I recall going to “clubs” when I was a younger gentleman, by which I mean nightclubs with long lines and cover charges. Once finally inside, I’d spend some of the little money I had buying colorful drinks for the gals and attempting to move my body in a way that might be construed, by very generous people, as dancing. Most of the time, I went to these clubs to please women. Not random women on the street, who couldn’t have cared less that I was off clubbing, but young women in my circle of friends with whom I might have been hoping to become closer. Nothing else of consequence ever happened, except that my female friends sometimes gave other guys their phone numbers.
At some point, I must have realized how silly the whole club scene was, with its goofy costumes and deafening music. By my mid-20s I stopped going to clubs altogether. However, my wife and I were recently vacationing in Puerto Rico, and our status as guests of the El San Juan hotel gave us access to “La Bamba” or some such inanely named nightclub. Signs in front of the club indicated that getting in wasn’t as easy as just having a pulse: admission was completely at the discretion of the manager. But after producing IDs and identifying ourselves as guests of the hotel, we suddenly had VIP privileges, which meant we could go in and drink their overpriced vodka.
Entering at 10:30 sounded kind of latish in our world, but once in we found the place empty, save for a triad of young ladies sipping drinks and not talking to each other, which we joined them in doing. The club was open until 5 a.m. my wife explained to me. Things don’t really get hopping until, like, 2. We peered into our icy drinks and tried to make pithy comments above the din, waiting in vain for someone to take to the dance floor so we could join them and then tell the kids we had been clubbing. Half an hour after this charade began, we left and put our feet into one of the many hot tubs at the resort, which was, all in all, a far more enjoyable experience.
I love big snowstorms in the same way many New Englanders, in the middle of January, “love hot weather”: it’s great until it actually arrives in full force. Bare grass and temperatures more suited to cherry blossom season in DC than wintertime in Boston isn’t my cup of tea, so instead of wishing for two inches to fall to make everything pretty, I root for a major snow event to come my way just so I can prove that winter weather can’t lay a glove on me. And then, inevitably, the blizzard arrives in an instant like a stomach bug, and I find myself shoveling instead of packing for Puerto Rico.
Shoveling is OK to a point, but when upwards of two feet of snow falls and your yard is barely large enough for earthworms to stretch out, the task quickly becomes tedious. The snow doesn’t just get dug from here and placed a foot away; it must be either thrown the way men of old would toss kegs of beer into horse-drawn carriages, or picked up and carried fifteen steps away, where there is a little more room on the snow bank. And that’s just to clear out the sidewalk and driveway. Getting from the back door to the road or driveway requires shoveling 12-inch-wide paths through the snow.
But I love snowstorms. Just ask me again in 2015, when it’s been two years since the last one.
News of “hairy crazy ant” swarms in the hundreds of millions led me to wonder if at any point in my life I have had a hairy, crazy aunt (no), or hairy, crazy uncle (no), or even a crazy uncle named Harry (I don’t think so). However, this got me to thinking about a sort of “black box theater” play someone should write. It’s about Harry, a Midwestern folksy guy in his late sixties, who loses his wife of 35 years and decides to pick up and move to New York. He arrives unannounced at the upper east side doorstep of his nephew, his only known relative, who hears the doorbell and spies the uncle from the window of his studio loft, where he’s banging some chick making passionate love to his fiancé.
The nephew can’t make out who the hell is down there ringing the buzzer, but he can see it’s a guy in a fedora, so clearly it’s not something he wants to deal with while his naked Israeli fiancé is there pawing at him. But then, the old man looks up and catches Ralph’s naked eye, and Ralph has no choice but to go down to see him.
Harry tells Ralph and Rebbekka (the fiancé) that Bea, Harry’s spouse of more than 35 years, has died, and he didn’t know what to do or where to go. Ralph is like, “You’re gonna have a great life, Uncle Harry. She was dragging you down anyway, the old bat!” But he’s misremembering this: the old bat was not his Aunt Bea, but rather his evil foster mother, whose name I haven’t yet decided on. Rebbekka is shocked by Ralph’s coarseness, and smacks him big-time, which is a problem because these two get hot for each other when they start slapping each other around.
Ralph and Rebbekka put Harry up for the time being, expecting that it can’t last long, but the days stretch into weeks, with Harry lying around in his boxer shorts and dark socks on the sofa where he’s crashing. Slowly he descends into a kind of couch-and-tv-fueled psychosis. Having this crazy old lump on the couch is a huge bummer, such that Ralph and Rebbekka snipe at each other and sometimes smack each other around, which makes them want to go to bed together, which just makes things worse because they can’t with the old man hanging out in their partition-free loft. Finally, Ralph learns that Harry is sitting on a cool 5 million dollars from some very savvy investing and divesting, slaps him around little, and finds him his own pad to rent.
Sparsely set, this play will make use of spotlights on the three characters, and well as rumbles of thunder and sudden bursts of lightning that blind the audience (just to mix it up a little). Note: the actors will be required to perform nude during some of the lightning scenes, such that we glimpse their bodies for fractions of seconds before being blinded for a quarter of a minute. The two young actors playing Ralph and Rebbekka should have hot bodies.
I did a stint as a writer for a few months in the late 1980s for a trade publication called ‘The Griffin Report of Food Marketing.’ I was in charge of turning press releases into something akin to reporting. A mass mailing would go out with a headline along the lines of “Star Market promotes Joe Blow,” and I’d add a few paragraphs about Mr. Blow and how great he was going to be as deputy regional assistant apple buyer for southeastern Massachusetts. Sometimes, I’d call up and interview these people to see if they had anything to say to their fans in the Griffin Report.
Once, I trekked out to Troy, NY overnight to interview the Freihofer’s bakery people. I wore a jacket and tie and brought my notebook to record the Friehofer story. It was a small operation, and they spoke of the “trust” that people have in the Freihofer’s brand. I didn’t mind that trip, despite Troy’s gritty underbelly, because I got to see the factory where they made the bread I had eaten now and again as a kid. The piece I wrote became an insert in the Griffin Report that the Freihofer’s people paid thousands for. I later did another insert – a bigger one – featuring SS Pierce, whose foodservice division had just been bought by Kraft. Those SS Pierce interviews were insufferable, as I sat in executives’ offices and listened to them lavish praise on themselves and their new bosses at Kraft. Readers might have noticed that these inserts were ads, not reporting, but if so it wasn’t because we made it plain to them. It would have been very possible for the “casual” Griffin Report reader to come to the conclusion that we thought S.S. Pierce was a fascinating company and decided to pad our newspaper with several extra pages just to give those windbags a place to sound off.
During the two or so months that I was with the Griffin Report, my friend Roy was dying for me to break some huge supermarket scandal, something dark and sleazy with high stakes that would turn the supermarket world upside down, like a simmering botulism crisis or horsemeat being added to ground beef patties. Instead, I came to learn that the owner of the Griffin Report had badly fibbed about the number of responses he had received for our “best buyer” survey.
As media lies go, this was a minor infraction: the declared winner had indeed gotten the most votes, but the article claimed that about half the ballots sent out had been returned, when the truth was it was far less than that. But I already had lost respect for the publisher of the Griffin Report because he made me do beer runs in the late morning so he could drink his lunch, and believed that “writers should have their own pens and pencils,” and thus refused to stock the supply closet with them. Ultimately, I quit in an unseemly confrontation over his refusal to correct the story’s factual error, though it was actually the sum total of bad experiences that forced my hand.
I did, however, stay on through the next deadline because I liked the editor and other writer, and it’s even possible that I allowed my byline to be associated with the results of the survey, though I doubt it. I may never know that for sure because I can’t find my copy of the issue in question, having used it to line a birdcage or make a campfire years ago.