On The Night You Were Born

“I’m a loner Dottie. A rebel.” – P.W. Herman

On the night you were born, the nurses all gather ‘round and gazed their wide wonder at the joy they found broke your clavicle. Ouch.

It was a lonely night, this demon hellfire spawned 22 October the year of Obama 2010. It was like I was the Catholic Church and was being assaulted by skull cultists, communists and homosensuals all at once.

It had been a lonely week. Sting had nothing on me, except a fake name, millions of dollars and a snooty attitude. Der, being a writer lends itself to a lonely existence, ya idjit! Obviously feeling much more comfortable in the world of the written word tactile society has become bemusing and amusing.

Not afraid to express feelings and opinions in public, with trop de vigueur to my own detriment sometimes, I try, too ardently for the freaks, hipsters and suckas, to embody that oh-so-70s mantra that constantly runs thorough my head: Later for waiting.

Blame it on years of social anxiety.

Intimidation? No attempt is made yet the delivered force my estimations can result in unanticipated venom. Too much bass in my voice? Do I need to loose weight? Talk in a higher, sweeter timbre? In the realm of the blank page I need not react to other’s perceptions, reactions, feelings, sensibilities. I am the deus ex machina here, Toots.

Succinctly, I don’t have to give a Captain Crunch about your bullcrank. This is unmitigated space for my bullcrank and here’s the secret: thanks to Al Gore it is a space everybody has access to. Share your bullcrank.

Yell it from your car window as you speed down the highway. Sing it in the shower while conditioning. Lather it. Rinse it. Repeat it, but only twice. They don’t tell you that on the bottle but you don’t want dried, split ends.

Yell it at the TV while you watch “Clear and Present Danger” the umpteenth time, waiting, like a sniper in a marsh for the Latin Phil Hartman utterance of “the machine is still on Moira.” Tell it to your weapons as if they were pets.

Do whatever you have to do because from cradle to grave, from the womb to the tomb, from the uterus to the ‘what did you do to us’, it’s all bullcrank anyways.

Okay, that is bit overly grim and unsanguine. That should be a word, “unsanguine” just like inopulent should. There is no proper antithesis to these words so creating a direct negative, like possible and impossible, is proper. Get Danny Webster on the phone! And Willy Shakes too…

But, to dear Lucy, who I have, at this point, only seen in a grainy BlackBerry’d photo, a birth such as yours harkens to the limitless possibilities of the tabula rasa. John Locke (the philosopher, not the Lost character) will never be more proud of you than he is today because from this day on the chalk starts to fly. When I see you I shall present you with an eraser. One of those dry erase jobs.

In the old days, when only blackboards functioned as said tabula, the stains of what was forced upon us in childhood was not so easily erased. The redolence of the knowledge remained until a wet sponge, applied by some smart-alecky detentionee like Zack Morris, forcefully wiped the slate clean.

In today’s digital photo, social networking, instant mashed potato society so much will be thrust upon you so quickly that you need something that requires less maintenance than a blackboard.

Your mind will be a dry erase board, with chemical ink foisted upon it with alacrity and erased with equal vigor. The evolution, of if you are one of those crackpots, the intelligent design, from blackboard to dry erase is a parallel and byproduct of the relentless march of American civilization. You can’t cram another commercial into America’s bloated ad space without upping the disposability factor.

Also, the decline in Spirokeet use is directly correlated to the rise in gang activity. Think about it. No, you won’t.

But your birth, your joyous, blissful, merry birth, like a Christmas in winter, is a reminder of not only love but of how in life you can be anybody you want to be. Hunter Thompson, Dick Valentine, Marilyn Monroe, Malcolm X, Lillian Hellman, Ernie Banks…or none of them.

On the page, As Kirk Lazarus said, “I think I might be nobody” but at the same time Sgt. Lincoln Osiris urged me to “Suh-vive!”

On the night you were born, hours before they had to break your clavicle to squeeze you out, of which I was horrified to hear, picturing a disfigured, wailing baby flopping on the ground in pain like Tony Romo, but relived to learn that it is not a rare thing, the clackety-clack of the keyboard was at once liberating and imprisoning, but it was a sentence I took with vivacity. Like a man serving a life sentence in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, he is still glad for three hots and a cot.

Anyways, back to the night and loneliness (sounds like the title of a new Patty Smith single). I stood on a blustery football field, the opaque clouds obscuring the sun like the patina of memory can obscure one’s true character and nature, the chill wind a reminder of the coming winter. It will be gray, to be sure, but, as I learned in my time in Los Angeles, the full palette of the seasons reflects the process we all must go through to grow and it must be heeded.

The seasons are life’s syllabus.

When acquiring new knowledge and/or skills it is at first new and exciting, the mere scents and colors and motions and freshly planed brain grooves of this novel toy enjoin us to persevere. As baby steps become clumsy gallops the weight of the newly accumulated heat builds to a pressure point of which the release of what was once pleasurable is now a necessity. As the leaves in our mind change color we begin to drop the assumptions of the past that are now known to be naïve and, just when we thought we knew it all, our mind becomes a blank white space. Prior knowledge is not gone, it is merely blanketed by the knowledge of what we now know we don’t know.

From one perspective the game was a flop, from the other a rapturous celebration of life. All that is good in youth and all that will continue in perpetuity as long as Obama has anything to do with it…yeah right (*see below). To me a politician is what you scrape off the bottom of your shoe when exiting a movie theater. Didn’t somebody say that about agents once? If they didn’t they should have. I want committed policy makers, great thinkers, adjudicators and debaters in government. Doesn’t everybody hate office politics? In daily life isn’t it a detriment to be called a politician?

Students and teachers cheered, some too vehemently for a contest that is supposed to be more of a learning exercise for student-athletes rather than a doling out of bragging rights to those whose time has passed in their minds. Here’s a secret, your time never passes. The time is now and always will be. We age in the way we are expected to, well some of us. Other just keep l-i-v-i-n’. True dat, Wooderson.

With the dearth of press boxes in high school football (damn you, state budgets) I have to follow the game up and down the field, and this offers the constant opportunity to repeatedly scan vignettes of the different pockets of onlookers and hangers-on.

This enhances the separation of the writer and the event. Akin to going to the sausage factory, covering sports can ruin sports for you. A fan you can’t be. As in music and screenwriting, the more I learned about the construction of song or script on some level the less you begin to enjoy each.

It’s what I imagine it’s like for a mechanic to drive a car. They know what the breaks are doing. They know what causes the acceleration or lack thereof. They can literally see the gears grinding and the fluid flowing and the Meyerhoff Lifters lifting rather than just sitting back and enjoying their LeCar.

In a way, it is a greater, deeper appreciation of what is happening but at the same time the mystique of it all has vanished.

This is what it is like to cover a sport you have watched your whole life as a fan but now have to watch, digest and regurgitate in a pithy, readable fashion, with links! Gotta be “webby”!

It all leads to a lonely place. Not dark, as solitude, whether it be physical or merely mental, can lead to revelations the same way collaboration can lead to greatness greater than the greatness of one.

As I banged away at the laptop, truly wondering, not out of some yearning for recognition or accolades but out of a genuine speculation, if anybody was going to read my offerings (answer: of course not. Who the hell reads high school football stories?”) I received a phone call. The distraction was welcome and it was to welcome Lucy Dionisio into the world.

At 7:01 she was born. The third child of the first child of the second son of the second generation of American Dionisios, and not a moment too soon. Instantly my mind sharpened and my ADD subsided. My family and I gathered around the speaker phone and you could hear the joy, the exhaustion, the love in my brother’s voice and he rehashed, or hashed, as it was being told for the first time, the story of the birth.

She was due days earlier and October 22 had been the drop dead date, ohh, there has to be another way to say

that: October 22 was Mother Nature’s deadline, shit. I’m trying my best to say this without using the word “dead” but fuck it. October 22 was the induction date and it came along at a time where I needed to be reminded that though I was a mere thread the tapestry was strong and I was a vital part of it.

Lucy, will we call you Luce? LuLu? L-Drop? L-Train? L-Street? L-Flash? Wondering what you will be was displaced by what was, as another picture flashed across my BlackBerry, a photo of young Miles in a baby cloak I had given him days after he was born.

My friend Dave cloaks and sweatshirts as they are the main hood delivering mechanisms. Though I have no direct knowledge of why Dave moved to Seattle, because of The Replacements perhaps, it dawned on me. I figured out the Rubix Cube of why Dave took off for Seattle: he wanted to wear hoods year round.

His wife and he announcing pregnancy, I immediately searched for a baby cloak. Natch, with hood. The only one I could find was for 3-6 monthees, so I would have to wait for the unconscious future for payoff.

Leaning back at my chair and dreaming about Lucy as I stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, every blip another reminding poke in the rib, akin to the Swan Hatch countdown, imploring me to heed the “time is of the essence” journalistic argle bargle. Mental itinerancy is a vital part of my writing process, the previous 1,500-odd words a testament to such. The battle is well and truly joined.

Ohh, sweet distractions. Like a Charlestown Chew and Coke, they would be so bad for me if I didn’t like the pain. I deserve it. My eating habits can best be described as treating my stomach like Jake LaMotta. I need to pay for my lack of propriety in other areas of life.

Procrastination habits come from a not dissimilar place.

If your life happens while you’re making plans mine happens while I jump from one neuronic outpost to another and this one was seeing, in mine own eyes, the second generation Cloak Master donning the threads of his birthright.

I printed the photos off and taped them above my monitor in prime viewing locales, where I wouldn’t even have to turn my head to get lost in thought about them. Now I had to finish the damn article.

Game stories should be about 500-600 words. As mine stretched well beyond that I still had plenty to say, and it would be said, but I found myself otherwise deposed by Jamie, Karen, Billy Ocean and a Free Bowl of Soup.

It seems Jamie, an NYC propmaster in more ways than the obvious, was tormenting the love of his life with Billy Ocean songs. Her predilection toward camp though strong has its limits, unlike Tea Partiers, who are dangerous in that not only do they not know what they don’t know, they don’t want to know what they don’t know. Status Quo…ho!

Refusing to get out of his dreams and into her car, and neither would I, what with his handlebar moustache, lankly arms half cocked and ready to spring forth to grabbing as quick as a butterfly’s eyelash, the peepers at half mast after too many pints of polish beer, he implored her that when the going got tough the tough got going. She was his Caribbean Queen but he was more of a Baby Doc Duvalier, staggering through history like a Bob Lobel on the Sunday night news.

As the reference-fest ultimately turned to Caddyshack, as all reference-fest eventually do, the “free bowl of soup” platitude was tossed around. It landed as ultimate retort, a rejoinder to be enjoyed. You marry a guy like Jamie I’ll bet you get a free bowl of soup.

Fifteen text messages, five phone calls, two baby pictures and a birth later and the abyss had been leviathaned. The glory hole gloried. The void avoided. Had it really been there? Thoughts become things. The mere filling of my mind with desperate beliefs of solitude in perpetuity may have led to the outpouring of connectedness.

The brain is a magnet, nothing more than a series of vibrations. The wavelength is up to you. Heed that Lucy, my unseen love.

*As I lay in bed at the end of the night, with the Rangers having finally securing a spot in the World Series over fifty years after their inception and my with my up runneth over with goodwill, I read a great political tome and this passage in particular struck me as especially prescient:

His nomination, his campaign, his election had meant many things to many people; now they waited, and many would find themselves disappointed in that first year. He the first of a new kind of media candidate flashed daily into our consciousness…during the campaign, and as such he had managed to stir the aspirations and excited millions of people. It had all been deliberately done; he had understood [media] and used it well, knowing that it was his medium, but it was done at a price. Millions of people watching this driving, handsome young man believed that he could (emphais provided) change things, move things, that their personal problems would somehow be different, lighter, easier with his election.”

An incisive look into the Obama myth-making machine? Maybe, but the excerpt is from “The Best and The Brightest” by David Halberstam and the chief executive he spoke of was John F. Kennedy.

Beware cults of personality. For the answers to your problems look within and you will never be without.

Coming up next in the Blog of Harvey: Why I respect smack addicts more than cigarette smokers. Stay tuned HarveyHeads…

Your Guy Sucks Vol. 1

Zack Morris vs. AC Slater

Welcome to a new feature at the Friends of Harvey blog – “Your Guy Sucks” - in which Kippah and Dave D go back and forth via email on some of the most pressing and pertinent issues plaguing sport and society today. For our inaugural edition they debate the age old question of who was the better athlete: Zack Morris or AC Slater. Let the games b-bu-b-bu-bu-bu-b-begin. Go Bayside!

From: “Dave D”
To: "Kippah”
Sent: Thu, August 26, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

Theirs was a rivalry pitched right from the start. Well, not the actual start, as the pilot episode “King of the Hill” was, for some reason that Brandon Tartakoff has taken to the grave, the 15th episode aired during the first season. Unregardless of air dates, in looking at who was the better athlete between these two men of the 90s I am going to follow Loverboy’s lead. You want a piece of my heart? You better start from the start.

It’s no doubt that Slater cut the better figure. His rippling muscles and stolid jheri curl screamed alpha dog athlete. If you have read “Moneyball”, though, you know how Billy Beane described how he was drafted second overall in the MLB draft because he had what scouts called “the good face”. Slater looks like an athlete, and is indeed a horse, but when it comes to mastering and melding the two sides of athletic competition, the physical and the mental, Zack Morris wins every time. He’s like Usain Bolt meets Bill Belichick meets a blonde Tom Cruise.

Dedication and mental preparation are of paramount importance in sports. Zack was a master of athletic motivation, as we will see later, and this can all be traced back to his self-discipline. None of us wants to answer that shrill piercing buzz of the alarm clock in the AM, but only Zack had a customized greeting guaranteeing rising. With a sultry female voice purring “wake up tiger, time to roar”, Zack would leap out of bed.

Zack also kept tangible reminders of his goals, which is important for the myopic, dedicated athlete. This is manifested by a life sized cardboard cutout of a volleyball-holding Kelly Kapowski he kept under his bed. Kippah, on the other hand, has a life sized cardboard cutout of the dude from Twilight or one of those foo foo vampires shows where the bloodsucking legions of the night act like junior high school girls at a sleep- over. He also has a life size cut-out of Brades, which he has various escapades with, so maybe they cancel each other out. Nahh, Twilight is many degrees lamer than Brades is cool, so Kippah is, on this point, officially lame.

Aside from competitive greatness, Morris was a coach on the field, and as Kippah and I go back and forth on this pressing issue of international importance I ask, nay I implore, you to keep an open mind. I know many of you are Slater-biased but clear your mind of all Beldings and Maxs and Mister Tuttles and Screechs and surrender to the facts.

From: "Kippah”
To: “Dave D”
Sent: Thu, August 26, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

AC Slater led the High School Life many of us dream of.

1. He hooked up with the hottest chicks...and I'm not talking exclusively about that psycho Jessie Spano...please recall the Princess whom he attended Mr. Spano's wedding with... the girl who faked a drowning at the Malibu Sands Beach Club to get his attention (played by Denise Richards...yes, that's her)...and I'm pretty sure he banged Kelly KAPOW-ski.

2. He played in the coolest band. ZACK-ATTACK!!!! I know, kind of a self-absorbed name, right? Anyways, Slater not only rocked out on the drums, but he 'sang' (with Spano...uggghh) a hysterically lip-synched performance of "How am I Supposed to Live without you" which underscored the break-up of Zack and Kelly (thanks a lot Jeff from the Max! D-Bag alert!!!).

3. He had the hippest clothes. Z. Cavarrichi's and Tank Tops anyone???? No one could rock a leather bomber jacket like AC.
Of course, if Teen Wolf, Varsity Blues and Lucas (RIP Corey Haim) have taught us anything...the only way to be the ultimate High School Stud is to be THE Star Athlete. Read that last sentence again...Not 'A' Star Athlete (like Zack Morris) but 'THE' Star Athlete. Every School has one...and Bayside High was no exception. Morris described Slater as an "All-City Athlete in 4 Sports." What?!?!!? I recall there being only 3 seasons for High School Sports (Fall, Winter, Spring)...which means Slater double-lettered during one of the Seasons. What an extraordinary feat! Whether it be his single handed domination of arch-rival Valley High in Football or delivering a Rock-Bottom to assorted under-achievers in Wrestling, AC Slater is not only a better athlete than Zack Morris, but may quite possibly be the greatest athlete in the history of Saturday Morning TV (except for maybe Bugs Bunny).

From: “Dave D”
To: "Kippah”
Sent: Thu, August 26, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

And the battle is well and truly joined...
Let’s start at the top. For Zack, his athletic career peaked on the cross country track. A champion miler, he unknowingly had the blood of the always on the run Nespers tribe coursing through his whitebread veins. Yeah , right. Mark-Paul Gosselaar looked like he had as much Native American blood in his family as Wesley Snipes had Vikings. Nonetheless, Zack felt the compulsion to run. Zack could mine deep into his psyche and get to the nut of what it truly means to compete. Not for trophies or medals but for survival of his way of life, which involved the nonstop learning of heavy handed lessons. Maybe this is why Zack was a master schemer. The Nespers constantly had to outwit the white man, who was showering them with disease ridden blankets and dubious land contracts. Slater came from a bunch of bullshit bullfighters. Pure bravado. No metaphysical skill whatsoever. Slater had the superior physique, but Zack’s strengths were as subtle as they were powerful. His skills were less tactile than the roided up Slater.

Back to the track - sure, Slater was captain of the team, but this was no doubt just another reason to get Mario Lopez in a tank top, not that anybody is going to complain. (My personal favorite Slater outfit is the dual tank top look: a regular tank top, black, under a low, muscle cut tank top, usually neon red, with black Zeke Cavaricci’s. He looked like a gay Ninja.) Zack’s abilities simply usurped Slater’s, and as we all know cross country is the most important and glorious meat in the sports stew.

The true measure of the greatness of an athlete is how he is perceived in his own time. How did his peers treat him? How did society at large view him? Well, we know Belding went to the mat for Zack, going so far as trying to commit obstruction of education by pleading with Miss Wentworth to get Zack an extension on his family tree project so he could compete. Conversely, I distinctly recall Belding, who was playing the role of Zack for a week while Zack was principal and Kelly was teacher, supporting Kelly’s decision to academically disqualify Slater and other football players from, again, a big game against Valley for failing a history exam (we’re there any other teams in their conference? I think we saw one at the cheerleading finals but that’s it. Did they play the gang from West Beverly?) Football players are disposable pretty boys playing for a paycheck. Zack was a captivating executor, like Pele, Bo Jackson or Jim J. Bullock.

As for his peers, the whole of Bayside High lamented and rallied around Zack when word got out that he was dq’ed. They all understood Zack was a singular artist on the canvas of athletic struggle. Coach Neely threw a shot put at Belding over Zack’s suspension for corn’s sake. Belding even went so far as to lift Zack off the ground professing love after he passed. The team was sunk without him, even with Slater, but with him they conquered Valley for the first time in, I am assuming, centuries. I digress, but what a stunning coincidence that the ostensible completion of said family tree project was, in reality, a heavy handed lesson riddled with death that helped Zack evolve as a person and runner right before the big meet with Valley. I think we all learned a little bit about ourselves through Zack’s serendipitous journey. Chief Henry 4-eva!! Oh yeah, and Slater never deflowered Kapowski. You hear me? NEVER!

From: "Kippah”
To: “Dave D”
Sent: Thu, August 26, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

Please tell me that you’re not proving your delusional theory based on the teachings of a Stoner American Indian with heart troubles. Seriously, Chief Henry provided the family tree to Zack Morris whilst surfing the Palisades and then promptly drops dead...that seems a tad shady to me…I feel that we will never know if his information was accurate. I mean, how inept was Zack as a student that he needed to seek council with friggin Tonto to assist in learning about his family heritage. Where was Derek Morris, Zack’s father? Probably being an absentee parent as usual. Miss Wentworth was very lucky this was pre-internet… she sent Zack to a weird Indian guy’s house?!?! Hello?!!? Chief Henry could easily have been featured on Dateline’s ‘To Catch a Predator.” She also conned her students into giving her flowers, apples and candies via subliminal messages…I don’t need a Bo Revere’s Greatest Hits cassette to tell me that Miss Wentworth won’t be winning any Teacher of the Year awards.

Also, Cross Country? We are having a discussion based on who the better athlete was…and I’m handed Cross Country? Did Prefontaine compete for Valley? When I think of High School athletics I think of football. More accurately, I think of the great High School Football players that I have had the privilege of watching over the years; Tim Riggins of the Dillon Panthers, Jon Moxon of the West Canaan Coyotes and especially AC Slater of the Bayside Tigers.
AC Slater is without a doubt the greatest Football Player to ever grace the Hallway (I think there was only one) of Bayside High. Albert Clifford scored the lone Touchdown in the infamous “Zit Cream” game (Morris claims it was due to Valley’s players being so startled by the ‘Purple War Paint’. Slater also led the Tigers back from an improbable 21 point deficit during Student-Teacher week…when Zack inexplicably forces the Football players to take Kelly’s History

Test…whipped much Preppie?

Yes, I know Slater has faults…but, they are few and far between. A separated shoulder from a drunk driving accident forces Slater out of his Senior Year Homecoming game…but I ask, who was driving? That’s right, an inebriated Zack Morris. Still, it was inexcusable, but one party foul can not hamper 4 years of football dominance. B-bab-bee-bab-bee…Go Bayside!

From: “Dave D”
To: "Kippah”
Sent: Fri, August 27, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

I guess sending a confused child to a divorced, lonely, drugged up, aging surfer was a bad idea in retrospect but remember, this was before 9/11. This was revenge for the “blonde Tom Cruise” episode. Miss Wentworth was probably upset that Chief Henry died before he could fondle Zack’s burger buddies. He even visited Zack in a creepy dream. Let’s just agree the man was sage and wise, if a little high and horny.

The great and almighty Slater could only muster one lousy touchdown? Off a fluke play no less. Really, Slater? This is greatness? This is leadership? That is all the offense this so- called wunderkind could pull off? A recovered fumble? What about the other 59 minutes of the game? Did Slater’s nuts shrivel like a raisin in the sun? I bet they smelled just as bad. Was he like Donovan McNabb at the end of Super Bowl XXXIX? Dry heaving in the huddle? A true warrior and leader would have garnered at least a couple of field goal drives. This just confirms my theory that Slater was a diva who had everything handed to him: muscles, dimples, the most immovable hair this side of Jimmy Johnson and that fumbled kickoff, while Zack had to scratch and claw for every wide-tongued Con he got. Maybe that is why Slater went to, like, 14 school in three years and has hall passes in five languages. He is a head case and a show off, but doesn’t produce real results, like Michael Vick (on the football field, not on the dog fighting circuit.) The ineffectiveness of the Bayside offense is just another manifestation of how Slater is not a team player. He intimates at much to Zack during the pilot episode, telling Preppie that he “works alone”. No shit. That attitude is why the lone touchdown that the team you were quarterbacking was on a fluke fumbled kickoff fifteen seconds into the game. Quite simply, Slater is LeBron to Zack’s MJ.

Zack was an accomplished baseball player. Well, all we really know about his actual playing was that he almost maimed a duck with a homerun. Being the nurturing leader that he was, Zack nursed Becky back to health only to see her covered in oil when the CalStar drilling went awry. How was there undiscovered oil under a Palisades high school all these years? Why was Dick Cheney not informed? Why was Bayside not ordered to be bombed by the first Bush administration? In light of the BP Deep Water Horizon disaster, this episode can be seen as a chilling harbinger of the effect of the relentless oil vigilance would have on our children and natural habitat. Peter Engel was a friggin prophet. The Muhammad of TNBC…and a former coke addict turned born again Christian. God bless Hollywood .

I digress, but let us consider the stock from which young Zack was born. Derrick Morris, who “pitched a little bit in college” but was an otherwise unreachable and poor excuse for a father (he even disapproved of Zack and Kelly getting hitched in Vegas. What gave him the right?). Though a hell of a computer salesman, he was the Bobby Bonds to Zack’s Barry. An absentee father who provided his family with a very comfortable life but, when present, was overbearing and preachy. Luckily, Zack inherited none of these traits from his father, even going so far as teaching Nikki Kapowski a curve ball that helped her pitch a no hitter and made her fall in love with Zack, even moreso when he tried to dissuade her by getting front row tickets to the insect rodeo. He could hit and pitch, he was a blonde Babe Ruth, while Slater spent his time rolling around on the ground in tights with other taut, muscled boys. Also, Slater went to pieces and needed to seek solace in the loving arms of Belding over the death of an iguana? I liked Artie as much as the next guy but c’mon. Strap on a set. Zack didn’t cry over Becky, he got revenge. That is a true competitor.

From: "Kippah”
To: “Dave D”
Sent: Fri, August 27, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

Bayside – 7 Valley - 0
This score simply locks up my theory of the better all around team player and leader. Slater scores on a fumble recovery and Bayside holds Valley to zero points in four quarters. Slater, being the champion that he is, did what he needed to do to get the ‘W”…it wasn’t pretty, but a victory is a victory…especially against Valley. He probably controlled the clock with a decent running attack (although if Zack wasn’t such a girl, he could have played and controlled the clock better by simply freezing time). Slater running a QB Option blows my mind….the athleticism and decision making…the casual fan saw a football game….real football fans saw a work of art.
Somebody call 911, Slater’s Fire Burnin on the Dance Floor!!! Somebody should have called 911 when Zack hit that stupid duck with a baseball…but I will tell you all now…don’t feel bad….she’s where the oil can’t hurt her any more. Zack Morris may have been the early 90’s version of Jacoby Ellsbury; Injury Prone. Morris was injured in the LOCKER ROOM before the League Championship game (leaving Slater to essentially become Teen Wolf and carry the Tigers to a last second loss.) It would be one thing for Zack to get injured diving for a lose ball…hell, I’d understand if he hurt himself punching Screech in the dick…but in the locker room before the most important game of his basketball life? Well, I’d expect more from someone who scored a 1502 on their SAT’s.

He had off games (see Malibu Sands Volleyball….although they were still victorious) but put a league championship on the line and he was unstoppable. Case in Point: Bayside vs Valley in Wrestling. A conflicted Slater opted to win a Wrestling Title rather than complete his soufflé for cooking class. Slater defeated Nedick (Pronounced Knee-Dick) in a 10 second match…pinning Valley’s champion with a beautiful belly to back suplex that would make Kurt Angle blush (It’s True, It’s True). Athleticism at it’s finest. But was Slater in it for himself??? Was he selfish? Let’s ask Christy Barnes, the first female wrestler in Bayside History. Christy (when she wasn’t defending Zack in fights at the Maxx) was trained under the watchful eye of AC. Introducing reverses and submission holds to Ms. Barnes, Slater helped lead Bayside to the Winner’s bracket once again in wrestling beating a feisty Valley Squad. If Zack was so athletic, why wasn’t he on the team…I’m sure Screech could have handled the Wrestling commentary by himself on KKTY.

From: “Dave D”
To: "Kippah”
Sent: Fri, August 27, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

Oh c’mon, Zack let Christy put him in a sleeper hold. Wouldn’t you? It’s called trying to get laid. Slater was always too busy proving how strong and chauvinistic he was, which is just his insecure ego seeking strokage, while Zack knew that you always let the girl win. That is why Zack pulled so much more tail than Slater, who could only get “Sloppy Seconds” Spano to bite at his nonsense. The athletic greatness in Zack sent ovaries bursting. He was like a walking hysterectomy. Not only could he stop time, he had that power, like that terrible Chevy Chase movie, Modern Problems, to make women climax just by looking at them. Zack had that animal magnetism that all the greats had. Aside from Christy, school shot put champion Rhonda Robestelli wanted to procreate with Zack. They would have conceived some sort of uber-athlete that exploded out of the womb like a Coke and Pop Rocks.

You have the balls to mention KKTY? You mean the station that had to fire Slater because he had the most wooden delivery this side of Hayden Christensen? Wolfman Zack was once again the star while Slater was a petulant baby who couldn’t handle criticism. I don’t want to say that Saved By The Bell was racist but the white kid always won out. (Digression: remember when the new Star Wars films came out and critics blasted the lame dialogue and wooden acting? Hello? Did you see the first three? "I have a bad feeling about this" was uttered at least ten times. My favorite terrible line/terrible delivery is "why are we still moving towards it?")

I’m so glad you brought up Slater’s soufflé escapades. Kind of speaks for itself, no? As my brother and I used to sing “I guess you just wrestled Nedick” to the tune of the Cars “Just What I Needed”, we were heartbroken when Slater traded in his tights for an apron. This was the equivalent of Hulk Hogan quitting the then WWF to start an interior decoration concern. (Digression: What the hell has the World Wildlife Foundation done since they were awarded exclusivity to the anagram WWF? Nothing, that’s what. Another dubious and useless decision against the world of sports/entertainment.) Fans don’t recover from a betrayal like that. I, all the viewers and the greater Bayside community were irreparably damaged by Slater’s prevalent “me first” attitude. And Nedick was the Salvatore Bellomo of high school wrestling. His doughy, man boobied countenance was no match for HGH Slater, his Favre-like waffling notwithstanding. And lets lay all our cards on the table here. Slater ballooning between seasons one and two was Nomar-esque. Zack was on the same program between high school and The College Years, but that is another universe and thus, non-pertinent.

Leadership? Slater knew not what the concept was. Let’s take a brief glace at Zack as a leader during his time in the Cadet Corps. Zack molded a team made up Lisa Turtle and three classic SBTB nerds, Screech (no explanation needed), horn-rimmed glasses clad Louise and the always hungry/eating yet surprisingly not played by a fat actor Alan, into an elite fighting unit. His initial picking of the inequitable squads shows his eye for talent. When subsequently stuck with captaining the nerd team Zack’s leadership skills took over. This was after a quitting episode, but, like all true leaders, he looked inward, searched his soul. After Screech told Zack he “always wanted to be like him” he returned with renew intestinal fortitude. He turned into Bill Belichick. He morphed into a leader on the field who, as was said about the inimitable Bum Phillips, “he can take his’n and beat your’n and he can take your’n and beat his’n”. Zack pumped up Louise to the point that she told Slater to “suck my dust” in the rope climb (though she got smoked, still). His firm, guiding hand helped Lisa not only defeat Jesse in the monkey bars by five seconds but it led to her future heads-up exposing of a bumbling and overmatched Slater in the Malibu Sands employee-member end of summer obstacle course. Even thought the blue team was obviously overmatched in the tug of war, facing a team of beefy, Slater led jocks, they struggled to a tie, the breaking the rope in half symbolizing the nerds breaking the shackles of society and finding liberation. SBTB was deep. Zack saved the best for last when he gave up his spot in the tie breaking obstacle course to Screech, who was so in love with Zack that he won. He didn’t beat Slater, though, because he wasn’t even the best athlete on his own team. Zack is a leader of men and women. Slater is a quitter. The corps doesn’t like a quitter.

Some more brief examples of leadership, which is the true mark of greatness. Otherwise you are just Allen Iverson or Manny Ramirez. The prank war - Slater was merely a soldier while Zack quarterbacked the entire thing, making executive decisions on the fly, like including the Valley bulldog in the cheerleader photo with Mr. Belding. Zack coached Screech, (Screech!) to the Miss Bayside crown. The Bo Revere-subliminal message episode and his time running the Teen Line? Zack knows how to get results from playing head games with his charges. He is a master motivator. Wooden-esque.

From: "Kippah”
To: “Dave D”
Sent: Fri, August 27, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

Wait a minute… are we talking about who the best coach would be or who is the best athlete? Yes, Zack’s team won the Cadet Corpse Challenge because of his coaching….it was a fluky victory but a victory none the less…does that make him a better athlete? No, it doesn’t. Slater was a leader as well. You’re not named Captain of the Football, Track and Wrestling teams based solely on athletic prowess.

There is no denying that Zack had one helluva run at Bayside…he was the cool, popular kid (as was Slater)…Like Austin Powers, the women loved him and the men wanted to be him. Whether he was belting out “Friends Forever” at a Zack-Attack concert, convincing famed singer ‘Stevie’ that he was dying in order to steal a kiss or helping a homeless girl get a part in the Bayside Mall production of ‘A Christmas Carol’, Zack was that kid who everyone just adored. But, these are not the attributes in a great athlete.

I was actually relieved when Zack and Slater became good friends…as the animosity between the two of them was uncomfortable at first. It’s pretty obvious where this came from. You see Zack had it easy before Slater arrived. Of course he's going to be the alpha male when all he had for competition was Mikey (who by the way after an extensive Google search found out that he's a hockey referee. I shit you not).

Defining an athlete to me means that you sometimes need to step out of the competitive realm of sports and look at the man himself. For how he conducts himself off the field can be directly related to how he performs on the field. You see when Slater arrived, Zack shit the proverbial brick. Slater was everything he wasn't. Well not until Zack started talking steroids (which coincidentally is chronicled in Dustin Diamond's best seller "Behind the Bell"). Slater was the better driver, the better cook, the better ladies man and the better stage actor (don’t forget his heartbreaking turn as Tiny Tim). For the majority of the show’s run, Zack obsessed over 1 girl. Slater was like Brady 04'…hitting the available receiver (girl) time and time again (Muffin Sangria, anyone?).

I will always give Zack credit for all that he accomplished both on and off the field…but you don’t have to be (Good) Will Hunting to know that his achievements as an athlete are obviously not on the same level as Slater. Zack’s Cadet Corpse Obstacle Course win is not remotely comparable to a Bayside Football Victory against Valley or even the pinning of the undefeated Nedick. And if you think they are, then you are obviously a spy from Valley.

From: “Dave D”
To: "Kippah”
Sent: Sat, August 28, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

Shouldn’t Dustin Diamond’s book been called “Screeching to a Halt”? That is what happened to his career. As for the leadership, part of greatness on the field is the mental game. Zack was one of the great player coaches like Bill Russell, Lou Boudreau or Pete Rose. Knowing where and when to be was Zack’s specialty. The specific, sordid details of how Zack hurt his knee in locker room prior to a basketball game will never know but what we do know is that the team, which included Slater, was sunk without him. Belding went from giving the seminal “shoot your hopes and dreams” speech to completely throwing in the towel after Zack was injured. Side note - once in softball I was in a slump. I came up with the bases loaded and before the first pitch my teammate Tom “Jibba Jabba” Hubbard yelled “shoot your hopes and dreams”. I proceed to hit a grand slam.

I failed to mention earlier that as a junior, Zack placed third in the mile against Valley. As a senior he was the best in SoCal. Improvement is a mark of greatness. I will concede the point that Slater threatened Zack’s status, even overshadowing said third place finish with, as Belding said, Bayside’s first championship in anything when he took state wrestling honors, but all this did is inspire Zack to new heights. Slater even knew he was just a big, steroid puffed fish in a one hall pond, that’s why he pussed out of that wrestling scholarship to Iowa . He went to Cal U because he was nothing without Zack, not that any of us are. He needed to curl up in the fetal position and feel the warmth and glow emanating from Zack’s hair and crotch. Zack is the sun which we all orbit.

Aside from that seat squirmingly uncomfortable duet between Slater and Spano, Zack was the front man for the Zack Attack as well. He could have been a male Madonna. He predated Lady Gaga by fifteen years. She totally stole his act. How does this related to sports? Who do people pay to see? Stars. You’re not dropping 30K on a PSL to see Slater. Think of it this way - would you watch a SBTB without Slater? Of course you would. Hell, they did a whole season without Kapowski and Spano and nobody batted an eye, even when they showed up for graduation. Would you watch a show without Zack? Of course not. He was the main player, and that went for the athletic field as well as

Just want to mention the Volleyball game, because this is one of the rare instances when we have actual footage to go to. Zack was motivated, he had a classic mustang and the approval of the father of the girl he was currently porking on the line. The true athlete sees the goal, can define his motivation and, as Survivor taught us, “rise up to the challenge of our rivals”. Another great coaching move, he recruited that weird looking tall kid, only to be thwarted by that insufferable “stupid genius” Screech when he dropped a five gallon water jug on the dude’s foot. Zack not only outperformed Slater, who had a bad summer when combined with his obstacle course foibles, but he usurped Kelly, who was captain of the volleyball team. A far as film goes, all we have of Slater is him beating the aforementioned Nedick, no great feat, and that USFL level highlight of the “Cream Burn” game. Nice highlight tape, Brillo Head.

In conclusion, I would also like to mention that Slater took a dive in an arm wrestling match against a nerd at the carnival so they could make enough money for the ski trip. Nice morals. Zack, on the other hand, didn’t even want to run after Chief Henry died, even though he was a superstar, because Zack knew it was about more than wins and loses. Slater compromised his competitive integrity while Zack’s was unshakable. Slater was the 1919 Black Sox of high school athletes. Zack merely lacked integrity in every other walk of life but, again, what would the show be without heavy handed lessons to learn? You blame Zack for Slater’s drunk driving related shoulder injury? Who brought the beers in? Football players. Who was the first of the gang to crack one? Slater. I blame the song “Wild Thing”. One more thing, Zack may not have been on the football team but he would have made a stellar wide receiver. How do we know? His backward, leaping over-the-couch catch of Mrs. Powers replacement statue of The King. Elvis likes to face the kitchen. Suck on that, Big Red. 1502!

PS – Don’t you ever let me catch you bringing up Good Morning, Miss Bliss shit ever again OR comparing me to Stan and Dan Clegg.

From: "Kippah”
To: “Dave D”
Sent: Sat, August 28, 2010
Subject: Zack vs. Slater

I have already conceded that Zack was indeed the backbone of Saved by the Bell …there is no denying that…but this fact does not lend itself to our discussion. Who is the better athlete?

As defined by Webster’s
Athlete: A person who is trained or skilled in exercises, sports, or games required physical strength, agility, or stamina

How there isn’t a picture of A.C (Abnormally Cruel) Slater next to this definition is beyond me.
If Zach was such an athlete why did he steer clear of the truly physically demanding sports such as football and wrestling? Was he afraid of getting hit? Did he have hemophilia? Instead of participating, he chose to hide behind the KKTY microphone…it’s understandable…some people are meant to prosper on the athletic field (Slater) some are meant to prosper outside the realm of sports (Zack).

I’m not sure what your issue is with Slater…the venom that you are spitting in his direction is unjustified. AC became Zack’s biggest ally over the years. Not many “manly men” would put their reputation on the line by slipping into a pair of tights to become a cast member of “Swan Pond” in order to help a friend graduate. I’m sure people were chomping at the bit to assist Zack in putting Belding’s car back together after Jessie’s step brother Eric destroyed it. And when Zack was glaring at the beautiful Pacific Ocean in a suicidal state (after watching his love Stacey Carosi leave) and was in desperate need of a friend…who showed up with heart wrenching line “How about 5 friends?” By the way, Slater was a lifeguard at Malibu Sands and Zack was a waiter…and we’re discussing who was more athletic??? Hmmmm?

I firmly believe that Slater is a better athlete than Zack…but comparing Cross Country to Football is like comparing Friendship Forever Bracelets to Buddy Bands…everyone has different tastes. So let’s agree to disagree and move on.

But, I’ll bet you 500 Max Burgers that Jessie Spano had a higher IQ than Screech!

Birthday Musings...

Rip-diddle-ip-dip-dip its your Birthday !!! - Tim and Eric

As I walked along one day
Thought I felt summer fade away
And give way to trees of gold
And suddenly felt really old
A subtle transition with no exposition
And still the story’s told…

I don't know how this exactly ties into the fact that it was my birthday but as I found myself alone yesterday afternoon, with my laptop and this newfangled internet as my only outlet, I was so moved by the resplendent birthday wishes I received via phone, text and Faceboook that I realized that the only way to receive the abundance of life was to not focus on what you don't have, as that only draws more of what you do not desire into your life. As I regretted aging, my current automotive state of disrepair and my stagnant personal and professional life said wishes (and the awesome gift I received from Dave, Carol & Miles) jumpstarted my brain back to the frequency of love and creativity, which is the vibration of life proper.

It all reminded me of something, or someone, who moved me recently and stream of consciousness ensued...

Ever meet someone and you just know? You just know they would make a great partner? Be it a relationship or a creative partnership or a business accord, your heart skips a beat and your neurons buzz sideways when one flash from their eyes starts the lightning inside. Like a Quentin Tarantino montage, seemingly unrelated yet somehow interconnected images and ideas flash through your minds' viewfinder, all sparked by this person you barely even know. You've said, maybe, five words to this person in your life. Maybe all you did was meet briefly, a quick handshake and a joke while leaning on a pickup truck, but the indentation they left on the soft wax that was your mind at that moment is as deep and meaningful as it is everlasting.

This is what Malcolm Gladwell talked about in "Blink." Sometimes, you just know. Your eyes lazily scan, or, more accurately, are drawn by something other than conscious choice, across the room, only to be met on that original information superhighway: the invisible yet unbreakable frozen rope of eye contact with a soul in-kind. The initial feeling is purity defined. Unmolested emotion. Uncorrupted by thought, avarice or ego. Like drinking cold, mountain water right from the source. Of course, inhibitions, prejudices and society, among other forces, immediately conspire to chalk the moment up as insignificant or ephemeral. A brief moment of whimsy distracting you from the cold, slate-gray realities of life. But I make a bold proffer to those forces that if they, just once, give the moment the benefit of the doubt, and they let the flower of this connection bloom in the lump of fecundity that is the very society that conspires to ruin it, I will not tell anybody.

I will not let what I have found rise up and choke the carefully hammered-in sensibilities out of society. I would let dictators stomp the earth. I would allow demagogues and heretics and false prophets to editorialize to no end. I would allow the muck and scum to run the streets. Peanut butter and jelly to be in the same bottle. Bert and Ernie to be gay. The pot to call the kettle black. Dogs and cats living together. Mass hysteria! I would bury my head in the sand to every societal transgressions if the Fates would please, just this once, let a ray of sunshine in on an otherwise cloudy day. For I have been out in the rain for far too long and though you may have tried your damndest to convince me that such offerings of shelter are nothing more than oases, I ask that this one time that the palm tree and cool, sparkling water in the desert actually provide me the shade and lubrication I seek, because I am muthafuckin' hot and thirsty.

When we thirst so, society wants us to be a hamster, carefully taking halting, quick sips off the water bottle while constantly looking over our shoulders. We wait for a properly appointed teat to come into our world and we do the dance. Like bees during mating season we hover over the same flower until its time to bump buzzers or go home empty handed. I envy those who get into and out of relationships quickly. With the detached air of nobility I have seen people come and go while I am constantly stuck in first or last gear. When holding on until the maximum pressure point and blurting has not worked in the past, one usually just stops the blurting. The feelings remain. The buildup continues. The holding becomes the relationship and this, in turn, becomes your reality. Thoughts become things. Choices are made. Even if you don't make them consciously, you've just let society make a passive aggressive choice for you, and that is fine, if you like playing the lottery.
If one doesn't come along we alter ourselves to be more teat-worthy. We alter our metabolism. Work jobs we hate. Drive inefficient cars. Get foolish haircuts. All to hold onto our teats.

How can it be that upon an initial, fleeting meeting one decides "I want to be the one who rubs her shoulders. Who soothes away her day."? Is it the fact that her face lights up like a meteor shower when she smiles? Is it because you can't decide whether her sculpted cheeks remind you more of rosebuds or two scoops of coffee ice cream? Is it the smoldering eyes, burning like charcoals at the end of a 4th of July cookout? Is it the all the witty sass-back and attitude you know is simmering behind those luminescent teeth?

Is it the sage countenance? It can't be the way she carries herself gracefully, because she actually floats. She's not mysterious, she just knows "why mess up with words what can be complexly conveyed in a easy look." A wise, or wisenheimer, smiles accompanies it. Is she tweaking me? Flirting with me? Just playing me? Is she my fingers and me the bass? Lord, I hope so.

Knowing that she will never bow to me she gives a wry smile that conveys what words will only send into disrepair. Her quiet is fabulously disquieting. She is in control, and I want her to be, but I don't want her to know that I want her to be in control. Then it loses its cache. A singular woman that stands out like a healed thumb among the sore, throbbing masses who yearn for attention and ice. She hangs in the corner, no wallflower but rather a sunflower too proud to allow others to see her soak up the radiance. The source of her beauty must remain a mystery, otherwise everybody would be doing it. The sense of satisfaction is not displayed not smugly but contentedly. Don't get mad at her, for she did her homework. Get upset with yourself for not even trying. She makes me want to try as hard as I can and to give up all at the same time. Inspiring and deflating. She'll stifle and liberate. Its hard to anticipate.

Although the interpretation of the feelings she is projecting is all up to the mind of the subjective subject, what can be rightly assumed is that she cares not what you decide. She pulsates success and honor and competence and beauty. The fact that her physical beauty is the third power I noticed I succumbed to is no accident. For, to me, no other part of a women is sexier than the brain. A fleshling I remain, to be sure, but the power to ingest and digest, to deduce, decide and declare, all with the lilting easiness of an early autumn rain does more for me than a room festooned with naked starlets. Gimme brain, I would declare, and a euphemism it would not be. A firm want of not only intellectual back and forth on a daily basis but the joy in watching someone smarter and more beautiful than I being such a vital part of my life that they are calling the shots as much as I am is true erotica. Not that I pleasure myself to thoughts of "ohhh, give me that commitment" but moving beyond the sensuality of it all its what makes the relationship an enhanced version of civility.

Now, what happens when all of the above is true, but the other person seems, which is the operative word, to dismiss this all as unimportant. A mere move in the larger chess game of life. How to convey this without sounding creepy? Nobody wants to hear right off the bat that they just know you are right for them. What if this is all in my head? Maybe she is right in not reciprocating. I realize that not only do I touch gold and it turns to dung, but so many times I've met the one to believe that she just is probably not even there. When would anything I've ever done make me good enough to breathe in her air?

And though the rational part of your brain harbors no illusion as to anything coming to fruition, the mere thought of her turns your heart and mind falconine and both fly away at a moment's notice. Its a beautiful feeling, as long as your mindset is sanguine. Its like having a germinating seed growing inside you. Maybe this is an inkling to how pregnancy feels. The beauty is, you can tap this feeling anytime you want. Unsullied by time or space, the relationship in your mind with this person you don't know flowers and needn’t ever be pruned. But how to convey? The puerile strutting of stuff and peacockian displaying of feathers is useless. Methinks she is too wise for that. Plus, as a Libra and middle child, I am not prone to proving anything to anybody. Determined to forge my own way my own way, I work better alone, but would live better with her. Time is but a door, thoughts are the windows.

And so the dance begins. The sideways glances. The coy avoidance. You name your instruments in their honor. As you process the experience the mere realization that a person like this exists makes you question the direction of your life. Makes you set new goals over the cresting horizon of the early morning sun, which you arise early enough to see each day because sleeplessness is accelerated by the notion that you just can't wait to get up and move from seeing her in your dreamscape to awakedness, where you consciously control the three act structure of a proper daydream.

Maybe I'm just going nuts. Anybody got any Adderall?

Game Seven

The Celtics are definitely winning tonight. Why? Because Jake LaMotta got his title shot. Stay with me. Game Six was a "Raging Bull"moment for the Celtics. David Stern needed the series to go seven games so he had the Celtics take a dive, just like Jake LaMotta against Billy Fox. The difference here was the Lakers hit the Celtics. LaMotta's reward for laying down? A title shot against an inferior opponent everyone knew he would beat. Hmmm. Remember the scene in the locker room after LaMotta's dive? I can see the same scene in the Celtics locker room. KG sobbing uncontrollably and wailing "what'd I do?" in Tom Thibodeau's chest. Pierce smashing a chair against the wall. Doc saying "Don't play anymore. Its a a free country, don't play anymore" then slamming the door on the media and yelling "get outt here, get outta here!" Powerful.

The Celts took a bullet for Stern, who is the Tommy Como to the Celtic's Jake LaMotta. Now they get their title shot. LaMotta went on to pound the crap out of Marcel Cerdan. The Celtics will do likewise to the Lakers.

As for pregame inspirations*, I think Doc should reach into the past for some inspiration. He should get Larry Bird, Kevin McHale and Robert Parrish to stand outside the locker room as he does his pregame speech. He'll begin to talk about Celtics history and how the team was in the doldrums in the 90s and early 2000s and how one title was a fluke and you need at least two as a group to make a dent in Celtics lore and truly return the franchise to it's previous heights. And then he will say that Larry Bird, Kevin McHale and Robert Parrish are walking through that door.

* You know those Thunder Sticks. I love how they are alternately used as agents of encouragement and discouragement. My friend Jason and I have coined them alternately "Distraction Rods" and "Inspiration Tubes".

Waiting for Carlson: One Man’s Perspective of “A Musical Score”

And we laughed and laughed and laughed.
That simple, emotive act is my most vivid memory after being intimately involved with the Braintree High School Theater Guild’s production of “A Musical Score”, which was just your run of mill 20 years in the making musical revue containing vignettes of every musical the BHSTG has done.
No big whoop, huh?
And who could successfully pull off such an ambitious, momentous project? A project that was both vanguard and rubicon for the town of Braintree?
Who had the animal magnetism to consolidate BHS performers from the present time to the early 90s? From all corners of the globe? From space and time?
Who could not only convince these people they could still perform but mold these once again shapeless lumps of clay into the stuff of stars?
Who? Whom?
One man: Rolf I. Carlson, who I found myself waiting for anxiously at the kickoff meeting for “A Musical Score” in early May of 2010. Unbeknownst to me, the meeting time had been moved back and hour. So there I was. In Braintree High School for the first time since I went back to take in “My Fair Lady” (which included a tour de force performance by the littlest lady in the room, Lenore Herget).
Me and my salt and pepper beard…and twenty something high school kids who looked at me as if I was Santa Claus or Jesus. Awe and wonderment at this aged fossil.
Taking a step back and observing the situation dispassionately, I was wary I should even be there. Trying to stave off the anxiety and self doubt I approached a group of young theater kids. And they were theater kids, to be sure. The girls dong ballet turns randomly. The expressive audaciousness of the boys.
This was part of the cast of “Bells Are Ringing”, I discovered, the latest BHSTG production. I told them I wasn’t a creepy stalker and they assured me I was in the right place.
Before moving forward, I had to confirm with these people that they were, indeed, high school students. In the “real world”, away from the rigid age based caste system of academia, dealing with all shapes, sizes and ages of people one tends to forget what a group of 16 year olds looks like. The tallest ones came up to my knee. Yes, I am old, as they would be quick to remind us the night of the performance. I am also mighty as a oak, I murmured to myself.
Progressing to the cafeteria, a relic that seemed much more grand at 16, I was struck by the positive signage that dominated the school. The kids must have had self esteem issues because everywhere I looked were reminders that “You’re a Winner” and “Nobody Can Be You As Well As You Can Be You”. Or, maybe they didn’t have self esteem issues because of these signs. They didn’t have them when I attended and I still have self esteem issues. Score one for the signs.
Eventually a shimmering, smiling man carrying a large box appeared in the gloaming. Rolf Carlson. Let’s just take a moment to appreciate what this man has done. A singular talent, he has vision and an unbounded love of theater that has left an ideliobel stamp on everyone he has worked with. He has a deft “people’s touch” and posses the one trait of paramount importance when dealing with high school kids: patience.
As for Rolf himself? The man is either BHS’ answer to Richard Alpert (the “Lost” character, not Baba Ram Dass, although…) or he sleeps in a hyperbaric chamber. My guess is hyperbaric chamber. Save for a solitary wisp of gray hair around his lower temples the man looks exactly the same. But in true Carlson fashion, the graying is more dramatic flair than sign of aging.
You want a challenge? Try taking thirty or so uptight, white suburban kids, an obstinate administration and a shoestring budget and pull off a high quality “Fiddler on the Roof”. Do it. Seriously, I want to see you try.
Back in 1993 I tried out for “Fiddler” frankly because my friends were kind of running the show. Kevin Wyatt, Jason Spratley and others had told me so many great stories about “Grease” and “Little Shop of Horrors” that I couldn’t resist. Little did I know my time with the BHSTG would be one of the best times of my life.
Personally, Rolf was the first adult I ever dealt with that didn’t ask me to be professional. He didn’t ask me to give my best. He simply demanded it from day one and if you weren’t on board, well, we’ll see you in that sweet by and by.
Quite simply, my time as a ward of Rolf was something that would shape me as an adult. For example: “Practice how you play”. A simple concept adopted by the finest athletes, musicians and performers. Something I learned the hard way through Rolf.
It was during the dress rehearsal for “Fiddler” within the scene in which Motel the tailor, played by Neil Langille, is proudly showing off his new sewing machine. All the townspeople, including myself as Reb Mordcha the Innkeeper, where there to “ooh” and “ahh”.
In the midst of congratulating young Motel we all slapped his shoulders and shook his hand. I thought I would be funny by putting my arm around him and, in a friendly fashion, calling him a “little prick”.
It was in the midst of many others talking but nothing got by Rolf. He brought the rehearsal to a halt, came up on stage and chewed me out. He asked me if I was going to say that during the show. I gave a meek, “no”. He then asked me, if I wasn’t going to do it during the show, why am I doing it now. I had no good answer, other than that I was the prick, and stood there like the clueless teen I was.
I’ve gone on to do other plays, as well as perform hundreds of times in bands and I always kept that lesson with me. He indoctrinated that into me so well that I find myself getting fed up with others who take a nonchalant approach toward rehearsal.
None of that crossed my mind, though, when I saw the Facebook message about organizing this event and I volunteered immediately. I told Rolf I would help him organize and direct the “Fiddler” and “Pirates of Penzance” portions of the show but would not be actually, you know, on stage. Ohh, God no.
Wrong. Rolf pretty much told everyone if you signed up, you signed up to be on stage. He didn’t cajole. He didn’t goad. He didn’t implore. You don’t want to be on stage? Well, back to that sweet by and by.
I suddenly had a pit in my stomach. A pit that was shared by other cast members. In speaking with Lynne Geoghan, we agreed that is sounded so easy and fun on Facebook. But now we were going to do what? Sing? In front of paying customers? And do steps?
Facebook, you tempestuous fraud.
I digress, but as 90% of the organizing for the show was done on Facebook, Nick Stevens and I dubbed this show Facebook: The Musical. Carry on.
Back to the meeting. As I sat there, awkward, old and trying to look somewhat matoor, as Marcia Brady would say, if not cool in my “work” clothes I was thrown a life preserver named Sarah Emond.
Finally, another slack wearing, black bag carrying adult to swim with in this sea of youthfulness. I had never met Sarah but we bonded instantly, probably because we were the oldest folks in the room, save for Rolf.
As we sat there Rolf ran down the shows in reverse chronological order, and then dropped the bomb that said order would be the order the night of the show.
Not only were we to perform for paying customers, but we were to be the closing numbers. I set my feet in the sand and braced for the horrible, “Waiting For Guffman” type performance that my crew was sure to proffer.
Then in walked a pair of angels from my past: The sisters Hassan.
Ameera Hassan greeted me with her huge smile and customary silent laugh and my fears were somewhat allayed, as this rambunctious, infectious talent was part of both of my portions. At least one of us would look good.
Trailing her was older sister and BHSTG founding member Nora Hassan. There is only one word to describe Nora: Wise. She is like a female, theatrical Yoda. With these two on the team the clouds began to part in the rainstorm in my head. They were raring to go and we immediately started planning our rehearsal schedules.
Not all were so eager. After being handed scripts and a cast roster I immediately contacted my crew. They were ready to go, save for one wayward individual who shall remain nameless. Turns out his mother had signed him up to perform. I left a voice mail running down the details and received the following text message I: I signed up for WHAT!?! I think we all felt that way at one point, with only ourselves to blame. Shame is a hell of a drug.
I went about contacting my crew, which consisted of said Hassans, Liz Mawn Psaros and her incubating child, theater professional Tim McShea, former newscaster Amy McHugh Erickson, modern day flapper Tori Antonino, film star Danielle Perry, two time mother Lynne Geoghan, television personality Nick Stevens, the enlightened Father James Cuddy and Andy Kimball, the only player to perform in each of the first four BHSTG productions.
Screw you Vince Neil, this was a real motley crew.
Being the worldly and sophisticated bunch we are not all were available for rehearsal. Even for those of us in the Braintree area who could make the all the rehearsals were going to be pressed for time, as the show was a mere three weeks away. Some of my performers wouldn’t be in the area until days before the show. One couldn’t even make the dress rehearsal. No big deal, we were only singing. Umm, right?
We pressed on with who we had and never looked back, unless it was to monitor the activities of the babysitter-less children that were brought to rehearsal.
At the initial rehearsal, as we milled about in the Braintree High Robotics room (a feature added after my departure) Rolf strode in and made a beeline for the piano. Before I knew it, sections of the dark matter in my brain that hadn’t been illuminated in years were suddenly alit with memories as Rolf began our vocal warm-ups.
Mee-Waa, mee-waa, mee-waa, meeee. Okay, I remember that. Easy enough. Just a 1-3-5-3 with the major scale. We can all handle that.
Next came the Lo lo lo lo lo lo lo’s. Now were getting our hands dirty. Really stretching out those vocal chords into positions not held for years.
Then a song. An itinerant song from deep in my past. A song that is burned into the brain of every BHSTG member. A song that would be the Grand Finale the night of the show.
It was the epic and enigmatic “Have You Seen The Ghost Of Tom”, and as Rolf played the song higher and higher up the keyboard I felt my voice loosening up and hitting notes and thinking: maybe we can pull this off.
That thought was quickly and ardently put out of my mind as we tried to tackle “Doctor of Divinity” from “Pirates”. Just a complete shit show, especially at the end. However, hope was born anew as Amy stepped to the forefront to belt out the frilly, trilly Maaaa-a-a-a-a-a-a-bel part from “Poor Wandering One” like the songbird she always was.
The “Fiddler on the Roof” script, thankfully, was not as vocally challenging as “Pirates” and we were able to get through that if not with aplomb, then at least with our dignity in tact.
And so went the rehearsals for the next two weeks. Slowly we added competence to the group performance. Rehearsing without Rolf, harmonizing even occurred. But, as BHSTG founding beacon Christian Potts told me, “harmony is what you make of it,” so maybe it was all in our heads. Sans Rolf the rehearsal to joke ratio was about 1:4.
The next two would be held with Rolf on stage and it was my job to come up with some blocking, which I did.
As I guided my crew through my ham-handed direction, Rolf jumped on stage and, like a true director, changed everything.
I’ve directed a number of short films in college and film school, but I learned more from Rolf in the following fifteen minutes that I did in both those institutions.
With an innate feel for movement he know how to give the audience a premium experience. His feel for the correct way to walk, talk, emote and express in a given musical is truly phenomenal. From Russian Jewish townsfolk to Argentinean Politicos, he knows how they move and what moves them.
This is where it got scary though: He added steps.
For “Tradition” he had us entering from opposite sides of the stage doing a crossover step. For “To Life” he added a toned down, Jewish kick line and more front-side-back-side steps.
For “Sunrise Sunset” a song about beginning, endings and the passing of time I proposed that Liz give birth at the end of the song. She was game. Her child was not. BHS custodians couldn’t have been happier.
Now were ready for dress rehearsal. The rehearsal started at seven o’clock. My crew was one of the last to go. What to do to pass the time? Work on the choreography? Nahh. Sharpern our harmonies? Nahh. Drink? Why, yes.
One cannot capture the joy of drinking in one’s old high school with impunity unless experienced for oneself. Getting sideways glances from teenagers and custodians and security guards we, or at least I, tried to mask it at first. That ended when, with a opened can in my pocket, I walked out into the hall to make a phone call. All the attendant shuffling about caused the can to fizz over and I looked like a walking Depends commercial.
As the night got later more drinks flowed and we all got a little buzz on which, believe me, could only help. I’m not trying to put anybody down or impugn anybody’s talent, but as I sat in the auditorium and watched some of the other groups fumble through their performances the same way we had been a calm came over me, which, again, was probably the alcohol.
Now it was our turn. First up was “Pirates” and finally having our Pirate King, played by Father James, we turned in a scintillating performance. Tim, Andy, Tori and I made a fine and salty bunch of briny Pirates and we “arrghed” our best “arrgheds” as Cuddy jumped onstage like Leaping Lanny Poffo.
We got some laughs from the people sticking around to watch, which was comforting, but the real moment from this rehearsal was the audible hands-on-heart gasps I saw from those in the auditorium when Amy laid down some more Mabel. Girl is Mabel.
Now I was just hoping the other groups could keep up with us. I mean, we’re not here to show anybody up, and after Lynne stomped on my foot during the waltzing section of “Pirates” I was sure that wouldn’t happen. Karma is a bitch.
After getting through the rest of the dress rehearsal some of us decided we weren’t inebriated enough so we hopped on over to a local watering hole. There, we were introduced to a new and scary term of which I still don’t know the exact definition.
A rather saucy and sauced up female approached our table. She seemed to know some of the girls there but I had never seen her before. She had a cubby face and a 60s hairdo. She looked like Caroline Rhea’s daughter if she was hit in the face with a frying pan. She was so drunk she had that thing going with her eyes where they were popping and spinning randomly, like when Woody Woodpecker got hit in the head.
I was wearing a buttoned down shirt which showed a tuft of chest hair at the top. She proceeded to eyeball it and comment to me that she wanted to get into my “bear cave”.
This could mean many things. Was she referring to my aforementioned chest hair? Did this in some way mean my anus? Did she merely mean she wanted me to take her home?
I didn’t even want to know and, as we were leaving, she approached again so I quickly put my arm around Ameera, referred to her as my wife and slipped out to the parking lot.
As we said our good-byes, Bear Cave and her friend came stumbling out the door trailed by three balding, white haired men in slick suits. The two groups began a dialogue, the finest snippet of which was Bear Cave saying “Didn’t I see you on a billboard?”
We quickly made the decision that the man in the shiny silver suit was a local politico. Some sort of a Councilman or Selectman we surmised. But this Selectman was none too selective, as Bear Cave sunk into the passenger seat of his car. Her friend was squired by another one of the gentleman and they rode off into the night. Summer loving, had me a blast…
As I awoke the next day my slight hangover was trumped by the anticipation of the upcoming performance. The show was a sell-out, just like anybody who graduated BHS post 1996. Zing!
I jumped in my trusty, rusty truck and made the pilgrimage from Allston to Braintree for the umpteenth and last time in the past few weeks. I had to be there around noon as Nick, the male lead for “Fiddler”, hadn’t been able to make but the first rehearsal and we needed to go over, well, everything.
The previous evening Rolf had instructed us to wear black with solid colors. I foolishly misremembered that I had black shoes. Oh well, there would be plenty of time for shoe shopping on this hectic day, right?
I arrived at the BHS to find the place buzzing with activity. Many of the other groups were putting the finishing touches on their acts and we got down business as well.
After rationalizing that we had gotten our acts down as well as we could us “old people” commandeered the prop room, another amenities denied my class at BHS.
We had to go to that horrid Boston Costume place or sift through Goodwill racks for our costumes. Glittery vests, wigs, forestry, various hats and props. These kids had it all at their fingertips. We had shit. And we walked five miles to school, uphill both ways.
As we planned on more drinking and didn’t want to explicitly corrupt minors, Amy posted a sing on the prop room door that said “Reserved for Grease, Little Shop, Fiddler, Pirates and Hello Dolly. She was merely trying to protect the virgin eyes and reputations of the little ones, right?
One prudish ingénue, upon seeing the sign, slammed her hands to her hips and stomped one foot on the ground in anger and protest at the sign. She huffed and puffed and looked ready to explode.
“The old people are drinking,” she gasped as she stormed away. I decided to take down the sign so as to avoid a cold war.
Shortly thereafter, a pair of 17-somethings entered the room and came to the back where we were all imbibing. “The old people are cool” one of them offered. I guess if you have to be called old twice in the span of 10 minutes its better to end on the “cool” note.
Now it was about four o’clock, one hour before the start of the reception and I was still shoeless, if not longer clueless. Father Cuddy, on yet another beer run, and I sped across the street to Burlington Coat Factory. It took me 45 seconds to locate the proper pair of shoes but the size 13 box only had one shoe in it. Luckily the display model was a size 13 so I threw that in the box. Mistake.
There was some confusion at the register but I talked my way through it. Back at BHS, I slipped on the shoes. The display model one seemed a little tight. I checked the size, 13 all right. Still, something seemed off. Upon closer inspection I discovered the shoes, while nearly identical, were slightly different. This difference was mainly in the sole but still, I was basically wearing two different shoes, which seemed to make sense.
I changed into my suit, a slick black number with a lime green shirt, fixed my hair and I was ready for the reception. Set up in “The Pit” were bulletin boards displaying various photos, playbills and other media from each show.
This could have been an exhibit on the evolution of media. Wrinkled playbills, yellowed photos and stained clippings from The Braintree Forum dominated the early shows. As you moved further and further into the future the quality and number of photos increased exponentially. These Digital Age kids had an unfair advantage, and that includes the aforementioned Robotics Room and Prop Room. But that’s they way we liked it!
As audience members poured in Rolf indicated it was time for a group warmup. After taking us through the normal vocal paces he jumped into another song I loved but had long forgotten. The energetic “I Am Psyched To Do This Show Tonight”.
After warming up Rolf gave a touching and rousing address in which he called us “the classiest thing {he’d} ever seen in Braintree.” After what I had witnessed with Bear Cave the night before, I quickly agreed.
Rolf also notified us that not only was the show a sellout, but that extra folding chairs had been set up around the auditorium and that standing room tickets were sold, both of which were, technically, illegal. We would be fine as long as the Fire Department didn’t show up, Rolf offered.
Or, if there wasn’t a fire.
After Christian presented Rolf with a gift from the cast we were ready to go. Well, I was ready to wait three hours. What to do, what to do?
Drink. Before I knew it there were multiple 30 packs, a six pack of Trader Joe’s wine and, god bless Amy and Liz, six pizzas. When you get involved in something like this, especially the day of the show, you often get so caught up in the moment you forget about bodily functions.
I spent the next few hours periodically checking in on the show and catching up with old friends who came to take it in. It was quite a cross section of individuals and not a moment went by when someone wasn’t cackling at something.
Nick, our Tevye, being the showman that he was, decided to don a fake beard. Funny, here we were 17 years removed from “Fiddler” and I was still the only man in the cast with a real beard. Hit puberty fellas, it’s a great feeling.
Looking like a ZZ Top reject, we went about trimming this monstrosity. The moustache was especially gnarly and as more and more of it was trimmed away Nick’s lips began to peek out. Only Liz heard when, at this point, I said it looked like “a 70s vagina.” It was probably for the best that nobody else picked up on that.
Later on, at the after party, somebody asked Rolf what he thought about Nick’s beard. Rolf waved his left hand in the air, as if too shoo the memory away, and said “there always had to be one cheesy thing in every show.” Always the professional.
As our time got nearer and nearer we seemed to be getting looser and looser. I took in Jeff Candura’s dynamic performance in “How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying” as well as “Hello Dolly” from the wings and was ready to get up there myself. The crowd was primed. The players were lubed up. This was going to be, well, something.
Whether it was Rolf’s guidance or the alcohol, I left all my inhibitions aside and bounded on stage with the rest of my fellow pirates. The performance started out smoothly and triumphantly, as our Pirate King grabbed the audience by the throat and didn’t let go. Later on, one on the younguns would comment to me that “Pirates” was her favorite one because she could tell we were having fun up there. How right you are sister.
But fun can only go so far. Sometimes you need to knock the audience on their asses, and that is exactly what Tim did as Frederick. Tim threw a vicious left hook with his “Oh, Is There Not One Maiden Here” gyrations and crooning, and Amy finished them off with a right uppercut of a performance of Mabel. The audience needed a standing eight count.
Applause abounded and I took my spot on the opposite side of the stage for the “Fiddler” group entrance. With Tori on my left and Ameera on my right I knew I was in firm, supple hands. The entrance was stoic, powerful and poignant, until that beard made an appearance and laughter ensued. Much like the Rainier Wolfcastle film “Help, My Son Is A Nerd”, “Fiddler” is not a comedy.
Nonetheless, Nick killed during his rendition of “If I Were A Rich Man”, which lead into a resounding and hearty “To Life”. Next up was my personal favorite song, “Sunrise Sunset”, and as the song begun I could see Liz trying to coax her little one out. She was ready to burst and couldn’t be more proud but, alas, the moment was not meant to be.
As the song bubbled to a froth we all gathered center stage around Nick and our female lead Nora to sing the last verse. This was my favorite part because I got to use all of my basso profundo in hitting the last note.
As we were supposed to be morbid, I laid my head on the shoulder of Father Cuddy, leaving a puddle of sweat the size of the BP oil spill on his right shoulder. A small price to pay for helping craft a moving theatrical moment. The real price to pay was $10, which was Cuddy’s dry-cleaning bill.
All that was left, for me, was the Grand Finale, and grand it was all every cast member leapt onstage for the “Grease” number “We Go Together”. It was moving and touching and epic and sloppy and all together awesome.
Now the fun started. The previous night Rolf had organized us into 16 groups and then again in 32 groups. We were going to attempt to bring Rolf’s vision of a successful round of “Have You Seen The Ghost Of Tom” to fruition. Could we pull off this momentous undertaking? We all wanted to, for no other to please Rolf on his night.
The round of 16 started. Its rather hard to tell if the round is “working” while performing it. Its’ hard enough keeping yourself and your group in time but we seemed to pull it of with some level of success.
Now on to the round of 32. I was in group two, so I had an early vantage point and could monitor the tightness of the round. After singing the song three or four times Rolf began stopping each group. It was like vocal dominoes as each group dropped off with the last lyric of “no skin on”.
As the groups were whittled down the tightness ensued and it was one of the best pieces of music I have ever been a part of. We pulled if off with grace, composure and the generosity of a forgiving audience. The whole show was a fabulous success.
Afterwards, at the Pizzera Uno cast party I looked around. I took it all in and found myself among mothers, priests, actresses, gay couples, students, teachers, physical therapists, performers, writers, financiers, publicists and any and every other type of person Braintree has to offer. This made me proud to be part of such a diverse community and this closeness amongst diversity is the lasing legacy of Rolf Carlson.
Without his leadership and vision I would not have been a part of this wonderful and wondrous community and I thank him dearly for his dedication to the students.
Every town in America deserves a Rolf. But we in Braintree know the dirty little secret: we have the only one. This man is a rare breed and I couldn’t be happier that he was delivered to Braintree.
I sincerely hope Rolf continues his work with the BHSTG if only because I want future students to have the same experiences, learn the same lessons, make the same life long friendships and have the same fun as my peers and I did.
I also have one selfish reason for wanting Rolf to continue: I want to be in the 40th Anniversary show. See y’all in 2030!