Chapter 17.76: Anti-war.com

In light of this week's protest party in New York, I thought I'd pass along a collection of commentary I just found today. I'm sure it's not new to many, but I'm not what I'd consider an active anti-war mongerer.

A friend forwarded me a piece ostensibly written by former Orlando Sentinel columnist Charley Reese. I haven't found the actual article, so I won't post what was sent. But I've seen other pieces he's written, which appear on anti-war.com and he's clearly not pleased with President Bush. Rock on Charley!

Chapter 17.7: Escape From New York

Here's something that I haven't seen reported yet. Trains out of New York's Penn Station were cancelled on Saturday due to the volume of people trying to leave the city in anticipation of the final week of August and the surge of Republican conventioneers. The volume apparently delayed so many trains that afternoon trips out of the city had to be cancelled. I don't know if there were similar problems on Sunday.

Estimated thousands of New Yorkers were forced to wheel their suitcases out of Penn Station and find alternate travel or stay home. In addition, New Jersey highways were filled with drivers -- seemingly half with N.Y. plates -- to the point where traffic jammed up the Garden State Parkway, the N.J. Turnpike, Route 9, Route 195, and Route 33. Those are the roads where I puttered along at 25-30 mph.

I feel sorry for those poor New Yorkers stuck in the city this week. There may be no end to the protests and stress of the Republican convention. One more reason not to go to Shea Stadium!

Chapter 17.3: Not yet there

I'm going to have my summer vacation tomorrow. That's it: just Friday. I can't wait! I haven't planned out my day yet, but I hope to be able to jog my long run since it'll probably rain on Saturday. I'll try for 7 miles again. Aside from that, I hope to enjoy being at home with Maureen. And later we'll drive to the shore -- whether it's Friday, Saturday, or even Sunday we haven't decided. When people advise living one day at a time, I wonder if this is what they have in mind. I should get some beer on the way home and contemplate that.

Chapter 17: Scottish roots

As I get re-accustomed to late nights at work during production and feeling tired by 10 on a Friday night, I find myself relying on things like my freelance work with the Clan Currie Society to keep my writing brain going. While I like using the subject matter to give me a better understanding of my own Scottish roots, the interviews and writing enable me to not lose my skills as I become more of an editor than a reporter.

The profiles and press releases, the feature articles and artsy folk are different than my novel, and that's part of the point. I've learned a lot about Robert Burns, for example, as well as his biographer, James Currie. I've attended Highland Games and seen some of the strange folk who dress up as druids. Decked out in the regalia of centuries past, these folk may seem odd, but at least they enjoy themselves.

I've met some strange Sinclairs too, but I won't go into that. Suffice it to say that whether an ancestor of mine discovered America or not, he didn't stay long enough to stake much of a claim. That's just my opinion.

Chapter 16.7: Too Damn Old

I must admit it: I've become old. Not aged and decrepit, ready for the home. But old in the sense that I'm not as young as I was not so long ago. Maureen and I were out four of the past five nights. These haven't been keggers and beer-pounding nights of debauchery, but they went later than my 30-something body and mind could handle.

It probably means I got out of shape. I don't drink as often (or as well) as I used to. Not to sound too proud of it, but I used to be able to pound back some beer. Good stuff like Guiness, Bass, Sam Adams, Sierra Nevada, and lots of other tasty ales and stouts. Now I tend to sip at cans of Miller Lite, Bud Light and even worse: Coors Lite. Watery, bland brews that sizzle on the tongue like a sip of Pepsi. My head and waistline are better off, but I had a lot of fun back then. I'm sure I could get back into drinking shape, but that's an expensive lifestyle and really not all that it's cracked up to be.

Chapter 16.5: Old Friends

We're going to visit friends that we haven't seen since their wedding, nearly a year ago. I was the best man; you'd think we'd have seen more of each other. I take the blame. Busy schedules be damned, friends are precious.

I've seen many friends simply fade into memory of decades past, and these are people who are more than Christmas card acquaintances. Dave and I played baseball together as kids. I caught his first varsity win and several others. When he experimented with a knuckle ball, I was the guy putting down the odd sign I'd never used for any other pitcher. His wife, Anita, I don't know as well. We've met only a handful of times. But she's a wonderful person and knowing him as well as I do, I'm sure she is the perfect partner to his life.

I'm looking forward to this night. It's an evening of being both a kid and an adult. We can enjoy a meal together, share a bottle of wine, and talk about the past, the present, and the future. Simple pleasures are usually the best.

Chapter 16.4: K

I'm possibly getting older than I realize. Last night became the final softball game of the summer for me. The team we played legitimately beat us. They had a bunch of hits against our stellar pitcher. They deserved to win. But when I came up last night with two outs and the tying run on first in a 5-3 game, I had the game on my shoulders. Not too long ago, that would have meant a run, perhaps two. I'd refuse to make an out in that situation and drive the ball down a line or in a gap. Last night, however, after getting up to a 2-2 count, I struck out on a pitcher's pitch: high in the zone, over the plate and hard to hit. Not my pitch, but with two strikes I couldn't afford to take the chance the ump would call it a ball. The second K of the season for me.

I'm not sure what will come of softball next year. Even though I don't play as often as I did last year, this commitment is still difficult. Work promises to be wose next year. I enjoy playing, but I don't know that I can do it at the level I expect of myself. My bat speed is slow for modified softball. My fielding is fine, but I'm definitely an infielder these days. I can't gun the ball from an outfield position like I did a decade ago.

Luckily, I don't have to make that decision now.

Chapter 16.3: ... Different Day

Sometimes a day doesn't make any difference at all. Don't listen to those happy-go-crazy morons who prattle on and on about ways to improve your life. Better than nine times out of 10, can you honestly say today isn't pretty much what you expected it to be? Assuming you're a "middle-class American" like myself, you got up out of bed, put your clothes on, worked, and eventually went back to sleep. Along the way you ate, had a bunch of conversations, most of which ultimately meant nothing by the time you returned to your bed, and there were probably a few fantasies mixed into the day. Daydreams about what you'd do with no financial worries, sexual fantasies, or simple "where would I rather be now" moments.

Sure, life changes all the time, and it's impossible to know everything that's going to happen before it occurs. People will die suddenly, cars will collide, arguments will flare into nasty confrontations. But it's rare that three tomorrows from now, nine tomorrows from now, you will recognize how these moments altered you.

A bird flew into the front of my car yesterday. I was upset as I saw its body bounce on the road behind me, like some random soda can on the street. I had almost forgotten about it 12 hours later. But at the moment it occurred, it was all that mattered; if not for my driving before 7 a.m. on a sleepy Sunday, I could have had an accident. Perhaps this incident doesn't make a difference for the rest of my life. I have no idea. Maybe I needed that moment to remind me how precious life is -- though I think the two first aid calls that day would have helped accomplish that too.

There are countless "what-ifs" I could associate with that poor dead bird. Ultimately, we all find our final resting spot. Hopefully I'll make a difference before then. I guess I did for that sorry bird.

Chapter 16.2: The slate

Had a unique experience today -- unique for me. A friend's son is filming a movie. It's a small film, done on a budget of less than $1,000. None of the actors are paid (unless the film sells, I guess). The son, Ryan, has said repeatedly that he'll give me a cameo appearance. I don't need a cameo, but I do enjoy watching him film. Today, as one of the crew members had to leave to pick up an actor at the train station, I was put to work. My moment in the sun was a brief clap of the slate, having marked the scene.

Who knows, this experience may lead to a film version of my novel, once it's actually done. I printed out nearly 200 pages today; that's about two-thirds of the story, I suspect. If I reach my goal of completing the first draft this year, then I'll be able to assess the "filmability" of it better. I already see it in my head, but it would be incredible to see it on screen.

Chapter 16: Murph

Sad news for Mets fans. The voice of summer nights, Bob Murphy, passed away due to lung cancer at 79. I went to the game at which he was honored last year, his final game as a Mets announcer. Players and fellow announcers recognized him for his 42 seasons of service.

Murph was one of the three original announcers for the team, working with Hall of Famer Ralph Kiner and Lindsey Nelson from game one in 1962. His voice was perfect for the radio, conveying the excitement of a strikeout in a crucial situation, or a "long drive to left field ... it could be ... it is ... Gone! a home run for Mike Piazza. Mike Piazza has just given the Mets the lead."

There was a cadence, a rhythm to the way he broadcast a game. It carried you from the early innings through the final out. He knew when to add the interesting anecdote and when to keep his mouth shut and let the constant din of the crowd, the roar of the planes over Shea, and the vendors hawking Budweiser fill up the air. He was a Mets fan, but as a listener you didn't feel he lost his objectivity. He was broadcasting the game, not espousing a company position. He helped give the Mets dignity even when their teams scoured the depths the National League.

As this season of mediocrity continues, I only wish he could have seen the Mets win it all one more time. But at least he witnessed two world championships, four World Series and two additional post seasons while earning his position in Cooperstown as a broadcast Hall of Famer. You are missed, Murph.

Chapter 15.6: Novel & Obscure

I'm closing in on 200 pages again, which will (for now) represent 30 chapters of story. I can tell already that much will need to go and much will need to be better developed. But by the middle of August, I hope to be able to print out 200 pages of novel and read through it. I still believe I can be done with a first draft by the end of 2004. We'll see.

Chapter 15.5: Garden State

Garden State, written, and directed by lead actor Zach Braff, is an enjoyable film with a simple message about going home in both a physical and emotional sense. Yet home in this film is not so much in the place as it is in feeling safe. Appropriately, Maureen and I saw the film in Maplewood, N.J., the home theater of New Jerseyan Zach Braff, whose brothers and he attended nearby Columbia High School.

Andrew Largeman or “Large,” played by Braff, is an small-time actor who returns to New Jersey for his mother’s funeral. Since his youth Large has taken a variety of medications, including Lithium, that keep him from his supposed violent tendencies. His anger manifested itself as a nine-year old when he pushed his mother down in the kitchen, which led to her accidental paralysis. Large’s father (Ian Holm, who played Bilbo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings trilogy) is his psychiatrist who diagnosed and treated his condition. Large hasn't seen his family in a decade.

While at a doctor’s office to treat his small explosive headaches, Large meets Samantha (played by Natalie Portman), who introduces him to new music after a Seeing Eye dog masturbates on Large’s leg. She recognized him as the guy who played a retarded quarterback so convincingly she thought he actually was retarded.

Sam is a pathological liar and an epileptic, who must wear protective headgear when she travels. It looks like a soccer ball on her head. Before her epilepsy, she performed as an ice skater, including her signature moment as a skating alligator. “Here comes the double axel!” She has an African “brother,” who she explained had been sponsored by her family after Sally Struthers made an appeal on television. Forgotten for years, he later arrived at their home in New Jersey to attend Rutgers University to study criminology. How much of that story was true, however, was never quite explained, which was part of the fun.

When Large returned to New Jersey he left his drugs behind in Los Angeles. Dr. Cohen, who examines him in New Jersey, counsels him to seek a new psychiatrist and treat the true cause of his problem.

The problem, of course, is that his father has never forgiven him for taking away the vital woman he’d married, and Large has never been able to shed a tear for his mother. He blames a piece of plastic that failed to hold the dishwasher door up. Had the door stayed in its proper spot, when he pushed her she wouldn’t have fallen over the door and cracked her neck on the counter. Yet, he knows that he and his father love each other and that they will be fine. It is only after Large and Sam chat in a tub (his mother drowned in a tub) with their clothes on that he recalls for her the moment he realized his mother loved him: when his nose was so full of snot and she offered her sleeve to him to clean himself. Sam catches the lone tear in a Dixie cup.

Portman was excellent in this film, a refreshing change from her Padme role in the Star Wars prequel trilogy. She came across as a fun-loving, affectionate, intelligent young woman who has learned to live with her disability and who becomes the source of truth as well as safety in Large’s life. She, like the Garden State, are home for Large.

The story is simple and the scenes can be poignant, but the film is also filled with unnecessary characters and moments that exist purely for their humor value. Frankly, I found that pleasant in a non-formulaic sort of way. I liked the main characters and the odd moments and settings that make me wonder if Braff is a fan of the magazine Weird NJ. The ending seemed abrupt, as though a series of scenes back in Los Angeles were cut out for budgetary reasons. I still don’t see any reason for the character of the police officer who pulled Large over for speeding and turned out to be an old friend who seemed the least likely to become a police officer – unless it was an inside NJ joke that so many of us here have friends who became cops, which is true.

All in all, I’d say it was worth the price of the tickets, popcorn and soda.