first plane hit. I looked up from my desk and saw someone running past my office down the hall in a panic.
I walked down to my boss' office to tell her, and she was crying. I left her alone and went back down toward my office when I passed the office of the media relations director. He had a television and people were already gathered around it. I immediately sat down to see a replay of the second plane hitting Tower Two. I spent the next 20-25 minutes sitting there awestruck in horror with my colleagues. The flash came in that the Pentagon had been hit and I viewed that first coverage live. I sat there numb while people all around me with loved ones in Manhattan were making frantic calls.
I went back to my office at some point and tried calling my wife and my parents. I left a message for my father but the phone lines were jammed and I couldn't get any more calls out. I ran to my car, got my cell phone and reached my wife who had heard what happened but hadn't seen it. She had no idea of the enormity of what was going on and was surprised at how shaken I was.
The last thing I did before I went home that morning was walk outside the building with my boss and another colleague to see firsthand what had been wrought. It was a beautiful sunny morning with clear blue skies but for the miles-long train of smoke billowing out from lower Manhattan. The towers had not fallen yet and I could see them clearly. It was a searing image from an unforgettable day.
The University closed almost immediately. Police and emergency vehicles were screaming westward as I traveled east towards home. Another enduring image for me was that of firemen assembled at public bus stops deep into Long Island, waiting for city buses to take them in to that hell. I arrived at my parents’ house and sat with my father for about an hour. Both towers fell in the time it took me to get there.
I returned home and sat in front of the television and watched as much coverage as I could stand. I alternated it by watching a DVD of "Citizen Kane," which was waiting for me when I got home. I needed some escape from the day which had become too overwhelming. I spoke to a friend in the afternoon and waited for my wife to arrive home. I saw Mayor Giuliani utter his famous response that the casualties would be "more than any of us can bear," when asked for an estimate. My last recollections of that Tuesday were when I finally spoke to the friend who was supposed to attend the screening with me that day to hear he made it home safely.
I immediately knew I had lived through the worst moment in my country's history, a day that, in my opinion, eclipsed that of the Kennedy Assassination or perhaps even Pearl Harbor in terms of its' sheer horror. I now knew what it was to live through a moment, a day, a time forever frozen in history, one that would be remembered with stunning clarity and analyzed for generations to come.
As with the Kennedy Assassination I collected the requisite books and documentaries but this scholarship was tainted with my own memories of the event, my own personal horror at having (at least peripherally) experienced something that forever changed the world I lived in, for the worse.
Seven years later, I find the day quickly receding from the view and I fear that, while it is essential we move on as a city and a country, we are quickly forgetting the lessons we learned. I was extremely fortunate not to have lost anyone. The closest it came to hitting me directly was through "friends of friends," or past acquaintances from many years ago.
What I lost was a measure of innocence and naivete. I gained a harsher, more cynical view of the world than I already had. That being said, I will never forget the heroism and bravery of firefighters, policemen, emergency service workers and ordinary men and women on display that day. Their selflessness is the one beacon of hope I retain from that awful day. They restored the faith I had immediately lost.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Across the Pond
(Please note my sad attempts to include British slang where appropriate.)
I’ll be the first to admit I’m addicted to good television, and while I indulge the occasional reality trash such as “American Idol,” or “Last Comic Standing,” I try to limit my viewing habits to material that is worthwhile. That doesn’t mean I always demand the excellence of programs like “The Shield,” or “The Wire,” and yes, even “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (don’t let the silly title fool you!) I appreciate a silly sitcom as much as a deep drama – just entertain me or make me think.
American television, specifically network television, has been in a quality freefall for the last 20 years, which they are only now starting to climb out of. The surge of quality programming on cable has forced them to up their game, while they still pander to the lowest common denominator as their slates are at least half-filled with reality rubbish.
Up until a few years ago I ignored the abundance of excellent programming produced in the U.K. (with the exception of “Doctor Who” – nerd alert!) It wasn’t until the program “Hustle” was imported to the States that I began to pay attention. “Hustle” was a sly dramedy about four high-stakes grifters with a Robin Hood complex. They only ripped off marks that “deserved” it. All the leads fit their roles perfectly, and for us Yanks there was the presence of Napoleon Solo himself, Robert Vaughn, providing a familiar face we could identify with.
I was immediately hooked, and learned this show was already in its third season in the U.K. by the time it reached our shores. I made it my business to obtain the other episodes (let’s leave it at that), and the show soon ranked among my all-time favorites. It had so much going for it – the leads exuded buckets of charisma and their banter flowed brilliantly. It made terrific use of London locations, and the characters often stopped the action to dialogue directly with the audience.
Right around this time I watched the entire run of “The Office,” and was introduced to Ricky Gervais’ style of biting humor. His style and the documentary feel of the show were like nothing I had ever experienced in American comedy. If anything my only complaint was the show ended so abruptly – I was soon to learn that’s what sets them apart from us.
There is not nearly the same amount of money being thrown at U.K. shows as there is in this country. Even when a show is hugely popular it may become counter productive to continue producing it. Perhaps more importantly, there is a notion among creative personnel in Britain that once a show has piqued (be it in one “series” or four) it’s best to put it to rest and focus on something new.
That was never demonstrated more clearly by “Life on Mars,” a show that has since become my all-time favorite (U.K. or otherwise). The premise is simple. While investigating his girlfriend’s kidnapping police officer Sam Tyler is struck by a car and left in a coma. He wakes up in Manchester, 1973, where he finds his policing methods completely out of sync with the less than subtle tactics of the gruff, misogynistic and often racist, officers he is forced to work with.
Is Sam dreaming all this? Has he traveled through time? What you quickly realize with this show is that the truth of his circumstance is immaterial, and the storytelling opportunities created by his predicament are incredible. Throughout the show’s run Sam meets his parents and others integral to his life, and comes to understand them in a way he never could otherwise. His interactions with his 1973 colleagues are priceless as is his culture shock with their methods. The relationship between John Simm as Sam and Phil Glenister as DCI Gene Hunt is at the heart of the show, and their rapport with each other is brilliant.
All concerned decided to end “Life on Mars” after two series. I could’ve watched it until Doomsday, but as I’ve come to understand the inner workings of U.K. television I understand the rationale. These incredibly talented writers and actors have all moved on to other quality projects.
American television “seasons” are extremely rigid. 22 episodes are produced each year, and the crushing schedule leaves little time for these knackered actors to pursue other projects. Not so in the U.K. where a series may last 6 or 8 episodes (or rarely, in the case of “Doctor Who,” 13). Actors have maximum flexibility to be in more than one show at once.
For me last year’s writers’ strike was a blessing in disguise. Realizing this was an imminent reality I stockpiled a treasure trove of U.K. shows (and some Canadian shows as well) to see my wife and I through the drought. Reality was not an option, nor were the home improvement shows she’s addicted to!)
While we did catch up on some excellent American programming such as “Dexter,” and “Weeds,” the bulk of our viewing choices came from the BBC or ITV. I introduced her to “Life on Mars,” and its’ spin-off, “Ashes to Ashes,” as well as “Wire in the Blood,” “New Tricks,” “Extras” (another Ricky Gervais offering) and great “one-off” series such as “State of Play,” “Five Days,” and “Last Enemy.” The list goes on.
While we may not understand the odd cultural reference or slang the stories are universally relatable – although one show, “Empty,” with Billy Boyd, was rendered almost incoherent for us by the heavy Glasgow accents of its’ two leads! There’s also a tendency, especially in the political thrillers, to demonize America, which I could care less about, but if that sort of thing bugs you, take note.
I used to believe all U.K. programming was cheesy looking sci-fi and snobby historical drama. If you’re lucky enough to have BBC America on your cable system start watching ASAP. There is a wealth of U.K. programming available domestically on dvd, although not as much as I would like. There are dodgier ways of obtaining this stuff and the more industrious among you know what I mean!
Many of our most revered shows such as, “All in the Family,” “Sanford and Son,” and “Three’s Company,” to contemporary hits like “The Office” were inspired by British shows. This season we’re premiering our own version of “Life on Mars.” The original pilot was a real cock-up which I can attest to. It’s being completely re-tooled, and I hold out little hope for its’ success.
My point is there is so much out there worth watching that if you limit yourselves to our wide array of sitcoms, bland police procedurals, and soapy dramas that take place in lawyer’s offices, hospitals or schools, you’re doing yourself a real disservice. Of course I encourage you to seek out great cable shows like “Entourage,” “Dexter,” “Weeds” and “The Shield,” among others, but the U.K. should be your next stop on the road to broadening your entertainment horizons!
You'll be chuffed to bits if you do!
I’ll be the first to admit I’m addicted to good television, and while I indulge the occasional reality trash such as “American Idol,” or “Last Comic Standing,” I try to limit my viewing habits to material that is worthwhile. That doesn’t mean I always demand the excellence of programs like “The Shield,” or “The Wire,” and yes, even “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (don’t let the silly title fool you!) I appreciate a silly sitcom as much as a deep drama – just entertain me or make me think.
American television, specifically network television, has been in a quality freefall for the last 20 years, which they are only now starting to climb out of. The surge of quality programming on cable has forced them to up their game, while they still pander to the lowest common denominator as their slates are at least half-filled with reality rubbish.
Up until a few years ago I ignored the abundance of excellent programming produced in the U.K. (with the exception of “Doctor Who” – nerd alert!) It wasn’t until the program “Hustle” was imported to the States that I began to pay attention. “Hustle” was a sly dramedy about four high-stakes grifters with a Robin Hood complex. They only ripped off marks that “deserved” it. All the leads fit their roles perfectly, and for us Yanks there was the presence of Napoleon Solo himself, Robert Vaughn, providing a familiar face we could identify with.
I was immediately hooked, and learned this show was already in its third season in the U.K. by the time it reached our shores. I made it my business to obtain the other episodes (let’s leave it at that), and the show soon ranked among my all-time favorites. It had so much going for it – the leads exuded buckets of charisma and their banter flowed brilliantly. It made terrific use of London locations, and the characters often stopped the action to dialogue directly with the audience.
Right around this time I watched the entire run of “The Office,” and was introduced to Ricky Gervais’ style of biting humor. His style and the documentary feel of the show were like nothing I had ever experienced in American comedy. If anything my only complaint was the show ended so abruptly – I was soon to learn that’s what sets them apart from us.
There is not nearly the same amount of money being thrown at U.K. shows as there is in this country. Even when a show is hugely popular it may become counter productive to continue producing it. Perhaps more importantly, there is a notion among creative personnel in Britain that once a show has piqued (be it in one “series” or four) it’s best to put it to rest and focus on something new.
That was never demonstrated more clearly by “Life on Mars,” a show that has since become my all-time favorite (U.K. or otherwise). The premise is simple. While investigating his girlfriend’s kidnapping police officer Sam Tyler is struck by a car and left in a coma. He wakes up in Manchester, 1973, where he finds his policing methods completely out of sync with the less than subtle tactics of the gruff, misogynistic and often racist, officers he is forced to work with.
Is Sam dreaming all this? Has he traveled through time? What you quickly realize with this show is that the truth of his circumstance is immaterial, and the storytelling opportunities created by his predicament are incredible. Throughout the show’s run Sam meets his parents and others integral to his life, and comes to understand them in a way he never could otherwise. His interactions with his 1973 colleagues are priceless as is his culture shock with their methods. The relationship between John Simm as Sam and Phil Glenister as DCI Gene Hunt is at the heart of the show, and their rapport with each other is brilliant.
All concerned decided to end “Life on Mars” after two series. I could’ve watched it until Doomsday, but as I’ve come to understand the inner workings of U.K. television I understand the rationale. These incredibly talented writers and actors have all moved on to other quality projects.
American television “seasons” are extremely rigid. 22 episodes are produced each year, and the crushing schedule leaves little time for these knackered actors to pursue other projects. Not so in the U.K. where a series may last 6 or 8 episodes (or rarely, in the case of “Doctor Who,” 13). Actors have maximum flexibility to be in more than one show at once.
For me last year’s writers’ strike was a blessing in disguise. Realizing this was an imminent reality I stockpiled a treasure trove of U.K. shows (and some Canadian shows as well) to see my wife and I through the drought. Reality was not an option, nor were the home improvement shows she’s addicted to!)
While we did catch up on some excellent American programming such as “Dexter,” and “Weeds,” the bulk of our viewing choices came from the BBC or ITV. I introduced her to “Life on Mars,” and its’ spin-off, “Ashes to Ashes,” as well as “Wire in the Blood,” “New Tricks,” “Extras” (another Ricky Gervais offering) and great “one-off” series such as “State of Play,” “Five Days,” and “Last Enemy.” The list goes on.
While we may not understand the odd cultural reference or slang the stories are universally relatable – although one show, “Empty,” with Billy Boyd, was rendered almost incoherent for us by the heavy Glasgow accents of its’ two leads! There’s also a tendency, especially in the political thrillers, to demonize America, which I could care less about, but if that sort of thing bugs you, take note.
I used to believe all U.K. programming was cheesy looking sci-fi and snobby historical drama. If you’re lucky enough to have BBC America on your cable system start watching ASAP. There is a wealth of U.K. programming available domestically on dvd, although not as much as I would like. There are dodgier ways of obtaining this stuff and the more industrious among you know what I mean!
Many of our most revered shows such as, “All in the Family,” “Sanford and Son,” and “Three’s Company,” to contemporary hits like “The Office” were inspired by British shows. This season we’re premiering our own version of “Life on Mars.” The original pilot was a real cock-up which I can attest to. It’s being completely re-tooled, and I hold out little hope for its’ success.
My point is there is so much out there worth watching that if you limit yourselves to our wide array of sitcoms, bland police procedurals, and soapy dramas that take place in lawyer’s offices, hospitals or schools, you’re doing yourself a real disservice. Of course I encourage you to seek out great cable shows like “Entourage,” “Dexter,” “Weeds” and “The Shield,” among others, but the U.K. should be your next stop on the road to broadening your entertainment horizons!
You'll be chuffed to bits if you do!
The Prank
I’ve been fairly lucky when it comes to relationships. I know several people who have endured a multitude of blind dates and set-ups (both through friends and dating websites like Match and eHarmony). While they often make great fodder for stories after the fact, they can be torturous experiences.
My first two real relationships were borne from a part-time job I had in high school (and still have, yikes!) Both experiences were similar in that I worked with these girls for a number of months. By the time we started dating it was almost a foregone conclusion. It really took the guesswork out of things, and, for my money, it was the ideal way to forge a relationship.
The only real similarities between the two relationships were that both girls were 16 when we started dating. I was two years older than the first and four years older than the second. I had reservations about asking out the second, as it meant re-experiencing the high school scene all over again (I’ve been to six proms – should’ve just bought the damn tux!) The real problem (especially with #2) was that I was a dead man from Day One, as I was her first boyfriend, and we all know where they end up.
The downside of dating co-workers is perilous. The axiom, “Don’t shit where you eat,” came to mind quickly when the second relationship came crashing down around my ears. Overnight my cool, part-time “clubhouse” job became a torture chamber that I could not wait to escape from. It took a few months for me to get out of there, but those four months were horrific. (Four years later, after the ex quit, I came out of retirement and rejoined the old crew!)
I was nearly 25 years old when the relationship ended and I had been confident she and I would marry. When the relationship imploded, my first thought was that I would have a hell of a time meeting someone new. I was right. The Internet was in its infancy and the host of dating sites that eventually proliferated did not exist (and I often wonder if I ever would have turned to them). I had no “game” when it came to meeting people spontaneously, and the bar scene was not even a consideration.
A number of my friends were in serious relationships, and the amount of “new blood” coming into our old crowd was non-existent. I had a quandary. I was certainly not about to join hiking clubs, or cycling clubs, or God knows what kind of clubs, because that stank of desperation to me.
I did have one friend who was pretty slick with the ladies though. He had no problem meeting women, and was as smooth an operator as I ever witnessed (and I’ve witnessed my fair share). I’ve always been fine once the ice was broken, but it was always that initial contact that eluded me. That’s why the job was such a boon to me.
My friend made it his mission to find me a woman. For a while I was content being single after nearly six years of continuous dating, but of course you start asking yourself if you’ll ever meet someone worthwhile again (and how long will it take??), which is the lament of every single person. When you’re in a committed relationship it’s easy to give advice, and spout the hoary old clichés, like, “You never know what’s around the corner,” which is absolutely true, but no one wants to hear.
This friend of mine embarked on a new relationship with a girl who waited on him and his mother at I-Hop one day. I met her soon after and quickly became the fifth wheel. I was ready to drop out which made it even more imperative for him to find someone for me. I’m pretty sure his first idea (and it was a logical one) was to mine all her single friends until we hit on one for me. His girlfriend really didn’t have that many friends to begin with (for good reason as I would find out later).
After some time he arranged the first blind date, and, as is my nature, I was terrified. I try so hard to impress upon my younger friends that there is no reason to be nervous at these moments, that there is nothing to lose, etc, but I rarely practiced what I preached. I had several weeks to work myself into a frenzy about the whole thing, and give this experience much more weight and credibility than it deserved.
Of course, my other close friends knew this “event” was approaching, and decided to have some fun at my expense. On the night of the scheduled date I received a phone call from someone claiming to be the girl I was to meet.
I was shocked this girl was calling me, and I can only imagine how much of a blithering idiot I sounded like. This conversation went on for a few minutes, until the caller revealed their true self. It was my best friend’s sister-in-law, and I hadn’t logged enough phone time with her to recognize the voice. Apparently my friend, his wife and her sister, along with one other friend, were all there to hear this.
Frankly, I was livid (I’m still pissed about it to be honest) and I unleashed a torrent of obscenity that is still hanging in space over the south shore of Long Island (with apologies to Jean Shepherd). Upon finishing my barrage, I hung up on them.
Turns out the date was postponed that night, and I told the friend who arranged the date what happened. He thought what they did was awful, as did others. I was a very easy target, especially that night, and while I see the humor in it, it felt very mean-spirited. The fact that my two best friends hatched the plan along with the girls, made it worse.
To their credit the foursome called me the following day to apologize, and everyone took their medicine, as I had plenty more to dole out. They were probably still snickering about it, and maybe felt I overreacted, but they did say they were sorry, and I appreciated that.
Eventually the date happened and it was a big bust – no chemistry, zilch. It certainly wasn’t a disaster of epic proportions, but it left something of a bad taste in my mouth. My friend was undaunted, and when another friend of his girlfriend became available he approached me again. This time I flatly refused, but he persisted.
I was tricked into meeting this girl one night when a big group of us was slated to go to the movies. I was not happy about that and did nothing to endear myself to her, completely ignoring her.
That must be the secret because we’ve been married for more than ten years.
My first two real relationships were borne from a part-time job I had in high school (and still have, yikes!) Both experiences were similar in that I worked with these girls for a number of months. By the time we started dating it was almost a foregone conclusion. It really took the guesswork out of things, and, for my money, it was the ideal way to forge a relationship.
The only real similarities between the two relationships were that both girls were 16 when we started dating. I was two years older than the first and four years older than the second. I had reservations about asking out the second, as it meant re-experiencing the high school scene all over again (I’ve been to six proms – should’ve just bought the damn tux!) The real problem (especially with #2) was that I was a dead man from Day One, as I was her first boyfriend, and we all know where they end up.
The downside of dating co-workers is perilous. The axiom, “Don’t shit where you eat,” came to mind quickly when the second relationship came crashing down around my ears. Overnight my cool, part-time “clubhouse” job became a torture chamber that I could not wait to escape from. It took a few months for me to get out of there, but those four months were horrific. (Four years later, after the ex quit, I came out of retirement and rejoined the old crew!)
I was nearly 25 years old when the relationship ended and I had been confident she and I would marry. When the relationship imploded, my first thought was that I would have a hell of a time meeting someone new. I was right. The Internet was in its infancy and the host of dating sites that eventually proliferated did not exist (and I often wonder if I ever would have turned to them). I had no “game” when it came to meeting people spontaneously, and the bar scene was not even a consideration.
A number of my friends were in serious relationships, and the amount of “new blood” coming into our old crowd was non-existent. I had a quandary. I was certainly not about to join hiking clubs, or cycling clubs, or God knows what kind of clubs, because that stank of desperation to me.
I did have one friend who was pretty slick with the ladies though. He had no problem meeting women, and was as smooth an operator as I ever witnessed (and I’ve witnessed my fair share). I’ve always been fine once the ice was broken, but it was always that initial contact that eluded me. That’s why the job was such a boon to me.
My friend made it his mission to find me a woman. For a while I was content being single after nearly six years of continuous dating, but of course you start asking yourself if you’ll ever meet someone worthwhile again (and how long will it take??), which is the lament of every single person. When you’re in a committed relationship it’s easy to give advice, and spout the hoary old clichés, like, “You never know what’s around the corner,” which is absolutely true, but no one wants to hear.
This friend of mine embarked on a new relationship with a girl who waited on him and his mother at I-Hop one day. I met her soon after and quickly became the fifth wheel. I was ready to drop out which made it even more imperative for him to find someone for me. I’m pretty sure his first idea (and it was a logical one) was to mine all her single friends until we hit on one for me. His girlfriend really didn’t have that many friends to begin with (for good reason as I would find out later).
After some time he arranged the first blind date, and, as is my nature, I was terrified. I try so hard to impress upon my younger friends that there is no reason to be nervous at these moments, that there is nothing to lose, etc, but I rarely practiced what I preached. I had several weeks to work myself into a frenzy about the whole thing, and give this experience much more weight and credibility than it deserved.
Of course, my other close friends knew this “event” was approaching, and decided to have some fun at my expense. On the night of the scheduled date I received a phone call from someone claiming to be the girl I was to meet.
I was shocked this girl was calling me, and I can only imagine how much of a blithering idiot I sounded like. This conversation went on for a few minutes, until the caller revealed their true self. It was my best friend’s sister-in-law, and I hadn’t logged enough phone time with her to recognize the voice. Apparently my friend, his wife and her sister, along with one other friend, were all there to hear this.
Frankly, I was livid (I’m still pissed about it to be honest) and I unleashed a torrent of obscenity that is still hanging in space over the south shore of Long Island (with apologies to Jean Shepherd). Upon finishing my barrage, I hung up on them.
Turns out the date was postponed that night, and I told the friend who arranged the date what happened. He thought what they did was awful, as did others. I was a very easy target, especially that night, and while I see the humor in it, it felt very mean-spirited. The fact that my two best friends hatched the plan along with the girls, made it worse.
To their credit the foursome called me the following day to apologize, and everyone took their medicine, as I had plenty more to dole out. They were probably still snickering about it, and maybe felt I overreacted, but they did say they were sorry, and I appreciated that.
Eventually the date happened and it was a big bust – no chemistry, zilch. It certainly wasn’t a disaster of epic proportions, but it left something of a bad taste in my mouth. My friend was undaunted, and when another friend of his girlfriend became available he approached me again. This time I flatly refused, but he persisted.
I was tricked into meeting this girl one night when a big group of us was slated to go to the movies. I was not happy about that and did nothing to endear myself to her, completely ignoring her.
That must be the secret because we’ve been married for more than ten years.
Monday, September 08, 2008
The Voyages Began 42 Years Ago Today
Note the promo date is incorrect (it did premiere on Sept. 8, 1966)
Friday, September 05, 2008
The Expert
When I was in college I wrote for the school newspaper and my stock in trade were movie reviews or film-related articles. That was my niche. However, I wrote one piece during my tenure that deviated wildly from my normal topic. I believe it was my junior year, and the topic was “relationships.”
At 21 years old I had the unmitigated gall to pen an article about relationships – as if I knew anything. I still don’t know anything, but back then, I was somehow Dr. Phil. The article stunned people who knew me, and it got a big response on campus, more so than anything I ever wrote. It was the first time I weighed in publicly on anything that was not fluff (like movies), and I was hailed as Mr. Sensitive.
There are five, maybe six moments in time where I wish I could go back and kick my own ass. This is one of them.
I do pride myself on a certain observational quality. Most people go through the motions of life and never really examine why they behave a certain way. Now I’m not saying I ever truly learned from my mistakes or purged myself of personality traits that aren’t that attractive, but I’m cognizant of what they are, and I’ll give you a list if you ask for one.
I paid close attention to how people behaved in relationships, myself included. I wasn't overly impressed by my own behavior when things got rough, but I often saw far worse in the relationships of others.
If I recall correctly I was in a fairly new relationship at the time with a much younger girl who thought I walked on water (that didn’t last). I’m wondering if I wrote it to impress her even further. I can remember railing against the notion that the relationships of youth were fleeting and there was so much joy and misery in such short bursts of time – how you could get so close to one person and they might be out of your lives in less than six months.
Well, duh.
I look back on those days and there was so much high drama. My friends and I all went through it, but never at the same time, so it was a safe bet that when one of us was on Cloud 9 the other was in hell.
I can remember getting so fed up with it, but I was railing against the natural order of things in the article – spouting platitudes about how people hurt each other and isn’t that so terrible. I was master of the obvious.
Of course people don’t stay together at that age. Of course they move on. As significant as these relationships were (and I would never downplay that fact) they were transitory. They were the proving ground for our lives to come.
Something else I wish I could’ve told that 21-year old schmuck was that life is not easy. When you’re young and you have no other concerns everything that happens in these relationships feels like either the greatest joy or the end of the world.
I feel like telling him wait until you have to pay bills, buy a house, find a job, or develop an illness (or more than one). Wait until someone dies.
We (hopefully) gain at least a little wisdom as we get older. I look back on those days and my own naiveté somewhat fondly, because everything I’ve just discussed comes to us through the natural progression of time, but few of us have that indelible imprint of who they were at that moment (i.e. the article) to wince at.
I was a very emotional, subjective young fellow in those days, who could never see the forest for the trees. My intentions in writing the article were all good. I was trying to promote understanding, but I just did not get it.
Do I get it now? Let’s put it this way - if I could sit that young man down, who moaned over break ups and people moving on, I would steal a line from one of my favorite movies, "Ghostbusters," and tell him that when it comes to relationships, and what people are capable of, "I have seen shit that would turn you white!"
At 21 years old I had the unmitigated gall to pen an article about relationships – as if I knew anything. I still don’t know anything, but back then, I was somehow Dr. Phil. The article stunned people who knew me, and it got a big response on campus, more so than anything I ever wrote. It was the first time I weighed in publicly on anything that was not fluff (like movies), and I was hailed as Mr. Sensitive.
There are five, maybe six moments in time where I wish I could go back and kick my own ass. This is one of them.
I do pride myself on a certain observational quality. Most people go through the motions of life and never really examine why they behave a certain way. Now I’m not saying I ever truly learned from my mistakes or purged myself of personality traits that aren’t that attractive, but I’m cognizant of what they are, and I’ll give you a list if you ask for one.
I paid close attention to how people behaved in relationships, myself included. I wasn't overly impressed by my own behavior when things got rough, but I often saw far worse in the relationships of others.
If I recall correctly I was in a fairly new relationship at the time with a much younger girl who thought I walked on water (that didn’t last). I’m wondering if I wrote it to impress her even further. I can remember railing against the notion that the relationships of youth were fleeting and there was so much joy and misery in such short bursts of time – how you could get so close to one person and they might be out of your lives in less than six months.
Well, duh.
I look back on those days and there was so much high drama. My friends and I all went through it, but never at the same time, so it was a safe bet that when one of us was on Cloud 9 the other was in hell.
I can remember getting so fed up with it, but I was railing against the natural order of things in the article – spouting platitudes about how people hurt each other and isn’t that so terrible. I was master of the obvious.
Of course people don’t stay together at that age. Of course they move on. As significant as these relationships were (and I would never downplay that fact) they were transitory. They were the proving ground for our lives to come.
Something else I wish I could’ve told that 21-year old schmuck was that life is not easy. When you’re young and you have no other concerns everything that happens in these relationships feels like either the greatest joy or the end of the world.
I feel like telling him wait until you have to pay bills, buy a house, find a job, or develop an illness (or more than one). Wait until someone dies.
We (hopefully) gain at least a little wisdom as we get older. I look back on those days and my own naiveté somewhat fondly, because everything I’ve just discussed comes to us through the natural progression of time, but few of us have that indelible imprint of who they were at that moment (i.e. the article) to wince at.
I was a very emotional, subjective young fellow in those days, who could never see the forest for the trees. My intentions in writing the article were all good. I was trying to promote understanding, but I just did not get it.
Do I get it now? Let’s put it this way - if I could sit that young man down, who moaned over break ups and people moving on, I would steal a line from one of my favorite movies, "Ghostbusters," and tell him that when it comes to relationships, and what people are capable of, "I have seen shit that would turn you white!"
Thursday, September 04, 2008
A window
About eight years ago I was sitting in a hotel room in Beverly Hills with Carroll O’Connor, interviewing him about the suicide of his son which was brought about by years of drug abuse. At that moment I was having a complete out-of-body experience. How did I get here?
I was sitting across from Archie Bunker himself, a man who was as gentle and mild as his alter-ego was loud and abrasive. I lobbed some softballs at him before I got into the meat of the interview, which would focus on his son’s tragic death. He answered each question thoughtfully, but there was a sense he wanted to move on, and discuss his son.
By this point he had spoken to whoever would listen about the scourge of drugs and how they contributed to his son’s suicide, so it wasn’t like I was a special case. It was by no means an exclusive. By this time he had an agenda and I was one of many who helped him carry it out.
Because I’m a pop culture junkie I was awestruck to be in this man’s presence, an American icon that changed the face of television forever. I’m often quick to say this experience was the highlight of my career in journalism but that’s because he was a celebrity - a lovely man, but a celebrity nonetheless.
When I was a reporter I tended to turn my nose up at the stories that centered on events over people. I preferred feature to hard news. What I loved most was sitting down with someone and hearing their life story. Very often these people would try to beg out of an interview, for fear of being seen as publicity hungry. Usually their stories had the potential to inspire others to good work, and that was my stock line when trying to convince them to consent to an interview.
99.9% of them said yes and more often than not the first person they inspired was me. Obviously, I never followed explicitly in their footsteps but they often rekindled my faith in humanity.
There was nothing more satisfying than establishing a one-on-one rapport with a subject. Sometimes they would need some gentle prodding and other times you were lucky if you got to ask two scripted questions. Sometimes you steered the interview and sometimes the interview steered you. Even if I did not share a personal interest in what we were discussing I was often fascinated by their journey and energized by their enthusiasm.
For five years I was constantly meeting people who did so much good, and a good many of them had experienced some kind of tragedy or hardship that was spurring them to action. It was impossible not to be moved by them.
I was also consistently amazed that these people trusted me enough to allow me this intimate look into their lives, and that I would distill a far-reaching conversation into something accurate and coherent, that captured who they were. I always loved the moment where you knew you had established trust and the rapport was there. I think I loved it more than the writing aspect of the assignment.
Growing up I believed I did two things reasonably well – writing and talking. I enjoyed both and indulged in them as often as possible (when I say “talk” I mean really converse about something substantial). When the time came to buckle down and think about a career path I only had this vague notion about getting paid for doing what I did best. I regret not being more proactive in this enterprise, but somehow I backed into a career where I get paid to do those two things I love so much.
I never had a head for business, math, science – all the money making professions! But that’s OK. I do what I love and I make ends meet.
I haven’t been a reporter for some time but my current position does allow me the occasional interview, and it’s in those moments I feel the most personal and professional satisfaction.
I was sitting across from Archie Bunker himself, a man who was as gentle and mild as his alter-ego was loud and abrasive. I lobbed some softballs at him before I got into the meat of the interview, which would focus on his son’s tragic death. He answered each question thoughtfully, but there was a sense he wanted to move on, and discuss his son.
By this point he had spoken to whoever would listen about the scourge of drugs and how they contributed to his son’s suicide, so it wasn’t like I was a special case. It was by no means an exclusive. By this time he had an agenda and I was one of many who helped him carry it out.
Because I’m a pop culture junkie I was awestruck to be in this man’s presence, an American icon that changed the face of television forever. I’m often quick to say this experience was the highlight of my career in journalism but that’s because he was a celebrity - a lovely man, but a celebrity nonetheless.
When I was a reporter I tended to turn my nose up at the stories that centered on events over people. I preferred feature to hard news. What I loved most was sitting down with someone and hearing their life story. Very often these people would try to beg out of an interview, for fear of being seen as publicity hungry. Usually their stories had the potential to inspire others to good work, and that was my stock line when trying to convince them to consent to an interview.
99.9% of them said yes and more often than not the first person they inspired was me. Obviously, I never followed explicitly in their footsteps but they often rekindled my faith in humanity.
There was nothing more satisfying than establishing a one-on-one rapport with a subject. Sometimes they would need some gentle prodding and other times you were lucky if you got to ask two scripted questions. Sometimes you steered the interview and sometimes the interview steered you. Even if I did not share a personal interest in what we were discussing I was often fascinated by their journey and energized by their enthusiasm.
For five years I was constantly meeting people who did so much good, and a good many of them had experienced some kind of tragedy or hardship that was spurring them to action. It was impossible not to be moved by them.
I was also consistently amazed that these people trusted me enough to allow me this intimate look into their lives, and that I would distill a far-reaching conversation into something accurate and coherent, that captured who they were. I always loved the moment where you knew you had established trust and the rapport was there. I think I loved it more than the writing aspect of the assignment.
Growing up I believed I did two things reasonably well – writing and talking. I enjoyed both and indulged in them as often as possible (when I say “talk” I mean really converse about something substantial). When the time came to buckle down and think about a career path I only had this vague notion about getting paid for doing what I did best. I regret not being more proactive in this enterprise, but somehow I backed into a career where I get paid to do those two things I love so much.
I never had a head for business, math, science – all the money making professions! But that’s OK. I do what I love and I make ends meet.
I haven’t been a reporter for some time but my current position does allow me the occasional interview, and it’s in those moments I feel the most personal and professional satisfaction.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
A Night to Remember
Everyone has their favorite drunk stories and I'm no exception. However it's not about me and it's about the only one I have. You see I don't drink, which I've always felt kind of creeps people out when they hear it the first time – as though I'm not to be trusted. For those who do know me, well let's just say they'd give their life savings to see me bombed. Their eternal argument is would I be a happy drunk or a surly drunk? My money is on surly. I'm not a recovering alcoholic, just someone who never developed the taste and I can't really explain why. Never one to push the envelope with the folks I suppose I was too afraid to take that leap and risk their ire. Who knows? At least now I can tell the doctor, "At least I don't smoke or drink," when he reads me the riot act.
So here's the story (my set-ups are very long-winded, sorry). I had a great friend who was in every way, shape and form my opposite number. It was like Judd Nelson and Anthony Michael Hall's characters from "The Breakfast Club" were best friends. We grew up together, went to the same school, lived around the block from each other, and when we were young, we fought like cats and dogs. His Dad died when we were 14 and that was a defining moment for us because he seemed to lean on me the most, where his dirtbag friends were kind of useless at a time like that.
For the next three years we were inseparable. We went to different high schools but hung out constantly. He got into ever increasing amounts of trouble and I watched, living vicariously through him. He started smoking, and the only saving grace for me was that his mother smoked and I could use that fact to explain the smell away to my parents. He got into as much mischief as he could but I drew the line when laws were broken. He had plenty of friends for those activities.
He also had a way with the ladies and my only contact with them was through him. Going to an all boys Catholic high school stunted my development in that arena but he managed to make up for it a thousandfold. The girls tolerated me and the vibe I got was they thought I was a quaint curiosity amidst his otherwise terribly cool life. When we were in our junior year he started dating the prettiest girl in his school.
For whatever reason he still always wanted me around (I can already hear the "Brokeback" jokes, relax). He could never stand being alone so I was at his house all the time. One night he and his girlfriend got into a tremendous fight over what I can't remember. He felt slighted about something and he was determined to pay her back – by getting drunk before she showed up at his house.
This was about to turn into the worst night of my life (to that point).
My friend's late father had set up a full bar in their basement and it was stocked to the gills. I was getting nervous – a common occurrence around him. His girlfriend would be over in an hour or so and he hatched his plan. He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels (a full bottle) and guzzled it in under ten minutes. Soak that in for a minute. Jack Daniels. Full bottle. Ten minutes.
At that time I was 16 years old and didn't know Jack from Bud from Long Island Iced Tea. Hell, He seemed fine to me after he was done. He suggested we rent a movie. We were 16, had no licenses, and the video store was a mile away. His mother was obviously not home and I was not calling my father for a ride. And it was the dead of winter. It was below 30 degrees. The ground was covered in snow and ice. He figured we could make it there and back before she arrived.
We set about our task and the whole walk there he was fine. I was like, "Jack must be a real bitch drink." He started acting a little stupid in the store but we got the video and proceeded back home. On the walk home the alcohol finally worked its magic, almost like a switch had gone off. He started staggering, slurring his speech and rambling about anything and everything.
He was talking about his Dad, his girlfriend, me, life, the universe. I had to help him walk and about halfway home I had a brainstorm. Maybe if I bought him a soda it would fix everything - at least mask his breath in case his Mom showed up. Forget the fact it was 20 degrees out and here I'm buying him a cold soda. Anyway I went into a corner candy store and bought the soda. I came out and he was gone. Vanished.
He was now 100% my responsibility. And I lost him. The level of panic that I reached in that one instant hasn't quite been equaled. I looked up and down the block. I ran across the street. How far could he have gotten? I ran back to the store and up an alley. There he was taking a whiz and laughing his ass off. By this time I knew I was in for a night of pure hell.
He finished up and I had to abandon my brilliant soda idea because I had to help him walk. We were somewhat close to home and I remember bumping into one of his friends. He doesn't. He lost that entire night. 20 years later I remember every last detail. By the time we reached his house he was alternately laughing, crying, and had fallen several times. I reached into his pocket for his keys and when I opened the screen door he fell back and I hit him square in the head with the door. He laughed like a hyena.
I brought him into the house and he kept telling me to call his girlfriend. He kept incessantly repeating her name and phone number, so much so, that to this day it's the only outdated number I can remember besides my parents' old one.
It didn't matter because she showed up shortly after. The cavalry had arrived! He was babbling incoherently by now and she took one look at him, called a cab and left. Thanks. By this point I was terrified. His mother was bound to be home soon. I held on to some pathetic hope he'd sober up by then. I realize my naiveté was staggering.
My main objective was to keep him occupied by talking to him. I didn't want him to pass out. I wish I taped that conversation. What I didn't realize was the real fun was about to begin. His Mom did come home and when her key hit the lock he staggered out to greet her before I could stop him. He told his mother he loved her and then threw up right in the middle of the living room.
She hysterically screamed, "Are you stoned?" Oh God, would that he really was stoned! If he were stoned we'd be eating a 20-pack of White Castle hamburgers instead of this nightmare. He threw up everywhere before we could get him to the bathroom. Linda Blair in "The Exorcist" didn't throw up this much! His mother loved me like a son and knew I was the only decent influence he had. She cut me to the quick with, "How could you let him do this?" In all fairness to me I kept the kid alive, despite losing him in the night and braining him with a screen door.
He threw up about 100 more times and his mother was so distraught she called the neighbors. They came over and soon after his grandparents arrived (they lived there as well). After awhile the furor died down and he passed out. No one was worried he'd choke on his own vomit because there was none left to choke on.
By now it was time to call my Dad. I only lived around the corner but he always insisted on picking me up after dark. The trick here was not to have my Dad come in the house – not easy because our parents were friends. So I waited outside in the cold and when he pulled up I said, "Ed's not feeling well." Hey it was the truth!
I figured he was a dead man. Grounded for life. Dumped by the girlfriend. House Arrest. Maybe military school. I didn't expect to hear from him for a month. He called me the next morning. I went over there and all was right with the world. He was being teased by one of the neighbors and his Mom was already in denial about the whole thing. And the girlfriend? She was back the next night.
Before anyone starts screaming about me writing an embarrassing story about someone else for the world to see, calm yourselves. Our tale's protagonist loves this story. He loves hearing me tell it and he loves the fact that he did this to me. Truth is, aside from him, my life was pretty boring back then and while it got more interesting rather quickly this was something I'll never forget. He moved to Florida eight months later and that sucked all the juice out of my life for a time.
For all the headaches he caused me (and there were many) it was always exciting. This one story is only the tip of the iceberg. Everything else in my life before and since was terribly conventional and I look back on it all with great fondness 20 years later. There's something to be said for having someone like that around. Even so, his leaving forced me to live my own life rather than watch him live his.
Now it's possible that experience put me off drinking. It certainly didn't help. The majority of my friends started drinking within the next two years but I didn't. They keep telling me how much I'm missing, 20 years later. I've had a shot of God knows what here and there at weddings and other events just to give my friends a thrill, but the desire just isn't there.
So here's the story (my set-ups are very long-winded, sorry). I had a great friend who was in every way, shape and form my opposite number. It was like Judd Nelson and Anthony Michael Hall's characters from "The Breakfast Club" were best friends. We grew up together, went to the same school, lived around the block from each other, and when we were young, we fought like cats and dogs. His Dad died when we were 14 and that was a defining moment for us because he seemed to lean on me the most, where his dirtbag friends were kind of useless at a time like that.
For the next three years we were inseparable. We went to different high schools but hung out constantly. He got into ever increasing amounts of trouble and I watched, living vicariously through him. He started smoking, and the only saving grace for me was that his mother smoked and I could use that fact to explain the smell away to my parents. He got into as much mischief as he could but I drew the line when laws were broken. He had plenty of friends for those activities.
He also had a way with the ladies and my only contact with them was through him. Going to an all boys Catholic high school stunted my development in that arena but he managed to make up for it a thousandfold. The girls tolerated me and the vibe I got was they thought I was a quaint curiosity amidst his otherwise terribly cool life. When we were in our junior year he started dating the prettiest girl in his school.
For whatever reason he still always wanted me around (I can already hear the "Brokeback" jokes, relax). He could never stand being alone so I was at his house all the time. One night he and his girlfriend got into a tremendous fight over what I can't remember. He felt slighted about something and he was determined to pay her back – by getting drunk before she showed up at his house.
This was about to turn into the worst night of my life (to that point).
My friend's late father had set up a full bar in their basement and it was stocked to the gills. I was getting nervous – a common occurrence around him. His girlfriend would be over in an hour or so and he hatched his plan. He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels (a full bottle) and guzzled it in under ten minutes. Soak that in for a minute. Jack Daniels. Full bottle. Ten minutes.
At that time I was 16 years old and didn't know Jack from Bud from Long Island Iced Tea. Hell, He seemed fine to me after he was done. He suggested we rent a movie. We were 16, had no licenses, and the video store was a mile away. His mother was obviously not home and I was not calling my father for a ride. And it was the dead of winter. It was below 30 degrees. The ground was covered in snow and ice. He figured we could make it there and back before she arrived.
We set about our task and the whole walk there he was fine. I was like, "Jack must be a real bitch drink." He started acting a little stupid in the store but we got the video and proceeded back home. On the walk home the alcohol finally worked its magic, almost like a switch had gone off. He started staggering, slurring his speech and rambling about anything and everything.
He was talking about his Dad, his girlfriend, me, life, the universe. I had to help him walk and about halfway home I had a brainstorm. Maybe if I bought him a soda it would fix everything - at least mask his breath in case his Mom showed up. Forget the fact it was 20 degrees out and here I'm buying him a cold soda. Anyway I went into a corner candy store and bought the soda. I came out and he was gone. Vanished.
He was now 100% my responsibility. And I lost him. The level of panic that I reached in that one instant hasn't quite been equaled. I looked up and down the block. I ran across the street. How far could he have gotten? I ran back to the store and up an alley. There he was taking a whiz and laughing his ass off. By this time I knew I was in for a night of pure hell.
He finished up and I had to abandon my brilliant soda idea because I had to help him walk. We were somewhat close to home and I remember bumping into one of his friends. He doesn't. He lost that entire night. 20 years later I remember every last detail. By the time we reached his house he was alternately laughing, crying, and had fallen several times. I reached into his pocket for his keys and when I opened the screen door he fell back and I hit him square in the head with the door. He laughed like a hyena.
I brought him into the house and he kept telling me to call his girlfriend. He kept incessantly repeating her name and phone number, so much so, that to this day it's the only outdated number I can remember besides my parents' old one.
It didn't matter because she showed up shortly after. The cavalry had arrived! He was babbling incoherently by now and she took one look at him, called a cab and left. Thanks. By this point I was terrified. His mother was bound to be home soon. I held on to some pathetic hope he'd sober up by then. I realize my naiveté was staggering.
My main objective was to keep him occupied by talking to him. I didn't want him to pass out. I wish I taped that conversation. What I didn't realize was the real fun was about to begin. His Mom did come home and when her key hit the lock he staggered out to greet her before I could stop him. He told his mother he loved her and then threw up right in the middle of the living room.
She hysterically screamed, "Are you stoned?" Oh God, would that he really was stoned! If he were stoned we'd be eating a 20-pack of White Castle hamburgers instead of this nightmare. He threw up everywhere before we could get him to the bathroom. Linda Blair in "The Exorcist" didn't throw up this much! His mother loved me like a son and knew I was the only decent influence he had. She cut me to the quick with, "How could you let him do this?" In all fairness to me I kept the kid alive, despite losing him in the night and braining him with a screen door.
He threw up about 100 more times and his mother was so distraught she called the neighbors. They came over and soon after his grandparents arrived (they lived there as well). After awhile the furor died down and he passed out. No one was worried he'd choke on his own vomit because there was none left to choke on.
By now it was time to call my Dad. I only lived around the corner but he always insisted on picking me up after dark. The trick here was not to have my Dad come in the house – not easy because our parents were friends. So I waited outside in the cold and when he pulled up I said, "Ed's not feeling well." Hey it was the truth!
I figured he was a dead man. Grounded for life. Dumped by the girlfriend. House Arrest. Maybe military school. I didn't expect to hear from him for a month. He called me the next morning. I went over there and all was right with the world. He was being teased by one of the neighbors and his Mom was already in denial about the whole thing. And the girlfriend? She was back the next night.
Before anyone starts screaming about me writing an embarrassing story about someone else for the world to see, calm yourselves. Our tale's protagonist loves this story. He loves hearing me tell it and he loves the fact that he did this to me. Truth is, aside from him, my life was pretty boring back then and while it got more interesting rather quickly this was something I'll never forget. He moved to Florida eight months later and that sucked all the juice out of my life for a time.
For all the headaches he caused me (and there were many) it was always exciting. This one story is only the tip of the iceberg. Everything else in my life before and since was terribly conventional and I look back on it all with great fondness 20 years later. There's something to be said for having someone like that around. Even so, his leaving forced me to live my own life rather than watch him live his.
Now it's possible that experience put me off drinking. It certainly didn't help. The majority of my friends started drinking within the next two years but I didn't. They keep telling me how much I'm missing, 20 years later. I've had a shot of God knows what here and there at weddings and other events just to give my friends a thrill, but the desire just isn't there.
Gossip
My grammar school used to give its' students half days every Thursday (for what reason I can’t remember, teacher meetings perhaps?) On those days my Mom would usually treat me to Roy Rogers and I’d sit there in my doofy Catholic school uniform eating my Double R burger and relating the day’s excitement to her.
One of those lunches is indelibly imprinted on my brain because on that particular day my Mom smacked me in the head. She was not a head smacker by any means, so obviously this was done for major emphasis. And while I never forgot the smack I never really learned the lesson she was trying to impart.
You see she smacked me because I was speaking ill of one of my teachers. I’m pretty sure I used the phrase, “I hate her,” one uttered countless times by millions of students the world over, but I was in a public place, frequented by many members of the community who either attended my school or had kids there.
“You never know who’s listening!” she exclaimed after the wallop. That’s right. You never know. Of course by this time I was well versed in the art of talking behind someone’s back. We all do it to one degree or another. In fact in 38 years on this planet I have yet to come across someone who doesn’t indulge in it. It is so prevalent that I would even list it among the necessities of life, along with eating, drinking, and all the rest.
I get a bad rap because not only do I indulge in it, I tend to enjoy it. I can keep secrets but it’s great when you can tell someone. For example, someone from one facet of your life coughs up some deep dark secret and you tell someone from another part of your life, which has nothing to do with the other person, and presumably never will. I don’t really consider that one betraying a confidence. However, if the secret is one of truly epic proportions I realize when to keep my mouth shut. I’m really all about the grey areas – nothing is black and white!
My mother’s smack/lesson has come back to haunt me several times in the intervening thirty odd years, sometimes to comical effect and others to much more painful effect. I have been the talker and the one talked about. I don’t believe I’m a special case, although I do revel in the whole washer woman thing a bit much for someone of my gender.
In my defense, a lot of it is borne just from a sheer love of talking, observing, amateur psychoanalyzing, etc. and I’d rather pick apart a person than a good book. I’ve had some great partners in crime for this particular enterprise at different moments in my life, and when I’ve lost one God usually sees fit to send me another!
My first memorable experience with gossip (I use the term loosely throughout for the lack of a better one) happened after a particularly memorable moment in my life with a member of the opposite sex (for me, I'm sure not for her!) I was on cloud nine and of course, I shared the moment with several friends.
Very shortly after the experience I went to the movies with two friends. It was a crowded theater and we had to sit near the front. The movie was, “A Fish Called Wanda,” (I remember these things, I’m twisted like that). Anyway I was talking up the whole “relationship” with a puffed up chest, rambling on about how cool things were going to be for the rest of the summer now that this happened, bla bla.
She was right behind me.
No, not ten rows behind me, not eight seats to my left or twelve to my right, or even in front of me. She was right behind me. She hadn’t told me she was seeing this film, nor did she alert me to her presence when she sat down. She heard everything I said. She let me go on and on and finally announced herself right before the film started.
SMACK!
Needless to say, I was handed my walking papers within a week or so. Ultimately, it was all for the best, but from that moment on, I realized I had a special gift for self-sabotage! "You never know who’s around." Right again, Mom. You’d think I would learn.
The next time gossip reared its head I was on the receiving end. This time someone who I was very close to said something that utterly devastated me. Obviously I was never meant to hear it (and the context in which it was said sounded like this person was trying to impress the other). The person who told me did it “for my own good,” because she observed me as needlessly suffering over something that had no future, something she was also doing at the time.
I never explicitly confronted the person over what was said (at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t) but I stopped communicating with them and eventually terminated the relationship. Here again I learned a lesson that I never put into practice. Be careful who you tell what to. Do they have your best interests at heart? Can they turn on you? In this particular case, this person turned on her friend to share something with me, and betrayed a confidence for what she considered a more noble purpose.
About three years later I found myself really slinging the dirt one night with another friend, who also loved the gossip. We were acting like a pair of 13-year old girls yammering on about two mutual friends, wondering if they were in fact, a couple (which they were). There’s way too much backstory here but suffice it say the girl I was dishing about had some convoluted history with me.
My friend and I were in an office that had several partitions that were by no means soundproof (they didn’t even reach the wall). Anyway we had a nice long session and when we were through, we proceeded to leave the office, and pass by……the two people were talking about.
SMACK!
Is there a color that’s paler than white? At that moment throwing up seemed my only logical option. I was dead on so many levels – even my friend who indulged in the deed with me was not nearly as dead as me. I spent the rest of the night apologizing to little avail, wrote a letter of apology (which probably dug me in worse), made a special mea culpa visit to the office the following week and so on. I had terminal foot in mouth disease with this person and this was the most shining example of it. Sorry Mom.
Three years later e-mail had become a new tool in the arsenal for embarrassing myself. To set the stage a bit – I had become friendly with someone a few years prior who, despite being a nice, well-meaning person, was a little too much with the togetherness for my taste, and had a tendency to exaggerate nearly anything to a ridiculous degree in the hopes of impressing others.
Anyway, he started dating someone who seemed pretty cool to me. She and I became friendly and we often discussed him and our frustrations with him in person and, yes, via e-mail. They eventually introduced me to my future wife and we became the dynamic duo of couples. However we soon tired of their company and tried to distance ourselves from them. The togetherness was suffocating us.
My girlfriend soon became my fiancée and my friend’s girlfriend was none too pleased that a couple who she set up was getting engaged before she was (with no ring in sight!) So the twisted little psycho dredged up my e-mails to her about my friend and promptly showed them to him, in an effort to prove she had his best interests at heart, that I was really not his friend.
SMACK!
This one really sent me reeling. I told my fiancée I would never speak to this chick again and she agreed to have nothing to do with her. My friend and I never recovered from this incident – I wrote him a letter (my M.O.) and he called me upon receiving it. He was obviously shattered by what I had said and I think he was leaving the door open to repair the friendship, if I groveled enough, but I didn’t take the bait. I took the opportunity, callous as it sounds, to leave it where it was, because the friendship had no forward motion.
P.S. He dumped the chick two weeks later and her life has been a disaster ever since. I did put a hex on her that hopefully had something to do with it.
That last really bruising incident happened about 12 years ago, and with all apologies to Mom, I don’t think I’ve learned my lesson.
At my part-time job I’m part of a very close knit group of people with a very interesting dynamic. We at least admit to each other we talk about the one who’s not there and I am the King Blabbermouth. There I can be out in the open with it. I have no allegiances and if someone refuses to tell someone something they just ask me because sooner or later I’ll weasel the info out of them and share.
I know, that sounds horrible, but the truth is we don’t hide much from each other and our lives are pretty much an open secret with one another. It’s just a matter of who knows what when. In more unscrupulous hands the stuff we share with one another could be devastating, but these are people I’d trust with my life, and I know what we share within the confines of our little sphere stays there.
So what’s the moral of the story? I suppose the first one is know who you are talking to. If you’re talking about Person A with Person B and A and B know each other, or are friends, be damn sure you can trust Person A. And always, always, always, look behind you!
Let’s be honest gossip makes the world go round. I accept the fact that people take my name in vain, even those who love me. Sometimes they do it out of concern. Sometimes they’re pissed at me. Sometimes it may just be a really juicy story and I’m all for that!
Recently life came full circle when, in a restaurant with my Mom, she said something that wasn’t very P.C. I looked at her and said, “You never know who’s behind you!”
I didn’t smack her though.
One of those lunches is indelibly imprinted on my brain because on that particular day my Mom smacked me in the head. She was not a head smacker by any means, so obviously this was done for major emphasis. And while I never forgot the smack I never really learned the lesson she was trying to impart.
You see she smacked me because I was speaking ill of one of my teachers. I’m pretty sure I used the phrase, “I hate her,” one uttered countless times by millions of students the world over, but I was in a public place, frequented by many members of the community who either attended my school or had kids there.
“You never know who’s listening!” she exclaimed after the wallop. That’s right. You never know. Of course by this time I was well versed in the art of talking behind someone’s back. We all do it to one degree or another. In fact in 38 years on this planet I have yet to come across someone who doesn’t indulge in it. It is so prevalent that I would even list it among the necessities of life, along with eating, drinking, and all the rest.
I get a bad rap because not only do I indulge in it, I tend to enjoy it. I can keep secrets but it’s great when you can tell someone. For example, someone from one facet of your life coughs up some deep dark secret and you tell someone from another part of your life, which has nothing to do with the other person, and presumably never will. I don’t really consider that one betraying a confidence. However, if the secret is one of truly epic proportions I realize when to keep my mouth shut. I’m really all about the grey areas – nothing is black and white!
My mother’s smack/lesson has come back to haunt me several times in the intervening thirty odd years, sometimes to comical effect and others to much more painful effect. I have been the talker and the one talked about. I don’t believe I’m a special case, although I do revel in the whole washer woman thing a bit much for someone of my gender.
In my defense, a lot of it is borne just from a sheer love of talking, observing, amateur psychoanalyzing, etc. and I’d rather pick apart a person than a good book. I’ve had some great partners in crime for this particular enterprise at different moments in my life, and when I’ve lost one God usually sees fit to send me another!
My first memorable experience with gossip (I use the term loosely throughout for the lack of a better one) happened after a particularly memorable moment in my life with a member of the opposite sex (for me, I'm sure not for her!) I was on cloud nine and of course, I shared the moment with several friends.
Very shortly after the experience I went to the movies with two friends. It was a crowded theater and we had to sit near the front. The movie was, “A Fish Called Wanda,” (I remember these things, I’m twisted like that). Anyway I was talking up the whole “relationship” with a puffed up chest, rambling on about how cool things were going to be for the rest of the summer now that this happened, bla bla.
She was right behind me.
No, not ten rows behind me, not eight seats to my left or twelve to my right, or even in front of me. She was right behind me. She hadn’t told me she was seeing this film, nor did she alert me to her presence when she sat down. She heard everything I said. She let me go on and on and finally announced herself right before the film started.
SMACK!
Needless to say, I was handed my walking papers within a week or so. Ultimately, it was all for the best, but from that moment on, I realized I had a special gift for self-sabotage! "You never know who’s around." Right again, Mom. You’d think I would learn.
The next time gossip reared its head I was on the receiving end. This time someone who I was very close to said something that utterly devastated me. Obviously I was never meant to hear it (and the context in which it was said sounded like this person was trying to impress the other). The person who told me did it “for my own good,” because she observed me as needlessly suffering over something that had no future, something she was also doing at the time.
I never explicitly confronted the person over what was said (at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t) but I stopped communicating with them and eventually terminated the relationship. Here again I learned a lesson that I never put into practice. Be careful who you tell what to. Do they have your best interests at heart? Can they turn on you? In this particular case, this person turned on her friend to share something with me, and betrayed a confidence for what she considered a more noble purpose.
About three years later I found myself really slinging the dirt one night with another friend, who also loved the gossip. We were acting like a pair of 13-year old girls yammering on about two mutual friends, wondering if they were in fact, a couple (which they were). There’s way too much backstory here but suffice it say the girl I was dishing about had some convoluted history with me.
My friend and I were in an office that had several partitions that were by no means soundproof (they didn’t even reach the wall). Anyway we had a nice long session and when we were through, we proceeded to leave the office, and pass by……the two people were talking about.
SMACK!
Is there a color that’s paler than white? At that moment throwing up seemed my only logical option. I was dead on so many levels – even my friend who indulged in the deed with me was not nearly as dead as me. I spent the rest of the night apologizing to little avail, wrote a letter of apology (which probably dug me in worse), made a special mea culpa visit to the office the following week and so on. I had terminal foot in mouth disease with this person and this was the most shining example of it. Sorry Mom.
Three years later e-mail had become a new tool in the arsenal for embarrassing myself. To set the stage a bit – I had become friendly with someone a few years prior who, despite being a nice, well-meaning person, was a little too much with the togetherness for my taste, and had a tendency to exaggerate nearly anything to a ridiculous degree in the hopes of impressing others.
Anyway, he started dating someone who seemed pretty cool to me. She and I became friendly and we often discussed him and our frustrations with him in person and, yes, via e-mail. They eventually introduced me to my future wife and we became the dynamic duo of couples. However we soon tired of their company and tried to distance ourselves from them. The togetherness was suffocating us.
My girlfriend soon became my fiancée and my friend’s girlfriend was none too pleased that a couple who she set up was getting engaged before she was (with no ring in sight!) So the twisted little psycho dredged up my e-mails to her about my friend and promptly showed them to him, in an effort to prove she had his best interests at heart, that I was really not his friend.
SMACK!
This one really sent me reeling. I told my fiancée I would never speak to this chick again and she agreed to have nothing to do with her. My friend and I never recovered from this incident – I wrote him a letter (my M.O.) and he called me upon receiving it. He was obviously shattered by what I had said and I think he was leaving the door open to repair the friendship, if I groveled enough, but I didn’t take the bait. I took the opportunity, callous as it sounds, to leave it where it was, because the friendship had no forward motion.
P.S. He dumped the chick two weeks later and her life has been a disaster ever since. I did put a hex on her that hopefully had something to do with it.
That last really bruising incident happened about 12 years ago, and with all apologies to Mom, I don’t think I’ve learned my lesson.
At my part-time job I’m part of a very close knit group of people with a very interesting dynamic. We at least admit to each other we talk about the one who’s not there and I am the King Blabbermouth. There I can be out in the open with it. I have no allegiances and if someone refuses to tell someone something they just ask me because sooner or later I’ll weasel the info out of them and share.
I know, that sounds horrible, but the truth is we don’t hide much from each other and our lives are pretty much an open secret with one another. It’s just a matter of who knows what when. In more unscrupulous hands the stuff we share with one another could be devastating, but these are people I’d trust with my life, and I know what we share within the confines of our little sphere stays there.
So what’s the moral of the story? I suppose the first one is know who you are talking to. If you’re talking about Person A with Person B and A and B know each other, or are friends, be damn sure you can trust Person A. And always, always, always, look behind you!
Let’s be honest gossip makes the world go round. I accept the fact that people take my name in vain, even those who love me. Sometimes they do it out of concern. Sometimes they’re pissed at me. Sometimes it may just be a really juicy story and I’m all for that!
Recently life came full circle when, in a restaurant with my Mom, she said something that wasn’t very P.C. I looked at her and said, “You never know who’s behind you!”
I didn’t smack her though.
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