I am Canadian by birth and American by inclination. What it means to be a Canadian remains an open question a hundred and forty-one years after Canada’s inception. (How did Canada become an independent nation? In 1867, Canadians petitioned to the British Parliament saying, “We’d like to be our own country” and the British Parliament replied, “Okay.”)
Every year when I go back to Toronto – I try to find the warm week, but I’m not always successful – I always check the local papers to find out what’s going on. Invariably – and I mean during every visit over the last thirty plus years – there will be an article, often on the Front Page, headlined, “Canadian Identity – What Is It?” After a hundred and forty years, they’re still looking for the answer. It’s starting to look like there may not be one.
There is one enduring certainty, however. It’s the one thing Canadians know without question. “We’re not Them.” And when Canadians say “Them”, they mean Americans. Canadians may not know who they are, but they’re darn certain of who they aren’t. Who they aren’t is you. Well, okay, now…us.
An illuminating example of the difference between Canadians and Americans can be found in the wonderful world of comedy.
It’s not news that Canadians rank with the funniest people in show business – Dan Ayckroyd, John Candy, Jim Carrey, Mike pre-"The Guru" Myers, Eugene Levy, Martin Short, Rick Moranis, to name just seven. And I’m sure I’m leaving people out, like Dave Thomas and The Kids on the Hall.
This is a substantial number of funny people, when you consider Canada’s population, and the fact that many of that population are Eskimos. (I’m not saying Eskimos aren’t funny – no “hate mail” on a walrus tooth – They’re just not “crossover” funny.)
The curious thing to me is not that so many Canadians are funny, but that virtually all of them are funny in a particular kind of way. A particular non-“Them-y” kind of a way.
To Canadians, and maybe the world, America is the “Me” country. It’s all about Number One. “My country ‘tis of Me.” Americans believe that when one American flourishes, the ripples of their success spread out to enrich all Americans. I’m not so sure about that. Britney Spears made millions, and I didn’t get anything. Of course, I’m not from here. Maybe Britney’s ripples only enriched natural born Americans. Did you guys get anything?
Americans are by nature self-promoting. They value “blowing your own horn.” You don’t “blow your own horn” and you’re “hiding your light under a bushel.” There’s no such thing as a quiet American. A quiet American is immediately sent to “Assertiveness Training.”
Canadians don’t blow their horns. They don’t brag, and they don’t “show off.” The message is clear. “You want to pull those kinds of shenanigans, you can go down to the States, eh? That foolishness you call ‘funny’, that’s just plain foolishness. Take it across the border, where that kind of nonsense is appreciated.”
“Showoff” in Canada, ice skater in Zimbabwe – same chance of “making it.”
So off they go, taking their shenanigans south. But even though they’re here, in the land of the brave and the home of the “Me”, Canadian comedians ply their trade in a typically Canadian fashion.
They work in disguise.
Are they funny? Hilarious. Are they well received? Enormously. Are they successful? Go back and check the list. These people are Huge! (I’m sorry. That sounds very close to bragging. I’ve been down here a long time. My natural reticence may be wearing off.)
So what’s the problem? No problem. Just a question. A remarkable difference in style between Canadian and American funny people.
American comedians have always faced audiences as themselves. Will Rogers, Bob Hope, Woody Allen, Bob Newhart, Bill Cosby, Richard Pryor, Sam Kinnison, Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock, the recently late George Carlin. Every U.S. comedian I can think of presents themselves as who they are, or, more accurately, a calculated projection of who they are. (You really think Jerry Seinfeld walks around the house going, “Did you ever notice this? Did you ever notice that?”)
Canadian comedians are never themselves. (Howie Mandel being a notable exception. In a way, Mandel’s “I’ll say anything” standup act is a rebellion against Canadian reserve, delivering a calculatingly anti-Canadian "one-eighty.")
Rather than coming out and saying “How’re ya doin’…”, Canadian funnymen work their comedy magic through larger-than-life characterizations. Austin Powers. Jiminy Glick. The McKenzie Brothers. Every Jim Carrey character. The eccentrics in the Christopher Guest movies.
Nobody’s real. They’re all “types.” Outrageously funny types, but types nonetheless. It’s like Canadians will play anything. Except the guy on their Birth Certificate.
Why do Canadian funnymen bury themselves in their characters? The boring answer is Canadian comedy has its roots in British Music Hall and the college revue. The all-boys institutions, where performers dress as women. (Canadian women steer clear of comedy. It’s just not polite.)
Canadians were raised in the costume and sketch tradition of comedy. Canada’s most venerated funnymen, Wayne and Shuster, famous down here for their scores of appearances of The Ed Sullivan Show, succeeded with extended sketches, playing a gallery of characters from ancient Romans to hockey players.
(To demonstrate their reliance on accessories, once, during a technician’s strike, production on a Wayne and Shuster special was brought to a halt when someone broke into the studio and stole the mustaches.)
Everyone played a character. A longtime Canadian favorite, Dave Broadfoot enjoyed success as a funny Mountie. My brother, Hart, scored on the CBC playing The (Canadian) Beaver. (The Beaver, Canada’s national symbol, whose likeness graced the back of the Canadian nickel, hated the elk, who had inexplicably gotten the quarter.)
Lacking a protective character to work behind, when interviewed as themselves, Canadian comedians come off disappointingly flat. Also, Canadians – even funny Canadians – are uncomfortable hurting other people’s feelings. (Canadians lack the American “Laugh of we’ll bomb you!” mentality.)
In character, however, it’s “Katie, bar the door!” Check out Short’s “Jiminy Glick” mercilessly ripping into Hollywood nice guy, Tom Hanks.
This is something I don’t understand. I get that in Canada, comedians are restricted to playing characters. But they then come to the States, and…
…continue to do so.
Why?
They’re free. You’d think that Canadians would bust loose, cast off the façade, and break into their “How’re ya doin’…” material. Release their inner Don Rickles.
“Where you from? Peoria? Who cares!”
They never do that. And I can’t figure it out. Is it because playing characters is the only thing they feel comfortable doing? Or is it because, deep down, they’re still Canadians, conditioned since birth not to make fools of themselves? You know, if you show off while you’re playing a character, you have an excuse: “It’s not me. It’s the funny policeman.”
I understand the impulse behind it. On those rare occasions when I’ve performed, I come out as myself, but never without the gnawing feeling that I’m doing something unforgivably inappropriate.
I guess I have one foot in both cultures – my performer’s instincts, American, my fear of public display, Canadian to the core.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
"Story of a Writer - Part Sixteen"
This post brings me to twenty-one posts of “Story of a Writer.” I know it says “Sixteen” in the title up there, but two of the stories, “Thirteen”, on Best of the West and “Fifteen”, about The Cosby Show, turned out to require four installments, making it, now, twenty-one posts in all. You can check the math on that, it’s not my strongest area.
(Though I’m unbeatable in Roman Numerals. I help Dr. M with them when she does the crossword puzzle. Five hundred is “D.” Just so you’ll know.)
While reading my show biz reminiscences, the question may have crossed your mind, “Earl’s memories seem so detailed and precise. Did he keep a diary of his experiences?”
The answer is no. How do I remember all this stuff? It’s my life. What else should I remember?
It’s obvious I don’t remember everything. I covered sixteen years of my career in twenty-one posts. I clearly left a lot of stuff out. For many reasons. The main reason being I didn’t keep a diary.
A lot of my experiences were boringly repetitive, though I’m aware that the writers out there would like me to go into detail about story meetings and how scripts were developed. I mentioned this interest to a writer friend of mine named Lloyd (who has a wonderful blog at lloydgarver.com) Lloyd offered a single – and I agree with it –recollection of story meetings.
“They were long.”
Lacking a diary, I am required to work entirely from memory. It’s interesting about memory. (A “Duh” observation is coming up now.) We only remember what we remember.
Duh.
The rest we forget.
Double duh.
The things we remember, and the things we don’t. It’s a fascinating phenomenon. How to explain what memories we decide to do what with? I think it has something to do with the way we like thinking about ourselves. The memories that don’t fit with our vision of ourselves, we leave out. What’s left is consistent. And that becomes our story. I think.
Anyway…
After returning from The Cosby Show, I went into a fog and a funk. A funky fog. Or a foggy funk – your choice. But it was one of those. A trained professional might call it Depression. Or, if they’re promoting a book on the subject, “Post Traumatic Sitcom Syndrome.” (Or P.T.S.S. Make the call. Operators are standing by.)
Because of my post-Cosby Show fog-funk, I’m at a loss to remember exactly what happened next. I have a feeling, at least for a while, nothing did. My ignominious exit from The Cosby Show had me feeling that I’d never work again. My career was careening precariously toward “You may want to consider alternate employment.”
I’m so blocked concerning the post-Cosby Show era, I had to Google my resume to find out what I wrote.
It wasn’t that much. But it was interesting. For example, I wrote two episodes for Steven Spielberg’s Amazing Stories. (I remember I did it. It was my Spielberg credit. I just didn't remember when.)
Both episodes were from the first season. One’s called “Mummy Daddy”, where the wife of a movie actor starring in a horror film suddenly goes into labor, and unable to get his costume off, the husband races to the hospital in full “Monster Mode”, accidentally terrorizing the community.
The other episode’s called, “Fine Tuning.” In that one, High School students, working on a science project, build a television set that can pick up programs from another planet, and discover that the other planet has appropriated American sitcoms and is broadcasting a robot version of I Love Lucy.
My favorite moment in the episode happens when the show biz-crazed planet sends two aliens to kidnap comedian Milton Berle, and they decide to find out where he lives by taking a guided bus tour of the Stars’ Homes.
I wrote this into the script: The aliens are like human (well, alien) Polaroid cameras. Being typical tourists, they’re continually taking pictures. But they do it by blinking their eyes, there’s a whirring sound, and then the picture is ejected out of their mouths.
The moment was filmed impeccably. I was delighted. Being a four-camera comedy guy, I had little contact with the magic of moviemaking. The First Class execution really made me happy.
I guess this was my “single-camera” period, because I also wrote an episode for a single-camera PBS anthology comedy series called Trying Times. The star of my episode was Steven Wright, one of my favorite comedians. Wright specializes in deadpan-delivered one-liners like,
“My friend is a disc jockey. And when he walks under a bridge, you can’t hear what he’s saying.”
I liked writing single-camera episodes. It’s like writing a movie, which I never got to do, at least not a produced one. Movie writing suits my natural abilities, more honest storytelling, naturalistic dialogue. I would have been good at.
Eh.
A further Google investigation revealed that I consulted on another ambitious anthology, comedy series called The George Burns Comedy Week. I got to give notes to one of my writing heroes, Bruce Jay Friedman, who had adapted one of his most hilarious short stories, “The Mission”, into an episode for the series. (The script came out short and needed some expanding. I helped with that.)
It was a thrill meeting show biz icon George Burns, though things didn’t end well. When I was ushered into his trailer, I found Burns wearing a shirt and no pants. (Vaudevillians kept their pants off until they went on, so they wouldn’t get creased.) George Burns reminded me of my grandfather, and like with my grandfather, we immediately got into a fight.
I could hear myself thinking, “Why are you arguing with George Burns?” But I couldn’t help it. He was wrong.
Along with scriptwriting and consulting on series, I also wrote some pilots, sometimes for money, and sometimes on “spec.”
Did I hear someone ask, “Where do series ideas come from?” Thank you.
They come from everywhere.
Sometimes, they come from your life. After The Cosby Show, I found myself at home a lot, with my infant daughter. From that came the idea for The Home Team, where a former star baseball player who, forced into retirement by injury, becomes an unexpected househusband, as his wife pursues her suddenly flourishing career.
(You catch the parallels there? I couldn’t write about a retired show runner, because back then, the networks ruled: “No show biz-related series!” The audiences wouldn’t identify. Too “inside.”
Yeah, well, The Jack Benny Program. Yeah, well, The Dick Van Dyke Show. Yeah, well, That Girl and The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Yeah, well, Seinfeld, later. But you know network executives. They know what they’re talking about.)
A series idea can walk past you in an airport. Once, waiting for a plane, I noticed a passing black family that apparently employed a white maid. “That’s a show,” I remember thinking.
Sometimes, you do a twist on what’s already there. I used to like this English series called, To The Manor Born, in which a genteel member of the British aristocracy had fallen on hard times and was forced to sell her country estate to a nouveau riche (Jewish) businessman, and move into the gardener’s hut. Needing money, she ultimately accepts a job as the new owner’s social secretary.
I noodled with the “menial in the house they used to own” concept, and turned it into The Actress and the Dentist.
Backstory: A journeyman actress captures a recurring role in a long-running television series, playing an irreverent secretary to a Mannix-like detective. With her now-regular paycheck, the actress purchases a small house, a stabilizing anchor in her perennially gypsy-like existe
Flash Forward: The detective show has been cancelled, and since she can’t keep up her mortgage payments, the actress is forced to sell her beloved house. On the day the new owners, a recently divorced dentist and his sullen son, move in, the actress is still there, refusing to leave. When the actress demonstrates an ability to “reach” the sullen son, the dentist allows the actress to stay, in exchange for her serving as the family’s housekeeper.
(Remember Eileen Brennan from Private Benjamin? She would have been perfect for the actress.)
Another series idea came from two sources: an old television dramatic series, and me winning the Humanitas Prize.
There was this series in the Sixties called Run For Your Life, an anthology about a guy who’s informed that he has a terminal illness, and determines “to squeeze 20 years of living into one year, or two.” The episodes found him in exotic locales, enjoying death-defying adventures, and affecting people’s lives.
I decided to do a paralleling comedy anthology, which I called Mr. Sunshine. I called it, that, because as a result of being told he has a terminal disease, my character dedicates his remaining time to bringing “sunshine” into other people’s lives with the message: “Life is short. Live it to the fullest!”
This “message” comes directly from my Humanitas Prize-winning Mary Tyler Moore episode, “Ted’s Change of Heart.” The comedy in the series would arise from the misfires and misunderstandings arising from encouraging people to change their lives.
I imagined one story about an elderly man and woman who sit on separate benches in the park, never interacting, until our terminal Cupid brings the couple together. He nurtures their relationship, hoping these geriatric loners will fall in love, only to discover at the “Act Break” that the elderly lady is already married.
None of those shows ever became series. I never even wrote the script for the white-maid-for-a black-family idea. Too chickenshit. But it could have been something. Beulah backwards.
Somehow, as often happens in my life, my fog-funk lifted. In time, I careened back from show biz oblivion and entered what would turn out to be the most successful – at least financially – period of my career.
(If I run out of stories, it will be because of the way I’m doing this. I just covered four years in one post.)
----------------------------
Somebody mentioned somewhere that I wrote about my experiences on The C0sby Show. If you're looking for that, click the arrow beside "June" and check "Story of a Writer - Part 15, 15B, 15C and 15D.
(Though I’m unbeatable in Roman Numerals. I help Dr. M with them when she does the crossword puzzle. Five hundred is “D.” Just so you’ll know.)
While reading my show biz reminiscences, the question may have crossed your mind, “Earl’s memories seem so detailed and precise. Did he keep a diary of his experiences?”
The answer is no. How do I remember all this stuff? It’s my life. What else should I remember?
It’s obvious I don’t remember everything. I covered sixteen years of my career in twenty-one posts. I clearly left a lot of stuff out. For many reasons. The main reason being I didn’t keep a diary.
A lot of my experiences were boringly repetitive, though I’m aware that the writers out there would like me to go into detail about story meetings and how scripts were developed. I mentioned this interest to a writer friend of mine named Lloyd (who has a wonderful blog at lloydgarver.com) Lloyd offered a single – and I agree with it –recollection of story meetings.
“They were long.”
Lacking a diary, I am required to work entirely from memory. It’s interesting about memory. (A “Duh” observation is coming up now.) We only remember what we remember.
Duh.
The rest we forget.
Double duh.
The things we remember, and the things we don’t. It’s a fascinating phenomenon. How to explain what memories we decide to do what with? I think it has something to do with the way we like thinking about ourselves. The memories that don’t fit with our vision of ourselves, we leave out. What’s left is consistent. And that becomes our story. I think.
Anyway…
After returning from The Cosby Show, I went into a fog and a funk. A funky fog. Or a foggy funk – your choice. But it was one of those. A trained professional might call it Depression. Or, if they’re promoting a book on the subject, “Post Traumatic Sitcom Syndrome.” (Or P.T.S.S. Make the call. Operators are standing by.)
Because of my post-Cosby Show fog-funk, I’m at a loss to remember exactly what happened next. I have a feeling, at least for a while, nothing did. My ignominious exit from The Cosby Show had me feeling that I’d never work again. My career was careening precariously toward “You may want to consider alternate employment.”
I’m so blocked concerning the post-Cosby Show era, I had to Google my resume to find out what I wrote.
It wasn’t that much. But it was interesting. For example, I wrote two episodes for Steven Spielberg’s Amazing Stories. (I remember I did it. It was my Spielberg credit. I just didn't remember when.)
Both episodes were from the first season. One’s called “Mummy Daddy”, where the wife of a movie actor starring in a horror film suddenly goes into labor, and unable to get his costume off, the husband races to the hospital in full “Monster Mode”, accidentally terrorizing the community.
The other episode’s called, “Fine Tuning.” In that one, High School students, working on a science project, build a television set that can pick up programs from another planet, and discover that the other planet has appropriated American sitcoms and is broadcasting a robot version of I Love Lucy.
My favorite moment in the episode happens when the show biz-crazed planet sends two aliens to kidnap comedian Milton Berle, and they decide to find out where he lives by taking a guided bus tour of the Stars’ Homes.
I wrote this into the script: The aliens are like human (well, alien) Polaroid cameras. Being typical tourists, they’re continually taking pictures. But they do it by blinking their eyes, there’s a whirring sound, and then the picture is ejected out of their mouths.
The moment was filmed impeccably. I was delighted. Being a four-camera comedy guy, I had little contact with the magic of moviemaking. The First Class execution really made me happy.
I guess this was my “single-camera” period, because I also wrote an episode for a single-camera PBS anthology comedy series called Trying Times. The star of my episode was Steven Wright, one of my favorite comedians. Wright specializes in deadpan-delivered one-liners like,
“My friend is a disc jockey. And when he walks under a bridge, you can’t hear what he’s saying.”
I liked writing single-camera episodes. It’s like writing a movie, which I never got to do, at least not a produced one. Movie writing suits my natural abilities, more honest storytelling, naturalistic dialogue. I would have been good at.
Eh.
A further Google investigation revealed that I consulted on another ambitious anthology, comedy series called The George Burns Comedy Week. I got to give notes to one of my writing heroes, Bruce Jay Friedman, who had adapted one of his most hilarious short stories, “The Mission”, into an episode for the series. (The script came out short and needed some expanding. I helped with that.)
It was a thrill meeting show biz icon George Burns, though things didn’t end well. When I was ushered into his trailer, I found Burns wearing a shirt and no pants. (Vaudevillians kept their pants off until they went on, so they wouldn’t get creased.) George Burns reminded me of my grandfather, and like with my grandfather, we immediately got into a fight.
I could hear myself thinking, “Why are you arguing with George Burns?” But I couldn’t help it. He was wrong.
Along with scriptwriting and consulting on series, I also wrote some pilots, sometimes for money, and sometimes on “spec.”
Did I hear someone ask, “Where do series ideas come from?” Thank you.
They come from everywhere.
Sometimes, they come from your life. After The Cosby Show, I found myself at home a lot, with my infant daughter. From that came the idea for The Home Team, where a former star baseball player who, forced into retirement by injury, becomes an unexpected househusband, as his wife pursues her suddenly flourishing career.
(You catch the parallels there? I couldn’t write about a retired show runner, because back then, the networks ruled: “No show biz-related series!” The audiences wouldn’t identify. Too “inside.”
Yeah, well, The Jack Benny Program. Yeah, well, The Dick Van Dyke Show. Yeah, well, That Girl and The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Yeah, well, Seinfeld, later. But you know network executives. They know what they’re talking about.)
A series idea can walk past you in an airport. Once, waiting for a plane, I noticed a passing black family that apparently employed a white maid. “That’s a show,” I remember thinking.
Sometimes, you do a twist on what’s already there. I used to like this English series called, To The Manor Born, in which a genteel member of the British aristocracy had fallen on hard times and was forced to sell her country estate to a nouveau riche (Jewish) businessman, and move into the gardener’s hut. Needing money, she ultimately accepts a job as the new owner’s social secretary.
I noodled with the “menial in the house they used to own” concept, and turned it into The Actress and the Dentist.
Backstory: A journeyman actress captures a recurring role in a long-running television series, playing an irreverent secretary to a Mannix-like detective. With her now-regular paycheck, the actress purchases a small house, a stabilizing anchor in her perennially gypsy-like existe
Flash Forward: The detective show has been cancelled, and since she can’t keep up her mortgage payments, the actress is forced to sell her beloved house. On the day the new owners, a recently divorced dentist and his sullen son, move in, the actress is still there, refusing to leave. When the actress demonstrates an ability to “reach” the sullen son, the dentist allows the actress to stay, in exchange for her serving as the family’s housekeeper.
(Remember Eileen Brennan from Private Benjamin? She would have been perfect for the actress.)
Another series idea came from two sources: an old television dramatic series, and me winning the Humanitas Prize.
There was this series in the Sixties called Run For Your Life, an anthology about a guy who’s informed that he has a terminal illness, and determines “to squeeze 20 years of living into one year, or two.” The episodes found him in exotic locales, enjoying death-defying adventures, and affecting people’s lives.
I decided to do a paralleling comedy anthology, which I called Mr. Sunshine. I called it, that, because as a result of being told he has a terminal disease, my character dedicates his remaining time to bringing “sunshine” into other people’s lives with the message: “Life is short. Live it to the fullest!”
This “message” comes directly from my Humanitas Prize-winning Mary Tyler Moore episode, “Ted’s Change of Heart.” The comedy in the series would arise from the misfires and misunderstandings arising from encouraging people to change their lives.
I imagined one story about an elderly man and woman who sit on separate benches in the park, never interacting, until our terminal Cupid brings the couple together. He nurtures their relationship, hoping these geriatric loners will fall in love, only to discover at the “Act Break” that the elderly lady is already married.
None of those shows ever became series. I never even wrote the script for the white-maid-for-a black-family idea. Too chickenshit. But it could have been something. Beulah backwards.
Somehow, as often happens in my life, my fog-funk lifted. In time, I careened back from show biz oblivion and entered what would turn out to be the most successful – at least financially – period of my career.
(If I run out of stories, it will be because of the way I’m doing this. I just covered four years in one post.)
----------------------------
Somebody mentioned somewhere that I wrote about my experiences on The C0sby Show. If you're looking for that, click the arrow beside "June" and check "Story of a Writer - Part 15, 15B, 15C and 15D.
Friday, July 11, 2008
"Birthday Greetings, 7-11-2008"
The first time I met her
She was three, almost four,
When I walked in her house
She was playing on the floor.
“This is Earl,” said her Mom,
“Say ‘Hello’ to him, Honey.”
She looked up and saw me
And said, “You look funny.”
But she looked terrific,
Black hair, hazel eyes,
And a knowing expression
That told me she was wise.
I would, without question, be wealthy, in shekels
If I only had one for each of Rachel B’s freckles.
My objections to being a step-dad was mild
It’s instructive to practice on another guy’s child.
In the evening, she’d tell me,
“I’m going to put on a play.”
I said, “Go right ahead.”
She said, “What should I say?”
The entire performance
Wouldn’t last very long,
It was bedtime – “Wash and Brush”
Then “Good night”, with three songs.
It started out awkward
With my girlfriend’s young girl,
She had a real Dad
I was always just “Earl.”
But when we picked her up from the sitter
Though I wasn’t her Pap
I felt ever so special
As she slept in my lap.
My mother had measles
When I was a prenatal baby,
Little Rachel told people,
“Earl’s mother had rabies.”
And then I remember there was this one other time
When Sam Waterston was considering acting in a sitcom of mine.
I told Rachel about our meeting, she was now a young lady,
She raced to her Mom, screaming,
"Sam 'What’s-his-name' said ‘Maybe’!”
We were almost both killed
And we really got wet-sky,
When we went to Aruba
And rented some jet skis.
“‘Copter ride, anyone?”
Mom and Anna weren’t buyin’,
Rachel shouted, “I’ll go!”
And we “choppered” through Zion. (National Park.)
I’ve called her Kidder and Roonie and Rooster and more,
She has so many rooster chachkes
She could open a “Rooster Store.”
She’s always available for a hug or a hike
She’s smart, she likes kitties
What’s there not to like?
She’s thoughtful, she’s caring
She bakes cupcakes and pie.
Is there anything missing?
She could use a great guy.
My mother once told me
“I hope all my wishes for you come true”,
Which drove me to therapy
For a decade or two.
I have no wish to make you neurotic or blue
So I’ll leave all your birthday wishes to you.
I’ll just proudly say “Howdy!” and shout it quite loudy,
I love and admire Birthday Girl, Rachel Braude.
Have a wonderful, lucky "7-11" birthday. And happiness forever.
Your Stepladder,
E. Raymond Pomerantz.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
"Experts"
I once wrote this sketch for Canadian radio. It was constructed as an interview with a man who knew where fish went in the winter.
The interview began very cordially. The interviewer was enthusiastic about the piscatorial “scoop” that was about to be exclusived on his show. In moments, the secret of where fish go in the winter would be revealed to the world. But first, there were some preliminary questions.
INTERVIEWER: Tell me about yourself. What are your credentials?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: What do you mean?
INTERVIEWER: Which college did you attend?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: I didn’t go to college.
INTERVIEWER: You didn’t?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: Nope.
INTERVIEWER: Then where did you study about where fish go in the winter?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: I didn’t study anywhere.
INTERVIEWER: You had to have studied somewhere.
THE MAN WHO KNEW: Well, I didn’t.
INTERVIEWER: What did you do? You sat in the library and read books on where fish go in the winter?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: Nope.
INTERVIEWER: I don’t understand.
THE MAN WHO KNEW: No studying, no books.
INTERVIEWER: You consulted with experts in the field.
THE MAN WHO KNEW: Not a one.
INTERVIEWER: You didn’t talk to experts.
THE MAN WHO KNEW: I don’t know any.
INTERVIEWER: It was simply a matter of personal research?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: No research.
INTERVIEWER: Then how exactly did you come to your conclusions?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: I thought about it and I figured it out.
INTERVIEWER: You’re telling us you have no background or training in this subject whatsoever?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: None at all. But I do know where fish go in the winter. Would you like me to tell you?
(At this point, the interviewer spoke directly to the listening audience.)
INTERVIEWER: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to terminate this interview. Our guest may know where fish go in the winter, but he’s not qualified to know. I apologize once again. Thank you, and good night.
So, what am I saying here? That I know something nobody else knows, or something equally as arrogant? I admit that’s what the sketch is about, but I only created it to make a point.
The point being: Whether you know something or not, if you’re not perceived to be an expert, you’ll never get heard.
I’m not sure I know anything original myself. Remember, I worked in television my whole career. You ever see anything original there?
I am considered to be an expert in that field, and being so considered, I am treated accordingly. Whenever I've submitted commentaries concerning situation comedies to the Los Angeles Times, they always got printed.
However, when I submit commentaries on any other subject, the response is one hundred percent in the opposite direction. They never got printed.
The Times specifically asks for readers to submit commentaries to their op-ed page. But you never read in the italicized identifier at the bottom:
“The above commentary was written by a regular person who happens to read this paper.”
It’s always Henry Kissinger. And he doesn’t even live in Los Angeles.
Why is Henry Kissinger in there and not, say, me? Because everybody’s heard of Henry Kissinger. To borrow a phrase from Bill Cosby, Henry Kissinger sells tickets. Why?
Expert.
Let me be clear. Experts are wonderful in their place. I don’t want to go to a dentist and say, “My tooth hurts” and have him reply, “What do you want me to do about it?” I don’t want to report to my heart specialist, “My heart’s bothering me” and have him respond, “What do you think it might be?” I don’t want the pilot on the plane I’m flying in to flipping on the intercom and announcing, “There’s a bunch of dials up here. I’m really confused.”
I like experts, especially when my life’s on the line. Having experts is natural. It’s a product of our division of labor. In caveman days, not everyone was a great hunter. One guy threw a spear and killed every animal he aimed at. Another guy threw a spear and hit his cousin.
Maybe the terrible hunter made great sandals and the animal killer didn’t. So they struck an agreement. It was the barter system – dead animals for sandals. Probably one dead animal for a whole bunch of sandals, but the sandal maker didn’t mind. He was tired of coming home:
“What did you kill?”
“Cousin Shelly.”
Nobody can do everything, so people specialized in one thing, and pretty soon, they became experts. Being focused on your own work and less knowledgeable about other people’s, you ended up trusting each other’s expertise. You didn’t interfere with their work and they wouldn’t interfere with yours. (Unless you were a network executive, in which case, that’s all you did.)
There is a problem, however, with putting your trust in experts. Experts can mess up. Experts said the Soviet Union was a powerful nation, when it wasn’t. They told us there were weapons in Iraq – nothing there, except, now, us. Experts assured us Hillary was a lock for the nomination, and later, that Obama would take New Hampshire.
Oh-for-two.
Their track records suggest that experts can be wrong – a lot – even though they’re experts. They can also be wrong because they’re experts. They see what they’re trained to see, and they’re blindered against seeing anything else.
Expert stomach doctors treated ulcers with special diets and a lifelong regimen of medicine. Then some doctors from Australia, hardly a hotbed of gastroenterological expertise, discovered that ulcers were a virus that could be eradicated in weeks. The expert doctors told the Australian doctors to shut their gobs. There was only one problem. The Australian doctors were right.
Experts can lose their mojo by being too close to the problem. When he broke the Watergate story, Bob Woodward was a “nobody.” His determined pursuit of the story generated from his “outsider” status. (The experts said it wasn’t a story.) Now the Vice President gives superstar Woodward unlimited access. What stories has he broken lately?
Okay, now that I’ve shaken their tree a little – experts aren’t “all that” – let’s get to the area that bothers me most.
Opinions.
Experts offering opinions. Does that make them expert opinions?
Let me ask you something. What is “expert opinion” anyway? Is it someone who’s an expert at delivering an opinion? It could be. Those are the experts on cable TV. Maybe that’s why they’re never held accountable when their opinions are wrong. They’re not being judged on that. They’re only being judged on the way they deliver them. (And the size of the audience that tunes in.)
Traditionally, however, “expert opinion” refers to an expert delivering an opinion concerning the area in which the expert is an expert. That was a tedious sentence, but there you have it. It’s experts opining on their area of expertise. Condi Rice on world diplomacy. John Madden on football. And Little Earl, on the demise of the four-camera situation comedy.
Condi on football? Not interested. Madden on sitcoms – who cares? Me on anything but sitcoms – “whoooooooh.” That’s the sound of the lonely wind whistling across the desert.
In my blog, it always comes back to me, in this case, my antipathy towards “experts” monopolizing the airwaves. But beneath that antipathy, there’s a thought. The thought that intelligent people, though not experts, may harbor illuminating insights and provocative points of view.
I’m not talking about the “agenda people.” We know where they stand already, from their media-saturating surrogates. I’m talking about regular people (and I’m not excluding college graduates) with something to say.
Regular people – who can see the forest despite the trees. Unconnected people, who don’t know a soul, and who don’t want a thing. People like that might even discover something the experts have missed.
A liberating perspective.
An invigorating idea.
The truth about where fish go in the winter.
The interview began very cordially. The interviewer was enthusiastic about the piscatorial “scoop” that was about to be exclusived on his show. In moments, the secret of where fish go in the winter would be revealed to the world. But first, there were some preliminary questions.
INTERVIEWER: Tell me about yourself. What are your credentials?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: What do you mean?
INTERVIEWER: Which college did you attend?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: I didn’t go to college.
INTERVIEWER: You didn’t?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: Nope.
INTERVIEWER: Then where did you study about where fish go in the winter?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: I didn’t study anywhere.
INTERVIEWER: You had to have studied somewhere.
THE MAN WHO KNEW: Well, I didn’t.
INTERVIEWER: What did you do? You sat in the library and read books on where fish go in the winter?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: Nope.
INTERVIEWER: I don’t understand.
THE MAN WHO KNEW: No studying, no books.
INTERVIEWER: You consulted with experts in the field.
THE MAN WHO KNEW: Not a one.
INTERVIEWER: You didn’t talk to experts.
THE MAN WHO KNEW: I don’t know any.
INTERVIEWER: It was simply a matter of personal research?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: No research.
INTERVIEWER: Then how exactly did you come to your conclusions?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: I thought about it and I figured it out.
INTERVIEWER: You’re telling us you have no background or training in this subject whatsoever?
THE MAN WHO KNEW: None at all. But I do know where fish go in the winter. Would you like me to tell you?
(At this point, the interviewer spoke directly to the listening audience.)
INTERVIEWER: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to terminate this interview. Our guest may know where fish go in the winter, but he’s not qualified to know. I apologize once again. Thank you, and good night.
So, what am I saying here? That I know something nobody else knows, or something equally as arrogant? I admit that’s what the sketch is about, but I only created it to make a point.
The point being: Whether you know something or not, if you’re not perceived to be an expert, you’ll never get heard.
I’m not sure I know anything original myself. Remember, I worked in television my whole career. You ever see anything original there?
I am considered to be an expert in that field, and being so considered, I am treated accordingly. Whenever I've submitted commentaries concerning situation comedies to the Los Angeles Times, they always got printed.
However, when I submit commentaries on any other subject, the response is one hundred percent in the opposite direction. They never got printed.
The Times specifically asks for readers to submit commentaries to their op-ed page. But you never read in the italicized identifier at the bottom:
“The above commentary was written by a regular person who happens to read this paper.”
It’s always Henry Kissinger. And he doesn’t even live in Los Angeles.
Why is Henry Kissinger in there and not, say, me? Because everybody’s heard of Henry Kissinger. To borrow a phrase from Bill Cosby, Henry Kissinger sells tickets. Why?
Expert.
Let me be clear. Experts are wonderful in their place. I don’t want to go to a dentist and say, “My tooth hurts” and have him reply, “What do you want me to do about it?” I don’t want to report to my heart specialist, “My heart’s bothering me” and have him respond, “What do you think it might be?” I don’t want the pilot on the plane I’m flying in to flipping on the intercom and announcing, “There’s a bunch of dials up here. I’m really confused.”
I like experts, especially when my life’s on the line. Having experts is natural. It’s a product of our division of labor. In caveman days, not everyone was a great hunter. One guy threw a spear and killed every animal he aimed at. Another guy threw a spear and hit his cousin.
Maybe the terrible hunter made great sandals and the animal killer didn’t. So they struck an agreement. It was the barter system – dead animals for sandals. Probably one dead animal for a whole bunch of sandals, but the sandal maker didn’t mind. He was tired of coming home:
“What did you kill?”
“Cousin Shelly.”
Nobody can do everything, so people specialized in one thing, and pretty soon, they became experts. Being focused on your own work and less knowledgeable about other people’s, you ended up trusting each other’s expertise. You didn’t interfere with their work and they wouldn’t interfere with yours. (Unless you were a network executive, in which case, that’s all you did.)
There is a problem, however, with putting your trust in experts. Experts can mess up. Experts said the Soviet Union was a powerful nation, when it wasn’t. They told us there were weapons in Iraq – nothing there, except, now, us. Experts assured us Hillary was a lock for the nomination, and later, that Obama would take New Hampshire.
Oh-for-two.
Their track records suggest that experts can be wrong – a lot – even though they’re experts. They can also be wrong because they’re experts. They see what they’re trained to see, and they’re blindered against seeing anything else.
Expert stomach doctors treated ulcers with special diets and a lifelong regimen of medicine. Then some doctors from Australia, hardly a hotbed of gastroenterological expertise, discovered that ulcers were a virus that could be eradicated in weeks. The expert doctors told the Australian doctors to shut their gobs. There was only one problem. The Australian doctors were right.
Experts can lose their mojo by being too close to the problem. When he broke the Watergate story, Bob Woodward was a “nobody.” His determined pursuit of the story generated from his “outsider” status. (The experts said it wasn’t a story.) Now the Vice President gives superstar Woodward unlimited access. What stories has he broken lately?
Okay, now that I’ve shaken their tree a little – experts aren’t “all that” – let’s get to the area that bothers me most.
Opinions.
Experts offering opinions. Does that make them expert opinions?
Let me ask you something. What is “expert opinion” anyway? Is it someone who’s an expert at delivering an opinion? It could be. Those are the experts on cable TV. Maybe that’s why they’re never held accountable when their opinions are wrong. They’re not being judged on that. They’re only being judged on the way they deliver them. (And the size of the audience that tunes in.)
Traditionally, however, “expert opinion” refers to an expert delivering an opinion concerning the area in which the expert is an expert. That was a tedious sentence, but there you have it. It’s experts opining on their area of expertise. Condi Rice on world diplomacy. John Madden on football. And Little Earl, on the demise of the four-camera situation comedy.
Condi on football? Not interested. Madden on sitcoms – who cares? Me on anything but sitcoms – “whoooooooh.” That’s the sound of the lonely wind whistling across the desert.
In my blog, it always comes back to me, in this case, my antipathy towards “experts” monopolizing the airwaves. But beneath that antipathy, there’s a thought. The thought that intelligent people, though not experts, may harbor illuminating insights and provocative points of view.
I’m not talking about the “agenda people.” We know where they stand already, from their media-saturating surrogates. I’m talking about regular people (and I’m not excluding college graduates) with something to say.
Regular people – who can see the forest despite the trees. Unconnected people, who don’t know a soul, and who don’t want a thing. People like that might even discover something the experts have missed.
A liberating perspective.
An invigorating idea.
The truth about where fish go in the winter.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
"THe Bad Luck Story"
A recent trip to the Hollywood Bowl brought to mind a bad luck story that happened to our family on an earlier visit. It’s just one of those stories – bad luck from beginning to end.
For those who don’t know, the Hollywood Bowl is a large amphitheater, scenically nestled in the Hollywood Hills. During the summer, there are nightly concerts, featuring various “concept shows”, from a Cuban festival to sing-along Les Miserables.
My friends Cliff and Amanda and I recently attended an anniversary tribute to the Dodgers’ fifty years in Los Angeles, headlined by Randy Newman, who wrote the great score for the baseball movie, The Natural. The show also included an array of some of least familiar Dodgers anyone could possibly imagine.
It started to get funny. Instead of superstar Dodgers like Steve Garvey and Sandy Koufax, each player that was introduced was less famous than the one before. Remember Matt Luke? I don’t. And I’m a fan. Some of these guys, I don’t think got out of spring training. It was like, “Fifty Years of Dodgers who Normally Sat on the Bench.”
My latest visit sent me back to the time that Dr. M, myself and our daughters went to the Hollywood Bowl to see the late tap dancing phenom, Gregory Hines, who during a “down” period in his career had lived across the street from Dr. M in the bohemian suburb of Venice.
We were very excited. We had bought a “box” for the performance and had picked up a picnic dinner from a restaurant we liked called The Daily Grill. The picnic basket came fully loaded: a sumptuous dinner, plates, silverware, drinking glasses, napkins, a tablecloth, and two little candles in small, metal holders.
A candlelight picnic under the stars. It would be a night to remember.
Oh, yeah.
We arrived on time and parked in the lot above the Bowl. That’s when the bad luck began. We had a Jeep back then, and for some reason, the lock bolt had frozen in one of the doors and despite every effort, the bolt refused to budge, clanging frustratingly against the doorjamb.
You never want to leave your car in a parking lot with the door open. That’s asking for trouble. The main concern after, you know, someone driving away with your car, is that, because the door was open, the indoor lights would stay on, leaving the not small likelihood that when you came back to your car, your battery would be dead.
We had no choice; it was getting late. We secured the door as best we could, after cleaning out the car, so that miscreants wouldn’t open the door and pilfer away. The Jeep didn’t have a trunk.
So there we were, my family and I, trudging down to the Hollywood Bowl, carrying our delicious picnic dinner, plus the entire contents of our car.
Because of our car door problems, we were now on the late side. When we found our seats – it was getting close to show time – but we still had time for our dinner. We rented a picnic table, which was quickly set up in our box.
It was an overly large table – it was all they had left by then – which made for a rather tight squeeze. I sat at the end of the table facing the stage, Anna and Dr. M sat on the sides, and Rachel sat at the other end, her back to the stage. This wouldn’t be a problem. The table would be removed before the show started.
Dr. M spread the tablecloth, the girls helped set the table, and I opened the Pellegrino (sparkling water) and filled the glasses. Dr. M lit the two little candles. We were ready to picnic.
Imagine my feelings as I surveyed the scene. A balmy summer evening, the company of the family I love, a three-course picnic dinner, and a wonderful show to come. Stop time. It’s the prefect moment. Unless you hear these particular words:
“Your table cloth is on fire.”
As we were about to start eating, a breeze came up, and without our noticing, it had blown the corner of the tablecloth over the candles, causing the tablecloth to burst immediately into flame. As wine-loosened bystanders laughed and pointed, our family fought desperately to douse the fire with Pellegrino.
We extinguished the flames fairly quickly, though the smoke and the flying pieces of tablecloth debris (like black confetti) were apparent for some time. The crisis was over, but we remained the center of derision. It’s natural, I guess. People love seeing other people’s picnics interrupted by fire.
No time to eat now, the show was about to begin. Delivering the next blow in our nightmarish outing. We quickly learned that once the performance started, the ushers were instructed not to take away the tables.
I saw the show. I was the one facing the stage. Dr. M and Anna saw it sideways, required to enjoy the performance with their heads locked directly over their shoulders. Rachel saw nothing. The show was proceeding behind her, and she couldn’t turn around. We had to tell her what was going on.
They removed our table at intermission, but by then, we were hungry, soot-covered, and generally not in the festive mood we were hoping for from a beautiful evening at the Hollywood Bowl.
When the show ended, we trudged back up the hill to the parking lot, wondering if our car would start when we got there.
To give the story its perfect ending, our battery would have been dead, and we’d be left standing in the parking lot after everyone had left, waiting for the Auto Club to arrive.
Instead, the car started immediately and we went home.
Now that’s a real bad luck story. Even the ending lets you down.
For those who don’t know, the Hollywood Bowl is a large amphitheater, scenically nestled in the Hollywood Hills. During the summer, there are nightly concerts, featuring various “concept shows”, from a Cuban festival to sing-along Les Miserables.
My friends Cliff and Amanda and I recently attended an anniversary tribute to the Dodgers’ fifty years in Los Angeles, headlined by Randy Newman, who wrote the great score for the baseball movie, The Natural. The show also included an array of some of least familiar Dodgers anyone could possibly imagine.
It started to get funny. Instead of superstar Dodgers like Steve Garvey and Sandy Koufax, each player that was introduced was less famous than the one before. Remember Matt Luke? I don’t. And I’m a fan. Some of these guys, I don’t think got out of spring training. It was like, “Fifty Years of Dodgers who Normally Sat on the Bench.”
My latest visit sent me back to the time that Dr. M, myself and our daughters went to the Hollywood Bowl to see the late tap dancing phenom, Gregory Hines, who during a “down” period in his career had lived across the street from Dr. M in the bohemian suburb of Venice.
We were very excited. We had bought a “box” for the performance and had picked up a picnic dinner from a restaurant we liked called The Daily Grill. The picnic basket came fully loaded: a sumptuous dinner, plates, silverware, drinking glasses, napkins, a tablecloth, and two little candles in small, metal holders.
A candlelight picnic under the stars. It would be a night to remember.
Oh, yeah.
We arrived on time and parked in the lot above the Bowl. That’s when the bad luck began. We had a Jeep back then, and for some reason, the lock bolt had frozen in one of the doors and despite every effort, the bolt refused to budge, clanging frustratingly against the doorjamb.
You never want to leave your car in a parking lot with the door open. That’s asking for trouble. The main concern after, you know, someone driving away with your car, is that, because the door was open, the indoor lights would stay on, leaving the not small likelihood that when you came back to your car, your battery would be dead.
We had no choice; it was getting late. We secured the door as best we could, after cleaning out the car, so that miscreants wouldn’t open the door and pilfer away. The Jeep didn’t have a trunk.
So there we were, my family and I, trudging down to the Hollywood Bowl, carrying our delicious picnic dinner, plus the entire contents of our car.
Because of our car door problems, we were now on the late side. When we found our seats – it was getting close to show time – but we still had time for our dinner. We rented a picnic table, which was quickly set up in our box.
It was an overly large table – it was all they had left by then – which made for a rather tight squeeze. I sat at the end of the table facing the stage, Anna and Dr. M sat on the sides, and Rachel sat at the other end, her back to the stage. This wouldn’t be a problem. The table would be removed before the show started.
Dr. M spread the tablecloth, the girls helped set the table, and I opened the Pellegrino (sparkling water) and filled the glasses. Dr. M lit the two little candles. We were ready to picnic.
Imagine my feelings as I surveyed the scene. A balmy summer evening, the company of the family I love, a three-course picnic dinner, and a wonderful show to come. Stop time. It’s the prefect moment. Unless you hear these particular words:
“Your table cloth is on fire.”
As we were about to start eating, a breeze came up, and without our noticing, it had blown the corner of the tablecloth over the candles, causing the tablecloth to burst immediately into flame. As wine-loosened bystanders laughed and pointed, our family fought desperately to douse the fire with Pellegrino.
We extinguished the flames fairly quickly, though the smoke and the flying pieces of tablecloth debris (like black confetti) were apparent for some time. The crisis was over, but we remained the center of derision. It’s natural, I guess. People love seeing other people’s picnics interrupted by fire.
No time to eat now, the show was about to begin. Delivering the next blow in our nightmarish outing. We quickly learned that once the performance started, the ushers were instructed not to take away the tables.
I saw the show. I was the one facing the stage. Dr. M and Anna saw it sideways, required to enjoy the performance with their heads locked directly over their shoulders. Rachel saw nothing. The show was proceeding behind her, and she couldn’t turn around. We had to tell her what was going on.
They removed our table at intermission, but by then, we were hungry, soot-covered, and generally not in the festive mood we were hoping for from a beautiful evening at the Hollywood Bowl.
When the show ended, we trudged back up the hill to the parking lot, wondering if our car would start when we got there.
To give the story its perfect ending, our battery would have been dead, and we’d be left standing in the parking lot after everyone had left, waiting for the Auto Club to arrive.
Instead, the car started immediately and we went home.
Now that’s a real bad luck story. Even the ending lets you down.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
"Summer Times - Part Two B"
I’m nine years old. I’m at sleep-away camp for the first time, and I didn’t know I was going. My introduction?
The first lunch.
My strongest memory?
The noise.
Three hundred people, campers plus staff, a chattering clattering cacophony in the Camp Ogama Mess Hall. Have you ever been to Niagara Falls? You ever stand close to the thundering waters? Do you recall the pounding in your ears that made you feel like your head was going to explode? You remember that sound? Double it.
That was the noise in the Camp Ogama Mess Hall.
People shouting across tables, and counselors shouting “No shouting!” Campers rhythmically pounding on the polished wooden tables with their fists. Three hundred eaters saying “Pass the salt” at the same time. Cabin groups bursting spontaneously into song:
“Food, waiter, waiter, waiter
Food, waiter, waiter.
We want something to eat.
So don’t fall asleep on your feet.”
Phil Spector created the “Wall of Sound.” He got the idea from a summer camp dining hall.
I was sitting with strangers. My brain was going boom-ba-da-boom-ba-da-boom. I had just, at least in my mind, been kidnapped. I was not having a good day.
And then, they brought out the food.
“Scoops.”
A platter was delivered to each table containing one ice-cream-scoop scoop of tuna, one scoop of egg, and one of salmon. I don’t eat tuna, egg or salmon. I eat peanut butter. That wasn’t one of the scoops.
There are people who can eat anything. I’m not one of them.
For the rest of that summer, and the thirteen subsequent summers, my primary source of nutrition was Wonderbread. I had a regular routine. I’d fold a slice of Wonderbread in half and eat out the spongy part in the middle. By the end of the meal, you looked at my plate, and you’d see three slices of unbroken crust surrounding a giant hole. Picture frames, made of bread.
No wonder, by the second month, I needed a smaller set of clothes.
Dessert was ice cream. Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. All melted – it was hot, and the buses had arrived late. I like chocolate ice cream. I’ll eat vanilla. By the time the platter reached me, all that was left was strawberry.
I don’t like strawberry.
When lunch ended, a slightly built fellow in jeans walked to the center of the room and raised both hands high in the air. He wasn’t very imposing, but you could tell immediately he was The Man. As soon as he raised his hands, every staff member in the Mess Hall did the same thing. That little guy had clout.
Returning campers understood the “raised arms” signal. The signal was for quiet. The noise gradually subsided from “blast furnace” level, and the man began to speak.
His name was Joe. He was the camp’s director. (He would eventually buy the camp.) Narrow of build, Joe had clenched wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and a facial bone structure reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart, but on further inspection, he didn’t look like Humphrey Bogart. He looked like Joe.
Joe welcomed us to camp, introduced a few people, informed us of some basic camp rules. I wasn’t really listening. I had bigger things on my mind, like, “What’s going to happen to me?” and “Will I ever eat again?”
I’ll tell you more about Joe later. I’ll only mention – because it was the first thing I noticed – the way he spoke. With authority, absolutely, but he had certain identifiable quirks. He called “counselors”, “conslers”, and when he talked, he would emphasize, more than any other words in the sentence, the prepositions.
“When your name is called, you will proceed from the Mess Hall to the meeting place where you will be divided into cabin groups, after which you will proceed from the meeting place with your conslers to your cabins.”
I never heard any talk like that before. Or since. What’s so important about prepositions?
They read off my name. I proceeded from the Mess Hall to my meeting place with the Junior Unit at the flagpole. (It’s fun to do, but it doesn’t make sense.) The Unit Head then read off names of the campers in his unit (mine was the Junior Unit, including about fifty campers), assigning us to our designated cabins.
I’d be in Cabin 26. When the Unit Head finished reading our names, everyone in Cabin 26 immediately started running.
Except me. For two reasons. One, I don’t run. And two, I didn’t know where Cabin 26 was. I fell in beside my counselor.
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
My counselor just smiled. Man, these guys were really trained.
When I got to my cabin, I quickly understood about the running. Experienced campers – and apparently in Cabin 26, I was the only one who wasn’t – raced to the cabin so they could claim the prime bunks and the easiest-to-reach clothing shelves. By the time I arrived, what was left was an upper bunk with a sagging mattress, and shelves, high and in a far corner, that were virtually impossible to get to.
Things were not starting well.
The beds were positioned along the inside walls of the cabin’s living area, leaving the middle area open. The two counselors had single bunks along the front wall, there was a double bunk along each side wall (mine was one of those), and there were another pair of double bunks along the back. Four doubles, two singles – ten people sharing a tiny cabin. (When I visited years later, I couldn’t believe how tiny the cabins were.) (I hope you’ll be patient with the description; I just want you to see how it was.)
The shelving area was through a passway in the back. Suspended against the rear wall was a stack of medium-sized cubbyholes. We were allotted two cubbyholes each for our folded clothes. Our hanging clothes were hung on a shared rack, our rubber boots and shoes arrayed underneath.
The only other furniture were orange crates stood on their sides, which served as night tables. Two campers shared each orange crate.
That was it. No sinks. No toilets. There was a grid of overhead rafters to store our luggage, and large fastened shutters, which were lowered to cover the screens-only windows when it rained. The cabin was illuminated by a single light bulb you manipulated by pulling a string.
It was all the comforts of home. Minus all the comforts of home.
My counselor helped me unpack, put away my clothes (I could barely reach my shelves on tiptoes) and showed me how to make my elevated bunk. He left me to decide how to get up there.
Let’s set the scene here. I’m nine years old. I'm looking at a double bunk, which I've never seen before, and I'm noticing that my bunk is over my head.
The only way to get up there was to pull myself up with my arms, and my arms, well, you know “Popeye?” I have Olive Oyl arms. Spaghetti strands, with fingers. And no upper body strength whatsoever. (Lower body strength wouldn’t help in this process, though it wouldn’t have mattered. I had no lower body strength either.)
I placed my foot on the bed frame of the lower bunk to give myself a boost. I immediately heard from the lower bunk’s owner.
“Don’t touch my blanket.”
Don’t touch his blanket. The bed frame was like two inches wide. How could I get a foothold without touching his blanket? I stepped up again, trying to be careful.
“Don’t touch my blanket!” This time his warning arrived with an accompanying kick.
It was obvious that a side ascent would not be possible. I would have to climb up from the back. I had little choice. It was that or spend the entire summer sleeping on the floor.
At the back of the bed, there were these two metal bars in a criss-cross arrangement, intended, I suppose, to stabilize the bed frame. Maybe. What do I know about bed frames?
There was a crook where the criss-crossing bars crossed. The bars’ edges weren’t sharp but they were narrow. You wouldn’t want to put your full weight on that crook; the bars would dig into the bottom of your foot.
Having no other option, I put my full weight onto the crook. The bars dug into the bottom of my foot.
I reached up for the frame at the back of my bunk and, slowly and painstakingly, pulled myself up. As I dragged myself over the frame, I scraped my entire front, from the bridge of my nose to the tops of my feet.
But I made it.
I felt triumphant. It was my first camp achievement. I imagined my first letter home.
“Dear Mom,
Today, I learned how to climb into my bunk. Thanks for sending me here.
Love,
Earl.”
“P.S. You know when I said ‘Thanks for sending me here’? I didn’t mean it.”
I thought over the events of the day. I’d been taken from my home to a strange and distant place. I’d been given food I didn’t like. I’d been kicked by a cabin mate for touching his blanket with my foot.
I dreaded the future, but for the moment, I felt comfortable. I could relax in my bunk till the next crisis arrived.
That’s when our counselor said, “Everyone off your bunks. We’re taking a tour of the camp.”
The next crisis had arrived.
I had no idea how to get down.
The first lunch.
My strongest memory?
The noise.
Three hundred people, campers plus staff, a chattering clattering cacophony in the Camp Ogama Mess Hall. Have you ever been to Niagara Falls? You ever stand close to the thundering waters? Do you recall the pounding in your ears that made you feel like your head was going to explode? You remember that sound? Double it.
That was the noise in the Camp Ogama Mess Hall.
People shouting across tables, and counselors shouting “No shouting!” Campers rhythmically pounding on the polished wooden tables with their fists. Three hundred eaters saying “Pass the salt” at the same time. Cabin groups bursting spontaneously into song:
“Food, waiter, waiter, waiter
Food, waiter, waiter.
We want something to eat.
So don’t fall asleep on your feet.”
Phil Spector created the “Wall of Sound.” He got the idea from a summer camp dining hall.
I was sitting with strangers. My brain was going boom-ba-da-boom-ba-da-boom. I had just, at least in my mind, been kidnapped. I was not having a good day.
And then, they brought out the food.
“Scoops.”
A platter was delivered to each table containing one ice-cream-scoop scoop of tuna, one scoop of egg, and one of salmon. I don’t eat tuna, egg or salmon. I eat peanut butter. That wasn’t one of the scoops.
There are people who can eat anything. I’m not one of them.
For the rest of that summer, and the thirteen subsequent summers, my primary source of nutrition was Wonderbread. I had a regular routine. I’d fold a slice of Wonderbread in half and eat out the spongy part in the middle. By the end of the meal, you looked at my plate, and you’d see three slices of unbroken crust surrounding a giant hole. Picture frames, made of bread.
No wonder, by the second month, I needed a smaller set of clothes.
Dessert was ice cream. Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. All melted – it was hot, and the buses had arrived late. I like chocolate ice cream. I’ll eat vanilla. By the time the platter reached me, all that was left was strawberry.
I don’t like strawberry.
When lunch ended, a slightly built fellow in jeans walked to the center of the room and raised both hands high in the air. He wasn’t very imposing, but you could tell immediately he was The Man. As soon as he raised his hands, every staff member in the Mess Hall did the same thing. That little guy had clout.
Returning campers understood the “raised arms” signal. The signal was for quiet. The noise gradually subsided from “blast furnace” level, and the man began to speak.
His name was Joe. He was the camp’s director. (He would eventually buy the camp.) Narrow of build, Joe had clenched wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and a facial bone structure reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart, but on further inspection, he didn’t look like Humphrey Bogart. He looked like Joe.
Joe welcomed us to camp, introduced a few people, informed us of some basic camp rules. I wasn’t really listening. I had bigger things on my mind, like, “What’s going to happen to me?” and “Will I ever eat again?”
I’ll tell you more about Joe later. I’ll only mention – because it was the first thing I noticed – the way he spoke. With authority, absolutely, but he had certain identifiable quirks. He called “counselors”, “conslers”, and when he talked, he would emphasize, more than any other words in the sentence, the prepositions.
“When your name is called, you will proceed from the Mess Hall to the meeting place where you will be divided into cabin groups, after which you will proceed from the meeting place with your conslers to your cabins.”
I never heard any talk like that before. Or since. What’s so important about prepositions?
They read off my name. I proceeded from the Mess Hall to my meeting place with the Junior Unit at the flagpole. (It’s fun to do, but it doesn’t make sense.) The Unit Head then read off names of the campers in his unit (mine was the Junior Unit, including about fifty campers), assigning us to our designated cabins.
I’d be in Cabin 26. When the Unit Head finished reading our names, everyone in Cabin 26 immediately started running.
Except me. For two reasons. One, I don’t run. And two, I didn’t know where Cabin 26 was. I fell in beside my counselor.
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
My counselor just smiled. Man, these guys were really trained.
When I got to my cabin, I quickly understood about the running. Experienced campers – and apparently in Cabin 26, I was the only one who wasn’t – raced to the cabin so they could claim the prime bunks and the easiest-to-reach clothing shelves. By the time I arrived, what was left was an upper bunk with a sagging mattress, and shelves, high and in a far corner, that were virtually impossible to get to.
Things were not starting well.
The beds were positioned along the inside walls of the cabin’s living area, leaving the middle area open. The two counselors had single bunks along the front wall, there was a double bunk along each side wall (mine was one of those), and there were another pair of double bunks along the back. Four doubles, two singles – ten people sharing a tiny cabin. (When I visited years later, I couldn’t believe how tiny the cabins were.) (I hope you’ll be patient with the description; I just want you to see how it was.)
The shelving area was through a passway in the back. Suspended against the rear wall was a stack of medium-sized cubbyholes. We were allotted two cubbyholes each for our folded clothes. Our hanging clothes were hung on a shared rack, our rubber boots and shoes arrayed underneath.
The only other furniture were orange crates stood on their sides, which served as night tables. Two campers shared each orange crate.
That was it. No sinks. No toilets. There was a grid of overhead rafters to store our luggage, and large fastened shutters, which were lowered to cover the screens-only windows when it rained. The cabin was illuminated by a single light bulb you manipulated by pulling a string.
It was all the comforts of home. Minus all the comforts of home.
My counselor helped me unpack, put away my clothes (I could barely reach my shelves on tiptoes) and showed me how to make my elevated bunk. He left me to decide how to get up there.
Let’s set the scene here. I’m nine years old. I'm looking at a double bunk, which I've never seen before, and I'm noticing that my bunk is over my head.
The only way to get up there was to pull myself up with my arms, and my arms, well, you know “Popeye?” I have Olive Oyl arms. Spaghetti strands, with fingers. And no upper body strength whatsoever. (Lower body strength wouldn’t help in this process, though it wouldn’t have mattered. I had no lower body strength either.)
I placed my foot on the bed frame of the lower bunk to give myself a boost. I immediately heard from the lower bunk’s owner.
“Don’t touch my blanket.”
Don’t touch his blanket. The bed frame was like two inches wide. How could I get a foothold without touching his blanket? I stepped up again, trying to be careful.
“Don’t touch my blanket!” This time his warning arrived with an accompanying kick.
It was obvious that a side ascent would not be possible. I would have to climb up from the back. I had little choice. It was that or spend the entire summer sleeping on the floor.
At the back of the bed, there were these two metal bars in a criss-cross arrangement, intended, I suppose, to stabilize the bed frame. Maybe. What do I know about bed frames?
There was a crook where the criss-crossing bars crossed. The bars’ edges weren’t sharp but they were narrow. You wouldn’t want to put your full weight on that crook; the bars would dig into the bottom of your foot.
Having no other option, I put my full weight onto the crook. The bars dug into the bottom of my foot.
I reached up for the frame at the back of my bunk and, slowly and painstakingly, pulled myself up. As I dragged myself over the frame, I scraped my entire front, from the bridge of my nose to the tops of my feet.
But I made it.
I felt triumphant. It was my first camp achievement. I imagined my first letter home.
“Dear Mom,
Today, I learned how to climb into my bunk. Thanks for sending me here.
Love,
Earl.”
“P.S. You know when I said ‘Thanks for sending me here’? I didn’t mean it.”
I thought over the events of the day. I’d been taken from my home to a strange and distant place. I’d been given food I didn’t like. I’d been kicked by a cabin mate for touching his blanket with my foot.
I dreaded the future, but for the moment, I felt comfortable. I could relax in my bunk till the next crisis arrived.
That’s when our counselor said, “Everyone off your bunks. We’re taking a tour of the camp.”
The next crisis had arrived.
I had no idea how to get down.
Monday, July 7, 2008
"Summer Times - Part Two"
The first time I went to camp, I didn’t know I was going. That’s my claim, though I’m open to alternate versions.
My mother insisted it wasn’t possible I didn’t know I was going.
“Where did you think your clothes went?”
She had a point. As camp departure day approached, I must have noticed my drawers had no clothes in them and my closet was full of empty hangers. I’d even seen her sew nametags. Yet, somehow, it never sunk in. Maybe I thought she was sewing my brother’s nametags. But on my clothes?
The most likely scenario – knowing me – is that I knew about it, but I pulled a panicky “one-eighty” on the drive to the place the buses were leaving from, and, being too crazed to be reachable by reason, I’d been assured by my mother that okay, I didn’t have to go.
So when we got to the West Prep – the jumping-off point – I was convinced I’d been reprieved.
I wasn’t going to camp.
The departure place was frantic. My brother immediately raced off to join his camp buddies. It’s funny. Toronto wasn’t that big, but somehow, you rarely saw your camp buddies in the city. It’s like you had city friends – from school and your neighborhood – and then you had camp friends, hailing from more distant neighborhoods, as well as from nearby towns, the States, and even Venezuela.
Camp buddies hadn’t seen each other for ten months. That accounted for a proportion of the frenzy. The other part was the knowledge that escape from parental control was moments away. The parents had lost a lot of control already.
I recognized a few kids there myself. When they asked me what bus I was on, I told them I wasn’t going. I truly believed that.
Finally, the kids started boarding the buses. You know, I’m writing this now, decades after it occurred, but typing, “the kids started boarding the buses” just gave me retroactive stomach flutters.
This was goodbye. For eight weeks. Away from everything familiar and safe, and off – a hundred and fifty miles from home – to who knows what?
I was very happy not to be going.
My brother was on the bus. We’d already said our goodbyes. Suddenly, my mother remembered she had my brother’s flashlight in her purse. Flashlights are essential at camp. There was little outdoor lighting and flashlights pointed the way in the dark.
My mother handed me the flashlight and told me to take it to my brother. I walked over to his bus, climbed aboard, and headed down the aisle to where my brother was sitting, horsing around with his reunited camp posse.
“Mom told me to bring you this.”
My brother grabbed the flashlight without comment. Somehow, it was embarrassing for a twelve year-old boy to acknowledge he had a nine year-old brother. It was like a ghost had brought him his flashlight.
I turned back to get off the bus. And then, it happened.
The bus doors closed.
And I was off to camp.
If my stomach was fluttering when I typed, “the kids started boarding the buses”, my heart just came very close to stopping when I typed, “And I was off to camp.” I’m getting quite a workout here.
Be me for a second. You’re totally convinced you’re not going to camp. And then, the bus pulls out
…and you’re going to camp.
(A phrase sticks in my mind that my mother often repeated about me over the years: “He always needed a little push.” The flashlight was my “push.”)
My head was spinning. I went up to the driver and said, “I’m not supposed to be going.”
The driver said “Yeah?” and kept driving. I didn’t like my chances of getting him to turn around.
I noticed the bus passing the street our house was one. This was definitely final. I wasn’t going home. I was going to camp.
Having no other choice, I went back to sit with my brother. My brother wasn’t interested. He was sitting with Alan Siegel. Alan Siegel, who had once slammed a door on my brother’s hand, leaving him with a permanently claw-like fingernail. That’s who he wanted to sit with.
(I forgive him. It was normal. I mean, who would you rather sit with, a rambunctious, if dangerous, contemporary, or a whimpering little sibling bordering on nervous collapse?)
I found a seat up front, beside a staff member.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I told him.
The staff member smiled. It’s probably what they trained them to do in these situations.
Half way to camp, we stopped at a place called Orillia, on the banks of Lake Cuchiching. (That’s not important; I just like saying Cuchiching.) Campers got off to stretch their legs and buy Cokes and some chips. I went to throw up.
I’m not a good car traveler at the best of times, and these weren’t them. I wandered into a park. I remember a tall statue of an Indian. He was barefoot, and had a giant big toenail. I remember losing my breakfast on his feet. Like the Indians didn’t have enough trouble, they needed a Jewish prisoner throwing up on their statue.
We returned to the bus and continued our journey. I’m not a great describer, so I won’t do this justice, but there’s something remarkable about the highway we were driving on, even to a person in a state of shock.
When you looked out the window, you’d see these giant boulders bordering both sides of the roadway. It’s like there’d been a mountain there, and they’d blasted through it, and now, the remains of the mountain were on both sides, and we were driving through the middle. Even to a traumatized kid, it was a sight to remember.
It was also a reminder that I wasn’t in Toronto anymore.
We drove past small Ontario towns – Bracebridge, Gravenhurst – where a former Leaf hockey player named Todd Sloan had opened a restaurant – and finally, Huntsville, where, as a staff member years later, I’d spend many of my days off. Huntsville had a great bakery called “Boley’s”, and a restaurant called, “McDonald’s” (not the hamburger chain) that served T-bone steaks.
(I can’t vouch for the quality of the food. On your day off, everything tastes great. It was certainly better than camp food, which featured liver and Welsh rarebit. I have no idea what that is.)
We turned off at the northern outskirts of Huntsville, and proceeded for nine miles down ever narrowing roads, so narrow at their narrowest, that branches would be brushing against the bus’s windows.
Finally, we turned left, driving under an overhanging wooden sign reading, “Welcome to Camp Ogama.” The bus drove down a road, past a riding stable, an archery court, the camp’s main office, past the playing field, before stopping at its destination, in front of the Mess Hall.
We were there.
As the campers piled out, the staff raced to greet them with an almost frightening enthusiasm. Boy, were they ever trained to be happy to meet us.
As I descended unsteadily from the bus – the driver insisted I get off – a female staff member, a veritable superball in shorts, bounced up to greet me.
“Hi, there! Welcome to camp!”
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I informed her.
The staff member just smiled. And ushered me into the Dining Hall for lunch.
Tomorrow: To Climb the Unreachable Bed
---------------
A bushelful of thanks to Kelly and Miguel who came to my house and made my Internet to work again so I could publish this post. You're my heroes. You rescued a whimpering Jew.
----------------
Anyone interested in my "Cosby Show" posts can find them in June's batch (click on arrow to the left of "June") under "Story of a Writer - Part Fifteen, B, C, and D. They may not be true, but they're as true as I can make them.
My mother insisted it wasn’t possible I didn’t know I was going.
“Where did you think your clothes went?”
She had a point. As camp departure day approached, I must have noticed my drawers had no clothes in them and my closet was full of empty hangers. I’d even seen her sew nametags. Yet, somehow, it never sunk in. Maybe I thought she was sewing my brother’s nametags. But on my clothes?
The most likely scenario – knowing me – is that I knew about it, but I pulled a panicky “one-eighty” on the drive to the place the buses were leaving from, and, being too crazed to be reachable by reason, I’d been assured by my mother that okay, I didn’t have to go.
So when we got to the West Prep – the jumping-off point – I was convinced I’d been reprieved.
I wasn’t going to camp.
The departure place was frantic. My brother immediately raced off to join his camp buddies. It’s funny. Toronto wasn’t that big, but somehow, you rarely saw your camp buddies in the city. It’s like you had city friends – from school and your neighborhood – and then you had camp friends, hailing from more distant neighborhoods, as well as from nearby towns, the States, and even Venezuela.
Camp buddies hadn’t seen each other for ten months. That accounted for a proportion of the frenzy. The other part was the knowledge that escape from parental control was moments away. The parents had lost a lot of control already.
I recognized a few kids there myself. When they asked me what bus I was on, I told them I wasn’t going. I truly believed that.
Finally, the kids started boarding the buses. You know, I’m writing this now, decades after it occurred, but typing, “the kids started boarding the buses” just gave me retroactive stomach flutters.
This was goodbye. For eight weeks. Away from everything familiar and safe, and off – a hundred and fifty miles from home – to who knows what?
I was very happy not to be going.
My brother was on the bus. We’d already said our goodbyes. Suddenly, my mother remembered she had my brother’s flashlight in her purse. Flashlights are essential at camp. There was little outdoor lighting and flashlights pointed the way in the dark.
My mother handed me the flashlight and told me to take it to my brother. I walked over to his bus, climbed aboard, and headed down the aisle to where my brother was sitting, horsing around with his reunited camp posse.
“Mom told me to bring you this.”
My brother grabbed the flashlight without comment. Somehow, it was embarrassing for a twelve year-old boy to acknowledge he had a nine year-old brother. It was like a ghost had brought him his flashlight.
I turned back to get off the bus. And then, it happened.
The bus doors closed.
And I was off to camp.
If my stomach was fluttering when I typed, “the kids started boarding the buses”, my heart just came very close to stopping when I typed, “And I was off to camp.” I’m getting quite a workout here.
Be me for a second. You’re totally convinced you’re not going to camp. And then, the bus pulls out
…and you’re going to camp.
(A phrase sticks in my mind that my mother often repeated about me over the years: “He always needed a little push.” The flashlight was my “push.”)
My head was spinning. I went up to the driver and said, “I’m not supposed to be going.”
The driver said “Yeah?” and kept driving. I didn’t like my chances of getting him to turn around.
I noticed the bus passing the street our house was one. This was definitely final. I wasn’t going home. I was going to camp.
Having no other choice, I went back to sit with my brother. My brother wasn’t interested. He was sitting with Alan Siegel. Alan Siegel, who had once slammed a door on my brother’s hand, leaving him with a permanently claw-like fingernail. That’s who he wanted to sit with.
(I forgive him. It was normal. I mean, who would you rather sit with, a rambunctious, if dangerous, contemporary, or a whimpering little sibling bordering on nervous collapse?)
I found a seat up front, beside a staff member.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I told him.
The staff member smiled. It’s probably what they trained them to do in these situations.
Half way to camp, we stopped at a place called Orillia, on the banks of Lake Cuchiching. (That’s not important; I just like saying Cuchiching.) Campers got off to stretch their legs and buy Cokes and some chips. I went to throw up.
I’m not a good car traveler at the best of times, and these weren’t them. I wandered into a park. I remember a tall statue of an Indian. He was barefoot, and had a giant big toenail. I remember losing my breakfast on his feet. Like the Indians didn’t have enough trouble, they needed a Jewish prisoner throwing up on their statue.
We returned to the bus and continued our journey. I’m not a great describer, so I won’t do this justice, but there’s something remarkable about the highway we were driving on, even to a person in a state of shock.
When you looked out the window, you’d see these giant boulders bordering both sides of the roadway. It’s like there’d been a mountain there, and they’d blasted through it, and now, the remains of the mountain were on both sides, and we were driving through the middle. Even to a traumatized kid, it was a sight to remember.
It was also a reminder that I wasn’t in Toronto anymore.
We drove past small Ontario towns – Bracebridge, Gravenhurst – where a former Leaf hockey player named Todd Sloan had opened a restaurant – and finally, Huntsville, where, as a staff member years later, I’d spend many of my days off. Huntsville had a great bakery called “Boley’s”, and a restaurant called, “McDonald’s” (not the hamburger chain) that served T-bone steaks.
(I can’t vouch for the quality of the food. On your day off, everything tastes great. It was certainly better than camp food, which featured liver and Welsh rarebit. I have no idea what that is.)
We turned off at the northern outskirts of Huntsville, and proceeded for nine miles down ever narrowing roads, so narrow at their narrowest, that branches would be brushing against the bus’s windows.
Finally, we turned left, driving under an overhanging wooden sign reading, “Welcome to Camp Ogama.” The bus drove down a road, past a riding stable, an archery court, the camp’s main office, past the playing field, before stopping at its destination, in front of the Mess Hall.
We were there.
As the campers piled out, the staff raced to greet them with an almost frightening enthusiasm. Boy, were they ever trained to be happy to meet us.
As I descended unsteadily from the bus – the driver insisted I get off – a female staff member, a veritable superball in shorts, bounced up to greet me.
“Hi, there! Welcome to camp!”
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I informed her.
The staff member just smiled. And ushered me into the Dining Hall for lunch.
Tomorrow: To Climb the Unreachable Bed
---------------
A bushelful of thanks to Kelly and Miguel who came to my house and made my Internet to work again so I could publish this post. You're my heroes. You rescued a whimpering Jew.
----------------
Anyone interested in my "Cosby Show" posts can find them in June's batch (click on arrow to the left of "June") under "Story of a Writer - Part Fifteen, B, C, and D. They may not be true, but they're as true as I can make them.
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