A few years ago, I saw fiction writer Jen Weiner speak at the college I used to work at, and during the Q&A session that followed her reading, the inevitable Question All Fiction Writers Get Asked Eventually came her way: how much of what you write is literally true, and how do you disguise people you know and experiences you've had? Her answer was something along the lines of well, you know, there are many people who would say that all of our writing and fame is fleeting, and that in a hundred years, no one will remember either our work or the characters in it, so why not go for broke and just portray friends, enemies, relatives, co-workers, partners, lovers, exs, parents, siblings, offspring, and acquaintances as they really are.
Then she paused.
"I don't know where these people have Thanksgiving dinner, but I've gotta SEE my family, so..."
This hurdle doesn't present itself too often in my work and my life. I generally don't have any problem taking my experiences and my feelings and transferring them to my characters, to my story... fictionalizing them and disguising them, dressing them up, so that they're somewhat unrecognizable. If anything, I find I have the opposite problem: too often I project my experiences and feelings onto my fiction and fictitious characters, and (for lack of a better term) express my emotions and my experiences through them.
So, for instance, while I could complain about what I feel is shoddy treatment at the hands of a former employer, I find it easier to write about it in one of my characters' voices. I don't want to burn bridges, and complaining in my blog about the way this former employer handled management of her restaurant, the staff, the customers, the payroll, and so on, might be the literary equivalent... even though in many ways, the shaft I got feels like HER "burning bridges."
But I've gotta get it out... so I log into one of my characters' email accounts and, in 20-something Vermont waitress Maura Kelly's voice, complain that...
...what happened was, it took us FOREVER to close, our dinner hours are 5-9 and of course that doesn't mean "we kick you out at 8:59" it means "kitchen open." So we have RESERVATIONS THAT JILL TOOK COMING IN AT NINE!!!!!! Two of which ordered full dinners, one table (a couple) staying till 11:10!!!!! So we have basically everything done but have to wait till this couple clears out. They weren't my table but I was helping Bethany with them. And complaining about Jill the whole time. Jill as I have told you is a dingdong. She takes rezs up till 9, first of all, but then since she's the owner she thinks she has to stand there and HOST and she just doesn't seat people logically. Like if a couple comes in and there's a four top open, she doesn't get Matt to quick go over and break the fourtop down into a twotop (so we can seat a couple later), she seats the couple at the fourtop IMMEDIATELY, thus tying up two empty seats, and of course when it's busy like it was last night those two seats can get filled easily, we had people waiting at the bar most of the night. And she did this a bunch of times last night. And I said to Jenniphyr (who is now really showing baby bump) "is it me or could we break these fourtops down?" and she said "Good luck."
But most annoying of all aside from the rampant seating illogic is that she LEAVES AT 8 PM. She is the owner but leaves an hour before closing, creates this seating logjam and nightmare, leaves all these people waiting for tables that COULD BE OPEN IF SHE JUST THOUGHT LOGICALLY, and then leaves us to deal with it.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyotch
My complaining about the restaurant and its owner? Scary. Maura complaining about the restaurant and its owner? "Safe."
Or, when I get the news from my father about a medical condition he's facing right now, and I feel like I can't get it out, can't sort through it, all that, I find it easy to write about it through my characters. Even there, though, I found that I handled it obliquely: not really writing about it directly (ie, having either a character with the same condition or a character whose father has the same condition write about it), but having peripheral characters write about it... even going so far as to send sympathetic and comforting notes to the character whose father has the condition... "He'll be fine, don't worry, this is treatable."
Saying the things I want and need someone to say to me, in other words.
In many ways, fiction writing is daring and scary, but in some other ways, I'm learning, it can be a dangerous safety zone. One should always try to express truth in whatever one writes. And of course "I have to live with these people:" my family, my friends, the people in the small town I'm now calling home... acquaintances who, God knows, might well find this blog and see themselves in it.
But I've gotta get it out. And somehow, lately, writing about it obliquely seems less and less effective, safe, or wise.
I don't know the answer. All I know is, in creating fiction, I don't want my characters or my stories to assume ownership of my emotions. As one who has spent the better part of a decade feeling somewhat awash and emotionally numb, I'd like to hang onto those, thank you.
So if you read this blog and you see yourself, I hope it's in a good light. And I hope the bridge isn't aflame.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
"I don't want to grow up but I'm sick of not growing up that way..."
"...It makes me furious to be dumb because I don't like dumb people. And there I am, doing the dumbest things... I seem to do the things that I despise the most, almost. All of that to - what? - avoid being normal."
This is an excerpt from a June 1975 interview with John Lennon, conducted by Pete Hamill. In 1975, Lennon had just ended his year-and-a-half long separation from Yoko Ono and was about to take a five-year hiatus to "bake bread and look after the baby." Lennon was always painfully self-aware, but in this interview, he seems to have finally seen many of his blind spots.
There were a few short quotes from this excerpt that I thought about posting here, out of context, but I thought that quoting them in context would be better. He starts out talking about his music (obliquely referring to the overtly political and topical commercial bomb Some Time In New York City) but ends up reflecting not only on his role as an artist, but on the emotional and psychological traps and dodges that dogged him in his music, his relationship, and his life.
The entire interview is posted at a site entitled Listen to this Website.
Hamill: You went through a period of really heavy involvement in radical causes. Lately you seem to have gone back to your art in a more direct way. What happened?
Lennon: I'll tell you what happened literally. I got off the boat, only it was an airplane, and landed in New York, and the first people who got in touch with me was (sic) Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman. It's as simple as that. It's those two famous guys from America who's callin': "Hey, yeah, what's happenin', what's goin' on? . . ." And the next thing you know, I'm doin' John Sinclair benefits and one thing and another. I'm pretty movable, as an artist, you know. They almost greeted me off the plane and the next minute I'm involved, you know.
Hamill: How did all of this affect your work?
Lennon: It almost ruined it, in a way. It became journalism and not poetry. And I basically feel that I'm a poet. Even if it does go ba-deeble, eedle, eedle, it, da-deedle, deedle, it. I'm not a formalized poet, I have no education, so I have to write in the simplest forms usually. And I realized that over a period of time - and not just 'cause I met Jerry Rubin off the plane - but that was like a culmination. I realized that we were poets but we were really folk poets, and rock & roll was folk poetry - I've always felt that. Rock & roll was folk music. Then I began to take it seriously on another level, saying, "Well, I am reflecting what is going on, right?" And then I was making an effort to reflect what was going on. Well, it doesn't work like that. It doesn't work as pop music or what I want to do. It just doesn't make sense. You get into that bit where you can't talk about trees, 'cause, y'know, y'gotta talk about "Corruption on Fifty-fourth Street"! It's nothing to do with that. It's a bit larger than that. It's the usual lesson that I've learned in me little thirty-four years: As soon as you've clutched onto something, you think - you're always clutchin' at straws - this is what life is all about. I think artists are lucky because the straws are always blowin' out of their hands. But the unfortunate thing is that most people find the straw hat and hang on to it, like your best friend that got the job at the bank when he was fifteen and looked twenty-eight before he was twenty. "Oh, this is it! Now I know what I'm doing! Right? Down this road for the next hundred years" . . . and it ain't never that. Whether it's a religious hat or a political hat or a no-political hat: whatever hat is was, always looking for these straw hats. I think I found out it's a waste of time. There is no hat to wear. Just keep moving around and changing clothes is the best. That's all that goes on: change.
At one time I thought, well, I'm avoidin' that thing called the Age Thing, whether it hits you at twenty-one, when you take your first job - I always keep referrin' to that because it has nothing to do, virtually, with your physical age. I mean, we all know the guys who took the jobs when we left school, the straight jobs, they all look like old guys within six weeks. You'd meet them and they'd be lookin' like Well, I've Settled Down Now. So I never want to settle down, in that respect. I always want to be immature in that respect. But then I felt that if I keep bangin' my head on the wall it'll stop me from gettin' that kind of age in the head. By keeping creating, consciously or unconsciously, extraordinary situations which in the end you'd write about. But maybe it has nothin' to do with it. I'm still mullin' that over. Still mullin' over last year now. Maybe that was it. I was still trying to avoid somethin' but doin' it the wrong way 'round. Whether it's called age or whatever.
Hamill: Is it called growing up?
Lennon: I don't want to grow up but I'm sick of not growing up - that way. I'll find a different way of not growing up. There's a better way of doing it than torturing your body. And then your mind. The guilt! It's just so dumb. And it makes me furious to be dumb because I don't like dumb people. And there I am, doing the dumbest things . . . I seem to do the things that I despise the most, almost. All of that to - what? - avoid being normal.
I have this great fear of this normal thing. You know, the ones that passed their exams, the ones that went to their jobs, the ones that didn't become rock & rollers, the ones that settle for it, settled for it, settled for the deal! That's what I'm trying to avoid. But I'm sick of avoiding it with violence, you know? I've gotta do it some other way. I think I will. I think just the fact that I've realized it is a good step forward. Alive in '75 is my new motto. I've just made it up. That's the one. I've decided I want to live. I'd decided I wanted to live before, but I didn't know what it meant, really. It's taken however many years and I want to have a go at it.
This is an excerpt from a June 1975 interview with John Lennon, conducted by Pete Hamill. In 1975, Lennon had just ended his year-and-a-half long separation from Yoko Ono and was about to take a five-year hiatus to "bake bread and look after the baby." Lennon was always painfully self-aware, but in this interview, he seems to have finally seen many of his blind spots.
There were a few short quotes from this excerpt that I thought about posting here, out of context, but I thought that quoting them in context would be better. He starts out talking about his music (obliquely referring to the overtly political and topical commercial bomb Some Time In New York City) but ends up reflecting not only on his role as an artist, but on the emotional and psychological traps and dodges that dogged him in his music, his relationship, and his life.
The entire interview is posted at a site entitled Listen to this Website.
Hamill: You went through a period of really heavy involvement in radical causes. Lately you seem to have gone back to your art in a more direct way. What happened?
Lennon: I'll tell you what happened literally. I got off the boat, only it was an airplane, and landed in New York, and the first people who got in touch with me was (sic) Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman. It's as simple as that. It's those two famous guys from America who's callin': "Hey, yeah, what's happenin', what's goin' on? . . ." And the next thing you know, I'm doin' John Sinclair benefits and one thing and another. I'm pretty movable, as an artist, you know. They almost greeted me off the plane and the next minute I'm involved, you know.
Hamill: How did all of this affect your work?
Lennon: It almost ruined it, in a way. It became journalism and not poetry. And I basically feel that I'm a poet. Even if it does go ba-deeble, eedle, eedle, it, da-deedle, deedle, it. I'm not a formalized poet, I have no education, so I have to write in the simplest forms usually. And I realized that over a period of time - and not just 'cause I met Jerry Rubin off the plane - but that was like a culmination. I realized that we were poets but we were really folk poets, and rock & roll was folk poetry - I've always felt that. Rock & roll was folk music. Then I began to take it seriously on another level, saying, "Well, I am reflecting what is going on, right?" And then I was making an effort to reflect what was going on. Well, it doesn't work like that. It doesn't work as pop music or what I want to do. It just doesn't make sense. You get into that bit where you can't talk about trees, 'cause, y'know, y'gotta talk about "Corruption on Fifty-fourth Street"! It's nothing to do with that. It's a bit larger than that. It's the usual lesson that I've learned in me little thirty-four years: As soon as you've clutched onto something, you think - you're always clutchin' at straws - this is what life is all about. I think artists are lucky because the straws are always blowin' out of their hands. But the unfortunate thing is that most people find the straw hat and hang on to it, like your best friend that got the job at the bank when he was fifteen and looked twenty-eight before he was twenty. "Oh, this is it! Now I know what I'm doing! Right? Down this road for the next hundred years" . . . and it ain't never that. Whether it's a religious hat or a political hat or a no-political hat: whatever hat is was, always looking for these straw hats. I think I found out it's a waste of time. There is no hat to wear. Just keep moving around and changing clothes is the best. That's all that goes on: change.
At one time I thought, well, I'm avoidin' that thing called the Age Thing, whether it hits you at twenty-one, when you take your first job - I always keep referrin' to that because it has nothing to do, virtually, with your physical age. I mean, we all know the guys who took the jobs when we left school, the straight jobs, they all look like old guys within six weeks. You'd meet them and they'd be lookin' like Well, I've Settled Down Now. So I never want to settle down, in that respect. I always want to be immature in that respect. But then I felt that if I keep bangin' my head on the wall it'll stop me from gettin' that kind of age in the head. By keeping creating, consciously or unconsciously, extraordinary situations which in the end you'd write about. But maybe it has nothin' to do with it. I'm still mullin' that over. Still mullin' over last year now. Maybe that was it. I was still trying to avoid somethin' but doin' it the wrong way 'round. Whether it's called age or whatever.
Hamill: Is it called growing up?
Lennon: I don't want to grow up but I'm sick of not growing up - that way. I'll find a different way of not growing up. There's a better way of doing it than torturing your body. And then your mind. The guilt! It's just so dumb. And it makes me furious to be dumb because I don't like dumb people. And there I am, doing the dumbest things . . . I seem to do the things that I despise the most, almost. All of that to - what? - avoid being normal.
I have this great fear of this normal thing. You know, the ones that passed their exams, the ones that went to their jobs, the ones that didn't become rock & rollers, the ones that settle for it, settled for it, settled for the deal! That's what I'm trying to avoid. But I'm sick of avoiding it with violence, you know? I've gotta do it some other way. I think I will. I think just the fact that I've realized it is a good step forward. Alive in '75 is my new motto. I've just made it up. That's the one. I've decided I want to live. I'd decided I wanted to live before, but I didn't know what it meant, really. It's taken however many years and I want to have a go at it.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
AOL Welcome Screen Headline of the Week
Granted it's only Wednesday evening, but I doubt we'll do any better than this one before Friday:
Why Don't Pregnant Women Topple Over?
Why Don't Pregnant Women Topple Over?
Sunday, December 09, 2007
It was 27 years ago today...
On Sunday, December 7, 1980, my family made one of our customary Sunday trips to Renninger's flea market, east of Carlisle on the Pennsylvania turnpike. Little did my parents realize (I think) that I spent most of my allowance that afternoon on a big stack of old copies of PENTHOUSE; I was only 16 years old, but looked older, and I figured out that while newsstands were a crapshoot, most flea market dealers would sell me as many back issues as I wanted... at 50 cents a piece. (There's a lot I could write about THAT habit, but I don't want to digress.)
After we went to the flea market, we stopped at a diner down the road, Zinn's , and when I finished with my dinner, I asked my dad if I could take the car keys and go out to the cold car and listen to the radio (and guard my stash). Mainly, though, I wanted to sit in the driver's seat and tune around.
Autumn 1980 was notable for two big things in my life: the Phillies not only made it to the World Series after years of getting close and falling short, but won the whole thing; and John Lennon was back on the radio with new music. I'd started buying records at age 11, summer 1975; this was shortly after John's most recent studio album, ROCK AND ROLL, came out... so, in other words, the whole five years I'd been conscious of rock and roll, buying new records and exploring old sounds, Lennon had been missing in action.
But earlier in 1980, rumors started circulating: Lennon was planning a comeback; recording new songs; the new songs would be a dialogue between him and his wife, Yoko Ono (a "heartplay"). Finally, in October, a single appeared, on a new label (Geffen Records): following the pattern of John's earliest solo singles, it was one of his songs on the a-side ("[Just Like] Starting Over") and one of Yoko's on the flip ("Kiss Kiss Kiss"). The artsy black and white picture cover showed the two of them face to face, kissing.
From the Geffen Records LP DOUBLE FANTASY, the label stated.
DOUBLE FANTASY. What did THAT mean?
A few weeks later, a new issue of PLAYBOY appeared, with a John Lennon interview as the centerpiece. (Actually, Karen Price was the centerpiece. But again, I don't want to digress.) I had to get that magazine... and on a Thanksgiving weekend shopping trip to Park City Mall in Lancaster, I snagged it. The interview was a revelation: Lennon, it seemed, had spent the last five years taking care of his and Yoko's son Sean, "baking bread and looking after the baby." More than that, Lennon seemed to have reconciled himself with his Beatles past, and with Paul. His affection for his former bandmates was as evident as was his disgust in the landmark LENNON REMEMBERS interview he'd given ROLLING STONE a decade earlier.
Not only were he and Paul on speaking terms, but Paul had actually come over to Lennon's New York apartment at the Dakota with his guitar... and the two of them were together at the Dakota when Lorne Michaels came on SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE and offered the Beatles $3,200 to reunite on his show. ("Four songs. 'She Loves You, Yeah, yeah, yeah.' That's $800 right there. Split it up any way you want. If you want to give Ringo less, it's up to you.") Lennon revealed that he and Paul almost hopped in a cab to the studio to take Michaels up on the offer, but "we were too tired." And even though it sounded like Lennon wanted to keep his distance ("Finally I said to him, 'Please call before you come over. It's not 1956 and turning up at the door isn't the same anymore. You know, just give me a ring.' He was upset by that, but I didn't mean it badly. I just meant that I was taking care of a baby all day and some guy turns up at the door."), still, that they were talking at all made me think that maybe, just maybe, a Beatles reunion might be in the future.
Even if it wasn't, though, there was that new single: "Starting Over" was a rocker, but kind of smooth around the edges, relatively speaking. It was a more mature sounding Lennon; there didn't seem to be any angst; certainly the primal scream I'd heard on "Mother" was missing... nor was there any utopian idealism ala "Imagine" or "Mind Games." It was... well... slight. And it had GIRL BACKGROUND SINGERS. "Starting Over," I thought, teetered on the edge of being Lame... but given what he had to say in the interview about his life with Yoko and their relationship, it seemed honest.
"All we are saying," Lennon said, "is, 'This is what is happening to us.' We are sending postcards." "Starting Over," apparently, was a "postcard" from John to his fans.
Anyway, that Sunday evening, I sat in the cold car in the parking lot of Zinn's Diner, tuning around on AM, hoping to catch Lennon's new single on the radio. When I finally found it, I caught it towards the end. There's a moment, in "(Just Like) Starting Over," where Lennon sings
Although our love is still special
Let's take a chance and fly away
Somewhere...
and the record fades down into a couple beats of silence before a set of triplets on the tom toms brings the band back in full force, and Lennon goes into a falsetto, singing "Starting o-o-verrrrr" and wailing high as the record fades out.
That night, I found the song on a fading, distant AM station just as Lennon sang the line "Although our love is still special" and the signal faded slightly into the static as he sang "Somewhere...." In that moment, I thought I'd lost the signal...
... but as the tom toms played on the record, the station's signal came back loud and strong and clear, cutting through the static, and the song played through to the end.
Starting oh-oh-vahhhhh
Ooooooooooooo
Ah, ah, ah, ah...
It was one of my favorite radio moments ever.
Two mornings later, a Tuesday, I woke up for school around 6:30, same as usual: Pepper, our dog, came bursting in the room and jumped up on the bed, licking my face to wake me up. Meanwhile my dad was standing at the door, and I'll never forget what he said:
"John Lennon was shot last night."
Shot. Killed.
I think I said the word FUCK! in front of my parents three times that morning; it was the first time I'd ever said it in front of them, and they didn't call me on it. I felt sick, angry, stunned. I couldn't believe it; was he really dead? I turned on the radio to WTPA FM 104 ("Central PA's Best Rock"), which had been pretty much ignoring Lennon's new album, and was stunned --sickened-- to hear the Beatles song the DJ had chosen to play that morning:
"Happiness Is A Warm Gun."
(That station, I'm pretty sure, is still playing the same c 1977 album tracks they played back then, except now, instead of calling themselves an "album rock" station, they call themselves "classic rock.")
On the other album rock station, Starview 92, out of Hanover, the DJ was in tears. I can't remember what he said, can't remember what song he played. I couldn't listen. I had to go to school.
Fuck.
On one of our trips to Renninger's, I'd bought an authentic 1964 Beatles "flasher" button: when you flicked the button a little, the picture on the front switched between a group photo and a close-up of John Lennon, with I LOVE JOHN in type around the perimeter. If ever there was a day to wear that button to school, it was that day. I went to school in a daze; can't remember if I saw any of my friends (I sort of remember seeing my friend Greg and exchanging "I can't believe its" with him)... can't really remember anything except going to homeroom and sitting there in a daze... one of the first times I can really remember feeling so overwhelmed with emotion that I was numb, wondering where the tears were.
That feeling, more than any other, stuck with me that week: I saw video of Beatles fans at tributes, singing "Give Peace A Chance" and "Imagine," holding each other, in tears. In tears.
Where were my tears?
The only thing I really remember from that schoolday is homeroom that morning: sitting in Mr. Hemminger's homeroom at Carlisle High School and, after the announcements, looking across at a girl who I later found out had a secret crush on me. She looked at my button.
"John," she said. "Wasn't he the weird one?"
What a stupid fucking thing to say, I thought as I sat there silent.
(I imagine now that she probably said the same thing to herself for the rest of the day!)
That weekend, there was a candlelight vigil at the square in Carlisle, part of the worldwide "moments of silence" that Yoko requested in her husband's honor. It was a windy, bitingly cold winter afternoon, one of the kind which have long since abandoned central Pennsylvania in December. I went with my friend Greg. The vigil was held near a monument on the grounds of the old county courthouse; the sky was overcast, grey, and ugly tired dirty snow lay on the ground and in the gutters, clinging to the curbs, forming filthy slushy puddles. The small group at the memorial was mostly Dickinson College students; except for Greg, I didn't see anyone I recognized from the high school. We stood there with our candles, cupping our hands around the flames to keep them from going out in the breeze, and I'll never forget a college student stepping up, tears streaming down his cheeks and choking his voice, as he proclaimed "Just as a generation was defined by John F. Kennedy's assassination, so will our generation be defined by this..."
I thought this was a little over the top... still...
Where are my tears?
Twenty-seven years later, when I think of John Lennon and the way he died (shot in front of his wife) and the age he died (three years younger than I am now, as I write this) and the life he missed (his son was only five at the time) and was robbed of... when I hear "Starting Over," or any of the songs from DOUBLE FANTASY (which I couldn't stand to buy a copy of, and didn't add to my collection, until 15 years after he died), or read his optimistic and mature remarks in the PLAYBOY interview... or see pictures of him, circa 1980, confident, a survivor... as I sit here typing this, thinking about all these things, guess what? I've found a couple tears. 27 years later, there they are.
As his "estranged fiance" Paul sang in his song "Here Today," a few years after John died...
But as for me
I still remember how it was before
And I am holding back the tears no more
I love you...
God bless your spirit, John, and may we someday live up to all of your ideals... not just your utopian ideals of peace and brotherhood, but the little ideals, too: finding joy in the eyes of your spouse and your son, fulfillment in your art, and ultimately, the realization that (to paraphrase Captain B.J.Honeycutt) you don't need to change the whole world.
Just your little corner of it.
After we went to the flea market, we stopped at a diner down the road, Zinn's , and when I finished with my dinner, I asked my dad if I could take the car keys and go out to the cold car and listen to the radio (and guard my stash). Mainly, though, I wanted to sit in the driver's seat and tune around.
Autumn 1980 was notable for two big things in my life: the Phillies not only made it to the World Series after years of getting close and falling short, but won the whole thing; and John Lennon was back on the radio with new music. I'd started buying records at age 11, summer 1975; this was shortly after John's most recent studio album, ROCK AND ROLL, came out... so, in other words, the whole five years I'd been conscious of rock and roll, buying new records and exploring old sounds, Lennon had been missing in action.
But earlier in 1980, rumors started circulating: Lennon was planning a comeback; recording new songs; the new songs would be a dialogue between him and his wife, Yoko Ono (a "heartplay"). Finally, in October, a single appeared, on a new label (Geffen Records): following the pattern of John's earliest solo singles, it was one of his songs on the a-side ("[Just Like] Starting Over") and one of Yoko's on the flip ("Kiss Kiss Kiss"). The artsy black and white picture cover showed the two of them face to face, kissing.
From the Geffen Records LP DOUBLE FANTASY, the label stated.
DOUBLE FANTASY. What did THAT mean?
A few weeks later, a new issue of PLAYBOY appeared, with a John Lennon interview as the centerpiece. (Actually, Karen Price was the centerpiece. But again, I don't want to digress.) I had to get that magazine... and on a Thanksgiving weekend shopping trip to Park City Mall in Lancaster, I snagged it. The interview was a revelation: Lennon, it seemed, had spent the last five years taking care of his and Yoko's son Sean, "baking bread and looking after the baby." More than that, Lennon seemed to have reconciled himself with his Beatles past, and with Paul. His affection for his former bandmates was as evident as was his disgust in the landmark LENNON REMEMBERS interview he'd given ROLLING STONE a decade earlier.
Not only were he and Paul on speaking terms, but Paul had actually come over to Lennon's New York apartment at the Dakota with his guitar... and the two of them were together at the Dakota when Lorne Michaels came on SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE and offered the Beatles $3,200 to reunite on his show. ("Four songs. 'She Loves You, Yeah, yeah, yeah.' That's $800 right there. Split it up any way you want. If you want to give Ringo less, it's up to you.") Lennon revealed that he and Paul almost hopped in a cab to the studio to take Michaels up on the offer, but "we were too tired." And even though it sounded like Lennon wanted to keep his distance ("Finally I said to him, 'Please call before you come over. It's not 1956 and turning up at the door isn't the same anymore. You know, just give me a ring.' He was upset by that, but I didn't mean it badly. I just meant that I was taking care of a baby all day and some guy turns up at the door."), still, that they were talking at all made me think that maybe, just maybe, a Beatles reunion might be in the future.
Even if it wasn't, though, there was that new single: "Starting Over" was a rocker, but kind of smooth around the edges, relatively speaking. It was a more mature sounding Lennon; there didn't seem to be any angst; certainly the primal scream I'd heard on "Mother" was missing... nor was there any utopian idealism ala "Imagine" or "Mind Games." It was... well... slight. And it had GIRL BACKGROUND SINGERS. "Starting Over," I thought, teetered on the edge of being Lame... but given what he had to say in the interview about his life with Yoko and their relationship, it seemed honest.
"All we are saying," Lennon said, "is, 'This is what is happening to us.' We are sending postcards." "Starting Over," apparently, was a "postcard" from John to his fans.
Anyway, that Sunday evening, I sat in the cold car in the parking lot of Zinn's Diner, tuning around on AM, hoping to catch Lennon's new single on the radio. When I finally found it, I caught it towards the end. There's a moment, in "(Just Like) Starting Over," where Lennon sings
Although our love is still special
Let's take a chance and fly away
Somewhere...
and the record fades down into a couple beats of silence before a set of triplets on the tom toms brings the band back in full force, and Lennon goes into a falsetto, singing "Starting o-o-verrrrr" and wailing high as the record fades out.
That night, I found the song on a fading, distant AM station just as Lennon sang the line "Although our love is still special" and the signal faded slightly into the static as he sang "Somewhere...." In that moment, I thought I'd lost the signal...
... but as the tom toms played on the record, the station's signal came back loud and strong and clear, cutting through the static, and the song played through to the end.
Starting oh-oh-vahhhhh
Ooooooooooooo
Ah, ah, ah, ah...
It was one of my favorite radio moments ever.
Two mornings later, a Tuesday, I woke up for school around 6:30, same as usual: Pepper, our dog, came bursting in the room and jumped up on the bed, licking my face to wake me up. Meanwhile my dad was standing at the door, and I'll never forget what he said:
"John Lennon was shot last night."
Shot. Killed.
I think I said the word FUCK! in front of my parents three times that morning; it was the first time I'd ever said it in front of them, and they didn't call me on it. I felt sick, angry, stunned. I couldn't believe it; was he really dead? I turned on the radio to WTPA FM 104 ("Central PA's Best Rock"), which had been pretty much ignoring Lennon's new album, and was stunned --sickened-- to hear the Beatles song the DJ had chosen to play that morning:
"Happiness Is A Warm Gun."
(That station, I'm pretty sure, is still playing the same c 1977 album tracks they played back then, except now, instead of calling themselves an "album rock" station, they call themselves "classic rock.")
On the other album rock station, Starview 92, out of Hanover, the DJ was in tears. I can't remember what he said, can't remember what song he played. I couldn't listen. I had to go to school.
Fuck.
On one of our trips to Renninger's, I'd bought an authentic 1964 Beatles "flasher" button: when you flicked the button a little, the picture on the front switched between a group photo and a close-up of John Lennon, with I LOVE JOHN in type around the perimeter. If ever there was a day to wear that button to school, it was that day. I went to school in a daze; can't remember if I saw any of my friends (I sort of remember seeing my friend Greg and exchanging "I can't believe its" with him)... can't really remember anything except going to homeroom and sitting there in a daze... one of the first times I can really remember feeling so overwhelmed with emotion that I was numb, wondering where the tears were.
That feeling, more than any other, stuck with me that week: I saw video of Beatles fans at tributes, singing "Give Peace A Chance" and "Imagine," holding each other, in tears. In tears.
Where were my tears?
The only thing I really remember from that schoolday is homeroom that morning: sitting in Mr. Hemminger's homeroom at Carlisle High School and, after the announcements, looking across at a girl who I later found out had a secret crush on me. She looked at my button.
"John," she said. "Wasn't he the weird one?"
What a stupid fucking thing to say, I thought as I sat there silent.
(I imagine now that she probably said the same thing to herself for the rest of the day!)
That weekend, there was a candlelight vigil at the square in Carlisle, part of the worldwide "moments of silence" that Yoko requested in her husband's honor. It was a windy, bitingly cold winter afternoon, one of the kind which have long since abandoned central Pennsylvania in December. I went with my friend Greg. The vigil was held near a monument on the grounds of the old county courthouse; the sky was overcast, grey, and ugly tired dirty snow lay on the ground and in the gutters, clinging to the curbs, forming filthy slushy puddles. The small group at the memorial was mostly Dickinson College students; except for Greg, I didn't see anyone I recognized from the high school. We stood there with our candles, cupping our hands around the flames to keep them from going out in the breeze, and I'll never forget a college student stepping up, tears streaming down his cheeks and choking his voice, as he proclaimed "Just as a generation was defined by John F. Kennedy's assassination, so will our generation be defined by this..."
I thought this was a little over the top... still...
Where are my tears?
Twenty-seven years later, when I think of John Lennon and the way he died (shot in front of his wife) and the age he died (three years younger than I am now, as I write this) and the life he missed (his son was only five at the time) and was robbed of... when I hear "Starting Over," or any of the songs from DOUBLE FANTASY (which I couldn't stand to buy a copy of, and didn't add to my collection, until 15 years after he died), or read his optimistic and mature remarks in the PLAYBOY interview... or see pictures of him, circa 1980, confident, a survivor... as I sit here typing this, thinking about all these things, guess what? I've found a couple tears. 27 years later, there they are.
As his "estranged fiance" Paul sang in his song "Here Today," a few years after John died...
But as for me
I still remember how it was before
And I am holding back the tears no more
I love you...
God bless your spirit, John, and may we someday live up to all of your ideals... not just your utopian ideals of peace and brotherhood, but the little ideals, too: finding joy in the eyes of your spouse and your son, fulfillment in your art, and ultimately, the realization that (to paraphrase Captain B.J.Honeycutt) you don't need to change the whole world.
Just your little corner of it.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
A turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee
One Christmas when I was a kid, my parents gave me a book called Who's On First? by Richard Anobile. It was a compendium of some of Abbott and Costello's most famous routines, transcribed from their films and illustrated with stills from the movies themselves. It's amazing how well some of their very animated shtick transferred to still photos... but the best thing about the routines was the rhythm of the writing and the interplay between the two characters: the tall, thinks-he's-tough-but-not-quite-so-savvy-as-he-thinks Abbott and the short, rotund (I was going to say "fat" but I realize that he probably weighed about as much as I do!) gullible-but-not-quite-as-dumb- as-he-looks Costello. The voices of the characters literally jumped off the page; add in the stills, and, really, you almost didn't need to see the movies.
I'm still not even sure if I ever actually saw the Turkey Sandwich And Cup Of Coffee routine, but it was in the book, and I almost memorized it from the stills and dialogue balloons. It's probably my favorite routine of theirs.
All I know is, ever since age 12 or so, whenever someone utters the phrase "share a turkey sandwich," I think of this sketch and can hear Costello muttering "I don't care for nothin'..."
Abbott and Costello performed this routine originally in the movie Keep 'Em Flying, although I'm sure it was recycled and used on radio, TV, and maybe even other movies. This slightly edited transcript is posted on a website called Clown Ministry:
Blackie (Bud Abbott) and Heathcliff (Lou Costello), having been unsuccessful at entering through the gates of the Cal-Aero, Army Air Corps flight training academy, enter the U.S.O. club and approach the lunch counter with only one quarter between them and take their seats. Gloria (Martha Raye, playing the parts of twin sisters Gloria and Barbara) waits on them from behind the counter.
Blackie (Bud Abbott) : I beg your pardon. Can you tell me where the administration building is?
Gloria (Martha Raye) : Over there inside the gate.
Blackie : Yes? So how do you get in there to get a pass?
Gloria : Well... you can’t get inside the gate without a pass, to get a pass to get inside the gate.
Heathcliff (Lou Costello) : Very interesting and tricky. Come on.
Blackie : Yeah. (Blackie and Heathcliff begin to leave.)
Gloria : Won’t you boys have something to eat?
(The boys turn back and take their seats.)
Heathcliff : Yes ma’am. I would like a--
(Blackie gabs Heathcliff by the lapel and speaks to him in an aside.)
Blackie : Please. Please. What do you mean, "yes ma’am"? We’ve only got a quarter, you know that! Do you understand? What’s wrong with you? What’s happened to you?
Heathcliff : Well, a quarter… we can get something to eat.
Blackie : All right... well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll order a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. See? And I’ll give you half. But if she asks you if you want anything you just say "no, I don’t care for anything."
Heathcliff : Even if she asks me if I care for anything? I say I don’t want nothing.
Blackie : That’s right.
Heathcliff : You mean we’re going to put something over on her?
Blackie : No. No. No. We’re not putting anything over.
Heathcliff : We’re going to sucker her.
Blackie : That’s all we have, is a quarter.
Heathcliff : She’ll think we’re a couple of big shots.
Blackie : That’s'a boy.
Heathcliff : I don’t care for nothing.
Blackie : That’s right.
(The boys turn back and face the counter.)
Blackie : Give me a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, please.
Gloria : And what will you have?
Heathcliff : I don’t care for nothing.
Blackie : Oh, go ahead! Have something!
Heathcliff : Give me a turkey sandwich.
(Blackie spins around pulling both himself and Heathcliff off their stools and they speak in another aside.)
Blackie : What did I just get through telling you?
Heathcliff : I refused once. Didn’t I? That’s enough?
Blackie : I know. But we only got a quarter.
Heathcliff : I mean, but the waitress says to have something. I say I don’t care for nothing. Then you say, go ahead, have--
Blackie : --Never mind that! You can’t order! Never mind what I say!
Heathcliff : No matter how much you coax me?
Blackie : No matter how much I coax you. You just say "I don’t want anything."
Heathcliff : I’ll say I’m filled up that’s all.
Blackie : That’s all. We only got a quarter.
(Heathcliff pulls Blackie closer as if revealing the truth to him.)
Heathcliff : I ain’t. But I’ll say, I will...
Blackie : Well, say that.
Heathcliff : O.K..
Blackie : And I‘ll give you half my sandwich.
Heathcliff : O.K.. I don’t care for nothing.
(And the boys return to their seats at the counter.)
Blackie : That turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, please.
Gloria : And what will you have?
Heathcliff : I don’t care for nothing.
Blackie : Ohhh, go ahead... have something. Go on, have something. Come on! You're in here to eat. Right?
Heathcliff : Yeah.
Blackie : Go ahead... order something.
Heathcliff : Give me some ham and eggs.
(Blackie grabs Heathcliff by the lapels again and whisks them both off the stools for another aside.)
Blackie : What did I just get through telling you?
Heathcliff : What do you keep coaxing me for?
Blackie : Just a minute. We’ve only got a quarter!
Heathcliff : I know! But don’t keep saying "go ahead take something." I say "I don’t care for nothing." You say "go ahead take--
Blackie : --Never mind! Never mind what I say. Just don’t order anything! How were you going to pay for it?
Heathcliff : I’m filled up. I don’t know from nothing. That’s all.
Blackie : That’s different. No matter how much I coax you, you don’t want anything.
Heathcliff : I’m deaf. I don’t say another word.
Blackie : Now keep quiet. You want a sandwich. You can’t pay for two turkey sandwiches. Now come on.
(The boys begin to retake their seats at the counter.)
Heathcliff : I don’t want nothing.
Blackie : You don’t want anything.
(They turn towards the counter and speak to Gloria.)
Blackie : That turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, please.
Gloria : And you?
Heathcliff : I don’t care for nothing.
Blackie : Oh, sure you do.
Heathcliff : Stop asking me! I don’t care for nothing. That’s all. I’m not in the mood to eat.
Blackie : You told me you were hungry!
Heathcliff : I know. I told you a lot of things. But I ain’t going to eat.
Blackie : Well, are you hungry?
Heathcliff : I beg your pardon, miss, but I’m not going to eat.
Blackie : You are hungry? Now look. You're in a restaurant. What do people go to a restaurant for?
Heathcliff : Not me. I’m just--
Blackie : --What do people go to a restaurant for?
Heathcliff : Sometimes I wonder...
Blackie : They go there to eat.
Heathcliff : Yeah.
Blackie : Well, that’s what you’re here for.
Heathcliff : That’s a wonderful word, "eat."
Blackie : Well, all right. Order something.
Heathcliff : I’m not hungry.
Blackie : Now listen. You want people to think I’m a cheapskate around here? Go on, order something! Order something small.
Heathcliff : Give me a small steak.
(Blackie slaps Heathcliff in the face, grabs him by the lapels, and off the stools they go again for another aside.)
Blackie : What did I just… What did I just get through telling you?
Heathcliff : What do you keep coaxing me for?
Blackie : Never mind that coaxing! No matter how much I coax you, you don’t want anything! Now sit down there and behave yourself.
(The boys sit down again and speak to Gloria.)
Blackie : Turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee.
Gloria : Turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee? Yes?
(Heathcliff has both hands over his mouth. And with a questioning glance, Gloria looks his way.)
Blackie : He don’t care for anything.
I'm still not even sure if I ever actually saw the Turkey Sandwich And Cup Of Coffee routine, but it was in the book, and I almost memorized it from the stills and dialogue balloons. It's probably my favorite routine of theirs.
All I know is, ever since age 12 or so, whenever someone utters the phrase "share a turkey sandwich," I think of this sketch and can hear Costello muttering "I don't care for nothin'..."
Abbott and Costello performed this routine originally in the movie Keep 'Em Flying, although I'm sure it was recycled and used on radio, TV, and maybe even other movies. This slightly edited transcript is posted on a website called Clown Ministry:
Blackie (Bud Abbott) and Heathcliff (Lou Costello), having been unsuccessful at entering through the gates of the Cal-Aero, Army Air Corps flight training academy, enter the U.S.O. club and approach the lunch counter with only one quarter between them and take their seats. Gloria (Martha Raye, playing the parts of twin sisters Gloria and Barbara) waits on them from behind the counter.
Blackie (Bud Abbott) : I beg your pardon. Can you tell me where the administration building is?
Gloria (Martha Raye) : Over there inside the gate.
Blackie : Yes? So how do you get in there to get a pass?
Gloria : Well... you can’t get inside the gate without a pass, to get a pass to get inside the gate.
Heathcliff (Lou Costello) : Very interesting and tricky. Come on.
Blackie : Yeah. (Blackie and Heathcliff begin to leave.)
Gloria : Won’t you boys have something to eat?
(The boys turn back and take their seats.)
Heathcliff : Yes ma’am. I would like a--
(Blackie gabs Heathcliff by the lapel and speaks to him in an aside.)
Blackie : Please. Please. What do you mean, "yes ma’am"? We’ve only got a quarter, you know that! Do you understand? What’s wrong with you? What’s happened to you?
Heathcliff : Well, a quarter… we can get something to eat.
Blackie : All right... well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll order a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. See? And I’ll give you half. But if she asks you if you want anything you just say "no, I don’t care for anything."
Heathcliff : Even if she asks me if I care for anything? I say I don’t want nothing.
Blackie : That’s right.
Heathcliff : You mean we’re going to put something over on her?
Blackie : No. No. No. We’re not putting anything over.
Heathcliff : We’re going to sucker her.
Blackie : That’s all we have, is a quarter.
Heathcliff : She’ll think we’re a couple of big shots.
Blackie : That’s'a boy.
Heathcliff : I don’t care for nothing.
Blackie : That’s right.
(The boys turn back and face the counter.)
Blackie : Give me a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, please.
Gloria : And what will you have?
Heathcliff : I don’t care for nothing.
Blackie : Oh, go ahead! Have something!
Heathcliff : Give me a turkey sandwich.
(Blackie spins around pulling both himself and Heathcliff off their stools and they speak in another aside.)
Blackie : What did I just get through telling you?
Heathcliff : I refused once. Didn’t I? That’s enough?
Blackie : I know. But we only got a quarter.
Heathcliff : I mean, but the waitress says to have something. I say I don’t care for nothing. Then you say, go ahead, have--
Blackie : --Never mind that! You can’t order! Never mind what I say!
Heathcliff : No matter how much you coax me?
Blackie : No matter how much I coax you. You just say "I don’t want anything."
Heathcliff : I’ll say I’m filled up that’s all.
Blackie : That’s all. We only got a quarter.
(Heathcliff pulls Blackie closer as if revealing the truth to him.)
Heathcliff : I ain’t. But I’ll say, I will...
Blackie : Well, say that.
Heathcliff : O.K..
Blackie : And I‘ll give you half my sandwich.
Heathcliff : O.K.. I don’t care for nothing.
(And the boys return to their seats at the counter.)
Blackie : That turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, please.
Gloria : And what will you have?
Heathcliff : I don’t care for nothing.
Blackie : Ohhh, go ahead... have something. Go on, have something. Come on! You're in here to eat. Right?
Heathcliff : Yeah.
Blackie : Go ahead... order something.
Heathcliff : Give me some ham and eggs.
(Blackie grabs Heathcliff by the lapels again and whisks them both off the stools for another aside.)
Blackie : What did I just get through telling you?
Heathcliff : What do you keep coaxing me for?
Blackie : Just a minute. We’ve only got a quarter!
Heathcliff : I know! But don’t keep saying "go ahead take something." I say "I don’t care for nothing." You say "go ahead take--
Blackie : --Never mind! Never mind what I say. Just don’t order anything! How were you going to pay for it?
Heathcliff : I’m filled up. I don’t know from nothing. That’s all.
Blackie : That’s different. No matter how much I coax you, you don’t want anything.
Heathcliff : I’m deaf. I don’t say another word.
Blackie : Now keep quiet. You want a sandwich. You can’t pay for two turkey sandwiches. Now come on.
(The boys begin to retake their seats at the counter.)
Heathcliff : I don’t want nothing.
Blackie : You don’t want anything.
(They turn towards the counter and speak to Gloria.)
Blackie : That turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, please.
Gloria : And you?
Heathcliff : I don’t care for nothing.
Blackie : Oh, sure you do.
Heathcliff : Stop asking me! I don’t care for nothing. That’s all. I’m not in the mood to eat.
Blackie : You told me you were hungry!
Heathcliff : I know. I told you a lot of things. But I ain’t going to eat.
Blackie : Well, are you hungry?
Heathcliff : I beg your pardon, miss, but I’m not going to eat.
Blackie : You are hungry? Now look. You're in a restaurant. What do people go to a restaurant for?
Heathcliff : Not me. I’m just--
Blackie : --What do people go to a restaurant for?
Heathcliff : Sometimes I wonder...
Blackie : They go there to eat.
Heathcliff : Yeah.
Blackie : Well, that’s what you’re here for.
Heathcliff : That’s a wonderful word, "eat."
Blackie : Well, all right. Order something.
Heathcliff : I’m not hungry.
Blackie : Now listen. You want people to think I’m a cheapskate around here? Go on, order something! Order something small.
Heathcliff : Give me a small steak.
(Blackie slaps Heathcliff in the face, grabs him by the lapels, and off the stools they go again for another aside.)
Blackie : What did I just… What did I just get through telling you?
Heathcliff : What do you keep coaxing me for?
Blackie : Never mind that coaxing! No matter how much I coax you, you don’t want anything! Now sit down there and behave yourself.
(The boys sit down again and speak to Gloria.)
Blackie : Turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee.
Gloria : Turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee? Yes?
(Heathcliff has both hands over his mouth. And with a questioning glance, Gloria looks his way.)
Blackie : He don’t care for anything.
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