Last year, I don’t remember when exactly, a piece about Jerry Seinfeld popped up on my Facebook wall that actually made me click the link. I don’t hate Seinfeld, I actually think he’s a goddamn funny guy, and I love his show Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee (which reminds me, there’s a new season I have to watch!), but I’m not likely to reminisce about his sitcom (I haven’t watched that many episodes) and generally not likely to click a link about him. But two things piqued my interest about this particular link: 1) I’d heard Seinfeld on Howard Stern in a great interview, and 2) it was about writing. Because of the Stern interview, I knew that Seinfeld still wrote every day. The guy’s worth gazillions of dollars but he is dedicated to his craft as a comedian and does the work. So, I clicked the link.
In the article (which I’m not linking to because I’ve forgotten which place I read it on, but if you search Seinfeld break the chain you should find one of several articles about it), it says that Seinfeld told a man once, way back, that he writes every day. When he was asked how he keeps motivated, he told the man that he had a giant calendar on the wall above his desk (or something) that has every day of the year on it. He then crosses out a day after he’s done his writing. Sooner or later the Xs form a chain. The goal: Don’t break the chain.
Always looking for motivation (because, you know, spending time in my own fantasy world the way I did when I was a kid playing with my action figures isn’t enough motivation) this stuck with me. I even looked up some calendars online. Still, I didn’t take action. Around the end of the year, I remembered the idea and decided I’d begin on January 1st.
So, on January 1st, I began forming my chain. I wish I could say that I haven’t broken my chain. Unfortunately, if you go back to the 1st of the year with my chain, I’m afraid it wouldn’t hold a damn thing. That said, I’ve still been using it. And it looms over me. When I haven’t put an X on a day, I feel bad. Doubly bad, really. Not only have I broken the chain, but I’ve deprived myself of the joy that writing, that creating characters and getting lost in my own imagination, provides me.
Like I said, I haven’t exactly built a great chain. More like a bunch of small chains, and even a few random links. However, I’m particularly proud of the chain I’ve been working on since June 24th, when I counted a blog post I wrote that day to be my writing. Technically, by my own rules, when I’m done with this post, I can add a new link to the calendar even though I fully intend (need) to get back to the novel tonight. And because I’m obsessive, I even write in the margins how many days I write and how many days I don’t. January and June have been my best months. March, my worst.
I don’t know if it’s working 100%, but I like it. It gives me a sense of accomplishment and I’ve gotten back the feelings that seduced me into writing way back when I was 13 years old. The feeling of creation, of problem solving, of putting something down that wouldn’t exist without me. Life has hurt that, I guess. But this calendar has helped get it back, and that’s something I’m quite happy about.
While I’m talking about writing, I want to mention WritingChallenge.org and the very cool Kristy Acevedo. Kristy is a fellow teacher in the school I work (which, oddly enough, we’ve only met once or twice and have maybe said one or two things to each other in the real world. With my social awkwardness, that’s not much of a surprise, really) but she’s also a writer. We began following each other on Twitter because of a former student we had in common and have spoken there a bit.
Right after summer vacation started, she decided to issue a challenge to the writers following her that, for the month of July, she would try to write at least 500 words a day and then post the results on Twitter. Others began doing it and it’s become a thing of it’s own. Like Frankenstein’s Creature, it’s off to terrorize the countryside. So if you’re a writer and aren’t aware of it, check it out. I’m not a regular because with my current work being revisions (and as followers of this blog know, these revisions have been going on forever) I don’t have many word count days in the way I would writing a 1st draft, but I chime in every now and then. Like a support group whose goal is to encourage its members. You might even–egads!–make friends.
In the last two or three months, three people I’ve known have died, and I found out about a death of someone else I knew from back in 2012. It’s odd.
The first death that blipped on my radar screen was a guy I went to elementary and junior high schools with. We weren’t close friends, but we were in many of the same classes and we’d talked and hung out with the same people (when I was invited to hang out with anyone). Another former classmate had been tagged in an elementary school class picture, one of the years I wasn’t in their class, and a discussion with a lot of people I hadn’t seen in a loooonnng time started. Being nosy, I read through the discussion to find out that this guy died in 2012. Not just died, but committed suicide. I still remember him, small, blonde hair, blue eyes, and always kidding around and laughing. Now he’s gone. Weird.
Then a former co-worker from my school died. He retired last year and had been sick on-and-off in his last year or so at work. I’d known him since I was 14, when I was a student at the school. Nice guy. Not unexpected since he was an older guy, but sad.
Two weeks passed and another former co-worker, one who worked at a bookstore with me, died of cancer. He’d been fighting the good fight for a while now, but it was still very sad, considering he was in his early-50s.
And last week, a woman I’ve known since high school died unexpectedly. She was a friend-of-a-friend in high school, and a family member to my ex-wife afterward. I last saw her about two years ago when my daughter still bowled. She was a year younger than me.
And I already wrote about my dying uncle.
I know at a certain age, death becomes more prevalent, but isn’t 36 (almost 37) too young? I don’t know. But it’s got me a little freaked out. And I’m ready for this trend to end now.
This Saturday marks my 5th wedding anniversary to Pamela, and I have to say that I’m a little surprised. Surprised that five years have passed, surprised that she’s been by my side for seven years, and surprised that I haven’t somehow fucked the whole thing up. There’ve been near-misses, but here we are with an awesome 19-month-old girl and still crazy in love.
Sunday marks the 11th anniversary of the e-mail that would change everything. I know it because it came the day after my best friend’s wedding to his wife. The e-mail was from Elizabeth E. Monteleone telling me that my short story, “The Growth of Alan Ashley,” had been accepted to Borderlands 5, the fifth volume of the cutting-edge horror/dark/weird fiction anthology that I’d only grown up reading. She and her husband, the writer Thomas F. Monteleone, co-edited the anthologies that had published some of the biggest names in the field, and several newcomers who would go on to become Elder Statespersons of the dark genres.
For me, the sale would be true recognition of hard work. Within 24 hours of the acceptance, their publishing company, Borderlands Press, released their first advertisement for the book. This ad listed all 25 contributors, including Stephen King. This was a dream come true.
“The Growth of Alan Ashley” appearing in Borderlands 5 (and its subsequent paperback from Warner Books, From the Borderlands) opened doors for me. Some I walked through, some I missed, some I still hope to walk through more than a decade later.
A lot has happened in the last 11 years. My life had been turned upside-down and rightside-up and everything in between. Still, I am hugely proud of my association with Borderlands and with my story. “The Growth of Alan Ashley” is a piece that I can look at and think that, at least once in my life, I wrote something that was as good as any other writer working at that time.
The story was reprinted (slightly edited) in my collection Catalysts. Since Catalysts sold out, it’s been out of print.
Borderlands 5 is now available as an ebook from Borderlands Press. Some of the reprint rights for some of the stories weren’t granted for this edition (for instance, no Stephen King) but it is still an amazing roster. I can’t go through my favorite stories entirely, because it’s been 11 years since I read the book, but I remember being blown away by Gary Braunbeck’s story “Rami Temporales”.
I hope to be able to get Catalysts republished in some form sooner than later, but for now, for a damn fine read, I can say that buying Borderlands 5 will be the best $3.99 you can spend. Honestly, I’d splurge and get all the Borderlands anthologies.
On April 20th, my mother sent me and my sister, Tracy, the following message on Facebook:
Got some bad news a little while ago. Uncle Pete found out last week that he has lung cancer. He’ll be getting more tests and chemo starting this week. Auntie Pat said he’s having a hard time breathing. Dad’s going to visit them this week & if I feel up to it, I’ll go too. We’ll keep you guys posted, if you want us to.
I didn’t respond to it because I didn’t feel it was proper to do so in a message to both me and my sister. The reason why I didn’t feel it proper was because my reaction was, That’s sad, but I have no relationship with the man, so….
I know that’s cold. I know that’s probably not the appropriate response, but it was the honest response. I am not close to my family. My mother and father, yes. My sister, somewhat. Everyone else? Not really. Especially on my father’s side.
My father is nine years older than my mother. Born in 1941, he’s the youngest of three children. Growing up, Sundays were the day we went to his parents’ house. We called them Mémé and Pépé; my mother’s parents (long divorced before I was born) were Grandma and Grandpa (or, truth be told, Gramma and Grampa). Sundays at Mémé and Pépé’s meant playing in their spacious yard on a nice suburban street, and then having supper and dessert. Uncle Pete and Auntie Pat were often there. The whole place felt old. There were no other kids. My mother is my father’s second wife and my sister and I were the babies of the family. The house was decorated in a 1950s/1960s hybrid. They didn’t have cable TV. When music was played, it was always old, boring music. Uncle Pete liked us, and I faintly remember playing with him when I was very small. My sister was his and my aunt’s goddaughter, and I guess they kinda took it seriously…?
Auntie Pat pretty much hated me. At least it seemed that way. She’d often walk in on me when I was in the bathroom when I was little. After this happened a few times, I locked the door and was promptly yelled at. I was a kid who yelled back, which made me even more popular. She’d bestow gifts (mostly lame ones) on my sister and ignore me, except to yell. We have it on videotape. Uncle Pete was meek, quiet. He’d ask me general questions but didn’t seem very interested. A nice man, yes, but….
I remember when I was around 12 or 13, we went to Mémé and Pépé’s (which was really just Mémé’s now, because Pépé died when I was 11), and Uncle Pete and Auntie Pat had moved in (Uncle Pete actually owned the house). They’d bought a riding lawnmower. He let my sister, who’s four-and-a-half years younger than I am, ride the mower in his lap. I wanted to ride the mower. I wanted to so bad.
“Uncle Pete!” I called. “Can I ride the mower? Uncle Pete!”
This went on as my sister got her ride. I never got an answer. I was never even looked at.
It’s amazing the shit that stays with you, huh?
Anyway, contact between me and my uncle and aunt grew far less. When Mémé died (I was 16), I saw them. When my father’s sister, the eldest child, Auntie Juliet, died of breast cancer (I was 17), I saw them. I think they were at my first wedding in 2000. I saw them at least one time after that, Courtney was pretty small. Other than that, I didn’t see them. I didn’t care to.
I didn’t know my father’s side of the family well. The old school Canadian-French, Catholic family just didn’t talk. They didn’t tell stories. Even my father didn’t say much in terms of his family or growing up. Really, most of the stories I heard from my father when I was growing up had to do with the prices of things then versus now. My Auntie Juliet and I never really had a relationship. My Pépé adored me but he had his first stroke when I was 8 and died when I was 11. I don’t really remember him well. Mémé loved me but she didn’t tell much in terms of stories. And considering Auntie Pat, who is a loud-mouthed, foul-mouthed woman, from the bad side of town (my mother’s side of town, truth be told), hated me, Uncle Pete and I really had no relationship.
So why respond with negative feelings?
About a month later, my mother told me that the cancer was bad and Uncle Pete might not have long to live. He asked my father to see “the kids and grandkids.” My first reaction was, Fuck that shit.
But I thought about my father. The only family he has left that’s not my mother, me, or my sister is Uncle Pete. And I knew that Dad, meek, mild, devoted Dad, would like me to go. I couldn’t bring Courtney, she didn’t remember Uncle Pete and I wouldn’t want to bring her into that—to me—unknown situation. I wouldn’t bring Genevieve. At 19-months-old, she would be a handful. It so happens that my sister and her fiancée and her fiancée’s daughters were coming up from Florida this week and so plans were made to pay Uncle Pete and Auntie Pat a visit. What will most likely be our last visit.
I wasn’t looking forward to it. To face a dying man I hadn’t seen in, possibly, ten years, who I wasn’t close to; to face a woman I pretty much despised (have I told you she gave me a free sample of Avon’s Musk for Men deodorant as a Christmas present when I was 12?); sounded like a nightmare. But I love my father. I knew it would mean a lot to him.
To solidify plans, I called Wednesday night to confirm that Thursday we would go. As I spoke to my mother, Dad was in the background saying something.
“Daddy says you don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Mom said. “He doesn’t want you to feel like you have to go and he knows you’re not good in these kinds of situations.”
My social anxiety is well-known in my family. I stopped having birthday parties when I was six.
I told her I would go. I’d go for him. I’d go so my sister wasn’t the only one going. I’d go because I’m an adult and should go.
So yesterday morning, my sister and I climbed into Dad’s minivan and he drove us to Mémé and Pépé’s—er…Uncle Pete’s and Auntie Pat’s—house.
Auntie Pat greeted us. She’s old now. Shorter than I remember. Still big, though. She hugged Tracy and then hugged me. Uncle Pete sat at the kitchen table, in the kitchen I ate in so many times as a boy. The house looked different, of course. But the layout hadn’t changed. He didn’t get up, but hugged Tracy and shook my hand. Old school.
He asked how I liked teaching. I said I loved it. It allowed me to be creative and to play, and I left a mark. Nothing was mentioned about writing. That was fine.
Soon, I sat at the table with him, brought out the iPad, and showed him pictures and videos of Courtney and Genevieve. He hasn’t met Pamela. He saw her now, too. Uncle Pete is still quiet. Auntie Pat still loud. My Dad actually began reminiscing with him, and Tracy and I heard stories we’d never heard before. One story made me laugh so hard I almost cried. We talked.
We didn’t visit long, only about an hour. But something happened in that time. I saw the love and happiness in Uncle Pete’s eyes. Auntie Pat wasn’t a bitch anymore, she was an eccentric old lady, and I am fascinated by eccentric old people. The discomfort I felt at first went away and I was happy to be there. Not just for Dad, anymore, but for Uncle Pete and Auntie Pat.
It was a good visit. Uncle Pete didn’t look or seem sick until the very end, when we were about to leave. He stood up for the first time and he had trouble, obvious pain. He hugged my sister, held out his hand to me to be shaken, and I shook, and then I hugged him. It surprised him but he hugged me back, hard.
Soon were in the minivan and drove away, goodbyes said.
Uncle Pete might have another year or two, apparently this round of chemo seems to be doing something. But he may have another month or so. Or less.
I can’t say that I am now going to go around and visit other family members, because that’s not true. I’ve never really fit in, and I really don’t have much to say to anyone. But I’m glad I went. I’m glad to hear the stories that the Gauthier brothers told.
And I’m happy that my father and my uncle were able to be together with me and Tracy one last time, laughing, happy.
Something happened recently that made me question myself. I won’t go into specifics but it made me really question myself. I came out stronger, I think. And a better person, I think. It may have even been one of the last real steps to me becoming–gasp!–an adult.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to sell my action figures or relinquish my love of comics books, superheroes, space fantasy, Muppets, or Mister Rogers anytime soon. But for the first time I feel…well…like a man.
Let me explain, if I can….
As a teacher, I began telling my students to grow up to be the kind of person they want to be. If they see themselves as a good person, then work their asses off to become a good person. Everything else will fall into place. Now, as I reread that, it looks a little hippie-dippy to me. The best way I can explain it is this….
When I was a kid, I hated to be asked the age-old question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I hated that question because I didn’t know. I was 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, fucking 10 years old! How the hell would I know?! (An aside: This is one question I will not ask children until they are teenagers. I’m more interested in what they want to be now. Childhood is such a short period of time, why sully it with a glimpse into the grown-up darkness that awaits?). So I’d give them some bullshit answer that would shut up the grown-up and get them off my back.
“A baseball player,” I’d say, though I never played Little League, didn’t watch any sports on TV, and generally despised competitive athletics (I still do).
“A police officer.”
“A weather man.”
In other words, I’d give the standard answers that adults expect. The only one that really came close to what, in my heart of hearts, I’d hoped to do was be an actor. I’ll explain why I think I never pursued it another time, perhaps.
But around the time I was 9 or 10, I began to get a glimmer of what I might want to do as an adult. Not a job or career, but a general way of being. I knew that I either wanted to help people or entertain them. Those were the two things that I decided I wanted to try to do.
Now, my choices were limiting, because even as a 10-year-old, I knew I couldn’t work in medicine. I’m too squeamish. And I knew I’d make a horrible police officer (although I think I’d make an excellent detective, but I could be full of shit). So that left…what?
For awhile, I thought I would be a comic book writer and artist, until I decided to focus solely on writing when I was 13.
Fast forward 23 years. I’ve had many bouts of wondering what was happening in my life in the last few years. Turning 36 last August was hard. In age, I was an adult. I could no longer blame my stupid actions on being young and naive. Maybe naive, but certainly not young. And I wasn’t where I wanted to be. I had a job—a career—that I really liked, that I’m really good at, but…it wasn’t the career I wanted. But…I liked it. Loved it, even. Not the paperwork, and certainly not the politics, but the interaction with students. The knowledge that I’ve made a difference in lives. I mean, I have students who have given my cards and notes and vlogs telling me how much my classes, how much my work, has meant to them!
And yet…I was so sad. Because I wasn’t writing full-time. Or working on movies. Or comic books. Because I wanted, in my mind, more.
So one day I was talking to some students after school. This was about a year ago. The two were best friends and one was leaving to go to another school. And I told him that I would be there if he needed me. And then I said:
“One of my favorite writers, Harlan Ellison, has said that his definition of success is ‘achieving in adult terms that which you longed for as a child.’ I’d add to that that if your childhood self met your adulthood self, would he be happy? Would he say, ‘That guy’s pretty cool. I wouldn’t mind becoming him.’
“When I was a kid,” I continued, “I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I knew that I wanted to either entertain people or help them.”
And before I could go on to whatever I was about to say, one of the young men said, “And you do both every day right here.”
“Yeah,” said the other. “You’re a success, Mr. Gauthier!”
We laughed and talked a few minutes more before parting ways for the day, but it stuck with me.
This year, I began telling students not to worry about future careers. To have an idea and work toward it, but to decide what kind of person they wanted to be, and the career would present itself.
So I went through a little bit of a fire this year. It made me question myself, and the way I got out was by realizing who I wanted to be. I’ve known since I was a boy. Now it was time to actually be that man.
I’ve always wanted to help and entertain. I’m a teacher and a writer. In my classroom, I help and entertain. If I can make a student laugh, or cry, if I can make a student feel, then I can make them care enough to learn what I need them to learn. In my stories, I can help people escape their lives for a little while, make them laugh, cry, or frighten them. I may try stand-up comedy at some point. I may try acting. I know I’ll write a comic book. I may even try screenwriting. And while I’m still hungry to make the creative part of my life my sole profession, for the first time I’m truly happy with the part of my life that pays the bills.
As a result, I’m a better teacher. I’m a better writer. I’m a better father. I’m a better husband.
I’m a better man.
Harlan Ellison, one of my heroes, turns 80 tomorrow, 27 May 2014. I will leave my usual birthday greeting on his website, and go back to lurking. But I now lurk as the man I know I want to be, not the guy who’s unsure of himself.
It feels pretty great.
This will be my second time writing about Fred Rogers, the first was back in September 2011 when I was still attempting to write my ill-fated MediaBio blog. The reason I’m returning to the man the world knew as Mr. Rogers is because of his importance.
My wife and I have introduced Genevieve to TV. More precisely, our TV. I mean, the shows we watched as children. She’s been on a Muppet Show kick (which kind of sucks because the 3rd and, so far, last DVD set came in yesterday, and while the show had five seasons, only three have been released) and via Amazon Prime my wife introduced her to classic Sesame Street (being my daughter, she prefers The Muppet Show). Prime also has Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. Now, I’ve known the power Fred Rogers had for a long time, but especially since the incident I related the last time I wrote about him:
It was 2005, somewhere between May and July, and things had been a little bleak. I’d been separated from my soon-to-be-ex-wife (we finalized our divorce in September 2005) and was working at a local bookstore, which I would’ve loved had they paid me what I deserved, treated me the way I deserved, and otherwise didn’t have their heads up their asses (not all of them, just those who were in charge). I sat down to eat my lunch around 11:30/noon, and I only had twenty cable channels. My choices were game shows, talk shows, or PBS. One PBS channel was running Sesame Street. Blech. Another was running Teletubbies. Barf! The last had on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I decided to leave it on. I quickly realized that I remembered the episode from my childhood. I sat watching this show that I hadn’t seen in twenty years, mesmerized. At the end, Mr. Rogers looked into the camera and said in that way he had, “Just remember that you are special. That there’s no one else in this world like you, and that you are important.”
I can’t explain it. I began weeping.
I remember that day nine years ago like it happened yesterday. It was exactly what I needed to hear at that time.
So now Genevieve will ask to watch it and she was sick for the last few days so we put it on. She’ll end up playing, but Pamela and I are good with that, because we’re really the ones watching. I’ve seen episodes from before I was born. I’ve seen episodes from long after I stopped watching. I don’t understand why I never had Courtney watch it. I’m ashamed of myself.
The thing I keep noticing is how actually good and kindhearted Fred Rogers was. His meticulousness is evident in the show and the fact that he kept it pretty much the same from 1968 through 2001 is astounding. While Sesame Street changes with the times, Mr. Rogers’s set didn’t change in all that time. Picture Picture didn’t suddenly become a flat screen TV. The Neighborhood of Make Believe never got more complicated puppets or 3D characters. Hell, the same actors worked with him throughout!
I’ve cried several times recently watching episodes. Here’s a for instance for you:
So today, we were working our way through his 5-episode arc about work called “Mister Rogers Talks About Work.” The next-to-last episode featured him going to Wagner’s Market to buy some groceries. We get to meet some neighbors and see how a grocery store worked in 1984. While walking down the cereal aisle, he comments on how when he was a little boy, he’d want to get one of everything in the aisle, and the rest of the store, but how his parents wouldn’t let him get one of everything and he learned that people couldn’t get everything they wanted.
After getting his items, which shows him being friendly to everyone, he returns “home” and puts everything away, explaining how as a parent, there were reasons he had to say no to his children and that children can’t get everything they want. Then he announced it was time for make-believe.
So Mr. Rogers goes over to the bench where he operates Trolley and there’s a top hat there, closed. He pops it open to show his Television Neighbor, and as he takes it off and sits down says, off-hand, “All kinds of things you can think about and do in this world.” And then he sits down and gets Trolley.
The main theme of this episode is that not everybody can have everything. That choices have to be made and it’s the grown-ups in a child’s life who makes the choice. Once the child grows up, s/he can make the choice. This isn’t said with a snarl, or a wagging finger, but with love and respect. And even though that should be enough, it was the off-hand comment made as he was sitting down, “All kinds of things you can think about and do in this world,” that got me.
And there are! You and I, as adults, don’t need Fred Rogers to tell us this…but we do! How often in the busy grind of our lives do we stop and really pay attention? How often do we let life beat us down? The human mind is nearly limitless with imagination yet we begin to kill it the moment a child goes to school and is told to stand in line. Lines are important, so is order, but, as Mr. Rogers states at the end of the episode, so is play.
Fred Rogers ended his show in 2001. In December 2002, he was diagnosed with stomach cancer. On February 27th, 2003, he died.
There has been no one before his death or since that has been able to sit down and speak to a child through the television without talking down to him/her but still being the adult. Some critics say his message to children, that they special, is the wrong message to send. I disagree. We are all individuals, there is no one else like the person we know ourselves to be, yet Mr. Rogers also gave us a message of love, of helping one another, of tolerance. Of peace.
I feel, in this time when 24/7 news talking heads, Twitter and Facebook hate and shaming, and mass-violence and teenage suicide rates are through the roof, Mr. Rogers’s message is needed more than it ever has been before.
Thank you, Mr. Rogers, for the love you showed me. Thank you, Mr. Rogers, for what you taught me when I was five, 28, and now 36. Thank you, Mr. Rogers, for being you. There is no one like you.
Sorry about the silence of the last…oh…shit. I just looked it up and my last post was in February! Bad blogger! My apologies, my adoring public. I could give you the grocery list of reasons—being a teacher with grades due, stress, parenting a teenager, stress, parenting a toddler, stress, being a husband, stress, and stress—but I don’t want to bore you. What I want to do is:
1. Assure you that I’m alive and well and will return here with a real post sooner than later.
2. Let you know that this Saturday, April 12th—which happens to be the great David Letterman’s birthday—I will be making my first appearance on The Tim Weisberg Show! I first met Tim back in 2011 when I was invited to so his other radio show, Spooky Southcoast, which he co-hosts with Matt Costa. Tim has been very kind since then. I don’t know what we’ll talk about but probably pop culture stuff. Since we’re around the same age, we’ll probably fall into mutual fondness for bad 1980s cartoons, horror movies, and other such stuff. Either way, I’m pretty excited because I’ve enjoyed being on the radio in the past and Tim and I seem to get on pretty well.
I’ll be appearing on the 8 o’clock hour of the show. You can listen on the WBSM website or on the RadioPup app. Of course, if you live in the Greater New Bedford area on the Southcoast of Massachusetts, you can hear it on your actual terrestrial radio, on 1420 AM.
I’ll try to be entertaining. I promise.
I’m saddened, as are many, by the news of Harold Ramis’s death. If you’re in my generation, his contribution to Ghostbusters is the thing you automatically think of. I don’t know how many times I’ve answered the question, “What do you like to do?” with, “I collect spores, molds, and fungus.” Every now and then someone will get it. I mean, everyone wanted to be Peter Venkman, but I think most of us kinda wanted to be Egon Spengler in some way, too. At least I did.
As I grew up, I realized just how much Ramis did in terms of writing and directing. I saw him on a talk show in 1990/1991 (I keep thinking it was Pat Sajak’s late night talk show) where he was asked if he was the class clown in school. Ramis answered, “I wasn’t the class clown; I was the guy who wrote for the class clown.”
It’s something I held dear to me and utilized throughout high school, when I was super shy and quiet. I would mumble wise-ass remarks under my breath and my classmate Chadd would yell them out. The class would laugh, he’d get in trouble, and I’d be satisfied that I came up with something funny.
Today’s news of his death at 69 deeply saddened me.
It also made me wonder something….
There has been talk about Ghostbusters 3 for the last few years, and everyone has said that the hold-out was Bill Murray. But as I read about Ramis’s health issues, the time-frame coincides with news about a new Ghostbusters movie. Since it seems that everyone is surprised by Harold Ramis’s ill health outside of family and friends, I posit this:
Perhaps Bill Murray wasn’t the hold-out after all. Maybe with Ramis being sick, the idea was to sort of fake the press and fanboys and -girls out with Bill Murray accepting the “blame.” This would take any pressure off Ramis and he could recover, which it seems was expected. Perhaps Murray was doing his old friend a solid by taking any spotlight away from him. Aykroyd would play along until Ramis got better and they could all make the third movie.
I know, it’s far-fetched and silly, but the thought crossed my mind and what’s the point of having a blog if you can’t post fan speculation?
Either way, Harold Ramis is gone and the world has become a little less funny.
So last week I sat down to watch John Green‘s Vlogbrothers video called, “A Middle Aged Man.” The title should have tipped me off right from the start. But it didn’t. So there I sat, ready to be entertained by Green’s witty, intelligent, and machine-gun-paced monologue when he points out, right at the beginning of the video, that he’s a middle-aged man. The realization of that shocked him. I laughed. Ha! He’s right! He’s 36 years old, he is, indeed, middle–
That’s not possible, because I’m 36. Not only that, but John Green and I were born on the exact same day. I mean, Steve Guttenberg and Rupert Grint also share a birthday with me, but they were born in different years. Guttenberg is 19 years older and Grint is 11 years younger. But John Green and I? Twins. From different mothers. And different locations.
Goddamn that got weird.
So it stands to reason if John Green is middle-aged, then [gulp] so am I.
Which began to make a lot of sense.
When I was a kid in the 1980s, there were a lot of movies and TV shows about adults reaching their mid-30s. I didn’t understand why at the time because in the mid-1980s, I was too young to get it. Between The Big Chill and Thirtysomething, various movies and TV shows where people went back to their hometown or told stories of their childhoods in the 1950s, there was a lot of it. As I got older, I saw even more of that as I read Stephen King’s novel It and novella The Body (the basis of the film Stand By Me) or listened to Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. which features “Glory Days” and “My Hometown,” amongst other songs looking back. Billy Joel was “Keepin’ the Faith” and it seemed everywhere you looked, people were coming to terms with this thing called adulthood.
That has been me for the last year. I’ve been longing, with an ache from my core, to return to those Saturday mornings when cartoons played on TV, and the Creature Double Feature aired on Channel 56 out of Boston. I’ve been longing to go back to the local mall as it looked back then, hit the Waldenbooks, and get myself stuff that isn’t available anymore. To be in a place, for just 24 hours, where the Internet didn’t exist to the public. When movies relied on more than CGI effects and explosions to hold a mass-audience’s interest. I mean, don’t get me wrong, 1984 was no walk in the park. And as Billy Joel sings in the aforementioned song, “The good old days aren’t always good/Tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems.” Make no bones about it, I know I’m looking at things through rose-colored glasses.
But that feeling has been so strong for the last year or two, and I couldn’t figure out why. Until John Green pointed it out. I’m middle-aged. In 30 years, no one would be shocked if I dropped dead. Yeah, 66 isn’t exactly elderly anymore, but…. That’s a chilling sentence to me and I want so badly to delete it, but I’m going to keep it because it makes me uncomfortable.
I work with teenagers, I have a daughter who is turning 16 in two months, and another who is 15-months-old now. They help keep me young, all of them. But still….
There isn’t the kind of looking back now as there was in the 1980s because the Baby Boomer generation was so plentiful. They focused their attention on themselves and on the fact that the generation who would help change the world had become part of the establishment. Rampant crime, the destruction of business laws, the dissolution of personal freedoms, and the biggest chasm between the rich and everyone else since the Great Depression is what they left us with. They also left us with the Civil Rights Act, Equal Rights, free love, and the idea that we are both individuals and parts of a community. Oh, and the ability to be completely self-absorbed.
What will my generation leave behind? Cool status updates and Tweets? Some blogs? Superhero movies?
I don’t know, but I think it’s time I need to think about some things.
I’m writing this on the iPad, so if there are major typos or just seemingly illiterate stuff that pops up, that’s probably why. I dare not try going into the office because I may wake–or alert–the Toddler, Genevieve.
This week, G has been sick. Last weekend her normal morning congestion was extremely bad and went on throughout the day, which made it not morning congestion but, rather, a cold. After a slight fever Monday night, Pamela stayed home with her on Tuesday and took her to the doctor. G has a virus that needs to work its way out.
Wednesday she went to day care but had a bad day, so I stayed home with her on Thursday. Back to day care yesterday. She’s a little better but is still sniffly, ooey-gooey snotty. The cough isn’t as bad. I put her down for nap about an hour ago and she wasn’t happy. She’s either sleeping right now or daydreaming; making only small sounds every now and then.
Due to her being sick and my worrying (our worrying), as well the the typical stressors of being a high school teacher, I dropped the ball this week on writing. I’d been doing real well with editing, revising, and rewriting the novel but this week I did nothing. I was too goddamn tired. I read a little before bed (Supergods by Grant Morrison) each night but that was all. With vacation being this coming week, I’m hoping to play a little catch-up. We’ll see.
How anyone with full-time jobs and families make the time to write is amazing to me. At least I’m just over halfway done with this draft of the book.
Back in July, I posted my feelings about trying to get the baby to take a nap on her own and listening to her cry. Having her Cry It Out was breaking my heart but I did what I thought was right and was steadfast and, eventually, Genevieve fell asleep. She slept an hour or two. I was happy. When she woke up, she was smiling and in a good mood. But I noticed something odd: Her head was tilted to the right.
I took her out of the playpen and changed her diaper. She was sitting up pretty well by this time and I sat her on the floor. Her head was still tilted. I hesitantly touched her neck, applying just enough pressure to see if the muscles felt tight. They did not. When I lifted her head, she made no sound, showed no indication of pain or discomfort. She was her normal, happy self. But her head tilted.
Oh no, I thought. I broke the baby. Pamela is gonna kill me.
For half an hour, G’s head stayed tilted. Finally, I called the doctor’s office. By now the office was closed so the answering service picked up. I explained the problem and they said they’d call back. Soon they called and told me to bring G in to see the on-call doctor. I was getting her packed in her car seat when Pamela got home from work. Imagine coming home to find your husband packing up your baby to take her to the doctor. Yeah.
So we went, and the doctor looked at G, and nothing was found. Because she wasn’t in pain, because she was behaving normally, they decided it was probably a crick in her neck and it would pass. If we wanted to take her to the ER, we could.
We went home and by bedtime, her head was almost upright, and by the next morning she was holding her head up again. All was well.
It happened again in September or October. It only lasted an hour or so. Again, no pain, no discomfort. By now, G was crawling like a mad person—ZIP!!–and the tilted head made her lose her balance a little. But it went away quickly so we did nothing.
Well, not entirely nothing. Ever since the first time G’s head tilted I’d watch her when she got up from a nap. She was always fine, though.
On New Year’s Day, it happened again.
Because of the first incident, I’d gone back to rocking her to sleep and allowing her to nap on me. It was inconvenient but the tilted head was terrifying. So on New Year’s Day, Pamela was rocking the baby to take a nap around 2:30. The baby decided she didn’t want to nap so we put her down. It wasn’t really her naptime and no big deal. When she was put on the floor, G’s head tilted. She’s walking now. She’s not 100% yet, but she’s predominantly walking to get around. She tried standing and fell down, obviously unbalanced. Naturally, we parents were concerned.
G soon decided she did want a nap and fell asleep. She slept for nearly two hours. When she awoke around 4:15, she wanted to play. Her head was still tilted. She was having trouble crawling and walking but was trying. She wasn’t quitting. She wanted to play and Pamela and I were discussing what to do—call the doctor? Take her to the ER?—when G rested her head on my knee, looked up at me, and threw up.
At the ER she was checked out. She was normal in every way, typical Genevieve, except that her head was tilted. She was waving at the doctors, nurses, and people who passed by our cubby. A CT scan came up with nothing, which was a huge relief. A few days later we took her to her doctor, who made us appointments at Boston Children’s Hospital. One for an ear and throat specialist, one for a neurologist.
Last Tuesday, we went to the ear specialist. She had hearing tests and everything looked fine. So now we were nervous about the next specialist because, well…you know.
Friday we were at the neurology offices. After hearing our story, and double-checking the CT scans, we were told that it was benign paroxysmal vertigo. Essentially, she gets dizzy sometimes. It may never happen again. Or it may. The one thing the doctor was certain about is that she’ll outgrow it. The only possible side effect is that she may be more prone to migraines when she gets older.
Relief. The following day was Pamela’s birthday so we went and celebrated at our favorite Chinese restaurant.
As a father of a 15-year-old, I know that things can and/or will happen that puts us on edge. You want to make sure the children are safe and well, and that they’ll lead happy, healthy lives. When we waited with the 1-year-old in the waiting rooms, it was brought home to us how lucky we have it. As we left that last appointment, even more so.
We have a healthy, intelligent, and beautiful baby-soon-to-be-toddler. My teenager is also healthy, intelligent, and beautiful. I will enjoy them in a way that only a proud, happy, and amazed father can.
One of the biggest problems with writing long fiction is the certainty that you’re fucking it all up. I’m about halfway through editing/revising the novel and I’m pretty sure I’ve fucked the whole thing up way beyond repair. Now keep in mind that there’s no evidence, not one iota, not a single scintilla, that would lead me in that direction. It’s just insecurity speaking. The voices of Them.
You know who They are. They are the ones who laughed at you at school or in your old neighborhood because you were too imaginative, you didn’t fit in, you weren’t interested in sports. They are the members of your family who wonder when you’ll stop wasting your precious time at night (or in the morning, or on weekends) working on your stories, your fantasies, your games you played as a child with plastic men and women with accessories or Action! Features! and grow up. They are the ones you see in reflections in the windows at the Day Job, or in the mirror when it’s too late and those bags under your eyes are awfully dark tonight and in the morning when it feels too early and the bags are worse and why, why, WHY the Day Job that takes up too much time, too much energy, too much creativity?!
Yeah, I’ve fucked up the novel. I’m sure of it. So there’s only one thing to do now….
I’ll pick up the current chapter I’m editing tomorrow night and continue. It all comes with the territory.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
There, now that that’s out of my system, let’s get to it.
Except…there’s really no it right now. 2013 is over and it was a good year, overall, with lots of bad weaved throughout, but isn’t any year? And, lucky for me, most of the bad was societal bad, not personal. Though I am all-too-aware of my failures from the past year, but aren’t we all?
I’m not really going to post about what my goals for 2014 are because if they don’t happen, then I look stupid in a public arena, as opposed to the personal list I make every year, which only makes me look bad to me. I do want to make changes this year, but who doesn’t?
There’ll be a move this year, and I’m going to have to finally get ready to get Master’s (and actually begin the process). And there’ll be writing. Lots of that. I’d still like to try vlogging but there’s an amount of time for that I just don’t seem to have, though I’m not giving up yet. You get the idea.
So have a great New Year. I’ll be back soon.
Since I haven’t posted in awhile, and since it’s the holiday time of year, I decided to post something festive. Maybe it’s that I had both the teenager and the baby with me for the last few days and the baby is conscious of presents and fun. Maybe it’s that I’m getting older, but I seemed to have been craving Christmas music lately. So I decided to post my favorite holiday music for you. Keep in mind, this list is not set in stone and could change by tomorrow, but it’s mine and I love it.
10. Blue Christmas as sung by Bruce Springsteen
This is a recent addition to the list. By that I mean, it’s only a few years old. I’m not a huge Elvis Presley fan but one of my favorite songs of his is “Blue Christmas.” Back in 2010, Springsteen and the E Street Band played a show in Asbury Park, New Jersey that was taped. It was to promote his re-release of 1978’s Darkness on the Edge of Town and new album of previously unfinished and unreleased tracks from that era The Promise. The show featured only tracks that appeared on The Promise. Except for this song. I love the way Springsteen arranged it and the general atmosphere of the performance. Also of note, it would be the last “live” recording of Clarence Clemons with the band. He died the following June.
9. Happy Christmas (The War is Over) by John Lennon
Let’s call this one my Artsy Fartsy entry. I don’t know the words, it’s not on my iPod, but I still know it and like it. And it’s John Lennon. Come on.
8. Frosty the Snowman as sung by Jimmy Durante
I wouldn’t have even thought of this if not for a recent trip to the grocery store where this was playing. We grew up watching these specials and sometimes, the versions from those specials are what sticks. That’s the case here. Besides, it friggin’ Durante!
7. Jingle Bell Rock as performed by Hall and Oates
I love Hall and Oates. There. I said it. “Maneater.” “Your Kiss is on My List.” Egads, need I say more?! This song, along with its tongue-in-cheek hokey video, was a part of childhood I always loved. And I just like the song, too.
6. Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer by Gene Autry
Look, if you grew up with parents who came from the 1950s or 1960s, you had this song played every Christmas. Growing up, the Gene Autry original was my least favorite version. Now, it’s the version. Well, maybe except for…
5. Silver Bells as performed by The Chipmunks
Christmas with the Chipmunks was the Christmas album in my household growing up. I loved it. “Rudolph” and “Frosty” and so many others were done in that madcap Chipmunks way with Dave Seville yelling constantly at poor Alvin. It was my life, only instead of Dave it was my parents and instead of Alvin, it was me. “Silver Bells” was a rare exception. It’s sung by Dave Seville and is a little sad. As a kid, I liked it but it was…well…quiet. Now, it’s the only version of “Silver Bells” I hear in my head.
4. Christmas in Hollis by Run D.M.C.
If you were growing up in the 1980s, and you were open to rap, you love this song. The video is even better. I remember my parents being…shocked? upset? amused?…that I liked this song and probably thought it was just a phase. Yeah, well, guess who rapped it to a 1-year-old the other day? That’s right. This guy!
3. Santa Claus is Coming to Town as performed by Bruce Springsteen
I love the song “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” I loved the stop-motion animated special. I did not love the Springsteen version. Until recent years. The video shown is good, but the original recording from 1978 (I think, maybe ’81?) is where it’s at. The verse after the sax solo shows a reckless abandon and joy that is pure Springsteen and pure rock n roll. It’s a fun song, okay?
2. All I Want For Christmas is You by Mariah Carey
Yes, I love this song this much. I am not ashamed. It’s a damn good song. I like the music. I love Carey’s vocals. It’s a song that makes me happy. So there.
1. The Chipmunk Song by Alvin and the Chipmunks
This is Christmas to me. This is my favorite song on Christmas with the Chipmunks. It is my favorite Christmas song, period. It made me laugh when I was a kid. I could relate to it. It was just fun. And it still makes me smile. Love it!
Honorable mention goes to “Must Be Santa,” a song I never heard recorded but loved to sing in elementary school.
For me, Christmas isn’t a religious holiday. It’s a day (or time period) to spend with family and friends, to be together, perhaps exchange gifts, eat, and have fun. And enjoy some music. So have a happy Christmas, if you celebrate. If you don’t, go be with people you love, eat, and sing some songs anyway. We could all use a little more of that, right?
Strangely enough, found that someone did an Internet search for the following: “bill gauthier the shining book review titan magazine”. That’s oddly precise.
They found my bibliography.
The story behind the review is kind of funny. I found out (somehow or another) that some local guys were going to start a magazine called Titan, which would be something like The Improper Bostonian for the New Bedford area. I looked into being a book reviewer or somesuch and was told to submit a sample. So I wrote a review of Stephen King’s The Shining, figuring the editors would check out my style and see if it was a good fit, and then we’d go from there. They used the goddamn review. Then I was told that they’d be interested in more from me, but only if it was more contemporary.
I think it was the last thing I submitted to them. The pay was pretty bad, too. Meaning, it was nonexistent.
Anyway, I have copies of the actual magazine, if someone is looking for it.
The title may be a bit misleading. I’m not actually planning on writing about Genevieve’s entire first year. But it does weigh heavily on me. Last week was her birthday and yesterday was her birthday party. Not everyone I would’ve liked to be there was because of space and situations. It was mostly Pamela’s family and friends. My 15-year-old was there, representin’ the Gauthiers because my sister lives in Florida and my mother is unable to leave her apartment. Still, fun was had by all. The baby made out like a bandit (sorry for the cliché, I’m tired), everyone loved the cake (thanks to Cravings Café & Cakery), and the baby had a great time.
Still, the passage of time is felt. One year becomes fifteen real fast. All I needed to do was look at Courtney and Genevieve together.
One year becomes fifteen in a heartbeat, it seems. I know that’s not true. A lot has happened in fifteen years. My life changed, and changed again, and changed at least three more times. The lives of those around me also changed. The world has changed. Fifteen years ago as I write this, I would’ve been using my first computer, a gift from my parents. It wasn’t connected to the Internet just yet, and wouldn’t be for another month or two. And when it was finally connected, it was with America Online, dial-up. Now I sit at my fourth computer, a notebook computer, typing on a blog via wireless broadband. That’s but one change.
So to see that the baby is already one is a little disconcerting. There will be lots of adventures in her future. Lots of firsts. I look forward to them, and I fear them. But I mostly look forward to them. Just as I look forward to the firsts that my teenager still has to encounter, as my wife will encounter, as I will encounter.
So now that I’ve finally gotten through the Friday in Gautham essays (or essays on the Friday the 13th movies) I’m left feeling the same sense of fatigue that the previous movie series left me feeling. I had planned on jumping straight into the next series, but find I just don’t have it in me right now, not with the novel to work on.
But that’s okay, because I will do another one, and probably another, as long as readers seem interested.
So, the Genevieve turned one this past week and her 1st birthday party is this Sunday. It’s a three-day weekend that won’t feel much like a weekend. That’s probably the most difficulty I’m having as a new father this time around: losing so much alone time.
I had friends growing up, but not many. Given a choice between playing with a group of kids or playing with my action figures, the action figures always won out. This led naturally to the writing lifestyle of hours alone in a make-believe world. I like that alone time. Thrive on it. So to have my alone time so diminished is pretty frustrating.
That said, I’m extremely lucky to have lost so much alone time due to people I love. Of course, the Day Job’s squelching of my alone time is an entirely different matter, though at least my students are great and, often, inspiring. So it makes the loss of time worth it.
That said, I should get back to work. I just wanted to let you know I’m here and will be trying to post more.
We survived this time. We went through twelve movies that had fairly bad reviews when they came out but captured the interest of many in the 1980s, 1990s, and into the 2000s. The character of Jason Voorhees is a part of American culture in the same way Karloff’s Frankenstein’s monster was in his day (and even now). Sure, he lacked the attitude and flash of Freddy Krueger, or the bizarreness of Pinhead, and he certainly wasn’t a cute as Chucky, but Jason held his own.
Looking back, I question whether it was a good idea to go down this road at all. Over twelve essays, I’ve hardly had anything nice to say about these movies. Fans of the series probably checked out a long time ago. What I want you to know is that when I decided, over a year ago now, to go watch these movies and write these essays, I did so in the hopes that they would surprise me. I wanted to see in Jason what his fans saw. I wanted to be able to say that, yeah, I got it.
But I don’t. I get why these movies made money, that’s not in doubt. But I don’t get how these movies are still revered. With the exception of the sixth movie, they’re not all that much fun, or clever. Jason is hardly ever scary. And you never really care about any of the victims.
Yet, their fame persists. I feel like I’ve been too critical–too grumpy, maybe–over these movies that were never designed to be good movies. Where I can make a rather funny argument that the A Nightmare on Elm Street movies are arguably the most important movies of the 1980s because of the socio-political commentaries (someday I may even tell you about that. It’s tongue-in-cheek but I think I have some actual good arguments), I have trouble finding any socio-political worth to the Friday the 13th movies. Except, maybe….
Jason represents Reagan era politics. Jason Voorhees is the conservative machine bent on killing the liberal 1960s and 1970s. The young people who die are lovemaking, pot-smoking kids (hippies) in the earliest movies and MTV kids in the later movies. Jason is a throwback to the conservative ideal that the good ol’ days were better. Once these kids started to experiment with free love and mind-altering substances, their morals and convictions went out the window. And even though Jason always dies at the end, it’s always by the girl (or the girl and guy) who is the cleanest cut of the group, the ones who will probably grow up to vote for the Conservative.
I totally pulled that out of my ass, but it reads well so I’m going to keep it.
Anyway, my favorite of these movies is Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives. I think I’d actually own this and watch it again. That and Freddy vs. Jason, which I do own. But you know why. My favorite Jason is a toss-up between the Jasons in those two movies (C.J. Graham and Ken Kirzinger). Though I liked the Jason in the remake (Derek Mears), as well.
With the recent sale of the series back to Paramount, and their plans on doing another reboot, it’ll be interesting to see if they try to make an actual scary movie (if they even can) or just do more of the same. I guess we’ll see.
For now, though, we made it away from Crystal Lake (and New York, and Space) with most of our limbs intact. Thanks for making this journey with me.