There are Places I Remember...

Norah Ephron has a book recently published called I Remember Nothing. I have not read the book, but I listened to her talk about it briefly on Wait...Wait Don't Tell Me! this past weekend. I identified with Ms. Ephron. I am not a published author, I have not seen the places or met the people she has, nor will I ever likely be a part of so many historical events as she has been, but the fact remains that even though she has lived a very special life, she maintains she remembers little to none of it.

I took a lot of classes in college regarding how the brain works in humans. There is nothing, however that can tell us why I vividly remember the morning of my fourth birthday, coming around the corner of the kitchen and seeing the brand new Radio Flyer 90 wagon, gleaming red and in it the black, single speaker GE portable radio that proudly announced it had transistors in it. I didn't know then what a transistor is (and only vaguely do I now), but I knew it must be a good thing just from the fancy font and prominence of its advertising.

It was my best birthday to date and maybe since. I remember spilling milk on that same transistor radio a year later and the white chalk that settle in the plastic speaker grate after it dried and the scent of that radio afterward.

I remember my 13th birthday and the Magnavox rack system stereo I got with all the pretty slides on the equalizer, dancing lights that seemed to do nothing other than pulse in satisfying synchronicity with the music, dual cassettes with "speed dubbing", (which then as now sounded vaguely dirty), and even a turntable. A CD player came the following year... I was the first among my friends to have one. CDs cost in 1989 about the same they do now, which made them princely purchases indeed. I received with that player Milli Vanilli's Girl, You Know It's True and the original motion picture soundtrack to The Blues Brothers which my friend Don and I were obsessed with. Who am I kidding? I am still obsessed with. I am just a man after all. I remember employing home jury-rigging techniques to make a subwoofer for that stereo, much to the delight of my parents. My room was so small the whole thing, speakers included had to go in my closet. I opened it up and it was like a party in a box. The only thing missing was a retractable disco ball. I had been vying for the room in the basement for awhile. The loud bass is what finally did it. I got the room downstairs for my 15th birthday.

I got a car for my 16th birthday because I am spoiled and always got more than I deserved. I always took care of my stuff, so it's not like the kindness and prosperity I enjoyed went unnoticed and unappreciated.

Finally, as written in a previous post, I remember my 30th birthday on account of the party and the surprise and the whole thing. If you haven't you can read about it here.

But that is four birthdays out of 35. Not impressive since I was there for all of them. I have been there for a lot of things that I simply couldn't recall. But, if we had a conversation about something 10 years ago and you and I disagreed, I would remember every single word of every single exchange of that conversation. It drives Emily nuts that in one second, I forget all the normal prosaic housekeeping type of things she tells me but that I can put anything she has ever said to me in an argumentative way right back in her face.

It's not fair. For her or anyone. I also seem to remember things when paired with food. If we went out and had a nice time, I won't remember tomorrow. If we went out and had a nice meal, I will be able to tell you in 15 years where we sat, what we ate and a physical description of the creepy pepper grinder man who is way too old to be working as a pepper grinder.

Many guys can remember sports stats. I like sports, but I am lucky if I can remember coaches' and players' names. I couldn't tell you who won the Superbowl unless it was last year's. I watch them all, but I don't retain things. The exception is Formula 1 racing which I have a pretty good memory of.

I memorize car stats. Did you know an 86 Ford Escort GT had 124 horsepower? I did. And I always will. Why? Who knows. I have to try very hard to remember important things, dates, appointments, etc. but I can tell you the Blue Book price of almost any make and model of car since 1990 within a couple percent. I know with great detail the significance of the descriptors L88, L82, L48, L98, LS6, LS8, LS1, LS7. You don't and I don't blame you. In fact, I am happy you don't have to wade through that minutia to get to the things that matter.

I can't remember where anything is in the kitchen. I've lived there for over four years. Em just told me she wants my input on a kitchen reorganization. I am happy to do it, but I fear the looming specter of her expectation that I will forever after remember where something since I had a hand in putting it there. She will be disappointed. I don't blame her. I would be, too.

We remember what we make important to us, and what tickles that part of our brains that offers some sort of positive give-back, whether it's a shot of dopamine or some endorphins, or perhaps some adrenaline. Did you know that the body is essentially a drug addict and its main pusher the brain? I do. I took a few classes on it. This is why I can still tell you the difference between an MAOI and an SSRI and why they shouldn't be mixed. I can tell you what chemical the brain produces to break down and reuse the other chemicals that the brain uses. But I can't tell you who my God Parents are.

I am going to stop worrying about it. As long as I can remember to wipe my ass when I'm done and how to cash a paycheck, I figure I'm 90% or so of the way 'there'. Wherever 'there' is. I seem to have forgotten.

In Praise of Wuss Rock (Repost)

Mr. Gerry Rafferty has died. The Scottish born, two-time one hit wonder died of liver failure in London. He was reclusive and unapproachable for many years preceding his death. It is said he had a problem with the drink, but do Scots really ever have a drinking problem? What he left us, is the single greatest anthem to 1970's wuss rock there ever was in Baker Street. Please to enjoy my appreciation here.

At the time of the original post, I had forgotten he was the lead vocalist for Stealers Wheel, which is how he became a one hit wonder the first time. He earned that distinction again from the immutable Baker Street. On the power of that track alone (no management or touring), the album on which it was featured sold 5.5 million copies. Read more about Raffery, here.

I do not own the album, but along with Baker Street is the little remembered track All Down the Line, which has its own charms and ubiquitous poppy hook. Please join me in a moment of sax-infused silence for one of the greats of wuss rock.

Thank you, Gerry. You were always a two-hit wonder to me.

Back in the Saddle Again

And we're back. Like a favorite Talking Heads song repeats to great effect, "same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was." This week is indistinguishable from the previous week. The sun doesn't shine brighter, the job market hasn't recovered, the news still drones on about insurgencies and coups. What is it we expect at the turn of a year? Time, as Einstein would tell you, is the manufacture of man and as such has nothing to do with anything. Why, then, do we anticipate the new year and hold off on making changes and improvements to coincide with the essentially meaningless milepost? Well, I am glad you asked.

I know why we celebrate the new year the way we do. It is us clinging to the anticipation that things will get better, things will change. That yacht you always wanted? Bling! Here it is! That new physique you have been talking about? You are only two sit-ups away from a six pack. We anticipate and hope for change. I surmise we even make up what January 1st is going to be like in our heads just as a child anticipates a pony beside the Christmas tree on the night before. We will wake in our new mansions, dress in our fine new clothes which accentuate our new fit bodies and head to the club to revel in our circumstances with our new friends.

Inevitably, January 1st comes and goes like any other day on a calendar and this is only the first of many letdowns we will face. We wake up in our own beds, often not feeling too well from the way in which we celebrate in anticipation of our immediate and widespread life changes. We awake with our own bodies and our own spouses. the cracks on the ceiling that were there in the old year are there in the new. Nothing but the calendar has changed. Immediately the slow decline of our hopes and dreams begins.

And so it is with me this year. I scarcely wanted to verbalize my resolution, not because I don't think I can achieve it, but because it will take time. And to most people, instantaneously is too late. I don't want people staring at me expectantly wondering where my brass ring is. So, I'm keeping it to myself. The first step to being a sharpshooter is to not let anyone know what you were shooting at. I will plod toward my unspoken goal as time and energy and luck and provenance permit, absent the exterior pressures of expectation. In the end, only I will report on my satisfactory progress to that end... or not.

I used to quit smoking every year. It lasted for all of one day, partly because I smoked so much on New Year's Eve that the thought of a cigarette on the following day was enough to bend me over. Also, I would proudly tell everyone that I was quitting and I would be met with a resounding, "yeah, right!" This is not the kind of support I needed and I failed. Until one February when I arbitrarily said... OK, it's time.

Maybe by removing the grandiosity and spectacle of resolving to improve on something you give it power and make it more real, more personal, more achievable. I hope so and that is my intent.
As for being back in the saddle? It is so far the same saddle on the same horse with the same loping movement and the same backdrop fading behind me at the same pace as before. This year, I'm not going to consider that a failure. You should not, either.

Might As Well Jump

The holidays are over. The two-month haze of food comas and forced togetherness give way to the drab realities of your normal daily life. I found myself this morning earnestly repeating the phrase "Lord give me strength." This is purely a pep talk for me, but if I need one, then perhaps you need one, too.

You must remember nobody owes you nothin'.

Attitude makes or breaks you, and everyone around you.

Do not burn yourself out.

Do not burn out those who work for you.

Be kind to the extent it is possible, thereafter be patient and direct.

You must identify what you want so you know where to find it. It will not come to you.

People will screw up. You will screw up. Let's all move on.

Today, you will be asked to do impossible things under unprecedented circumstances with no assistance, tools or guidance. This is your job. Do it to the best of your ability until you find another job that will expect the same thing from you. Expect for tomorrow to be no different.

Someone is always watching you.

Each time you interact with another human being it is another chance to pass or fail that challenge. Break your day into individual challenges. Be proud of your success, honest about your failures and vigilant for challenges to come.

God is with you, always.

A happy life is not a life without struggle or tests of faith. A happy life is a life well lived under the circumstances.

You do not need to be rich to have all you could ever need.

Your family is there to help you.

Thank people for the criticism they offer, even if they offer it in a way that is upsetting to you. Assume they mean well and they want you to succeed.

Offer criticism to others in a way that lets them know you want them to succeed. Do no harm to them and make them feel good about their prospects.

Don't forget to hug your pet goodbye.

Don't forget to kiss your spouse/significant other and tell them you love them.

Drive safely. People you don't even know are out to kill you.



Happy New Year, friends, colleagues, mentees and casual readers. Let's make it a good one!

Titanic Alive

I woke up September 2nd, 1985 as any 10 year old would. I came to the kitchen to get breakfast. My dad as per usual was looking at the newspaper. He called me to where he was and handed it to me. The headline was simple and unmistakable.

Titanic Found!

Robert Ballard and his French counterpart, who we never hear of in America, found the wreck under two miles of rolling Atlantic Ocean somewhere not too far off Newfoundland and my dreams were crushed.

I wanted to find Titanic.

Dr. Ballard of Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute had a leg up on me, a 10 year old suburbanite from the middle of the country. He had a ship, funding, time and luck, an education, reams of data and more than a little intuition. I was a 10 year old boy locked in by hundreds of miles of land before I could even see the ocean. I was captivated by the ship, the sinking, the aftermath and most of all the idea of finding of and subsequent raising of the wreck itself.

Did I fail to mention that? Yep, I saw the bad film adaptation of the Clive Cussler novel Raise the Titanic, which has a magnificent cast but is so very flawed, and I was inspired. From then on, I knew I wanted to grow up to be a sultry bearded man who found and rose the wreck of the greatest liner ever, just like Dirk Pitt.

What I did with it from there, I don't know. Even dreams have their limits.

Dr. Ballard is a famous person now. A rock star among scientists. He can get all kinds of money and grants for any piece of research he wants to do. He snaps his fingers and his pick of well- equipped ships are there for his use. He has a bit of a big head, reading his books will confirm that. But there is one thing upon which we both agree. The site of the wreck is sacred. It is a burial. It is where 1,500 and more people lost their lives in a heinous and ghostly way not by drowning, but by slowly succumbing to the sub-freezing waters of the pernicious North Atlantic.

Therefore I have always been leery of RMS Titanic Inc. and their owners Premier Exhibitions. I can't find out anything about the ownership of Premier Exhibitions to confirm this, but I heard they were essentially owned by the Russian Government. They have a single red star as a logo, which may be where that whole rumor started. Do not take my nod to this rumor as any kind of confirmation of this. I do believe Premier Exhibitions is an entity that exists only to add an additional layer of protection and shield from liability for the operators of RMS Titanic Inc. An internet search, albeit a quick one did not yield any single large single investors behind either RMS Titanic or Premier Exhibitions, which is traded publicly on Nasdaq.

I bring all this up, because yesterday, we went to the Titanic artifact exhibit at the Indiana State Museum. It was well done. The exhibit hall itself in spots is evocative of what it would have been like in some of the common areas of the ship, like companion ways and engine room entries. There were serviceable mock-ups of a first-class woman's sleeping room and a steerage bunk room.

As I expected, there was little new information here. In fact for someone who has devoted more than a little time researching every facet of this ship and her star-crossed end since he was a kid, there was very little old here. No mention of the coal fire aboard, or the near collision with HMS Hawke, nor the incredible story of Violet Jessop, a stewardess for White Star Line that survived the sinking of both Titanic and later Brittanic. There was nothing of the callous treatment of the surviving family of the crew who perished at the hands of White Star who sent bills for non-returned uniforms and made payroll deductions for items owed to the company store.

The draw, as the exhibit states, is the artifacts found and brought up from the bottom of the sea.
Many of these were fascinating and a bit surreal. I can wrap my mind around china and bottles and iron and bronze castings and the like, but the fact that post cards with their pictures not at all dulled by time, currency and personal letters in some cases still entirely readable were recovered is astounding to me. Reading the lines on letters posted only the day before the ship was stricken and lost all so full of hope and great expectation. They had no idea of what we have known for almost 100 years. Some items had pictures with them of what they looked like sitting on the bottom of the ocean. While they were captivating, the items lost their ghostly mystery sitting in plexiglass cases under the bright lights of the museum.

There are all manner of items brought up from the mechanical to the decorative. It was near the end of the exhibit though, that you could touch a piece of angle iron that was part of the great ship.

I touched Titanic. And suddenly, the whole idea of grave robbing washed away. My 11 year-old niece got to touch Titanic, too which as a young boy would have been enough to make me explode. There is something archetypal about this wreck. Titanic is a shared mass experience that is globally understood. It was a turning point in a lot of ways for our burgeoning global industrial revolution. We will not go into all the ways Titanic changed not just shipping, but the world. Suffice it to say, This was a worthwhile exhibit and I am satisfied that the items recovered are carefully documented, handled and preserved.

The big hook (there is always a hook) is you are given a boarding pass with the name of a passenger and their information. Where they were going, from where they were coming, who they were with, what they were doing, etc. At the end is the wall. Who made it, a short list indeed when compared to the whole, and who didn't. The women among us all made it. The men? None.

A simple gimmick, but one that helped send home the message. Most people who sailed on this ship died. Those that lived were forever changed. The last survivor, Mulvina Dean died in May, 2009 well into her 90's. She was an infant at the time and as such had no firsthand memories. Those who actually experienced Titanic have been gone for many years. Yet we still flock to the legend as though it happened recently. This exhibit helps keep that knowledge and hunger alive. For that, I am a convert.

There is a log book at the end of the tour where people can put their thoughts down. Most thoughts were limited to "Thank you for letting me live," or, "Why did I die?" I would have liked to enter something deep and profound in among the childish scribblings of the masses, but refrained from leaving my thoughts. They would have betrayed what I was feeling at the time... I got to touch Titanic!

Every man has his price. I found mine.

The Bill's Club Roast of 2010

Welcome one and all to the Bill's Club Roast of 2010! Thank you for coming. It really has been a great year... if you're an insult comic. Jeez, 2010 had more negativity than an al Queda family reunion. Kurt Cobain sent a letter from Hell that said "See, I told you so..." 2010 is the only year where people sent post cards with pictures of the 2012 apocalypse that said "Wish you were here..."

Speaking of 2012, what an attention whore. We get it we're all gonna die because some ancient calendar stops and there was a prophecy of doom, but did there really need to be a movie? What if the special effects in the movie make the real end of days seem all fake and sucky? Way to ruin it for us, Hollywood.

Hollywood did us no favors this year. Have you seen The Tourist? Neither has anyone else. And Been Stiller snuck in just in time with another 'Fokkers' movie, proving you can take a bad joke and make a movie out of it. And then another and then wait a little while everyone forgets how bad those were and then put out a third. Jerry and Anne should have flushed him when they were trampin' on Vaudeville.

Lots of celebrities died in 2010. Lucky bastards. Corey Haim started if off by doing his best impression of Heath Ledger and it all went up hill from there. We lost many talented people, too. Leslie Neilsen, Barbara Billingsly, and Peter Graves all kicked it, blocking any hope for an Airplane sequel. Art Linkletter, Dino DiLaurentiis, Eddie Fisher, Tony Curtis, (who I once flipped off), Dennis Hopper, Dixie Carter, Bea Arthur, Rue McClanahan, John Foresythe, Tom Bosley, Merlin Olsen, Lena Horne, Fess Parker! TV Land just cut it's royalty payments in half! Wilfred Brimley did not die in 2010... He actually died in 1987 it's just that no one told him.
Comedians Greg Giraldo and Robert Schimmel who I loved, died. Schimmel after a brave battle with cancer, Giraldo after a brave night with vodka and pills. All of these people were lucky enough to check out this year...

But, first among equals was the tragic and sudden death of the greatest actor of all time, Gary Coleman. His talent was ripped from us too soon. Tragic the quality work we will never see. Tragic the insight and brilliance he brought to life. Tragic in so many ways. He never did find out what Willis was talkin' 'bout.

The Dif'rent Strokes reunion party gets smaller every year. Do you suppose Conrad Bane and Tood Bridges even bother anymore? That would be awkward, Conrad roaming the streets and alleys looking for Todd... "Todd, it's me, Conr... Mr. Drummond! Time to go to Waffle House!"

We finally got a handle on H1N1 in 2010, but there is no known vaccine for Bieber Fever. When does this finally get too creepy? This kid is 17, he looks and acts 4 and even moms are going all cougar over this kid. The whole thing reeks of mass market pedophilia to me.

Oprah and Larry King retired which was good, but both of them have been on TV more since they quit, which is bad. Larry King got his annual divorce as well. This one was free as his punch card already had 9 punches! He is free to pursue the 11th Mrs. King. What lucky lady wants to step up? Maybe Nancy Reagan is ready to move on? Hoooooo... That's a visual, huh?

TV gave us some pretty good shows this year and some not so good shows. Detroit 187 was a failure... The actors kept getting mistaken for real cops and shot dead at the craft service table. And talk about bad dialogue! Why would they ask some California keyboard jockey to write dialogue for mid western cops? It doesn't make sense! It is cool seeing some of the places we are all familiar with on TV. Like the crack house you pass every day going to work, or the bombed out train station. Feels like home.

Oh 2010, we are not going to miss you. We are broker, have less freedom, less opportunity, pay more for less, have lost our preeminence in the world and we will never get it back. Now I know what it was like to live in Rome during the time of Nero. It may not be the end of the world, but it is the end of the world as we know it.

So, let's all have some wine, pick up our fiddles and party like it's 1999, because 2011 brings us one year closer to the end. Rack up your Visa card, live like you were dying, covet your neighbor, drive too fast, buy that Justin Bieber album! Strap yourself in, 2011... it's gonna be a bumpy ride!

I'm Bringing Funny Back

Amends

I feel badly about how we left things earlier. I mean, it really was sorta negative. I even left my mind long enough to make the mistake of publishing that in my opinion, in a year, my Mom would be officially old. Jesus, who makes that mistake?

To correct the record publicly I would like to say, Mom, you are not ageless, but you are timeless. I love you no matter how decrepit you may become, or what sort of burdens you will visit upon me and my life in your declining years.

I feel better now that I got that off my chest.

Moving on. Along with Euchre, I have been playing Scrabble with Em a lot lately. I have also been playing RISK online, since no one in real life will play RISK with me. Most people when you say you like RISK, say "Oh, me too!", followed by "but I haven't played in years," and then stony silence when you ask them if they would like to play. That silence says... "I don't think I would enjoy playing a game about conquering the world with someone who actually wants to conquer the world."

I can be a might competitive. It can be a turnoff. I admit this about myself. Admitting a shortcoming is the next best thing to actually doing something to fix it. They say admitting a problem is the hardest thing to do. Not for me! I admit all my foibles. I just have no intention of fixing them. I like me. You don't have to.

I also admit my dreams are prosaic. Mostly they are conflations of things that have happened to me in a day. If I do one thing repetitively, I dream about it repetitively. You can imagine the vanilla powered boredom that constitutes my dreams when I have, say, spent the day driving, or painting the house. Not only do I live the tedium in real time, I get to go over it again. all night. Like a record caught in one groove. So I like me, I don't like everything about me.

I can hear the collective sigh of you, dear reader. Get to the point. Fine. I will. Don't push me.

My dream last night was of a RISK shaped Scrabble board, where instead of the grid we all know, the playing surfaces were in the shape of the continents and instead of merely spelling words with letter tiles, the tiles were doing battle for position to spell better and more powerful words. It was like a game where spelling helped you conquer the world. In that game, I would be screwed. Good thing RISK requires no spelling.

I guess if you are not familiar with either game, the description of these two games being crossed up and synergized is lost on you. To which I ask... Would you like to play RISK with me? I conquered the world today. Twice.

What a Kroc

I watched the CNBC biography of Ray Kroc again today. How I admire his grit and his determination and his sheer moxie. He was not the smartest, most charming, best looking guy. All he did was keep trying and keep moving until he got what he wanted. Woe be to you if you stood in his way.

I don't admire his three marriages, or the way he comported himself in private sometimes. But nobody in the business world is perfect, except maybe Sam Walton and his invention has grown up to ruin the whole world one town at a time.

I bring this up because even though I know the whole history of the McDonald's corporation from rote memory (nerd alert!), I failed until tonight to recognize an easy but awesome joke. Really it's low hanging fruit, but I have been having problems finding my funny lately, so I'll take it.

The McDonald's brothers names were Richard and Maurice, or Dick and Mack as they were widely known. I am guessing it wasn't a simple coin toss that determined which one would have a burger named after him.

Too easy, I know. Like I said, I need the charity right about now. It struck me as funny. Inside every man is a 12 year-old boy who can't give up his addiction to penis jokes. It isn't even historically accurate since the Big Mac wasn't put on the menu until years after the brothers McDonald were out of the business, vanquished by a vengeful Kroc. There was quite a bit of vitriol involved with the split, so it is unlikely that Ray would name his flagship item after Mack McDonald.

One thing is certain... the world would be a funnier place if people all across the country could look up at the menu board of their local McDonald's, step to the counter, look the Mcworker in the eye and earnestly say, "I'd like a Big Dick, please."

With all apologies to Mr. Paul Harvey... Now you know the rest of the story..... Good day!