I love Christmas and always have, but over the years it’s been for different reasons. It’s always been my favorite holiday. In fact, I love the entire season. I’m so eager for Thanksgiving to be done and bummed when New Year’s passes, and it’s all over. I love the movies. I love the decorations. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I loved the presents (maybe a little too much!)
I have many happy memories that emanate from the Christmas season, some that elicit laughter and tears, some that are bittersweet and poignant. It’s funny, but those memories surrounding Christmas are so potent, even the ones embedded deeply in my childhood.
In a way though, at this moment in time, I feel like Scrooge being taken on a tour of his life by the Ghost of Christmas Past. I’ve always felt a certain affinity with the old miser, and I have a tendency to project certain aspects of his personality on to my own. He hated Christmas, so it’s not like we’re identical in every way, but I have, over the years, lost a great deal of innocence, naiveté and that sense of wonder that comes with youth and every new experience.
It helps especially at this season to recall those times, both happy and sad. In those moments of reverie, I envision myself as Scrooge escorted by the Ghost, being reminded of the many blessings he enjoyed over the years, as well as the moments that caused him to turn his back on humanity, all long since forgotten. I haven’t forgotten, but as time goes on, they “recede from the view.”
I have my parents to thank for making Christmas so magical for me in the early years. I never knew at the time how much they sacrificed to make sure each holiday was special, and that anything I asked for, Santa provided.
In those early years, I would write Santa a letter and hang it on the tree on Christmas Eve. When I came downstairs the following morning, he had written me back, in red ink no less, telling me that I was a good boy and to keep up the good work. One year, he even called the house. When my mother told me who it was, I started to cry and could barely speak.
My parents never let me down on Christmas, no matter how challenging my lists were. Invariably, there would be some hard to find toy or video game that would elude them the entire season, but somehow working in concert, they managed to snag each and every one before zero hour.
Christmas Eve was always the “special time” in my household. When I was really young, it was the time Mom and Dad would give me their gifts. Christmas Day was reserved for Santa. As the years went on, and the truth behind Santa was revealed, Christmas Eve retained its importance, in favor of the next morning.
Christmas took on an entirely new significance in my late teens. My first real relationship took shape around the Christmas holidays, and in some ways, gave me an excuse to push the agenda. I remember giving my first girlfriend a card that, while explicitly saying nothing, sent a winking message that I liked her.
My favorite memory of that entire relationship occurred in front of a Christmas tree. On the day after I asked her out (an embarrassing moment I recently recounted here) she invited me to a Christmas party. Of course I agreed!
I knew no one at the party, and brought a few of my friends as back-up in case she got too preoccupied with catching up with her friends. They were an extremely friendly bunch and were very welcoming. However, as the night wore on, I felt kind of forgotten, and found myself sitting behind the tree, wondering what the hell I was doing there. I was feeling a bit paranoid too, wondering if she was really on board with this whole thing.
She came and found me, sat down next to me, and I related to her that I thought I didn’t belong there. Maybe I’m over dramatizing this moment, and maybe I’m looking at it through the gauzy haze of an idealized past, but what she did next made me simply melt. She looked at me, not with a smile, but a very thoughtful glance, and held my hand. How long we sat there not speaking I can’t say, but it was a watershed moment for me, one that spoke volumes without uttering a sound.
The scene changed though, and I found myself, Ebenezer like, viewing the next Christmas with her. She presented me with an album that recounted the entire last year’s milestones and again, I melt. As quickly as that fades, I find myself in the exact same spot the following year, essentially telling her I can no longer be a part of her life. In the space of three Christmases, I felt as though I lived a lifetime.
Christmas didn’t play a major role in my next relationship, although it lasted four years. I did get the boot though, right before Christmas, and I spent the holidays that year in a miserable fog, and could barely muster the strength to pretend I was enjoying the proceedings. I have to credit my parents for holding me up during that time, and their gentle patience with my morose state.
My future wife and I got engaged before our first Christmas, and that certainly took the heat off what to get her as a gift - she already had a ring! It was a wonderful experience bringing her around to friends and family that year as my fiancée.
Our first Christmas as a married couple brought with it the simple joys of preparing our first holiday together. She pulled out all the stops, decorating our modest apartment beautifully. I’ll also never forget the sight of our cat tangled up in a mass of lights and garland, screeching for dear life.
Much to her chagrin, my wife started a tradition that year with buying me ornaments particular to my tastes, like Star Trek, superheroes and the like. We got a little “Charlie Brown” tree for me to put them on, as they were not allowed on the main tree (of course!) Over the last decade, the Charlie Brown tree has grown to a six-footer, entirely populated by the heroes of my youth!
For a time, we had two trees, but eventually my wife tired of the experience, and gave hers up, in favor of keeping me happy with mine, and it remains the family tree.
The holidays consistently stir up all these memories for me. I’ve held one personal tradition for at least the last ten years or so, and that’s watching Alastair Sim’s version of “A Chistmas Carol,” precisely around the time Jacob Marley visits him. I see it as a cautionary tale, not to let myself be overcome by my general lack of faith in humanity, and recall in my own mind, all the happy and sad moments that informed who I have become, and be grateful for all of them.
On a larger scale, I’ve been on a sentimental journey this entire year. I’m not sure how long it will last, but I’m grateful I’ve had the opportunity to make peace with all these disparate memories using this blog as a tool. Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Terminally Shy
When he was courting his beloved Adrian, my hero Rocky told her she suffered from “the disease of being shy.” So did Rocky, which made their love story that much more endearing. Here were two lost souls, battered by their lives, and their inability to connect with other people, finding each other after they had lost all hope. “Rocky” is my favorite film of all time for numerous reasons, not the least of which is the love story, which always warms my terminally cranky heart.
I suppose I relate so well to that aspect of the story because I suffered from “terminal shyness,” and it was never more apparent than in my early dealings with the opposite sex. I’m so far removed from that time in my life it’s easy to dispense advice to others in the same boat. I empathize with them, but sometimes have to struggle to remember how crippling it was for me those many years ago.
I’m told that I was a wild, rambunctious baby, a kid who had no qualms about introducing myself to adults, showing up at neighbor’s houses looking to be entertained, or calling them by their first names! I was an only child and when I was three, my parents moved to a block filled with retirees. In essence, they became my playmates.
I endeared myself to one family in particular, a sixty-ish couple and their adult son. The father and his son raced stock cars and were always in their driveway tinkering with their rides. I would just zoom on over on my Big Wheel and hang out. My mother was mortified, but they let me stay, and it blossomed into a great friendship with both men. I doubt in today’s suspicious climate such a relationship would ever be forged.
In any case, my ease with adults did not translate into a comfortable rapport with my peers. I’ve written before how I loved being an only child, and I stand by that. However, this is one instance where I think it hindered my development in some respects, and affected me for the rest of my life.
When I entered Pre-K and Kindergarten I was completely terrified. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to act. I over thought everything, even as a five-year old. When I started grade school, I did manage to connect with other kids of like persuasions, but my nature would guarantee that I would never be one of the cool kids. I was hardly a social misfit – I was simply paralyzed with fear.
Here’s an often repeated story from those days that has since become legend. During the first week of grammar school, I sat in the schoolyard by myself, on my Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox, just watching the other kids playfully run around like lunatics. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a boy with the same lunchbox. For days I observed him, and thought we might have something in common. Of course, I wasn’t about to talk to him!
After maybe a week, he introduced himself and I was probably not that forthcoming. Knowing me, I was probably downright mute. Still, he took a step I could not, and to make a long story short, we’ve been friends for 32 years. He was best man at my wedding and I’m godfather to one of his daughters.
As the joys of puberty unfolded, I was keenly aware of how devastating my shyness would be when it came to matters of the heart. When it came time to pick a high school, I went with an all-boys school to completely avoid the issue, knowing full well it would likely retard my development in that arena, but such was my mania.
Shortly before high school ended, at the behest of my friends, I took a job at a local public library. I should mention that one of my closest friends, someone who was my polar opposite, had recently moved away. He had no problems dealing with the opposite sex. He was a little too good with the ladies, and it eventually caught up to him.
Anyway, I was thrust into a truly co-ed world for the first time in four years, and as predicted, completely ill-equipped to handle what lay before me. When I recall that first year and all the embarrassing missteps I made, I cringe, not the least of which was asking out my first girlfriend.
Prior to meeting her, I’d blundered around with two other girls, but neither situation truly meant anything to me. I was just determined to kick start my social life, despite the shyness gene hindering me at every step.
Prior to my realizing how much I liked this girl I had an easy rapport with her, filled with sarcastic banter and teasing. When it hit me that I actually felt something for her, I instantly became paralyzed.
It’s impossible to convey to someone who doesn’t feel this way just how crippling shyness and insecurity can be. You’re almost willing to let something potentially wonderful go by the boards for fear of humiliating yourself, especially if you’re colleagues of some kind, or part of the same social circle.
If you meet someone on a blind date or through Match or one of those websites, it’s much easier to laugh off a bad experience, but when you fall for someone who’s already part of your life in some form or fashion, how much more difficult is it then to summon the courage to push it to the next level? The thought of still interacting with them following a rejection is horrible.
I concocted a bizarre and in retrospect, humiliating (both for me and for her) plan for asking this girl out. I asked my good friend Mr. Lunchbox to “feel her out” on the topic of going out with me. Even writing the words is embarrassing 20 years after the fact!
He did, and it almost completely backfired because she took this to mean it was someone else’s idea and that I was being goaded into it. When he reported back to me, I felt like a gargantuan jackass, and knew I had to immediately say something to repair the damage. The next day I did, and it was perhaps the most embarrassing, awkward, tongue-tied moment of my life to that point.
Somehow, I convinced her that the notion of going out was my idea and not his. God only knows what was going through her mind – I can’t imagine she envisioned this as the ideal start to a relationship. Very quickly, I think she had the sense that I was simply terrified. Maybe that was endearing to some small degree. Without overplaying her hand, she let me know she was on the same page and it made those first two weeks much easier.
Shyness and insecurity aren’t just crippling at the beginning of a relationship! That was just the first hurdle I had to clear. As the relationship intensified it became more problematic. If at any moment I put myself out there on an “emotional limb” so to speak, and was met with a less than enthusiastic response, I was like a turtle going back into my shell for months at a time. If she didn’t say something after that, then nothing would be said.
It’s not fun being this way. It can give a partner a completely false impression of what is going on. If you’re fortunate enough to be with someone you care about, you become so afraid of ruining a good thing that you’re afraid to take risks, of pushing the envelope, of saying something that might upset them. It’s terrible.
For example, if my girlfriend was upset for some reason, I immediately assumed it was my fault. It could’ve been a fight with her mother, a bad day at school, whatever. To my mind, it was my fault. So I tread very lightly for fear that I might be on the chopping block. More often than not, it wasn’t my fault.
Over time I got better at reading her, but I still never pushed the envelope. It had to be frustrating to deal with someone who just refused to open up. I was a great talker and would talk about anything under the sun, except myself and how I felt. When the relationship was in its end stages, and she wanted to discuss her vision for the future, I completely clammed up.
I figured anything I said would hasten the end, and selfishly wanted to squeeze in as much “good time” with her as possible. It was far from a healthy situation. I was happy when she was preoccupied with other matters and needed my counsel, but as soon as she turned her eye towards us, I utterly refused to deal with it. Shyness translates to insecurity and insecurity begets silence.
The relationship ended not with a bang, but with a whimper, with my spending the last six months of it completely closed off to her. What was the point of sharing my feelings of anger, bitterness, jealousy and resentment over the situation? I could’ve at least been honest.
She confronted me at my job and like a cornered animal I unloaded it all on her, knowing I had nothing to lose. But how sad is it that I felt like I could only be totally truthful at a moment like that? It would have made no difference in the ultimate outcome, but she was always honest with me.
Now here’s the moment where I learn my lesson, right? Where all the mistakes of the prior relationship inform my behavior for the next one and I grow as a human being, right? Nope, back to square one.
As one relationship ended, another was beginning. This girl was a hundred times more obvious about how she felt. Yet I managed to completely convince myself she was just really nice. All the while, my friends wanted to smack me. When it finally came time to ask her out, I concocted another face saving plan, not quite as embarrassing as the first, but still pathetic.
I decided I would ask her out with a big group of us to see if she’d say yes to that. This girl literally followed me around and yet I still had doubts! When I asked her, she seemed taken aback, and wasn’t nearly as happy since it was a “group thing.” It turned out she had legitimate plans and couldn’t come. That was all I needed to give up.
To her credit, she pursued the question and stressed she’d be happy to come another time. The following week, I clumsily asked again, and she made a subtle point of asking if it would just be us, and I responded in the affirmative. I caught a very subtle smile from her as she walked away.
Now this relationship was nothing like the first, except for the fact I was still me. Was I still insecure? Sure. I was dealing with a much younger girl in her first relationship, and I walked on eggshells at every turn, to the extent that she probably wondered if I was truly interested. I was terrified I would damage her in some way that I would get too emotional too quickly, as I did the first time.
Turns out, she was waiting impatiently for all that to start, and despite being incredibly shy too, she took the bull by the horns. For a long time after that, everything was cool. The truly sad part is this person was crippled by her insecurities in the beginning, and made a concerted effort to overcome them. Eventually, she surpassed me in her ability to communicate, and I knew I was done.
As before, I refused to deal with the problems we faced, and the vast chasm between our desires for the future, just figuring maybe they would go away or work themselves out. I acted so shocked when I finally got the boot.
After six years of this stuff, I came to a realization about myself. The shyness and the insecurity are intertwined in a complex web that has its roots in my early life, and those roots run deep. I have a great facility for communicating and that attracts people to me, but when it’s about me and the least bit threatening, I don’t want to discuss it, ever, with anyone.
(And yet you write about it!! I never said I made sense.)
Funnily enough, when I met my future wife, I was completely at ease with the situation because (and I hate the way this sounds) I simply didn’t care. Prior to meeting her, I experienced a less than stellar blind date, so I put no stock in the notion I would meet anyone of any significance when I was hoodwinked into it a second time. So, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t hampered by my shyness. Being so completely at ease with things was a new feeling for me and I suppose things progressed rapidly as a result.
Now comes the part where I proudly explain how this lifetime of self-awareness has gelled into not only a greater understanding of who I am, spawning all sorts of positive new behaviors. Nope.
I’m sorry to report I haven’t changed in the least bit. In reality, I don’t think any of us have the capacity for true change. There’s room for compromise, but intrinsically we are who we are. I look at my parents, who I love dearly, and they are no different than who they were 30 years ago, not in the slightest. My dearest friends, who have been with me for decades, are who they always were, only older and more set in their ways.
I know exactly how it feels when people tell me they wish others would take the first step because I remember how torturous it was for me (and this really crosses gender lines – guys and girls experience it in equal measure). It really pisses me off when people tell others to just do it. I try to be encouraging, yet will always acknowledge the difficulty involved.
When you’re removed from a situation and have no emotional stake in it, it’s so much easier to see what’s going on. That’s the position I find myself in now, and I smile when things go well for those who are like me because they possess none of the hubris or arrogance that comes with overconfidence and their appreciation for it is magnified exponentially.
As for me, I’m at peace with it. Hopefully, it won’t bite me in the ass again. But with my luck…
I suppose I relate so well to that aspect of the story because I suffered from “terminal shyness,” and it was never more apparent than in my early dealings with the opposite sex. I’m so far removed from that time in my life it’s easy to dispense advice to others in the same boat. I empathize with them, but sometimes have to struggle to remember how crippling it was for me those many years ago.
I’m told that I was a wild, rambunctious baby, a kid who had no qualms about introducing myself to adults, showing up at neighbor’s houses looking to be entertained, or calling them by their first names! I was an only child and when I was three, my parents moved to a block filled with retirees. In essence, they became my playmates.
I endeared myself to one family in particular, a sixty-ish couple and their adult son. The father and his son raced stock cars and were always in their driveway tinkering with their rides. I would just zoom on over on my Big Wheel and hang out. My mother was mortified, but they let me stay, and it blossomed into a great friendship with both men. I doubt in today’s suspicious climate such a relationship would ever be forged.
In any case, my ease with adults did not translate into a comfortable rapport with my peers. I’ve written before how I loved being an only child, and I stand by that. However, this is one instance where I think it hindered my development in some respects, and affected me for the rest of my life.
When I entered Pre-K and Kindergarten I was completely terrified. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to act. I over thought everything, even as a five-year old. When I started grade school, I did manage to connect with other kids of like persuasions, but my nature would guarantee that I would never be one of the cool kids. I was hardly a social misfit – I was simply paralyzed with fear.
Here’s an often repeated story from those days that has since become legend. During the first week of grammar school, I sat in the schoolyard by myself, on my Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox, just watching the other kids playfully run around like lunatics. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a boy with the same lunchbox. For days I observed him, and thought we might have something in common. Of course, I wasn’t about to talk to him!
After maybe a week, he introduced himself and I was probably not that forthcoming. Knowing me, I was probably downright mute. Still, he took a step I could not, and to make a long story short, we’ve been friends for 32 years. He was best man at my wedding and I’m godfather to one of his daughters.
As the joys of puberty unfolded, I was keenly aware of how devastating my shyness would be when it came to matters of the heart. When it came time to pick a high school, I went with an all-boys school to completely avoid the issue, knowing full well it would likely retard my development in that arena, but such was my mania.
Shortly before high school ended, at the behest of my friends, I took a job at a local public library. I should mention that one of my closest friends, someone who was my polar opposite, had recently moved away. He had no problems dealing with the opposite sex. He was a little too good with the ladies, and it eventually caught up to him.
Anyway, I was thrust into a truly co-ed world for the first time in four years, and as predicted, completely ill-equipped to handle what lay before me. When I recall that first year and all the embarrassing missteps I made, I cringe, not the least of which was asking out my first girlfriend.
Prior to meeting her, I’d blundered around with two other girls, but neither situation truly meant anything to me. I was just determined to kick start my social life, despite the shyness gene hindering me at every step.
Prior to my realizing how much I liked this girl I had an easy rapport with her, filled with sarcastic banter and teasing. When it hit me that I actually felt something for her, I instantly became paralyzed.
It’s impossible to convey to someone who doesn’t feel this way just how crippling shyness and insecurity can be. You’re almost willing to let something potentially wonderful go by the boards for fear of humiliating yourself, especially if you’re colleagues of some kind, or part of the same social circle.
If you meet someone on a blind date or through Match or one of those websites, it’s much easier to laugh off a bad experience, but when you fall for someone who’s already part of your life in some form or fashion, how much more difficult is it then to summon the courage to push it to the next level? The thought of still interacting with them following a rejection is horrible.
I concocted a bizarre and in retrospect, humiliating (both for me and for her) plan for asking this girl out. I asked my good friend Mr. Lunchbox to “feel her out” on the topic of going out with me. Even writing the words is embarrassing 20 years after the fact!
He did, and it almost completely backfired because she took this to mean it was someone else’s idea and that I was being goaded into it. When he reported back to me, I felt like a gargantuan jackass, and knew I had to immediately say something to repair the damage. The next day I did, and it was perhaps the most embarrassing, awkward, tongue-tied moment of my life to that point.
Somehow, I convinced her that the notion of going out was my idea and not his. God only knows what was going through her mind – I can’t imagine she envisioned this as the ideal start to a relationship. Very quickly, I think she had the sense that I was simply terrified. Maybe that was endearing to some small degree. Without overplaying her hand, she let me know she was on the same page and it made those first two weeks much easier.
Shyness and insecurity aren’t just crippling at the beginning of a relationship! That was just the first hurdle I had to clear. As the relationship intensified it became more problematic. If at any moment I put myself out there on an “emotional limb” so to speak, and was met with a less than enthusiastic response, I was like a turtle going back into my shell for months at a time. If she didn’t say something after that, then nothing would be said.
It’s not fun being this way. It can give a partner a completely false impression of what is going on. If you’re fortunate enough to be with someone you care about, you become so afraid of ruining a good thing that you’re afraid to take risks, of pushing the envelope, of saying something that might upset them. It’s terrible.
For example, if my girlfriend was upset for some reason, I immediately assumed it was my fault. It could’ve been a fight with her mother, a bad day at school, whatever. To my mind, it was my fault. So I tread very lightly for fear that I might be on the chopping block. More often than not, it wasn’t my fault.
Over time I got better at reading her, but I still never pushed the envelope. It had to be frustrating to deal with someone who just refused to open up. I was a great talker and would talk about anything under the sun, except myself and how I felt. When the relationship was in its end stages, and she wanted to discuss her vision for the future, I completely clammed up.
I figured anything I said would hasten the end, and selfishly wanted to squeeze in as much “good time” with her as possible. It was far from a healthy situation. I was happy when she was preoccupied with other matters and needed my counsel, but as soon as she turned her eye towards us, I utterly refused to deal with it. Shyness translates to insecurity and insecurity begets silence.
The relationship ended not with a bang, but with a whimper, with my spending the last six months of it completely closed off to her. What was the point of sharing my feelings of anger, bitterness, jealousy and resentment over the situation? I could’ve at least been honest.
She confronted me at my job and like a cornered animal I unloaded it all on her, knowing I had nothing to lose. But how sad is it that I felt like I could only be totally truthful at a moment like that? It would have made no difference in the ultimate outcome, but she was always honest with me.
Now here’s the moment where I learn my lesson, right? Where all the mistakes of the prior relationship inform my behavior for the next one and I grow as a human being, right? Nope, back to square one.
As one relationship ended, another was beginning. This girl was a hundred times more obvious about how she felt. Yet I managed to completely convince myself she was just really nice. All the while, my friends wanted to smack me. When it finally came time to ask her out, I concocted another face saving plan, not quite as embarrassing as the first, but still pathetic.
I decided I would ask her out with a big group of us to see if she’d say yes to that. This girl literally followed me around and yet I still had doubts! When I asked her, she seemed taken aback, and wasn’t nearly as happy since it was a “group thing.” It turned out she had legitimate plans and couldn’t come. That was all I needed to give up.
To her credit, she pursued the question and stressed she’d be happy to come another time. The following week, I clumsily asked again, and she made a subtle point of asking if it would just be us, and I responded in the affirmative. I caught a very subtle smile from her as she walked away.
Now this relationship was nothing like the first, except for the fact I was still me. Was I still insecure? Sure. I was dealing with a much younger girl in her first relationship, and I walked on eggshells at every turn, to the extent that she probably wondered if I was truly interested. I was terrified I would damage her in some way that I would get too emotional too quickly, as I did the first time.
Turns out, she was waiting impatiently for all that to start, and despite being incredibly shy too, she took the bull by the horns. For a long time after that, everything was cool. The truly sad part is this person was crippled by her insecurities in the beginning, and made a concerted effort to overcome them. Eventually, she surpassed me in her ability to communicate, and I knew I was done.
As before, I refused to deal with the problems we faced, and the vast chasm between our desires for the future, just figuring maybe they would go away or work themselves out. I acted so shocked when I finally got the boot.
After six years of this stuff, I came to a realization about myself. The shyness and the insecurity are intertwined in a complex web that has its roots in my early life, and those roots run deep. I have a great facility for communicating and that attracts people to me, but when it’s about me and the least bit threatening, I don’t want to discuss it, ever, with anyone.
(And yet you write about it!! I never said I made sense.)
Funnily enough, when I met my future wife, I was completely at ease with the situation because (and I hate the way this sounds) I simply didn’t care. Prior to meeting her, I experienced a less than stellar blind date, so I put no stock in the notion I would meet anyone of any significance when I was hoodwinked into it a second time. So, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t hampered by my shyness. Being so completely at ease with things was a new feeling for me and I suppose things progressed rapidly as a result.
Now comes the part where I proudly explain how this lifetime of self-awareness has gelled into not only a greater understanding of who I am, spawning all sorts of positive new behaviors. Nope.
I’m sorry to report I haven’t changed in the least bit. In reality, I don’t think any of us have the capacity for true change. There’s room for compromise, but intrinsically we are who we are. I look at my parents, who I love dearly, and they are no different than who they were 30 years ago, not in the slightest. My dearest friends, who have been with me for decades, are who they always were, only older and more set in their ways.
I know exactly how it feels when people tell me they wish others would take the first step because I remember how torturous it was for me (and this really crosses gender lines – guys and girls experience it in equal measure). It really pisses me off when people tell others to just do it. I try to be encouraging, yet will always acknowledge the difficulty involved.
When you’re removed from a situation and have no emotional stake in it, it’s so much easier to see what’s going on. That’s the position I find myself in now, and I smile when things go well for those who are like me because they possess none of the hubris or arrogance that comes with overconfidence and their appreciation for it is magnified exponentially.
As for me, I’m at peace with it. Hopefully, it won’t bite me in the ass again. But with my luck…
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Hockey vs. Baseball
Disclaimer: This is a joke people, NOT meant to be taken seriously. If you feel the need to take umbrage, go for it. I’m only writing this to bust Mike’s shoes.
Hockey Sucks. It’s just that simple. Why? I’ll tell you why. Like other sports that employ the whole “put the ball/puck in the net/basket/end zone mentality,” it’s a banal undertaking. Yeah, I said banal. Look it up!
It’s a crushing bore to watch these idiots run back and forth and back and forth, bla bla bla, and never score until one barbarian slashes another, and the ensuing fisticuffs cause one low forehead to hit the penalty box. Oh look! It’s a power play situation – goal scored! Islanders lose!!
And what about those fisticuffs? How is it that a sport is better known for its ass kickery than anything else? What kind of sport teaches with a nudge and a wink that unsportsmanlike conduct is cool? And, that if you don’t engage in it, you’re basically a pussy. We’ve all heard the old cliché, “I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out.” Too true.
I’d rather watch Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier practice the pugilistic arts than two idiots throw their gloves on the ice (snicker) and start punching each other in the face, or better yet, pull their jerseys off! Catfight!!! And if that’s the case I’d rather watch two hot chicks beat each other up.
I like baseball. OK, maybe I’m not as rabid a fan as I was in my youth, but I still have a great appreciation for the game. Do I hate steroids, free agency, four plus hour games? Sure I do! But this is America’s national pastime people!! This is a game of delicate strategy requiring a precise mind. “Do I take this pitcher out? Do I walk this batter? Do I sacrifice or let him swing away?”
Pushing a puck back and forth, back and forth and stopping every so often to check some toothless dude into the boards is nothing compared to the amount of skill it takes to hit a round ball going 100 MPH with a long bat, to drop an amazing bunt, to steal a home run and then double up the guy rounding second with a rifle shot throw, to throw a perfect game, 27 up and 27 down!
And I’m all for a good baseball brawl every now and again, but since they’re infrequent they’re much more memorable. Bud Harrelson vs. Pete Rose, Robin Ventura vs. Nolan Ryan, Lou Piniella vs. Carlton Fisk. How can a hockey fight be memorable? Losing a limb? Eye gouging??
Hockey strategy? A good goalkeeper. Push the puck towards the goal. Make sure you don’t go offsides. Yawn.
Playing with ice skates? Really? Ever see The Cutting Edge? You share the same DNA as Nancy Kerrigan and Michelle Kwan. Butch it up as much as you want. Maybe that’s why you fight so much. Sure you’re not gay. Be a real man and play soccer or rugby!
Games ending in a tie? Are you kidding me? I hate games that are on the clock. I’d rather have two teams duke it out for 22 innings than end in a stupid tie. And for the record, Bud Selig is an ass for letting the All-Star Game end that way!
Drama? Oh, please. I’ll give you guys the 1980 Winter Olympics. That was undeniably awesome. But come on! Anyone ever see Game 6 of the 1975 World Series? Now THAT’S drama! Game 6 of the 1986 World Series? Game 6 of the 1986 NLCS? The 2004 ALCS?
Let’s talk about great hockey movies. (crickets) Let’s talk about great or very good baseball movies – Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, The Natural, Pride of the Yankees, Eight Men Out, The Rookie, Major League, The Bad News Bears, A League of Their Own, The Sandlot, 61, Bang the Drum Slowly, Fear Strikes Out. Why are they so many good ones? Because of the inherent drama of the game! The sport lends itself to making great films.
I don’t know about you but I’d rather have a lump in my throat when Roy Hobbes hits the climactic homer in The Natural than watch Rob Lowe’s ass hair ripped off in Youngblood. Slap Shot is good for a few yuks. Miracle is pretty awesome and falls under the protected category of the 1980 Winter Olympics. Mystery, Alaska? Really?
And excuse me for living, but I don’t want to share a pastime with Canada? Really? America’s hat? The frickin’ Hockey Hall of Fame is in Canada! Lord Stanley was a Canadian! I was in Toronto last year, and easily had the time to go in. I took a pass. If Canada wants to play baseball, let them, but it’s OUR game! I love this quote:
“The entire country of Canada needs to be torn down and paved over for parking lot purposes and. The entire population of Canada then needs to be taken as our prisoners and forced to build sphinxes and pyramids to our great Americans.”
Many of the big hockey sites are .ca sites! What does that tell you? Americans can’t be bothered to blog like crazy about this sport. You know, I always hear about fantasy football or fantasy baseball but I know no one who plays fantasy hockey!
Playoffs? Hockey playoffs go on FOREVER! Sucky teams make the playoffs! And who cares about the Stanley Cup these days? Where is it televised? ESPN The Ocho?? Let me just say I’m no fan of the Wild Card in baseball – I was happy with two rounds. The League Championships were a worthwhile invention, but the Division series is too much. Hockey playoffs last like 6 months anyway, so it’s not as though we’re anywhere near as ridiculous!
In closing, I would just like to reiterate that hockey sucks. Baseball, for all its problems, remains the most strategically innovative, exciting (the moments of boredom heighten the drama) beloved and historic game in this country.
If you disagree, and need to find like minded individuals who share your passion for this moribund (look it up dummies) sport, I suggest pulling up stakes, moving north and watching Hockey Night in Canada (snicker) to your heart’s content. While you’re at it, become a fan of the CFL (snicker) or better yet, curling!!
The Molson’s on me!
Hockey Sucks. It’s just that simple. Why? I’ll tell you why. Like other sports that employ the whole “put the ball/puck in the net/basket/end zone mentality,” it’s a banal undertaking. Yeah, I said banal. Look it up!
It’s a crushing bore to watch these idiots run back and forth and back and forth, bla bla bla, and never score until one barbarian slashes another, and the ensuing fisticuffs cause one low forehead to hit the penalty box. Oh look! It’s a power play situation – goal scored! Islanders lose!!
And what about those fisticuffs? How is it that a sport is better known for its ass kickery than anything else? What kind of sport teaches with a nudge and a wink that unsportsmanlike conduct is cool? And, that if you don’t engage in it, you’re basically a pussy. We’ve all heard the old cliché, “I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out.” Too true.
I’d rather watch Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier practice the pugilistic arts than two idiots throw their gloves on the ice (snicker) and start punching each other in the face, or better yet, pull their jerseys off! Catfight!!! And if that’s the case I’d rather watch two hot chicks beat each other up.
I like baseball. OK, maybe I’m not as rabid a fan as I was in my youth, but I still have a great appreciation for the game. Do I hate steroids, free agency, four plus hour games? Sure I do! But this is America’s national pastime people!! This is a game of delicate strategy requiring a precise mind. “Do I take this pitcher out? Do I walk this batter? Do I sacrifice or let him swing away?”
Pushing a puck back and forth, back and forth and stopping every so often to check some toothless dude into the boards is nothing compared to the amount of skill it takes to hit a round ball going 100 MPH with a long bat, to drop an amazing bunt, to steal a home run and then double up the guy rounding second with a rifle shot throw, to throw a perfect game, 27 up and 27 down!
And I’m all for a good baseball brawl every now and again, but since they’re infrequent they’re much more memorable. Bud Harrelson vs. Pete Rose, Robin Ventura vs. Nolan Ryan, Lou Piniella vs. Carlton Fisk. How can a hockey fight be memorable? Losing a limb? Eye gouging??
Hockey strategy? A good goalkeeper. Push the puck towards the goal. Make sure you don’t go offsides. Yawn.
Playing with ice skates? Really? Ever see The Cutting Edge? You share the same DNA as Nancy Kerrigan and Michelle Kwan. Butch it up as much as you want. Maybe that’s why you fight so much. Sure you’re not gay. Be a real man and play soccer or rugby!
Games ending in a tie? Are you kidding me? I hate games that are on the clock. I’d rather have two teams duke it out for 22 innings than end in a stupid tie. And for the record, Bud Selig is an ass for letting the All-Star Game end that way!
Drama? Oh, please. I’ll give you guys the 1980 Winter Olympics. That was undeniably awesome. But come on! Anyone ever see Game 6 of the 1975 World Series? Now THAT’S drama! Game 6 of the 1986 World Series? Game 6 of the 1986 NLCS? The 2004 ALCS?
Let’s talk about great hockey movies. (crickets) Let’s talk about great or very good baseball movies – Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, The Natural, Pride of the Yankees, Eight Men Out, The Rookie, Major League, The Bad News Bears, A League of Their Own, The Sandlot, 61, Bang the Drum Slowly, Fear Strikes Out. Why are they so many good ones? Because of the inherent drama of the game! The sport lends itself to making great films.
I don’t know about you but I’d rather have a lump in my throat when Roy Hobbes hits the climactic homer in The Natural than watch Rob Lowe’s ass hair ripped off in Youngblood. Slap Shot is good for a few yuks. Miracle is pretty awesome and falls under the protected category of the 1980 Winter Olympics. Mystery, Alaska? Really?
And excuse me for living, but I don’t want to share a pastime with Canada? Really? America’s hat? The frickin’ Hockey Hall of Fame is in Canada! Lord Stanley was a Canadian! I was in Toronto last year, and easily had the time to go in. I took a pass. If Canada wants to play baseball, let them, but it’s OUR game! I love this quote:
“The entire country of Canada needs to be torn down and paved over for parking lot purposes and. The entire population of Canada then needs to be taken as our prisoners and forced to build sphinxes and pyramids to our great Americans.”
Many of the big hockey sites are .ca sites! What does that tell you? Americans can’t be bothered to blog like crazy about this sport. You know, I always hear about fantasy football or fantasy baseball but I know no one who plays fantasy hockey!
Playoffs? Hockey playoffs go on FOREVER! Sucky teams make the playoffs! And who cares about the Stanley Cup these days? Where is it televised? ESPN The Ocho?? Let me just say I’m no fan of the Wild Card in baseball – I was happy with two rounds. The League Championships were a worthwhile invention, but the Division series is too much. Hockey playoffs last like 6 months anyway, so it’s not as though we’re anywhere near as ridiculous!
In closing, I would just like to reiterate that hockey sucks. Baseball, for all its problems, remains the most strategically innovative, exciting (the moments of boredom heighten the drama) beloved and historic game in this country.
If you disagree, and need to find like minded individuals who share your passion for this moribund (look it up dummies) sport, I suggest pulling up stakes, moving north and watching Hockey Night in Canada (snicker) to your heart’s content. While you’re at it, become a fan of the CFL (snicker) or better yet, curling!!
The Molson’s on me!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I resisted Facebook for a while because I thought it was a tool for a much younger person. I made a halfhearted foray into the world of My Space, and quickly realized that was definitely a younger person’s tool. I figured FB was simply more of the same. Slowly though, my close friends were all jumping on the bandwagon, and not ever wanting to be one left out in the cold, I bowed to the peer pressure.
I’ve heard the argument that if you wanted to be in touch with someone you still would be, and there is a certain truth to that I suppose. However, even someone as hyper conscious as I of staying in touch, lost track of plenty of people over the last two decades, and not on purpose – in fact, almost never on purpose.
Life tends to get in the way. We follow wildly divergent paths, move, start families, take on adult responsibilities, and before you know it, 20 years have gone by. My generation had to satisfy ourselves with the phone or (gasp) letters to stay in touch, and I can truthfully say I knew only a handful of people who enjoyed corresponding by letter. Over the years, I came to really hate talking on the phone, so I pretty much dispensed with it as soon as e-mail came into vogue.
One friend tells me that if we had Facebook back then we’d never lose touch with anyone, and that this generation (and subsequent ones) are lucky to have it. I suppose that’s true. I guess it’s also harder to get rid of someone if they are friends with all your friends and can keep close tabs on you even if you delete them as a friend. In my experience, if you stop talking to person, it’s as though they ceased to exist, as if they just stopped.
And that’s the mind-blowing aspect of Facebook, for me at least – the realization that people didn’t just stop, that they aren’t frozen in my memory in 1985 or 1990 or 1995. They went on, and often lived lives I could never have predicted, or in some cases, predicted with uncanny accuracy.
Prior to my involvement with Facebook, I had the pleasure of reuniting with some old friends from my distant past, and it was like no time had passed. Now the floodgates have opened up in a way I simply wasn’t prepared to handle. So far, it’s been great – even if it’s just a quick, “hello” from a grammar school classmate or catching up with a friend from high school or college.
I’ve been so cognizant lately of the path my own life has taken, and retracing my steps from Point A to B to C, and so on. Now, this tool falls into my lap, and all of a sudden, I see everyone I know doing it, to one extent or another. The difference with me is I give all these thoughts a voice in this blog, but I can’t imagine others don’t think along the same lines.
In an instant, our entire lives are splashed across these pages, mostly in old photos (I have posted well over 100 already). Then, people old and new start commenting, lamenting old outfits and hairstyles, goofing on one another, and so on. I love seeing old photos, and am amazed by the courage some of my friends have had to post them! Of course, we tear them to shreds within 24 hours!
I have to admit Facebook has a certain addictive quality, whether it’s looking at people’s photos, finding new “old” people to befriend, or simply commenting on someone’s status, and updating your own. I never thought I would get so sucked in to this! I must admit using it as a tool to “promote” this blog as well! We writers have egos too!
These are just first impressions, really. It’s too soon to judge Facebook’s intrinsic worth, or whether it will “stick,” (with me, anyway). Talk to me again in six months. Now excuse me, I need to up my friend count!
I’ve heard the argument that if you wanted to be in touch with someone you still would be, and there is a certain truth to that I suppose. However, even someone as hyper conscious as I of staying in touch, lost track of plenty of people over the last two decades, and not on purpose – in fact, almost never on purpose.
Life tends to get in the way. We follow wildly divergent paths, move, start families, take on adult responsibilities, and before you know it, 20 years have gone by. My generation had to satisfy ourselves with the phone or (gasp) letters to stay in touch, and I can truthfully say I knew only a handful of people who enjoyed corresponding by letter. Over the years, I came to really hate talking on the phone, so I pretty much dispensed with it as soon as e-mail came into vogue.
One friend tells me that if we had Facebook back then we’d never lose touch with anyone, and that this generation (and subsequent ones) are lucky to have it. I suppose that’s true. I guess it’s also harder to get rid of someone if they are friends with all your friends and can keep close tabs on you even if you delete them as a friend. In my experience, if you stop talking to person, it’s as though they ceased to exist, as if they just stopped.
And that’s the mind-blowing aspect of Facebook, for me at least – the realization that people didn’t just stop, that they aren’t frozen in my memory in 1985 or 1990 or 1995. They went on, and often lived lives I could never have predicted, or in some cases, predicted with uncanny accuracy.
Prior to my involvement with Facebook, I had the pleasure of reuniting with some old friends from my distant past, and it was like no time had passed. Now the floodgates have opened up in a way I simply wasn’t prepared to handle. So far, it’s been great – even if it’s just a quick, “hello” from a grammar school classmate or catching up with a friend from high school or college.
I’ve been so cognizant lately of the path my own life has taken, and retracing my steps from Point A to B to C, and so on. Now, this tool falls into my lap, and all of a sudden, I see everyone I know doing it, to one extent or another. The difference with me is I give all these thoughts a voice in this blog, but I can’t imagine others don’t think along the same lines.
In an instant, our entire lives are splashed across these pages, mostly in old photos (I have posted well over 100 already). Then, people old and new start commenting, lamenting old outfits and hairstyles, goofing on one another, and so on. I love seeing old photos, and am amazed by the courage some of my friends have had to post them! Of course, we tear them to shreds within 24 hours!
I have to admit Facebook has a certain addictive quality, whether it’s looking at people’s photos, finding new “old” people to befriend, or simply commenting on someone’s status, and updating your own. I never thought I would get so sucked in to this! I must admit using it as a tool to “promote” this blog as well! We writers have egos too!
These are just first impressions, really. It’s too soon to judge Facebook’s intrinsic worth, or whether it will “stick,” (with me, anyway). Talk to me again in six months. Now excuse me, I need to up my friend count!
Friday, December 12, 2008
Felix
I got my hair cut yesterday. Pretty exciting, right? Actually, I always look forward to getting my hair cut - not because I love it so much, but because it always means a quick visit with an old friend - Felix, my barber of more than 30 years.
When my family moved to Mineola from Flushing in 1973 my mother searched long and hard for a barber who I liked. As I recall, getting my hair cut was not my favorite pastime. I was the quintessential little pill. I never wanted to go anywhere, except maybe Toys R Us.
Exactly why my mother chose Rudy’s Barber Shop in Williston Park is lost in the mists of time. It’s possible she received a recommendation from one of my friends’ mothers. In any case, off she went in the hopes of securing someone who appealed to my delicate sensibilities. This was probably about 1977 or ’78.
I’m hazy on the details, but I remember taking an instant liking to Felix, a middle-aged man with an Italian accent so heavy I could understand perhaps every third or fourth word he said. I liked him immediately. I can’t explain it, but sometimes a person puts you so at ease in so short a time that you make an instant connection. Granted, I was seven or eight but I was a great judge of character even then!
Felix was very engaging with my Mom as well, and she was relieved to finally find someone who I looked forward to visiting. Much of that time is completely lost to me. All I have are impressions, really – just a warm feeling that this man excelled not only at his trade, but at the art of engaging his young “subject,” so as to take my mind off what he was doing.
About three years later, Felix decided to open his own shop, as did another barber from Rudy’s. Each barber had his own clientele, and they were followed to their new establishments by their respective “fans.” I had several friends who followed the other barber to his new location, and he is still their barber. I, of course, followed Felix to his, which was much closer to my house.
Very shortly after Felix moved, I was old enough to travel to his shop on my own, and most times I rode my bike there. Losing Mom went a long way toward establishing a rapport with Felix that resembled what we have now.
He became my Italian rabbi, someone I could pour my heart out to about whatever juvenile problem I was experiencing, and he dispensed Old World wisdom, of which he had buckets to spare. As the years wore on, I was able to understand nearly everything he said (with some occasional difficulty!)
I suppose my relationship to Felix resembled one people might traditionally have with a trusted bartender. He was someone I never ever saw outside his shop. It’s as though he didn’t exist in the outside world, but our meetings were as a regular as clockwork. He handed out pearls of wisdom about women, family, friends, school, work and life. He always made sense to me.
You could never be sure what we might talk about, or where his standing question, “What’s new?” would lead. As someone who loves conversation, it became something to look forward to, and eventually, to treasure.
Felix knew my life well. He knew my best friend. He knew my girlfriend. When my best friend moved to Florida, he helped me deal with it in his own small way. When my girlfriend dumped me, he made his own unique contribution to picking up my shattered remains. Nothing he said was silly or trite, and he never acted as though he knew more than anyone else.
Before you start thinking this is an obituary, rest assured it is not. Felix is alive and well, and still cutting my hair. He cut my hair for my wedding, and when I asked him for a traditional barber shave, he waved me off and told me, “That’s ‘a silly. You no want that.” I guess I didn’t. Around that time, he had a heart scare, but he bounced back, just in time for that wedding cut.
I was devastated when, one day about five years ago, I walked into his shop and he wasn’t there. I was told that he sold the shop and retired, and given no more information than that. I was bereft and allowed the new proprietor to cut my hair. I felt like I was cheating on my wife! On another level, it felt like Cal Ripken’s streak was coming to an end!
I walked out of there not knowing what to do, or even how to contact Felix. I didn’t even know his last name! It turns out that the wife of one of Felix’s employees worked at the same university as I, so I shot her an e-mail asking for his address. After all these years, I needed to give him a proper good bye and tell him what he meant to me.
I sent him a card, congratulating him on his retirement, and tried to sum up what he meant to me. Soon after, I got a call from Felix and having never spoken to him on the phone, I could barely understand him! He was grateful for my words, but more importantly, he was still working!
Even though he sold his business, he couldn’t bear to retire. He was now working at a shop in Great Neck. Although I was now living in Huntington, I was still working in Queens, so the shop was convenient for me. I also still worked part-time in Albertson, so I would get my hair cuts between working the two jobs. That continues to this day.
I have talked to Felix about everything under the sun, from the mundane to the significant, from the sublime to the ridiculous. He’s in his mid-sixties now, and if his health remains good, maybe I’ll have another five years with him. Retirement does not seem to be on his radar.
Last night, we were talking about my friend in Florida, whom he knew well. I told him we stay in touch via e-mail and I was extolling the virtues of technology as it related to staying in touch. I told him how I used to love to write letters but so few others did. It led him to a story about how he would write 5-6 letters a day when he was in the army. He told me that he was 20 years old before he spoke on the telephone for the first time, because his village in Italy only had one.
My friends laugh at my connection and loyalty to him, and that’s fine. But when you stop and think about it, this is someone who has known me almost my entire life, and made a significant, if unsung contribution to it, one that cannot be underestimated or diminished. He means as much to me as anyone who has contributed something positive to my life, past or present. When the time comes, I don’t know what I’ll do without him.
When my family moved to Mineola from Flushing in 1973 my mother searched long and hard for a barber who I liked. As I recall, getting my hair cut was not my favorite pastime. I was the quintessential little pill. I never wanted to go anywhere, except maybe Toys R Us.
Exactly why my mother chose Rudy’s Barber Shop in Williston Park is lost in the mists of time. It’s possible she received a recommendation from one of my friends’ mothers. In any case, off she went in the hopes of securing someone who appealed to my delicate sensibilities. This was probably about 1977 or ’78.
I’m hazy on the details, but I remember taking an instant liking to Felix, a middle-aged man with an Italian accent so heavy I could understand perhaps every third or fourth word he said. I liked him immediately. I can’t explain it, but sometimes a person puts you so at ease in so short a time that you make an instant connection. Granted, I was seven or eight but I was a great judge of character even then!
Felix was very engaging with my Mom as well, and she was relieved to finally find someone who I looked forward to visiting. Much of that time is completely lost to me. All I have are impressions, really – just a warm feeling that this man excelled not only at his trade, but at the art of engaging his young “subject,” so as to take my mind off what he was doing.
About three years later, Felix decided to open his own shop, as did another barber from Rudy’s. Each barber had his own clientele, and they were followed to their new establishments by their respective “fans.” I had several friends who followed the other barber to his new location, and he is still their barber. I, of course, followed Felix to his, which was much closer to my house.
Very shortly after Felix moved, I was old enough to travel to his shop on my own, and most times I rode my bike there. Losing Mom went a long way toward establishing a rapport with Felix that resembled what we have now.
He became my Italian rabbi, someone I could pour my heart out to about whatever juvenile problem I was experiencing, and he dispensed Old World wisdom, of which he had buckets to spare. As the years wore on, I was able to understand nearly everything he said (with some occasional difficulty!)
I suppose my relationship to Felix resembled one people might traditionally have with a trusted bartender. He was someone I never ever saw outside his shop. It’s as though he didn’t exist in the outside world, but our meetings were as a regular as clockwork. He handed out pearls of wisdom about women, family, friends, school, work and life. He always made sense to me.
You could never be sure what we might talk about, or where his standing question, “What’s new?” would lead. As someone who loves conversation, it became something to look forward to, and eventually, to treasure.
Felix knew my life well. He knew my best friend. He knew my girlfriend. When my best friend moved to Florida, he helped me deal with it in his own small way. When my girlfriend dumped me, he made his own unique contribution to picking up my shattered remains. Nothing he said was silly or trite, and he never acted as though he knew more than anyone else.
Before you start thinking this is an obituary, rest assured it is not. Felix is alive and well, and still cutting my hair. He cut my hair for my wedding, and when I asked him for a traditional barber shave, he waved me off and told me, “That’s ‘a silly. You no want that.” I guess I didn’t. Around that time, he had a heart scare, but he bounced back, just in time for that wedding cut.
I was devastated when, one day about five years ago, I walked into his shop and he wasn’t there. I was told that he sold the shop and retired, and given no more information than that. I was bereft and allowed the new proprietor to cut my hair. I felt like I was cheating on my wife! On another level, it felt like Cal Ripken’s streak was coming to an end!
I walked out of there not knowing what to do, or even how to contact Felix. I didn’t even know his last name! It turns out that the wife of one of Felix’s employees worked at the same university as I, so I shot her an e-mail asking for his address. After all these years, I needed to give him a proper good bye and tell him what he meant to me.
I sent him a card, congratulating him on his retirement, and tried to sum up what he meant to me. Soon after, I got a call from Felix and having never spoken to him on the phone, I could barely understand him! He was grateful for my words, but more importantly, he was still working!
Even though he sold his business, he couldn’t bear to retire. He was now working at a shop in Great Neck. Although I was now living in Huntington, I was still working in Queens, so the shop was convenient for me. I also still worked part-time in Albertson, so I would get my hair cuts between working the two jobs. That continues to this day.
I have talked to Felix about everything under the sun, from the mundane to the significant, from the sublime to the ridiculous. He’s in his mid-sixties now, and if his health remains good, maybe I’ll have another five years with him. Retirement does not seem to be on his radar.
Last night, we were talking about my friend in Florida, whom he knew well. I told him we stay in touch via e-mail and I was extolling the virtues of technology as it related to staying in touch. I told him how I used to love to write letters but so few others did. It led him to a story about how he would write 5-6 letters a day when he was in the army. He told me that he was 20 years old before he spoke on the telephone for the first time, because his village in Italy only had one.
My friends laugh at my connection and loyalty to him, and that’s fine. But when you stop and think about it, this is someone who has known me almost my entire life, and made a significant, if unsung contribution to it, one that cannot be underestimated or diminished. He means as much to me as anyone who has contributed something positive to my life, past or present. When the time comes, I don’t know what I’ll do without him.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A Squeezing, Wrenching, Grasping, Scraping, Clutching, Covetous Old Sinner!
Ever since I played Jacob Marley in my school’s version of the Charles Dickens classic, “A Christmas Carol,” I’ve been hooked. It has long been my favorite holiday story of all time, and I have devoured all the filmed versions of it.
For some reason, I’ve always identified with Scrooge. I am not a bitter person by any stretch of the imagination. However, I am inclined to see more of what’s bad in life, to think the worst of people, and not be surprised when they inevitably disappoint. I have sharpened a very sarcastic edge over the years, and much like Ebeneezer, my faith in humanity’s overall goodness is almost nonexistent.
I hasten to add that I have enjoyed many blessings in my life, almost too numerous to count, but I have witnessed a great deal that has led me to view humanity in a negative light. It doesn’t warrant going into here. Suffice to say, it exists.
One of my best friends is a talented artist and his caricatures of our group are legendary. When it came time for him to do his take on, “A Christmas Carol” it was a given I would be Scrooge and he would be Bob Cratchitt. We joke that every Christmas Eve I am visited by the three spirits and it has no effect.
There have been countless retellings of "A Christmas Carol," both on film and television. At last count, there were at last ten versions (if you include "Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol!") Many distinguished actors have taken a shot at the role including Reginald Owen, Frederic March, Albert Finney, George C. Scott, Bill Murray, Henry Winkler and Patrick Stewart. Some of them have missed the mark entirely. Some have added new dimensions to this intriguing character, but it is the late Alastair Sim who took this role and made it his own.
In fact, every Christmas Eve I watch his performance, soaking it all in, and finding something new to love about it each time.
In the 1951 version of "A Christmas Carol" (simply titled "Scrooge" when it was released) Sim played this role with all the appropriate malice, disgust and wickedness it required. Anyone who tries to soften the character waters him down and makes his conversion at the end much less wondrous than Dickens intended.
Case in point: when Patrick Stewart essayed the role in his magnificent one-man show on Broadway I thought, “Here is a man worthy to succeed Sim as THE preeminent Scrooge.” However, on film, he chose to play Scrooge as cold rather than heartless, indifferent rather than spiteful, cheap rather than avaricious. It doesn't work nearly as well.
The only performance of Scrooge that comes near Alastair Sim is that of George C. Scott in the 1984 TV movie. Scott conveyed all the anger and rage of a man who resented the world and wanted no part of its celebrations, who "warned all human sympathy to keep its distance!" His booming voice and stern demeanor made him a natural for the role, but it still falls short of Sim.
Why is Sim so brilliant in this role? Yes, he is as cruel, wicked and spiteful as the role demands, but it is his disdain and revulsion for everything Christmas stands for, and the subtle ways in wish he shows it, that make this performance the best. It's not how he berates or chastises, but the incredulous disbelief he displays at the happiness of people like poor Bob Cratchitt or his nephew Fred.
Sim is also magnificent as he essays Scrooge's slow conversion as the three ghosts, past, present and future, take him on a tour of himself and his ultimate destiny, should no change occur. His deeply expressive face speaks volumes when confronted with the tragedies of his own life and that of Bob Cratchitt.
The icing on the cake is Scrooge's jubilation when he realizes he has a second chance at life. His elation is palpable, brilliantly comedic and truly poignant all at the same time. You can't help but feel happy at the sight of this man who realizes he has wasted his life, and is ready to make amends.
Another reason this version is so successful is that it does not stray too far from the original text. The least successful versions ignored important passages, made up some of their own, or dumbed down the brilliant Victorian-era dialogue.
It’s impossible not to be moved by the experience of watching a man forced to revisit all the joys and sorrows of his life - to realize all the pain he has experienced caused him to shut himself off from his fellow creatures rather than constantly be disappointed by them.
In doing so, he has also shut himself off from much potential joy. In the end, he realizes humanity is worth the effort, that his pain is no worse than that of others. In fact, he is witness to several examples of those who suffer, and whose faith in each other, in humanity, and Christmas is strengthened.
I guess I identify with Scrooge because of our lack of faith in humanity. His conversion takes place in one night. Mine may take a bit longer, but I think I’ll get there.
For some reason, I’ve always identified with Scrooge. I am not a bitter person by any stretch of the imagination. However, I am inclined to see more of what’s bad in life, to think the worst of people, and not be surprised when they inevitably disappoint. I have sharpened a very sarcastic edge over the years, and much like Ebeneezer, my faith in humanity’s overall goodness is almost nonexistent.
I hasten to add that I have enjoyed many blessings in my life, almost too numerous to count, but I have witnessed a great deal that has led me to view humanity in a negative light. It doesn’t warrant going into here. Suffice to say, it exists.
One of my best friends is a talented artist and his caricatures of our group are legendary. When it came time for him to do his take on, “A Christmas Carol” it was a given I would be Scrooge and he would be Bob Cratchitt. We joke that every Christmas Eve I am visited by the three spirits and it has no effect.
There have been countless retellings of "A Christmas Carol," both on film and television. At last count, there were at last ten versions (if you include "Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol!") Many distinguished actors have taken a shot at the role including Reginald Owen, Frederic March, Albert Finney, George C. Scott, Bill Murray, Henry Winkler and Patrick Stewart. Some of them have missed the mark entirely. Some have added new dimensions to this intriguing character, but it is the late Alastair Sim who took this role and made it his own.
In fact, every Christmas Eve I watch his performance, soaking it all in, and finding something new to love about it each time.
In the 1951 version of "A Christmas Carol" (simply titled "Scrooge" when it was released) Sim played this role with all the appropriate malice, disgust and wickedness it required. Anyone who tries to soften the character waters him down and makes his conversion at the end much less wondrous than Dickens intended.
Case in point: when Patrick Stewart essayed the role in his magnificent one-man show on Broadway I thought, “Here is a man worthy to succeed Sim as THE preeminent Scrooge.” However, on film, he chose to play Scrooge as cold rather than heartless, indifferent rather than spiteful, cheap rather than avaricious. It doesn't work nearly as well.
The only performance of Scrooge that comes near Alastair Sim is that of George C. Scott in the 1984 TV movie. Scott conveyed all the anger and rage of a man who resented the world and wanted no part of its celebrations, who "warned all human sympathy to keep its distance!" His booming voice and stern demeanor made him a natural for the role, but it still falls short of Sim.
Why is Sim so brilliant in this role? Yes, he is as cruel, wicked and spiteful as the role demands, but it is his disdain and revulsion for everything Christmas stands for, and the subtle ways in wish he shows it, that make this performance the best. It's not how he berates or chastises, but the incredulous disbelief he displays at the happiness of people like poor Bob Cratchitt or his nephew Fred.
Sim is also magnificent as he essays Scrooge's slow conversion as the three ghosts, past, present and future, take him on a tour of himself and his ultimate destiny, should no change occur. His deeply expressive face speaks volumes when confronted with the tragedies of his own life and that of Bob Cratchitt.
The icing on the cake is Scrooge's jubilation when he realizes he has a second chance at life. His elation is palpable, brilliantly comedic and truly poignant all at the same time. You can't help but feel happy at the sight of this man who realizes he has wasted his life, and is ready to make amends.
Another reason this version is so successful is that it does not stray too far from the original text. The least successful versions ignored important passages, made up some of their own, or dumbed down the brilliant Victorian-era dialogue.
It’s impossible not to be moved by the experience of watching a man forced to revisit all the joys and sorrows of his life - to realize all the pain he has experienced caused him to shut himself off from his fellow creatures rather than constantly be disappointed by them.
In doing so, he has also shut himself off from much potential joy. In the end, he realizes humanity is worth the effort, that his pain is no worse than that of others. In fact, he is witness to several examples of those who suffer, and whose faith in each other, in humanity, and Christmas is strengthened.
I guess I identify with Scrooge because of our lack of faith in humanity. His conversion takes place in one night. Mine may take a bit longer, but I think I’ll get there.
Being an Only Child
Disclaimer: Nothing in this post is meant to offend the vast majority of folks out there with siblings or, who choose to have more than one child. Kids are great. I love my nieces and nephews and my goddaughter. I am an only child writing in defense of only children. As you would expect, this is written from my own frame of reference, or as that big liar Ben Kenobi would say, “A certain point of view.”
A few months before my sister-in-law had her second child, I playfully asked if one would have been enough. She looked me square in the eyes and told me, “Only children are weird.” Wow. Condemn me right to my face, why don’t you?
I’ve spent some time digesting that statement, and I have some thoughts. More importantly, I have an argument to make: that we only children are no more or less well adjusted than all you “plus-ones” out there! I’m not here to decry anyone’s personal choices about having children, having more than one child, etc. In all honesty, I’m surprised I’ve never written about this before, since it sort of defines me.
There are a few of us “O.C.’s” out there and my favorite question has always been, “Do you feel like you missed anything?” People may argue there’s an inherent fallacy in the question, as how could you miss something you never had? However, I base the question on people’s impressions of multi-children households, since they seem to outnumber us 20-1. Let’s start with me: do I feel like I missed out?
No.
Why? As soon as I became conscious of families that had more than one kid (probably around the age of four), I was oh so glad to be me. Apparently, my Mom had a pregnancy scare when I was two, and if it had happened then I never would’ve known the difference. As I got older, and remained an only child longer, the thought of a sibling made me simply cringe. After my Mom went through menopause, I finally breathed a sigh of relief!
My best friend was an only child when we met as first graders. That didn’t last long. Within three years, he had two siblings and it eventually grew to three. Through his family I experienced the chaotic nature of multi-children households, and was always grateful when I returned home to my glorious solitude.
I came to love peace and quiet, even as a young child. I got used to being by myself and certainly kept myself busy with whatever juvenile obsession occupied my mind at the moment.
I suppose that on a subconscious level, being an only child made me cultivate my friendships in a way that others might not. I took them very seriously, and chose them (for the most part) wisely. You see, for better or worse, we are stuck with family. They aren’t going anywhere, and if we hate them, we can’t ditch them. Well, that isn’t completely true, but it’s kind of scandalous when we do.
I looked at my friends as people I wanted to be with. I loved hanging out with them, but I also loved it when they went home, and stopped touching my stuff! Seriously, I enjoyed the notion that we spent quality time together and that I could retreat back to the quiet, before it was time for another round of playing.
There were perks to being an only child as well. My parents could lavish all their attention and energy on me. Despite our middle class status, they sacrificed mightily to ensure I got everything I wanted, but more importantly, to give me the education they wanted for me. I went to Catholic grammar school and high school, and my mother got a full-time job so she could pay my way at a private college, and not stick me with loans.
It’s pretty humbling when you think about it, and I am forever grateful to them. Had they had other children they might not have been able to do so much for me, not for a lack of desire, but the financial situation would have been bleak. When you have a bunch of kids, saying that you will “find a way” is easier said than done.
Beyond my parents, I had a very small family growing up and my cousins were not a part of my life, so huge family gatherings, reunions, etc. were not the norm. My parents were extremely close to my godparents, whom they knew since they were dating. We spent every major holiday with them, celebrated birthdays, etc.
My godparents also had one child, a girl, and my parents are her godparents. I have a very special relationship with her that is very meaningful to me. It’s like having a sister, but without all the childhood resentments and baggage.
I have to confess a certain jealousy towards those with siblings. As only children, we often miss out on being a best man/maid of honor, or godparent. To be placed ahead of family in those situations is often verboten, and will cause a certain strife.
This year, one of my closest friends asked me to be his daughter’s godfather, and I have to admit, I was thrilled. He did put me ahead of family, and it said so much to me that he was willing to do that. I take very seriously the role he gave me, and I don’t think those who are already aunts and uncles of a kid might necessarily do likewise.
As I got older and experienced more families I did come to believe in the virtues of siblings as well (believe it or not!) All the girls I dated had a minimum of three siblings per household, and while they were all wildly different, they loved and supported each other without fail. Some argued constantly, and some were so syrupy sweet so as not to be believed, but the bottom line was their steadfast loyalty to each other, especially in times of crisis.
I have to be honest; I don’t relish the thought of being alone in experiencing my parents declining years, which terrifies me. I want to be there for them as they were for me, and while I will have my wife, I’m assuming it is then I will most keenly miss the unspoken understanding of a situation or a person that siblings share.
As an only child, getting married presented special challenges for me. I loved solitude so much I refused to go away to school, and share a room with a total stranger (NO WAY!), and was perfectly content to remain home for college. I honestly don’t feel I missed anything. I’m sure there are those out there who would violently disagree with me.
I knew getting married would be a challenge. Not only was I an only child - I was an only son. I truly believe there is a special dynamic between mothers and sons, and if you’re the only one – forget it. The sun rises and sets over you. I like to use this analogy: my mother would throw herself into an oncoming train to save me, or she’d throw my father at it, one or the other.
My nickname growing up was, “The Prince,” and I certainly was. My future wife was having none of that, and I was reminded often of how that was all ending on our wedding day. She loves to tell a story about how, when we were on the phone one day, I was interrupted by my Mom coming to my room to serve me lunch.
I steeled myself for what was to come as best I could. I committed to the ideal of being an equal partner, of losing my beloved privacy as best I could. I succeeded only marginally, in the beginning. If I were grading myself I’d give myself a C. If I were grading myself now, I’d give myself a B.
Sharing the load isn’t so much my problem, as is the notion of being by myself. How do you convince your life partner in a way that does not hurt their feelings that sometimes they need to go away? It’s tough. Cleaning, doing laundry, taking out the garbage, going shopping are all things I never did before, but do now. I certainly don’t love them, but they need to be done. It’s the solitude thing that is a delicate problem.
On another marriage-related topic, being an only child made me scared s—tless at the notion of being a parent. I figured I would become one eventually, because 99.5% of the world seems to do it. It’s the norm. However, I left it to whomever I married to answer that question.
The girl I dated before my wife had visions of a brood dancing in her head, and I assured her I was on board with having kids, but one time, I shit you not dear reader, she started crying at the notion that I’d want to stop at three. Yikes!
P.S. She has four now. In an ideal world, I think I could’ve managed two and that’s it.
The girl I married did not want children, so there was no arm twisting for me. I never gave it a second thought, and I don’t regret it one bit. A wise man once told me that when you’re single you can be 100% selfish, and when you’re married you can still be 50% selfish. When you have children you have to be 100% selfless. I’m not saying you can’t enjoy your own pursuits, but they better take a back seat to those kids.
I’m not entirely comfortable with that 100% selflessness, and it is probably rooted in my only child origins. I accept that. Only children are stereotyped as being selfish and while it’s a far-reaching generalization, I think there’s a kernel of truth in that, at least speaking for myself.
It’s not easy to put others ahead of yourself when others have been doing the very same thing for you your entire life. It’s difficult to suppress your own desires in light of others, and I’m not always successful. In fact, it’s a constant challenge.
My sister-in-law’s comment did offend me though. How am I weird? Am I weirder or more eccentric than someone with siblings? Am I more likely to get divorced because I’m a selfish brat? I’ve seen siblings with truly poisonous relationships and I’ve seen people with siblings behave selfishly on countless occasions. And, just because you have the same parents doesn’t mean you will be close, or alike in any way, shape or form.
My in-laws had my wife and her sister 11 months apart because they thought they should each have a playmate. Today, they barely speak to each other. To be fair, my wife is extremely close to her brother, nearly six years her junior. My point is, anything can happen, and hoping for the best will not make it so.
I’d like to think I see both sides of the coin, despite my obvious bias. I have heard stories of only children who did long for siblings, and while I don’t get it, I acknowledge it. I just don’t think there’s a right and wrong here, or that we’re inherently flawed or damaged as a result of our situation.
Let me say one last time, for the record, I loved every minute of it!
A few months before my sister-in-law had her second child, I playfully asked if one would have been enough. She looked me square in the eyes and told me, “Only children are weird.” Wow. Condemn me right to my face, why don’t you?
I’ve spent some time digesting that statement, and I have some thoughts. More importantly, I have an argument to make: that we only children are no more or less well adjusted than all you “plus-ones” out there! I’m not here to decry anyone’s personal choices about having children, having more than one child, etc. In all honesty, I’m surprised I’ve never written about this before, since it sort of defines me.
There are a few of us “O.C.’s” out there and my favorite question has always been, “Do you feel like you missed anything?” People may argue there’s an inherent fallacy in the question, as how could you miss something you never had? However, I base the question on people’s impressions of multi-children households, since they seem to outnumber us 20-1. Let’s start with me: do I feel like I missed out?
No.
Why? As soon as I became conscious of families that had more than one kid (probably around the age of four), I was oh so glad to be me. Apparently, my Mom had a pregnancy scare when I was two, and if it had happened then I never would’ve known the difference. As I got older, and remained an only child longer, the thought of a sibling made me simply cringe. After my Mom went through menopause, I finally breathed a sigh of relief!
My best friend was an only child when we met as first graders. That didn’t last long. Within three years, he had two siblings and it eventually grew to three. Through his family I experienced the chaotic nature of multi-children households, and was always grateful when I returned home to my glorious solitude.
I came to love peace and quiet, even as a young child. I got used to being by myself and certainly kept myself busy with whatever juvenile obsession occupied my mind at the moment.
I suppose that on a subconscious level, being an only child made me cultivate my friendships in a way that others might not. I took them very seriously, and chose them (for the most part) wisely. You see, for better or worse, we are stuck with family. They aren’t going anywhere, and if we hate them, we can’t ditch them. Well, that isn’t completely true, but it’s kind of scandalous when we do.
I looked at my friends as people I wanted to be with. I loved hanging out with them, but I also loved it when they went home, and stopped touching my stuff! Seriously, I enjoyed the notion that we spent quality time together and that I could retreat back to the quiet, before it was time for another round of playing.
There were perks to being an only child as well. My parents could lavish all their attention and energy on me. Despite our middle class status, they sacrificed mightily to ensure I got everything I wanted, but more importantly, to give me the education they wanted for me. I went to Catholic grammar school and high school, and my mother got a full-time job so she could pay my way at a private college, and not stick me with loans.
It’s pretty humbling when you think about it, and I am forever grateful to them. Had they had other children they might not have been able to do so much for me, not for a lack of desire, but the financial situation would have been bleak. When you have a bunch of kids, saying that you will “find a way” is easier said than done.
Beyond my parents, I had a very small family growing up and my cousins were not a part of my life, so huge family gatherings, reunions, etc. were not the norm. My parents were extremely close to my godparents, whom they knew since they were dating. We spent every major holiday with them, celebrated birthdays, etc.
My godparents also had one child, a girl, and my parents are her godparents. I have a very special relationship with her that is very meaningful to me. It’s like having a sister, but without all the childhood resentments and baggage.
I have to confess a certain jealousy towards those with siblings. As only children, we often miss out on being a best man/maid of honor, or godparent. To be placed ahead of family in those situations is often verboten, and will cause a certain strife.
This year, one of my closest friends asked me to be his daughter’s godfather, and I have to admit, I was thrilled. He did put me ahead of family, and it said so much to me that he was willing to do that. I take very seriously the role he gave me, and I don’t think those who are already aunts and uncles of a kid might necessarily do likewise.
As I got older and experienced more families I did come to believe in the virtues of siblings as well (believe it or not!) All the girls I dated had a minimum of three siblings per household, and while they were all wildly different, they loved and supported each other without fail. Some argued constantly, and some were so syrupy sweet so as not to be believed, but the bottom line was their steadfast loyalty to each other, especially in times of crisis.
I have to be honest; I don’t relish the thought of being alone in experiencing my parents declining years, which terrifies me. I want to be there for them as they were for me, and while I will have my wife, I’m assuming it is then I will most keenly miss the unspoken understanding of a situation or a person that siblings share.
As an only child, getting married presented special challenges for me. I loved solitude so much I refused to go away to school, and share a room with a total stranger (NO WAY!), and was perfectly content to remain home for college. I honestly don’t feel I missed anything. I’m sure there are those out there who would violently disagree with me.
I knew getting married would be a challenge. Not only was I an only child - I was an only son. I truly believe there is a special dynamic between mothers and sons, and if you’re the only one – forget it. The sun rises and sets over you. I like to use this analogy: my mother would throw herself into an oncoming train to save me, or she’d throw my father at it, one or the other.
My nickname growing up was, “The Prince,” and I certainly was. My future wife was having none of that, and I was reminded often of how that was all ending on our wedding day. She loves to tell a story about how, when we were on the phone one day, I was interrupted by my Mom coming to my room to serve me lunch.
I steeled myself for what was to come as best I could. I committed to the ideal of being an equal partner, of losing my beloved privacy as best I could. I succeeded only marginally, in the beginning. If I were grading myself I’d give myself a C. If I were grading myself now, I’d give myself a B.
Sharing the load isn’t so much my problem, as is the notion of being by myself. How do you convince your life partner in a way that does not hurt their feelings that sometimes they need to go away? It’s tough. Cleaning, doing laundry, taking out the garbage, going shopping are all things I never did before, but do now. I certainly don’t love them, but they need to be done. It’s the solitude thing that is a delicate problem.
On another marriage-related topic, being an only child made me scared s—tless at the notion of being a parent. I figured I would become one eventually, because 99.5% of the world seems to do it. It’s the norm. However, I left it to whomever I married to answer that question.
The girl I dated before my wife had visions of a brood dancing in her head, and I assured her I was on board with having kids, but one time, I shit you not dear reader, she started crying at the notion that I’d want to stop at three. Yikes!
P.S. She has four now. In an ideal world, I think I could’ve managed two and that’s it.
The girl I married did not want children, so there was no arm twisting for me. I never gave it a second thought, and I don’t regret it one bit. A wise man once told me that when you’re single you can be 100% selfish, and when you’re married you can still be 50% selfish. When you have children you have to be 100% selfless. I’m not saying you can’t enjoy your own pursuits, but they better take a back seat to those kids.
I’m not entirely comfortable with that 100% selflessness, and it is probably rooted in my only child origins. I accept that. Only children are stereotyped as being selfish and while it’s a far-reaching generalization, I think there’s a kernel of truth in that, at least speaking for myself.
It’s not easy to put others ahead of yourself when others have been doing the very same thing for you your entire life. It’s difficult to suppress your own desires in light of others, and I’m not always successful. In fact, it’s a constant challenge.
My sister-in-law’s comment did offend me though. How am I weird? Am I weirder or more eccentric than someone with siblings? Am I more likely to get divorced because I’m a selfish brat? I’ve seen siblings with truly poisonous relationships and I’ve seen people with siblings behave selfishly on countless occasions. And, just because you have the same parents doesn’t mean you will be close, or alike in any way, shape or form.
My in-laws had my wife and her sister 11 months apart because they thought they should each have a playmate. Today, they barely speak to each other. To be fair, my wife is extremely close to her brother, nearly six years her junior. My point is, anything can happen, and hoping for the best will not make it so.
I’d like to think I see both sides of the coin, despite my obvious bias. I have heard stories of only children who did long for siblings, and while I don’t get it, I acknowledge it. I just don’t think there’s a right and wrong here, or that we’re inherently flawed or damaged as a result of our situation.
Let me say one last time, for the record, I loved every minute of it!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out Kid!" (repost from 12/05)
In 1983 "A Christmas Story" was released with little fanfare and a lukewarm critical reception and so it quickly disappeared. But like that other holiday classic, "It's a Wonderful Life," "A Christmas Story" started to gain a following from multiple viewings on video and television. After 22 years, it's safe to say the film has earned a space along side such classics as the aforementioned "It's a Wonderful Life," "Miracle on 34th Street" and the myriad versions of, "A Christmas Carol."
I identify wholeheartedly with the premise of "A Christmas Story" which tells the story of Ralphie (Peter Billingsley), a young boy with an overriding desire to get that one perfect gift, the one without which all of Christmas wont be worth celebrating. There was one Christmas in particular where I had one gift that I just could not live without. It became the bane of my parents existence until my father miraculously snatched it from the ether on Christmas Eve, thereby saving the holiday, much to my poor mother's chagrin. Sure, she was relieved but also did most of the searching!
"A Christmas Story" takes place in Indiana in the early 1940s and is based on the life of author Jean Shepherd (who narrates the film). It captures the era brilliantly and is a wonderful slice of old-style Americana that I'm sure makes those who lived through it very nostalgic.
In Ralphie's case he wants an "Official Red Ryder BB carbine action BB gun with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time." But all the world rallies against him, as he endlessly hears, "You'll shoot your eye out kid!" Throughout the film Ralphie concocts numerous schemes designed to snare him that one magical gift but it looks as though he will be thwarted.
While Ralphie's dilemma is at the heart of the film there is much more going on. The entire film is populated with a wonderful and eccentric cast of characters. His mother (Melinda Dillon) is sweet and loving (although she is his primary BB gun rival), his father, the Old Man (Darren McGavin) is gruff and irascible, but his heart is in the right place. McGavin completely steals the film as the obscenity-snarling, furnace-fighting patriarch with a penchant for crossword puzzles. His younger brother Randy is an annoyance to Ralphie (as most siblings are) and he has a penchant for refusing to eat.
McGavin provides some of the more uproarious moments in "A Christmas Story," especially when The Old Man wins an electric lamp in the form of a woman's shapely leg. He proudly displays the lamp in the living room window, touching off a battle of wills with his wife that ends hilariously. In addition to the furnace wars The Old Man is constantly besieged by the Bumpus hounds, a pack of smelly dogs from next door who always chase him.
"A Christmas Story" is the perfect mix of hilarity and sentiment. The actors give genuine performances that seem effortless and their chemistry with each other gives them the appearance of a real family, one that we love revisiting year after year. Anyone can relate to the trials and tribulations they endure. However beneath the laughter there really are some touching moments where each parent does something for Ralphie he will always remember, and will define how he views them from then on.
What I love most about the film is how it captures the wonder of Christmas through a child's eyes. The film is told entirely from Ralphie's perspective and it conjures up memories of a time when the wait for Christmas seemed like decades and the mania was all-consuming. The film perfectly captures the 10-year old mind with its wild fantasies and supposedly shrewd tactical maneuvering with the parents. It also recalls the days of horrors like schoolyard bullies, broken glasses and being caught cursing by the parents. Yet it also brings back memories of a simpler time filled with treasured toys and no worries except missing ones favorite radio (or in my case, television) show.
"A Christmas Story," like "A Christmas Carol" and "It's a Wonderful Life" is a film I never tire of. For years to come I'm sure I will delight in watching Ralphie's quest for his Red Ryder peacemaker or hearing the invented profanity of his harried father. It's a film, like the best Chrsitmas movies, that improves with age and makes us remember why we love the holiday.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Uncle Forry
Back in 2000, the opportunity of a lifetime fell in my lap when I was invited to cover a series of celebrity interviews being conducted in Beverly Hills by a friend who had his own talk show. At the time, I was a reporter for a local Catholic newspaper, and had never traveled beyond the eastern seaboard. I was thrilled beyond measure to say the least.
Being a film buff, I knew California was the center of the universe for movie making, and I planned to use the trip for my own purposes, and tour as many studios as I could reasonably squeeze in. I had one goal above all others though, and that was to tour the “Acker-Mansion,” home of Forrest J Ackerman, sci-fi fandom’s #1 guru, and creator of Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine.
“Uncle Forry,” as his acolytes knew him, possessed the largest collection of science fiction, horror and fantasy-related memorabilia in the known universe, and for decades he opened his home to eager young fans every Saturday for a tour. I extended my trip by one day just so I could visit the Promised Land. I’d be damned if I was going to miss out on such an opportunity.
Before I left for California, I called Forry to confirm he’d be conducting a tour the following Saturday, and I blathered something stupid when he picked up the receiver. He was cordial and friendly, asked me my name and told me I’d be arriving on his deceased brother’s birthday. He told me I was more than welcome to join the tour.
Now I had met Forry about five years prior at a horror convention in New Jersey, but it was a brief photo-op and nothing more. Being a consumer of all things fantastic, I knew who he was and what he meant to the sci-fi community. I had watched videos of the Acker-Mansion and gaped in awe at some of the priceless items in Forry’s possession.
Before the Internet, before the conventions, Forry’s magazine was the only way those who loved these films could learn more about them. He published rare stills, conducted interviews and made groan-inducing puns a beloved trademark. Perhaps most importantly, his magazine was a conduit for the next generation of filmmakers to absorb everything they possibly could about this genre they loved so well: names like John Landis, Joe Dante, Rick Baker, Steven Spielberg, Peter Jackson, Phil Tippett – the list is endless.
For us fans, Forry was a living conduit to such beloved horror icons as Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr., Vincent Price. Forry knew them all and represented several of them at various stages in their careers. He also was well acquainted with literary giants like Robert Bloch and Ray Bradbury.
Born in 1916, Forry was eight years old when he picked up a copy of “Amazing Stories” magazine, and he was hooked from that moment on. This was a guy who saw “Metropolis” in the theater in 1927, and had a replica of the robot from the film in his living room.
By 2000, Forry was a spry 84 years of age. His wife had passed on ten years earlier, and they had no children, but he never wanted for company, and it was obvious conducting these tours and meeting fans at conventions was keeping him young.
I arrived at his home in the Los Feliz section of Los Angeles about 15 minutes before start time. It was a beautiful section of town, located in the hills north of L.A., providing a beautiful view of the city.
I knew not to ring any bells, that Forry would summon us via intercom at the appointed time. As I waited several people appeared, and one man told me this was the second time he and his son were visiting. For me, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, I told him.
At 11:00, Forry announced we were welcome to enter the mansion. He made some bad pun and a smile ran across my face. This was it! It’s hard to convey to those who have no affinity for these films just how exciting this was for me, and how meaningful. Forry was welcoming, friendly and “on,” when he greeted us.
How many thousands of times he gave this tour, I couldn’t begin to imagine. He mustered up as much enthusiasm as if it were the first time. Knowing the story of Forry’s life and how he became acquainted with the wonder of science fiction, I peppered him with a question that I knew would set him off on a great story. I knew the story. I wanted to hear it from his lips.
As he conducted us through the labyrinth of rooms I snapped countless photos – Bela Lugosi’s cape, an autographed photo from Boris Karloff, actual puppets from the original King Kong. Each room held more treasures than the last, and the only emotion I can use to describe myself at that moment was giddy.
When the tour was over Forry sat us down in what I assume what his living room. We sat on the floor and he regaled us with more stories and opened the floor up to questions. He was especially engaging with children. During this informal chat he noted his desire to become the “George Burns” of science fiction, when he turned 100.
Unfortunately, Forry passed away last Friday at the age of 92, eight years shy of his dream. Two years after my tour, Forry sold the Acker-Mansion and downsized to a smaller condominium. But he still entertained fans for as long as his health allowed, and donated some of his memorabilia to the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle.
Forry may not have had any heirs in the conventional sense but thousands upon thousands of us “Monsterkids” consider him our patriarch. His legacy cannot be diminished or easily encapsulated, and he was an inspiration to many of the creative geniuses whose films enthrall us today. Beyond all that, he was a kind, generous man who shared his love of the fantastic with anyone who felt as he did.
(For those of you receiving this blog via e-mail please visit the site for pics of Forry and the Acker-Mansion!)
Being a film buff, I knew California was the center of the universe for movie making, and I planned to use the trip for my own purposes, and tour as many studios as I could reasonably squeeze in. I had one goal above all others though, and that was to tour the “Acker-Mansion,” home of Forrest J Ackerman, sci-fi fandom’s #1 guru, and creator of Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine.
“Uncle Forry,” as his acolytes knew him, possessed the largest collection of science fiction, horror and fantasy-related memorabilia in the known universe, and for decades he opened his home to eager young fans every Saturday for a tour. I extended my trip by one day just so I could visit the Promised Land. I’d be damned if I was going to miss out on such an opportunity.
Before I left for California, I called Forry to confirm he’d be conducting a tour the following Saturday, and I blathered something stupid when he picked up the receiver. He was cordial and friendly, asked me my name and told me I’d be arriving on his deceased brother’s birthday. He told me I was more than welcome to join the tour.
Now I had met Forry about five years prior at a horror convention in New Jersey, but it was a brief photo-op and nothing more. Being a consumer of all things fantastic, I knew who he was and what he meant to the sci-fi community. I had watched videos of the Acker-Mansion and gaped in awe at some of the priceless items in Forry’s possession.
Before the Internet, before the conventions, Forry’s magazine was the only way those who loved these films could learn more about them. He published rare stills, conducted interviews and made groan-inducing puns a beloved trademark. Perhaps most importantly, his magazine was a conduit for the next generation of filmmakers to absorb everything they possibly could about this genre they loved so well: names like John Landis, Joe Dante, Rick Baker, Steven Spielberg, Peter Jackson, Phil Tippett – the list is endless.
For us fans, Forry was a living conduit to such beloved horror icons as Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr., Vincent Price. Forry knew them all and represented several of them at various stages in their careers. He also was well acquainted with literary giants like Robert Bloch and Ray Bradbury.
Born in 1916, Forry was eight years old when he picked up a copy of “Amazing Stories” magazine, and he was hooked from that moment on. This was a guy who saw “Metropolis” in the theater in 1927, and had a replica of the robot from the film in his living room.
By 2000, Forry was a spry 84 years of age. His wife had passed on ten years earlier, and they had no children, but he never wanted for company, and it was obvious conducting these tours and meeting fans at conventions was keeping him young.
I arrived at his home in the Los Feliz section of Los Angeles about 15 minutes before start time. It was a beautiful section of town, located in the hills north of L.A., providing a beautiful view of the city.
I knew not to ring any bells, that Forry would summon us via intercom at the appointed time. As I waited several people appeared, and one man told me this was the second time he and his son were visiting. For me, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, I told him.
At 11:00, Forry announced we were welcome to enter the mansion. He made some bad pun and a smile ran across my face. This was it! It’s hard to convey to those who have no affinity for these films just how exciting this was for me, and how meaningful. Forry was welcoming, friendly and “on,” when he greeted us.
How many thousands of times he gave this tour, I couldn’t begin to imagine. He mustered up as much enthusiasm as if it were the first time. Knowing the story of Forry’s life and how he became acquainted with the wonder of science fiction, I peppered him with a question that I knew would set him off on a great story. I knew the story. I wanted to hear it from his lips.
As he conducted us through the labyrinth of rooms I snapped countless photos – Bela Lugosi’s cape, an autographed photo from Boris Karloff, actual puppets from the original King Kong. Each room held more treasures than the last, and the only emotion I can use to describe myself at that moment was giddy.
When the tour was over Forry sat us down in what I assume what his living room. We sat on the floor and he regaled us with more stories and opened the floor up to questions. He was especially engaging with children. During this informal chat he noted his desire to become the “George Burns” of science fiction, when he turned 100.
Unfortunately, Forry passed away last Friday at the age of 92, eight years shy of his dream. Two years after my tour, Forry sold the Acker-Mansion and downsized to a smaller condominium. But he still entertained fans for as long as his health allowed, and donated some of his memorabilia to the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle.
Forry may not have had any heirs in the conventional sense but thousands upon thousands of us “Monsterkids” consider him our patriarch. His legacy cannot be diminished or easily encapsulated, and he was an inspiration to many of the creative geniuses whose films enthrall us today. Beyond all that, he was a kind, generous man who shared his love of the fantastic with anyone who felt as he did.
(For those of you receiving this blog via e-mail please visit the site for pics of Forry and the Acker-Mansion!)
Friday, December 05, 2008
Uniting the Two Halves
Every Christmas my friends from the library and I go out to dinner to celebrate the holidays, and just this past week we did so for the 17th time! Only I and two others have attended all of them. We have a pretty stable crew, but often family responsibilities and other commitments intervene. A person may miss two in a row and then show up, so we never count anyone out!
As we sat around the table, laughing and reminiscing, I was struck by a small irony. I worked at the library for seven years, quit, and then returned. My second tour has lasted nearly a decade. At the gathering, I was seated in the middle of a large circular table, and on either side of me were the friends from each tenure.
To my left, was my past: the guys who helped form me, who made me laugh hysterically, who made me jealous and brought me into a larger world. Those first seven years were like the big bang for me. Life exploded (in a good way). There were girlfriends and parties, and so much hilarity.
Working with these guys made me feel like I was hanging with the cool kids (even though I never would be one). I never quite crossed over into their lifestyle, remaining on the fringes of it. Still, it was an unforgettable experience that transcended everything that had gone before.
To my right, was my present: the crew whose delicate balance I probably upset when I returned, a group of folks I never thought I would be close to. Unlike the first crew, the dichotomy of personalities represented here, along with the presence of (gasp!) a chick, made for a much more volatile experience, though no less meaningful than the first.
To these people I act the role of the older, wiser mentor (whether they like it or not). I sit on my soapbox, and spout my philosophy of life, while they roll their eyes at the notion I have any influence over them whatsoever. They probably believe I love the sound of my own voice (which, I do). While I am a blowhard, I do sincerely try to help them on their way, as the guys did for me way back when.
Connecting both experiences is a fellow “lifer,” who never left, and who has two decades of unbroken time at the library. A presence since Day One, he provides not only a sense of continuity and recollection for me, but he is a reassuring nod to my past, as we have observed each other’s lives through the lens of this job, and can still tolerate each other after 20 years.
So I sat there desperately trying to engage both halves of my life, while not neglecting either – although if I focused more on the old guys, it’s because I never get to see them.
I regret leaving the library and missing four years of camaraderie, but having the two distinct experiences has left me with an interesting perspective, and an embarrassment of riches in terms of the friendships I have made. Had I stayed the entire time, things would likely be drastically different. In some ways, I feel like the child of one generation and the parent to another, and honored to be part of both.
As we sat around the table, laughing and reminiscing, I was struck by a small irony. I worked at the library for seven years, quit, and then returned. My second tour has lasted nearly a decade. At the gathering, I was seated in the middle of a large circular table, and on either side of me were the friends from each tenure.
To my left, was my past: the guys who helped form me, who made me laugh hysterically, who made me jealous and brought me into a larger world. Those first seven years were like the big bang for me. Life exploded (in a good way). There were girlfriends and parties, and so much hilarity.
Working with these guys made me feel like I was hanging with the cool kids (even though I never would be one). I never quite crossed over into their lifestyle, remaining on the fringes of it. Still, it was an unforgettable experience that transcended everything that had gone before.
To my right, was my present: the crew whose delicate balance I probably upset when I returned, a group of folks I never thought I would be close to. Unlike the first crew, the dichotomy of personalities represented here, along with the presence of (gasp!) a chick, made for a much more volatile experience, though no less meaningful than the first.
To these people I act the role of the older, wiser mentor (whether they like it or not). I sit on my soapbox, and spout my philosophy of life, while they roll their eyes at the notion I have any influence over them whatsoever. They probably believe I love the sound of my own voice (which, I do). While I am a blowhard, I do sincerely try to help them on their way, as the guys did for me way back when.
Connecting both experiences is a fellow “lifer,” who never left, and who has two decades of unbroken time at the library. A presence since Day One, he provides not only a sense of continuity and recollection for me, but he is a reassuring nod to my past, as we have observed each other’s lives through the lens of this job, and can still tolerate each other after 20 years.
So I sat there desperately trying to engage both halves of my life, while not neglecting either – although if I focused more on the old guys, it’s because I never get to see them.
I regret leaving the library and missing four years of camaraderie, but having the two distinct experiences has left me with an interesting perspective, and an embarrassment of riches in terms of the friendships I have made. Had I stayed the entire time, things would likely be drastically different. In some ways, I feel like the child of one generation and the parent to another, and honored to be part of both.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
The Scene I Waited 22 Years For
As is no secret to anyone who knows me, I grew up on a steady diet of super heroes and science fiction. From the ages of 7-13 I was completely obsessed with “Star Wars,” and its attendant action figures, comic books, and other ephemera, dominated my consciousness like nothing else.
I was not alone. All my close friends were enthralled by George Lucas’ vision of a galaxy far, far away to one degree or another. Every last one of my friends owned figures and playsets, and we endlessly debated who was cooler. I was always partial to Luke Skywalker, whereas most of my friends preferred the more charismatic Han Solo.
I devoured anything related to the saga, including the novels, and often dialogue and entire scenes not found in the films were revealed in those pages. One passage in the novel for “Return of the Jedi” particularly enthralled me. In it, Ben Kenobi relates to Luke how Darth Vader found himself trapped in the infamous black suit.
He vaguely references a light saber duel above a “molten pit,” which nearly killed them both, and left Vader in the life-sustaining armor. By this time, Lucas had revealed his intention to create a series of prequels that detailed the rise and fall of Anakin Skywalker, and one would assume that scene would factor heavily in those films.
And then, nothing.
Life went on. The promise of the prequels grew more and more remote, and I found new obsessions to occupy myself with. In 1997, Lucas re-released the original trilogy and began filming the first prequel, to be released in 1999. All of a sudden, I was a kid again, and the promise of that spectacular scene was once again on my mind.
“The Phantom Menace” arrived in 1999, and it was a little disconcerting to say the least. For about the first half hour I was like, “I waited 16 years for this??”
The movie picked up about halfway through, but I left the theater disappointed. Even though there were glimpses of the original magic, most notably during the final light saber duel between Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn and Darth Maul, it was obvious Lucas had gone off the deep end, pandering to a seven-year old’s mentality – something he did not do with the Original Trilogy, despite his claims to the contrary.
“The scene” was still two films and six years away. Lucas improved upon “Phantom Menace” with “Attack of the Clones,” which still had much to groan about. In this film, it was not the stupid hijinks of Jar Jar Binks that hurt the film, but the insipid romance between Anakin Skywalker and Queen Amidala, and their horrific, stilted love scenes.
By now, I was an apologist for Lucas. I was giving him the slack my friends refused to. I knew what he was presenting us with in no way measured up to the O.T. but I kept giving him the benefit of the doubt. I was hoping that the final film would wash away the disappointment of the first two.
“Revenge of the Sith” was released in 2005, and by this time, the digital age for spoilers and inside info had reached its zenith. I knew the story from beginning to end, and was hopeful. “The scene” was promised to be spectacular – perhaps the longest duel in film history. Ewan McGregor and Hayden Christensen practiced it for months, and both spoke of their commitment to get it right. I caught glimpses of it in trailers and behind the scenes videos and my excitement grew.
It’s hard to put into words what seeing this piece of “Star Wars” history meant to me. It connected me to a time in my life when all I had to worry about was, would there ever be another “Star Wars” film, and granted, though the prequels were disappointing, returning to that universe, however flawed, connected me to my youth in a way nothing else could.
The day the film came out I took a vacation day from work and saw a 10:00 (A.M.!) show, by myself. By this time, my friends had little else but scorn for the new trilogy, but this was it. This was the moment I had been waiting 22 years for.
As the film unspooled I found myself enjoying the film in a way I had not enjoyed the first two. It was dark, oppressive, bereft of much of the stupid humor that permeated its predecessors. Of course, the dopey romance was still there, only not as prevalent.
After the first hour, I found myself thinking, “Now this is ‘Star Wars!’” Most of my friends gave the film a very grudging thumbs-up, as they were still disgusted by the prior films, and felt this was too little, too late. I felt like Lucas could’ve just made this film and I would have been happy.
Before I knew it, the final confrontation arrived. It was a masterpiece of stunt work, editing and effects. It contained all the drama and anguish I expected. It was everything I hoped it would be. In a series of films rife with disappointment, Lucas managed not to trample on the one moment I cherished.
I’ll always view the Prequel Trilogy as a missed opportunity. They don’t diminish my love of the Original Trilogy either. What I take away though, is a moment, a scene, that I dreamt about for more than two decades, realized exactly as I hoped it be. Thanks for at least not messing that up George.
The scene!
I was not alone. All my close friends were enthralled by George Lucas’ vision of a galaxy far, far away to one degree or another. Every last one of my friends owned figures and playsets, and we endlessly debated who was cooler. I was always partial to Luke Skywalker, whereas most of my friends preferred the more charismatic Han Solo.
I devoured anything related to the saga, including the novels, and often dialogue and entire scenes not found in the films were revealed in those pages. One passage in the novel for “Return of the Jedi” particularly enthralled me. In it, Ben Kenobi relates to Luke how Darth Vader found himself trapped in the infamous black suit.
He vaguely references a light saber duel above a “molten pit,” which nearly killed them both, and left Vader in the life-sustaining armor. By this time, Lucas had revealed his intention to create a series of prequels that detailed the rise and fall of Anakin Skywalker, and one would assume that scene would factor heavily in those films.
And then, nothing.
Life went on. The promise of the prequels grew more and more remote, and I found new obsessions to occupy myself with. In 1997, Lucas re-released the original trilogy and began filming the first prequel, to be released in 1999. All of a sudden, I was a kid again, and the promise of that spectacular scene was once again on my mind.
“The Phantom Menace” arrived in 1999, and it was a little disconcerting to say the least. For about the first half hour I was like, “I waited 16 years for this??”
The movie picked up about halfway through, but I left the theater disappointed. Even though there were glimpses of the original magic, most notably during the final light saber duel between Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn and Darth Maul, it was obvious Lucas had gone off the deep end, pandering to a seven-year old’s mentality – something he did not do with the Original Trilogy, despite his claims to the contrary.
“The scene” was still two films and six years away. Lucas improved upon “Phantom Menace” with “Attack of the Clones,” which still had much to groan about. In this film, it was not the stupid hijinks of Jar Jar Binks that hurt the film, but the insipid romance between Anakin Skywalker and Queen Amidala, and their horrific, stilted love scenes.
By now, I was an apologist for Lucas. I was giving him the slack my friends refused to. I knew what he was presenting us with in no way measured up to the O.T. but I kept giving him the benefit of the doubt. I was hoping that the final film would wash away the disappointment of the first two.
“Revenge of the Sith” was released in 2005, and by this time, the digital age for spoilers and inside info had reached its zenith. I knew the story from beginning to end, and was hopeful. “The scene” was promised to be spectacular – perhaps the longest duel in film history. Ewan McGregor and Hayden Christensen practiced it for months, and both spoke of their commitment to get it right. I caught glimpses of it in trailers and behind the scenes videos and my excitement grew.
It’s hard to put into words what seeing this piece of “Star Wars” history meant to me. It connected me to a time in my life when all I had to worry about was, would there ever be another “Star Wars” film, and granted, though the prequels were disappointing, returning to that universe, however flawed, connected me to my youth in a way nothing else could.
The day the film came out I took a vacation day from work and saw a 10:00 (A.M.!) show, by myself. By this time, my friends had little else but scorn for the new trilogy, but this was it. This was the moment I had been waiting 22 years for.
As the film unspooled I found myself enjoying the film in a way I had not enjoyed the first two. It was dark, oppressive, bereft of much of the stupid humor that permeated its predecessors. Of course, the dopey romance was still there, only not as prevalent.
After the first hour, I found myself thinking, “Now this is ‘Star Wars!’” Most of my friends gave the film a very grudging thumbs-up, as they were still disgusted by the prior films, and felt this was too little, too late. I felt like Lucas could’ve just made this film and I would have been happy.
Before I knew it, the final confrontation arrived. It was a masterpiece of stunt work, editing and effects. It contained all the drama and anguish I expected. It was everything I hoped it would be. In a series of films rife with disappointment, Lucas managed not to trample on the one moment I cherished.
I’ll always view the Prequel Trilogy as a missed opportunity. They don’t diminish my love of the Original Trilogy either. What I take away though, is a moment, a scene, that I dreamt about for more than two decades, realized exactly as I hoped it be. Thanks for at least not messing that up George.
The scene!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
