Bill@AlphaBaseInc.com

913.484.3825
fax: 951.266.7287

C R E A T I V E   W R I T I N G

I don't remember life before e-mail. I love e-mail. Over the last several years, I've made a habit of writing down various life experiences, or curious things that pop into my head ... good or bad, funny or not, poignant or frivolous ... and e-mailing these random scratchings to various friends and family members who, I felt, might enjoy them.

If you read something you like, let me know, eh? And if you read something you hate, I'd kinda like to know about that, too...

Warning: I use profanity; if that's going to upset you, please just skip this page, okay? Last thing in the world I'd wanna do is offend anybody...

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C O N T E N T S

Apostrocide . . . . April 2008
bilglas . . . . March 2008
Broadway Engraved . . . . January 2008
Childhood Trauma . . . . September 2007
My House is Attacking Me (with apologies to Woody Allen) . . . . May 2007
Lazy Susan . . . . February 2007
The BIC Story . . . . December 2006
The Late Great Johnny Ace . . . . December 8, 2006
One Fine Morning . . . . October 2006
The Best Day of My Life . . . . February 2006
The Missing Pronoun . . . . November 2005
Well Glory b! . . . . January 2005
Number Three . . . . July 2004
Trip to Office Depot . . . . February 2003
My Friend Barb . . . . July 2001
It's a Mystery . . . . March 2001
Crushed . . . . April 2000
Night and Day . . . . May 1999
Sam's New Home . . . . October 1998
Limerick . . . . October 1997

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April 2008

Apostrocide

About 25 years ago, Bill Gates unknowingly murdered the apostrophe. He severely damaged the quotation mark, but he KILLED the apostrophe. I'm aware that most people couldn't care less about such things, but punctuation just happens to be a big part of my job, so I care passionately about semi-colons and question marks. I still use the word "whom." Correctly.

Quotation marks and apostrophes, under ALL circumstances, should (SHOULD!) be the "curly" variety. Quotes on the left are shaped kinda like the number 6; quotes on the right are generally shaped like the number 9. But when the PC keyboard was designed, they didn't have enough room for all those keys! So the key to the right of the semi-colon, now and forevermore, will give you those "straight-up-and-down" quotation marks and apostrophes ... these words you're reading right NOW are like that. Here's a clear example of what I mean:

Yecch! Again, I must concede the fact that most sane people in the English-speaking world do not CARE, and possible are not even AWARE of the differences between these punctuation marks. But SOME people care ... enough so that, even in the earliest days of DOS, you COULD type "curly" quotes and apostrophes, but it was a little bit of trouble. You can still do it this way, today: Hit your NUMLOCK key, then hold down the ALT key while you type in a four-digit number that equates to the character you want to use. Left-hand single quotes are 0145; the right-hand single quote (the apostrophe!) is 0146; left-hand quotes are 0147; and right-hand quotes are 0148. The PROPER punctuation would result ... it looks like this:

But early on, software programs like WordPerfect, Word, and PageMaker got SMART, and they built into their programming the INTELLIGENCE to decide when a single quote went on the left or right (or whether it was being used as an apostrophe) ... and similarly, to decide when double quotes went on the left and right. This functionality FIXED the problem of those ugly straight-up-and-down characters, under most circumstances. On what logic was this "smart" technology based?

Well, if a single quote has a SPACE to the left of it, it's gotta be a left-hand single quote, right? Make sense? If it has a space to the RIGHT of it, it's a right-hand quote. If it has alpha characters on both sides of it, it's an apostrophe. Same with double quotes ... space to the left means left-hand quote; space to the right means right-hand quote. And yeah, there's a lot of fine-tuning in these programming algorithms to accommodate instances where commas, exclamation points, and question marks become part of the equation.

But there's one HUUUUGE exception to the rule that has never been addressed properly, and which has, as I mentioned in the opening paragraph, KILLED the apostrophe. Here are three glaring examples of that exception:

Y'see what's happening here? The computer sees that space to the LEFT of the punctuation, and therefore assumes that it is a left-hand single quote, shaped like a 6. NOT!! It's supposed to be an APOSTROPHE, shaped like a 9. So what's the solution to THIS problem? Only one: If you care enough to do it right, you need to MANUALLY change those left-hand single quotes by keying in ALT+0146. I think that's one of the reasons that my customers keep coming back ... I'm aware of these tedious little anomalies in the world of typography, and I adjust for them. I don't think most type/graphics companies do. (Okay, it's not a LOT to be proud of, but it gets me through the night, y'know?)

I happily accept change in the English language; indeed, I relish change. When I was a kid, "today" was hyphenated "to-day" ... "Halloween" had an apostrophe in it ("Hallowe'en"). "Harass" used to be accented on the first syllable ... same with "formidable." I've adjusted. Change is good.

But these backwards apostrophes do not represent CHANGE ... they are JUST PLAIN WRONG! And if it was a rare occurrence, it would be somewhat less egregious. But it's everywhere! Watch the commercials on any TV network for an hour, and at least ONCE, you'll see a glaring example of this error. Not change ... error! It's just wrong. As long as we humans still have a choice, wouldn't AVOIDING such errors seem like the right thing to do? Wouldn't you think that Ford Motor Company or TacoBell or Bayer Aspirin would have enough money in their advertising budgets to find some ad agency where SOMEBODY knows the difference between a 6 and a 9?

Incidentally, there IS a correct use for those unsightly straight-up-and-down marks: inches and feet! Like this:

Most websites (including this one) must accept the use of those grotesque straight-up-and-down quotes in their page makeup, because the internal coding that generates the correct ("curly") variety of quotes is not universally compatible with all computer systems ... so somebody using a Mac might see, instead of curly quotes, some unrecognizable cluster of gibberish (or vice-versa ... I'm not dissin' Macs!) But that isn't likely to get fixed anytime soon, and I've learned to live with it. But not happily.

About a year ago, I noticed that the official logo for Joseph Biden's presidential campaign featured this backwards apostrophe. I sent them an e- mail, politely explaining this punctuational infraction, but they did not heed my words. And that is why Joseph Biden did not become the Democratic presidential candidate. Possibly.

At my very core, the foreboding sense that nobody cares anymore is demoralizing and distinctly disquieting. And now, I feel like writing another long rant about the PROPER USE of the apostrophe, but I don't think my heart's strong enough for that...

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March 20, 2008

bilglas

Hi Tracy!

Well, aren't you nice!? You're the first person in years who's asked me about that signature I use on my "personal" e-mails. This fact blows my mind: This month just happens to be the FORTIETH anniversary of my first use that signature. Time flies...

In March of 1968, I spent a weekend in Joplin, working on a cheapo mimeographed publication called "Milk & Honey." (Don't ask.) The editor of this publication was my friend Gary Jacobs. Our friend Suzi, as I recall, was supposed to have been the #2 person in this venture, but she sorta flaked out, so I filled in.

One of the bits of "creative writing" contained in this publication was a poem Gary wrote. I can't quote it exactly, but its subject matter was how much he disliked that burst of cold air when you climb out of a shower. I really identified with that, which is why I still remember it. And the signature he appended to this verse was "geejay" ... a spelt-out equivalent of his initials.

Never one to come up with an original idea, I decided I needed a pseudonym that was just as cool as Gary's. I considered several alternatives. But what ultimately swayed me was that I saw no point in having two L's in "Bill" ... no point in having two S's in Glass ... combine what's left into one word, I reasoned, and thus, "bilglas" was born.

I used it constantly. In 1968, our lives depended much more on pens and pencils than they do today, and a thousand times a year, I'd have occasion to sign my name; "bilglas" is what I used. My license plate said "bilglas." I signed my personal checks with "bilglas." I had a jacket with "bilglas" embroidered on the back.

For the first few years, I'm proud to say, I dotted the "i" in this signature with a peace sign, but my conviction to continue doing so diminished. (The balder I got, the less it seemed to matter.)

Quite a few years ago, I convinced my brother, the world's most talented illustrator, to look at a whole bunch of my signatures, and distill the essence of them into a more substantive design. And, not surprisingly, he came up with exactly what I was imagining:

I cannot believe I've lasted this long. And it's just amazing that this cryptic "bilglas" signature has remained with me for so long. Sadly, my buddy Gary did not make it this long ... he was my first close friend to die ... 33 years ago. But what's nice is, whenever I sign anything with "bilglas," it reminds me of Gary, and THAT may be one of the reasons I'm still using it...

Thanks for asking.

Peace,

bilglas

PS: If you Google "bilglas" you will find yourself trying to read Swedish. It means something in that foreign tongue, although for the life of me, I can't figure out what exactly it is.....

PPS: Photoshop + signature + too much free time =

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January 20, 2008

Broadway Engraved

Many years ago, before the advent of the Personal Computer, all headline (large) typesetting happened in one of two ways: Either it was composed on expensive photographic equipment specifically designed for that purpose, OR it was tediously created with “rub-on” lettering. These were large sheets of type, printed with a thin, adhesive-based ink, so that the graphic designer could place this sheet on a page, line up the lettering needed, and literally RUB the required character (with a soft pencil or other burnishing device) so that it sticks onto the page.

Then, and still today, one of the largest type foundries in the world is the ITC — the International Typeface Corporation. One day in 1981, I was thumbing through one of my gazillion type catalogs, and came upon Broadway Engraved ... you've seen it a million times, like on theater marquees:

I stared at it for a long time; I sensed something was amiss. Then suddenly, in a flash of obsessive-compulsive clarity, I realized what was buggin' me: The N was upside-down. Look at it carefully ... y'see how the thin line in each letter is either on the left side or lower side of each thick stroke? But not the N ... on the N, the thin line is on the UPPER side of the thick diagonal.

So, I sent a letter to the International Typeface Corporation. (I would've preferred sending an e-mail, but if you've been paying attention, you'll recall that this was 1981. Anyway...)

Several days later, I received a letter from the president of ITC, commending me for my discovery, and thanking me, on behalf of typographers worldwide, for catching this egregious error. That N had been upside-down, he told me, ever since ITC first introduced the font in 1928. I was the first bozo to notice.

So now, whenever you see Broadway Engraved, the capital N will be right-side up, as shown below. This is probably as close as I'm gonna get to my fifteen minutes of fame...

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September 2007

Childhood Trauma

Dear Megan,

I know how bored you get with my endless "when I was a kid" stories ... but I noticed your latest blog entry is entitled "Goodbye Kids" ... and it reminded me of the following anecdote. Mind if I ramble for a few paragraphs?

To Americans approximately my own age, the phrase "Goodbye Kids" will always convey a special meaning. Throughout our earliest years, every Saturday morning, we would watch "Howdy Doody" ... there's so much historic trivia surrounding this show that I could easily write a book ... but I'll spare you. We kids all sang along with the theme song that played at the beginning and ending of each show: "It's Howdy Doody Time, It's Howdy Doody Time...." Anyway...

The characters on this show were all puppets (marionettes, actually), except for three real humans: Buffalo Bob was the main guy ... there was a young woman dressed as an "Indian" (that's what Native Americans were called in the Fifties), whose name was Princess Summerfallwinterspring (or something like that). The third real person — and the most beloved by all of my peers — was Clarabelle the Clown. Clarabelle couldn't speak, so he would honk a horn attached to his belt and somehow Buffalo Bob knew what each honk meant.

When the tragic rumor spread that "Howdy Doody" wasn't going to be on anymore, the baby boomers in this country — and we WERE all still BABIES at the time — were emotionally crushed. We gathered around the TV on that last Saturday morning, watching each character express his or her regret that they wouldn't be seeing us kids anymore ... that it was the last time they would be visiting my home. I remember sincere tributes to Hostess Cupcakes and Wonder Bread (with "red, yellow and blue balloons printed on the wrapper").

It got to the end of the hour, to the point where the credits would roll, accompanied by the Howdy Doody theme song. But there was no music. The camera panned across the stage, and zoomed in on Clarabelle's face. You actually saw a tear running down his cheek. He stared straight at the camera, and he opened his mouth, and he said, "Goodbye, kids." And the screen went black. No credits, no music.

Ask ANYBODY in their mid-50s what the phrase "Goodbye kids" means to them, and they'll recall the same story.

That traumatic event, compounded by the fact that Bambi's mother dies in a forest fire, pretty well fucked up an entire generation.

Hugs,

Crazy ol' Bill

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May 2007

My House is Attacking Me

(with apologies to Woody Allen)

I live such an incredibly dormant, sedentary life, that I seldom suffer any physical injuries or bodily harm. (This is a perk in the "geek" business.) And that's largely why the following useless bit of information matters, at all.

Okay, so you've been in my office ... my basement, right? Picture this: You come down the stairs, and you're facing a wall with that big Dr Pepper clock, right? And you walk toward the computer, and as you do so, you've got that curved Formica bar on the left ... and to your right, you're passing that wall where the clock is, and there's a 90° junction with the next wall, which has those shelves filled with pens and other office supplies.

So THAT is the wall-junction I'm referring to, here ... that 90° bend between the clock-wall and the shelves-wall ... ya with me?

How many times have I walked that route ... from those stairs to my chair? My office has been in this very spot since about 1994. So... seven zillion times? The number would be staggering.

Earlier today, as I returned to my office, I walked toward the computer, and a NAIL STICKING OUT OF THAT WALL-JUNCTION ripped a little laceration in my right forearm. I've never even NOTICED that nail before, in all these years, much less been injured by it.

Anyway, after sustaining that injury in my office, I bravely spent a few minutes reading my e-mail, then went back upstairs to the kitchen, washed off my wound, and sat down in my favorite chair.

Lemme tell you about this chair: It's an old La-Z-Boy recliner... bought it in 1987. Not only have I sat in it ten billion times in the last 20 years, but for the last year or so, I SLEEP in that chair, at night (sleeping on flat surfaces, like beds, screws up my back). I have a very special bond with this chair; when I'm not here at my computer, chances are you'll find me in that chair. I will likely die, someday, in that chair. I get into and out of that chair frequently, partially because my 55-year-old bladder reminds me, every hour or so, that I shouldn't drink so much Dr Pepper.

Anyway, I'm sitting down to relax after my painful ordeal, and as the back reclines and the leg-rest pops up, STAPLES in the upholstery of the right armrest rip a couple of holes into my right forearm, scratching through not just ME, but also across the beloved face of my Groucho Marx tattoo.

As strange coincidences go, this one pretty much freaked me out, and I hope you found it curiously amusing, at least.

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February 2007

Lazy Susan

I wrote the e-mail below to my friend Laurie - a dear friend since kindergarten (some 50 years ago!)

For this letter to make sense, you'll need to know this: There's an Oriental-style, forest green "lazy susan" that sat on our family's dining room table throughout my entire childhood; my mom, bless her tasteless soul, loved it ... a truly hideous piece o' crap. The parents are both gone now, and this monstrosity wound up in my possession. (My brother got the silverware, but I digress...) This lazy susan has a swivel base on which eight different pieces of cheap ceramics sorta jigsaw-puzzle together to make up the whole grotesque thing.

A few months ago, Laurie noticed this ugly eyesore in my home office (it held paper clips, rubber bands, little pads of pink and yellow Post-It notes, and lots of dust) and she began exclaiming how beautiful it was ... she loved it! At first, I thought she was being sarcastic, but she wasn't kidding. So when her birthday rolled around last month, I wrapped it up and gave it to her as a present. She seemed almost tearfully grateful.

Last Friday, Laurie and another friend of ours were here for a bit. I'm a photographer, and they'd asked me to shoot their business portraits, which I did. As they were leaving, Laurie handed me a little envelope. In it was a hand-written note which basically said that she, Laurie, has felt awful, ever since receiving that lazy susan ... it's a family heirloom, she insists, and it should stay IN the Glass family ... and she asked if I would be willing to accept it back.

So - finally! - this is the e-mail I wrote her about 48 hours later:

===

Dear Girl,

I had a particularly funny event in my life that spanned two or three years, and at the time, I knew I should be writing it all down, but I never did, and now I've forgotten most of the details. Here's what I remember, though: A couple years before I got married, I received an odd gift from my already senile father. Through some silly synaptic failure in his brain, he thought I would want a miniature Statue of Liberty. It was about the size of an Oscar; weighed a few pounds. Well, I'm just about the least patriotic person I know ... I have no more desire to display a Statue of Liberty in my home than I desire to salute a flag or recite the Pledge. (I'm not anti-American ... just anti-patriotism ... an admittedly narrow distinction.) So receiving this Statue of Liberty just cracked me up! And happily, Sam's ol' brain was still functional enough to allow him to be amused at my amusement.

At some point, when Sam wasn't looking, I returned the statue to his apartment, where I knew he'd find it, eventually. And when he did, he "got" the joke, thankfully, and we had a good laugh about it. I figured the story would end there, but at some later date, he managed to sneak the thing back into my house, and hilarity began to ensue. It went back and forth several times, and each time, the delivery methods and hiding places became more and more comical. Like, tears-rolling-down-the-cheeks comical.

Twenty-one years ago this Friday, Hana and I got married ... when we walked up to stand under that canopy thing, the rabbi was already standing there. Next to him was a little side table, and on the table was the prayerbook he had to read from, and the wine glass we both had to drink from, a few notes scribbled on a steno pad ... and the miniature Statue of Liberty! Before Hana and I left for our honeymoon, I managed to sneak the statue into the trunk of Sam's car, without his knowing about it (or so I thought). And yet, when we arrived at our hotel in Orlando, Hana and I unpacked, and there was the statue, in my suitcase. I knew that Sam was going to be visiting his old college buddy Ralph in San Diego in a few days, so I overnighted the damn thing to Ralph's house with instructions: He wrapped it like a gift, and when Sam arrived at his house, Ralph would say, "I'm was so glad you were coming, I bought you a little present..." and, ta-daa, it would be the statue. Hilarious, huh?

Some weeks or months later, I mentioned to Sam, whose Alzheimer's was already affecting his ability to communicate, that it had been quite awhile since the last time I sneaked the statue into HIS life, and was surprised he'd gone so long without finding a way to give it back to me. He says, "You haven't found it yet? I did put it back ... it's in your house now!" He was absolutely sure, and he didn't seem to be kidding. He didn't remember where he hid it (which was entirely believable, in his case) ... but he knew it was back on my turf; I assured him he was wrong.

Months passed, and before the joke could be carried any further, Sam kinda lost the ability to play. He didn't remember anything about any stupid statue ... and everything just dribbled off, after that. Alzheimer's ain't pretty.

===

And the only reason I mention all of that is, our situation with that crazy lazy susan reminded me of it. Listen, I don't want you to think I'm a cheap, insincere slimeball, but I've gotta be honest: I can't stand that repulsive thing! You can paint pretty pictures about it being a family heirloom and whatever, but that's your trip, darlin' ... to me, it's clutter! My mother had no taste in home furnishings. She liked "Oriental stuff" ... so the living/dining area was peppered with "art" from China, Japan, Korea, and Cuba (yes, Cuba...) with no regard to its origin or value. All she cared about was, it had to be burnt orange or forest green.

I don't honestly know, Laurie, whether the lazy susan could be sold in a garage sale for five bucks, or at a flea market for $18, or at an auction for $30,000. No freakin' clue. My guess is, its value is minimal ... my folks never owned anything "nice," really. And as far as I was personally concerned, it held virtually no value to me, at all ... until one day, a few months ago, when my dear friend Laurie (uh, YOU!) noticed it and got all effusive ... how beautiful it was, and how much you liked it, blah-blah-blah. At that moment, suddenly this "family heirloom" did have value! I knew it would be the ideal birthday present for Laurie ... still several months away.

===

Now it gets funny: On Friday, I read that note you handed me as you were leaving, and I didn't know what to do. I'd given this to you as a gift, and I was so glad it was something you liked, and I was frankly so glad to be rid of the damn thing myself ... and now, as I read your note, it appeared as if you were asking me if I would be willing to take it back. My obvious concern was, if I had to admit to Laurie that this lazy susan was something I was happy to be rid of, then it sure makes it sound like I gave her a crass, thoughtless birthday present last month, right? I could avoid insulting her like that, and just say, "Laurie, you are so sweet ... by all means, I'd be happy to take it back, if it's that important to you" ... but the problem there is, if I agree to let her return it, I'm going to own the damn thing again, and I was so happy to not own it anymore! What to do, what to do?!

===

Being an actor, you are surely familiar with the theatrical "double-take." Well, late last night, I was walking from my dark kitchen through my dark dining room into my dark living room. I'd actually gone past the dining room, and was beginning to sit down to watch Letterman when I consciously thought, "I do believe there was something sitting on that dining room table, and I happen to know that table is empty, so WTF??" Classic double-take: I turn around, go back into the dining room, flip on the light, and there's that lazy susan sitting there, on the very same table it called home more than thirty years ago! And it took me a good second or two to assimilate what I was seeing ... the sight was so familiar to my eyes that some time elapsed before I came to the realization that, somehow, when you were here Friday, you got that grotesque objet d'art upstairs and onto the table, with all the various pieces properly arranged ... without my noticing! A truly amazing feat.

So, uh, thanks. It's just what I've always wanted.

===

Rose Hill Cemetery is on the west side of Troost Blvd., around 67th Street, where every dead Kansas City Jew I've ever known is buried, just about. I'm not much of a fan of the institution of burial. If people want to go visit their loved ones' graves, fine and dandy, but it's not my cup o' tea. My mom got planted there in 1985, and my dad in '95. I've encountered their graves a few times since, whilst attending the burial of other friends and relatives. But I've never made a point of going there, for the express purpose of "visiting" my parents. But now I'm thinking ... maybe I'd like to drop by some afternoon ... look around for awhile until I find them ... and when nobody's watching, I'll place that lazy susan on my mother's grave. She loved it so much, and this will give her something tangible to keep her company for all eternity.

It's the least I can do, really. After all, she's lying down there, six feet under, right next to Sam. And in his coffin is a miniature Statue of Liberty keeping him company.

Love 'n hugs,

Billy

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December 2006

The BIC Story

I wear caps, most of the time. I've got caps that say "The Beatles" and one with the prism logo from "Dark Side of the Moon" ... I've got KC Royals caps and caps that identify me as a fan of Photoshop. I've got TWO hats with that "Mr. Bill" character on them — a floppy ol' "Colonel Blake" style, plus another plain ol' black baseball cap. Bunches of caps, okay? And one day last week, I got a brand NEW cap ... a friend of mine who works for BIC sent me a bunch of pens and lighters and a BIC baseball cap.

Anyway, I grabbed this new cap as I left my house to go have lunch with some relatives, last Sunday. I get to the restaurant, and while I'm standing there, waiting for the rest of my party to show up, this large "biker-type" dude says to me, "Hey, I like your cap!" He even pointed at it.

I say, "Do you like BIC pens?" He sorta stares blankly, but doesn't reply. So I say, "You must use a lot of BIC lighters..." Again, he acts as if I'm not even in the room. "Lemme guess," I continue, "your NAME is BIC??"

He just looks at me strangely and walks away.

A couple hours later, I'm back home, and I take off my cap, and I notice that it's the cap with Mr. Bill on it ... not the BIC cap!!

Now ........ go back, and look at that situation from the perspective of this biker guy. He must be named Bill, right? He says he likes my cap, and with no sensible provocation, I glare up at him and say, "Do you like BIC pens?" He must've thought I was fuckin' looped. "Do you like BIC lighters?" I must've sounded like Forrest Gump.

This kinda shit seems to happen to me, whenever I leave my home. I surprise myself, almost daily, with how incredibly stupid I actually am.

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December 2006

The Late Great Johnny Ace

There was a time in my life when Volker Park in Kansas City was a magical place. I'd go there on weekends and feel at home among the "flower children" of the late '60s and early '70s. Joints were passed among strangers, and for those of us with long hair, sandals and headbands, puka beads and fringed jackets, there was a camaraderie that made us feel more "at home" than at any other time, and any other place, in all our lives. Beatles songs were being played by those blessed with a musical inclination ... and Joni Mitchell songs, Simon & Garfunkel songs ... holy songs.

And then time passed. Disco poisoned the radio and the American culture. And like most of the hippies, my life shifted, too. The hair started to thin, the sense of belonging faded, and like so many of my fellow anarchists, I entered the corporate world, and relegated my hippie past to the sector of my brain that retains my happiest memories.

In 1980, I was managing a company that printed bowling shirts, and that's pretty much all I did. It was never much fun, but it was the job I had to do, to make enough money to pay for the gasoline that went into my car, which I needed to drive to work, to make the money....... you know how that goes, right? Day after day after day ... the same routine. The same headaches, the same cheesy restaurants, the same tenuous friendships and questionable goals. During the hours I was at work, AND during the hours when I wasn't, my focus was on bowling shirts ... and nothing BUT bowling shirts. I generally stayed downtown until well after midnight, then got back to the office mid-morning. I didn't watch TV, I didn't read the newspaper ... I was all about bowling shirts.

December 8th was a Monday, that year. I worked especially late that night, and was almost too tired to drive home. But I did ... quick shower, a few hours of sleep, and I was back to work around 10 a.m. on Tuesday. As I sat down at my desk, I noticed that Candice, our office manager and my life-long friend, was standing in the doorway.

"Have you heard the news?" she asked. No, of course I hadn't heard any news. I was BUSY, dammit. "John Lennon's dead," were her next words. I asked her to repeat it, and she said it again.

I don't remember, with any great detail, what exactly happened next. I was numb. I felt paralyzed. I don't think I cried, but maybe I did. All I do remember is that I knew I didn't belong there in my office, so I went to my car ... and I drove to Volker Park. I remember it was cold, and I think I remember traces of a recent snowfall, but I'm not sure. What I do remember, though, was the Gathering. Those of us who loved John needed a place to be with one another, and so we went there ... we were DRAWN there ... and for the next several hours, I wandered around the park, just as dazed as everyone else. Everyone was crying ... everyone carried a candle. People I'd never met hugged me, and I hugged them back. Mostly, we just sang: "I read the news today, oh boy..." and "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together..." and "All we are saying, is give peace a chance..."

We all remembered how things had been, not that long ago, when the entire world felt united ... when anything seemed possible.

The Beatles had given us all hope, and now, a decade after "Abbey Road," the dream was dead; the miracle was over. They had made it okay for the world to Come Together, and in December of 1980, John had brought us all together, one more time. We celebrated his life and his music. And now, 26 years later, I still feel energized by the music, and still relish the memories.

You took us to the toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny boy, and never let us down.

"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one........"

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October 2006

One Fine Morning

This is how my day began:

A client of mine, "Wanda," calls me early, all frantic. She needs me to design some business cards for her, and she needs them NOW. So I slap something together really quick, she approves it, and I e-mail the finished artwork to her printer.

The printer, Ted, called Wanda, an hour later: "Hey, Wanda, y'know there are no addresses or phone numbers anywhere on this business card."

Wanda FREAKS, understandably; my phone rings. So I look up the file I'd sent to her printer and try every possible way I can think of to explain this ... and it just doesn't make sense. Simple business card, same way I always do business cards. I'm starting to freak out, too.

So I get the phone number, and I call this Ted guy on the phone, myself. (You know how much I hate using telephones, but sometimes...) I say, "Can you describe the problem to me, exactly, Ted?" And he says, "Well there ain't no address or phone number on these ... oh wait, here they are. Never mind."

What did YOU do for the first 90 minutes YOU were awake today?

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February 2005

The Best Day of My Life

Today is the 20th anniversary of the best day of my life, and I just felt like putting it all down in words, if only for my own benefit. But before we get to February 23, 1985, let's go back about eight years earlier...

It's 1977. I've got a great job. Big magazine publishing company in Overland Park ... more than a hundred people in the office, and at the tender age of 25, with my hippie hair still intact, I was quite highly regarded in this cluster of Kansans. I was the head typesetter ... this was before computers ... and every word that everyone wrote for each of the publications they produced went through my fingers. I was the arbiter of the English language at Intertec Publishing. Questions about spelling and punctuation were directed to me. When someone needed their words punched up a bit, that was my bidding, also. I was then, and still am, a walking dictionary, and when you work at a company whose only product is the written word, it was pretty cool being the foremost authority on semi-colons and dangling participles. I had income, respect ... life was sweet.

My mom 'n dad were 62 and 67, by that point. At the age of 60, my dad had gotten "downsized" at his white-collar job, and had begun a little "mom 'n pop" business, selling bowling apparel. The basement of their house had been lined with shelves, where they warehoused nearly a thousand shirts. When they received an order from some Midwestern bowling lane proprietor for six Nat Nast "Pacer" shirts, in green, three mediums and three larges, my dad would first pull the shirts from the basement. Then they'd get taken to some lady who would sew each bowler's name over the pocket ... then he'd pick 'em up and take them to the place that "flocked" the printing on the back ... "Claudice's Clam Shack" or whatever. My mom did the bookkeeping. They were making enough money to get by ... just barely.

Anyway, I'm at work, one Friday in November 1977, and my mom calls me, crying. My dad is already pretty senile ... he's fucking up everything he touches, and she spends all day having people call her and scream about getting the wrong shirts or getting their shirts late, and if something doesn't change, SOON, by God, she is going to find a blunt instrument and KILL my dad. Anyway, yadda yadda yadda, I quit my job and became a bowling shirt mogul, almost overnight ... largely to save my father's life, and my mom's sanity.

Y'know what the worst thing is about selling bowling shirts? The worst thing is, when somebody asks you what you do for a living, you have to look 'em in the eye and say, "I sell bowling shirts!" I mean, what job sucks more? Scraping up roadkill? Anyway, I wanted to do my job as well as I could, and over the next few years, I'm humbly proud to say, I built the little mom 'n pop operation into a "real" business. We got a building downtown. We had tens of thousands of shirts in stock. There were sometimes as many as 25 employees ... some who sewed names over the pockets, some who flocked the team names on the backs of the shirts, some in charge of the printing, some in the art department, some who managed the folding and shipping out of nearly 10,000 orders a year. The bowling community throughout the Midwest (and beyond) was adorned in Sam Glass Bowling Apparel; we got pretty damn good at what we did. But again ... helloooooo! Reality check! This is just BOWLING shirts, okay?

Here's more about bowling shirts than you could possibly care to know: The bowling shirt industry (in the '70s and '80s, at least) had something very much in common with pumpkin farmers and tinsel manufacturers ... it's a very SEASONAL business. Nearly ALL bowling leagues begin around Labor Day. So, starting sometime in late August, 95% of our annual business happened in about a six-week period; by the end of October, it was all over.

So contemplate this for a moment: Each August, I've gotta hire about 20 very dependable, intelligent people ... folks who could spell correctly, people with integrity and conscientiousness ... AND who were willing to drag their sorry asses downtown for a minimum-wage job ... AND who would work with devout intensity for two or three months, and then get laid off, right before Thanksgiving. Sounds like fun, eh? And because ALL the orders for shirts arrived at the same time, SOME customers wound up getting their shirts right away, but MOST had to wait a LONG time, and they'd get more and more pissed, and yell louder and louder, each time they called.

I hated every minute of it ... every goddamn minute of it. When I'd wake up each day, my first thought was, "Oh shit ... I still sell bowling shirts."

Meanwhile, these two lovely people who used to be my parents became my co-workers, and it sucked. My mom was always so frail and sick that she was the least-dependable employee I had. My dad, bless his little heart, was pushing the senility envelope. He'd open the mail every day — everything was snail-mail back then ... this was even before FAXING! — then when he turned his back, we'd go through the trash and pull out all the checks he'd thrown away, all the orders he'd tossed out. He'd scream and yell ALL the damn time for NO discernable reason, and I'm ashamed to admit, I'd yell right back at him, causing everyone around us to be really uncomfortable, as you might imagine.

At least the 'rents got to go home each night. During our busy season, though, I pretty much LIVED on the 4th floor at 819 Broadway. I'd sleep on the floor, next to my desk, and occasionally drive home to shower and drive right back. I had no life; I ignored my friends.

Around the end of 1984, my frail ol' mom slipped on the ice and broke her leg. That was the beginning of five grueling months in the hospital. With her out of the picture, and with my dad's Alzheimer's making each day a living hell, I decided I either had to get OUT of the bowling shirt biz, or it would kill me.

I mentioned this one day to a business friend of mine — a professional bowler named Judy Soutar — and she gave me hope: She said she knew these guys ... three brothers ... who might very well be interested in buying the business. So I met with these guys, and sure enough, they'd be willing to take over the reins, they said. I spent the next couple of weeks figuring out how much the business was WORTH (inventory + equipment + good reputation) and in January of 1985, I presented the brothers with a proposal. The proposal was the most difficult thing I'd ever done ... I'm not very strong on business skills. It boiled down to this: They get EVERYTHING, including the employees, AND including one additional month of service from ME. In exchange, I would get to keep my beloved typewriter, and they'd write me a check for $65,000.

I handed the proposal to the #1 brother, one crisp winter morning, and I swear, he didn't even READ it ... just signed it without a squawk, shook my hand, and walked out the door. Pretty much. I could've made it ten times as much, and he wouldn't have blinked an eye.

I split the dough with my now-75-year-old dad, who LOST his half; I shit you not. I spent my $32,500 on a cool TV (it had the ability to receive those new CABLE channels), plus lots of expensive birthday presents for my friends and family, and picking up the check at restaurants, and some really good pot.

My mom, who had been in the hospital since she'd broken her leg, lasted until late April, when she finally ... thankfully ... died.

There are things that smart business people know how to do that the rest of us honest folks haven't got a clue about, and I learned one of those things in 1985: The three brothers couldn't have cared less about bowling shirts. They're all millionaires, and their profession is, they buy up little businesses like mine, run 'em into the ground, declare bankruptcy, and make a HUGE profit. I didn't have a clue that was their intention, but I sure found out quickly. Almost immediately, after my final month of service had ended, they fired all the employees (several of whom had become dear friends of mine) ... sold off all the inventory for pennies on the dollar, moved everything out of the office/warehouse/plant that I'd so painstakingly nurtured over the years, and stacked it up in a tiny little warehouse about ten miles away.

But none of THAT happened until my contracted final month of service was over. I spent that last month largely engaged in PR work ... calling my dozens of suppliers and hundreds of customers ... and assuring them that, even though Bill and Sam weren't going to be there anymore, they'd still be able to count on Sam Glass Bowling Apparel to be there for them, blah, blah, blah. I was particularly going to miss all those bowling lane proprietors that I'd grown to know. These folks, bless their hearts, were notoriously slow-witted ... people who seldom ate at McDonald's because the menu was too complicated. But they were among the nicest, sweetest men and women on the planet, and I was genuinely going to feel a void.

The last day arrived; my tenure was up. It was a Saturday, and one of the brothers was there, getting a tour (from me) of everything he now owned, listening to a hundred boring stories (like this one) about what had transpired there, over the last few years. I showed him where the key to the toilet paper dispenser was ... all the cubby holes and hiding places.

Then he left. I was alone on the 4th floor of 819 Broadway. I had nothing to do, no orders to fill, no shirts to print, no calls to make. To satisfy my ethical imperative, I remained seated at my desk until 5 o'clock, exactly.

Five arrived. I unplugged my typewriter, put it under my arm, and walked toward the door. There were some latent emotional pangs surfacing ... for some reason, I milked it for all the drama I could. I stood at the elevator door, then I turned around ... slowly, reflectively ... I sighed heavily several times, and I'm not entirely sure that I didn't shed a tear or two (as, admittedly, I am now, as I write this). The elevator door opened. I flicked off the light, stepped into the elevator, and I felt strangely as if I were in a womb, being reborn, like at the end of "2001." It was February 23, 1985 ... the single best day of my life.

Even now, 20 years later, most of my worst nightmares involve bowling shirts. I dream about the shouting matches with my dad (whose brain stopped working altogether several years before he died in 1995). And I dream about those angry bowling alley owners, calling and screaming, "Where are my shirts?!" My scariest nightmares are about having to fire people ... that was, by FAR, the worst part of my job. I knew I would never put myself in that position again. I'd never felt so inhumane.

I've had to deal with a lot of shit since that fateful day. Unhappily married for 15 years. The deaths of friends and family and pets. The Bush presidency. The trials and tribulations of trying to manage a home business without going broke. The aches and pains of being a fat 52-year-old diabetic with a bad ticker. But there isn't a single day that goes by — I swear this is true — where I don't pause and consciously acknowledge that, no matter what grief gets dumped on me, this day, at least I'm not selling bowling shirts ... and that just cheers me right up.

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November 2005

The Missing Pronoun

Our language has a MISSING PRONOUN. We NEED one that nobody's ever invented. We use personal pronouns for animate objects, right? He, us, they, who. And for inanimate objects, we have other pronouns ... it, that, which. It's correct to say, "Bob is the guy whose car broke down." WHOSE is a personal pronoun; Bob is a person. But what if it's inanimate? "That is the car whose engine broke down." We still have to use WHOSE ... a PERSONAL pronoun ... because there isn't an inanimate equivalent, in this case. The MISSING PRONOUN!

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January 2005

Well Glory b

This is just the product of a mindless day with nothing to do. I was signing an e-mail, as I nearly always do, with just a lower-case letter "b" ... and it occurred to me that, instead of "Sincerely" or "Best regards" ... perhaps I could think of a more poignant salutation to precede that single letter. Well, I did — "Let it, b" — so then I tried to do it with the other 25 letters in the alphabet. I didn't succeed with ALL letters, but here are a few. If you can think of any to fill the gaps, you will let me know, right?

What the,
a

Let it,
b

It's what you don't,
c

Fiddle-dee,
d

Don't be sill,
e

Soft 'n spun,
g

It is,
i

What the,
l

That's just who I,
m

Gotta go,
p

Four,
q

Kiss my,
s

Two for,
t

Screw,
u

Groo,
v

Double me,
w

Tell me,
y

Call me cray,
z

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July 2004

Number Three

When the doorbell rang at 8:55 this morning, I jumped out of bed, ran downstairs, and peeked out the window, to see who it was. I recognized the Post Office truck outside, and thus surmised that it was our block's regular carrier. When she brings a package that's too large to fit in my mailbox, she generally rings the bell before she walks away, just to let me know she's been here, and that there's a package sitting on my front stoop. (She's familiar with my troll-like existence.)

Since I was unkempt and not yet really awake, I waited for her to leave, then I opened the door. But there WAS no package ... instead, along with a mailbox full of regular stuff, there was a little card saying that a signature-required Express Mail package would be available to pick up after 2 p.m. at the main post office in Mission. Drat!

So I quickly grabbed a cap and my glasses, hopped in the car, and went to find her. I got down to Grant Avenue, looked right, and there was a postal truck, right there, in somebody's driveway, across from the school parking lot. I approached ... it was a guy I didn't recognize ... handed him the card, but he said he'd never seen it before. "This isn't from me," he says. "This was a THREE ... a number three!" Not waiting around to ask what that meant, I got back in my car to find the postal person who HAD left the card.

Didn't have to drive much further. Right there at 84th & Grant was another truck, and when I reached it, I recognized my regular carrier, sitting behind the wheel. I handed her the card, she looked at it, and said, "I'm sorry ... I didn't give you this ... this is a THREE ... a number three!"

I would've stuck around to ask questions, but as you recall, I'd just gotten out of bed, and I really needed to get to a friendly bathroom, if y'know what I mean.

It was a TWO ... a number two.

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February 2003

Trip to Office Depot

I just returned from Office Depot, where I needed to buy one of those desk lamps that clamp onto the side of the desk, and there's an elbow-bendy-thing ... you know what I mean? I'm standing in there, looking at the three or four varieties available. Being the anal-retentive proofreader that I am, I notice that, printed on one box, the "Features" list includes "sturdy 2-inch clamp" ... but on the box of a DIFFERENT model (same manufacturer) the "Features" list includes "sturdy 2-inch LAMP." As I stood there, tickled by this obvious typo, some lard-ass piercing victim in a red vest walks by and asks if he can explain anything. "No thanks," I reply, politely. "But y'wanna see something funny?" I show him the typo on the box. And what's his response? Defensively: "Uh, I'm sorry sir, but we don't print those boxes ourselves. Would you like to talk with the manager?"

This is one of the reasons I buy everything ONLINE, nowadays.

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July 2001

My Friend Barb

First off, here is what you need to know: A couple years ago, I met Barb, who has since become a very dear friend. What's WEIRD is, we're kinda like clones of each other, although we'd never met. We're the same age ... we both grew up Jewish in the same suburb ... we're both vertically and gravitationally challenged (short 'n fat) ... and we both spend each 'n every day in our respective basements, doing the same kind of work on our computers. She lives just a few blocks from here.

Okay? File that away. Here's the deal:

There's a huge reunion coming up in September for anyone in the Midwest who was part of the official youth organization at our respective temples. (Another reason I never knew Barb ... she wasn't in this group.) The reunion folks are inviting a 40-year span of eligible participants. My job is to keep track of the database ... I get all the names of the people attending, their addresses, etc.

I love funny names. I was working on this list, late one night recently, and I came upon the name Robin Lavinsky Czarlinsky. I don't know this person, but the name tickled me. I kept repeating it over and over in my head. And what's really nuts is, it reminded me of a song out of my childhood (my brain works that way ... I can't explain it). The song was from the Disney movie, "101 Dalmatians." These were the lyrics:

We'll have a Dalmatian Plantation,
Where our population can roam.
In this new location,
Our whole aggregation
Will love our plantation home....
Dalmatian Plantation home!

And I started humming....

I'm Robin Lavinsky Czarlinsky,
And here is my Uncle Jerome.
Here's Irving, my brother,
And Shirley, my mother . . .

That's about as far as I got. Anyway.... the next morning, I get a call from my friend Barb (remember Barb? It's a story about Barb...) And she said this: "I've got a wedding to go to soon, and it's a family custom for people to come up with song parodies ... like Allan Sherman or Weird Al ... and I'm no good at that, and I know you ARE good at such things ... could you help?"

I explained to her that I'd LIKE to help, but I'm WAY too busy with work this month ... and more importantly ... lyrics like this are easy if you KNOW the members of the family, y'know? If I knew her family, I might have an edge, but I don't. And I said that, sorry ... there was nothing I could do.

She pleaded. "Oh PLEASE come up with something. ANYTHING!!" At that moment, I vaguely recalled that little tune that was bouncing around in my head, the night before. I explained to Barb the whole thing about the reunion database, and why I'd been looking at a list of everybody who was coming, and that I'd come upon a name that had amused me, thereby inspiring the little ditty that floated briefly through my brain, based on the song "Dalmatian Plantation" from that ol' Disney flick. "Y'wanna hear it?" She says, "Sure!"

So I explain that the name I saw that prompted this is someone from St. Louis whom I do not know, 18 years younger than me ... her name is Robin Lavinsky Czarlinsky ... and the song goes:

I'm Robin Lavinsky Czarlinsky,
And here is my Uncle Jer......................

Barb interrupts me. "Get OUT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Huh?

"HOW DID YOU KNOW?"

Huh?

WHAT THE...?

Robin Lavinsky Czarlinsky, as it turns out, is the sister of the groom, at the wedding for which Barb needs this witty ditty. As a matter of fact, Barb said she knew that her cousin Robin was going to be "missing some reunion thing" ... because she has to be at her brother's wedding in New York.

In my life, I've personally experienced an inordinate number of coincidences, but none comes close to this. Thanks for listening.

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March 2001

It's a Mystery

Y'know how, every once in awhile, you'll see a file or two on your hard drive, and you have no idea what they are or where they came from?

Last night, I noticed 26 relatively small, nearly identical files on my "D" drive. They were dated 11/1/00. They were all similarly and cryptically named: Ima3DE ... Ima4AC ... Ima45B. No three-letter file extension. Tried clicking one... but without a file extension, they wouldn't open. So I looked at one of 'em in Notepad, and the resulting gobbledygook left me fairly sure that these were EPS files, created with Photoshop 3.0.5.

So I slapped an .EPS extension on all 26 files, and went into Photoshop to view them. Opened the first one. It was simple black type on a white background, about seven inches wide by four high, and it simply contained the word "Shears" in an ugly font called "Freestyle Script." Hmmm. Odd ... doesn't seem familiar. So I looked at the next one. It's identical ... the exact same image: "Shears." The third one, however, was different: Same font, same size, but this one said "Minks." I looked at all 26 files. Seventeen of them said "Shears" and the other nine said "Minks." That's it. No other variations.

I don't know anyone named Ima. I rarely use Freestyle Script. And under any imaginable circumstances, if ya got ONE file that says "Shears" or "Minks" ... what's the point in having MULTIPLE files with the same image?

This one is gonna haunt me ... got any ideas?

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April 2000

Crushed

After Jeopardy today, I was flipping around to find something other than news, and I found a show called "Crush" on USA Network. I'd surfed into this show previously. The deal is, some college guy comes out, and then they introduce three girls that he knows, ONE of whom has a crush on him. He has to ask them stupid questions, and they have to provide stupid answers, and then he has to figure out which one has the crush. If he guesses, they get a "dream date," or something like that, I think.

The girls' introductions on today's show: Girl #1 met him at a dance, about a year ago. They did a little "dirty dancing," she says, and they haven't really seen each other since. The second girl met him at a "football party" about eight months ago. Ever since, she's gone to every football game, and yelled his name a lot. Then the third girl came out. The host says, "And when did YOU first meet Derrick?" She says, "It was at a party, about three years ago ... it was on a dare, so he and I went into a bedroom and I gave him oral sex."

Without missing a beat, the host says, "And you haven't dated SINCE then?" No, they haven't. The host says, "That was quite a memorable first meeting." She says, "Well, it was on a dare, and I was like, y'know, why not?"

"Okay Derrick ... there are your three contestants ... the dirty dancer, the football fan, and the oral sex ... we'll be right back after this message from Geico...."

I've seldom witnessed such a blatant step forward in our development as a culture and as a species.

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May 1999

Night and Day

[This is about my Uncle Jerry, who died in 2006. Great guy, Jerry. Here's a poignant example of HOW great.]

Every once in awhile, I like to call my Uncle Jerry, just to say hello. I've been so busy, lately, that I don't call nearly as often as I should. But today was Saturday, and it was 3:30-ish, so I called to see if he was home ... and he was. He chatted with me, cordially, for several minutes ... kept asking me if everything was okay, and I kept assuring him that it was. He was okay too, he said.

As we hung up, I promised him that I'd find a day, soon, to teach him how to use his computer, and that we'd be getting together for dinner very soon, too. He told me how glad he was that I called, and we hung up.

Less than minute later, I realized that it was 3:30 a.m. No, that is NOT a typo: 3:30 A.M. I had been in "Saturday mode," and I'd been working VERY quietly and intensely for several hours ... and when I looked up at the clock, it just never occurred to me that it was dark outside, or that my wife and dog were both upstairs, asleep.

My conversation with Jerry had begun with my asking him how he was, and he said, "Well, I was asleep." I thought, "Aww, the ol' guy is taking an afternoon nap." I said I was sorry I woke him, and that I was just calling to say hello.

I called Jerry RIGHT back, before he'd had a chance to fall asleep again. I explained to him that, I swear to God, I thought it was 3:30 in the afternoon, and that I would NEVER call him at this hour, just to chat. I begged him to forgive me.

He could barely talk, he was laughing so hard. He was totally amused. No harsh words, no whining. Just laughing his ass off. And now he's got an excuse to (good-naturedly) ride my ass, every time I see him, for the rest of our lives. And I'll deserve it. [And he did.]

There are all kinds of people on this planet ... Jerry is the kind I admire most.

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October 1998

Sam's New Home

First time I took my dad to an actual nursing home was way more traumatic for me than it was for him. He really had no clue that he was moving, or where he was, or why.

It was late afternoon when we got there, and I could see some of the residents sitting around lifelessly, through the windows by the door where we entered. We walked in, I took him down the hall to his room ... showed him where everything was, tried to explain to him what was going on ... tried to get him as acclimated as possible. He remained completely calm and placid ... that's just about the only state of mind he had left, by then. When I finally left this horrible place, it had already started to get dark outside. He remained seated, emotionless, at the foot of his bed.

I walked down the hallway, exited into the parking lot, got into my car, took a couple of deep breaths, and began to drive away. As I did so, I looked up at that window by the door, and there stood Sam, nose pressed to the glass, just gazing into space with moon-sized eyes reflecting nothing but incredible sadness, total confusion, and a pinch of fear.

I keep trying to forget that image, but I'm pretty sure I never will.

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October 1997

Limerick

The child born to Mrs. Malloy
She named "Weber" ... her bundle of joy!
It was clear as the air
That she just didn't care
If the kid was a grill or a boy.

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