Ten Years Ago: A Reflection On Families

We moved into the house we now live in almost exactly 10 years ago - May 28, 1999. It was the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. I took the day off, went to closing at 9 AM, took possession of the house by noon that day, and then set about to move our stuff from our apartment, ten miles away, to our house.

I had reserved a large moving truck from Ryder two months prior, but when I called them the day before closing to find out where I was to pick it up from, they informed me that they had no record of a reservation in my name. I dug through my notes and found my reservation number. They did a little digging and were able to discover that the credit card I had used to reserve the rental was going to expire before the actual date of the rental, so they cancelled it.

They didn't contact me to try to resolve the problem... They cancelled the reservation.

Fine, I still needed a truck. I asked what they had available. But, as I think I mentioned, it was Memorial Day weekend. They had absolutely nothing. I called Uhaul. Same thing. Hertz, same. I tried everywhere. I found nothing.

I was in full blown panic mode. I needed to be out of the apartment by June 1st -- the Tuesday after Memorial Day, and I had no way of getting my crap along the 10 or so mile distance between the two places.

And that's when the first of two miracles happened that weekend.

My boss saw me running around frantically and asked what the cause was. I told him about the truck situation. "Well, you know, my brother's in town setting up his booth at the Philadelphia Fair. He has an 18' truck that's completely empty right now. I bet you could use it." He made a couple of phone calls, and the deal was struck -- I loaned him my little pickup to zip around in, and he loaned me his panel truck.

So, I had my truck.

Right after closing, I went to the apartment and started loading furniture in. Our apartment was on the second floor, and I was loading the furniture by myself. I had lined up around six guys to help me, but some of them called to say they couldn't make it. Others didn't call and didn't make it. In the end, it was just me. Mrs. P couldn't help because she was seven months pregnant, and was instead hanging out waiting for the call from me to have her come to the house to direct the guys I'd lined up as to where things should go.

But, as I mentioned, those "guys" were just me. And those stairs were killing me.

I had the first of three loads in the truck ready to bring it to the house when the phone rang. It was my boss. "How's the move going?" I was exhausted by that point.

"Well, could be better," I replied and told him about the lack of help. He asked for the house address and said he might be able to help.

When I got to the house, the entire company was there. I was expecting maybe just him. Not everyone. My boss had shut the office down for the rest of the afternoon and brought everyone to help me unload, load the next load, and unload that. The second miracle of that move.

In the end, I suppose I could have done it without that help. But it would have been hell. And I would have been suffering for a long while afterward.

This is part of why I would have a really hard time leaving my company. Sometimes, the work isn't all that great. Sometimes the personality conflicts and political battles drive me crazy. But in the end, I know that everyone there has my back, and they know I have theirs. In essence, my company is like my extended family. Only it is more functional than the family I grew up with.

I Don't Know What I See Out There

I only know that I see something.

Someone Asked For It

Normally, although I am a complete and total narcissist and love it to death when someone asks to read something I have written or hear something I have recorded, I generally don't push it on people.

So, I did want to go on the record and say that the following WAS requested in comments on that last post.

Note: This is not yet complete. I have a horrible vocal line planned but don't know what the words will be yet. Not all of them. Not yet.

Note 2: I found a way to cheat and fix the bass line I was having trouble with. It's still not perfect, but it's so much better than it was, I'm not embarrassed to publish it for you to hear.

Note 3: Dave. Umm, yeah. You're not going to like it. I'm okay with that. As long as you are.



About the video. Yeah. I took those pictures too. I have a thing for pictures of the sky.

What's Done is Done

I think I may have mentioned to you folks that I have been trying to tap into my inner frustrated rock star. I've restrung my Ibanez guitar, bought an effects pedal, bought a copy of Sony Acid Recording Studio, and a USB audio interface, and have been recording my audio sketches. For fun.

Last week I borrowed a bass guitar from a friend and laid down some bass tracks as well. On one recording, I was using this one weird bass driven sound effect as the rhythm/percussion thing. Only, I'm not that coordinated. And I kept messing up. And I kept having to re-record it.

Each time, I would listen to the whole mix, and would assess if I was happy with it. I finally just accepted a sub-par clumsy performance because, honestly, I was sick and tired of listening to the damn thing over and over. And trying to play the same thing over and over.

It occurred to me that as much as I might think that the rock star lifestyle would be awesome and great and all of that, I can't for the life of me imagine a worse job for me than going on the road and playing the same 15 songs over and over, in city after city, night after night. It would be like every time someone wanted to read one of these blog posts, I had to rewrite it again from scratch.

I would hate that. Once I have created something -- anything -- and have declared it "finished," I generally never ever want to revisit it again.

I mean, I might re-listen to a song, or re-read a post, but I'll not likely rewrite or re-record anything.

Sometimes, That's The Way it Goes Here

I was driving along, minding my own business yesterday, along a stretch of a narrow local road on which the speed limit is posted at 25 MPH. In my entire life, I have not known anyone to go 25 MPH along this stretch. Generally, closer to 40 is the accepted speed. Please allow me a couple of illustrative anecdotes.

As a teen driver, I was insistent on driving whenever I was in the car. My mother generally knew when to pick her battles and stayed out of my way on that one. But on one occasion, I guess she felt I was growing too comfortable with excessive speed, and along this stretch she admonished me to mind the speed limit. Since I was trained to be quite passive aggressive, I hit the brakes and slowed us from the 45 or so I was doing to the posted 25. Which elicited the following response from my mother: "Okay, Pos. Now you're just being ridiculous." Indeed. 25 along there is ridiculous.

A few years later, having been issued a speeding ticket or two, I learned that when a cop is behind you, it is best to mind your P's and Q's if you know what's good for you. All your P's and Q's. And I was on this stretch when a police cruiser came up behind me. I towed the line. My speedometer was between 24 and 26 MPH. After about a half mile of this, the police cruiser roared around me, crossing the double yellow line. He didn't flip me off as he went, but he did shoot me a disgusted "Boot licker" look. For those of you who might suggest that he was in a hurry to get somewhere emergent, allow me to suggest that if that were the case, he might have been compelled to flip the switch on that fancy and expensive light array adorning his roof. I would have pulled over and gotten out of his way, in accordance with the law and common courtesy if he had. Just a thought. Those aren't there for show. 

So, as you can see, even the cops, even the mother of a 16 year old male, holds this 25 MPH speed limit in contempt. 

At least, until yesterday. I was doing about 40 when I passed a driveway. One of those long driveways. Lined with trees. And in the driveway was a hidden police cruiser. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what we call a speed trap. It just so happens that as I passed the driveway, I was heading down a gradual hill and knew that if I coasted, I would speed up past the acceptable 40, into the unacceptable 45-ish range, so I eased on my brakes.

And that's when I remembered hearing someone tell me once that if you tap your brakes when you pass a cop, they take that as a sign that you think you did something wrong. And they'll come after you. 

I looked in my rear view mirror and saw nothing, so I kept going. I crested the next hill, but before I reached the next, I saw the cruiser approaching, lights a-flashing. I pulled over. Although I couldn't believe that it was me they were after, hey, why take chances, right?

The cruiser pulled up right behind me. It was me that they were after, alright. Son of a bitch. The cop got out as I rounded up my license, registration, and proof of insurance. I already had my window down, so I had the package ready to go as he came to my window.

And I saw that it was Ray. Ray and I are not friends, per se, but we do know each other well. We go to the same church (when I went to church), and I served on the Board of Directors for said church with Ray's wife years earlier. We know each other well enough to trade amusing barbs at each other. But he was in full on cop mode.

"License and registration, please," he stated plainly and clearly, with a slightly surly demeanor. I handed the package to him, and this is when he looked me in the face. His expression went from "I'll teach you to haul ass through my Borough" to "Hey, what have you been up to?" in half a second. We chatted genially at the window for a while before he said, "Just as second. I have to turn the camera off, and go make the computer happy."

He went back to the car, sat there for a few moments. He came back and said "I just pulled you over because I wanted to tell you that it is a beautiful day out today." He was smiling.

I smiled back and replied "I shall consider myself duly warned. Thank you, sir."

Now. All of you out there are probably thinking "Hey, awesome. Way to dodge that bullet."

And yeah, I'm thinking that too. But I have a couple of issues with the whole thing, that I am wanting to discuss out here in my anonymous world of Blogadelphia...

First. Why is it okay for me to go 40 if I know the cop? Not that I'm complaining about not getting a ticket, but I am thinking of the next guy or the next town, where the speeder doesn't know the cop. In a world of absolute morality, is it wrong to speed or not? My take is that if you are in control of the car and not endangering anyone, speed limits should be relative. Maybe my speed limit is greater than Grampa Kettle's, but not as great as Mario Andretti's. I was clearly in control of my car. I wasn't endangering anyone. In other words, even though I was let off, by pulling me over, I can't help but feel that I was being harassed. And if I were not from this town and did not know Ray, the harassment would have turned to a fine and points on my license.

Sorry, gotta play the bullshit card on that one. There's just something arbitrary and mean about that. Less about protecting the peace and more about making quotas and stuff. I could be wrong. I dunno.

My next issue. I had my 13 year old in the car with me. And I am concerned about the mixed message that was sent by the cop first off by pulling me over and then completely changing tone when he learned who I was. The message that my son may have learned is that the law is arbitrary. The one thing that I know he took away from it was that you may get pulled over if you speed. I actually think that's great. But the other side of it, that you may get away with it if you know the cop, that actions don't necessarily have consequences if you know someone, that's the part that I am conflicted about.

I probably shouldn't worry about it in this case. Later in the day as I jackrabbit started out of a stoplight, the thirteen year old looked at me with something bordering on paternal concern in his eyes and said "Well, you certainly seem to be in love with speed today."

Ideally, I would find Ray outside of his work and talk to him about my concerns, but in reality, I'm not sure that would be a productive conversation. He may be insulted that I was looking his gift horse in the mouth. And he may be a bit more of an a-hole about it all down the road. Which isn't what I want. I guess I would wish that he hadn't pulled me over at all in the first place.

I don't have any insightful statements that wrap this all up. As you can see, I don't even really have a firm grasp on what it is that is bothering me. C'est la vie. Sometimes, that's the way it goes here.

Escaping the Scapegoat

The other day I posted a piece ranting about ignorant usage of the term "baited breath" as opposed to "bated breath." In response a couple of my readers commented that the mistake that drives them buggy is the use of the term "escape goat" as opposed to "scapegoat."

Far be it from me to tell anyone that his/her pet peeve is not in need of care or feeding, but I did want to go on the record and say that "escape goat" does not annoy me. It maybe should, but it doesn't.

Why?

Because, as I understand it, "escape goat" was the actual intended meaning of "scapegoat" which was a shortened, truncated version of the first phrase, introduced by biblical translators. Yeah, I know that "escape goat" isn't a common phrase now, but at least it means the same thing. Basically.

I could try to explain it, but there is a terrific site for all of you word usage and grammar usage curmudgeons that has done a much better job of it (scroll to the very end of this page). The site is called the Word Detective, and in general I have been greatly amused by it, even if I thoroughly believe that the guy who writes it would probably annoy me terribly in real life.

If you haven't found this already, I cannot recommend it enough. (For the writing. The design is abhorrent, as is the navigation.)

Balance: My Great Work

At one point last night, it was beginning to look like I would have this evening to myself. My wife and oldest child are heading out of town. My thirteen year old has a standing invite for staying over at a friend's house for most Friday nights. And for a while it was looking like the youngest might be staying over at another friend's house.

For a moment, I allowed myself to start making plans. Plans to write. Plans to do some recording. But those plans were short lived. The youngest, as it turns out, can't sleep over at that friend's house, owing to commitments the next morning.

It got me thinking about this strange love/hate relationship I have with solitude. I love to be alone for blocks of time. Three, four hours at a stretch. Usually, I like it if the solitude is accompanied by a sense of not having to do anything, rather than being filled with a 'honey-do' list of chores.

When I am working on a writing project, I will often manufacture opportunities to do just this. To run away from home so I can focus on one thing and one thing only. But, as often as not, this plan backfires on me. When I am alone, I am incredibly easily distracted. By anything. If I am the slightest bit tired, I nap. If I am hungry, I drive long distances to find food. If I am the slightest bit blocked, I watch TV or a movie. And by the time such a weekend is over, I am so in need of interaction with another human being, I wind up following my wife around the house life a cur waiting for his dinner.

I have also noticed a strange propensity in myself to engage in more antisocial activities when I am left to my own devices. When I was a drinker, if I was left alone for an evening, I would often grab something like Jack and Coke supplies, or hard cider, or pretty much anything. And I'd watch crappy, prurient movies and drink myself slurry. Other times, when I had intentionally isolated myself to write, I found myself avoiding writing, preferring to drink and/or smoke myself through a weekend.

So, although there is a part of me that craves the periods of solitude, there is a part of me that recognizes that in many cases, too much solitude would be my downfall. I could so easily turn into my mother - who drank, smoked, ate, and absorbed vapid entertainment almost continuously through the final twenty-five or so years of her life. For her, work was the only time she ever left the house and interacted with people other than her immediate family.

And since she worked at night and slept through the day, we didn't see her that much either.

I no longer drink. I no longer smoke. But if left to my own devices, I could see myself turning back to them in a heartbeat.

Trying to achieve balance between integration and isolation. That will be my great work.

Coulda Shoulda Woulda

As I wrote last week, I spent the day with a cacophonous gaggle of 13 - 14 year old boys and girls. And in general, they were a much better behaved group than I expected. Indeed, they were much better behaved than me and my cohorts were when I were wearing that size of clothing. I was expecting agony the entire time. I was wrong.

But there was one situation that, in retrospect, I sort of wish I had handled better.

See, there's this one boy in the class who I have known since he was right around 3 or 4 years old. I consider his parents great friends. But this boy is a challenge. For the sake of everyone's sanity, I'm going to assign him a name, but only because referring to Claude will be a lot easier then using some sort of generic pronoun throughout.

So, as I say, I have known Claude for years. My first experience with him was when he and my son were playing together in a nursery. Claude got ahold of a whiffle bat and used it to smack a small ball. In an enclosed area. With other little kids. He had great control for his age, but that isn't saying a lot. You guessed it. He accidentally whacked my boy in the head.

That was my introduction to Claude and his parents. Not a great start. Claude was, compared to my son, relatively non-verbal. Much more physical. But I couldn't understand a word he had said for the first few years I knew him.

In school, Claude has difficulty socializing. He doesn't really pick up on social cues, and so tends to annoy people. And 10 - 13 year old boys are not very considerate in how they convey to other 10 - 13 year old boys that their behaviors are unacceptable. It would be fair to say that Claude is somewhat ostracized by his classmates. My son interacts with him on a limited basis, but when Claude calls for him, 19 out of 20 times, my son has something, anything, that he has to do that prevent him from hanging out.

I am happy that he is at least charitable about it, and that he does hang with him that one time out of twenty, because I hate to see Claude shunned.

Yet, and this is the hard part, I can't say as I blame them. Claude tests my patience regularly. I have conveyed in the past that I'm a bit of a funny guy when it comes to my personal space. I don't like to be invaded. I don't like to be touched, poked, prodded. I also at times get impatient when I am trying to do something or go somewhere, and I am being impeded. And Claude likes to poke, touch, prod and impede people. Whenever Claude sees me, he tries to engage me, and it usually starts out genial enough, but soon reaches the point where a normal person would realize that I was ready to move to the next joke. But Claude doesn't see that, and since he craves the attention that he has been getting, he clings and keeps doing the same thing, over and over.

I don't like being clung to. Not literally. Not figuratively. I get claustrophobic when someone clings. And I have to flee. For fear that if I don't I will lash out. Because I know that's how I react. And I can be a mean ass mother****er when I lash out.

Generally, I avoid engaging with Claude without being abjectly unfriendly because I know that eventually I will need to flee.

When you are trapped on a bus with someone, there's not a place to flee to. So Claude was raising my flight response for the entire day. Until at one point, I was trying to board the bus. And Claude was blocking the aisle with his leg. Looking at me with a half-smile. Issuing a silent challenge. I asked him to move his leg, and the smile grew wider. I was tired from walking and wanted to sit down. I had a line of people behind me waiting to board the bus. He kept his leg in my way. I tried to move his leg, and now he was in full on play mode, and I was in full on get-the-frig-outta-my-way mode. Claude is pretty strong for his age, and I couldn't move his leg out of my way.

Finally, in exasperation I stopped fighting and said to him "Geez, Claude, would you just grow up!?"

His face registered that I had stung him. He moved his leg. And for the next hour, he wouldn't look me in the eye.

I felt bad. I felt like an abuser. Like one of the mean cruel kids who don't play with him. But as my son said to me at one point, "You see what I mean, Dad? He just won't stop. He doesn't get that it isn't fun anymore."

I actually don't think I told Claude anything he didn't need to hear from someone, but I just wish that I had done it a little nicer. And I worry that his parents will hear about it and be angry with me. Not that I can un-do it, but as I said, I like them. They are my friends.

Over the weekend, I had occasion to be at a party where Claude was with his parents. At one point, Claude grabbed my hat and wouldn't give it back. Claude's father saw this, and with a sharp tone told him "Claude! Give it back! Stop being annoying!" So maybe it wouldn't be a problem.

Feeling Like a Twit

In spite of the fact that I am officially a "techie" at my company, I am definitely not an early adopter of any new technology. My first iPod was a fifth generation. My father in law was using Blogger years before I was. In most cases, there is no gaping hole in my life that I am desperately trying to fill. I have a GPS device, an HDTV, a surround sound system, an AWD car, central air conditioning, a microwave oven, a cellular phone, a wireless network, several Blogger and Gmail accounts, a power mower, a coffee machine that grinds the beans for me, a digital camera or two.... Etc. What else could I possibly want or need?

In fact, in most cases, the only time I ever adopt a new technology is if there's some sort of reason why I need to learn about it.

I'm on Facebook because my daughter is on Facebook and I want to know who's stalking her. I'm on Blogger because a client wanted to integrate it with his site and use it to publish announcements. I have an iPod because my daughter was given an old one, and I borrowed it once.

In most cases, I can see the application and utility of it right away, as soon as I start using it. In some cases, well, let's just say, I'm not sure.

I have a client who would love to use Twitter in her business model. Because all the cool companies are doing it. Pushing out edgy updates to an edgy audience who want to buy your edgy products.

The problem? My client's product isn't edgy. Her target audience is aging. And frequently technophobic. And for the life of me, I cannot imagine what she would be able to say about her products via Twitter (No. I can't bring myself to use the term "tweet" outside of patronizing quotation marks.) that would make the use of Twitter such a boon to her marketing strategy.

Her best bet is to set up a group on LinkedIn, a social networking tool much more likely to be of use to her target audience, and use that for ... whatever.

But before I talk the talk, I suppose I have to walk the walk. So, I have now been using Twitter for a little more than a week. I follow a few people. A few people follow me.

Here's a weird thing -- A few people I have never heard of are following me. I don't know why. I'm not famous. I don't have a gazillion followers. Somehow, out of a sea of Twits, they latched onto me and said "He looks interesting." I don't know why. I feel like they are going to try to sell me something, but how can that be? I'm not following them, so for all intents and purposes, in my life, they don't exist. Still, I'm creeped out about it.

Twitter power users tell me that after you use it a while, you reach a point where you suddenly see it -- you get what the point is. I sure hope so, because right now, I feel like the Grinch who stole Christmas ranting about the Hoos. "All the noise, noise, noise, noise, noise, noise!"

That's what I see. Millions of little insignificant points of light, individual stars hollering "look at me, I matter!" Just like all of the others.

I have posted a few Twitter updates. I use it like my status update on Facebook -- indeed, I have the two linked together -- but every time I do, I wonder "Who the hell cares what I am doing right now, what I am seeing right now, how I am feeling right now?"

Of course, I suppose it is a bit ironic that I am posting a BLOG ENTRY about that. But when I started with Blogger, I never expected to have any readers. It was an outlet for me, and soon, people found me and next thing you knew, I had Blogger friends. The entire raison d'être for Twitter is for people to listen to you.

Talk about your narcissism. Makes me feel like a twit.

Usage Police Strikes Again

Okay, I know. I am a curmudgeon. I'm okay with that. But having seen someone talking about "baited breath" has that effect on me. At the risk of someone commenting on my pedestrian rants, listen up!

The phrase is "bated breath," not "baited breath." It's related to the word "abated." Meaning lessened. Diminished.

If you're waiting with bated breath, it means you are holding your breath. You are nervous. You are even possibly excited.

If you have Baited Breath, my best guess is, depending on what you're fishing for, you have been eating sardines and need a breath mint real bad. This is not good. Not good at all.

See the difference. Learn it. Live it.

Why do I care so much? Because the dumbing down of America is making us all stupider by the day. I don't care if you want to be ignorant, but you're running the risk of making my kids and grand-kids ignorant, and I won't stand for it.

Graffitysburg National Monument

I spent the day Tuesday at Gettysburg. No, I am not a Civil War buff. I'm not a war history buff at all of any kind. What I am is the kind of parent who is occasionally involved in the activities of his kids.

Oh, and I'm also the kind of guy who is married to the type of woman who volunteers him for things like field trips to Gettysburg with a seventh grade class on a regular basis.

As a location, Gettysburg is pretty unremarkable. It looks like just about every other place in Pennsylvania. Indeed, like places in France I went to a year ago. But because it was the site of arguably the pivotal battle of the American Civil War, it draws a lot of attention.

So, what do you see when you travel to Gettysburg?

Open fields. Littered liberally with monuments. Based on what I saw, I would have to guess that every single human being that fought at Gettysburg has a monument dedicated to him, his regiment, his division, and his state. That's a slight exaggeration, but look in any direction from any point on the Gettysburg battlefield, and you will see several monuments of varying types.

A few were notable from a historical significance -- such as the monument on the place where Lincoln delivered his Gettysburg Address. Or the statue of Robert E. Lee (Bob, to his friends) on the site of Pickett's Charge*. Some were notable simply because they had a unique look to them. All would have been pretty noticeable had they been the only monument there, but the roads were lined with them, and so I simply don't have much of anything to say about 99% of them.

One monument was pretty remarkable though. I'm not sure what part of the battlefield it looked on, but it had one of those eternal flames on it and was a huge limestone edifice. At least, I think it was limestone. I'm not a geologist.

And someone, way the hell out in the middle of Pennsylvania had seen fit to spray paint obscenities on it.

Way to go, jerkstores! Way to make pretty much all of America look bad.

The park service had covered the obscenities up with sheets of plywood, and with a class of 13 year olds, I guess I'm glad they did, even though my son has seen and heard worse, but I think I might have been happier if they had been cleaned, painted over, or something else, as the plywood stuck out like a herpes sore. Plus, they somehow managed to cover up MOST of the spray paint, but not all.

I've seen graffiti in cities, and in those conditions, you know, I get it. A little. You have overcrowding. You have youth needing to express themselves, yadda yadda. But from what I have seen, graffiti artists in urban environments, the real artists, don't work exclusively in obscenity. I don't care for it as art, but there's more to it than painting "F**K YOU!" on a national monument in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania, where you cannot possibly say that there is overcrowding or any of that stuff.

No explanation I can think of could possibly explain this idiocy away.

So, here's to you, America. Once again, you are demonstrating why the nations of the world think we're a joke, filled to the brim with idiot soup.

Good job. Keep up the fabulous work.


* No, I don't really know exactly what Pickett's Charge was, but my son's teachers were pretty worked up about it, so I just kinda went with it. I gather it was a death march on the part of a pile of Confederate troops in a last ditch effort to win, or something.

PS - This is officially my 600th pebble.

In the Limelight

As a child, I was something of an early reader. (I remember reading Go Dog Go when I was not quite four years old.) I was praised greatly for this fact by my mother, who I can only guess believed that this fact marked me as some sort of great intellect. Had I allowed myself to pay any attention to her, that could have turned me into an insufferable bore, but it never seemed like that big of a deal to me.

It did, however, have an odd side effect. In the early days of my elementary school years, whenever we had a school play, I got a large part. Not because I was a great actor. Not because I was especially charismatic. Not because I was cute, or handsome or anything.

No. I got these roles because it meant that I could learn the lines. And could actually recite them without freaking out.

So, I was George Washington in our patriotic play -- which meant I had to wear a frilly white wig with a bow in it. And I was the Prince in Snow White and in the Frog Prince, both roles that demanded that I kiss the princess, before liking girls was okay. I was Simon in Simple Simon, with the big ugly ears and the penchant for pies.

It wasn't until I was 14 and in eighth grade that I was finally relegated to bit parts in the background. And to be honest, that was just fine by me.

I stayed out of drama all through high school, but in college dated a theater minor and discovered that when it wasn't just rote recitation of lines, acting was kind of fun. Couple that with the fact that, when I was in college, my mother had a cousin who was on the fringe of the Hollywood A-list, and you can see how it is that for a time after college but before I enlisted in the Air Force I might have pursued a career as a professional actor.

I was in community theater and one of my fellow thespians directed me to an acting school in Philadelphia -- the Weist-Barron school. They seem to no longer have a Philadelphia location. So be it. They also seem to no longer offer the course I took -- Commercial Acting. So be that as well.

The class was taught by a heavy set man who would alternate between incredibly helpful and supportive and withering in his criticism. The worst part about this guy? He totally had my number.

His nickname for me was Holden Caulfield. ZING.

At one point we were given an assignment where we had to make a complete ass of ourselves in front of the whole class. So he told us each to "act crazy". That was easy. I have been using "acting crazy" as a mask for years. And wouldn't you know it that son of a flippin' bitch knew that right away and stopped me.

"This is too easy for you. Tell you what." He grabbed a sweet young lady from the class and sent her up to the front with me. He then rummaged up a cue card with fake ad copy on it. "Okay," he said at last. "This is a love scene. Read this copy as though you were seducing her." ZING again.

Seeing as I am blushing now as I type this, I can only imagine how many shades of red I must have been then. Part of the trouble was -- she was really really cute. I mean REALLY.

I started. With great difficulty.

"I can't believe how delicious this dessert topping..."

"Stop!" yelled our instructor. "It isn't believable. You're three feet apart. Come on -- take her in your arms!"

Which I would have loved to do. But, like I said, damn she was cute. And that was absolutely terrifying to me. She smiled a bit sheepishly and let me clumsily take her in my arms, and I began again.

"I can't believe how delicious this dessert topping is..."

"Kiss her!"

I nearly dropped her on her head and reeled on him.

"Say what!?"

"You want to be an actor? Act!"

I finally got through it. I don't know how. Somehow both me and the poor young lady survived.

At the end of the six week course, I asked the instructor, "So, what do you think? Do I have what it takes?"

His answer was non-committal. "It doesn't matter what I think. If you want it and you're willing to hustle, it won't matter what I say."

Translation: No. But I don't want to crush your wings. I'll let someone else down the road do that for me.

It probably sounds like I'm bitter, or annoyed, or something about the experience. And if you'd asked me about this in the year or two after it, I probably would have been. But in retrospect, I think that was the best answer I could have gotten. Because it forced me to face the fact that I didn't want it badly enough. Not badly enough to pound the pavement and sell myself. He forced me to face the fact that no matter how much I enjoyed getting up on stage and acting a bit insane in front of an audience, I was not, indeed am not, an actor.

Probably saved me years of heartache.

At this point in my life, it allows me to seem a bit more clever and renaissance-ish than I really am. "Yes, for a while I was an unemployed actor. I was really good too -- I stayed unemployed the whole time." [cue laughter here] The experience did expand my horizons, but in the end, I am ever so much happier here, behind the keyboard and out of the limelight.

Unplanned Flattery

My first major project after deciding to start writing again was a screenplay. There was something about the visual format associated with screenplays that appealed to me. In analyzing the statistics of number of scripts written to number of films that are green lighted each year, I have since learned that the odds are strongly against me successfully getting a screenplay produced, that I would be better off trying to write a novel and getting that published. But that was neither here nor there. The idea I had was a movie, not a book. And I had to execute it that way.

So what was this idea?

In a nutshell, it was a story about a district attorney who happened to also be a serial killer, taking down criminals that the criminal justice system somehow failed to convict. I think I was inspired quite a bit by the Star Chamber, a movie from the 70's or 80's. It also involved the detective work involved in capturing him and bringing him to trial. There was a love angle -- two actually. There was a metaphysical element, as he was motivated to do these deeds out of a sense of revenge for his wife who had been killed years earlier, and yet still visited him and talked to him. The FBI was brought in to try to solve the case. And ultimately, they did get him, but only because the ghost of his dead wife convinced him to turn himself in.

The execution of the story had a lot of problems. I don't need to get into them, suffice it to say this is not a movie you will be seeing on the big screen. Ever.

And yet...

I have been watching the Showtime series Dexter on DVD. If you don't know anything about Dexter, let me give you a rough synopsis. It's about a forensics technician (blood spatter expert) who works for the Miami police department, but who is also a serial killer, preying exclusively on other killers, who have somehow slipped through the cracks of the criminal justice system. There is a love interest (or two). He is a serial killer due to a childhood trauma involving violence against his mother. He is guided by memories of his dead foster father. And in the second season, the FBI has been brought in to try to capture him.

In both Dexter and in my script there is a bizarre May/December romance between a wizened older cop and a younger woman.

I'm not suggesting that I think that they ripped me off. In fact, I know that they couldn't have. Dexter is based on a novel that was published in the same year that I finished my screenplay. I just think that it is a bit uncanny how similar some aspects are between my screenplay and this television show. And, honestly, I think it's a little cool to see some of my ideas being executed, even if they're not executing my ideas, per se.

And the areas where I didn't know what I was talking about and was just kind of faking my way through -- they didn't fake their way through. So it's also pretty cool to see it done right.

Home

She steps off the train clutching her animal skin bag, dodging rain bullets until she is safe under the canopy. Alan carries her bag to the car. The defroster blows hot air on her face and the radio hums as Alan drives. She remembers how he used to tease her about the losers she would date. She suddenly wants to return to Detroit; doesn’t want to go home anymore. She wants to be where she feels right.

Her mother waits at the window as the car pulls into the driveway. Their eyes meet. Mom looks old, she thinks and she is right. Since Daddy died, and she moved to Detroit, her mother has turned into someone else. Into Grandma.

They meet on the porch. The porch needs paint. The windows are cracked and leaky. Mother asks Are you alright? What can she say? I’m pregnant Mom. I throw up in the morning and I don’t know who the father is? No, not that. Not yet. Instead Fine, Mom. How are you?

They go inside and sit and pretend at small talk while Mom makes tea and Alan takes her suitcases to her room. Do I show? I don’t think I do. But I will. Soon. Too soon. The fire in the fireplace under the mantle with the family Bible on it warms her, and she is home. The Jesus on the wall smiles at her, just like he smiled at Mary Magdalene.
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Originally written January 1987. Polished and published May, 2009.

A Mental Revolution

Almost seven years ago, as I was turning 35, it occurred to me that unless I developed some sort of creative outlet for myself, I was going to become dead inside. Or maybe something less dramatic than that. But nonetheless, I was going to be unhappy.

At the time, I was playing the role of "responsible manager" in my company. I dressed daily in business casual dress. I kept my hair meeting ready at all times. I shaved regularly. I had business cards and handed them out generously. But it was all pretend. And it was not being true to how I felt inside.

Around that time, two things happened that have altered the course of my life. First, a co-worker commented to me that I look like the type who would have a pierced ear, but until that point, I had not worn any earrings at work. Ever. I decided to show him that I not only had a pierced ear, but that I had a collection of earrings that I wore on occasion. Since then, I tend to wear a hoop on most days I don't have client meetings. I only put on my "responsible manager" suit on days when I know I will be meeting with clients.

The second thing that happened was I decided to start writing again. I ran across a cache of stories of varying types that I had written while in college. And it got me thinking that I just don't write anymore. Back in college, I was constantly writing. So what changed?

The kicker was a one act play I had written. In it, the different roles a person fills were personified by different characters. The poet. The professor. I forget what all else. The point was, the original agreement was that each persona would get equal time in the fore of the conscious mind, but The Businessman had taken the fore and refused to relinquish it. And the others were being held hostage in the subconscious.

I had written that before I had any Businessman persona, but it hit home. Hard. I resolved at that time to overthrow the businessman and let my freak flag fly. I started writing again.

It was slow going at first. Writing no longer just happened all of the time because the endless hours of nothing to do that I filled with writing when I was young turned into stolen moments of shunting responsibility as an adult with a wife, kids, job, etc. But I persisted.

This was all meant as a preamble for a commentary on the first product of my new creative life -- a full length screenplay that was completed in 2004. But the preamble has grown legs, and I will attend to that commentary in a followup post.

For now, let me leave you with this... A mid-life crisis does not have to destroy the life you have spent a lot of time building -- it can augment it instead, if you can find a way to achieve balance. And it doesn't have to involve convertibles. Or trophy wives.

Pet Peeve Series #21: Voicemail Outgoing Messages

Riiiiing.

"Hi, you've reached John Doe. I'm not available to take your call right now..."

Stop. Just stop. Right there.

Have I reached you? Or are you not available? Because it can't be both.

Yeah, yeah. I know what you mean, but I can't help but think that there's got to be a better way to say it.