Slices of Life

Lost: The New Man in Charge Podcast

2010-09-12T14:22:00.001-04:00

SRPL Reflections: Other Clubhouses

2010-03-11T11:21:00.000-05:00

In many of these posts I’ve referred to SRPL as a clubhouse and that it certainly was. I’ve been lucky enough to have several clubhouses in my life, and I think it’s about time I gave them their fair shake as I lament the loss of the one which was most primary.

I’d define a clubhouse as any meeting space where friends gather. In my life, I scrupulously avoided bars since I didn’t drink and didn’t like being around people who were drunk if I was never going to be.

One would think that would seriously limit my options, but I was lucky enough to have an active social life through the years. 99% of my friends hung out in bars at least some of the time, but I had enough people in my life that when one group was out pounding I could do something with those that weren’t. Also, a lot of my time in those years was spent with a girlfriend, and if they were dating me they weren’t going to those places.

It’s a complete fallacy to imply I never hung out in bars. I just never did when the order of the day was getting totally bombed. So I almost never went on weekends. For several years I did hang out in one bar in particular with my library friends (best Buffalo wings ever), but the rule was “booths only!”

Friends basements always made for good clubhouses (some better than others). In the real early days I spent the majority of my time hanging out in my friend Ed’s basement. Hundreds of movies were watched there and it was the site of my one foray into the world of drinking.

When he moved to Florida and I began spending more time with my other friends and my basement became the primary clubhouse. It was semi-finished, totally private and my parents were more than happy for me to have friends over. I’m sure they felt more comfortable knowing where I was so they put up with some occasional cackling pouring through the vents.

It was around this time I began chronicling our exploits on my state of the art (for 1985) video camera and if I were a mean guy I would post our adolescent musings on You Tube (actually theirs, not mine). I recently transferred about five years worth of the stuff to DVD and I cringe almost every time I hear myself speak, or I want to punch myself in the face…hard. Still, it’s great to have those time capsules.

Anyway, my basement lasted as a clubhouse until the late 90s when the “marriage boom” hit my group, and obviously ended officially when I got married in 1998.

The other big clubhouse for me was the Television Center at St. John’s University, and it’s one that sadly, always lost out to the library. I say sadly because I really loved the people there, and as I wax nostalgic about how wonderful and fabulous the library was, I don’t want these folks to get short shrift. That place and those people meant a great deal to me (and still do) but I was always ducking out to go to…the library.

I should back peddle a bit. When I started college all I did was go to class and go home. That was my m.o for two years until Girlfriend #1 lowered the boom on me. That event was a serious wake up call for me. Here I was, nearly a junior in college, and I had not joined any clubs or participated in any activities (except for a movie review gig at the student newspaper). I had not seriously considered my future and it was rapidly approaching.

I was a communications major and had chosen St. John’s partially for its state of the art television center. However, when I was a freshman (and I don’t think I ever told my TV Club friends this) I went up there to join the club and met a guy from high school who was also there to join. I really didn’t like him and wasn’t enamored of the idea of spending yet another four years with him, so I ditched it.

Two years later, I returned to take a summer class. I befriended two of the student workers there and found out there were part-time jobs available at the TV Center. Sounded perfect to me – hang out with nice people, learn a bit and get paid (slave wages). I applied and got the job and off I went. And my high school “frenemy” was nowhere to be found.

However, the siren call of the library (and a new girlfriend there) proved irresistible. I also had an expensive laser disc habit that I needed to support, so I worked as often as possible there. I was never at the TV Center later than early afternoon on any given day. My involvement compared to those of my friends was limited.

Sometimes I feel as though I missed out on a lot and I did, but I made my decision. My limited involvement certainly didn’t influence my career path. As soon as I got involved I realized the TV industry was not for me, and it cemented my desire to find a career in writing.

It became a running gag to hear me say that I needed to leave for the library, and I hope people never felt like they were “second class citizens” in terms of what they meant to me. When I graduated I realized how much I missed out on and for at least a year I would visit during their nightly editing sessions, something I never did as a student.

Over the years, I’ve tried to keep the clubhouse concept going through “movie nights” and “Geek Fests” with various constituencies so that sense of (mostly) male camaraderie could be preserved in some form or fashion, and I do have to give props to my wife for never impeding it and always being a gracious hostess.

Getting married and starting families does tend to take its toll on the clubhouse concept. The library has endured since it’s a job whose productive value equals its social value. God knows I’d never be able to see my friends with such frequency otherwise.

It can be argued that I spent too much time there, and it was somewhat detrimental to my growth (especially in those early post-college years), but there’s no point in analyzing that now. Today I just wanted to make it clear I am grateful for all the clubhouses, not just SRPL.

SRPL Reflections: Drama

2010-03-10T15:19:00.001-05:00

’m going to let you all in on a rather pathetic little secret. I went to Chaminade for three reasons: it was five blocks from my house, I wouldn’t be eaten alive by any of the Neanderthals that bullied me in grammar school and I was terrified of the opposite sex. Sure, it was a good school and I was reasonably sure I could hack it, and if I did survive the experience it would be a valuable commodity in the future, but that was not uppermost in my mind.

During the high school years I “apprenticed” myself to my one cool friend. He had natural charisma and while it was fascinating watching him in action I just ended up living vicariously through him and came to be known as the quaint, geeky sidekick.

When he moved and high school ended I found myself aching for the soapy angst that my peers experienced long before me. I wanted some drama. And where did I finally find it? SRPL.

When I recall what passed for drama back then I can’t help but think of it as quaint. Real drama is bills, job loss, illness, death. Back then I searched out drama wherever I could find it, not just in matters of the heart, but who’s pissed at who, who got in trouble, who said what about who, etc.

There I found not only my own drama but became enmeshed in the drama of others and I have to say, for a straight arrow Catholic school boy, it was pretty invigorating (also heartrending, terrifying and joyful at the same time). The problem was that I dove into a world I wasn’t quite ready for. I needed a little seasoning and when I think back to my earliest days there I cringe.

Of course relationships dominate any discussion of drama. As I said I was really ill equipped to handle what I was reaching for. I hid away for four years at an all-boys school and reaped the consequences of it. At SRPL I was lucky because I worked with guys who were friends of mine long before we arrived there, so I was somewhat insulated and immediately accepted (I was the last to arrive).

All of us were desperate to have these experiences but I’d say we all lacked the tools. After almost a year of bumbling I finally got it right and settled into my first real relationship. I had never experienced such highs and lows in my entire life. It was like a drug. It was pure drama. Melodrama might be a better word.

Sometimes I wonder if I had experienced these things earlier in my life would I have been better equipped to handle them. I really doubt it. What I’ve observed as the years go by is that at whatever point in your life you experience this stuff all the silly drama manifests, especially if you’re in a group setting like SRPL was.

When we arrived at SRPL a group of friends seemed to gradually “cocoon” around us in the first year. Soon, a few of us were dating some of the girls and as the group became larger, well…let’s just say not everyone loved everyone else. Friction ensued and mini-dramas popped up here and there like little wildfires.

There were such a disparate number of personalities that all this was inevitable, I suppose. I’m certainly guilty of not handling certain incidents well and maintaining loyalty to certain individuals and throwing others to the wolves. After a few years dealing with my dramas and my friends dramas there were moments where I felt like, “This is what I wanted so badly??”

Those first 2-3 years at SRPL were fraught with drama and then I was lucky enough to experience drama from other quarters, which got to be a little too much for me to handle. Things started to cool down after a time. The larger SRPL group didn’t really last very long in the grand scheme. Eventually, we kind of ended up back where we started – just us guys. I enjoyed the quiet.

There was certainly more drama to be had, right up until I left. In fact, drama is what sent me packing from SRPL. But a funny thing happened when I came back four years later. I was the older guy watching and listening to the dramas of my younger colleagues and smiling that “oh how quaint” smile as they related their stories and I wondered if I could pay my mortgage or how I would buy a new car when my wife’s died, or how I would deal with my insane neighbor who I called the cops on.

I’m not saying that their drama was somehow less than mine - just different, no less real and no less meaningful. It’s a rite of passage. And I’m also not claiming I’m above the dramas and personality conflicts that occur between human beings now as I approach 40. I wish I was, but I am surely not.

What I will say is that I shun drama as much as possible now in the light of the issues that confront most people my age who are married and have families, but more than 20 years ago when I arrived at SRPL I was lapping it up with a spoon like a kid who had just discovered ice cream.

SRPL Reflections: Almost

2010-03-10T15:17:00.000-05:00

Not only did I quit SRPL once I came this close to never working there and this close to be fired…twice! I often wonder what course my life would’ve taken had either of those things happened.

I was the last of my friends to apply for a job at SRPL and even though I heard exciting tales of cool new people, parties and (gasp) chicks, I didn’t jump at the opportunity. Two friends of mine started in October of 1986 and the other in April of 1987. I’m not positive but I’m pretty sure I submitted an application shortly after he got the job.

Back then, my future boss had more apps than he could handle. There was a waiting list of people, mainly coming from the nearby high schools, but a decent sampling of those from other districts and Catholic high schools. I’m sure the library had a reputation as a great alternative to those top flight jobs in the retail or food service industries most teens get stuck with.

The pay was meager but if my friends were to be believed, the place represented a new world filled with possibilities. In the interim, as I waited, I found myself a position in one of those top flight industries, and it was simply the worst of the worst – the bottle redemption center at Pathmark.

I walked in and filled out an application, thinking I’d be a stock boy (no desire to be a cashier). They didn’t have any positions, but I guess they saw something special in me and offered me a job in the bottle room. While there were plenty of machines in there they needed someone who could take the stuff that the machines wouldn’t.

This is one of those moments where people who knew me just threw their arms up and said, “Huh?” I hated work of any sort, and this was as bad as it got. I dealt with the dregs of society, the freaks, the cheapskates, and the people who did this for a living. It was filthy, sticky and gross. I wore latex gloves up to my elbows and frequently had to empty the machines, fix the machines and drag the garbage to these huge trailers in the back.

This situation had its advantages though. For the most part, the machines worked and just needed to be emptied periodically. I had to take very little over the counter and I loved tormenting the customers (especially the off-center ones). They used to get so fired up when they realized I had no money in the register and could only give them redeemable receipts. Most of the time I sat around reading comics.

I hung nicknames on the regulars like “Scrounge” and “Charlie Can,” and I can see them all in my mind’s eye as clearly as if they were standing in front of me. At least the money was good!

Now here comes the real head scratcher. No more than two months into my tenure there I got the call, the call I had been waiting for. The library beckoned! And I said…..no thanks! I said no. To this day, I can’t fathom why. My best friends worked there. Cool guys worked there. Honest to God living, breathing chicks worked there. It was clean, quiet and required no interaction with the public whatsoever.

So what the hell? When my parents asked me I told them Pathmark paid better, which was true, but that reason doesn’t hold water. I’m wondering if I still was too scared of the kind of environment the library represented. I honestly can’t be sure. What I do know is that about six months later the sheen (such as it was) had completely evaporated from Pathmark and I wanted in to SRPL, in the worst way.

Problem was, I was now a senior in high school and worse yet, halfway through my senior year. My boss did not like hiring seniors. He preferred hiring people when they just turned 16 so he could have them for two years. And in most climates he didn’t have to hire seniors.

Fortune smiled upon me as several employees had recently left and he found himself, really for the first time in many years, understaffed. I had resubmitted an application (not sure exactly when) and he called me, asking if I was serious this time. A sheepish “yes” and I was on my way!

That was not the end of my good luck. Generally, people were “released” from SRPL upon graduation from high school. Selected individuals were invited to become supervisors if they stayed home for college and if my boss liked them. I think based solely on the fact I stayed home for school my boss allowed me to stay. Otherwise, the job would’ve lasted a mere eight months.

Now all I have to do is keep the job. Easy, right? Actually I came close to being tossed on my ass a few times in those early years. I was promoted to supervisor status because my boss needed a body. It was not based on merit. I needed a bit of seasoning, to say the least.

My problem was not realizing the eyes of the place were upon me at every turn. I lacked subtlety, to say the least. Without getting into the sordid details one night I was nowhere to be found with my girlfriend and her Dad came up to the library looking for her, as her shift had ended almost an hour before. Wow, that was stupid. So incredibly stupid. It’s not to say that others didn’t “mess around” in the building. I was just incredibly dumb about it!

Of course my boss was told and he tore me a new one, but I survived. He sort of understood (the whole “I was young once too” thing) and let me off with a warning.

A little more than a year later I did something that, in his mind, was a thousand times worse. I embarrassed him.

Our reputations still had not improved to this point and one Friday I accompanied my fellow supervisor (and buddy) on a lunch hour jaunt all the way to Nassau Community College. Needless to say, we were gone more than an hour. When we returned my boss’s sister (and the library’s chief busybody) confronted us and altered out time sheet to reflect how long she thought we were gone.

Now to this day I dispute the amount of time she claimed we were gone. Yes, it was more than an hour but she claimed we were gone for one and three quarter hours. I knew it was more like one and one quarter (OK, maybe 1:20). I was so annoyed she changed the time sheet, but rather than plead my case to my boss the next time he was in, I changed it back, and worse than that, I informed the bookkeeper and brought someone from the “outside” into this fracas.

What transpired next was the closest I came to being shown the door. My boss went through the roof. He hated anyone else on the staff knowing his internal business (except for his sister the spy). He got his hands on me and reamed me out Old Testament style. My Dad never yelled at me like that. He used the F-word and everything!

It was like in those movies when the stereotypical African American police chief is screaming so loudly at Eddie Murphy or Mel Gibson that he begins speaking in tongues and goes totally incoherent. I emerged from that meeting cowed and terrified. He got his hands on me before my “accomplice” in the matter and when I told him what happened he told me he’d take the blame and offer himself up as a sacrificial lamb since he had another job and I didn’t.

He met with my boss and offered to quit but by then my boss had calmed down, so they worked out a one-month “suspension” for him and (another) warning for me but no punishment. It allowed my boss to save face with his sister and the rest of the staff and be seen as taking appropriate corrective action without ruining our lives.

The importance of those moments has never been lost on me. I spent the next five years proving to my boss he didn’t make a mistake by keeping me and I more than validated whatever faith he placed in me. Our relationship evolved into something really wonderful and I consider him one of my great mentors. I often say that he saw the potential in us we couldn’t see in ourselves and I think that’s why, even in his apoplectic states; he didn’t can me, when he did others in similar situations.

So I came this close to never working there, to working there for eight months or to being fired after less than two years. Yikes.

I just needed a little seasoning. :-)

SRPL Reflections: Hostility

2010-03-10T15:16:00.001-05:00

(It’s time to restart the end of SRPL countdown as it appears we have about a month, perhaps less, so let the SRPL Reflections continue!)When you spend 18 of the last 22 years working in one place living through a number of regime changes is inevitable. At the library I saw my stock plummet and rise from the ashes only to plummet again, all depending on who was in charge.

Like any organization, the library is comprised of several departments that included reference services, clerical services, technical services and business services. I worked in the technical services division (or TSD) and for the majority of my time there I enjoyed an unprecedented level of protection, thanks to my boss.

Like me, he started there when he was in high school and just never left. A capable and organized man, he shrewdly made himself indispensable to the library’s late Director, who even went so far as to call his draft board to delay his induction into the Army so he could supervise moving the library to a new location.

He practically invented the division he was in charge of, or at least radically altered it to suit his own purposes. He was charged with hiring and supervising the kids who shelved the books, but expanded that role to include almost every organizational element of the library. He ordered supplies and furniture, orchestrated moves large and small, and devised methodologies for how work was done in his area.

Over the years, as he cemented himself, many staff members came to hate him for his blustery style and brusque manner. I was well prepared for him when I was hired, and I soon realized that he formed a protective cocoon around his charges. Good thing too, since I was a massive screw up for the first few years.

I really had no idea how to behave in the beginning. I was thrilled to be working along side my best friends and, more importantly, girls! I goofed off constantly with no regard for who was watching. I soon realized everyone was watching. Spies lurked everywhere and the number one spy was my boss’ own sister.

Still, despite innumerable stupid moves on my part, my boss protected me from the scorn that I drew from the old battle axes that populated the place. Within two years, I managed to offend many key personnel by flouting the rules with impunity and a few times my boss had to drop the hammer on me, but I always emerged unscathed.

What really upset these women (and in retrospect, rightly so) was the fact I was a supervisor. I was supposed to be setting an example for the younger kids and I behaved as if I was one of them. When I started dating my first girlfriend I followed her around the building, puppy-dog style, whenever she went out to shelve books, in full view of the rest of the world.

The library’s head of circulation really despised me and she hated my best friend (and fellow supervisor) even more. He committed the unpardonable sin of stealing her treasured cans of Pepsi on a regular basis. And of course my boss’ sister hated us because, despite her constant snitching, something in him refused to commit the ultimate act, that of firing us, even with all the evidence before him.

When he retired and I gave a speech about him I wondered aloud if he hadn’t seen something in us that we didn’t see in ourselves, that he recognized our potential and was willing to let us grow into the roles he gave us.

In 1992 I realized that, as my college graduation approached, I was in no way prepared for the real world and that the job search would likely take months (it took years). I made a conscious decision to adopt my boss’ former strategy. I would make myself indispensable to his operation. Not only that I would curry favor with the biddies that were the eyes and ears of the place.

The strategy worked so well that not only did my boss eventually consider me indispensable; he let me write my own ticket in terms of how often I worked, when I worked, etc. It worked so well with the staff members that I eventually developed friendships with several of them, including my top two arch enemies, going so far as to invite one of them to my wedding! (The other one did not receive an invite because she actively campaigned for my dismissal and I never forgave that.)

Until I ended my first tenure I was the Golden Boy and the Enforcer. I managed to get a few kids fired and probably enjoyed the role a bit too much. I had unanimous approval from the staff and my boss trusted me implicitly.

Then I decided to leave. We all know why, but lucky for me all the good vibes I cultivated sowed the seeds for my eventual return.

When I returned four years later I made it clear to my boss I wanted nothing to do with supervision (or working hard), and was there for “comedy relief and mild productivity.” My rapport with him was much snarkier, but he seemed to enjoy it. About half the staff had left and while I was cool with the old timers I made no attempt to cultivate relationships with the new biddies and they seemed to be like, “Who the hell is this guy?”

I traded on all the slack I developed in my first tenure to slide during my second. Over the years my group became increasingly isolated from the library proper (well, some of us did, me especially) and really made no effort to cultivate a good reputation. Then the bomb dropped. My boss decided to retire.

I neglected to mention another shake-up in personnel that had a negative impact on our position. The former director stepped down due to ill health and was replaced by her assistant director, who definitely had her eyes on the prize.

Little by little she eroded my boss’ authority and he could see the handwriting on the wall. Rather than be forced out (or totally emasculated) he opted to retire after 42 years of service. That sent shockwaves throughout our tiny group and on the day he told me I composed a resignation letter.

He encouraged all of us to stay, as did the director. She even went so far as to say she couldn’t fire us if she wanted to according to Civil Service rules. I realized that quitting was akin to cutting off my nose to spite my face and this gig was just too good to ever give up willingly.

However, he left and with him went that massive umbrella of protection some of us enjoyed for nearly two decades. Just like his authority was gradually eroded our freedoms were encroached on and we were forced to get “in line” with the rest of the place. I’m shocked things didn’t get worse faster. Our boss was replaced with a well-meaning “yes-woman” who thought we should be left alone, but the director made her clamp down on us.

The rest of the staff also smelled blood in the water after he left and soon the snitching and the dirty looks began anew, culminating last year in a series of events that saw us in as vulnerable a position as we ever were in.

The bottom line is that ever since our boss retired we’ve been on a slow death march to the end. Lucky for us, the march lasted four years and enabled us to line our pockets even further. The director is using the pretense of an upcoming renovation to give us the boot. She feels we’re underworked and overpaid and part of a regime she despised and wants to eradicate all traces of.

I shouldn’t be surprised. New regimes always want to do away with all vestiges of what came before and often with no regard for the longevity or contributions of their predecessors. What scares me the most is this situation seems to be a microcosm of my entire life at this point (and that of the lives of those closest to me). Nothing is forever. Everything changes (and not always for the best) and (yikes) is the worst yet to come??

SRPL Reflections: Never Really Left

2010-01-25T14:00:00.001-05:00

For better or for worse, I’m not a big fan of change. During my first day of high school I can remember wishing I was back in grammar school (and that experience was hardly magical but after eight years I had it down pat). I prefer smooth sailing to rocking the boat, continuity over interruptions and longevity over short hops.

However, every rule is meant to be broken and for some reason I have embraced the life of a vagabond over the last 12 years, living in five different places since I was married in 1998. Moving has never been fun, but it was always grounded in some practical purpose and I never regretted it. I often wonder why I’ve been psychologically able to do this when I am so resistant otherwise.

For 25 years I lived in the same house with my parents. They moved to St. James in 2002 (that was rough on me) but even in the face of their departure I had a reason to stalk my old haunts: SRPL. We’ve established I worked at SRPL twice, from 1988 to 1995 and again from 1999-present.

Working there, near my old house, kept me grounded in the surroundings of my youth, and that was comforting. I could still get my hair cut by the same barber I used since I was 9. I could get my car worked on by the same honest group of guys who my family used since 1983. I could eat at the same restaurants, visit the same haunts and watch the town change gradually, and be spared the jarring realization that this was no longer my home.

Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t regret leaving my home town at all. I love the community where I put down my roots, but having one foot in the old place was always a comfort. I can’t explain it beyond that simple feeling. Three times a week I had a reason to be there. Before my parents moved, it gave me a perfect opportunity for a visit (and a free meal!) After they left, I chose a number of different places to dine at depending on my mood.

I realize this is all very mundane stuff, but life often pulls us farther and farther away from our roots and I like that I had a reason to hang on for a while. For many, there is little or no sentiment for where they were raised and that’s fine too. Then there’s the other extreme. For about five minutes I flirted with the idea of buying my parents’ house, but in retrospect that would’ve been a disaster. Embracing the past is one thing. Trying to recapture it is another.

Now, with few exceptions, I won’t have a reason to even drive through the town and when I do I’ll be hit by the jarring realization that this place is no longer there and that place is a Chinese restaurant and on and on. I’m seeing the end of this experience through many different lenses (none of which I like), but I know once it’s over, like high school, I’ll get used to it.

SRPL Reflections: My First Last Day

2010-01-25T13:46:00.000-05:00

Can you believe I actually quit SRPL once? I know, right?? I walked out of the best gig of my life, of my own free will, assuming I’d never return.

Why, you ask? Well, I always ignored the time-honored precept, “Don’t poop where you eat,” and spent a total of six years in two relationships with my co-workers. In my defense, I was never presented with such opportunities before my time at SRPL and I was very eager to jump start my dating life.

When the first girlfriend left for college (and me in the dust) I took up with the second a few months later. There was an air of possibility with the second and I let myself believe I might marry her. Once I did that, it was over (that is a gross oversimplification of a very long story I’m not relating here).
What’s important to convey here is that - in the blink of an eye - this treasured clubhouse became the bleakest place on earth for me and the last place I wanted to be, despite the presence of all my pals.

Unfortunately I had painted myself into a very tight corner. I was more than two years out of college with very dim career prospects. The library was the only thing between me and the bread line (OK, the library and my wonderful parents).

In hindsight I think the pitfall that befell all of us who stayed at the library for any length of time was using it as a safety net to one degree or another. Now the other guys are free to disagree with me, but I do sense a pattern. When I graduated I was particularly terrified about entering the “real world,” and I always knew that no matter what happened I had the library.

For a long while my attempts at jump starting a career were half hearted. I didn’t push myself and suffered greatly as a result. Eventually this lack of direction caused devastating ripples in my life, and it was only after I got slammed around a bit did I move forward.

The library was like a protective cocoon. I worked with friends. It afforded me two significant relationships. My boss was a crotchety saint. The work, such as it was, was not taxing in the slightest (and if it was, I didn’t do it) It was like hanging out at Cheers and getting paid for it. My first girlfriend, in a fit of pique, asked if I would stay there forever. :-)But I digress. After about three months fate and good fortune smiled upon me and I got my first significant job, enabling a way out of the torture chamber. I hated the fact that, besides ripping out my heart and eating it in front of me, my ex had this ability to project a false front when we worked together, while I was hanging on by my fingernails…and everyone knew it. My boss, who I love like a second father, was not as compassionate as I expected when I told him and that hurt a little.

So when the new job with a future came calling my bags were already packed. I had worked there seven years and wanted out in the worst way. My friends railed against my decision, but I was immovable. By this time, I’d work maybe three or four times a month and only stayed as long as it took me to feel comfortable that the new job would last.

So when the end came I was more relieved than sad. My last day was a low key do no work celebration and we have the pictures to prove it. We tried to get a group shot of the five of us and the succession of screwed up shots leading up to the classic one is emblematic of the fun we had together.

When I walked out for the last time I had some wistful thoughts but I wasn’t especially sad, the way I am now. I knew I’d still see the guys and I’d visit constantly, but there wasn’t a sense that something significant was passing away. It was only later that I realized how significant the experience was to my formation as a person.

Four years later, for a host of reasons, I returned to the library. It wasn’t with my tail between my legs though. The ex was gone. I was married. My job was going well and soon I’d get a better one. My adult life was in full swing with all its attendant responsibilities (and bills) and I could’ve used a few extra bucks. Still I’d be lying if a part of me didn’t yearn for the little taste of youth being there afforded me.

(My second tenure at SRPL lasted longer than the first and I feel a blog coming on that compares the two but that will come later.)

SRPL Reflections: Thursday Nights

2010-01-25T13:45:00.000-05:00

(First a note. There may be some who consider these reflections maudlin, self-indulgent, sappy, etc. As a very important chapter in my life ends it makes me feel better to write about it. I'd like to share it with anyone who's interested. If you're not then just don't read it, but please, no stupid comments.)

One of the things I will miss most about working at SRPL (besides the money) is the camaraderie. I made many good friends there and in a few cases, solidified friendships that already existed.

Going out on Thursday nights is a concept that predates my participation in it. Many members of the crew would go out after work and “blow off steam” at clubs and bars throughout Nassau County. That was never my scene. However, in 1994 when the bottom dropped out from under me, I had to rethink what “my scene” was if I wanted a social life.

It was then that my girlfriend of nearly four years handed me my walking papers. It wasn’t totally unexpected but it was devastating nonetheless. I moped sufficiently for the first few months but soon realized staying home and mooning over her was not healthy.

By this time the real craziness that accompanied the Thursday festivities had kind of died down. People were getting older, accepting responsibilities and getting hammered on a weeknight wasn’t as viable a prospect as it was back in the day. This was the perfect time for me to join the crowd.

At first, I felt a little out of place, a bit of a hanger-on. Even though I had worked alongside these people for six years I never really saw them outside the library (with the exception of one person). They were all gracious and welcoming, knowing full well I was still smarting from the break up.

At first it was going out for the sake of going out. I never felt more comfortable than just sitting and BS-ing with my friends either in my basement or one of their houses. I didn’t drink and I hated loud, smoky bars. My preferred method of hanging out sustained me for many years, but losing my relationship was like waking up after a decades-long sleep to realize that everyone had grown up. This is what people did and I had better get with the program.

After a while it wasn’t so bad. I never took up drinking, but I still enjoyed myself. The aftermath of my breakup really showed me who my friends were and all of them were supportive in their own way.

Very quickly, this became part of my weekly routine, something I looked forward to – a guaranteed night out! During this time I quit the job at the library but by hanging out with the boys on Thursday I kept one foot in the place by meeting up with them there. It sowed the seeds for my eventual return.

As I noted earlier, I came in to the Thursday experience during a transitional period. People were getting older, developing long-term relationships and naturally, they fell away. Some were frequent guest stars, others vanished, but a strong core was maintained for a number of years. Marriages and children took their toll, but still the tradition endured.

I must give my wife credit for never trying to hamper something that was so important to me. Thursday nights allowed me to maintain contact with my friends in a way I never could otherwise. It was a standing, sacred, immutable experience, earmarked by a few simple rules: no chicks, no outsiders (exceptions occasionally made) and….well that was really it.

Over the years watering holes changed, classic hangout spots closed and it seemed as though we were hanging on by our fingernails trying to keep this experience alive. Often, we would see movies together on Thursdays as I had long since lost my appetite for going on the weekends.

Now as the SRPL experience ends, so too does the “excuse” we had to get together in the first place. That would seem to signal the end of the regular Thursday experience. We’re down to three regulars and two occasional “guest stars” (very occasional). Two of the regulars are brothers and they’ll still see each other all the time, so by default I seem to be the glue holding this experience together, one I chaffed at years ago as being somewhat beneath me.

I’ve often sneered that this is the last nail in the coffin of my youth. I’m certainly not trying to rail against the tide of marriage, parenting and responsibility. It’s what happens naturally and everyone falls in line sooner or later. But this experience, for me, has evolved substantially and taken on many roles.

At first, it was a salve for an open wound that seemed like it would never heal. It got me back out into the world and helped jumpstart the healing process. Then, as my adult life took shape it was a way for me to maintain very important connections with the people who helped form me and whose company I thoroughly enjoyed. It was regular as clockwork, rarely missed and critically important to me.

I watch the show, “Men of a Certain Age,” with Ray Romano. In it the three protagonists are college friends who have maintained their ties for more than two decades by sharing a standing breakfast date. I don’t know if that desire to stay together is particular to men, but its importance in our lives – in my life - cannot be diminished. I have no idea what the future holds for Thursdays. If it evolves into a bi-weekly or monthly affair then so be it, but I hope it lives on. To have that experience, on top of the library experience itself, was a great blessing.

Jim

2009-12-24T23:41:00.001-05:00

One morning, when I was about ten, my mother noticed an electrical outlet sparking in my father’s office. She immediately called 911 and hustled me outside, still in my pajamas and clutching as many as my prized possessions as my slender arms could carry (one box of comic books).

Before the police or the fire department arrived our friend Jim pulled up, ready to do whatever he could to help. A New York City transit cop, Jim heard the call on his scanner and rushed to our house. Over the years he often joked about the sight of me grasping those comics for dear life.

Around the same time Jim arranged one of the greatest surprises of my young life. Using his connections he got me into the Mets bullpen on my tenth birthday. On that day I met Joe Torre, Joe Pignatano and several Mets players. It was and still is the greatest memory of my childhood.

When college beckoned I was faced with the fact that while I had my driver’s license I was still too terrified to drive. Both my parents were too close to the situation to teach me. Jim took control of the matter and, armed with an encyclopedic knowledge of the five boroughs, took me everywhere I needed to be, in good weather and bad, in traffic or at night, and helped me conquer the phobias plaguing me just in time for my freshman year to begin.

Those three examples are but the tip of an enormous iceberg in the friendship that I and my parents enjoyed with Jim. He was the greatest friend, most loyal protector and staunchest advocate my family ever had. And today we lost him.
He was a husband, father and grandfather, a brother, an uncle and a son. To our small family he was a friend like no other.

He was no shrinking violet. He could be gruff and possessed of a humor that would make Archie Bunker blush. Political correctness never entered his vocabulary and for us, he was a refreshing breath of fresh air. Every time he saw you, he greeted you with a joke, and even if I heard it ten times already I wanted to hear it again.

He was not someone you wanted to run afoul of, but if he liked you, you had a lifelong ally, a man who would go to the ends of the earth, and often did, for those he loved. In my eyes he was heroic, funny, larger than life and one of the few men I respected as much as my own father. I loved hearing him regale us with stories of his tough, city upbringing or his days teaching evil doers a well deserved lesson, or his run-ins with all manners of New York City’s dark underbelly.

He was of a time and place that exists only in memory now, a man’s man who showed his affection for you by hanging a nickname that stuck for life. In my case it was Carmine the Hammer. For over 30 years he addressed me by that moniker and it made me feel special, unique and cool.

By its very nature, friendship can be transitory and fleeting. We choose certain people to share our life experiences with. Over the course of time they may fall away for one reason or another. There are some friends, however, that transcend even family. Family, by its nature, is permanent, but the bonds of blood don’t always ensure closeness.

Jim was a friend we considered more than family. We chose him and he chose us. He stuck by us through every dark moment and with each passing year, demonstrated a loyalty I can only describe as fierce. He taught me the true meaning of friendship. It is an example I can never hope to live up to, but one I should aspire to every day in his memory.

The Greatest Season I Never Witnessed

2009-09-23T15:24:00.002-04:00

As he rounded the bases after smacking a home run off Mets ace Tom Seaver in the first inning of Game One of the 1969 World Series, Orioles slugger Don Buford brazenly sneered, “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” to Met shortstop Bud Harrelson.

Harrelson did not respond, but made sure to tell his teammates about Buford’s boast. It was a prophetic comment, to be sure, but one that would come back to haunt the Orioles, not the Mets.

I was a glimmer in my parents’ eye during the “amazing” season of 1969. In fact, I was conceived in October of that year, just as the Mets completed their miracle. I like to think I was ushered into this world amid a torrent of miraculous events – the Moon landing, the Mets and Jets winning it all, Woodstock – followed by me.

Although I did not suffer the way Met fans of that era did I knew their pain as I came of baseball age. In my youth I was linked to the woeful Mets who populated “Grant’s Tomb” (AKA Shea Stadium after the Seaver trade). From 1976-1983 I hung my hat on a team that never failed to disappoint.

I loved hearing and reading about the Mets of 1969. My Dad regaled me with stories about them. In 1979, I attended their tenth anniversary reunion during Old Timers Day at Shea. I read as much as I could get my hands on in the school library, but I knew it was no substitute for living through the experience.

As I got older and my love for baseball waxed and waned (even in the face of the Mets incredible World Series triumph in 1986) I always felt a special affinity to the Amazins of 1969.

In 2001, the movie “Frequency” was released, about a father and son who are able to converse with each other across the gulf of time via ham radio. The film is set amidst the final three games of the ’69 World Series, and the son in the film (played by Jim Caviezel) uses his knowledge of the Series to prove to his father he is who he purports to be.

It’s a ludicrous premise but the film works. It’s a great thriller and more importantly, a wonderful father-son story. At various moments throughout the film characters are seen watching the Series, or it is seen on television sets in the background. It was then I realized that, amidst so much lost baseball footage, the 1969 World Series still existed in its entirety.

I was determined to get my hands on it.

The Internet has opened so many possibilities to collectors of various ephemera that there is truth to the adage that if you search long enough you will find exactly what you want. Within a few weeks I located a baseball collector who had Games 3, 4 and 5 and was willing to sell them to me. I had nothing with which to barter so I agreed. Within days of making the deal, I had the games.

I’m sure my friends working in the tv industry would agree that while film has a timeless quality, there is a certain immediacy with video. No matter what year the tape is from (as long as it’s in color) there is this illusion that the event is happening live.

For me, this was as good as it was going to get. Later, I would obtain Games 1 and 2 but they were telecined black and white transfers, and by their very nature you felt removed from the actual experience.

Like everyone else on the planet I had seen all the famous plays during the dubious ragged highlight reels played during Met rain delays, but here was every pitch, every play, and it was amazing to see everything in context. I loved seeing Tony Kubek venture into the stands to interview the notable (and long dead) figures of the day or the camera panning to catch luminaries like Toots Shor, Pearl Bailey and Jackie O and JFK Jr. enjoying the game.

There was palpable tension in the air when Nolan Ryan got into trouble during Game 3 (his only WS appearance in 27 years!) and Tommie Agee saved his bacon with the second of two amazing catches. Knowing the outcome of every game didn’t mean I knew when everything was going to happen, so it was thrilling to say the least.

I loved seeing fiery Earl Weaver get tossed for arguing balls and strikes in Game 4. The best had to be when Frank Robinson argued he was hit by a pitch (he was) that the ump called a foul tip. Robinson and Weaver argue to no avail. The following inning brings the shoe polish incident wherein Gil Hodges “proves” Cleon Jones was hit by a pitch by revealing a miniscule dot of shoe polish on the ball to the ump. Take your base Cleon! Then, Donn Clendenon comes up and launches a two-run shot into the left field seats!

In the last ten years these games have become much more readily available (and can even be downloaded on ITunes) but I felt like I had found the Holy Grail.

Only recently, was this experience eclipsed when I was able to meet the majority of the 1969 Mets at two events held about a month apart. The first was an autograph show on Long Island held after the 40th anniversary celebration at Citi Field and the second was during a special program featuring five members of the ’69 team at the Cradle of Aviation Museum.

None of the stories that they regaled us with were anything new (and they knew it), but it was great to hear them in person. This was a team that won because all 25 guys made at least one or more enduring contributions. Seaver and Koosman did their part, but so did Boswell, Gaspar, Weis and Kranepool, to name a few. It was great to see them bask in the glow of the fans admiration and to see their affection for each other, and especially for Gil Hodges.

Former coach and original Met Joe Pignatano told two great stories about Hodges. During Spring Training the beat writers asked Hodges how he thought the Mets would fare in ’69. He replied that they would play .500 ball, an assertion met with derision and classroom snickering. Hodges got up, went back to his office and closed the door. He returned 15 minutes later and said simply and forcefully, “Losing is no laughing matter.”

Pignatano had been part of Hodges’ coaching staff on the Washington Senators, a second division team he was slowly turning around. When Hodges got the call the Mets wanted him to manage them, he informed his coaches they were all going. “I told Gil we needed one or two more seasons and we might take it,” Piggy recalled. “He told me (in his Marine baritone) ‘We’re going home (to win it there).’”

Can you relive an event you never experienced firsthand? Maybe not, but I’ve done my best. I suppose I have a special affinity for this team and the time period they hail from because, as I said, it ushered me into this world.

I heard Art Shamsky tell a fan that she wasn’t old enough to see them play, but I would argue that doesn’t make her or me any less a fan. I think part of being a fan is being a student of your team’s history and this was their most glorious moment -sorry 1986 but we should’ve destroyed the Sox and Game 6 (as amazing as it was) not been necessary! The ’69 Mets were supposed to be lambs led to the slaughter, but they defied the most overwhelming odds and accomplished something truly miraculous.

Right Don?

Butch

2009-03-03T08:42:00.002-05:00

25 years ago, death slapped me right in the face.

I don’t know how else to describe the life-changing moment when I learned that a dear friend of my family, the father of one of my best friends, had suddenly died.

His name was Thomas Guthy, but my parents and I knew him simply as Butch.

His passing was a profoundly disturbing moment in my young life. Until that time, I had only experienced the passing of people whose time had come. While their losses certainly caused great sadness, in many cases it was expected. They had lived long, full lives that had reached their natural end.

Butch was cheated. At 44 years old, he had so much more ahead of him. He had so much love to give his wife, so much more to teach his son and so much laughter to give his friends. We were all cheated.

I was nearly 14 when Butch died, and his loss affected me more than anything else up to that point. I became acutely aware of my own mortality and, more importantly, that of my parents. I was crippled by the notion that my father or mother could die, and when two more fathers died within the next two years, one as young as Butch, I was literally terrified it would happen to mine.

I can’t believe it’s been 25 years since we lost him, and now I find myself not quite as old as he was when he passed, but I can see it on the horizon. I find myself thinking about him a lot more now, and I felt it was important, especially in this year, to take a moment to remember this good man, and not just that intensely sad moment when we lost him.

Who was Butch? He was a husband and a father, a son, a brother and an uncle. He got his nickname from his trade, one he worked very hard at, one that sometimes betrayed him despite his excellence with it. To my family, for the decade that we had the pleasure to know him, he was a dear and loyal friend.

What do I remember about Butch after so much time without him? He was short and stocky, with a slight Fu Manchu style mustache, and in the years I first knew him, I was a little intimidated. While he could be soft spoken, he was not a man to be trifled with. I glimpsed him in moments of anger, like when he was mad at his son, and always knew it was time to go home when he bellowed Eddie’s name (“Ed-WARD!!!”) But in all reality, he was a pussycat to those he loved.

Butch worked hard to support his family, and wanted his son to have nothing but the best. I remember how hard he worked to please Eddie, to make his life easy, and give him the things that all young boys want.

It is true Butch intimidated me at first. One afternoon that all ended and he became the coolest Dad ever. I was watching television with Eddie (a common custom) and Butch joined us. I got a little tense, maybe thinking I didn’t belong, that I was infringing on his relaxation time. He asked me what was wrong, and told me he wasn’t going to bite. That was it. We were cool. Nobody else’s Dad assumed that level of familiarity with me, joked around with me, or made me feel as welcome.

When my parents and I moved to Mineola, the Guthys were already there. We had no friends, and there were very few young couples for my parents to associate with. When Eddie and I started school, our mothers met (how exactly I couldn’t say). They became fast friends and soon introduced our fathers, and again an instant connection was made. The Guthys were like the pied pipers of fun, and they welcomed my parents with open arms.

What do I remember most about those days? Laughter. Raucous, hysterical laughter. When our parents got together, either as a foursome, or in larger groups, that’s all I heard. When you consider they didn’t know each other all that long, it amazes me how quickly they bonded. They got along so well that we vacationed together two years in a row, and of all the trips we took with other families, those were the best.

The Guthys insisted I call them by their first names. They welcomed me into their home as frequently as I was able. They cooked meals for me, allowed me to sleep over, encouraged my friendship with their son in every way possible.

My relationship with Eddie was not as immediately wonderful as that of our parents. We were like oil and water, and while we had our good moments, in those early days, we had more bad ones. We argued. We brawled. We had two completely different sets of friends, but we had enough common interests to link us together and keep the friendship going as we matured.

As grammar school was coming to an end, Ed and I started becoming closer and seeing past our petty differences. There was something inexplicable to our relationship, but we fed off that. Our differences made us stronger. We still argued fairly frequently, but that did not define us. We were bonding over a love of just talking about anything and everything. That would carry us through the tragedy ahead.

One late June afternoon, I was watching television as my mother went about her chores. School was out, and I was learning how to use my cool new VCR that I had gotten as a graduation present. The bell rang and, after a moment, my mother emerged from the foyer, crying inconsolably. I immediately asked what was wrong.

Butch was gone. He died suddenly that morning after a massive heart attack. A dear friend of the Guthys had come to tell us the awful news. She left after a few moments, leaving my mother and me in stunned silence. It was about noon. I asked if she would call my father and she opted to wait for him to come home.

As we waited, I realized that every preconception I had about life was shattered. Some people did not live to old age. Life was not fair. In fact, it really sucked. How would I face my friend? I was 14 years old. I could barely process this information, much less be supportive of him. I felt like I had been kicked in the gut. I only saw Butch a day or two before, washing his tricked out 80s van that we rode together in to Washington D.C. How could he be gone?

When my father arrived, he knew something was wrong immediately. The fact that I was downstairs with my mother and not in my room playing video games was an immediate clue. We were somber, and my mother could barely compose herself as she told him the bad news.

My father’s instant reaction was anger. All he could say was, “That is terrible,” over and over again in the tone of voice usually reserved for chastising his students. It was almost as though he was chastising God for doing something as stupid as a teen-ager would do without thinking.

We went to see the Guthys later that day. It was a surreal moment to be in a house so often filled with laughter now so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. By the time I saw my friend, he was tired of all the endless phone calls and visits from people expressing their sympathy.

The days that followed were equally surreal and equally difficult. I will never forget the principal of our grammar school, who despised Ed, trying to offer clichéd words of consolation to him at Butch’s wake. We both broke out laughing when she walked away, and it broke some of the tension.

The day after the funeral my mother asked me when she thought I would hear from Eddie. I figured maybe a month. He called the next day, and I went over, not really knowing what to expect. His mother, despite all the hell she had been through that week, put on a brave front as she slogged through paperwork and other nonsense, and appeared just as happy to see me. At the wake, she said to me, “He needs you.” I took that very seriously. In that moment, maybe I started to grow up a little.

Over the next three years, our friendship intensified to a level that I could never have envisioned. It’s not as though we talked about Butch constantly. He came up from time to time. He was a presence in that house and I never had to be shy about saying his name. Ed and I were always with each other, and while our lives were already starting to follow wildly different paths, we still had that bond of communicating about everything as mundane and superficial as movies and music, to something as profound as what the future held for both of us.

In 1987, Ed moved to Florida with his Mom and grandparents, and it was devastating for me, partially because I was losing someone so important, but also because I had so much invested in him that I had ignored other areas of my life. In the end, it had some positive value because I needed to start living my own life, instead of living vicariously through his. I started growing up when Butch passed, and I grew up even more when his son left.

Over the years we visited. Ed moved back to New York and then back to Florida. Like his father, he faced challenges and hardships in his own life, and like his father, he battled, and never gave up when it came to supporting his family. Ed grew up without a father, and lost Butch when he needed him most, but he became a son his father could be proud of, and more importantly, he became a father his father could be proud of.

If I had my way, Butch would have lived to see his grandchildren, and somehow his son would still have met and married the same girl (who he only met because he moved to Florida), and that we would have become just as close, without having Butch’s passing be the defining moment of our friendship.

Who was Butch? Butch was the guy who told my Dad he was “knocked off the throne” when a local garden center exploded in the middle of the night (they both met to see what happened at two in the morning). He was the guy who could make my mother hysterical just by looking at her. He was the Cub Scout leader and baseball coach. He was the Dad with all the cool toys. He was the guy who drove Eddie and me to a comic store ten miles away when we asked on a moment’s notice, who took us to Toys R Us and movies all the time.

Some people reading this might think it’s a bit strange for me to be writing about Butch. He wasn’t my Dad. He wasn’t my uncle. We weren’t related. All I can say is, that when you grow up the way I did, without much extended family, friends take on an entirely new meaning. The Guthys saw that and brought us, especially me, into their family.

Butch wasn’t just my friend’s Dad. He was my family’s dear friend.

I loved him, and I still miss him.

Ghosts of Christmases Past

2008-12-23T10:52:00.005-05:00

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!

Terminally Shy

2008-12-18T11:33:00.001-05:00

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…

Hockey vs. Baseball

2008-12-17T09:35:00.000-05:00

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!

Facebook

2008-12-16T11:48:00.001-05:00

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!

Felix

2008-12-12T12:33:00.002-05:00

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.

A Squeezing, Wrenching, Grasping, Scraping, Clutching, Covetous Old Sinner!

2008-12-11T14:09:00.001-05:00

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.

Being an Only Child

2008-12-11T10:31:00.006-05:00

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!

"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out Kid!" (repost from 12/05)

2008-12-10T10:06:00.001-05:00

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.

Uncle Forry

2008-12-08T11:02:00.006-05:00

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!)

Uniting the Two Halves

2008-12-05T14:22:00.004-05:00

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.

The Scene I Waited 22 Years For

2008-12-03T14:26:00.002-05:00

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!

The name is Bond.....you know the rest!

2008-11-12T12:21:00.008-05:00

Recently it was announced that Bond 23 is finally entering production after years of legal wrangling that stalled the series (much like what happened between 1990-95, derailing the franchise and signaling the end of Timothy Dalton's tenure) Daniel Craig has put an indelible stamp on the character, rooting him firmly in the 21st century, imbuing him with a deadly earnestness that even the master himself, Sean Connery, could not achieve.

Every Bond before Craig (including Connery and the somber Dalton) went about his tasks with a wink and a nod to the audience (to varying degrees). There was an implied conceit between actor and audience that the proceedings, however exciting, were the stuff of fantasy. Roger Moore was the living embodiment of this ideal as his Bond films venture into self-parody more often than any other actors take on the role.

However, Craig is as serious as a heart attack in his portrayal of Bond. He is brutal, unyielding, even morose. Timothy Dalton wanted to take Bond back to his roots, and for my money he was successful, and I enjoyed his films very much. However, he was hampered by the conventions of the Bond film (he seemed to wince in pain whenever he had to deliver a one-liner), and wasn’t able to go as dark as he wanted to.

Pierce Brosnan struck a comfortable balance between the suave, winking Moore, and the (at times) brutal, misogynistic Connery, and his films brought Bond to even greater financial heights. However, “Die Another Day,” was a bloated, silly adventure reminiscent of Roger Moore’s worst efforts.

It seems that when the series gets too gimmicky or excessive the next entry mandates a back to basics approach. Such was the case with “Moonraker,” and “For Your Eyes Only,” “A View to a Kill,” and “The Living Daylights,” and most recently, “Die Another Day,” and “Casino Royale.”

My relationship with Bond goes back to “For Your Eyes Only.” Released in 1981, it is far and away Roger Moore’s best effort (sorry, “Spy Who Loved Me” fans!) It is a straight up revenge story, and Moore tapped into a previously hidden reservoir of bitterness and anger, serving up his finest performance in the role. There were still jokes to be sure, but the tone was vastly different from his prior (and subsequent entries).

In 1983 we were treated to “The Battle of the Bonds,” as Sean Connery stepped into the role one final time with the unofficial “Never Say Never Again.” The film, essentially a remake of “Thunderball,” resulted from a lawsuit against Bond producers by Kevin McClory, who developed the original story with Ian Fleming.

McClory won the rights to his original treatment and then mounted a rival Bond production to be released at the same time as the Roger Moore entry, “Octopussy.” McClory scored an amazing coup when he convinced Connery to reprise the role, a move the original 007 was only too happy to make, owing to the great animosity he felt towards Bond producer Cubby Broccoli.

My parents took me to see both Bonds that year. “Octopussy,” was released in the summer, and “NSNA” in the fall. Prior to “NSNA” I had never seen a Connery Bond film, and instantly felt like this guy had something. Moore was too jokey for me even then, but here was Sean Connery, no longer in his prime, and still the master. “NSNA” lost the battle of the box office that year, but Connery won me over, and for sentimental reasons, it remains my favorite Bond film.

When my parents purchased a VCR for me the following year, ABC still owned the television rights to all the Bond films and aired them with surprising regularity (it seemed like once a month or once every two months). I grabbed as many as I could, and finally had the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about re: Sean Connery. I can’t be sure but I believe I saw “Goldfinger” first, then “Dr. No.”

Before Daniel Craig came along I would’ve said Connery was the living embodiment of Bond, and while Craig may’ve superseded Connery in that regard, Sean is still tops in my book. His Bond was a brutal, efficient killer, whose decidedly un-PC attitudes still bring a smile to my face. He managed to be suave, without being foppish, debonair without being pretentious, and had an air of danger about him that others simply did not.

Even when phoning in the performance he gave in “Diamonds Are Forever,” (paunch and bad hair piece included), he still managed to give Bond some defining Connery moments, especially in the pre-credits sequence, (“I shan’t ask you politely next time”).

I was really happy when Roger Moore hung it up after 1985’s disastrous “A View to a Kill,” and I was thrilled with the announcement Timothy Dalton (who I knew only as Prince Baron from “Flash Gordon”) was taking the character back to his roots. As I noted earlier, I enjoyed Dalton’s two outings as Bond, and never thought he got a fair shake in the role (see my prior column for a more thorough analysis of Dalton's tenure).

If anything, I was terrified when Pierce Brosnan was cast in the role. I believed he would hearken back to Moore rather than Connery. After several years without a Bond film (the longest lag in the series’ history) “Goldeneye” was released in 1995, and I was pleasantly surprised at how well he acquitted himself in the role, especially in that premier outing.

I’ve had the good fortune to have two in-person experiences with two of the actors who played Bond. The much-maligned (by myself included) In 2008, Roger Moore appeared at my local book store to sign his autobiography, “My Word is My Bond.”

Mr. Moore was charming and gracious and still cut a dashing figure at 82 years of age. He entertained questions, did some spot-on impressions (of Sean Connery and Herve Villacheze to name two) and was very good natured about his time as Bond. He noted that his favorite appearance was “The Spy Who Loved Me,” and while he was too much of a gentleman to list a favorite female co-star, he was not shy in relating his worst one: Grace Jones.

He observed that he found the whole notion of Bond as spy seemed quite ridiculous. “I’m going around everywhere saying, ‘My name is Bond, James Bond.’ Everyone knows who I am!”

In 1995, on the eve of “Goldeneye’s” release, a good friend and I traveled into Manhattan for a James Bond convention. It’s funny, I always seem to forget about this one, and it was one of the best convention experiences I ever had.

Desmond Llewelyn (“Q”) was there, as were the two newest Bond girls, Famke Janssen and Isabella Scorupco, but the highlight came at the end when Pierce Brosnan himself appeared on stage. He was extremely affable, running out into the audience to accept gifts (much to the organizers chagrin) and he spent a good 45 minutes with us discussing the film and his excitement at finally nabbing the role (he was initially cast as Moore’s replacement but could not get out of his “Remington Steele” contract).

Over the years, I’ve managed to snag all of their autographs, except for Dalton who always refuses. Connery is also notoriously difficult but I tracked down his home address in the Bahamas, and he signed a “Never Say Never Again” mini-poster for me, which is my most prized autograph.

I don’t want to neglect one-hit wonder George Lazenby from the proceedings. As a matter of fact, “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” is one of the top five Bond films, in my opinion. While he lacked the charisma Connery exuded and that sense of foreboding, he did an admirable job humanizing the character, and took him in a direction no Bond film ever attempted before or since.

As we await Bond 23 let's remember what Q said to Bond in “Never Say Never Again,” “I do hope we’re going to have some gratuitous sex and violence now that you're on the case.”

Bond: “I certainly hope so.”

The Only Constant in the Universe

2008-11-07T14:13:00.004-05:00

Please forgive me if this entry doesn’t have mass appeal, but I have to indulge myself now and again.

Next week, the first (and highly anticipated) full length trailer for J.J. Abrams’ reboot of “Star Trek” is being released. I’m cautiously optimistic for the film’s success. I’m a fan of Abrams work, and he has repeatedly expressed his reverence for “Trek” and its source material.

Additionally writers Roberto Orci and Robert Kurtzman are “Trek” fans (Orci especially), and have reportedly paid close attention to Trek lore while writing the script. I grant you that images of the reimagined Enterprise will give “Trek” purists pause, but let’s face it; they weren’t going to present a 1960s style ship. They seem to want to honor the spirit of the original design.

My main concern is how the characters are portrayed. To see these iconic characters portrayed in the same spirit as the original actors is essential. I don’t need to see them aping the original actors’ mannerisms. Just make each performance a tribute to the person who originated the role and I’ll be happy. The fact that Leonard Nimoy has given his enthusiastic approval to the script and agreed to play Spock one last time, to me, is greatly reassuring.

Having said that, Abrams new film will never eclipse the original series for me, just like the subsequent iterations, never did (despite the fact I enjoyed all of them a great deal, with the exception of “Voyager”). I suspect that is tied in more to the fact that I feel such great nostalgia and affection for the original series (and the films based on it), than the actual quality of the sequels.

I came to “Trek” a little later than most. My Dad loved “Star Trek,” and tried his best to push it on me when I was young, and obsessed with that other science fiction franchise that needs no introduction. Unfortunately for me, it seemed like every time I tuned in I would see an episode from the series’ woeful third season, and was instantly turned off.

Plus, quite frankly, I couldn’t get past the cheesy effects when compared directly to the state of the art visuals of “Star Wars.” It’s reminiscent of how I still feel about the original “Doctor Who,” series, which made original “Trek” look like “T2.”

I was nine when “Star Trek: The Motion Picture” was released, and my Dad took me (and my Mom) to see it. I promptly fell asleep. The film’s leaden pace and dry story did nothing to change my opinion of “Trek,” which again, I directly (and unjustly) compared to “Star Wars.”

Three years later, “Star Trek II” was released, and everything changed – not instantly to be sure – but the film marked the beginning of a shift in my attitude in “Trek” from non-believer to true believer. Again, my Dad took me to see the film in a second-run theater months after its initial release. It was the last time I would wait so long to see a “Trek” film.

The film had everything “The Motion Picture” did not – an exciting, suspenseful story, a scenery-chewing villain, and most importantly, an emphasis on the relationships between the characters, that for me, was the heart of Trek’s success.

Months later, after its cable premiere, I overdosed on “Wrath of Khan.” I seemingly watched it every day. In the interim, the local TV station that aired the original series presented “Space Seed,” the episode that introduced the malevolent Khan as essayed by Ricardo Montalban. My Dad encouraged me to watch it to deepen my understanding for the events in “Trek II.”

This was probably the first time I watched an episode from the show’s first season, and I was impressed. I was also older, and could appreciate the more mature approach to sci-fi that “Trek” presented, instead of the whizbang! visuals of “Star Wars,” which I was still obsessed with.

I was living in the information stone age back then, so I vaguely knew a third sequel was planned. My main source of information was the sci-fi fan magazine Starlog, and I started to hunger for any morsel of information that crept out, or even better, a photo.

Time hunched by ever so slowly back then, and I started to realize that my anticipation for this film, entitled “The Search for Spock,” was reaching “Star Wars”-like proportions. In fact, the last film in the “Star Wars” trilogy was released in 1983, so I needed to redirect all that geeky energy. It was obvious it was going to “Trek,” and I must say, that as much as I love “Star Wars,” my passion for “Trek” eclipsed it many years ago.

The release of “Star Trek III” in June, 1984, was nothing short of…well, orgasmic for me. This film cemented my love for the franchise and its characters, and while “Trek II” is far and away a better film, this story, for me, captured the essence of “Star Trek,” so perfectly. While I hesitate to call it my favorite, it certainly holds the most affection from me.

The day the film was released I made damn sure a friend’s Mom drove us to see it. I bought the official movie magazine, found out the end, and promptly ruined it for a friend who saw it with me (I’m a notorious spoiler lover). The film was geek nirvana for me, and it marked the beginning of a tradition that saw me seeing each film on opening day with my friends.

Shortly after, I started taping every episode of the original series off WPIX in New York. My family had recently got its first VCR and “Trek” was on every night at midnight. I can remember setting the timer each night, and being pissed when there was a Yankee game because I had to wait for the end of each game to know exactly what time to start taping.

Over the course of that summer I viewed every episode of “Star Trek,” with one glaring exception. I came to love the characters and fully appreciated the often brilliant writing of the first and second seasons. I even found something to like in a great many of the subpar third season episodes, with one or two exceptions.

Over the next two years I was fully immersed into Trekdom, which nicely aligned with my other geek tastes, like comic books. At the time DC published an excellent “Star Trek” comic book that sought to fill the gap, quite imaginatively, between each film. Often, each subsequent sequel would blow their storylines to hell, but the writers still managed to find a way to connect their stories to the film’s plot.

Another two and a half years passed between “Star Trek III” and “IV,” and again, the anticipation was more than I could take. Again, the advanced information about the film was sketchy at best. I’ll never forget the first time I heard anything about the plot. It was during a little mini-convention held in my hometown by Creation, the purveyors of sci-fi fandom. The only thing we were told was it had something to do with whales and Eddie Murphy might be in it.

That information did not inspire confidence to say the least, but as time wore on and the details were solidified, I felt much more comfortable with the tone and direction of the film.

During these years an out of town station carried on my cable system began playing beautifully remastered “Trek” episodes from high quality masters, so I began an often-repeated process of obtaining the highest quality versions available. The only problem was these prints sometimes were lacking scenes from my WPIX tapes, so I had to edit them together. Back then I had nothing better to do anyway!

“Trek IV” was released in November, 1986. I was in high school and the whole social life thing hadn’t kicked in yet, so this was as good as it got. By now, the films were all available on videocassette and I had overdosed on all of them (including “The Motion Picture”). I’ll never forget the night I purchased “Star Trek III,” and suffering through a dinner out with my parents before I could go home and watch it.

“Star Trek IV” had the same magic of the prior two films, plus a lighthearted dash of comedy, which worked perfectly (and for which I was so worried about!) Again, I saw it with some friends the day of its release. I would often see the films a second time with my Dad. When the VHS version was released I can remember watching the movie twice in the same day.

By this time the dialogue from the films and the TV series became embedded in the speech patterns of me and my friends. A response to agitation would elicit, “Calm yourself, Doctor.” Ricardo Montalban’s exaggerated rants from “Star Trek II,” were perennial faves, but the best was when one of my closest friends heard, “Not in front of the Klingons Captain," when he was being overly affectionate with a chick. He thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

A funny thing happened between “Star Trek IV” and “Star Trek V.” I developed a social life, as did my buddies. Again a two-and-a-half year gap separated the films, and our lives changed radically in the interim. All of a sudden I had a girlfriend, and she didn’t mind I was this huge sci-fi, comic book reading geek. I think she thought I was quaint.

The pursuits of our youth were not abandoned by any stretch of the imagination, but they took a back seat to all the drama surrounding our romantic lives. Still, nothing could tear us away from the opening day pull of “Star Trek V,” in June of 1989, a weaker entry in the series, but one that contained some of its most poignant moments.

To illustrate how badly I treated “Star Trek” in those days here’s an often-repeated story that one friend in particular loves to remind me of. Now forget the fact that in the almost 20 years since this faux pas I have met the entire surviving cast several times over, corresponded with some of them, gotten their autographs, etc.

George Takei, Sulu himself, was appearing on my college campus. And I bailed to pick up my then-girlfriend at her high school. I bailed on Sulu, on what could have been my first meeting with an original cast member – to my eternal shame.

After the failure of “Trek V” there was a brief question about whether or not there would be more films starring the original cast. However, to commemorate the show’s 25th anniversary, Paramount opted to present one last adventure starring the original cast, and I was thrilled. “The Next Generation” had come into its own by then, and I was finally giving it a shot, but nothing could sway me from my old friends.

The day “Star Trek VI” was released I was at school filming a show I co-hosted, where I did movie reviews with another person. As usual, the filming was running late and I had arranged to pick up my friend at a certain time that was fast approaching. I was getting angrier by the minute, and when we finally wrapped I stormed off the set and bolted for home as fast as I could.

“Trek VI” was a wonderful send off for the original cast, filled with many poignant moments. I was barely ten years into my love affair with “Trek,” and it was now time for the originals to fade away. When the film came out, I had a new girlfriend and my graduation from college loomed.

While there would be no more films with the original cast, the producers of “The Next Generation” thought it made sense for a literal “passing of the torch” between the two casts, as they took over the film franchise. I guess they thought it would soften the blow for the original series diehards.

“Star Trek Generations” was released in November, 1994, and my life was in a tailspin. I had quit a lousy job, been fired from another one, and my relationship was hanging precariously in the balance. In the week leading up to the film’s release it collapsed.

The Saturday before my girlfriend told me she needed space - that we had serious problems that I was refusing to address (true). I went berserk, and launched into a tirade – maybe I started speaking in tongues, I don’t remember. It signaled the beginning of the end.

That Monday, I bought advance tickets for my friends and I so we could see a Thursday night sneak preview of “Generations.” My girlfriend and I were not speaking. On the night we saw the film I should’ve worked at the part-time job she and I shared, but I did not. I left her a note explaining where I was, which she missed. Upset that I seemingly blew an opportunity for us to talk she took that as the final straw and lowered the boom the next day. Captain Kirk died on the same day as my relationship.

I guess I had my priorities didn’t I?

Another Trek-related experience was completely ruined for me a month later when she and I had our last, agonizing conversations on the day I saw Patrick Stewart (Captain Picard) do his one-man show of “A Christmas Carol” on Broadway. Nice.

In all honesty, if there was a shred of hope for us, and I wasted it by seeing “Generations,” I’m glad I did.

The Next Generation cast took over the film franchise and the original cast was put out to pasture. Eventually those films faltered, as did the subsequent TV shows, and “Star Trek,” has left the airwaves and the cinemas.

Never one to let a cash cow die, Paramount has handed the reins over to J.J. Abrams and as I noted before, he is being met with cautious optimism along with a healthy dose of trepidation. That’s because to many of us the original series is sacred. As I said, I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s made some fine casting choices, and from what I can glean from the heavily guarded storyline, it sounds pretty cool.

The highlight of the experience will be seeing Leonard Nimoy don the ears one more time, when I thought there was no hope of that ever happening again.

Beyond the fact it’s excellent science fiction, like anything else that springs from our youth, “Star Trek” reminds my friends and I of a simpler time when we had no other concerns except would the next film be any good? We came to love these characters and the familial bonds they demonstrated (despite the fact that in real life they fought like children, and continue to do so).

In the off chance that the new film sucks, well we still have the originals to revisit again. They are like old friends who we may not see as much as we used to, but when we do it’s like no time has passed.

(For everyone receiving the blog via e-mail check the site for Trek trailers and other goodies.)

Best Trek trailer ever!!

Deleted prologue from "Star Trek IV"

The finest scene in all of "Trek."

I'm Really Glad It's Over

2008-11-05T09:46:00.002-05:00

I’m so glad the election is over.

I’m not going to bemoan who lost or celebrate who won. Those of you, who know me, know who I supported, and I’m not eager to start jawing over politics.

Instead, let me discuss how much I hate discussing politics. This may infuriate a lot of people, but I can’t stand listening to anyone, no matter what their affiliation, rant about this candidate or that candidate, or scream at one another about this issue or that. To me, it’s a waste of breath.

I’ve always voted, but this year because of an address-related snafu I opted not to bother. I’ve always believed my vote didn’t count and I can’t stand the Electoral College either, but that’s a whole other discussion.

I have friends who will discuss politics until the cows come home and who love to argue, and I have some who are completely ignorant of the political process, and content to be so. I fall somewhere in the middle. I like to stay informed, but I’ll read the three New York tabloids, and CNN online, and that’s about the extent of it. No Sunday talk shows for me, no political blogs, no party rags.

I will say that I think the effusive joy at Obama’s election is a bit much. Does anyone really believe a golden age is dawning? Not to take anything away from the man’s accomplishments, which are historic, but he’s not the Messiah, and the jubilation with which he’s being received is nothing short of ridiculous to me. Perhaps history will prove me wrong.

I believe that most people enter politics to make a difference, and a great majority of them end up corrupted by the process. And if they aren’t, their idealism ends up severely compromised by the machine that needs greasing and the favors that must be granted in order to get things done.

I can’t invest myself in a process where the loudest voices that are heard are the extreme ones. I have major issues with both parties. A good friend recently outlined his beliefs in a way that somewhat mirrors my own, and it was a “little from Column A and a little from Column B.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to live in this country, and I applaud those who enter public service, but there are so few Presidents throughout the course of history who have won my admiration.

I have to admit, my paramount concern is my own bottom line, and that of my family. Put simply, life is tough these days, and I want it to improve. Neither candidate inspired confidence in me that he was going to do that. If I had voted, I would have voted my party line.

Holding a cynical world view has always served me well. It minimizes disappointment. It makes me inherently suspicious, and has kept people who don’t have my best interests at heart out of my life.

My disgust with politics should not be equated with a belief that I don’t care. I do care, and I offer no solutions to improve the process. I am disgusted by favoritism, bureaucracy, lobbying, spin, earmarking, pork, equivocation, etc., and I’d be stunned if, in my lifetime, we shook off the bonds of all this crap to govern the way our fathers intended.

Tie it to a Balloon

2008-11-04T09:05:00.003-05:00

You get pearls of wisdom in the oddest places sometimes. I wish I could tell you I got this particular one from a classic novel from American literature or a Walt Whitman poem, but in the interest of full disclosure, I got it from a sitcom. In my defense, it’s not one of those hideous, one-note, painfully predictable, laugh-track laden efforts. I won’t name it but suffice it to say, it has some substance.

The episode dealt with a "left at the altar break-up," which thankfully I never experienced, but its aftermath resonated with me. The episode dealt with (in 22 minutes) the character’s denial, mourning and eventual rage at being disposed of by his fiancée. At the end, he just let his feelings go and evaporate into the ether.

I experienced “getting the boot” twice in my life. The first time was nothing like the second. The first time was a much more gradual ending that dragged on for months, until in the end, I called it quits, rather than go the “friend route,” which was the only alternative allowed me. It was sad, to be sure, but I suppose because it was a slow death, it lacked that jarring sensation when the rug is pulled out from under you.

The second time was an entirely different story. I ignored many, many warning signs that led up to it. In hindsight, the cracks in the foundation were evident a year before the quake hit. I chose to ignore them, which was my M.O.

To provide some context, it was a rough time for me. My professional life was going nowhere (thanks to no one but me) and I know my girlfriend was seriously considering her long-term options by this time. I was her first boyfriend, and surely there had to be other guys out there who fit her profile of an ideal mate.

I gave her assurances I couldn’t keep. I tried to hold her at bay with double talk, but in the end, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I was dead meat. When the end came, I acted like it was a total shock.

The event sent me into a months-long tailspin that was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It’s true what they say about the stages of grief applying to the end of a relationship. At first, I was in pure denial and hatched a few schemes to “win her back.” She also made the mistake of telling me (I suppose to soften the blow) that perhaps maybe someday we’d get back together. Big mistake.

I constantly queried my friends at the likelihood of us getting back together and while they didn’t dismiss me out of hand, they gently tried to assure me it was over. After one final communication with her she assured me it was over, and then almost like a switch had gone off I went from denial to seething, boiling rage.

When I say rage I don’t mean the stalking, killing kind. I’m not nuts. It was more the hating, despising, you ruined my life, kind. In my mind, I wasted four years of my life on this person and look where it got me. Obviously, she could have felt the same thing about me, but who cares what she thought??

Another moment in the sitcom reminded me of my post-breakup behavior, albeit portrayed in a comedic way. The main character went almost completely out of his way to avoid his ex, which I did as well.

First, I quit the job that we both worked together at, which I still believe made sense to do. I robbed myself of four years of income and camaraderie with my buddies, but I had to do it for my own sanity.

But then, like the character in the show, I mapped out strategies to scrupulously avoid her at every possible turn, no matter what. I did that for years. It’s not so much a rule these days, but I haven’t seen her in 14 years, which I’m sorta proud of.

I just hated the thought of being confronted with her and having to engage in pleasantries, no matter how brief. The fact I was uncomfortable would be tattooed on my face. It would be evident in my body language – in short, I would completely betray myself.

I can remember driving up to the building to see my friends and seeing her car, then making a quick getaway. I tried as best I could to go there after hours, thus ensuring she wouldn’t be there. The show presented that scenario hilariously, and made me reflect on how silly that particular behavior was.

In the end, the only real solution was just to let it go – all the anger, resentment and feelings of betrayal. At the end of the day, I knew somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, we weren’t meant to be together forever (and I knew this while we were still together). She wanted things I simply had no interest in, and you either have to be 100% all in or all out.

There was a moment in the show where the protagonist feels a burning need to vent his anger at the ex, but in the end thinks better of it. I have to say that I did vent, in the form of an epic 16-page letter, and I must admit it went a long way toward promoting my own healing process.

I know it sounds silly to get this reflective based on a sitcom episode, but trust me; it hit all the right pressure points in its daffy way. I had worked through all this stuff years ago; it was just cool to see it played out in this manner, and know that just by virtue of its existence (the show, that is) others thought and acted as I did back then.

I Feel your Pain Dorian Gray

2008-11-03T15:35:00.002-05:00

Who says girls have the monopoly on poor self images?

Granted, they are inundated with an overwhelming amount of mass media imagery encouraging them to conform to a certain standard of beauty, and I could not conceive of being put under that microscope. Men can get away with so much more when it comes to acceptable images of weight and good looks.

A few weeks ago, I viewed a classic horror film from the 40s based on a classic Oscar Wilde story, “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” It wasn’t the first time I watched the film, but it had been quite some time (perhaps as long as 15 years).

Seeing the film now, at my age, resonated in a way it never had previously. Granted, I’m only 38, but the image I have in my mind of myself is one from at least 10-12 years ago.

In the film, as in the novel, Dorian Gray wishes for nothing less than permanent beauty. A portrait of him, painted in the prime of his youth, gains magical properties when he makes this wish – it ages in his place. With each heinous act he commits, the portrait becomes uglier, putting a literal face on his moral disintegration.

Many times in the last few years I wished I had a magical portrait. Of course I’m not going around killing people, as Mr. Gray did, but when I catch sight of myself in the mirror (which I try to avoid) I see who I am now, not the person I wish I was, physically.

I have no one but myself to blame for issues such as weight gain, but it still doesn’t soften the blow when you get your new driver’s license photo and the person you see is virtually unrecognizable.

I used to love taking pictures – I did so incessantly, and I have photo albums stocked to the gills from the ages of about 18-30. After that, I was often only photographed at some kind of special occasion. I just did not want to see myself.

I remember Billy Crystal describing the aging process in the film “City Slickers,” to his child’s “Bring Your Dad to School Day.” He noted that in your forties, “You’ll have an operation. The doctors will call it a procedure, but it’s an operation.” Have I had a procedure yet? Check.

That’s another thing that totally scares the hell out of me, beyond the issues of vanity I’ve just described. I’ve started down the road of popping pills for issues like cholesterol, triglycerides, and am anticipating blood pressure in the very near future.

My diet has been a horror show from Day One – no fruits, no veggies, no salad, etc, and a love affair with soda that will not be denied. A few years ago, I dropped about 20 pounds doing nothing but eliminating soda so I know how detrimental it is. I promptly gained it all back.

I’m fully cognizant of what needs to be done, but I’m good at making excuses for why I can’t eke out the time to make the good things happen, like working two jobs, going for my master’s, keeping up with family responsibilities. Then my doctor tells me he hits the treadmill every night at 11, and gets up at like, five. Damn him!

It’s only in the last few years I’ve become fully cognizant of the aging process, both mine and that of my parents. I remember vividly them at my age (they were 25 when I was born so the age disparity isn’t huge). I guess I’m just finding it difficult to comprehend them as senior citizens and me as middle aged.

As I’ve said before, mentally, I feel like I’m still around 25. Marriage and increased responsibility have not pushed me over the edge into a mindset that is age appropriate (I know, scary). It’s not as though I haven’t done the things that represent adulthood, such as getting married, buying real estate (several times over), etc.

I suppose that having a child would probably do it, but neither I nor my wife want any part of that (no offense to the 99.5% of the world that are parents!) I can still indulge my childish passions, hobbies, obsessions, what have you, and that really means a lot to me. Selfish? Maybe, but the human race doesn’t need me to endure.

Amazing how I can transition from poor self image to a refusal to grow up so effortlessly, eh?

My point? Getting old sucks, and I haven’t even scratched the surface! My wife is under orders not to host a 40th birthday party for me under pain of death (she held a lovely 30th for me – I didn’t mind 30).

Recently, my Dad told me the only age that ever bothered him was 40, not 50 or 60, so I take solace in that. One might glean that I’m in the throes of a mid-life crisis, and to them I’d say I really doubt it. I’m just at an age now where I’m noticing my prior invulnerability slipping away, by virtue of my outward appearance and problems with the plumbing. It could be much, much worse – I’m pretty grateful for what I do have.

I still want that magic painting though.

Embracing the Past

2008-10-31T14:47:00.002-04:00

I’ve often heard myself described as fearful of change.

I’ll never forget my first day of high school, and the yearning I felt to not be there and return to my grammar school (which was really no picnic, but it was home for eight years). I stayed home for college when a good many of my contemporaries shook the dust off this crummy little town for the debauched mania of living away from home.

Were it not for a horrific break-up with my girlfriend I would’ve held my part-time high school job (in a public library) for 20 years. As it stands, I worked there for seven years, left after the breakup, and followed it (after she left of course) with my current stint of nine years and counting. When I (finally) began my professional career I stayed five years at my first job, and I’ve been in my current position for more than eight (an eternity in today’s job climate).

I’ve mentioned this before, but my first girlfriend once harangued me about quitting a part-time job my mother arranged for me after only one day, only to retreat back to the safe confines of the library. “Are you planning to stay there forever?” she asked with an air of disgust. Define forever….

Outwardly, I’m not very nostalgic. I’ve worked very hard on a caustic persona that is heavy on the blunt trauma of “telling like it is.” I suppose on the days when I’m being burned in effigy by my friends they say I’m too sarcastic, too biting and a bit of a know-it-all. I get that.

However, there’s another side that I let creep out every so often – one that reeks of nostalgia and sentiment, and everything I suppress during my everyday life. It usually rises to the fore in moments of significance – moments of extreme joy or sadness, or separation. I hate expressing myself verbally in these moments because I’m afraid of what I might say, so I tend to use the written word instead.

I’ve written much this year of how I have been inundated with memories of an earlier time, when life started to get “interesting.” Writing about those days has been very cathartic, and helped me regain my focus on the present.

I’ve always felt a very strong connection to my past, and it’s been increasingly important for me to keep close the people who have been with me 10-20-30 years. Staying in touch, even if the face of not actually seeing them, has become a paramount consideration. Beyond their good company they are a tangible connection to my youth and our shared experiences make the past real.

Some people are better than others at staying in touch, and that’s cool, but I don’t think anyone would argue the merits of clinging to those who know us the longest. There is a subset of folks out there who would probably call me a total hypocrite if they read this because I bailed on a close group of friends from college for reasons too long to go into here, but let me just acknowledge that fact were I to be “google-stalked” by any one of them.

This may sound nuts but I spend a lot of time “in my past,” going over it, analyzing it, wondering how things might be different if I turned right instead of left. They aren’t recriminations or regrets, only musings. And yes, I do consider people out there in the world who I no longer communicate with.

I certainly don’t find fault with people who find it easy to shake loose the bonds of their roots, to live in other places, to meet an array of new people. That takes courage and I respect it. But for me, everything I always needed could be found within a 30-mile radius of the hospital where I was born.

I wonder what that says about me. Does it imply I’m a coward? Or, does it simply mean my desires are simple – that my happiness is rooted somewhat in embracing my past, and the long-standing relationships woven throughout the tapestry of my life?

What I do know is that I’ve felt a contented spirit throughout most of my life. I certainly ponder “what if’s,” but I’ve never had this gnawing feeling that something was inherently missing. Sure, I may’ve felt something was missing when I wanted to start dating and the girls weren’t knocking down my door, but that’s not what I mean.

Familiar surroundings have always comforted me, and familiar people, even more so. I’m at a time in my life that traditionally, for males, is the “mid-life crisis” point. Sometimes, I do feel I may not have accomplished as much as I should have, but I think that has more to do with a lack of motivation than anything else, and not a feeling that I “missed the boat.”

So what if I spent 20 years in a library? On its face, that sounds kind of sad. It’s not as though I didn’t do anything else. I grew up (sort of), got married, established myself professionally, but that tie in my life has evolved into something so profound that its eventual end disturbs me greatly.

I often see my life through the lens of my time at the library. It’s the one constant in a sea of change. There was a time when I stayed there to hide from the world, but to limit its scope to that one end hardly tells the story. I’ve written pages and pages about my time there but my (obtuse) point is to address how my past and present intersect there.

At times I bemoan the fact that I’m almost 40 - that time has gone by in the blink of an eye – that, in my mind, I feel no more an adult than I did when I was 22. Most of the time, I feel an overwhelming sense of comfort from my time there and it’s emblematic of how I’ve lived my life. Not everyone may agree – I know one or two people who would strongly disagree – but it’s worked for me over the years, and I doubt I’ll ever change.

It’s always been so hard for me to let go of the familiar, especially when more often than not that object or person is a force for good in my life. I’ve been pleasantly surprised over the years at how certain changes haven’t been as horrific as I anticipated, and the most growth I experienced usually came from traumatic change, but all I’m saying is continuity, longevity and familiarity has never bred contempt for me.

The Greatest Stevie Song Ever?

2008-10-09T15:20:00.002-04:00

To those of you receiving this blog via e-mail this is a You Tube clip.

Road Rage 1979

2008-10-08T12:23:00.005-04:00

I was talking with my classmates about road rage a while back. I've never really had anything serious happen except getting the finger once in a blue moon, but it made me think about the worst incident I ever experienced (still very tame by today's standards). I was nine years old and my parents were driving me to a little league game.

Let me set the stage. Thanks to his background as a school disciplinarian, my Dad knew how to inspire fear (hence the lack of any significant teenage rebellion on my part). All he had to do was look at me and I'd wet myself. My Mom, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved and often played beauty to his beast.

We were driving down a one-lane road en route to the game. We were obviously too slow for the person behind us because he drove around my Dad, cutting him off in the process. Now my Dad was pissed, but he didn't lose it. What he did not see, but which I did from the back seat, was my mother flipping off the other motorist. Then the guy flipped us off and sent my Dad into a rage. He had no idea my Mom did it first.

He sped up like a madman to catch this guy and turned into the ball field lot (where we were going anyway.) The other guy got out of his car and, from what I remember, he was a twenty-something, white trash-looking skell with a pretty vacant expression. My father launched into an expletive-laden tirade that shook the car – but he didn't get out. He cursed this guy into next week and the skell just stood there. I was waiting for him to pull out a gun and just shoot my Dad so he'd shut up.

When Dad was done the skell walked away and drove off. My father turned to my mother, still fuming, and was going on about how that guy cut him off, then had the nerve to give him the finger. My mother said nothing. He turned to me, and I was like Roger Rabbit, flat as a board, and glued to the seat with an expression of sheer terror. He said, "Are you OK? I'm sorry I got so mad."

All I could muster was, "Mom gave that guy the finger!!"

Mentors

2008-10-06T12:50:00.002-04:00

About eight years ago, a beloved teacher of mine was killed in an auto accident. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. Beyond the normal grief one feels at such a moment I was immediately struck by what this man had meant to me during our time together. Put simply, he was one of several individuals in my life I consider a mentor.

Only two weeks prior to his death, I stopped working at the Catholic diocesan newspaper that would intensely cover this story. However, my former editors generously allowed me the opportunity to pay tribute to him. In the article, I made the assertion that we often encounter people in our lives that help us take the next step. That, for me, is the definition of a mentor – a person who gives us that gentle push to the next level, whatever that level represents.

In my experience, the people who served as mentors to me never set themselves up in that role. The glaring omission here is that of my parents. Obviously they are mentors, and so much more, but they really don’t fit the discussion here. I’m talking about people I’ve associated with over the years – friends, colleagues, teachers - people I’ve had an unequal relationship with on some level, and who taught me something important.

The relationship with my teacher was about as unequal as you can get. He was my math teacher and homeroom moderator. He was in his first year of teaching and finding his footing, just as I was as a freshman in high school. His personality was a little stiff and he often resorted to tough discipline because he was somewhat overmatched by the wise asses in my homeroom.

I was as shy and meek as could be, and was completely terrified of my new surroundings. Math was my worst subject, and would be a thorn in my side throughout my entire scholastic career. However, with this man’s help, not only did I pass Math, I attained a 91 average in the subject. He did everything within his power to help me understand the subject and, as long as I availed myself of all the resources the school had to offer, he was there for me.

Getting through that first year was a major triumph. The next year, owing to my rapport with him, I joined a weekly discussion group he hosted, and remained there for the next three years. Over that time, we became as good friends as a student and teacher could be. He was a member of a religious order so he had certain lessons he was duty bound to impart on us, but he also taught us how to be men. By the time I left him, I felt as though he provided me with the tools I needed to face the challenges ahead, not necessarily in a religious sense, but in terms of my burgeoning adulthood.

I’ve almost felt as though, in a figurative sense, he “handed me off” to other mentors over the years. It’s not like I couldn’t take care of myself – I’d like to believe I’m a fairly high functioning person, but there are always people out there who can teach us, whose life experience extends beyond ours, that can impart some wisdom to us, whether it’s of a professional or a personal nature.

These people I’m talking about have always led by their example. They haven’t sat me down like a child and said, “Today we’re going to learn how to deal with women!” or “Today we’re going to learn how to be a professional at work!”

These are always people who, for lack of a better term, have “rubbed off” on me, and provided me with a road map for navigating a certain situation based on their own experience. The advice, the wise counsel, has always been something I either explicitly sought, or was shared at some point as the relationship evolved.

The funny thing is, often I don’t recognize the relationship until it’s over, or at least my time with them is severely diminished. In several cases, I still enjoy a relationship with these people, even if we’re long past the point of seeing each other on a daily basis.

When my teacher died, I felt a tremendous need to express what this man had done for me, and luckily, I had an outlet to share it with those who knew him as well as countless others. Since then, it’s been critically important for me to give these people special recognition while we’re all still here, and I’m happy to say I’ve done that on many occasions (usually when that day-to-day relationship ceases).

Mentors are not necessarily people we aspire to emulate. They are people who share their experiences with us in the hope that we relate to them on some level. We may well make the same mistakes they did, but then who better to vent about those mistakes to? Having someone who can relate to our mishaps is equally as important, if not more so, than someone who celebrates our achievements. Often, they are one in the same.

Tina Fey for Vice President

2008-10-06T11:50:00.000-04:00

Middle Relief Ruined Baseball: A Rant

2008-10-01T11:57:00.006-04:00

There are probably friends of mine reading this post who may feel I have no right to comment on the state of baseball these days since I don’t follow the game as ardently as I did in my youth. I grew up with a fanatical devotion to the sport, owing in large part to my Dad’s influence, a man who lived and died with the Brooklyn Dodgers (and still does).

For various reasons I slipped away from baseball in my mid-teens. I returned much later as a much more passive fan, one who only finds time to watch during the playoffs and World Series (and only then if the match ups interest me). I follow the game mainly through reading the paper and online recaps. My love for baseball is rooted more in its’ past than in its’ present.

I grew up in the late 70s and early 80s and my baseball experience was one of burgeoning free agency, yet there was still a large contingent of players who played for only one team throughout their careers. Hitting 50 home runs was a major feat, and there were a number of pitchers on their way to 300 victories.

Perhaps most importantly, pitchers often went the distance and threw nine innings if they had their stuff. Closers were guys like Goose Gossage and Rollie Fingers, who came in as early as the 7th inning. You knew when these guys took the mound the game was over. There was no such thing as a “pitch count,” and certainly no formal concept of “middle relief.”

In the really old days, a reliever was someone who didn’t have the stuff to be a starter and basically threw nothing but junk. Slowly, beginning in the late 50s, the concept of relief pitching took hold with guys like Hoyt Wilhelm and Elroy Face. Still, relievers as a whole did not get a whole lot of love from the baseball establishment. However, in the 70s, men like Fingers and Gossage (and Rawley Eastwick, Mike Marshall, Kent Tekulve to name a few) became stars in that capacity and it became a viable, respected role.

In the mid-80s baseball and I parted ways. I had little interest in the game for many years, but I got sucked back when my hometown team, the New York Mets, reasserted themselves in the late 90s. My interest was piqued, but I soon learned that much had changed.

We all know great pitching trumps great hitting every time. It seems that since the golden age of pitching in the late 60s, the baseball establishment has been systematically eroding the dominance of good pitching in favor of the flashier and more exciting concept of good hitting. Lowering the mound was the first of many stabs the leagues took at watering down pitching.

Expansion has watered down the pool of available talent, and players who may never have made it past the minors now enjoy long careers at the major league level (especially pitchers).

For some reason that has not been adequately explained to me starting pitchers are now only expected to pitch 5-6 innings at most, and never expected to go beyond the almighty pitch count set for them. And they get 5-6 days rest to boot! Instead of four good starters (back in my day), today you have maybe one ace, two solid starters and three wildly unpredictable guys who can throw a no-hitter one day and be shelled the next start.

And don’t get me started about hitting. Balls (and players) have been juiced to the point of criminality. For my money, steroids have ruined the last 10-15 years of baseball and every hitting record attained by a steroid user is a tainted one. In the 60s Jim Bouton and his contemporaries used “greenies” to stay in the game after a night of carousing. As he put it, those were performance enablers, not performance enhancers.

The prevailing wisdom is that fans want to see home runs, and lots of them. I’d rather watch a pitcher’s duel than a slugfest.

My Dad and I love to watch old ballgames. For him, it’s a chance to revisit his youth and the players he grew up with. For me, it’s an opportunity to see the game as it was before it was sullied with all the changes of the present day.

I’ve seen Tom Seaver pitch ten innings to win a World Series game. I’ve seen Sandy Koufax pitch on two days rest and still blow guys away with his fastball. I’ve seen Bob Gibson bring the heat with as much ferocity in inning nine as he did in inning one. All these games occurred before I was born, but I saw them. I saw Roger Craig pitch 10 innings during a game in 1959. Craig was no superstar either! What the hell happened?

The Mets’ recent elimination from playoff contention is a perfect example of how bad pitching can destroy a team that, by all rights, should make the postseason every year. For the second time in three years, inconsistent starter Oliver Perez gave his team everything someone of his middling talent possibly could in a do or die situation. He eventually faltered, but the offense kept the team in the game.

To be fair, the Mets lost their closer Billy Wagner earlier in the month, and that is a devastating blow for any team. However, these middle relievers blew many games before Wagner even took the ball, so I often wonder what’s the point of having a great closer when your middle relievers lose the lead the starter has worked so hard to protect??

During Sunday’s game craptacular relievers Scott Schoenweis and Luis Ayala gave up back to back home runs and the Mets lost the game 4-2. I’m not saying the offense doesn’t deserve some blame either, as the Mets faced a guy who they’ve eaten for breakfast on several occasions, so what the hell, guys?

This game for me is the perfect illustration of how the concept of middle relief (along with the others I mentioned) has ruined the game. It’s not just a problem for the Mets, but every major league team that is forced to keep a stable of junkball pitchers who can’t start, can’t close, and most importantly, can’t hold the lead!

I know things will never go back to the way they used to be, and that’s tragic. I would rather watch Roberto Clemente face down Jim Palmer for nine innings during a game that occurred thirty years ago because that’s worth watching – not four guys with no stuff getting shelled.

Even if someone like Palmer wasn’t on his A game Earl Weaver wouldn’t necessarily yank him because he knew there was a good chance he’d regain his footing. Pitchers like Palmer weren’t rattled so easily, and if they gave up a run or two they still might very well win the game.

I envy my Dad for the era he grew up in, and I’m glad enough of those games survive so I can share it with him.

(For those of you receiving this blog as an e-mail be sure to check the site for some youtube clips of real pitchers!)

A Play at the Plate (Shades of Charlie Hustle)

2008-09-24T11:33:00.014-04:00

Any baseball fan worth his/her salt remembers (or is at least aware of) Pete Rose’s infamous collision with catcher Ray Fosse during the 1970 All-Star game. Rose was waved home by third base coach Leo Durocher after a single by Jim Hickman. Possessed of a “win at all costs” instinct, Rose bowled Fosse over, wresting the ball from his grasp, and scoring the winning run. Fosse was never the same again, and chided Rose over such a maneuver during a game that was essentially meaningless.

About ten years later, I had my Pete Rose moment during a little league playoff game, which has gone down in history as one of my most vivid childhood memories. My other sports related memory is of a hand injury I suffered while at the plate, so this is the one I like to relive.

All of us daydream of that one heroic moment where we single handedly win the game – that moment in the sun where all eyes are upon us, and our teammates heave us on their shoulders in jubilation, like Bobby Thomson after he hit the “Giants win the pennant!” home run that sent them to the 1951 World Series.

That moment is perhaps best exemplified in the final scene of “The Natural” (best baseball film ever!), when Roy Hobbes as played by Robert Redford, hits a climactic home run to clinch a desperately needed victory. It’s a moment of shattering cinematic brilliance that manipulates that heroic desire in all of us.

The suspense builds, the music swells, and Hobbes smashes one out in slow motion. As the entire stadium erupts, he rounds the bases amidst a shower of dazzling light sprinkling down from the lights he shattered with his mighty blow. If you’re a baseball fan, there’s no greater moment (on film) than this one.

I was a better than average hitter in my day. I had natural ability at the plate and always found myself batting either first or second. Near the end of my “career,” I had gained some weight, and my strength increased to the point where I was the clean-up man. I never hit one out, but was always good for a double.

I played third base, and while I could field grounders effectively, I prayed the ball would never come my way because I couldn’t manage an accurate throw to first. If anything, I’d throw it over the first baseman’s head. Thankfully, my bat made up for my fielding inadequacies.

My memory for dates is fuzzy but I believe the historic game happened in 1980, when I was ten. Yes, my moment of glory happened early, but at least it happened.

I was part of a very strong team that made it to the playoffs that year. Unfortunately, I can’t remember much of the game leading up to my moment in the sun. I know we were losing, but were still very much in the game.

During the late innings, I came up and smacked one of my trademark line drives, but it was only enough for a long single. With runners at first and second, and two out, the next batter hit a screaming line drive that was definitely enough to score at least one run.

Here’s where my memory shifts gears into slow motion. I knew I couldn’t score, but the third base coach was waving me home. I knew I was a dead duck at the plate, but to hold at third meant disobeying the coach. No matter how stupid the direction, that was verboten.

I can remember trying in that split second to shake my head, "No," but he was flailing like a madman to send me home. Not only would I be out, the rally would die with me, as there were already two outs.

I was a goner on so many levels. The ball beat me home by a mile and I never learned how to slide, so I couldn’t hope to get in under the tag. Instantly, I flashed to the climactic moment of the 1970 All-Star game, and I knew what I had to do.

I crashed into the catcher with all the fury of Charlie Hustle himself. No doubt the young man was expecting a slide, but I was drawing on my vast store of baseball knowledge to turn a hopeless situation to my favor. I really doubt the kid was as much of a student of the game as I was. Bowling over the catcher in a little league game was apparently entirely legal.

We were both stunned by the impact, and he, of course, dropped the ball. The slow motion continued as I reached out to touch home plate before he regained his composure. I can’t remember for sure, but I believe the ump called me out, but quickly recanted, screaming, “Safe!” several times to be abundantly clear.

The next few seconds were awash with insane jubilation. Just like in the fantasy, my teammates held me aloft briefly, screaming and hugging me. I can vividly recall my Dad jumping up and down in the stands, as though the Brooklyn Dodgers had just won the World Series. My Mom was pretty happy too.

It was such a chaotic scene that no one realized the runner behind me (who had driven me in) was tagged out at the plate. Obviously, the third base coach got greedy and tried to sneak one more in, but the catcher was prepared. The inning (and the rally) were over, and truth be known, we lost the game, but it was hard to shake that joyous feeling.

The one glorious moment was seared into my brain. 28 years later it remains a potent memory that always brings a smile to my face. True, I was ten years old. It wasn’t a home run that won the game, but for those few seconds I was the hero. Everyone was screaming my name. Never more would I have to fantasize of such a moment. It really happened.

Geekerati

2008-09-22T10:15:00.015-04:00

Around the year 2000 something happened that I never expected to see. Super heroes became cool. Thanks in large part to the “X-Men” film, and cemented two years later, with the release of “Spider-Man,” super heroes attained rock star status in American pop culture.

Oh sure, now they do.

I am 38 years old and have been reading comics since….well, since I could read. In fact, comics, God bless them, taught me how to read. Let’s not take anything away from my parents and teachers, who surely got the ball rolling, but comics made me love reading, and thanks to them, I read and spoke at much greater levels than my peers did in kindergarten and first grade.

The first memory I have of comics is of being 4-5 years old and going with my Dad to the local stationery store every Saturday morning with a .50 allowance burning a hole in my pocket. Back then, that bought me two comics! I can’t remember what prompted me to start buying them exactly, but I probably correlated them with their Saturday morning cartoon counterparts.

I instantly fell in love with the heroic icons of Marvel Comics. While I later came to appreciate the DC pantheon my first allegiance was, and always will be, to Marvel characters like Spider-Man, The Incredible Hulk and Captain America.

I was entranced when The Incredible Hulk was realized as a live action TV series in 1977. I was the perfect age for the show. Of course I loved seeing Lou Ferrigno as the big green guy, taking out bad guys, but as time wore on I came to appreciate the subtle grace of star Bill Bixby, as tormented hero David Banner. It’s a portrayal that has stayed with me for years.

I will never forget the night of the premiere. I was so excited that I spent the afternoon in my basement, pretending I was the Hulk. I got a bit too excited, and smashed the tv antenna. My mother was not happy, and forbade me from watching the show. I was utterly devastated. Seeing this, she relented (as was her nature) and allowed me to start watching just in time for the very first "Hulk out."

Unfortunately, back in the late 70s, comics were far from the in thing. I attended a grammar school populated by the children of tough, blue collar families. Despite the fact the school drew its kids from quaint, suburban middle class neighborhoods, the kids (mainly the boys) were a hard-nosed, bullying lot.

My friends and I, all of whom could accurately be described as geeky to varying degrees, bore the brunt of their torment and insults for several years, before it ultimately died down around the 7th grade. Not all of us read comics but our pursuits ranged from those new fangled gadgets known as computers to video games to Dungeons and Dragons, etc. You get the picture.

Ironically, for several of these years, I played little league (quite well as a matter of fact). I was a savage line drive hitter, and guarding the hot corner, could scoop up any ball hit my way (although I couldn’t throw to first worth a lick). However, because I played baseball in a different town than where I went to school none of the little apes knew I was something of a jock. They associated me with the comics and nothing else.

Thankfully, the torment was more verbal than it ever was physical. Still, it made grammar school a pretty horrendous experience for me, but for that strong group of friends who kept me going.

Things got a bit better in high school, but reading comics was hardly a badge of honor. By this time I had given up on playing sports after receiving an injury that left me fearful every time I came to bat, and had a bad experience with a coach who treated me unfairly.

In high school, it was refreshing to meet at least one other person outside my small circle of grammar school comic-reading friends who shared the obsession, and I’m pleased to say we’ve been friends for the last 25 years. I also did not get the sense he and his friends had been ostracized the way my friends and I had for reading comics. I guess every school had different dynamics.

As I said, I did my best to hide my geekier tendencies in high school. One friend used to pick up my weekly books and would slip them to me on the sly before classes began as if we were consummating a deal for illicit substances. To be fair, our school was extremely strict so we probably would have gotten in trouble. I would read them in study hall, hoping no one notice what was underneath my textbook.

By the time college rolled around the distinctions between jock, geek, etc. were not nearly as clear cut, and the social derision one felt for indulging in these hobbies was pretty nonexistent, unless you were a total and utter social misfit. It was refreshing to meet a group of people who really embraced the “geek chic.”

Concurrently, I and my grammar school buddies had started our dating lives, and were stunned to find that the girls we met didn’t even care we were geeks. Not to speak for them, but I think they found us unique and somewhat amusing, compared to what they were used to.

I never stopped reading comics. As the years progressed I read more and more, and my tastes expanded beyond the original staples. I also spent buckets of money on them that I would never recoup sadly. Throughout all this time heroes remained in the purview of both children and hard-nosed collectors like myself, who stuck with these characters after childhood.

Despite blockbusters movies once a decade, like the original “Superman,” in 1978 with Christopher Reeve, and the original 1989 “Batman” starring Michael Keaton, and their attendant sequels, super heroes couldn’t crack the mainstream.

That is, until the year 2000. Fox gambled on a very high-profile “X-Men” film, with an A-list director, top flight talent and state of the art special effects. It hit big, and even though it did not crack “Batman’s” stratospheric numbers, it did well enough to spawn an entire generation of super hero films. By this time, the technology of special effects had caught up with the abilities of these fantastic characters, and they could be fully realized on screen.

I was not really an X-Men fan growing up, and while I loved the film, I did not feel the same joy others felt at seeing these characters realized in a live-action setting. For me, that occurred two years later with the release of “Spider-Man.” I’ll admit it – the first time I saw Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker using his new found powers I felt a surge of joy that nearly brought me to tears. I had waited for that moment for 25 years and it was executed brilliantly with total reverence to the source material.

For the next eight years, to varying degrees, a host of these films have brought me back to those childhood days. I felt a similar surge this year when “The Incredible Hulk” was released, and the Green Goliath uttered that time-honored phrase he’s so well known for. You know what it is, don't make me repeat it.

As super heroes have become fodder for Hollywood blockbusters and accepted by the mainstream (and I’m sure by all the children of those who bullied me in grammar school) I find myself sneering “I told you so,” to anyone who will listen.

I don’t want to sound bitter about my childhood. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. A good portion of the people who went through it with me are still around (and still reading comics!) I’ve sold a good portion of my collection, which was sad, but I just don’t have the room anymore. Plus, I still have every comic I ever owned, and many thousands more, stored digitally. I also kept hundreds of physical copies – mainly the childhood favorites. I could never part with those.

Comics have been a wonderful constant in my life. Thanks to them I learned to read well. I had a better understanding of the “big words” at a much earlier age. They provided a great escape to a world populated by heroes dedicated to the common good. That these characters now enjoy mainstream appeal is sort of the icing on the cake. All the films are rife with sly in-jokes that only those “in the know,” like me, would understand, and that makes the experience that much more satisfying.

I can’t imagine a time when I’ll never read comics, as frustrated as I get with today’s story lines and the trend toward darker tales that supposedly mirror the world we live in now. They are a tangible connection to my childhood and a thread that runs throughout my life that I embrace wholeheartedly. If that makes me a geek then so be it.

Valedictory Validation

2008-09-18T15:29:00.008-04:00

Back in 1996, I was asked to be the valedictorian at my grammar school’s commencement ceremony. It was an incredible honor – one of the highlights of my life really. As I stood there about to deliver my speech, in front of approximately 300 people, I was immediately struck by the journey it took to get me to this very unexpected place.

In the span of about 18 months, I experienced a roller coaster of highs and lows in my life that I would not care to repeat anytime soon, or ever. That’s certainly not realistic, and when I reveal the traumas I experienced, I can imagine more than a few readers being like, “And?”

The year 1994 was pretty rough for me. In fact, to date, it was the worst. I’m speaking on a personal level. The hardships I felt then were nothing in comparison to the death of a loved one, a debilitating illness, divorce, etc. However, these moments represented the first time I felt truly despondent, and it took me a long time to recover from them. I certainly don’t want to imply these difficulties were worse than anyone else’s – they were simply the first time I felt beaten.

I’ve been enormously fortunate throughout each phase of my life – raised by loving parents who sacrificed everything to make my life easier, devoted friends who have stood the test of time, a wife I certainly don’t deserve, and a fulfilling career that allows me to utilize my finest skills.

I didn’t have to work very hard to get where I am. I often say I “backed in” to my career, having only the vaguest notion of what I wanted to do (i.e. write, but write what? For whom? Where?) Foresight was not among my repertoire of personality traits. Coupled with an unhealthy fear of change, I was a ticking time bomb in most respects.

This time bomb was set to go off in 1992, when I graduated college. I really had a great experience in college, and since I got involved fairly late in the game, I felt robbed – as though someone else conspired against me to steal my valuable time there, when it was no one’s fault but my own.

As I much as I hated anything associated with school like studying, tests, busywork, etc. it was the norm for 17 years. Sure, the venue changed every so often, but the process did not. Some kids have a very clear idea of where they want to go in life – a passion that drives them. My Dad knew he wanted to be a teacher since grammar school. He not only accomplished that goal, but he went very far in his profession, earning much respect along the way.

I had vague ideas about my future that vacillated wildly. I wanted to be a cartoonist (couldn’t draw), and a broadcaster (I could speak but was too scared to do it as a profession). I loved the media in all its forms, so when college came around it made perfect sense to major in Communications.

Unfortunately, once I got there I decided to major in Girlfriends 101. I was in a new relationship at the time and in a state of such bliss I couldn’t see straight. I also had a part-time job where all my friends worked (as did the girlfriend), so why stay on campus? The great majority of my friends stayed home for college. No way was I going to give all that up just as life finally got interesting! Plus, being an only child did not exactly foster a desire for me to share my living space with a stranger!

I was a commuter student in every sense of the word. I went to school for class, and zoomed home as quickly as possible, either for work, or to meet my girlfriend. It wasn’t until sophomore year that I took the first tentative steps toward my future, when I entered the offices of the student newspaper, asking if they needed writers.

I soon became the newspaper’s movie critic and for me, it was the best of all possible worlds. I was getting involved in a way that required no additional time be spent on campus! I went to the movies all the time anyway – why not write about them? Still, it made my parents relatively happy.

Part of me also knew that my girlfriend was ready to shake the dust off this crummy little town as soon as she possibly could, and that I was history the minute she filled out her college applications. Only then, did I consider getting more involved on campus. Like clockwork she left and I was bereft. I took some more proactive steps that included getting a part-time job at the campus television station, and joining the TV Club at the same time.

Those were giant leaps, to be sure, but I still did not go as far as I could have. You see, just as quickly as the first girlfriend left, the second one entered the picture. In fact, there was a certain overlap in the death knell of my first relationship with the tentative beginnings of the second one. Originally, I assumed my next relationship would be borne out of campus life. Instead, it came from the same place as the first, further cementing my ties to “home.”

So my involvement on campus was tentative and hesitant at best. I did the bare minimum while I was there so I could race home to - you guessed it, the job and the chick. I worked one class each semester. Sometimes, I would zoom home for some early afternoon QT with my girlfriend before racing back to school and (barely) making the class I was assigned to work. My new friends at school were somewhat incredulous at my behavior and rightly so. Hey, they all got jobs when they graduated!

For the next two years the pattern was the same. I felt a certain pull toward campus because I really liked the people I was working with, and we became a very close knit group. However, that became problematic in terms of my relationship with the girlfriend, as I developed a close friendship with a female colleague who tried to keep me there as much as possible.

In essence, I started leading a double life. The morning and early afternoons were devoted to school, and the rest of the day to home (girlfriend/job/buddies). I was getting so swept up in the operatic dramas encircling me that a job was the last thing on my mind. I was upset that I was graduating but I felt like, as things ramped up with my friend, I needed to get out for the sake of my relationship.

My friends were all doing internships, readying themselves for the future, and securing themselves in a way I certainly was not. The end of school was an explosion of drama that I kept away from my girlfriend (although she knew something was up), and what preoccupied me then was, "How can I keep these two disparate worlds from colliding?" I made a conscious decision to commit myself to her and to the world that held my first allegiance – home. That’s all well and good if you’re just talking about a relationship, but I was staying put – not looking for a job, treating my part-time job as though it were somehow a full-time job with benefits and a future. I was in full avoidance mode.

My attempts at finding work were half-hearted at best. I was sending resumes to “dream jobs,” which I suppose everyone does, but all I got out of it was a collection of rejection letters on cool corporate stationery. My lack of movement did not go unnoticed, but I have to say my parents and my girlfriend did give me a wide berth at first. All that did was allow me to become more comfortable with an unhealthy situation.

Months dragged into years, and I managed to get one job as a proofreader (note to all you writers out there – proofing skills do not go hand in hand with writing skills – they are two completely different animals!) The situation I found myself in was ugly. I was being employed by a small family-run company that published test preparation guides for civil service exams.

It was run by a shrewish mother and her recently-divorced son. The employees were a collection of never will be's who remind me of the cast of characters from “The Office,” only not as endearing. They had this distant, far away look in their eyes, and it was safe to say all of them had missed the boat. Was this my future? I was a (modestly) talented, college educated writer, and I knew I was better than this situation.

Still, I was not beating the bushes to make things happen. I grew complacent and the longer I avoided the job market, the more I came to fear it. All around me people were getting on with their lives. People younger than me were finding jobs and starting their lives. I started to stick out like a sore thumb.

Another more promising situation presented itself when I was hired as a reporter for a local community newsgroup. I soon learned that I was not cut out for this kind of work. Reporters need to uncover the grit beneath the surface. They need to hound people who don’t want to talk to them, all for peanuts.

It did not take long for them to realize I was not a good fit. To their credit they tried to find a place for me, but I botched a few stories, and basically wrote my ticket out of there.

So here I was, two years from graduation, and getting to an age where people would start to wonder what was wrong with me. In retrospect I’m surprised the girlfriend held on as long as she did, but in the end, she saw my situation as hopeless, and gave me the boot not two months later (that wasn’t the only reason but it certainly was a contributing factor).

In a symbolic sense, I was on skid row. I blamed no one but myself, but that didn’t stop me from holding quite a few pity parties. I had finally hit the bottom, and as clichéd as it sounds, there’s nowhere to go from there but up.

This was the moment in my life where I lost all faith in my ability to be successful. Throughout all of it I knew it was my own fault. I never denied the reality of the situation, but thankfully those around me refrained from reminding me of that fact – quite the opposite in fact – my parents and friends were incredibly supportive.

Slowly I crawled out of this wreck, and I wish I could say that I completely changed tactics and became this incredibly self-motivated go-getter. Divine providence or blind luck entered the picture, and my fortunes changed almost overnight. I got a job at another newspaper, and while I failed miserably in my first stint as a reporter, this environment was much better suited to my personality. Consequently, I embraced my role with vigor (even though I was paid peanuts!)

There was a quantum shift in my fortunes – I soon met my future wife, and I was finally traveling the road of life with the rest of my peers, instead of watching it go by. The job gave me an excuse to revisit many of the formative places of my youth, and I hit upon the idea of doing a first-person account of visiting my grammar school.

I was welcomed back there with open arms and was treated like the conquering hero, being held up to students as an example to be followed. Me! If only they knew where I was the year before! About six months later, the school principal (and a former teacher of mine) invited me to be the valedictorian at their graduation ceremony.

It was one of the most humbling moments of my life. Eighteen months earlier, I considered myself an abject failure, and now I would be addressing the next generation, trying to impart some words of wisdom. I avoided as many clichés and platitudes as I possibly could, and spoke to them from the heart, as someone who was not that much older than they were, who recalled vividly what they were going through, and who was still finding his way.

The speech killed, if I do say so myself. A neighbor begged me to give her the text and it was published in the parish bulletin shortly thereafter.

While I don’t recommend the path I took to get where I am, you have to wonder if everything really does happen for a reason, because I wouldn’t change anything. Those bumps and bruises I got along the way taught me more than anything that preceded them. And really that’s all they were – bumps and bruises that healed. They were hard lessons that hopefully made me stronger.

I have witnessed people I care about very deeply endure far worse than what I did during that time in my life, and I would never seek to draw a comparison or hold myself up like some kind of champion, but the experience proved to me that it’s those moments where we find our true strength, where we either fold up and die, or we soldier on and become better for the experience.

I think I’ll save this post for when the shit really hits the fan.

"I can see Russia from my house!"

2008-09-18T10:11:00.003-04:00

Believe me when I say I have no hidden agenda by posting this video. I think it's just freakin' hilarious and want to share it with the two or three people in the country who haven't seen it yet. I hope Tina Fey can be enticed back to "SNL" as a recurring guest star because she was born to plan Sarah Palin.

One Hit Wonder

2008-09-17T10:58:00.009-04:00

When I graduated college I had one goal in mind. No, silly, it wasn’t getting a job! Why would I want to do that?? I wanted to get an article published in a national magazine, and committed myself to that objective as wholeheartedly as I should have done with the job search (sometimes I think this blog has become a monument to my own stupidity).

At that time, all I knew was that I wanted to be a writer. It was the only thing I did well, and the only thing I had any sort of natural aptitude for. I had no head for math or science, and while I enjoyed the liberal arts “stuff,” like English and Social Studies, I had no intention of teaching.

Writing always came naturally, and I enjoyed it immensely. I was the type of person who was juiced about writing the book report, not reading the book. I took to writing scores of letters to anyone I had an excuse to write them to (my apologies to all those ex-girlfriends inundated with correspondence as well as “away at college” friends – no one could ever keep up with me!)

In some respects, I believe I was destined for another age, where written correspondence was not only the norm; it was a way of life. I look at the incredibly prolific correspondence between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, and long for that kind of a relationship with a "pen pal." Any takers?

While it’s generally accepted I’m a pretty good talker, I despise opening up about myself (which I’m kind of doing right now), and the best way to glean any insight into what makes me tick (if someone cares) is to read a letter from me. I’m too protective and defensive in verbal situations, but the parlance of the written word is my true element.

As usual, I’m straying. Unfortunately, despite the persistent encouragement of both my parents and my girlfriend at that time, I did nothing by way of preparation for the real world. I was on a collision course with reality, and the faster it approached, the more I denied its’ impending arrival. I worked at my part-time job as if it was a full-time job, hung out with my friends and girlfriend, and considered graduate school only as a way of staving off the inevitability of finding a job and working eight hours a day.

I grant you it was not a healthy attitude and I paid dearly for it, in the end. However, I had one ray of light amidst all the turmoil that would eventually engulf my life. As I noted earlier, I was determined to prove my worth as a writer, and have an article printed in a nationally syndicated publication right out of the gate. You know what? I did. And while I may go down in history as the Right Said Fred of the publishing world, I did get my 15 minutes in the (admittedly narrow) spotlight.

During those years my interest in film exploded. I always loved movies, but thanks to the influence of older, wiser mentors I began to explore the world of films beyond my generation. I was obsessed with horror films of the 30s and 40s, and the undisputed King of Horror, Boris Karloff.

At the behest of a good friend I devoured as much of Karloff’s work as was available at the time, traveling the highways and byways of “grey market” video recordings to obtain as much as possible. In later years, the Internet helped me expand this collection exponentially, but at this time I was limited to what was commercially available, as well as what was being offered by collectors in the back of horror magazines.

One particular period in Karloff’s filmography entranced me like no other. In the mid-forties he teamed with RKO B-Unit producer Val Lewton, to produce a trilogy of films that has become the gold standard of horror of that time. Now, a lot of ink has been spilled on Karloff by more talented writers than me, people who have conducted exhaustive scholarship on his life. However, at the time, not much had been written about this particular moment in his career. In later years, interest in Val Lewton exploded, but for its’ day, my idea was a novel one.

I contacted the editor of Filmfax magazine, the premier “film nostalgia” publication of its day (and still going strong, I might add). In a letter, I enthusiastically pitched my brilliant idea, and then hoped for the best. At the same time I began my half-hearted attempts to secure “real” employment, beginning with certain dream publications that I had no real hope of ever cracking.

To my great astonishment, the editor of Filmfax responded to my letter with a phone call, and told me to go ahead and write the piece. Of course, there were no promises made as to its’ publication. I was elated at the prospect though, and immediately set out to craft my masterpiece.

Since I worked part-time in a library I had a great deal of research material at my fingertips. However, it was a public library, so the material I unearthed was not as in depth as I hoped. I uncovered much on Karloff, but the information available on Lewton was sparse.

If I remember correctly, the entire process took about two months. My horror-loving friend and mentor proofed the article, and I sent it off. As the rejection letters piled up for my dream jobs, the hope that this article would see the light of day was all I had to go on. My ego was deflated on an almost daily basis by what arrived in our mailbox, and I soon realized I had no hope of finding a writing position in the arena of film- or comic-related publications.

I simply had not done the requisite work before I graduated to even get my foot in the door anywhere. Most of my friends from college applied for, and received internships at places they wanted to work. To me an internship meant lots of work for no money – that was it. Yes, I’m fully aware of how shortsighted and myopic that view was. Like I said, I paid the price for my lack of vision.

During that time I spent the early hours of the day at home, pretending I was still in school so my boss at the library would not fire me. He told us that once we graduated college our jobs expired, and I was terrified my head was now on the block. I concocted a story about being a “super senior,” and that I had dropped too many courses to graduate on time, thus necessitating one more semester of college. I figured that bought me at least another 6-8 months of gainful employment. It turns out I bought myself another 15 years, but that’s another story.

On one of these “pretending days” the phone rang and my mother answered it. It was the editor of Filmfax wanting to speak with me. Immediately I thought, “She wouldn’t be calling if this were a rejection.” I was right – she claimed to love the piece and promised it would be published “in about six months.” I barely contained myself while speaking to her, but the minute I hung up I screamed for joy.

Here was the proof. Here was the validation I so desperately sought. I was going to be published in a national magazine, and this meant (to me, anyway) I was a professional writer. Of course, I shared my elation with anyone who would listen, and it made for a heady few days that gave a brief respite from the soul crushing job hunt.

I think I purchased every issue of the bi-monthly magazine (whether any article interested me or not) in the hopes seeing my piece advertised in the next issue. As the months dragged on there was no mention made, and soon despair set in. I wrote the editor inquiring as to the status of the article, only to learn she left her position. That made me a little nervous, but I was assured by her replacement that the piece was still slated to appear.

Months dragged into years, and, despite encouraging words from the new editor, I despaired of ever seeing my masterwork on the newsstands. My life was rapidly entering a tailspin on several fronts. My girlfriend was ready to give me the hook for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my lack of direction and focus in the job search. Said job search was going nowhere despite stepped up efforts on my part that lead to several interviews (all fruitless).

Then, one day, nearly 18 months after I wrote the article, I received a call from the new editor of Filmfax. My article would finally be published in the April 1994 edition, and (drum roll) it was to be the cover story! I can’t point to that many moments of pure joy in my life – it’s a rare commodity, but this was one of them. He spoke glowingly of how the article would be illustrated with wonderful stills and poster art, and apologized for the long delay.

Perhaps six weeks later my “author’s copies” arrived and I had my Dad bring them to me at the library. The article was edited heavily, but no so much that my “voice” was lost. The opening sentence was changed dramatically, but it sounded so much better that I couldn’t argue. As a writer you tend to develop a thick skin where editing is concerned - best not to take it personally.

Like everything the wave of enthusiasm and excitement died down and I was faced with my disturbing reality again. The girlfriend gave me the boot about six months later and I was fired from my first true writing job as a reporter for a local community newspaper. The boost I enjoyed from my status as a nationally-syndicated writer was all too short, but it was a crucial moment for me in an otherwise disquieting period in my life. Someone had paid me to write something ($118!), and my work was viewed all over the country (to what degree anyone approved of it I’ll never know).

Eventually, my life regained its footing. In a fit of desperation I ripped out the “publications” page in my local phone book and blanketed these companies with my resume. One of them called me in for an interview while I was still at the newsgroup. I did not get the job, and subsequently was fired from the newsgroup. However, three months after I got my walking papers from the girlfriend, this company called me again, and offered me the position. Apparently their first choice was a plagiarist.

I accepted the job gratefully, and spent five productive years there, establishing my credentials as a local reporter, having some amazing experiences in the process. From there I obtained my current position, which has lasted nearly a decade.

I remain one for one on the freelance front. I hit one out of the park my first time at bat, and never made another attempt. I suppose part of it is laziness. I write for a living, and it’s kind of difficult to muster the energy to do it in my free time. It would be a nice way to supplement my income, but when I examine my interests, and I see the scholarship that has already been produced, I often wonder what story hasn’t been told? There are writers who devote their entire lives to the study of a certain subject, and I can’t see myself doing that.

Still, I cherish that one moment in the sun. One day I was in a comic shop with some friends and someone held up the magazine with my cover story on it. The owner told his customer that he enjoyed the magazine. I couldn’t hold it in. I said, “You might not believe this, but I wrote that article on the cover!” He replied, “Why wouldn’t I believe you?” He didn’t ask me to autograph it or anything. Now that would’ve been cool.

Anybody who wants one just let me know! I’ve got plenty!

"No Longer Yesterday and Not Yet History" (A September 11 Memory)

2008-09-11T08:48:00.010-04:00

(Note: I can't lay claim to the headline for this entry - I found the phrase in an excellent article featured in this week's issue of Newsweek.)

I grew up fascinated with the events surrounding the assassination of President Kennedy. It happened seven years before I was born but the event was something of an obsession of mine. I read books, watched incessant documentaries and quizzed everyone I knew who lived through the event about where they were at the time. I can't quite put a finger on why it so fascinated me and still does. Perhaps it was the notion of living through such a seminal moment in history, one whose every detail is scrutinized by future generations. Little did I know I would have that sad opportunity visited upon me on September 11, 2001.

I lived in Nassau County, Long Island, at the time and worked (and still do) at a large private university in Queens, New York. This school (I believe) sits atop the highest point in Queens and I had a perfect view of the Manhattan skyline from the building I worked in. The day started like any other but on this day I was scheduled to meet a friend in lower Manhattan to see a special screening of the film, "An American Werewolf in London," and meet its' director and star. I was going to work half a day then go back home and hop a train into the city around 3.

My first recollection of the day was opening a package left on my stoop containing a special medallion that would be my "press pass" for the screening. I always left early for work, and made plans with my wife to coordinate getting me to the train later. I arrived at work about 7:30 and was writing movie reviews for a now-defunct website I ran.

I used to work in an office with no windows that was set apart from the rest of my department. It was very insulated and news usually took awhile to filter down to me. I had a radio but for some reason it wasn't on that day. About 8:30 my friend called me to finalize our plans for the screening and we were chatting for about 20 minutes when he told me that he heard a plane had hit the World Trade Center.

Like so many that day I assumed it was a small plane, and didn't really consider it could be anything worse than that. We got off the phone at somewhere between 8:55 and 9:00 and I brought up CNN's website on my computer. The first image I saw of that awful day was a still photo of the gaping hole left in Tower One after the first plane hit. I looked up from my desk and saw someone running past my office down the hall in a panic.

I walked down to my boss' office to tell her, and she was crying. I left her alone and went back down toward my office when I passed the office of the media relations director. He had a television and people were already gathered around it. I immediately sat down to see a replay of the second plane hitting Tower Two. I spent the next 20-25 minutes sitting there awestruck in horror with my colleagues. The flash came in that the Pentagon had been hit and I viewed that first coverage live. I sat there numb while people all around me with loved ones in Manhattan were making frantic calls.

I went back to my office at some point and tried calling my wife and my parents. I left a message for my father but the phone lines were jammed and I couldn't get any more calls out. I ran to my car, got my cell phone and reached my wife who had heard what happened but hadn't seen it. She had no idea of the enormity of what was going on and was surprised at how shaken I was.

The last thing I did before I went home that morning was walk outside the building with my boss and another colleague to see firsthand what had been wrought. It was a beautiful sunny morning with clear blue skies but for the miles-long train of smoke billowing out from lower Manhattan. The towers had not fallen yet and I could see them clearly. It was a searing image from an unforgettable day.

The University closed almost immediately. Police and emergency vehicles were screaming westward as I traveled east towards home. Another enduring image for me was that of firemen assembled at public bus stops deep into Long Island, waiting for city buses to take them in to that hell. I arrived at my parents’ house and sat with my father for about an hour. Both towers fell in the time it took me to get there.

I returned home and sat in front of the television and watched as much coverage as I could stand. I alternated it by watching a DVD of "Citizen Kane," which was waiting for me when I got home. I needed some escape from the day which had become too overwhelming. I spoke to a friend in the afternoon and waited for my wife to arrive home. I saw Mayor Giuliani utter his famous response that the casualties would be "more than any of us can bear," when asked for an estimate. My last recollections of that Tuesday were when I finally spoke to the friend who was supposed to attend the screening with me that day to hear he made it home safely.

I immediately knew I had lived through the worst moment in my country's history, a day that, in my opinion, eclipsed that of the Kennedy Assassination or perhaps even Pearl Harbor in terms of its' sheer horror. I now knew what it was to live through a moment, a day, a time forever frozen in history, one that would be remembered with stunning clarity and analyzed for generations to come.

As with the Kennedy Assassination I collected the requisite books and documentaries but this scholarship was tainted with my own memories of the event, my own personal horror at having (at least peripherally) experienced something that forever changed the world I lived in, for the worse.

Seven years later, I find the day quickly receding from the view and I fear that, while it is essential we move on as a city and a country, we are quickly forgetting the lessons we learned. I was extremely fortunate not to have lost anyone. The closest it came to hitting me directly was through "friends of friends," or past acquaintances from many years ago.

What I lost was a measure of innocence and naivete. I gained a harsher, more cynical view of the world than I already had. That being said, I will never forget the heroism and bravery of firefighters, policemen, emergency service workers and ordinary men and women on display that day. Their selflessness is the one beacon of hope I retain from that awful day. They restored the faith I had immediately lost.

Across the Pond

2008-09-10T12:08:00.006-04:00

(Please note my sad attempts to include British slang where appropriate.)

I’ll be the first to admit I’m addicted to good television, and while I indulge the occasional reality trash such as “American Idol,” or “Last Comic Standing,” I try to limit my viewing habits to material that is worthwhile. That doesn’t mean I always demand the excellence of programs like “The Shield,” or “The Wire,” and yes, even “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (don’t let the silly title fool you!) I appreciate a silly sitcom as much as a deep drama – just entertain me or make me think.

American television, specifically network television, has been in a quality freefall for the last 20 years, which they are only now starting to climb out of. The surge of quality programming on cable has forced them to up their game, while they still pander to the lowest common denominator as their slates are at least half-filled with reality rubbish.

Up until a few years ago I ignored the abundance of excellent programming produced in the U.K. (with the exception of “Doctor Who” – nerd alert!) It wasn’t until the program “Hustle” was imported to the States that I began to pay attention. “Hustle” was a sly dramedy about four high-stakes grifters with a Robin Hood complex. They only ripped off marks that “deserved” it. All the leads fit their roles perfectly, and for us Yanks there was the presence of Napoleon Solo himself, Robert Vaughn, providing a familiar face we could identify with.

I was immediately hooked, and learned this show was already in its third season in the U.K. by the time it reached our shores. I made it my business to obtain the other episodes (let’s leave it at that), and the show soon ranked among my all-time favorites. It had so much going for it – the leads exuded buckets of charisma and their banter flowed brilliantly. It made terrific use of London locations, and the characters often stopped the action to dialogue directly with the audience.

Right around this time I watched the entire run of “The Office,” and was introduced to Ricky Gervais’ style of biting humor. His style and the documentary feel of the show were like nothing I had ever experienced in American comedy. If anything my only complaint was the show ended so abruptly – I was soon to learn that’s what sets them apart from us.

There is not nearly the same amount of money being thrown at U.K. shows as there is in this country. Even when a show is hugely popular it may become counter productive to continue producing it. Perhaps more importantly, there is a notion among creative personnel in Britain that once a show has piqued (be it in one “series” or four) it’s best to put it to rest and focus on something new.

That was never demonstrated more clearly by “Life on Mars,” a show that has since become my all-time favorite (U.K. or otherwise). The premise is simple. While investigating his girlfriend’s kidnapping police officer Sam Tyler is struck by a car and left in a coma. He wakes up in Manchester, 1973, where he finds his policing methods completely out of sync with the less than subtle tactics of the gruff, misogynistic and often racist, officers he is forced to work with.

Is Sam dreaming all this? Has he traveled through time? What you quickly realize with this show is that the truth of his circumstance is immaterial, and the storytelling opportunities created by his predicament are incredible. Throughout the show’s run Sam meets his parents and others integral to his life, and comes to understand them in a way he never could otherwise. His interactions with his 1973 colleagues are priceless as is his culture shock with their methods. The relationship between John Simm as Sam and Phil Glenister as DCI Gene Hunt is at the heart of the show, and their rapport with each other is brilliant.

All concerned decided to end “Life on Mars” after two series. I could’ve watched it until Doomsday, but as I’ve come to understand the inner workings of U.K. television I understand the rationale. These incredibly talented writers and actors have all moved on to other quality projects.

American television “seasons” are extremely rigid. 22 episodes are produced each year, and the crushing schedule leaves little time for these knackered actors to pursue other projects. Not so in the U.K. where a series may last 6 or 8 episodes (or rarely, in the case of “Doctor Who,” 13). Actors have maximum flexibility to be in more than one show at once.

For me last year’s writers’ strike was a blessing in disguise. Realizing this was an imminent reality I stockpiled a treasure trove of U.K. shows (and some Canadian shows as well) to see my wife and I through the drought. Reality was not an option, nor were the home improvement shows she’s addicted to!)

While we did catch up on some excellent American programming such as “Dexter,” and “Weeds,” the bulk of our viewing choices came from the BBC or ITV. I introduced her to “Life on Mars,” and its’ spin-off, “Ashes to Ashes,” as well as “Wire in the Blood,” “New Tricks,” “Extras” (another Ricky Gervais offering) and great “one-off” series such as “State of Play,” “Five Days,” and “Last Enemy.” The list goes on.

While we may not understand the odd cultural reference or slang the stories are universally relatable – although one show, “Empty,” with Billy Boyd, was rendered almost incoherent for us by the heavy Glasgow accents of its’ two leads! There’s also a tendency, especially in the political thrillers, to demonize America, which I could care less about, but if that sort of thing bugs you, take note.

I used to believe all U.K. programming was cheesy looking sci-fi and snobby historical drama. If you’re lucky enough to have BBC America on your cable system start watching ASAP. There is a wealth of U.K. programming available domestically on dvd, although not as much as I would like. There are dodgier ways of obtaining this stuff and the more industrious among you know what I mean!

Many of our most revered shows such as, “All in the Family,” “Sanford and Son,” and “Three’s Company,” to contemporary hits like “The Office” were inspired by British shows. This season we’re premiering our own version of “Life on Mars.” The original pilot was a real cock-up which I can attest to. It’s being completely re-tooled, and I hold out little hope for its’ success.

My point is there is so much out there worth watching that if you limit yourselves to our wide array of sitcoms, bland police procedurals, and soapy dramas that take place in lawyer’s offices, hospitals or schools, you’re doing yourself a real disservice. Of course I encourage you to seek out great cable shows like “Entourage,” “Dexter,” “Weeds” and “The Shield,” among others, but the U.K. should be your next stop on the road to broadening your entertainment horizons!

You'll be chuffed to bits if you do!

The Prank

2008-09-10T10:27:00.004-04:00

I’ve been fairly lucky when it comes to relationships. I know several people who have endured a multitude of blind dates and set-ups (both through friends and dating websites like Match and eHarmony). While they often make great fodder for stories after the fact, they can be torturous experiences.

My first two real relationships were borne from a part-time job I had in high school (and still have, yikes!) Both experiences were similar in that I worked with these girls for a number of months. By the time we started dating it was almost a foregone conclusion. It really took the guesswork out of things, and, for my money, it was the ideal way to forge a relationship.

The only real similarities between the two relationships were that both girls were 16 when we started dating. I was two years older than the first and four years older than the second. I had reservations about asking out the second, as it meant re-experiencing the high school scene all over again (I’ve been to six proms – should’ve just bought the damn tux!) The real problem (especially with #2) was that I was a dead man from Day One, as I was her first boyfriend, and we all know where they end up.

The downside of dating co-workers is perilous. The axiom, “Don’t shit where you eat,” came to mind quickly when the second relationship came crashing down around my ears. Overnight my cool, part-time “clubhouse” job became a torture chamber that I could not wait to escape from. It took a few months for me to get out of there, but those four months were horrific. (Four years later, after the ex quit, I came out of retirement and rejoined the old crew!)

I was nearly 25 years old when the relationship ended and I had been confident she and I would marry. When the relationship imploded, my first thought was that I would have a hell of a time meeting someone new. I was right. The Internet was in its infancy and the host of dating sites that eventually proliferated did not exist (and I often wonder if I ever would have turned to them). I had no “game” when it came to meeting people spontaneously, and the bar scene was not even a consideration.

A number of my friends were in serious relationships, and the amount of “new blood” coming into our old crowd was non-existent. I had a quandary. I was certainly not about to join hiking clubs, or cycling clubs, or God knows what kind of clubs, because that stank of desperation to me.

I did have one friend who was pretty slick with the ladies though. He had no problem meeting women, and was as smooth an operator as I ever witnessed (and I’ve witnessed my fair share). I’ve always been fine once the ice was broken, but it was always that initial contact that eluded me. That’s why the job was such a boon to me.

My friend made it his mission to find me a woman. For a while I was content being single after nearly six years of continuous dating, but of course you start asking yourself if you’ll ever meet someone worthwhile again (and how long will it take??), which is the lament of every single person. When you’re in a committed relationship it’s easy to give advice, and spout the hoary old clichés, like, “You never know what’s around the corner,” which is absolutely true, but no one wants to hear.

This friend of mine embarked on a new relationship with a girl who waited on him and his mother at I-Hop one day. I met her soon after and quickly became the fifth wheel. I was ready to drop out which made it even more imperative for him to find someone for me. I’m pretty sure his first idea (and it was a logical one) was to mine all her single friends until we hit on one for me. His girlfriend really didn’t have that many friends to begin with (for good reason as I would find out later).

After some time he arranged the first blind date, and, as is my nature, I was terrified. I try so hard to impress upon my younger friends that there is no reason to be nervous at these moments, that there is nothing to lose, etc, but I rarely practiced what I preached. I had several weeks to work myself into a frenzy about the whole thing, and give this experience much more weight and credibility than it deserved.

Of course, my other close friends knew this “event” was approaching, and decided to have some fun at my expense. On the night of the scheduled date I received a phone call from someone claiming to be the girl I was to meet.

I was shocked this girl was calling me, and I can only imagine how much of a blithering idiot I sounded like. This conversation went on for a few minutes, until the caller revealed their true self. It was my best friend’s sister-in-law, and I hadn’t logged enough phone time with her to recognize the voice. Apparently my friend, his wife and her sister, along with one other friend, were all there to hear this.

Frankly, I was livid (I’m still pissed about it to be honest) and I unleashed a torrent of obscenity that is still hanging in space over the south shore of Long Island (with apologies to Jean Shepherd). Upon finishing my barrage, I hung up on them.

Turns out the date was postponed that night, and I told the friend who arranged the date what happened. He thought what they did was awful, as did others. I was a very easy target, especially that night, and while I see the humor in it, it felt very mean-spirited. The fact that my two best friends hatched the plan along with the girls, made it worse.

To their credit the foursome called me the following day to apologize, and everyone took their medicine, as I had plenty more to dole out. They were probably still snickering about it, and maybe felt I overreacted, but they did say they were sorry, and I appreciated that.

Eventually the date happened and it was a big bust – no chemistry, zilch. It certainly wasn’t a disaster of epic proportions, but it left something of a bad taste in my mouth. My friend was undaunted, and when another friend of his girlfriend became available he approached me again. This time I flatly refused, but he persisted.

I was tricked into meeting this girl one night when a big group of us was slated to go to the movies. I was not happy about that and did nothing to endear myself to her, completely ignoring her.

That must be the secret because we’ve been married for more than ten years.

The Voyages Began 42 Years Ago Today

2008-09-08T07:50:00.005-04:00

Note the promo date is incorrect (it did premiere on Sept. 8, 1966)

The Expert

2008-09-05T12:31:00.005-04:00

When I was in college I wrote for the school newspaper and my stock in trade were movie reviews or film-related articles. That was my niche. However, I wrote one piece during my tenure that deviated wildly from my normal topic. I believe it was my junior year, and the topic was “relationships.”

At 21 years old I had the unmitigated gall to pen an article about relationships – as if I knew anything. I still don’t know anything, but back then, I was somehow Dr. Phil. The article stunned people who knew me, and it got a big response on campus, more so than anything I ever wrote. It was the first time I weighed in publicly on anything that was not fluff (like movies), and I was hailed as Mr. Sensitive.

There are five, maybe six moments in time where I wish I could go back and kick my own ass. This is one of them.

I do pride myself on a certain observational quality. Most people go through the motions of life and never really examine why they behave a certain way. Now I’m not saying I ever truly learned from my mistakes or purged myself of personality traits that aren’t that attractive, but I’m cognizant of what they are, and I’ll give you a list if you ask for one.

I paid close attention to how people behaved in relationships, myself included. I wasn't overly impressed by my own behavior when things got rough, but I often saw far worse in the relationships of others.

If I recall correctly I was in a fairly new relationship at the time with a much younger girl who thought I walked on water (that didn’t last). I’m wondering if I wrote it to impress her even further. I can remember railing against the notion that the relationships of youth were fleeting and there was so much joy and misery in such short bursts of time – how you could get so close to one person and they might be out of your lives in less than six months.

Well, duh.

I look back on those days and there was so much high drama. My friends and I all went through it, but never at the same time, so it was a safe bet that when one of us was on Cloud 9 the other was in hell.

I can remember getting so fed up with it, but I was railing against the natural order of things in the article – spouting platitudes about how people hurt each other and isn’t that so terrible. I was master of the obvious.

Of course people don’t stay together at that age. Of course they move on. As significant as these relationships were (and I would never downplay that fact) they were transitory. They were the proving ground for our lives to come.

Something else I wish I could’ve told that 21-year old schmuck was that life is not easy. When you’re young and you have no other concerns everything that happens in these relationships feels like either the greatest joy or the end of the world.

I feel like telling him wait until you have to pay bills, buy a house, find a job, or develop an illness (or more than one). Wait until someone dies.

We (hopefully) gain at least a little wisdom as we get older. I look back on those days and my own naiveté somewhat fondly, because everything I’ve just discussed comes to us through the natural progression of time, but few of us have that indelible imprint of who they were at that moment (i.e. the article) to wince at.

I was a very emotional, subjective young fellow in those days, who could never see the forest for the trees. My intentions in writing the article were all good. I was trying to promote understanding, but I just did not get it.

Do I get it now? Let’s put it this way - if I could sit that young man down, who moaned over break ups and people moving on, I would steal a line from one of my favorite movies, "Ghostbusters," and tell him that when it comes to relationships, and what people are capable of, "I have seen shit that would turn you white!"

Every Breath You Take bla bla

2008-09-05T09:32:00.001-04:00

This is the best Police song!

A window

2008-09-04T14:57:00.003-04:00

About eight years ago I was sitting in a hotel room in Beverly Hills with Carroll O’Connor, interviewing him about the suicide of his son which was brought about by years of drug abuse. At that moment I was having a complete out-of-body experience. How did I get here?

I was sitting across from Archie Bunker himself, a man who was as gentle and mild as his alter-ego was loud and abrasive. I lobbed some softballs at him before I got into the meat of the interview, which would focus on his son’s tragic death. He answered each question thoughtfully, but there was a sense he wanted to move on, and discuss his son.

By this point he had spoken to whoever would listen about the scourge of drugs and how they contributed to his son’s suicide, so it wasn’t like I was a special case. It was by no means an exclusive. By this time he had an agenda and I was one of many who helped him carry it out.

Because I’m a pop culture junkie I was awestruck to be in this man’s presence, an American icon that changed the face of television forever. I’m often quick to say this experience was the highlight of my career in journalism but that’s because he was a celebrity - a lovely man, but a celebrity nonetheless.

When I was a reporter I tended to turn my nose up at the stories that centered on events over people. I preferred feature to hard news. What I loved most was sitting down with someone and hearing their life story. Very often these people would try to beg out of an interview, for fear of being seen as publicity hungry. Usually their stories had the potential to inspire others to good work, and that was my stock line when trying to convince them to consent to an interview.

99.9% of them said yes and more often than not the first person they inspired was me. Obviously, I never followed explicitly in their footsteps but they often rekindled my faith in humanity.

There was nothing more satisfying than establishing a one-on-one rapport with a subject. Sometimes they would need some gentle prodding and other times you were lucky if you got to ask two scripted questions. Sometimes you steered the interview and sometimes the interview steered you. Even if I did not share a personal interest in what we were discussing I was often fascinated by their journey and energized by their enthusiasm.

For five years I was constantly meeting people who did so much good, and a good many of them had experienced some kind of tragedy or hardship that was spurring them to action. It was impossible not to be moved by them.

I was also consistently amazed that these people trusted me enough to allow me this intimate look into their lives, and that I would distill a far-reaching conversation into something accurate and coherent, that captured who they were. I always loved the moment where you knew you had established trust and the rapport was there. I think I loved it more than the writing aspect of the assignment.

Growing up I believed I did two things reasonably well – writing and talking. I enjoyed both and indulged in them as often as possible (when I say “talk” I mean really converse about something substantial). When the time came to buckle down and think about a career path I only had this vague notion about getting paid for doing what I did best. I regret not being more proactive in this enterprise, but somehow I backed into a career where I get paid to do those two things I love so much.

I never had a head for business, math, science – all the money making professions! But that’s OK. I do what I love and I make ends meet.

I haven’t been a reporter for some time but my current position does allow me the occasional interview, and it’s in those moments I feel the most personal and professional satisfaction.

"Musical Genius!"

2008-09-04T09:55:00.001-04:00

I love Stevie!!

A Night to Remember

2008-09-03T15:52:00.003-04:00

Everyone has their favorite drunk stories and I'm no exception. However it's not about me and it's about the only one I have. You see I don't drink, which I've always felt kind of creeps people out when they hear it the first time – as though I'm not to be trusted. For those who do know me, well let's just say they'd give their life savings to see me bombed. Their eternal argument is would I be a happy drunk or a surly drunk? My money is on surly. I'm not a recovering alcoholic, just someone who never developed the taste and I can't really explain why. Never one to push the envelope with the folks I suppose I was too afraid to take that leap and risk their ire. Who knows? At least now I can tell the doctor, "At least I don't smoke or drink," when he reads me the riot act.

So here's the story (my set-ups are very long-winded, sorry). I had a great friend who was in every way, shape and form my opposite number. It was like Judd Nelson and Anthony Michael Hall's characters from "The Breakfast Club" were best friends. We grew up together, went to the same school, lived around the block from each other, and when we were young, we fought like cats and dogs. His Dad died when we were 14 and that was a defining moment for us because he seemed to lean on me the most, where his dirtbag friends were kind of useless at a time like that.

For the next three years we were inseparable. We went to different high schools but hung out constantly. He got into ever increasing amounts of trouble and I watched, living vicariously through him. He started smoking, and the only saving grace for me was that his mother smoked and I could use that fact to explain the smell away to my parents. He got into as much mischief as he could but I drew the line when laws were broken. He had plenty of friends for those activities.

He also had a way with the ladies and my only contact with them was through him. Going to an all boys Catholic high school stunted my development in that arena but he managed to make up for it a thousandfold. The girls tolerated me and the vibe I got was they thought I was a quaint curiosity amidst his otherwise terribly cool life. When we were in our junior year he started dating the prettiest girl in his school.

For whatever reason he still always wanted me around (I can already hear the "Brokeback" jokes, relax). He could never stand being alone so I was at his house all the time. One night he and his girlfriend got into a tremendous fight over what I can't remember. He felt slighted about something and he was determined to pay her back – by getting drunk before she showed up at his house.

This was about to turn into the worst night of my life (to that point).

My friend's late father had set up a full bar in their basement and it was stocked to the gills. I was getting nervous – a common occurrence around him. His girlfriend would be over in an hour or so and he hatched his plan. He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels (a full bottle) and guzzled it in under ten minutes. Soak that in for a minute. Jack Daniels. Full bottle. Ten minutes.

At that time I was 16 years old and didn't know Jack from Bud from Long Island Iced Tea. Hell, He seemed fine to me after he was done. He suggested we rent a movie. We were 16, had no licenses, and the video store was a mile away. His mother was obviously not home and I was not calling my father for a ride. And it was the dead of winter. It was below 30 degrees. The ground was covered in snow and ice. He figured we could make it there and back before she arrived.

We set about our task and the whole walk there he was fine. I was like, "Jack must be a real bitch drink." He started acting a little stupid in the store but we got the video and proceeded back home. On the walk home the alcohol finally worked its magic, almost like a switch had gone off. He started staggering, slurring his speech and rambling about anything and everything.

He was talking about his Dad, his girlfriend, me, life, the universe. I had to help him walk and about halfway home I had a brainstorm. Maybe if I bought him a soda it would fix everything - at least mask his breath in case his Mom showed up. Forget the fact it was 20 degrees out and here I'm buying him a cold soda. Anyway I went into a corner candy store and bought the soda. I came out and he was gone. Vanished.

He was now 100% my responsibility. And I lost him. The level of panic that I reached in that one instant hasn't quite been equaled. I looked up and down the block. I ran across the street. How far could he have gotten? I ran back to the store and up an alley. There he was taking a whiz and laughing his ass off. By this time I knew I was in for a night of pure hell.

He finished up and I had to abandon my brilliant soda idea because I had to help him walk. We were somewhat close to home and I remember bumping into one of his friends. He doesn't. He lost that entire night. 20 years later I remember every last detail. By the time we reached his house he was alternately laughing, crying, and had fallen several times. I reached into his pocket for his keys and when I opened the screen door he fell back and I hit him square in the head with the door. He laughed like a hyena.

I brought him into the house and he kept telling me to call his girlfriend. He kept incessantly repeating her name and phone number, so much so, that to this day it's the only outdated number I can remember besides my parents' old one.

It didn't matter because she showed up shortly after. The cavalry had arrived! He was babbling incoherently by now and she took one look at him, called a cab and left. Thanks. By this point I was terrified. His mother was bound to be home soon. I held on to some pathetic hope he'd sober up by then. I realize my naiveté was staggering.

My main objective was to keep him occupied by talking to him. I didn't want him to pass out. I wish I taped that conversation. What I didn't realize was the real fun was about to begin. His Mom did come home and when her key hit the lock he staggered out to greet her before I could stop him. He told his mother he loved her and then threw up right in the middle of the living room.

She hysterically screamed, "Are you stoned?" Oh God, would that he really was stoned! If he were stoned we'd be eating a 20-pack of White Castle hamburgers instead of this nightmare. He threw up everywhere before we could get him to the bathroom. Linda Blair in "The Exorcist" didn't throw up this much! His mother loved me like a son and knew I was the only decent influence he had. She cut me to the quick with, "How could you let him do this?" In all fairness to me I kept the kid alive, despite losing him in the night and braining him with a screen door.

He threw up about 100 more times and his mother was so distraught she called the neighbors. They came over and soon after his grandparents arrived (they lived there as well). After awhile the furor died down and he passed out. No one was worried he'd choke on his own vomit because there was none left to choke on.

By now it was time to call my Dad. I only lived around the corner but he always insisted on picking me up after dark. The trick here was not to have my Dad come in the house – not easy because our parents were friends. So I waited outside in the cold and when he pulled up I said, "Ed's not feeling well." Hey it was the truth!

I figured he was a dead man. Grounded for life. Dumped by the girlfriend. House Arrest. Maybe military school. I didn't expect to hear from him for a month. He called me the next morning. I went over there and all was right with the world. He was being teased by one of the neighbors and his Mom was already in denial about the whole thing. And the girlfriend? She was back the next night.

Before anyone starts screaming about me writing an embarrassing story about someone else for the world to see, calm yourselves. Our tale's protagonist loves this story. He loves hearing me tell it and he loves the fact that he did this to me. Truth is, aside from him, my life was pretty boring back then and while it got more interesting rather quickly this was something I'll never forget. He moved to Florida eight months later and that sucked all the juice out of my life for a time.

For all the headaches he caused me (and there were many) it was always exciting. This one story is only the tip of the iceberg. Everything else in my life before and since was terribly conventional and I look back on it all with great fondness 20 years later. There's something to be said for having someone like that around. Even so, his leaving forced me to live my own life rather than watch him live his.

Now it's possible that experience put me off drinking. It certainly didn't help. The majority of my friends started drinking within the next two years but I didn't. They keep telling me how much I'm missing, 20 years later. I've had a shot of God knows what here and there at weddings and other events just to give my friends a thrill, but the desire just isn't there.

Gossip

2008-09-03T10:09:00.017-04:00

My grammar school used to give its' students half days every Thursday (for what reason I can’t remember, teacher meetings perhaps?) On those days my Mom would usually treat me to Roy Rogers and I’d sit there in my doofy Catholic school uniform eating my Double R burger and relating the day’s excitement to her.

One of those lunches is indelibly imprinted on my brain because on that particular day my Mom smacked me in the head. She was not a head smacker by any means, so obviously this was done for major emphasis. And while I never forgot the smack I never really learned the lesson she was trying to impart.

You see she smacked me because I was speaking ill of one of my teachers. I’m pretty sure I used the phrase, “I hate her,” one uttered countless times by millions of students the world over, but I was in a public place, frequented by many members of the community who either attended my school or had kids there.

“You never know who’s listening!” she exclaimed after the wallop. That’s right. You never know. Of course by this time I was well versed in the art of talking behind someone’s back. We all do it to one degree or another. In fact in 38 years on this planet I have yet to come across someone who doesn’t indulge in it. It is so prevalent that I would even list it among the necessities of life, along with eating, drinking, and all the rest.

I get a bad rap because not only do I indulge in it, I tend to enjoy it. I can keep secrets but it’s great when you can tell someone. For example, someone from one facet of your life coughs up some deep dark secret and you tell someone from another part of your life, which has nothing to do with the other person, and presumably never will. I don’t really consider that one betraying a confidence. However, if the secret is one of truly epic proportions I realize when to keep my mouth shut. I’m really all about the grey areas – nothing is black and white!

My mother’s smack/lesson has come back to haunt me several times in the intervening thirty odd years, sometimes to comical effect and others to much more painful effect. I have been the talker and the one talked about. I don’t believe I’m a special case, although I do revel in the whole washer woman thing a bit much for someone of my gender.

In my defense, a lot of it is borne just from a sheer love of talking, observing, amateur psychoanalyzing, etc. and I’d rather pick apart a person than a good book. I’ve had some great partners in crime for this particular enterprise at different moments in my life, and when I’ve lost one God usually sees fit to send me another!

My first memorable experience with gossip (I use the term loosely throughout for the lack of a better one) happened after a particularly memorable moment in my life with a member of the opposite sex (for me, I'm sure not for her!) I was on cloud nine and of course, I shared the moment with several friends.

Very shortly after the experience I went to the movies with two friends. It was a crowded theater and we had to sit near the front. The movie was, “A Fish Called Wanda,” (I remember these things, I’m twisted like that). Anyway I was talking up the whole “relationship” with a puffed up chest, rambling on about how cool things were going to be for the rest of the summer now that this happened, bla bla.

She was right behind me.

No, not ten rows behind me, not eight seats to my left or twelve to my right, or even in front of me. She was right behind me. She hadn’t told me she was seeing this film, nor did she alert me to her presence when she sat down. She heard everything I said. She let me go on and on and finally announced herself right before the film started.

SMACK!

Needless to say, I was handed my walking papers within a week or so. Ultimately, it was all for the best, but from that moment on, I realized I had a special gift for self-sabotage! "You never know who’s around." Right again, Mom. You’d think I would learn.

The next time gossip reared its head I was on the receiving end. This time someone who I was very close to said something that utterly devastated me. Obviously I was never meant to hear it (and the context in which it was said sounded like this person was trying to impress the other). The person who told me did it “for my own good,” because she observed me as needlessly suffering over something that had no future, something she was also doing at the time.

I never explicitly confronted the person over what was said (at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t) but I stopped communicating with them and eventually terminated the relationship. Here again I learned a lesson that I never put into practice. Be careful who you tell what to. Do they have your best interests at heart? Can they turn on you? In this particular case, this person turned on her friend to share something with me, and betrayed a confidence for what she considered a more noble purpose.

About three years later I found myself really slinging the dirt one night with another friend, who also loved the gossip. We were acting like a pair of 13-year old girls yammering on about two mutual friends, wondering if they were in fact, a couple (which they were). There’s way too much backstory here but suffice it say the girl I was dishing about had some convoluted history with me.

My friend and I were in an office that had several partitions that were by no means soundproof (they didn’t even reach the wall). Anyway we had a nice long session and when we were through, we proceeded to leave the office, and pass by……the two people were talking about.

SMACK!

Is there a color that’s paler than white? At that moment throwing up seemed my only logical option. I was dead on so many levels – even my friend who indulged in the deed with me was not nearly as dead as me. I spent the rest of the night apologizing to little avail, wrote a letter of apology (which probably dug me in worse), made a special mea culpa visit to the office the following week and so on. I had terminal foot in mouth disease with this person and this was the most shining example of it. Sorry Mom.

Three years later e-mail had become a new tool in the arsenal for embarrassing myself. To set the stage a bit – I had become friendly with someone a few years prior who, despite being a nice, well-meaning person, was a little too much with the togetherness for my taste, and had a tendency to exaggerate nearly anything to a ridiculous degree in the hopes of impressing others.

Anyway, he started dating someone who seemed pretty cool to me. She and I became friendly and we often discussed him and our frustrations with him in person and, yes, via e-mail. They eventually introduced me to my future wife and we became the dynamic duo of couples. However we soon tired of their company and tried to distance ourselves from them. The togetherness was suffocating us.

My girlfriend soon became my fiancée and my friend’s girlfriend was none too pleased that a couple who she set up was getting engaged before she was (with no ring in sight!) So the twisted little psycho dredged up my e-mails to her about my friend and promptly showed them to him, in an effort to prove she had his best interests at heart, that I was really not his friend.

SMACK!

This one really sent me reeling. I told my fiancée I would never speak to this chick again and she agreed to have nothing to do with her. My friend and I never recovered from this incident – I wrote him a letter (my M.O.) and he called me upon receiving it. He was obviously shattered by what I had said and I think he was leaving the door open to repair the friendship, if I groveled enough, but I didn’t take the bait. I took the opportunity, callous as it sounds, to leave it where it was, because the friendship had no forward motion.

P.S. He dumped the chick two weeks later and her life has been a disaster ever since. I did put a hex on her that hopefully had something to do with it.

That last really bruising incident happened about 12 years ago, and with all apologies to Mom, I don’t think I’ve learned my lesson.

At my part-time job I’m part of a very close knit group of people with a very interesting dynamic. We at least admit to each other we talk about the one who’s not there and I am the King Blabbermouth. There I can be out in the open with it. I have no allegiances and if someone refuses to tell someone something they just ask me because sooner or later I’ll weasel the info out of them and share.

I know, that sounds horrible, but the truth is we don’t hide much from each other and our lives are pretty much an open secret with one another. It’s just a matter of who knows what when. In more unscrupulous hands the stuff we share with one another could be devastating, but these are people I’d trust with my life, and I know what we share within the confines of our little sphere stays there.

So what’s the moral of the story? I suppose the first one is know who you are talking to. If you’re talking about Person A with Person B and A and B know each other, or are friends, be damn sure you can trust Person A. And always, always, always, look behind you!

Let’s be honest gossip makes the world go round. I accept the fact that people take my name in vain, even those who love me. Sometimes they do it out of concern. Sometimes they’re pissed at me. Sometimes it may just be a really juicy story and I’m all for that!

Recently life came full circle when, in a restaurant with my Mom, she said something that wasn’t very P.C. I looked at her and said, “You never know who’s behind you!”

I didn’t smack her though.

Why?

2008-08-29T14:05:00.003-04:00

When blogging came into vogue I wondered if I should hop on the bandwagon. I’m a writer by trade so it’s obviously something I enjoy immensely, but I wondered if I had anything worthwhile to say (the jury’s still out on that). Recently I’ve found that it’s become more of a therapeutic tool for me than anything else. Writing has always helped me work through important events in my life and it’s far and away my preferred mode of communication.

I’ve kept a journal of sorts since I was about 17, but haven’t updated it with nearly the kind of frequency I used to. Thanks to that, events from 10, 20 years ago remain fresh in my mind and reading about them is a fascinating exercise. I know where the story is going but it’s as if it’s happening to someone else. I wince when I’m about to do something colossally stupid. I find myself moved by certain events, saddened by others and sometimes I laugh out loud.

I guess the blog is an extension of the journal but there is an important difference – it’s public. I don’t make any attempt to hide my identity as so many bloggers do, so anyone can google me and find it. It’s OK if that’s how you found it – c’mon we all do it! Anyone who says they don’t is full of it. If that’s how you got here and we were acquainted once, but not anymore, then welcome!

I tell stories from my past and while I don’t name anyone explicitly those in the know can put two and two together. It’s become more of a random collection of thoughts than something with an explicit purpose. I don't have an agenda. Sometimes I don’t update it for months and then I have an intense burst of creative thought. Usually when something is weighing on my mind I can release it by writing about it. I always feel better, more at peace.

It’s a tool for reflection as well. I don’t really write about the present day because it hasn’t been “processed” yet, while events from my past are ripe for re-evaluation or reflection. A recurring theme lately has been the fact that this year is the 20th anniversary of a number of milestones in my life. Some may prefer just to let the past stay buried, but I can’t for whatever reason. I like to analyze who I was then, how I behaved, why I made certain choices. It might sound like a torturous exercise, and it can be, but this is who I am.

I have to acknowledge (and at least I admit this) there’s a certain hubris that comes with blogging. You’re assuming people give a shit what you have to say. I know some of my friends read this when the spirit moves them (or I remind them!) but you’re essentially saying, “I have something to say and I want the world to know.” Maybe not quite that dramatic, but you get my meaning. Maybe because the Internet is supposed to be infinite and timeless it’s a way of leaving our stamp on the world.

I guess what I’m saying is that it’s more for me than for you, but if something I say amuses you, touches you, makes you think, or evokes something, anything, then that’s an added benefit.

The Encounter

2008-08-29T08:04:00.002-04:00

As a junior in college I took a film production class with a rather eclectic professor, who I enjoyed very much. We had to shoot several short films with an ancient black and white camera (with an old fashioned hand crank) and I had trouble coming up with something creative. Luckily my deviant pals at the library had no problem devising something...unique. Thankfully my professor was open-minded and had a sense of humor. So here for your amusement is, "The Encounter," a two-minute tale of drunk driving, man love and the power of forgiveness.

Old Friends

2008-08-28T14:55:00.006-04:00

There’s something very comforting about old friends. Approaching 40 has set off this wave of nostalgia and reflection that tends to consume me at certain moments and it’s nice to have more than a few people who I can sit and rehash “the old days” with when the spirit moves me. In fact, I have one friend who remembers absolutely everything and fills in the (many) gaps in my own recollections.

The friends I have that date back 20, 25 and 30+ years speak to me in a shorthand developed from our shared experiences and they accept me (and I them) so completely there exists a confidence that we’ll be together until we’re planted in the ground.

And not to disparage new friends but they become harder to make as the years go by. By my age (38) the majority of my peers are steeped in child-rearing, mortgage paying, driving to soccer game lives. That’s cool and I guess it’s the way of things, but it’s our friends who serve as sounding boards when we need to vent and keep us sane when the aforementioned lives stress us out. For me it's crucial to hold on to them.

When you reflect on your past it’s great to have someone to reminisce with about a given time in your life. You’re connected by shared experiences, time spent at school or work, and in the best of those circumstances a bond will form that lives beyond the experience. That’s really something to be treasured. It’s rare to get together and not talk about something from those days. It makes those experiences real.

We have people enter and leave our lives all the time. Recently I told a close friend that I believed some people come into our lives to fulfill a purpose and when that purpose has been met, their time is over. That’s either profound or pretentious (or profoundly pretentious) but after I said it I really thought about it.

Ironically, the person I made this lofty statement to was someone I had lost touch with for more than 15 years. We had been quite close and had worked together almost two years. She left for college and we corresponded, but it eventually fell off as these things often do. I encountered her again purely by happenstance (and if you trace how we got back in touch you see how precariously close it came to not happening to wonder if “fate” isn’t involved!)

She was deposited back into my life and we picked up where we left off years earlier without skipping a beat. While there was much catching up to do we still had that base, which existed after all this time.

That shouldn’t surprise me because a few years back my Dad went on a quest to unearth a number of people from his childhood (including an old girlfriend!) and he succeeded on a level I never thought possible. Now his and my mother’s lives are enriched by the presence of many people they thought they would never see or speak to again. I was a bit befuddled at first and his explanation to me was the same I offered you, dear reader – that those shared experiences during a very formative time in their lives created a bond that transcended losing touch for three or four decades!

Taking his lead I “dug up” another old friend soon after my first reunion and she was also pleased to hear from me and the old gang. Now we’re movie buddies, and I’m hoping at some point to get us all in one room at some point for a larger reunion.

Admittedly, there are people who may have held important positions in our lives who we choose not to speak to for one reason or another. I have a few and I’m sure I’m on some others’ lists, but as the years fly by you find yourself realizing that (in some cases, not all) the reasons don’t hold much water, or were borne from the melodramas of youth, and you’ve moved far beyond those events and feelings. Again, that's not always true and I'd be a hypocrite if I said I either didn't allow certain relationships to die or bailed on some.

You find that, the more support you have, the better equipped you are at dealing with whatever “real life” hurls at you. It’s those people who have been with us 100 years who are the best at helping us deal with it, because they can predict our reactions before they happen and are well versed in our psyches.

To return to my earlier point about those who serve a finite purpose I guess I’m really speaking more about those who mentor us through a certain experience, whether it be at a job or even a relationship. I think exes can be mentors to a degree. You get so close to someone in such a short amount of time that the inevitable learning curve about yourself is often overwhelming. These relationships shape who we become. They define what we can handle and what we can’t handle, and they expose many raw nerves that we refuse to explore on a daily basis.

I’m certainly not saying profound change is often the result of these experiences but they teach you so much about who you are. As with any longstanding relationship (a friendship, a marriage) there comes a point of acceptance and you stop challenging the other person (it’s too tiring!) As I look back on the tapestry of my own life, or that of my parents, I don’t see change so much as I see compromise. I admitted to someone recently I believe I am very much the person I was 20 years ago, just 100 times more self-aware.

While I discuss certain topics only with certain friends (the baseball friend, the movie friend, the nerdy stuff friend, and so on) it’s great to know that we can also shift into the “real” stuff effortlessly. Maybe that’s the point I’m trying to make – those connections we make in our youth remain the strongest, the most potent, and the most viable as the years progress. It’s sad if one ends, especially one with history, and a cause for celebration when one is reignited.

A Farewell to Shea

2008-08-27T15:55:00.011-04:00

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with baseball all my life. I love the game for its' history, for its' place in American lore and for the memories of my youth that it evokes, and most especially the bond I have with my Dad through the game.

Like many I hate the game for the way it's been watered down over the years with expansion, crappy middle relievers, juiced balls (and players), emphasis on hitting over pitching and overpaid, bratty athletes who have no gratitude for the situation they find themselves in. But I digress...

Everyone knows this year is the last one the Mets will play in Shea Stadium and I’m a little sad to see it go. I grew up a Mets fan thanks to my Dad, an old Brooklyn Dodger fan from way back. After his beloved Bums headed west he followed them for a few years as best he could and then in 1962, he hitched his wagon to the National League’s newest members, the Amazin’ Mets.

His patience was rewarded in 1969 when the “Miracle Mets” won the World Series in 1969, toppling the mighty Orioles. I was born the following year, and unfortunately for me, came of age during the dismal late 70s and early 80s where the Mets’ “stars” had names like Youngblood, Henderson and Swan. The final nail in the coffin of the Mets as a good team was the PR disaster that followed the 1977 trade of Tom Seaver, my hero.

Still the Mets were my team. I followed the Yankees (and did not yet despise them the way I do now), but I lived and died with the boys in orange and blue. Recently I attended what is sure to be my last Mets game at Shea with a good friend of mine, and we traded our favorite memories of the old place, nearly all of which were tied somehow to our fathers. I couldn’t compete with the sheer volume of his or the “wow” factor (he was at Game 6 of the ’86 World Series!!) but I have a couple of my own.

In reality I have two, and the first is one of my most precious memories of childhood. My Dad took me to a game on my tenth birthday and hatched a surprise for me that I would never forget. It was our custom back then to attend Old Timer’s Day each year, something that my Dad really loved because he got to see many of the stars of his youth. OT Day was the following day so we were going to see two games in a row, which struck me as odd, but my ten-year old brain attached no real significance to it.

When we arrived at the stadium we were met by a friend of the family, who was a transit cop. Again nothing occurred to me and I thought it was mere coincidence. We spoke briefly and he called for someone on his radio. Another officer arrived and our friend told us to go with him. Now I knew something was going on.

The officer led us through areas of the stadium I had never been before and it seemed as though we were walking forever. When we finally arrived at our destination (wherever that was) the cop pushed open a door and I found myself standing in the Mets bullpen, mouth agape.

I was completely and utterly overwhelmed. My senses were bombarded by views and sounds I had seen only from a distance, or on television. Met relievers Bob Apodaca and Skip Lockwood were warming up. I can’t remember what they said to me, if anything, but both signed my 1980 Mets Yearbook.

I was allowed on to the field briefly, and there I encountered Jerry Morales, so-so hitting outfielder who also signed my yearbook. I remember thinking how tall and sweaty he was. Last, but certainly not least, the officer prevailed on manager Joe Torre and coach Joe Pignatano to also sign for me. Again I have no memory of what they said to me. I remember Torre looking somewhat amused.

As soon as that little visit began it was over. I took one last fleeting look at the stadium from a vantage point I would never have again, and locked it away. To see Shea from that angle (and with my ten-year old sensibilities) was like seeing a cathedral, but from the altar. Very few memories have eclipsed that one, baseball or otherwise.

My other favorite memory is of Opening Day 1983, the day Tom Terrific returned to the Mets. I was stunned that they managed to get him back (and later incensed they would lose him yet again the following year) and my Dad kept me home from school so we could see his triumphant return. I never saw the stadium filled to capacity or heard thunderous roars like I did that day. Tom faced off against fellow Hall of Famer Steve Carlton that day, and even though he didn’t get the decision the Mets prevailed and he pitched very well.

Over the years my interest in baseball has waxed and waned and it has never come close to the rabid fervor I had for it when I was a kid. Having said that it remains very dear to me and those two memories are emblematic of how something that might seem so trivial (like a sport) can bring a father and son together, but it did, and I’ll always be grateful for it.

Best Scene Ever

2008-08-20T11:55:00.001-04:00

The Bats Collide

2008-07-23T11:56:00.018-04:00

Last night I finally got around to seeing “Dark Knight,” and if anyone out there reading this knows me it’s entirely appropriate for me to use the word “finally” for taking in this particular movie when it's less than a week old. I was at the theater opening night for the five “Batman” films preceding this one (and in the case of the original, a special sneak preview the night before!) I’m old and crotchety now and long since refused to see films on the weekends and deal with noisy teenagers (who I hated even when I was a teenager), rude people with their cell phones and audience members who bring children to totally age-inappropriate films, among others!

I’m currently gripped by a very nostalgic/reflective mood of late so I found myself tracking back and forth between the present day and the night I saw the first Batman film in 1989. I realize I’ve been all about ’88 lately but for thematic purposes let’s just round up a year shall we so we can fit the criteria of those recent reveries?

In 1988 the hype machine for Batman had begun in earnest. This was pre-internet, pre viral marketing so we’re really only talking about T-shirts, posters and other ephemera. Being a lifelong comic (although not necessarily Batman) fan I bought into it hook, line and sinker, as did my friends. We bought the shirts and debated endlessly the questionable virtues of Michael Keaton being cast as Batman as much as we celebrated the casting of Jack Nicholson as the Joker.

We waited with breathless anticipation for the release of mere images from the film and when a trailer hit theaters we went to the movies just to see the trailer! I ended up seeing it on television first and scrambled to find a VHS tape to record it on!

The anticipation continued to build throughout the winter and spring as the film’s merchandising began in earnest. I’ve been juiced to see plenty of movies in my life but these guys did their jobs very well – I was literally counting the days to the premiere. As fate would have it a special Thursday night preview was held on the eve of the film’s release and my entire group of friends planned to attend this landmark event.

I should backtrack a little. During the Batman hysteria I met and started dating my first real girlfriend and Batman became a running theme throughout our relationship, mainly because one of our first conversations revolved around the killing of Robin by DC Comics in 1988. It sounds stupid but it was somewhat significant because she brought the news to my attention so she could start a conversation with me. Everything that followed between us sort of flowed from that. So I owe my first relationship, in part, to my love of comics. Who would’ve thought??

Like an idiot I drew bats everywhere, on letters to her, on scrap paper, in my schoolbooks. Again my hats off to the marketing boys! I was reading every comic that was even tangentially related to Batman, including the essential “Dark Knight” by Frank Miller, and “The Killing Joke,” by Alan Moore and Brian Bolland. Many of us who had grown up watching Adam West’s campy version of the character now disowned him as an awful stepchild, a blasphemous anomaly. I was guilty of this behavior but have long since seen the error of my ways.

The day finally came – June 22, 1988. The date nicely converged with our six-month anniversary (remember when you acknowledged every month’s anniversary?? Ah youth…)

Then I woke up on July 22, 2008 and found myself clutched by the throat by my arch nemesis Dr. Nostalgia (who has been kicking my ass all year) and spent the entire day battling him to little avail. Finally I surrendered and let the memories come. As each significant moment in the day occurred I flashed back to the companion moment 19 years earlier and was locked in a deadly battle of wills to stay rooted in the present.

Today I would see my sixth Batman film. I tracked back to each premiere, recalling what stage in my life I was in at the time. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast but I remember where and with whom I saw each film (I can do that with just about any movie). Here’s the breakdown:

Batman (1989) – a college student without a care in the world happily dating his first love
Batman Returns (1992) – a very recent college graduate with no direction and a very young girlfriend who is nothing like the first
Batman Forever (1995) – newly single and not dealing with it well but finally on my way to a solid career
Batman and Robin (1997) – engaged (!) and settled in nicely at my job
Batman Begins (2005) – old married man – in a “new” job for the last five years
The Dark Knight (2008) – older married man who’s become an institution at his job!

I can’t remember what I was doing in the early part of June 22 but it’s a safe bet I was with my girlfriend at least some of the time. I do know that I was in a state of bliss brought on by my happiness with her somehow co-mingling with the unbridled anticipation for this film. While she probably thought my obsession for the film was nuts she seemed genuinely excited for me that it was finally here.

My friends and I meticulously planned the evening so there would be no tragedies (like a sell out). One friend would buy the tickets for all of us and hand them out as we arrived. In 2008 I was much less concerned about getting in as it was a Tuesday evening. There was an eager anticipation on my part that still could not hope to match that of 1989.

I was hoping to appease Dr. Nostalgia by seeing the film with as many of the original “cast” from ’89 as I could but it’s a lot harder to get these people together these days. One person from the original crew joined us (and not the one I expected) so I managed to appease him, but just barely.

Past and present converged briefly as I found myself in the exact same spot at the exact same time prior to seeing each film – the library. Please see my magnum opus “20 Years of SRPL” on sale at www.blurb.com for that whole backstory but suffice it to say, yes I was still working (part-time) in the exact same place as 19 years ago.

It gets a little sci-fi here because I was seeing 1989 through the lens of 2008 and catching glimpses of myself mooning over my girlfriend while wearing one of my 42 Batman shirts. I reached out to grab my younger self by the throat in an attempt to kick my own ass but my fist flew through the phantom from the past and I thought, “He’s happy. Let him be.”

In 1989 we worked until 9:00 and I believe the show started at 9:30 and we knew it would be a zoo. In 2008 I decided to leave early to see an 8:00 show. I assumed it would be a tame crowd and didn’t feel the need to rush so I left the library (and its ghosts) at 7:15.

In 1989 my girlfriend made us stop at her house so she could give me some Batman-related items she bought for me (one was a poster). I was a little hesitant as we did not have much time and I knew my friend would be waiting impatiently for us at the theater with our tickets. I deferred to her because not agreeing to simply wasn’t an option with her. This slightly romantic interlude caused us to arrive last and my friend was waiting outside the theater with fire in his eyes (and our tickets). She threw him a snide remark, I quickly got between them and we went inside to a jam packed theater.

In 2008 I drove to a different theater to see the film (one that did not exist in 1989) and Dr. Nostalgia hammered me with the memories I just recounted, making me wonder where the years went. I found it ironic it was another 22nd. So much had changed, yet remained the same.

I arrived at the theater in 2008 and thought I was witnessing 1989 all over again as it was mobbed. My friends and I were stunned to see this kind of crowd on a Tuesday night! The lines to buy tickets were a jangled mess and we wondered aloud if we would make it (and if so, how bad would our seats be?)

Turns out we did make it inside and our seats were not that horrible (the seats in 1989 were better but that theater was a fleapit!) In addition to the old friend joining us the other person in our small party was actually the brother of a 1989 attendee – someone who was 10 years old when the first one was released. At that moment Dr. Nostalgia came from out of nowhere, threw my fat ass up against the wall, and hammered away relentlessly as I begged him to stop.

Somehow I called up my final reserve of strength and floored Dr. N by embracing and not bemoaning the fact so much time had passed in the blink of an eye. Rather than be haunted by those memories I took them inside and cherished them but at the same time I accepted where and when I was at that very moment.

I smiled thoughtfully as with a fleeting glance I caught my girlfriend smiling at me in 1989 as the lights went down, clutching my arm as if to say, “It’s finally here!” and then she and I disappeared. At that exact moment the lights went down in both theaters and my two selves reunited, both giddy in their anticipation of a film that would define a moment in their lives. For some Godforsaken reason with each Batman film I take a mental snapshot of myself for future reference and I still don't quite understand why.

Go see it.........

2008-07-18T19:28:00.003-04:00

I can't believe it's been almost 20 years since the Keaton/Nicholson "Batman." While that film holds a special place in my bat-heart it pales in comparison to "Batman Begins." One sign I'm getting old - I'm waiting for the crowds to die down and seeing it on (gasp!) a weeknight with my boys. In the audience will be at least two or three people who saw the first one with me in 1989, which is kind of cool. I'll post my thoughts when I see it!

Thanks Bobby

2008-07-15T14:58:00.004-04:00

When Bobby Murcer died over the weekend I felt an overwhelming sadness for those who considered him their hero. I admired Bobby greatly, both for his playing skills and for the way he bravely battled cancer. However I can’t say he was my childhood hero. Unfortunately my childhood hero, Tom Seaver, has a lousy rep amongst the fans and it’s only by staying away from him that can I keep my cherished image from being tarnished.

Better writers than I are offering heartfelt tributes to Bobby and anything I say will only rehash what is already being said with great eloquence. However I do want to share my favorite memory of him, one that occurred on August 6, 1979, the day the Yankees buried their captain Thurman Munson.

Everyone knows what Bobby accomplished that day. I vividly recall watching the game and being so caught up in the frenzy surrounding Munson’s death. I was obsessed with it and I remember clipping newspaper articles and scanning the news incessantly for coverage. It was the first time in my little sphere such an awful tragedy occurred and while I was not so much upset by it (I was nine) I was drawn to the event like a moth to a flame.

This all came to a crescendo when the Yankees took the field the night of August 6. The funeral took place earlier that day and heartrending eulogies were offered by Bobby and Lou Piniella, among others. Upon hearing they would postpone that night’s game Munson’s widow Diana told them Thurman would not have any of it and demanded they take the field.

Physically and emotionally drained, the Yankees flew back to New York for their game against the Baltimore Orioles. What happened that night was nothing short of mythical. You couldn’t write a better screenplay for what happened. In fact, if you did, cynics would argue that it was a typical schmaltzy Hollywood style ending.

But it did happen and for my money, it is a moment that rivals Lou Gehrig’s farewell speech in its poignancy. It may even exceed it because that night Bobby Murcer single handedly won the game for his friend, bolstering his team and bolstering an entire city steeped in mourning. Exhausted and emotionally drained, Bobby Murcer reached inside himself and somehow achieved something I consider superhuman.

Down 4-0 he brought the Yankees within striking distance with a three-run homer in the seventh inning that, on its own, would probably be remembered and rehashed endlessly. If he hit the home run and the Yanks lost it still would survive as an indelible moment. However Bobby still had something left in him.

He came to bat in the ninth inning with two men on and on a 0-2 count he sliced the ball to the opposite field driving in both the tying and winning run. Unfortunately iconic ABC broadcaster Howard Cossell didn’t let the moment speak for itself and blathered on, endlessly stating the obvious (whereas Vin Scully would’ve let us soak it all in and write our own script). Even Howard, pompous windbag that he was, doesn’t ruin the moment and it’s wonderful to see Bobby’s teammates envelop him, allowing themselves to release the emotions of the last week in a moment of jubilation.

It’s sad that so few regular season games survive from that era and of all the games to be preserved I am so pleased this one endures. For me it’s like the real-life version of “The Natural” (with goose bump inducing music replaced by Howard’s mouth). Bobby Murcer achieved mythic status that night for me and an enduring admiration for who he was as a person. Through strength of will as much as the considerable baseball skills he possessed, did he allow the events of August 6, 1979 to take place, giving me my greatest baseball memory. Thanks Bobby.

The Book of the Century

2008-06-16T11:06:00.001-04:00

SRPL - Upload a Document to Scribd

The Best Gift Idea Ever!

2008-05-21T10:03:00.008-04:00

Recently I attended a retirement party for a beloved secretary where I work. One of her gifts was a beautifully designed book recounting her many years of service in words and pictures. It's not a photo album where the pictures can be taken out - it was a slick, glossy, professionally produced and published book.

As both my parents 40th and my 10th wedding anniversaries loomed I was looking for the "perfect" gift idea and this was it, hands down! I'm not shilling for the company but I have turned many people on to it so I figured I'd let the world know.

Check out www.blurb.com to see how to make your own. If you're curious what mine look like there are 16-page previews for them at the site. Just do a search for "Vivona." Rudimentary computer skills are all that are truly required to create something that people will cherish.

American Flyers

2008-05-21T09:17:00.004-04:00

You ever have one of those friends you just love messing with? Someone you just have to play a trick on or mess up their stuff? I do. I've known him for 32 years (since first grade) and by now we sort of have a shorthand for communicating with each other. He's a great guy and because we're so close I have no problem saying or doing anything to him.

There was also sort of an unwritten rule – I had nothing but good luck, him not so much. I was an only child ("The Prince") He was the oldest of a large brood. I got everything I ever asked for. He got a rock. He's always taken this very good naturedly but if I had to make a comparison watch Everybody Loves Raymond and pay close attention to the relationship between Ray and his older brother Robert. That's us. However despite this he's been the best friend I could ever ask for, for any number of reasons.

When we were about 15 he and another friend dropped by my house and invited me to go to the town pool. I fired up the classy Ross 10-speed and off we went. He had a 1950s garage sale bike with the banana seat and my other friend had a bike similar to mine.

Like idiots we rode across the road instead of single file (I guess so we could talk at the same time). We weren't going particularly fast but it was a decent clip. All of a sudden we hear a car behind us. Now I was on the right side and my crappy bike friend was in the middle and my nice bike friend on the left. Nice bike got out of the way on the other side of the street. Crappy bike yells out, "Look out, American Flyers!" (It was 1985 and it was a bicycle race movie with Kevin Costner, still haven't seen it.)

Crappy bike crashes into me at full speed. (Now I have to go on the description the other friend gave me because the rest is a little hazy.) Our front wheels locked on impact and sent both of us flying. The friend who witnessed it describes it this way. "You tumbled and rolled into someone's driveway and then the bike fell on top of you. He glided downward on to someone's lawn and bounced ever so gently like a feather." (Now you're thinking who has the bad luck here? Be patient.)

So crappy bike gets up and dusts himself off while I'm lying there under my bike bleeding from any number of wounds, in my stomach, my elbows, my right hand and my leg. When I fell I braced myself with my arms so I wouldn't hit my head. I had gravel imbedded in my skin wherever I was bleeding……..and the cool 10-speed was on top of me.

We weren't that far from the house so we walked the bikes back while I cursed crappy bike up and down. Then the fools busted out my Dad's first aid kit and tried to wrap me up like a mummy. They did a bang up job – the gauze stuck to the wounds but hung off like toilet paper everywhere else. My Mom came home from work and immediately freaked, brought me to the doctor, got me cleaned up, etc.

Now here's where the good luck starts. I had no broken bones. Cool. That summer my parents had been bugging me to get a job which I did not want to do. I had also been angling for them to buy a VCR for my bedroom. They were giving me static trying to convince me if I got a job I could buy it myself. F**k that.

That day my Mom set me up in my room with pillows for my head and leg, a nice lunch and anything else I asked for. The guys came over to see how I was and saw me in the lap of luxury, sitting there like the sultan. Within 48 hours I had my VCR and that summer was the last summer I didn't have to work. I rule. My friend commented that his parents would've told him to stop bleeding on the carpet. That one episode kind of typified how things went for us. Even when I lost I won. Every once in a while I look down at my right hand to see the permanent scar I have from the accident and I can't help but smile.

The Right Choice

2008-05-21T09:13:00.000-04:00

You ever have one of those moments where if you turned left instead of right something terrible would've happened to you? I was supposed to take a morning flight to Los Angeles on Sept. 15, 2001 that was pushed back from earlier that week – whether the original date was Sept. 11, I honestly don't know as I was not the one making the arrangements. It spooked me though.

One day I came home for dinner during one of the worst summer thunderstorms I can remember. I parked the car in front of my parents' house and ran up the walkway. My father was waiting for me with the door open. He saw a flash behind me as I was running and then a loud crack bowled me over and knocked me into him. Lightning had struck the ground where I was running an instant before (and the ground was singed).

The one moment that really stays with me happened about 12-13 years ago. The drive home from the library where I (still) work was literally five minutes. It was almost all residential driving except that I had to cross over a major road (where there was a light) to get to my house.

There are stop signs all along the street leading up to this intersection. For nearly the entire ride there was no one ahead of me. At the last stop sign before the intersection someone pulled up on the opposite side and wanted to turn in front of me. I have to confess I'm not exactly Mr. Courteous Driver. I hate when people cut me off to make stupid left turns across Northern Blvd and crap like that, so more often than not I'm like, "I don't see you!" and don't let them in.

However today I was being charitable and I let the person turn in front of me. Now I was the second car at the intersection waiting for the light to change. The light turned green and the driver in front of me inched out only to be broadsided by someone who ran the red light. The guy who hit him jumped the divider, hit another car coming the opposite way and then a parked car. The guy in front of me was pushed forward about twenty feet and he hit a parked car.

Obviously had I not allowed that driver to go ahead of me I would've been creamed instead of him. It was the worst accident I had ever seen or have ever seen. I was shaking for hours on that one.

The Power of a Letter

2008-05-21T09:11:00.003-04:00

I'm obviously old enough to remember what communication was like before e-mail, IM, cell phones, etc. Even at that time the letter was a dying form of communicating and now it's all but gone. I make my living as a writer and have always loved writing. For me a letter is one of the best ways of communicating with someone. Obviously it's not something to use as a crutch or in the place of face to face communication but there are times when a letter says it best.

For people who have a hard time expressing themselves a letter can be a godsend. For people who are afraid a fight will ensue after two minutes they can get it all out. The recipient has no choice but to be a captive audience and absorb what's being said. This can diffuse a really high tension situation and set the stage for calmer discussion (hopefully). Some people don't respond well to any negative comments but I feel the majority are taken aback by a letter and think before they strike back.

Beyond that I've found that a letter is a great way to say something to someone who really means something, like a parent or a close friend. If you're like me you just can't take them aside and tell them, especially in moments of great joy or sadness. When I got married I was overwhelmed by how much my parents had done for me throughout my life and I wrote each of them a letter. A good friend of mine was nearly killed in a car crash and I wrote him a letter. I've written them to friends who've lost a loved one because I can never really articulate anything at a wake or a funeral.

I've found that when people are going through something awful I don't want to call them and dredge it all up and make them talk about it. I'd rather just offer them words of support. It's also something permanent, something they can look back on when things really suck, and hopefully feel a little better.

I guess letters are also my way of drunk dialing since I don't drink. Of course I've sent plenty to ex-girlfriends and a few others who I no longer speak to. I'm not embarrassed that they are still out there, hanging in space (if they saved them). It's a snapshot of how I felt at the time and maybe I needed to write what I did to get on with life (I wrote a whopper to an ex that was longer than most term papers). If it was expressing feelings that no longer exist well then it's just a part of my past and I acknowledge that was who I was at that moment.

I don't expect anyone who reads this to go out and start writing away but I can tell you that the responses I've gotten have always made it worth the effort and I don't regret any of them. I'd rather that when I died people just got up and read letters I wrote instead of a eulogy. It's proof the written word can speak volumes.

The Ranger will return

2008-03-28T10:50:00.001-04:00

visit videodetective.com for more info

"Smile You Son of a Bitch!"

2008-02-11T12:22:00.002-05:00

Roy Scheider was my favorite actor. There I said it. It’s not Harrison Ford or Sean Connery, Gene Hackman or Burt Lancaster, Jack Lemmon or Michael Caine, but the man who ad-libbed the ominous line, “You're gonna need a bigger boat,” to Robert Shaw when he caught a glimpse of the massive 30-foot shark he and his motley band were tracking in “Jaws,” the film he'll always be remembered for.

Scheider was an actor who effortlessly portrayed the sometimes grouchy everyman all of us could identify with. To be sure they were often heroic men but the vast majority of his performances were all guys who either reminded us of someone or given the right circumstances, could’ve been us.

He projected a gruff likeability. Chief Brody in “Jaws” was frustrated by his role as a glorified civil servant, but when a real crisis threatens those he protects he will stop at nothing to do the right thing, and his battle with the bureaucrats is equally as engaging (if not as heart stopping) as his battle with the shark.

On that boat with Quint (Shaw) and Hooper (Richard Dreyfuss) Brody represents our point of view. Bordered by two “experts” who despise each other he must keep the peace to ensure the success of their mission. In the end it falls to him anyway and as the last man standing he must use his wits to defeat the shark when his more knowledgeable compatriots fail. When he kills the shark (intoning the film’s second most famous line) he strikes a blow for all of us who dream of that one heroic moment when we prevail against all odds.

I was immediately drawn to Roy’s effortless acting style. He had a way with humorous dialogue. His deadpan delivery and sarcastic wit always made me laugh. His characters often bucked the system and if they had to defy authority to do what was right they did, as was the case in “Blue Thunder,” “2010,” “The French Connection,” or even the sleazy trash-fest “52 Pick-Up” (a Schedier guilty pleasure if there ever was one). I can imagine he was cast in these roles because few actors could pull off heroism without seeming pretentious or phony or be compelling without sounding shrill or lofty.

His career slid badly in the mid-1980s and never recovered. He was a bankable leading man until that time and I’ve never heard a satisfactory answer as to why he only found work in B-grade thrillers or small character parts from then on. He deserved much better than that. Whenever he was given a meaty character role the old Roy shone through. As a serial killer facing execution in a taut episode of “Law and Order: Criminal Intent” last year he schooled star Vincent D’Onofrio (no slouch himself) during some grueling interrogation scenes.

I came of age when Roy peaked and his films number among some of my all-time favorites, including “Jaws” (obviously), “The French Connection,” “Blue Thunder,” and “2010.” About six years ago I started collecting the autographs of my favorite actors and Roy was among the first I sought. I sent him a “Jaws” DVD cover and he sent it back signed along with a nicely-inscribed headshot. Getting a response like that from one of my idols was something I’ll always treasure.

By all accounts Scheider was a gregarious man who enjoyed discussing his career. He recently helped shepherd a new documentary about “Jaws,” entitled “The Shark is Still Working,” that is obviously a labor of love. He not only consented to an interview but agreed to narrate it and encouraged others to participate.

He leaves behind a body of work that speaks for itself. His participation in the films I’ve mentioned gave them a credibility they might not otherwise have enjoyed. His characters viewed life without complication. They sought to do what was right and had little stomach for the bureaucratic mentality. Roy’s gift as an actor was to put the audience in the middle of the action, to act as their surrogate no matter how outrageous the experience. I’ll miss him.

www.sharkisstillworking.com

One More Round

2006-12-18T08:54:00.000-05:00

Any casual reader of this blog can see how addicted I am to films. I’ve immersed myself in their lexicon for the last 20+ years (very often to the detriment of reading a good book). While I sometimes feel guilty that I’m not as well read as I should be watching a good movie gives me much more pleasure. I only read books that come highly recommended because I often feel that the time wasted reading a bad book does not equal the time wasted watching a bad movie. I’ll also confess to enjoying many conventionally bad movies or those with absolutely no artistic merit. Entertain me. That’s all I ask.

I became a voracious movie watcher in my early teens when my parents bought me my first VCR in 1984. I started taping my favorite films and watching them ad nauseam. I had to limit the time spent watching them to early afternoons however as said VCR was connected to the living room television. I had an older set in my room (and I would get my own VCR in 1986).

The films that captivated my youth were mostly of the science fiction, fantasy and action variety, with some low-brow comedy thrown in for good measure. A list of films I’ve likely seen between 50-100 times would include: any of the original “Star Wars” trilogy, the first four “Star Trek” films, the first two “Superman” films, “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, “Ghostbusters,” “Aliens,” “Blazing Saddles,” “Batman” and “Jaws.” I came to drama and horror later on (as I’ve mentioned in previous entries) thanks to the influence of others.

However one drama captivated me as a young teen. I couldn’t explain why because the film had no explosions, space battles or scatological humor. It was a simple drama shot in dingy colors featuring talented young actors. Its popularity was such that it demanded several sequels and along with “Saturday Night Fever” defined the late 70s. Because of its longevity the series has built up a minority of vocal detractors who feel it has gone on long past its prime but it still has the power to move me in a way no other film has. And very soon, to my amazement and great pleasure, Rocky Balboa will return to the screen after 16 years, presumably for the final time.

I’m, a little unclear as to my first exposure to the lovable pug from South Philly. It was either seeing “Rocky III” in the theater with my parents or “Rocky II” on television. Either film was an excellent entrée into the life of this wildly popular character. Many feel “Rocky III” was the apex of the series and while I tend to agree, it’s the original that boasts one of the most inspiring and heartwarming stories in film history. I did not see the original “Rocky” until 1984, eight years after it won the Oscar for Best Picture.

It’s hard to say why we attach ourselves to a particular film, book, sports team, etc. but it’s the attachments we make as young people that remain the strongest throughout our lives. I felt connected to this character in a way I never had to any other. His life was a metaphor for accomplishing the impossible and while the story was larger than life it could be applied to all of us at some point in our lives. Rocky gave us hope. His determination bolstered our own. His humanity showed us our heroes need not be invincible. He faced the depths and clawed his way out. What attracted most people was his humanity, his decency and his desire to make something of himself.

I’m not about to imply that any success I had in life is attributable to Rocky. However all the films offer a story of a man faced with long odds and overcoming them. It wouldn’t be a “feel-good” movie if Rocky did not succeed in the end – whether by actually defeating his opponent or simply going the distance, but more importantly it’s the struggle that counts. That’s the heart of these films. Being told you can’t do something and proving that you can.

In the intervening years the affection I felt for the character has never waned. Sixteen years have passed since the last film and as a fan I had long given up hope that there would be another. Happily everything finally fell into place last year and Rocky will enter the ring once again.

I know there are naysayers out there who think Sly is too old and this character should have been retired years ago. That in itself makes it a perfect scenario for Rocky to return as it essentially parallels the film’s storyline: proving that even as we reach the twilight of our lives we are still viable. We still have something to say. We can still contribute. If George Foreman could do it why not Rocky?

I know in my bones this will be the last Rocky film and I’m OK with that. To me this film is a gift to all of us who have loved this character for 20-30 years and there are a lot of us out there. Sly tapped into something all of us felt on a visceral level when he created this character. He obviously struck gold in more ways than one, giving us someone who could inspire us when faced with a tough situation, someone who felt the crushing weight of adversity and did not know if he could survive, someone who embodied the best parts in all of us, someone who could go one more round when he didn’t think he could. As Rock said that’s what makes all the difference in our lives.

Bananas Aren't Just Fruit

2006-05-08T10:47:00.001-04:00

For as long as I can remember my father had a special name for those social misfits who stood out amidst the throngs of polite society calling attention to themselves in the most negative way possible – banana heads. He still uses it to this day and I couldn’t help but pick it up over the years. It was a way of classifying someone who really didn’t deserve common derogatory names like “jerk,” or my personal favorite, “asshole.” No, these are people so socially retarded that they believe everyone else around them has issues and they don’t, OR are completely blind to their own issues and the irritation they cause others.

Now let me preface this by saying I am not a banana head. How do I know this? Well several reasons actually. I am entirely cognizant of what most of my issues are. I can be abrasive, overly blunt, and very obnoxious. I am sure I’ve been called the nasty name I love so much on many occasions. When I don’t like someone I am so openly disdainful that I can’t bring myself to look at them, much less speak to them.

I’ve been blessed with many friends over the years and had two long-standing girlfriends before I met the girl who I would eventually marry. I’m also cognizant of my eccentricities (and I’m sure either my wife or my mother would be happy to tell you what they are!) We all have foibles that are uniquely ours – that’s not what I’m discussing here.

Let me also say before I get to it that just because you may not like someone means they’re a banana. Personality conflicts do not necessarily a banana make. You may not like a person’s ideas, their work habits, their sense of humor, the sound of their voice, the way they dress, whatever. Personality conflicts occur every day between people who love, hate and tolerate each other. They happen at home, at work, in the best and worst marriages and families. I could strangle my best friends on an almost daily basis but I couldn’t imagine life without them. It’s how you manage those conflicts that allow the relationship to succeed or fail.

No, what I’m talking about are the utterly hopeless individuals who you may find yourself working alongside or even worse, related to. If you’re stupid enough to marry one (the one area where you have a choice) you’re an idiot and I have no sympathy for you.

It’s sad to say but every extended family, every workplace, every bowling team, every club, every area where people cluster in groups of at least ten usually has a banana. And if it doesn’t just wait, it will. I’ve been lucky in my life but I’ve met my fair share. My banana meter is always set to high when I meet new people and usually I can spot one in 5 minutes. I’m always nervous when new people are hired at my job because there is the one area where you truly have no control over how much banana contact you will have.

OK so what is a banana? A banana is someone so oblivious to their own social, emotional or interpersonal retardation that they truly believe there is something wrong with the rest of the world. They have lots of ex-friends or never had many, they’re likely divorced (but not necessarily). They may’ve had decent looks to fall back on at one time and suckered someone into marrying them. The worst kind of banana is a married one – why? Because they obviously married another banana and will spawn a child who is utterly doomed.

I see a lot of banana progeny at the library where I work (and have since I was in high school – I know that just set off some banana meters so read the older blogs to see what a hip, cool place it was). These kids haven’t the first clue as to how to relate to one another, adults, the opposite sex, you name it. They have no concept of dress, manner or hygiene (yuck). When I see them I want to beat the crap out of their parents.

See I was a nerd growing up but I socialized with people. I had friends (most were nerds but a few “cool” ones) I was shy and didn’t start dating in earnest until I was 18. I read comic books and was teased incessantly for it (no one cared I liked baseball). As I got older I managed to balance the nerdier stuff with the more socially acceptable. These days people think it’s quaint more than anything else, but go to any Star Trek convention and you’ll see throngs of people who let it overtake their lives, so much so that that is the only venue they can find friends or potential mates.

Adult bananas are way worse than teenage bananas though, because they made it this far in life thinking their way of being is just fine thank you. They’ve grown up thinking it’s ok to prattle on endlessly about nonsensical bullshit to whoever is listening and believe they care. Obviously no one is listening at home but their five cats.

In work situations it’s inevitable you’ll hear people’s personal conversations. I have no real issues with that. However when they erupt into diatribes about their overly-inflated personal issues, hypochondria, mistreatment by the rest of the world, I get a little pissed. God bless headphones.

See that’s the core of being a banana – the feeling the rest of the world is screwing you, the notion that it’s everyone else’s fault, the belief that every relationship/friendship you ever had failed because of the other person. You know sometimes people get divorced because both people just can’t get it together, but more often than not it’s one person who just can’t be dealt with in any rational way, OR they are so demanding of the other person and not of themselves that they end up with the one person they can truly live with……themselves.

It’s easy to spot a banana because they reveal themselves so quickly. As a “normal” person I do the sensible thing. I let the eccentricities slip out over time as we get to know each other better. A banana tips their hand immediately.

Bananas are replete with verbal and bodily tics, for lack of a better term. They repeat annoying behaviors on a daily, almost hourly basis. They are instantly recognizable and us non-bananas know them when we see them. Repeated phrases are a real tip off.

As I said I’ve encountered relatively few bananas in my life but I’ll illustrate one example for you. At the library there is a woman who's been there as long as I have. She is the single most annoying person I have ever encountered. She was there about two years when I got there and was already openly despised by the entire staff. She’s still there, completely oblivious to the obvious disgust with which she’s held. She’ll try to make polite conversation with people who’ve yelled at her the day before. She’s the only person a staff member can tell to shut up and get away with it. A rite of passage for all of us is to yell at her at least once (which I’ve done).

She’s a complete germophobe who puts paper towels down on couches before she sits (toilets I can understand). She claims a host of physical infirmities and tries to get anyone in earshot to pick something up, move something, carry something (everyone says no). Physically she’s a scrawny wisp of a thing with a face that would break glass and a high-pitched whiny voice that would make a dog’s ears bleed.

And guess what? She’s divorced and had a daughter who from what we gather, doesn’t speak to her. She has no friends and hangs around work long past her time to leave. She calls grocery stores and asks the butcher how the meat is today. When the staff has parties she’s never included. But because it’s a civil service job the procedure to fire her is so involved and drawn out no one has had the balls to start it.

She’s the Queen Banana but there have been others. In most instances I maintain as discreet a distance as I can but when you’re sitting right behind one the best thing you can do is just put the headphones on and say nothing. They will never change. The more alert bananas do notice the cold shoulder though. Sometimes they will prod you as to why. What do you say? “You’re a banana head and I can’t stand you.” That might give you some momentary pleasure but before you know it your boss is calling HR so I’d rather just have them believe I’m a nasty prick. Some get the hint, some don’t. The ones who don’t need some dirty looks and abrupt answers to get a hint. They’ll just chalk it up to you being mean, because of course, what’s not to like about me?

Bananas will always be there. There’s nothing we can do but commiserate with our non-banana friends and colleagues about how ridiculous they are. Let’s face it we all talk about each other but it’s so much more fun when you gang up on a banana. It makes you feel so secure in your own skin. You feel like part of a secret club and the beauty of it? Bananas would never suspect you of talking about them!

So when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, step out, count to ten, find some like minded individuals and rip that banana to shreds. It’s the only thing that keeps us going.

I-Con

2006-04-07T12:19:00.000-04:00

Anyone who happens by this blog unexpectedly probably thinks I’m a total nerd because of all my convention reports. Fair enough. I’d like to think of myself as a “high-functioning nerd,” which is to say someone who has no such interests found me appealing enough to marry (8 years and counting!) and I interact in many corners of polite society where no one is the wiser about my interests (not that I hide them). Truth be known most people at work and such find them “quaint,” and “harmless” (never cheap though!)

This entry figures to be my last Con report for awhile as there don’t seem to be any on the horizon for some time. For years I’ve known about the I-Con science fiction convention held annually at SUNY Stony Brook located in Suffolk County on Long Island. Its’ stated goal is to offer attendees as broad an experience as possible with regard to all aspects of science fiction – books, gaming, media, costuming, etc. They host authors, actors, game developers and critics of every stripe and it attracts all kinds, from us self-reassuring “high-functioners” to some very scary individuals. However that’s to be expected at any show.

I never had a burning desire to go (despite having a friend who begged me every year) but this year I felt like giving it a shot. There were actors I was interested in seeing (some for the second time) and I wondered how the experience would compare to Creation or Chiller, in terms of face time with the actors, Q & A’s, autograph lines, etc.

I was primarily interested in meeting Ron Glass of “Firefly,” and “Barney Miller” fame as well as seeing George Takei again (especially after his recent no-so-shocking revelation), and Richard Hatch of “Battlestar Galactica.” I-Con doesn’t go crazy with the media guests. It's a volunteer effort and they don’t seem to have a ton of money to spread around so they get one or two “high-powered” performers. The other ones who attend are there are their own dime, hawking autographs, etc.

My original plan was to only attend on Sunday, despite the fact they were chock full of programming beginning on Friday night. The only kink was it appeared that Ron Glass was only signing on Saturday (according to the online schedule) I was just as interested in getting his autograph as a Q & A session so I left work early on Saturday and ran there just for that. Little did I know he had a booth and was signing throughout the weekend. Oh well. At least I was registered and wouldn’t have to deal with that on Sunday.

I would’ve liked to attend many of the panel discussions that were held but the vast majority were on Saturday. Most conventions (and I know this already) wind down on Sunday and many L.A. based guests book out of there early to catch flights. So things were winding down by 2:00 and I missed out on meeting someone else I had hoped to (Marc Singer).

I was able to attend two fun Q & A’s with Takei and Glass. That experience made going worthwhile as it was a very intimate setting and the stars really seemed into it. I had heard most of Takei’s canned answers to common questions (I even asked one I knew full well the answer to) but he’s an original cast member of classic Star Trek, and they sadly won’t be around forever. Also I’m still doing penance for deliberately missing him when he appeared at my college back in 1990 so I could spend QT my then-girlfriend (who dumped me that same year). I’ve seen him three times since. He really didn’t reference his homosexuality, only to say he was preparing a revised autobiography because “there were a lot of gaps.” He discussed the failed attempt at a Captain Sulu series as well as his recent turn as Howard Stern’s announcer, which coupled with coming out, gave him more play than he’s had in years.

Ron Glass was very entertaining. He is completely befuddled by his renewed popularity thanks to “Firefly,” a show cancelled after 11 episodes. “They don’t have ‘Barney Miller’ conventions,” he joked. He was extremely good natured and was happy to entertain questions on a variety of topics. It was obvious how much he loved “Firefly,” and despite Book’s death in “Serenity,” he was good natured about how it all turned out. I asked him if he was ever privy to Book’s backstory to which he replied, “Joss isn’t as generous as you think he is,” explaining that Book was to be the show’s enigma, begetting slow reveals and morsels of information over the course of 4-5 years. Guess not.

Unfortunately I missed Richard Hatch’s presentation the day before and there was little else at the show to do but peruse the massive dealer’s room. I was able to meet Hatch there and chat briefly, do the autograph/photo thing but the other actors had left already. The bulk of the interesting program was held Friday night and Saturday. If I go next year I’ll most likely go Saturday. All in all it was a great experience, and a nice change of pace from Creation and Chiller. It has something for every sci-fi/fantasy fan (some might say too much!) and the tone is much more subdued and relaxed.

http://www.iconsf.org

Grand Slam Travelogue Conclusion

2006-03-30T11:25:00.001-05:00

As Day 2 of the Con loomed snowstorms, hailstorms and thunderstorms beset Southern California while the east coast was enjoying record highs (whatever). Saturday is traditionally a crazy day at a three-day event like this. On Friday people are generally working and they program “lesser” guests and on Sunday many of the guests pack up and leave early. Creation is nothing if not savvy and they tend to leave one or two heavy hitters to the bitter end on Sunday.

As I mentioned previously I enjoy Grand Slam because it offers more than just “Trek.” Saturday’s major events included a few “Trek” guests but the really big ones were from “Firefly,” and “Lost,” two of my favorite shows. This would also be the first time people from “Lost” would appear at Grand Slam and they included Evangeline Lilly (Kate), Ian Somerhalder (Boone) and Naveen Andrews (Sayyid). An added bonus for me was the fact Ian and Naveen did not sign through the mail (unlike most of the cast) and today was my chance to grab their autographs.

Nathan Fillion (Malcolm Reynolds in “Firefly”) was originally slated to appear but cancelled about a month prior. They replaced him with Adam Baldwin (a great guest and friendly guy) but I had met him at last year’s GS and have never seen Nathan in person. Such is life. Adam was joined by Morena Baccarin (Inara) and Summer Glau (River) and their panel was the first big one of the day. They didn’t disappoint and as with Adam and Alan Tudyk last year this was further proof of how well these castmates get along.

Adam basically took the lead for most of the Q &A but the girls eventually warmed up to it and had fun. I had hoped there might be some nuggets of information as to “Firefly’s” future but there was nothing except to say it all hinges on the DVD of “Serenity.” Prior to the panel I had pics taken with all three. The autograph session was great as all of them were happy to personalize for me.

By far the day’s biggest draw was the “Lost” panel. I scrambled to get a photo taken with Evangeline while the “Firefly” autographs were going on but I made it in plenty of time. She was obviously awestruck by the breadth of the convention but still super friendly. During the panel she noted a little apprehension about coming but she was pleasantly surprised and glad she did (I’m sure the money didn’t hurt either!) Their Q & A was energetic as well, with Ian playfully grousing about being killed off a hit show.

The day was far from Trek-less though as Gary Graham (Soval on “Enterprise”) and Jeffrey Combs (Shran, Weyoun, Brunt, you name it) appeared on stage together. Their pairing grew out of a scene they did together on “Enterprise” wherein Shran tortured Soval and they had fun playing off that. I also neglected to mention in the previous post that Garrett Wang was on hand Friday and while I wasn’t a huge “Voyager” or Harry Kim fan I enjoyed his talk.

Wang returned Saturday with former “Voyager” co-star Tim Russ for a panel about their ultra low budget short film “Déjà vu,” and appearing with them was the ever-present Chase Masterson (who co-stars in the film) as well as the producers. It was a fun discussion but nothing earth shattering.

The day ended early for me since I didn’t care about the star of “Supernatural,” Jared Paledecki, and just had some “Lost” photo ops to get through.

Day 3

I’m usually more than ready to come home by Sunday because, while these cons are great fun, they’re also very tiring. Sunday started quietly with appearances by astronauts Wally Schira and Alan Bean. Both were fascinating speakers but their connection to the world of sci-fi is somewhat oblique, and I thought we’d be better served with performers, which is certainly not to say I didn’t enjoy their talks.

As I said Creation leaves their biggest draws until late on Sunday and this was no exception. Jonathan Frakes and Avery Brooks appeared late in the day (along with Borg Queen Alice Krige) and they were both fantastic. Frakes was energized and funny, starting rumors, giving us updates on all his castmates (doing hilarious impressions of Patrick Stewart in the process!) He seems to really eat up the convention experience.

The only word to describe Avery Brooks is “cool.” He’s the essence of cool. Look up cool in the dictionary and there’s his picture. He’s a very thoughtful, spiritual man with a very zen outlook on life, “Star Trek,” celebrity, etc. He really thinks before he gives an answer to any question and makes one feel as though they’re the only person in the room. He made a point of saying he wasn't hawking or pushing anything, just that he wanted everyone to know he’s still alive.

The autograph session signaled the end of the show. Alice Krige made sure to ask if we wanted anything personalized, as if to tweak the organizers and Gestapo volunteers sitting beside her. Final score: out of 13 headliners I got 11 personalized. It never hurts to ask!

I was just as pleased with this show as I was with last year’s but I’m not sure if I’ll go again next year. It really depends on the guests. I’d love to go to the annual Star Trek show in Vegas someday but it sounds a lot crazier than GS. Happily I made it home without any glitches (although my connecting flight from Baltimore to Long Island came this close to being cancelled due to fog!) Again aside from my issue with autograph personalizations I can’t say enough about how enjoyable Creation makes the con experience. Next blog: I-Con!

California Day 2 (Grand Slam Day 1)

2006-03-27T13:11:00.000-05:00

After an exhausting day I awoke ready to face the relentless push of Grand Slam. If all you want to do is watch the stars do their Q & A’s it can be quite leisurely, but if you want autographs, photos, etc. it can get a tad stressful running from place to place, trying to ensure you don’t miss anything.

I like Grand Slam as opposed to other shows because it is not exclusively “Star Trek” related. Much as I love “Trek,” it’s nice to see other shows represented like “Firefly,” “Stargate,” “Battlestar Galactica,” and now, “Lost.” Creation offers individual cons devoted to certain shows but I like the smorgasbord approach of this one.

Friday is traditionally the slowest day at GS. The “heavy hitters” don’t appear until the weekend. It’s a good opportunity to spy the dealer’s room and, more importantly for me, meet the guests who sit in the Autograph Room all weekend (otherwise known as the B-List.) Don’t get me wrong – these are great people to meet, but they can’t command the fees the big stars like Shatner, Nimoy, etc. do. They rent booth space from Creation for the weekend and then take home whatever they get signing photos. Pictures with most of them are free too, which is nice.

As I walked around I started to see familiar faces and got a little scared by the notion that I was now a “familiar face.” This was only my second time at GS but it was readily apparent most people who go are regulars. The amount of scary folks in costume was minimal but when late-night host Jimmy Kimmel showed up to tape a segment for his show it was obvious he sought all of those people out. I avoided Jimmy and his cameras like the plague, lest I rain down years worth of embarrassment upon my wife.

I really enjoyed meeting the guest stars in the Autograph Room as I always do. It’s easier to chat and I imagine a nice ego boost for them (and cash cow as well). All of them were extremely friendly and had great anecdotes from their 15 minutes in the “Star Trek” universe. Some of my favorites were William Schallert and Charlie Brill (from “The Trouble with Tribbles”), Joanne Linville (the Romulan Commander from “The Enterprise Incident”), Eddie Paskey (a frequent Red-shirt from the original series) and Stephen Manley (the young Spock in “Star Trek III”). While not as verbose as these folks but much easier on the eyes were Crystal Allen and Menina Fortunado, who played Orion slave girls on “Enterprise.”

These actors were happy to discuss their roles at length, throw in a Shatner crack or two and express their bewilderment that a week’s worth of work 40 years ago has generated such acclaim and enduring fans. Better to be remembered for something than not at all, right?

The “main guests” for Day 1 of the show included Jay La’agaia (the Queen’s bodyguard from “Star Wars”), Bob Picardo (the Doctor on “Voyager”) Garrett Wang (Harry Kim on “Voyager”) and Grace Lee Whitney (Yeoman Rand on TOS). Opening the show on a Friday ensures that the auditorium will not even be half-filled so I felt a little bad for the actors but they were getting paid well I’m sure.

I have to say they were all entertaining and engaging and even having seen Grace Lee and Bob previously, I enjoyed their performances thoroughly. Friday was the only day I ventured up to the mike to ask questions. I asked Grace a question because she wasn’t getting many (same with Jay). Bob Picardo always puts on a great show (and his character was the only one I liked on “Voyager.”) He’s funny, self-deprecating and enjoys the fans.

Later that evening Creation held their “Cabaret” where certain musically-inclined stars get up and perform. Bob Picardo, Chase Masterson, Tim Russ and Jay La’agaia were in attendance and to my surprise they were all excellent. Chase showed up in her sluttiest attire and did her B-movie queen Marilyn Monroe impression, which I found amusing. She’s made conventions a cottage industry and I’ve seen her three times in the span of 18 months. I was shocked at Tim’s range (he’s in a band and recorded a few CDs as has Bob) and Jay was terrific as well (he’s played Mufasa in the Sydney production of “The Lion King.”) Bob Picardo belted out some oldies as well as some classics he retooled to fit the “Trek” mold.

As I said this day represented the calm before the storm. I was able to take in the show at a leisurely pace. The next two days would be a dizzying mix of photo sessions, autograph sessions (and fighting for my personalizations!) in addition to the Q&A’s. Crowds would be larger and lines longer. I was glad to get the “smaller” celebs out of the way Friday and made ready for the onslaught.

Next: Day 3!

http://vrrrm.com/tv/Kimmel/06/KimmelGSXIV60322.php

(Scroll down all the way to the bottom past the transcript to see the video!)

Grand Slam Travelogue

2006-03-20T11:42:00.000-05:00

A few weeks back I traveled to not-so-sunny Pasadena for the annual Creation Grand Slam Convention (my second time going) and here, in all its glory, is my full report. For those of us living in the Northeast the convention situation is abysmal. The only one worth its salt within a 100-mile radius is Chiller. While they have great guests it is a disorganized nightmare that gets worse with each passing year.

Other shows held nationally in places like Michigan, Florida and Texas are better organized but their guests are strictly the B-list and the same year after year. Creation, for their exorbitant prices and silly rules, is still the best game in town. They get the A-list stars of sci-fi (and their prices reflect it) and they provide the best possible con experience going.

Creation started running cons in 1971 and were based in New York for many years. In the mid-80s they opened three comic stores and their “crown jewel” was a quick bike ride from my house. I wiled away many hours there searching for back issues and hanging out with friends there. Creation primarily ran comic conventions back then (as well as Star Trek) but in the 90s they picked up their operation and moved to California, the better to communicate with the majority of actors who lived there.

They stopped running big shows in NY because it was much cheaper to host them in CA, not having to fly a star first class and put them up in some five-star hotel. Their NY shows were a shadow of the CA shows, often garnering 1-2 big celebs while their annual shows in Pasadena and Las Vegas were overflowing with the A-list.

Last year I ventured to Pasadena for the first time and it was well worth the trip, so much so that I decided to return this year even before I saw a full guest list. Creation deserves credit for refining the convention experience over the years. Stars will often do a 45-60 minute presentation, taking questions and telling stories. Then there will be (paid) opportunities for photos and autographs. The autograph lines are often huge but they set the stars up behind the stage so people won’t miss the next presentation while they wait. The photo ops are dicier because they’re often in another room away from the main stage. All in all they do a great job.

My only gripe is their policy against personalized autographs. They claim it slows up the lines but it’s people chatting with the actors that slow up the lines more than anything else. I have no problem with people doing that. Often the actors are gracious and realize this is a special moment for the fan. So too is a personalized autograph. So unlike last year I decided to ask each actor (with two exceptions) for a personalization and each one said yes, much to the staff’s chagrin. It makes the memento of the day that much more special (at least in my eyes) and takes an extra second. AND you can’t sell it on Ebay so the stars should like that!

Day One

Prior to leaving for CA I saw an announcement that Leonard Nimoy would be appearing at the Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood for a retrospective on the films of Jack Broder, a B-movie mogul of the 50s. Broder’s film, “Kid Monk Baroni,” was Nimoy’s first. Another noteworthy actor appearing in the film was Jack Larson (Jimmy Olsen in “The Adventures of Superman”). Mr. Larson would also be appearing with Mr. Nimoy (as well as several others associated with the film) for a Q&A following the presentation.

My flight into Burbank was slated to arrive in plenty of time for me to attend. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see two of my heroes in an intimate setting like this. Conventions, even the best ones, are usually pretty crazy, and this was to be a small screening for friends, family and a few fans. My plane arrived an hour late so I scrambled to check in at my hotel and drive to Hollywood. I expected hordes of Trekkies and despite having an advance ticket I worried I’d be shut out.

If you’ve never been on Hollywood Blvd. before it’s an experience. It’s a combination of old Hollywood glory (trying to resurrect itself) cheesy tourist shops, bizarre denizens (especially at night) and most recently, swanky upscale shopping. I arrived at my destination and parked at the Hollywood and Highland shopping complex adjacent to the Kodak Theatre (where the Oscars are now held). I met up with some people also going to screening (one of whom was Mr. Broder’s grandson) and arrived at the theatre with about 20 minutes to spare.

The hordes of Trekkies and Superman fans I expected were nowhere to be found and seats were easy to come by. I found myself sitting in the seats reserved for the Nimoy family so I quickly moved. Soon after Leonard Nimoy arrived with his wife and he seemed genuinely happy to be there. Jack Larson was seated nearby as well. After a brief intro we were treated to “Kid Monk Baroni,” a B-programmer to be sure, but a harmless story about a guy from the wrong side of the tracks who becomes a prominent boxer, gets in with the wrong crowd, loses his soul and wins it back again, all in 80 minutes.

Throughout the film there were scenes that sparked (unintentionally) great laughter from the audience. Its’ dialogue and situations were hilariously dated and the harmless relationship between Nimoy’s character and a priest seemed pretty salacious in light of recent events that much of their dialogue now sounded like double entendre. Nimoy could often be heard laughing at himself.

For what it was the film was very entertaining. Nimoy’s manager was played by Bruce Cabot of “King Kong” fame and the story had a “Bowery Boys” feel to it in spots. It was priceless to see the always-reserved Nimoy trying to play an Italian kid from the ghetto and somewhat succeeding.

The spirited Q&A was great fun. Everyone there was in a jovial mood. In addition to Mr. Nimoy and Mr. Larson the director’s daughter was there as was the film’s publicist and the ingénue of “Kid Monk,” Mona Knox. They told stories of the production and what those days were like in Hollywood and then opened up the floor to questions.

I was able to ask Mr. Nimoy a question and he gave a great answer. When asked what “Kid Monk” did for his career, he responded, “Well it was made in 1952. Then I spent two years in the army and by 1956 I was driving a taxi so what does that tell you?” It was like a class reunion for all concerned and it was for me, the unexpected high point of the trip.

Although their literature stipulated no autographs or photos I came armed with my camera and a photo for Mr. Nimoy, just in case. After the Q&A broke up I accosted Jack Larson first and he was only too happy to pose for a picture. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet the fans. Mr. Nimoy was obviously not hanging around. I skulked around him for awhile and even ended up next to him at a urinal in the men’s room! After that it was obvious he was leaving. I followed him out and there was a small throng of autograph hounds surrounding him, so I joined the party.

He patiently signed and when it came my turn he took a quick look at the photo (it wasn’t your usual “Star Trek” shot) and signed it. That was the capper to a great night (I had nothing for Jack to sign but I already have his autograph). I left on a high and when I got back to the garage I had no idea what my rental car looked like, except that it was black and I had a vague idea where it might be. After searching three levels I found it and started back to Pasadena. By the time I went to bed I had been awake for 21 hours!

The screening at the Egyptian was a completely unexpected (and fortuitous) side bonus of the trip and completely unconnected to the convention. Despite the harried nature of the experience it was completely worth the effort and an experience I’ll always treasure. It also bears mentioning that the Egyptian is an amazing revival theatre restored to its former glory. Their screenings almost always include Q&A’s with actors and directors and if I lived within 50 miles I’d be there every week!

www.egyptiantheatre.com

www.imdb.com/title/tt0044796/

(IMDb listing for "Kid Monk Baroni")

The Coolest Movie of the 80s

2005-12-21T11:55:00.000-05:00

Isn’t subjectivity a great thing? Things said from a subjective point of view are always right. Objective reality (and the subjective opinions of others) mean nothing. Bupkis! For instance I lean to the right politically. I have a friend who’s my polar opposite on the political spectrum. He could argue you under the table and throw down on issues, bills, voting records, bla bla bla. And like my dear friend Archie Bunker I could throw him a big fat raspberry and that would be that. Am I ignorant? Maybe, but we filter out what we want to hear based on our opinions, perceptions, how we were raised, and who influenced us anyway. It’s nearly impossible to get any of us to change our opinions about anything. Ah, but I stray.

The 80s are a well-remembered decade for me. I loved television and in years prior I zoned out on a hefty diet of baseball games and sitcoms. Thanks to the advent of cable tv I could now watch “Cannonball Run II” 5 times a week! I got my first VCR in 1984 and starting taping my favorites. In 1986 I got my 2nd VCR after much haranguing (many thanks to my friend R who sped up the process by crashing into me on my bike thereby speeding up the process and netting me a sympathy gift!)

I started renting new releases at the video store, copying them and gorging myself on multiple viewings. I even circumvented the dreaded copy protection with a jury-rigged setup that “fooled” the recording VCR into thinking it was recording a television program. Before that I used a video camera to record the movie off a television screen, thus pioneering today’s favorite form of movie piracy!

Big titles for me then included “Lethal Weapon,” “Running Scared,” any “Rocky” film, “Robocop,” “Commando,” etc. Those films were all pretty formulaic but there was one that stood out from the pack. A friend of mine saw a commercial for the film, “Highlander,” and thought it “looked cool.” That meant we should see it. The film received such limited distribution that my father had to drive us about 15 miles to the nearest theater to see it.

“Highlander” told the story of a Scotsman born in the 16th century who learned the hard way that he was part of a select group of Immortals, men fated to battle each other to the death throughout eternity until only one remained. Immortals could only die when decapitated which meant lots of cool sword fights. To the victor went “the Prize,” a nebulous gift that the most evil among them assumed would grant them dominion over humanity.

Christopher Lambert (whose claim to fame to that point was as Tarzan in “Greystoke”) played Connor MacLeod, the brash Scotsman who learned to live down through the centuries, leading many secret lives, until the time of the Gathering. I stole that from Sean Connery’s introductory narration which sums it up better than I could! Lambert clearly relished the role and managed to craft a sympathetic performance, successfully portraying the emotions of a man fated to see all his loved ones die, effectively forced to exist outside the daily world, not able to attach himself to anyone or anything. He managed a world-weary quality and sprinkled it with brash humor and quiet heroism.

Another critical ingredient to “Highlander’s” coolness was the presence of Sean Connery as fellow Immortal, Juan Sanchez Villalobos Ramirez, who serves as Connor’s mentor and the man who unlocks the secret of his heritage. Connery had been maintaining a low profile to that point and had not done a film in three years. This was his first “character part,” and although he has barely 20 minutes of screen time he steals the film with a combination of wit, panache and swordplay. Ramirez provides Connor with the tools he will need to survive down through the ages and gives the film a credibility it might never have had without his presence.

And lest we forget Clancy Brown who embodied true evil as the ruthless Kurgen, the strongest of all the Immortals, a man devoted to securing The Prize for himself and plunging humanity into “an eternity of darkness.” Brown was deliciously over the top but the role was never a parody. He straddled the line but never crossed it and delivered a fearsome, psychotic performance that rates him among the finest screen villains in my book.

To say the film was not successful upon its initial release is an understatement. Distributor Fox dumped it into a scant number of theatres with minimal promotion. If I recall correctly the commercial my friend and I saw was aired on MTV with the attendant Queen music, which was much more successful than the film itself. Critics lambasted it and tops on their list of complaints was the style in which it was edited.

Director Russell Mulcahy, himself a veteran of some of the most successful music videos of the early 80s, told the story in a non-linear style cross-cutting between the present, Connor’s beginnings in Scotland and his subsequent journey though history. It was a jarring way to tell a story but extremely innovative and predated Quentin Tarantino’s even more daring use of non-linear storytelling in films like “Reservoir Dogs,” and “Pulp Fiction.” Mulcahy’s camera was never static and he staged his fight scenes brilliantly bringing the audience right into the middle of the combat.

Critics slammed the mythology created by storyteller Gregory Widen, an imaginative screenwriter who also penned the equally ambitious (and doomed to fail) “Prophecy.” The story of the immortals was again some of the most interesting and unique fables ever crafted for a film at this time. It was rooted in mystery (something ruined by the sequels but saved by the television series) and gave the Immortals a framework they were forced to live their lives within. As with all such mythologies (The Force anyone?) the less you reveal, the better!

“Highlander” fizzled quickly but its salvation lie in the nascent markets of home video and cable television. I spread the word among my friends that the film needed to be seen and singlehandedly created the groundswell of excitement for the film that exists today. OK maybe not, but I am the only person I know who saw the film in theatres, a fact I endlessly repeat to whoever will listen. As I entered my college years “Highlander” became the “cool film,” to see, and its popularity could be gauged by how many people who knew who could quote lines, much like “Evil Dead 2,” “They Live,” or “Big Trouble in Little China.” If you dislike any of these films just get out of my sight right now. A big highlight for me was procuring an extended version from a college friend whose name escapes me!

“Highlander” was also a major hit overseas where the audiences embraced its quirky method of storytelling and where star Christopher Lambert was much more popular. These factors combined to ensure that “Highlander” would continue. I was never more excited than that day in 1991 when “Highlander 2,” was released and probably never more disappointed either. It was a devastating misstep that ruined Widen’s mythology and introduced some awful new supporting characters. Even Connery couldn’t save it.

Undeterred, the owners of the franchise soldiered on with another crappy sequel that ripped off the original badly, but I so loved the original I entered the theater on opening night eternally hopeful. They recovered with a long-running television series (which I did not watch, a mistake I intend to rectify thanks to DVD) that built nicely upon the mythology of the first film and made great use of historical events in which to dump Connor’s cousin, Duncan (Adrien Paul.)

The first film decent sequel arrived in 2000 and teamed Lambert and Paul in a battle against yet another lame villain who couldn’t grasp the fine subtleties of Clancy Brown’s performance. But Lambert and Paul had nice chemistry and Lambert captured some of the elements that made his initial performance so memorable. Like the best “Highlander” stories it wove past and present events together effectively.

A fifth “Highlander” film (starring Paul only) has been completed and is scheduled for release in 2006, twenty years after the original premiered. The TV series lasted for six years and was one of the most popular syndicated shows of its day. The fact that this franchise has endured is a testament to an audience’s ability to embrace a mythology panned or simply written off by mainstream critics and demand more stories in that universe. I point to the rabid fanbase of the sci-fi western “Firefly,” as further proof of that theory - the most obvious one being a certain low-rated sci-fi series that bombed after three years on NBC in the 60s.

“Highlander” is the coolest movie of the 80s because it hit all the right chords – well-rounded memorable characters, innovative storytelling, gorgeous locations, thrilling battles and the perfect combination of wit, pathos and swashbuckling.

You can thank me later.

"You'll shoot your eye out kid."

2005-12-12T11:02:00.000-05:00

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 its 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 and 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.