Writing about…numbers, I think. Or things we can’t control, like the weather. Maybe something else. Really, deadlines are weird. Anyway, new column is up:
But they don’t understand, these others. They don’t get the Northwest Dividend, those spectacular days that Nature banks for us, waiting for just the right moment so that our jaws drop and our eyes widen, and we remember why we live here. We’ve learned to be patient, but the past two years have been miserable, and now it’s over.
I watched the American Masters documentary on Johnny Carson last night, happy that PBS had put it up on their site so quickly after it premiered, since I’ve yet to get even a hint of a signal from our local PBS station over the air. It was excellent, using a nice variety of sources (old family movies were the surprise; the man developed his famous tics early on, it turns out). Bravo, public television.
Other than sentiment, though, and nostalgia, I kept thinking about how our world has changed. And I kept thinking I had thought those things many times before. It took me a while to remember.
From February 2005.
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I decided to give it a week, just to see what, if anything, I had to say.
I don’t have any anecdotes, after all. I never met him. I was never on the receiving end of his encouragement or generosity. He didn’t change my life, as far as I know, or particularly influence the way I thought or what I wanted to do.
I was curious, though, from the moment I turned on the TV that late Sunday morning and saw that Johnny Carson had died. I watched the coverage off and on that day, until both the clips and Don Rickles began to get a little repetitive. Maybe it’s because it’s a Sunday, I thought, a slow news day, but I suspected something else.
As the remembrances and testimonials continued into the week, someone mentioned that it was as if a head of state had passed away. I tried to remember if the death of another show business personality had ever got as much attention and I came up empty. It seemed that a good part of America got a little wistful for a week.
And I wondered about that.
There are good reasons, of course, and we’ve heard them all by now. How his Midwestern roots endowed him with heartland sensibilities that appealed to all of us. How his ownership of “The Tonight Show” (first figurative and then, eventually, literal) and his personal passion kept the quality high over that amazing run. How, during tumultuous times, we waited to hear Johnny’s spin in that opening monologue, to laugh before bed and talk about the next day.
But as I listened to, and read, the reactions of ordinary people, people like me, people who never sat on the couch and joked with Ed and Doc, I sensed something else, and I finally realized that I was hearing “I grew up with Johnny Carson” a lot.
It makes sense, too. That big chunk of demographic, the Baby Boomers, would have been anywhere from teenagers to toddlers when he started on “Tonight,” and while maybe their parents caught less of the show, sacrificing a few yuks for that 6am alarm and work the next day, a lot of us were night crawlers, at least in the summers and holidays, and Johnny owned the night.
It was that way for me, at any rate. Over the years, first as a teenager with a small black-and-white TV in my bedroom, then in college while I was supposed to be studying, or after the occasional swing shifts I worked in my 20s, I passed a lot of years with Mr. C.
The pictures that have been painted of this man in the past week or so are interesting, if only for the glimpse we get of a very private person who spent the last 13 years of his life out of the spotlight. We understand that he was painfully shy, uncomfortable in large groups or with strangers off the set. He battled booze, apparently. He was intelligent with a wide range of interests, including astronomy. He never lost his love of magic. He smoked like a chimney.
And, of course, he had that particular constellation of talents and traits that made him, simply, the best that ever did that peculiar job, and probably ever will.
Still, I wondered about all the fuss, and then realized the answer was there all the time, in my own house.
I went into my son’s room that Sunday, sat on his bed, and told him the news. He sighed, hung his head a bit, and said, “Oh, no.”
Think about this. He was born in 1990, two years before Carson left for good. How could he possibly know?
Because I taught him.
Ten years ago, for Father’s Day my wife gave me a set of Carson tapes, collections of moments, monologues and skits. And a few years later, I passed them on to my son, just to see if he liked them.
He wore them out, literally. He thought, this then 10-year-old boy, that this was the funniest stuff he’d ever seen, even if it was thirty years old. I thought so, too, and now, suddenly, I know what I think.
I think we used to share a lot more, all of us, families and strangers. And even though, as today, we could be divided about politics and war, we had things in common, things we saw and heard. Now our choices are seemingly endless, so you have your show and I have mine, she has her music and he has his, I’m on the Internet and you’re listening to your iPod and he’s playing a video game and she’s watching ESPN.
Choices are good, and change is inevitable, and there’s no going back to 1975, anyway. But my son and I sat and laughed again together that day, watching the clips, and it occurred to me that there used to be more of that. A time when a lot of us laughed together, at the same moment, at the same things, up later than we should have been, unable to resist, knowing that going to bed with a smile is a good thing, knowing that millions of your neighbors were smiling, too.
————
You can watch the entire show, for the time being anyway, online here.
Given that we’ve been having some relatively warm days recently (meaning my relatives would laugh at “warm”), I spent five minutes the other day putting on a pair of shorts.
This is my personal philosophy, you understand. Anything that is theoretically possible, if perhaps unlikely, can be achieved, depending on how long you can hold your breath.
I wore them for a while, took a little walk to the store, and they looked fine and actually fit mostly OK, but snugness is fine for certain things and not fine for others. Certain areas are not meant to be snug, so I ditched these for another time, thinking they’d be more comfortable if I lost five pounds. Maybe eight. Not out of the question, and even though we’re warming up this weekend I can live without shorts.
Julie found them somewhere the other day, in some basket somewhere, and after I peeled them off I read the label and understood. These were 2009 shorts, probably Santa Fe shorts. Explains a lot.
That summer I dropped 10 or more pounds, unintentionally, just the result of busyness and some stress, a crosscountry road trip, my daughter’s wedding in New Mexico. I got home and the scale said 168, a number I never saw again and might not in my lifetime, no big deal, but now it makes sense.
I’ve managed to lose some winter flab this spring, some in a burst of dedicated stationary biking, the rest just changing a few things. All without getting near a scale, a personal triumph. I haven’t stepped on one of those since last summer, and with some discipline I’ll avoid doing that until I’m in a doctor’s office, at which point I hope I turn my head away. Some things you’re better off not knowing.
Which is my point. I spent a lot of time with the scale and have, over the past few years, until, like staring at the word “sausage” too long, it became too abstract. It’s a dumb device with no nuance, telling you what you weigh without taking into account the two cups of coffee you just drank (that’s a pound of fluid right there, at least) or how bulky your shoes are. I stood on it too many cold mornings, naked and shivering and dehydrated, hoping for the best, and now I’m done. I quit you, scale. Go spoil somebody else’s day.
The iPhone helps, or a couple of fun apps, one that tracks via GPS my walking routes, miles and minutes and calories, and another that just lets me keep track of intake. I started doing that last June, using the scale only to calibrate and make sure I wasn’t crazy, and sometime in late August I was done with that. I still keep track of everything, self-quantifying as always, but now I have a virtual scale that goes up and down in my mind with no nakedness involved. Totally cool.
And it works, for me. Those jeans that don’t fit until I’m at least under 185? Pulled them on at 184 on the virtual scale and snapped them shut. Now they’re loose and comfy, and my VS says I’m a hair under 180, which means the Santa Fe shorts should fit but maybe be snug…and there you go. I won. I’d throw the scale away if my wife didn’t have bouts of masochism from time to time.
Because I’m nearly 54 and I’m not trying to impress or woo or fix a cholesterol level, I just want to be comfortable and not have to search for clothes that fit. I want to sit in a tiny airplane seat and not be miserable, or make others miserable. That’s it.
And I’m at a time in life, maybe, when I don’t want to be bothered by things I can’t control, stupid political posts and gossip and strangers on the street and certainly lima beans, and the whims of a spring scale. Been there, over it.
I could be delusional, too. I think I weigh around 178, and maybe it’s really 210, and the pants have stretched out and the world has gone crazy, and I don’t care, and I’m real sure you don’t. Also, you’re probably still staring at “sausage.” Stop.
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I loved “Moonstruck,” even if it suffers from the limitations of the genre, impossible coincidences, unbelievable events, compressed narrative. It’s a romantic comedy; we excuse things, we want to believe, we need to. What this 25-year-old film did make me think, though, was how ill-suited movies are to portraying real romance, lacking the extra element of years. The best love stories take time. My favorite one did.
I didn’t and don’t have particular feelings about Maurice Sendak, other than the usual accolades and amazement. I get the impression he was an odd, sort of haunted man, which drove his creativity, but then duh.
But whenever someone famous passes, I come back to this: There are people who cross my mind occasionally, again famous, not personal, people who are no longer with us, and I have these jolts of sadness. I can’t explain it or have much of a desire to.
I could make a longer list. These are five who crop up often. Again, I have no interest in trying to explain it. I just feel the world is less well.
I’m not going to mention physics, although God knows I could get all cute with that, done it, been it.
And nothing about vacuums and nature and abhorrence. My ability to be hackneyed seems unlimited but not this, not here, and not tomorrow.
Just an equation, then. Time plus space. So tempted to talk about the Second Law now but no.
Oh. Plus kids. Not just people. Kid people, because they grow up, and they discard. Toys. Bikes. Furniture. Oh, man. You wouldn’t believe the furniture that has been absolutely destroyed.
Anyway. We’ve been in this house a long time. There’s a lot of room here, particularly in the past nine years (nine? Really, it’s been that long since she graduated and left home?). We have the time, we have the space. We had the kids.
We have a garage, I mean. Big one. And a basement. Pretty big.
Whoops. Almost mentioned gravity, didn’t I? The puniest of the forces, but still. Stuff gravitates. All our stuff went down, into the basement, into the garage, and tomorrow I’m getting rid of a lot of it. How much is questionable, and has to be a lot less than I hope, but I rented a truck. And unless a friend of mine gets one of those spontaneous astrocytomas like John Travolta in “Phenomenon” and suddenly gets a lot smarter, he’s coming over to help.
Seriously. The broken furniture alone would be worth a reality show.
There’s nothing hoarder-like about this. Just procrastination and, as I say, an equation. A couple of decades will add up.
I have no idea if there are surprises waiting for me in that garage tomorrow. I might do some prep work tonight, but essentially I plan on just grabbing crap and putting it in the truck, then driving a mile or so to the dump. Repeat. Might rinse.
I doubt I’ll have an empty garage by tomorrow night, but I’ll have a garage again. And maybe some floor space. And possibly sore arms, and possibly one less friend, but I’m trying to be optimistic here. Pictures will be taken.
There were a few unspoken but hoped-for benefits from attending my recent college reunion, none of which materialized. I didn’t find my watch from 1978. That guy who seriously still owes me 2 bucks? He doesn’t remember that at all.
And I thought I could conduct an arthropological survey, taking advantage of my cohort, something I’m always interested in. At the age of 30, I cleaned out my desk and took work home for good, becoming what I thought would be the front line of an imminent wave of telecommuters. This didn’t turn out, by the way; lots of people do some work from home, but less than 3% of us actually completely telecommute. And of course I’m not really a telecommuter, but I thought of myself that way back in the late 80s, when I had an “employer” and even a “job.”
But nearly a quarter-century of this has left me in stasis, only barely aware of how people my age are supposed to be. I developed habits based not on fashion but atrophy. I would relent and get a haircut when my wife suggested, in a kind way, that she was embarrassed to be seen with me. I wore clothes until the holes in them threatened to expose family secrets. I used slang that seemed hip when Jimmy Carter roamed the White House, at least until I mostly stopped talking.
So I welcomed a chance to hang around people my own age, see how they acted, reacted, spoke and dressed. I observed their hair. I listened for new, interesting words. I was prepared to take notes.
It was a bust. They all seemed pretty much the same, except some of them now wore glasses. Nobody talked much about their kids, or their jobs, or their latest toys. Actually, a lot of them drank a fair amount of the time, which is exactly what we did in college.
What I did notice, then, was me. As the pictures started popping up online, what shreds of vanity I still retain started to tremble and then fall off, culminating in two, not one but two, comments on a recent picture posted on Facebook from the reunion. I thought it was an OK picture, not goofy, not embarrassing, not showing that huge bald spot I have on the back of my head. And yet these two thoughtful commenters, one a family member and the other a family friend (so they should know better, you would think) mentioned that I have developed a startling resemblance to my grandfather.
Let’s be fair. They didn’t say, “You remember when Grandpa had a stroke and was in the rehab center and really sick and then he died? You look like that.” But of course that’s what I was thinking.
Hey, I enjoy seeing family resemblances, but mostly in other people. I want to look unique, as if I were dropped on this planet, an accidental delivery from a totally different gene pool, which frankly would explain a lot.
Mostly, though, it made me think it’s time to get rid of the beard.
I grew it last summer on a whim, urged on by most people of the double-x variety, who now I suspect had a secret agenda (Ha! We’re going to look great standing next to him with that white beard). I could be sensitive here.
I like beards. I like growing them, I like trimming them, I like that it’s an easy way to shake up the face in the mirror. I never intended for it to be a permanent look. I thought, what, a few months, have some fun, get into a few movies cheaper, then off with it and youth reappears!
Here’s what I think: I think youth is not going to reappear. I think youth is too busy with the young, and instead is going to send a substitute, which will be their good friend Aging Jawline, but still I’m shaving it.
I’m looking forward to being a grandparent, actually. I have no qualms, just anticipation, and no rules except no dumb names, no “Boo-Pa” or “Poo-Pappy” for me. These second-generation offspring can feel free to call me Grandpa, or Grandfather, or Dude. Mr. Chuck will also be fine.
But I want to look like me, not my grandfather, as much as I loved and admired him, and miss him still, and who, now I think about it, only rarely had a beard. It’s too late to change my mind, though. And I seriously need to start wearing a hat more.
“Poo-Pappy”
I had three moments of horror on my past trip to Arizona – and I mean horror, scares, all sorts of imaging a future that might be; I don’t want to dilute the word, or reserve it for guys in hockey masks, but you understand. A notch up from fear, most of it theoretical.
The third one is personal and not to be talked about right here, right now. Although we’re good, fine, healthy.
The first occurred on Sunday as I was leaving Flagstaff for my trip down to Payson to see my mom. It had snowed for 24 hours on Saturday, and although Sunday was bright and beautiful, and so damn picturesque I was tempted to take an extra hour and wander around town, I resisted; maybe I should return sooner than later.
My rental car was covered with what suspiciously looked like a foot of snow, so I borrowed an ice scraper from the hotel clerk, who demanded my driver’s license as collateral. After a good 25-30 minutes cleaning off the snow, I returned the tool and got my ID back.
Although I was not my ID. It was the driver’s license for a California dude who maybe had a passing resemblance, or maybe was just about the same age and build. I noticed it right away and got that straightened out, but couldn’t help imagine finding this out just before I went through security at Sky Harbor.
Secondly, my iPhone bricked up on me, as I was sitting in Mom’s house, just trying to access her Wifi network – a network I installed and secured. Just went into Recovery mode, that phone, needing a computer with iTunes to fix. Mom does not have iTunes, and the fun and hours began.
This is where we are, then, and what we do. Traveling without my phone? Might as well send me to Mars without some extra oxygen. For a moment I was stuck in the 21st century, desperately trying to remember how I handled this situation in 1987.
All turned out well. I am who my ID says I am, and Apple swiftly took me back to factory and then restored by latest back-up (two days before). My pictures from the trip were safety stored on iCloud, losing only a few videos.
It could have been worse, then, and that stuck around for the entire trip. I have so much to say about this reunion, even though I tried in this week’s column (I got home with about an hour to meet my deadline, so I did the best I could and left the good thoughts off somewhere for another time).
And I suppose I could make some statement about our safety lines to technology, or the state of the TSA, or even the state of sloppy desk clerks, but really: Bottom line here. It snowed like nobody’s business in April in Flagstaff, and as far as I knew everyone managed just fine. The roads off the mountain were clear if wet, and the hotel we stayed at was surprisingly elegant and even fancy.
I got home safe, in other words, but probably 
not the same. I have other things to say, but also other things to do. There’s an ordination this weekend, and I do believe I need some clothes. There are serious homeowner issues, long put off, that need to be addressed. Taxes had to be mailed, clothes needed to be washed, photos from the weekend photoshopped to get rid of wrinkles: Busy busy.
But something happened, something subtle, something nice, and as soon as I figure it out I’ll let you know. Laundry awaits in the meantime.
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Gather round, children, and I’ll tell you what I did on Opening Day of baseball season.
What’s that, young fella? You want to get back to Halo XI or some such nonsense? You say baseball is slow, a poor excuse for getting outside in the fresh air and eating overpriced hot dogs? You run outside and cut me a good switch, boy. No, better yet, look at what I’m holding in my hand.
It’s called a videotape. It’s what came before all your fancy-dancy digital toys. A good old-fashioned analog storage device, the videotape. Don’t get smart with me; we can still find us a switch.
Two weeks ago I ran out of things to say, although I didn ‘t realize it at the time. It wasn’t acute, sudden, shocking, grasping at my throat and bulging my eyes. It wasn’t anything, except an awareness, eventually, that dull moments had accumulated and no news was the news.
Nothing to report from here. Carry on.
And, of course, there was plenty of news. Plenty of everything. I just ran out of personal perspective juice. It’s awkward.
Although, I have to say that I have an advantage, being an almost entirely virtual human being, if dropping off the radar is what you consider an advantage. One of my neighbors might notice, I think, if I disappeared, but still: I probably would have a decent headstart if I wanted to vanish. Even in this household, I might be able to construct some sort of equivalent of stuffing pillows under the covers in a vaguely human shape. The dishes would pile up, I guess.
Here’s how bad it got: Monday I wrote a column in the third person. I literally couldn’t start a sentence from a personal point of view, even though I had one. As I say, awkward. I have deadlines.
There are a couple of possible reasons, although there are always the usual suspects. The weather has been ugly. Depression is always a consideration. Aging takes its toll, and so on.
But being skeptical about anything I can’t slap into a spreadsheet, not trusting my brain far enough to toss it, I’ll note that I made a few changes in my habits. I have this college reunion coming up next week, and after I dithered and whined about expense and timing, I finally decided to commit. I’m looking forward to it, but preparation was in order considering that I have a limited wardrobe.
This sort of thing, at this stage of our lives, is pretty low on the vanity scale. First, if we’re going to attend, that probably means we’re alive. Advantage automatically. Second, the playing field has leveled, and even people who look more or less the same have shrugged their shoulders. Age happens. This isn’t the prom.
But I wanted to avoid my usual style sense, which is sweatpants and any number of salsa-stained T-shirts. I bought three pairs of pants a couple of months ago, noticing a sale, all on the tight side. They’ll do fine for a trip, so all I had to do was loosen the waistline a little. I upped my exercise and limited my diet, then, which focused my attention and maybe cost me inspiration. That’s one theory, anyway.
The pants fit fine now, by the way. Not a big deal.
And we can look at timing, too, since being mute coincided with Big News. After nearly a year, and of course nearly 10 years, and of course nearly 14 years, on the first day of spring, at the Seattle Presbytery meeting held in the Eastlake area of Seattle in an area undergoing serious construction and thus making parking sort of a nightmare – I’m just noting this because I tend to relive parking experiences, it wasn’t a big part of the evening – my wife’s call by St. Andrew Presbyterian was approved. Voice vote. A few questions, a few lovely answers, moving on, after all this time.
You’re thinking there was an anticlimactic aspect to this. Don’t. It was very climactic.
But it did feel like the air escaped. Like whatever role I played in this long, very frustrating drama was over. It was never defined, other than run-of-the-mill spouse supportiveness and maybe, in my mind, centurion, security detail, protecting my wife from the mean people, who really weren’t mean, although maybe they had vision issues. Really, I just was along for the ride, whatever dark fantasies I had. Ride over.
So maybe that can shut a guy up. Her ordination is scheduled for April 22. Life will go on. It will be beautiful, but there are always Sundays.
Whatever the reason, I got quiet. Quiet enough that the Reverend Missus noticed. Others. Probably not you. As I say, sort of a virtual person.
But, as I also say, alive, and feeling the advantage. And the pants will be fine.