Word to My Mothers: A Tribute (Prologue)

Triple-Entendre
The title of this series is multi-faceted in intention. At first glance it probably appears to merely be another smartass attempt of mine to get you to think me clever in the turning of a phrase — and if you thought that was my intention, you'd certainly be right. However beyond mere shallowness, I wanted the title of this series to be something that would make me, as well as anyone else who read it, think.

Being the tragically un-hip white boy that I am, I often attempt to cash in on phrases that are “street” so as to sound cool as well as deliver the comic relief that blares the obvious reality that I couldn’t be further from bearing that mantle. Naturally, I chose an expression that has been passe for probably ten years. However this play on the phrase, “Word to your Mother” really works here, because of the fact that it has a double-definition itself, and both of them apply to the story I’m about to tell.

According to what I’ve been told, its original connotation was that of a greeting honoring the recipient’s mother. More or less, it’s saying "tell your mom I said hello." The other subsequent connotation of the phrase is one of agreement, truth and affirmation, with the honor of the person’s mother as the standard of the reliability of the statement being agreed with.

Well, both of these connotations are appropriate in the case of this story’s context. In “Word to My Mothers” I’m going to address them both: my natural Mother, Annie, and my Stepmother, Maxine. I’m going to say hello to them. I’m going to honor them. I’m going to speak the truth about them.

The Mom I remember
This is a story that has been a long time coming for me - probably since the first week of my blog, when I marked the four-year anniversary of Maxine's death over Memorial day weekend in the year 2000.

I had the honor of delivering the eulogy at her funeral service, and it was an experience that I consider to have been life-changing. It was the first time I had ever done anything of that magnitude in terms of writing, or even thinking about the real significance of another person’s effect on my life. It is what I will always consider the birth of my life as a writer; the event that made me seriously think about how I express myself with the written word.

But aside from what I will always consider her final gift to me in the opportunity to deliver her eulogy, Maxine’s death was the end of an era for me as a person. It was the official end of my childhood. It was the place in time where I laid aside all of the hate, and resentment, and bile that I had ever felt for her, and began to look at the whole person; to choose to consider the difference between cruelty and world-view; between indifference and conviction. Those are distinctions that are sometimes difficult to divine when seen through the eyes of a teenager.

It was a process that had begun years before, but was still unfinished. But in sitting down and writing her eulogy, I acknowledged for the first time the circumstances surrounding her life and the mores of the time in which she grew up. Moreover still, I considered the paternal influences under which she was raised. I finally had to conclude that the methods that she employed were only what came as normal to her, and what she must have considered as her parental due-diligence to perform.

And while she wasn’t my natural Mother, I never really experienced much conflict in seeing her as such, because she was the only one of my Mothers whom I really knew. She was the only one who "raised me" during the time in my life that I could have been aware of what the term meant. She, in a very real sense, will forever be my real Mom, because I never had a real relationship with my natural one.

So how far from the tree did I fall, anyway?
Someone told me recently that sometimes, I’m just too damned nice. They’re probably right, but I come by it honestly. If you think I’m a nice guy, you should meet my Dad. He makes me look like the Marquis de Sade. And from what I know of my natural Mother, if kindness is an inherited trait, I’m afraid my DNA is hopelessly imbued with it from both sides. And that so makes me long to know who she really was.

Most of what I know of Annie comes from what my Dad has told me, but I have learned quite a bit more from the extensive family history book that my Uncle self-published in 1981 for our entire family to enjoy. It has since been updated twice, to include changes and updates on the lives and marriages/divorces of the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of my maternal grandparents. However the information on their original twelve children, including my Mom, has remained consistent. This book has been an invaluable resource for me, and I’ll be quoting from it liberally.

This story will be a tribute to the women in my life who I’ve called “Mom.” They are the women who shaped me, both genetically and morally; they are both, at the same time, my source of inner strength and deepest pain.

Am I proud to consider myself a son of them both?

Word to your mother.

Next: The soul of my soul

When ‘Close’ Is More Than Close Enough

Biting off more than I could chew. I sat down yesterday evening to prepare for my next substantial series of blog entries, centered on the two women in my lifetime whom I have called “Mom.” I realized I wasn’t quite ready to write it. The two inch-thick book on the family history of my maternal Grandfather and his progeny has extensive information on all twelve of the family’s children. The chapter on my Mother is even more substantial than I had remembered it being, so I really want to take some time to read through it so that I'll be prepared to write as complete a tribute to her as possible. I will try to get it all written this weekend, but not today. I apologize for the change in plans, but I probably should have thought it through first.

Instead I have another subject I will touch upon briefly which Aimee had requested I speak about several weeks ago — my career in the record biz. But first, a little more-recent background...

Playing A Different Tune
I’m a corporate Web Designer now and I love what I do. I was the first person I knew to jump aboard the Internet bandwagon back in 1994 with my first dial-up Unix-based ISP account. At that point it was just a matter of flailing away in the darkness — literally. There was no such thing as a GUI World Wide Web. Everything was text/syntax-based on a black screen.

Telnet, Usenet, Gopher, FTP — tenants of the Internet that the common user now has little or no concept of, these were the original Internet tools with which information was moved and harvested. They were a wonderful curiosity to me when I first got started, as I stumbled in with no prior knowledge beyond hearing the term ‘Internet’ a few times on TeeVee.

This was long before mass-consumer ISP accounts were even offered. AOL was still a proprietary ‘bulletin board’ type service. The Internet was still primarily the domain of academia and government. I had no clue how to do anything. I learned by trial and error. It was as frustrating as it was wondrous.

Back then the thing that distinguished the Web as such a wonderful new frontier was the advent of hyperlinks that you could click with your mouse and magically jump to another web page. Keep in mind though that you were still looking at white or sometimes green text on a black screen; it was still quite primitive by today’s standards.

Then along came the first graphical web browsers.

The first one I ever saw was a browser called Chello. It was the first browser developed exclusively for the Windows operating system. I remember just being floored by the difference between GUI and the UNIX text screens I’d grown used to. It was so exciting and different to see brilliant text and graphics, all composed together like a brochure on my monitor.

Later, Mosaic and Netscape were released. When Internet Explorer appeared on the scene it wasn't even owned by Microsoft yet.

But with this new means of displaying information, almost immediately I knew my life — and my vocation — were forever changed.

I saw the handwriting on the wall. I saw that this new graphics-rich World Wide Web was the future of my profession as a graphic designer, and knew that I needed to get in on the ground floor.

There’s much more from those early days of my Internet experience that I’d like to talk about eventually, but that’s not really what my story is about today.

As a prelude, I wanted to explain what lead me to the point of deciding to take my career in the direction I still pursue today; a much different one from that which I had assumed would be my lifelong focus.

I came to Nashville believing I would always work in the record business, but it obviously wasn’t meant to be. And while it may seem as though I’m sorta pining for the old days, I’m really not; the music industry has changed, and it’s many more times as difficult to make a decent living doing what I used to do now than it was 20 years ago. I consider myself lucky to have been involved at the place in time that I was.

There are indeed a lot of things I miss about the business. What I don’t miss is the pressure, the all-nighters, and the politics that were always a trade-off for the ‘privilege’ of working in such a prestigious medium.

The time in my life that I devoted to that earliest of my professional pursuits is a point of great pride; it doesn’t define me in any way, but it was one of the many things I now feel humbled to have been a part of. It was hard work but was also a helluva lot of fun.

Working in ‘The Business’
Up until 1995, I had exclusively worked as a commercial illustrator and graphic designer, with the bulk of my career being devoted to the record industry. In California I worked first as a freelance Production Artist for a well-known Art Director in the Jazz music packaging world, and later as in-house Art Director for her brother-in-law’s small, but highly significant Jazz and Adult Contemporary record label in Burbank, CA.

In 1992, I moved my family to Nashville for the expressed purpose of enjoying a better environment for them, while also being able to continue my then-current career path.

I assumed that the career move be a lateral one. However the music business — as is the case in a lot of industries — is dominated by the good ol’ boy network. It has nothing to do with Nashville in particular; it’s that way anywhere you go in the record biz. And that reality isn’t necessarily the work of some nefarious, underhanded parochial force; it’s really a matter of necessity.

The record business is a tight-deadline, gotta-get-it-done-right-the-first-time endeavor. It’s an industry that doesn’t take a lot of chances on outsiders that it doesn’t know it can trust implicitly. You really of have to pay your dues and/or know someone in the business to get a shot. I had done both in California; working for four years basically as an apprentice before receiving my opportunity to go full-time with the record company.

However, once I arrived in Music City, I learned the hard way that sometimes you have to prove yourself more than once.

Although I had received many favorable reviews around Nashville, showing my portfolio of previous work in California, I soon learned just how tough an in-house Art Director position similar to the one I had just left was to come by.

Although I was able to get enough freelance work to make a living upon arriving in Music City, my previous two years in-house experience sorta spoiled me on the idea of actually getting a paycheck every week. I began to entertain the thought that perhaps it was time to look for something different.

Had the Web not thrown itself in front of me as it did in 1995, I may have worked through and stayed in the music industry, but looking back, I’m secure in the belief that I made the proper move for me and my family.

Nevertheless, the decade I spent chasing my dream career will be a period in my life that I’ll always cherish.

My Other 15 Minutes
Apart from family considerations, there are two areas in my life that contain what I would consider my proudest moments; my “15 minutes of fame,” if you will. One is my regional and national success in Gymnastics in high school and college. The other is my career in the record business.

Certainly the proudest moments of that 10-year career were produced by my involvement in two Grammy-winning albums, in two different capacities.

Naturally, the holy grail for anyone involved in the design of music packaging is to win a Grammy. Yes, there is a Best Album Design category. And no, unfortunately, I never won one, although the design of the two projects in question were ones I’m particularly proud of. However, the next best thing is to winning a Grammy for the package design, is to at least be involved with a project that wins one for the music itself. As I’m sure you can imagine, playing any role in the creation of something so prestigious as a Grammy Award-winning album, is a heady experience indeed.

Discovery
The first one was the 1987 MCA Master Series release by Larry Carlton, Discovery. This was my first major freelance project working with Caitlin, the art director who would become such an influential figure in my music industry career. It’s a great album if you enjoy contemporary Jazz, and was particularly well-received at the time, due to the place C-Jazz held in the hierarchy of pop music in the late-80s-early-90s.

Larry Carlton remains today as one of the masters of the genre. This is perhaps his finest album, and probably his most commercially successful as well. It was an arduous project, involving an investment of hours that I wouldn’t even begin to try to estimate. The album won one Grammy (Best Pop Instrumental Performance) and was nominated for another (Best Jazz Fusion Performance).

Gettin’ Dizzy
Four years later, while working at the record company, my involvement with the second Grammy winner of my career was far more significant.

The label had its own stable of artists, but released the majority of its product via re-issue license agreements with small-ish, foreign record labels. One of those was a German label called Enja.

Specializing in ‘straight-ahead’ or modern traditional Jazz, Enja was, quite literally, a ‘Mom & Pop’ operation. The president of the label was a man who produced, signed and promoted classic Jazz performers from all over the world. His wife designed the packaging. Let’s just say, the husband was a lot better at his job than the wife was, IMO.

We had exclusive distribution rights to Enja titles in the U.S. Most of the artists were talented yet under-promoted. Sales were less-than-stellar for most of them. However every so often we’d stick in our thumb into the Enja pie and pull out a real plumb. Such was the case in 1991 with a previously European-only-released live album recorded in London by legendary Jazz trumpeter, Dizzy Gillespie.

This was a project the record company really believed they could make an impact with. It was a great album, and Dizzy, although quite elderly, was still a top figure in the genre of traditional Jazz.

The original album artwork was typically unexciting. So we decided to take the time and money to completely re-do the package design. The result was a clean design that was well received throughout the industry, as was the music.

Dizzy Gillespie and the United Nation Orchestra’s, Live at the Royal Festival Hall won the 1991 Grammy Award for ‘Best Large Jazz Ensemble Performance.’

I designed a companion promotional poster featuring the cover artwork which I had the great pleasure of having Dizzy himself sign. It was then and continues to be one of my most prized possessions. I actually have a second, non-personalized copy that he also signed that I’ve considered putting up on eBay someday, just to see how much it might bring.

We Don’t Need No Stinking Cigars!
It was a crazy, high-pressure business, but I had a great time. It was a period in my life when I felt much more significant, professionally, than perhaps I do now. However, all things considered, it’s easy now to view the experience through rose-colored specs, dismissing the long hours and relatively low pay of working for an independent label. It was hardly fun and games, but more than worth the experience. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything. It was my dream job, and for a time, my dream came true. Not everyone can say that.

Do I ever think about how far I could have gone if I’d stayed in the business? Sure; who doesn’t think about what might have been? However, I don’t choose to see my experience as ‘close, but no cigar.’ What I got out of it was all the satisfaction I needed — then or now.

I may not have exactly hit ‘the big time,’ but it was big enough for me.

Sometimes ‘close’ is more than close enough.


************************************************************


I will have at least the first two parts of "Word to my Mothers" up this weekend. Have a great one everybody...

Banzaiii!

Well...actually the words have the same sound, but I'm referring to bonsai (pronounced bOn-'sI), not the Japanese war cry, but rather the wonderful and ancient craft of miniature artistic horticulture.

It's something I've been fascinated with for years, first being exposed to it by my college gymnastics coach, a Japanese national, who used to dabble in it and showed me his plantings once at a team party at his home. The delicate miniature trees and plants are truly artistic creations in the hands of a skilled bonsai crafter.

About four years ago, a friend of mine gave me a bonsai tree for my birthday. I was excited!

Four weeks later it was dead.

Oh did I mention that these plants require constant attention? I was obviously not cut out to be a bonsai master.

My ‘Green Thumb’ Son
Failing miserably as I did with my bonsai, I feel a lot better to see that apparently my son has inherited his Mother's green thumb. Shawn is 22 years old and has for the past four years worked as an arborist, which is fairly big business here in Middle Tennessee. It rains and storms here a lot, not to mention the high winds and occasional tornadoes that frequent the area. Combine this often volatile seasonal weather with the dense coverage of trees we have, and there is a real need for professional tree trimming.

Shawn has worked for two different outfits and gets paid well because he's a climber, and is the guy who gets to be in the tree while it's being pruned or cleared of storm damage. He's been a competitive rock-climber since he was in high school and has no fear of heights, and he loves working outdoors, so he not only enjoys what he does, he's also extremely good at it.

But recently, his dealings with people in the business exposed him to bonsai and he immediately became fascinated with it. It has now become a full-blown passion of his, as these photos will attest.

I think he's done a great job. He has created all of his bonsai’s from trimmings or grown them from seeds. Although these camera-phone images don't really do them justice, I wanted to post them because I plan to make his hobby a continuing blog subject.

It's really great to see the way my children's natural artistic abilities are beginning to manifest themselves. Although neither of them seem to have Michelle and my knack for drawing/painting and graphics, they are really beginning to display artistic ability in forms that we never could. Shawn is no doubt showing his here. He is also becoming quite good at woodworking, and just this week finished a simple, but very impressive small writing desk for his girlfriend. He crafted it completely out of wood he acquired from trees that the company he works for cut down in the course of their work. I'm really proud of him (as if you couldn't tell).

My daughter Amy on the other hand seems to have my Mother's ability for acting, and is developing that as a Drama major at UT Chattanooga. I'm equally proud of her because of the responsibility and maturity that she is displaying as well.

Speaking of Amy's Grandmother, I will be talking more about her in my next post.

Dirty Laundry: A Tale of Two Bloggers

**UPDATE** 08-04-04
Scroll to the bottom of this story for an additional, and final update.

Okay, what’s this all about?
Here again as they say, is something completely different. Amidst the turmoil here in Blogland since late last week, there had been an ongoing conversation between another blogger, who many of you know and read, and myself. Todd Vodka has been at the center of a whirlwind of controversy due to some comments made on what many of us will always consider The Motherblog, Life at TJ’s Place. Through the series of events following those comments, he has been on the receiving end of a bunch of speculation as to his "true" identity, and because of his practical joke, posing as a friend of Kevin called "Bob C.," who came on to TJ's and purported that Kevin's long absense from posting was because he in fact was dead. It's things such as these which obviously have caused Todd to be looked upon with a suspicious eye by many throughout his residence here in Blogland. His encounter with me however was over another matter entirely. I bring all of this forth however not to trash Todd, but to exercise my faith in him as an individual and an adult. To show how we worked through our issue and hopefully to show that he is capable of more than the less-than-mature behavior he sometimes exhibits.

Why air Todd’s and my dirty laundry? A couple reasons. One, Todd asked me to, I suppose because he wants to allow people to see that he’s a real person, and he is. However in doing so I want it to be known that there are a great many things about his approach to blogging that I neither endorse or completely understand. However I do think he deserves a better opportunity to defend himself than he has been given in light of some behind-the-scenes scenarios about which I understand he will be talking in a follow-up post on his own blog.

The other reason is that personally, I thought that posting the process that we took in resolving our conflict was an interesting one and that you might be interested in reading about it. But most of all I think he deserves an honest chance to attempt to make himself understood. Again I make no apologies for Todd’s behavior, past, present or future. He’s someone whose work I respect tremendously, but who remains even now, somewhat of an enigma to me personality-wise. Yet I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and hope he uses this forum as an opportunity to do something constructive here for the blogger community, which has lost a bit of its innocence with the events of the past week.

Back-story
I have been a member of Blogger.com since June 2002, when it was still in beta, long before Google bought it and turned it into what it has become today. It’s been so long that it’s hard to remember how much different the interface used to look, but it was totally different than how it is now. My involvement with Blogger, as I’ve mentioned in previous stories, was in a group blog, which effectively served as a message board for fans of the Tony Kornheiser Show on ESPN Radio. Once Google came in, the look and feel of Blogger changed dramatically and the ability for us to use our blog as a message board came to an end. We moved on to a different vehicle last Spring, yet Blogger was still there just waiting for me to actually use it for its intended purpose.

I finally took the plunge in late May and started my blog, not really knowing anything about the community that would soon become such a big part of my life. As so many of the rest of us have, I saw a link on “Blogs of Note” for a blog called “Life at TJ’s Place,” and immediately became hooked.

About the same time I started, Todd also found his way to Blogger.com. He also discovered Kevin’s legendary blog and began commenting on his posts as did just about everyone who wandered in the door. I thought he seemed like an interesting guy and clicked through to visit his site, “Minutiae.” I found Todd’s writing to be clever and smart. His offbeat wit garnered many positive comments for his early stories. I left him a comment that I enjoyed his writing and immediately linked him on my blog.

A little more than a week later I again was surfing Blogger.com for new discoveries in this wonderful new world that I now found myself a part of. This time I checked out the “Recently Updated” section of my Blogger Dashboard, which shows a continual roll of recently updated blogs. As I’m sure you know, that list is updated approximately every 2 minutes, so the chance that you’re going to see a particular site on that list is nearly pure happenstance.

I noticed a newly-updated blog on that list entitled: “Minutiae: The Other Blog.” I immediately thought, “Hey! Todd’s got another blog. Think I’ll check it out. So I clicked. To my surprise, I found no Todd Vodka. I really didn’t find a blog — only a shell. It turns out this was the beginnings of a brand new blog by a writer named Victoria Marinelli. She by chance had chosen a name very similar to Todd’s. After looking around I realized that thiswas a secondary blog that Victoria had created to capture her idle thoughts and undeveloped stories that she wasn’t ready to post on her primary blog, which was linked, so I visited. I was blown away by her writing and personal story, so I left a comment on her “Other Blog” which completely surprised her, obviously, since she didn’t think anyone other than herself even knew it existed. We struck up a quick friendship and on June 9th I took a moment to give tribute to her and a number of other bloggers who I had began following:

“I've been spending most of my blog time today (er...make that yesterday), reading instead of writing. There's so much great stuff to take in.

I've discovered a wonderful blog which was only started on Monday by Victoria, an incredibly talented and accomplished writer who established it as kind of a sort of "sticky note" blog to record random thoughts and bits that she could be free to leave less-developed than those of her more-refined main site.

Her personal story is fascinating and her writing captivating. Check out her blog if you get a chance.

By the way, it's also named "Minutiae," as is Todd Vodka's blog, so Todd, your royalty check should be arriving any day now... :)”

That last statement intended to be totally tongue-in-cheek. However apparently Todd took it it seriously. Of course I’m being facetious, but what happened from there completely amazed and appalled me.

On June 26th Todd e-mailed me asking again for the address to Victoria’s blog. I re-sent it to him, thinking that he wanted to go check out her site with friendly intentions. Unbeknownst to me he left comments on both her blogs requesting both a link and acknowledgement on her blog that she was using the name that he had already claimed.

Her response in an e-mail that she CC’ed to me:

From: Victoria Marinelli
To: Todd Vodka
Cc: AJ in Nashville
Date: Tue, 29 Jun 2004 18:59:35 -0400
Subject: Re: Todd Vodka

Greetings Todd,

Not a problem to link and acknowledge, of course, though obviously I had no idea your blog existed until after mine with its similar moniker was posted. (And a quick Google search confirms that umpteen other blogs with the same or similar names exist.) I'm going to be having a "blogs I read" section as soon as I have time to do it, and when I do that, I'll include yours -- since I did pay your blog a visit after AJ (one of your readers and mine) called my attention to it. (The thing about the "free pot" was cute.)

Best regards – VM

What happened next I really can’t say, since I thought the matter, while curious that Todd would make such a request in the first place, was closed nonetheless.

WRONG.

I visited Victoria’s site a week later and to my horror found that on June 30th she had devoted an entire post to the episode of harassment inflicted upon her by him. Todd even went to the extent of creating a Blogger ID, named Victoria Marinelli, so that he could leave degrading comments on her site, masquerading as her.

I was totally incensed by what any mature person would view as childish behavior on Todd’s part. I apologized to Victoria vociferously and planned to reprimand him publically at that time, but Victoria asked me not to bother since he had already backed off. No sense stirring up the waters unnecessarily. I reluctantly agreed, but my sense of Todd Vodka obviously changed.

Nonetheless we remained cordial and my anger passed. I continued to read his blog and he read and commented on mine. In one comment a few weeks ago, Todd said, “don’t be a stranger.” I decised to let things go and bury the hatchet, although I had never said anything to him directly about the matter of his dealings with Victoria.

Which brings us to this past week.

Todd has been a fairly consistent commentor on my blog. His comments have always made me feel that he either admired and/or was amazed by my willingness to bear my emotions in my stories. Yet I could never quite be sure whether he was actually praising that aspect of my personality or snickering about it under his breath.

The e-mail trail
The following is the crux of Todd and my “dirty laundry.” Please understand that there has been little to no editing of these e-mails. This is the raw stuff and it will basically tell the remainder of the story…

Comment from my July 28 post…

You know what I dig about you? You're just layin' it down, completely unfettered by anything but your lovely story. 'Makes everyone else sound like they've mistaken their keyboard for a harpsichord.
Todd Vodka

…and my response…

Toddler...My stories were the only reason I started this blog. I do this for myself and to try to develop as a writer. But I'd be lying if I said that I'm not elated by the friends I've made, which was completely unexpected, and is as gratifying as anything that has ever happened to me. I really appreciate the complement, and hopefully we can all feed off of the energy we generate in combination with one another. I Hope that doesn't sound too trite, but it's really how I feel about this great community of bloggers we have here. Thanks as always for your input!

The following day I received the following e-mail from Todd…

From: Todd Vodka
To: ajinnashville@gmail.com
Date: Thu, 29 Jul 2004 07:36:57 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Theodore Vodka

AJ,

Would you do me a favor? I would like you to be the first to comment.

Thanks Bud
Todd

P.S. I read the reply you gave to me in your comments section. Message received. But hey, don't take all this too personally, most of us are just having fun.


From: AJ in Nashville
To: Todd Vodka
Date: Thu, 29 Jul 2004 19:42:42 -0500
Subject: Re: Theodore Vodka

Hi Todd...

Sorry I didn't get your e-mail until eight hours after you sent it, but unfortunately my Gmail account is blocked from my accessing it at work. I went ahead and commented on your current post about your friend Aaron. Y'know, there was a time when I considered myself somewhat of a John Wayne type. Back in my gymnastics competition days, while I was still a fairly small guy, I was well put together. Nobody messed with me. I felt pretty macho. Yet gay guys’d hit me on all the time
and it incensed me.

In the years since, I've gotten to know more gay men and have learned that for the most part they're just like anyone else. As a matter of fact I find that they're actually pretty easy to talk to, I suppose, for the same reason that women are often easier for me to talk to than men. As you've noticed I'm sure Todd, I'm an emotional guy. I'm a sentimental fool. I'm easily moved to tears. I'm a good listener. I
allow myself to feel everything. And I like it. But I'm not gay. I'm the most heterosexual guy I know! In fact, I can honestly say that the thought of having any kind of sex with another man repulses me more than just about anything I can think of. Yet I LIKE to feel. It's a wonderful thing to me. I don't hold back tears — they're cleansing. I like to talk about heartache — it's cathartic.

The reason women are so much fun to talk to? They can talk about ANYTHING. They don't have to filter their thoughts about emotions for fear that "Hmmm...I can't say THAT...that sounds too queer."

So yes I commend you for your story about Aaron. I can honestly say I respect you a lot for posting it. And I hope your wanting me to comment on it is because you appreciate my opinion, and not because you wanted to make fun of me. Well if it was the latter, I've just given you a ton of ammunition! *LOL*

Take care man, and oh yeah, I really don't try to take things *too* seriously. Unfortunately though the way I write sometimes makes it seems that way. That's why I use a lot of emoticons :) So hopefully people will actually know when I'm smiling or being purposefully sarcastic.

Thanks for writing Todd. Take care.

AJ


From: Todd Vodka
To: AJ in Nashville
Date: Thu, 29 Jul 2004 20:16:23 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Re: Theodore Vodka

Hey AJ,
I am really sorry. I have to re examine my ways. If you thought that I wanted you to be the first to comment on my post for any other reason than admiration, then I apologize.

I think you where the first person to link me, and I sometimes feel guilty for not coming to your blog enough.

OK?
Todd Vodka

I realized that he had misunderstood me, so I immediately followed up…

From: AJ in Nashville
To: Todd Vodka
Date: Thu, 29 Jul 2004 22:53:13 -0500
Subject: Re: Theodore Vodka

Whoah Todd!

Evidently I didn't have my tongue planted firmly enough in my cheek
when I wrote that! :) I was totally being facetious, based on the
somewhat risky confessions about my emotional nature that I made in
the e-mail. I wasn't seriously thinking you were setting me up,
honest.

But hey, as long as you're feelin' guilty, maybe you'd feel better if
you returned the favor and linked me on *your* blog, huh?
*winkwinknudgenudge* :)

I appreciate your visits Todd, however often they are. Believe that. :)

Take care, and keep up the good work!


And then seemingly out of nowhere he opened up an old wound…

From: Todd Vodka
To: AJ in Nashville
Date: Thu, 29 Jul 2004 21:07:21 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Re: Theodore Vodka

Hey,
Don't take this personally or anything, but I kind of feel like I have to keep my guard up with you. I suspect you may have set me up for your own thrills
when that other Minutiae showed up. I mean, after the confrontation she disappeared.

I hesitated and thought, “is it really worth the effort to get into this?
Okeeeyyy Here we go…”

From: AJ in Nashville
To: Todd Vodka
Date: Fri, 30 Jul 2004 02:51:53 -0500
Subject: Re: Theodore Vodka

Todd...Please...And now I'm not laughing.

I am going to take a deep breath, and then I'm going to say a few things to you.

I'm sorry, but I can't HELP but take it personally. Please, for the love of Mike, you've gotta get a grip here. I'm gonna say this clearly, so don't miss it.

I am not your enemy. I am not in competition with you. No one that I know of is in cahoots with anyone else to mess with you, to steal your name or anything else.

I *am* offended at your assertion that I have either the time or the will to create any kind of hoax, much less "set you up." The confrontation you had with Victoria was one you brought on yourself. You obviously would have not even found her if I hadn't given you here URL on 3 different occasions. If anything it's me who was set up, thinking that you were going to visit her site for purposes of friendly interaction, when in fact your purpose was to confront *her* for "stealing" your blog name. Demanding that she link your site or otherwise provide some kind of disclaimer that she wasn't you? What kind of nonsense is that? And don't say you didn't do it, because I saw your comments on her site. Still I didn't take you to task for your tantrum, because Victoria assured me that she could handle the situation, which she did. Your behavior, Todd is grounds for TOS action by any ISP in the country, particularly yours. You are *lucky* she backed off.

And let me correct you on another misnomer in your statement: *she* didn't disappear. She's still there. But when *you* backed off, so did she. Doesn't that say anything to you? Like maybe the fact is she didn't know you or your blog existed? That she chose the same name as yours for her "other blog" was PURE COINCIDENCE, not to mention the fact that there are many, many other blogs whose name is or contains the word "Minutiae." Hey Todd, I think you have some more work to do...

Why not check out:
http://www.gigasprite.com/blog/
http://www.rachelsminutiae.com/
http://econ.ucsc.edu/grads/jamus/blogger.html
http://www.fotolog.net/minutiae/
http://minutiaeandflux.blogspot.com/
http://www.urbanhonking.com/minutiae/
http://www.pippia.com/
http://www.nhoyle.net/blog/blogs/index.php
http://theminutiae.blogspot.com/
http://windowin.blogspot.com/
http://minutiae.blogspot.com/
http://moreminutiae.blogspot.com/

There's a dozen to get you started. Have at it, tiger! And after you've harassed all these people c'mon back...there's more. Well, what are you waiting for? They're obviously out to steal that which you worked so hard to establish, right?

Don't you see how silly this is Todd?

And you know what's even sillier? The reason I visited Victoria's blog in the first place was because I thought I was going to VISIT YOU. I thought, "Cool, Todd's got "another blog." I wonder what kind of cool stuff he has on that one."

And now, after all that, do you know how pissed I am that I have sacrificed 3 hours of time tonight that I should've been spent on my own blog entry, writing this fucking apologetic for some conspiracy YOU imagined, just because i want you to trust me? Yeah, I AM too nice, because you don't deserve this.

I'm sorry, I take that back. You do deserve it. But this is all you deserve.

If you can't accept the fact that I want to be your friend Todd, than I feel sorry for you. Because you will never meet a more transparent and honest man than me. No brag, just fact. it's what I'm about. It's what my blog is about. I would have thought you would have been able to see that by now.

The fact that I use a quote from Victoria in my signature line has no relation to anything that happened between you and she. She is my friend, as I thought you were my friend. I don't play friends against one another. I don't take sides unless the evidence warrants it. And your case against Victoria didn't even warrant a whimper.

The saddest part of all this is that this should be so far beneath someone who I have always assumed was as intelligent as I believed you to be. Please don't cause me to think that my faith in that fact was misplaced.

I am not your enemy, Todd. If anything, I'm one of the truest friends you have in this community, because I have continued to support you as you continue to piss more and more people off.

I found you when I first started my blog. I thought you were clever and literate. I told you as much. I voluntarily linked you to my blog, LONG before you began going around asking everyone to link to you, when you yourself were linking no one and now, only recently have linked three other blogs TOTAL. I have to admit that rather irritated me, but I didn't say anything to you or anyone else. I have never spoken ill of you to anyone, and even just tonight I defended you in an e-mail to another blogger who asked about you in reference to the thread that's going on at Sloth's blog. Speaking of that post, my request to Sloth to e-mail me was to acquire information that would CLEAR YOU of this silly rumor that you and Kevin are one in the same!

When are you gonna get a clue as to who your friends are and how to keep them, man? Do you really think I would go to all the trouble to craft an e-mail like this if I was being disingenuous?

Okay. I'm taking another deep breath. I've said my piece. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to send this e-mail to you, then I'm going to wait 24 hours for you to respond. I want you to acknowledge that you have done me a disservice here tonight. I hope that's what I'll see, because if I don't, then I have nothing further to say to you. I hope that's not the case, because I *can* put this behind me and give you the benefit of the doubt that you were *sincerely* mistaken. Hey I was just as furious when this confrontation between you and Victoria happened in the first place. I was ready to escalate it then, but Victoria said it wasn't necessary. So I let it go. I can let it go again.

The rest is up to you, Todd. I think your latest blog entry indicates growth in you as a person. I'd like to see that continue. I'd like to take part in encouraging you, and supporting you. I'd like to be your friend. If you can accept that, my hand is extended. If you can't, you won't need to keep your guard up any longer, because you won't be dealing with me any longer.

I'm not your enemy Todd, but if you want me to be, I can do that too. That's not intended to be a threat, only the reality of how things will be if you decide to mess with me instead of walking away.

I know that I can put this behind me, can you?

I'll wait to hear from you. Take care.

AJ


From: Todd Vodka
To: AJ in Nashville
Date: Fri, 30 Jul 2004 06:55:07 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Re: Theodore Vodka

AJ,

I started my blog a few months ago when a friend told me about the phenomena, and suggested that I do so. I checked out a couple 'a others so that I could size them up, and then I got going.

I was happy with how it came out.

But I realized I was not cutting it. To me, it seemed that there was a bit of a clique, and that I was not going to break through and establish a base.

You see, the writing itself is not enough.

I knew that "Kevin" was using a few noms de plum to get his comments going. So in the tradition of the Great American Craftsman, I decided that the best kind of promotion was self-promotion. As I contemplated an approach, I decided that the easiest way to offer a consistent message was to employ one where I could have a little fun at the same time. So I looked
around, found the biggest stick I could get my hands on, and began stirring up shit.

I didn't mean to hurt people in the process. But surely you know that I served as a pawn to other's ends.

Anyway, you where kind enough to take the time to point some things out, and I want you to know that I appreciate it. You where a bit presumptuous, but I am just going to chalk that up to emotion.

You seem like a heck of a nice guy, so I don't want to have anything to do with compromising the quality of your day. I'll send this to your work address as well so you can get it right away.

Todd Vodka

P.S. If you decide to send along the information you mentioned in Sloth's blog, I would not mind a tad.


Date: Fri, 30 Jul 2004 08:35:17 -0700 (PDT)
From: "AJ in Nashville"
Subject: Re: Theodore Vodka
To: Todd Vodka

Todd,

I'll try to make this quick due to the hours I poured into that, yes, highly emotional e-mail last night. I don't know what all your thoughts are, or what the presumptions you referred to were, but I appreciate the fact that you're willing to let them go. I too will choose to let my ruffled feathers settle back down, and I'll consider the matter behind us. I only hope that you believe that I don't work the same way as those "others" who's ends you served as a pawn to.

I don't know how old you are, Todd, and I don't know what your life's experiences are. I can only assume that you're not old enough to have learned that "stirring up shit" only serves to make the shit stink a helluva lot more. It doesn't make to look good, pal. It makes you look juvenile. That stunt to which you were made a pawn made "those others" look bad too. And I'm sure that's never been your aim.

Todd, I hope you believe that I've never "sought" the spotlight like some of the "partybloggers" who are part of our community. But if that's what you're going after, all you have to do is what they do: talk about sexy, spicy stuff which naturally spurs comments. But I can't believe that's your style, and if your last two posts are any indication, I know it isn't.

I have never once posted a comment on anyone's blog that asked them to or titillated them into visiting mine. And the *nudgenudgewinkwink* comment I made in my second e-mail to you last night was the first time I've ever asked someone to link me to their site. But you know what? Fifteen people have linked my blog without even telling me they did it. And since that post I did a week ago thanking them for it, my hits have increased steadily every single day since. I'm seeing at least 3-5 new IP addresses on my SiteMeter stats every few days.

And please believe me when I tell you, this was nothing I counted on. But it reinforced something I already knew: people like to feel appreciated, and HATE to feel used. If you want to "break into the clique," don't try so hard to promote yourself, because I can tell you, you're not fooling anyone -- everyone *knows* what you're trying to do.

I don't say this to diss you, but dude, you're *not* Kevin, no matter how much people want to think you are. Personally I don't care who Kevin is, or how many other blogs he has. I appreciate him for his writing, whether it's authentic or not. It's enjoyable and a nice escape for a great many people, myself included. But miGAWD, the guy has created a monster! I would *never* want to be under the kind of pressure he must feel to produce. But that's just me.

Todd you're a big boy. You go do what you're going to do. But if you want my advice, stop trying to *make* people visit your blog. Let your writing do the work, because it will if you give it a chance. I guess I just don't understand why you would say "the writing is not enough." Why not? What else are you doing this for? Why *can't* it be enough? You are a wonderful writer. Don't sabotage your own efforts by playing games. We're all adults here. Don't alienate your neighors by making them feel used.

Again I'll get off my soap box, but I hope throughout all this you've learned one thing. I want you to be a part of my circle, and I want to be a part of yours. I want to learn from you, and if I have anything that you can learn from me, all the better. I never have, and never will, use you to elevate my own agenda, because I have no agenda other than to tell my stories and make as many friends as possible. And I really believe that's what the vast majority of the other members of our community want as well.

I'm really glad you wrote me back so quickly. I apologize if I got a little carried away last night. However I really hope that now you both understand and trust where I'm coming from.

Are ya feelin' me dog?

:)

Have a great day and a better weekend, my friend.


AJ


Todd later e-mailed me back and again apologized for “pissing me off.”

Spin Cycle
So there you have it. What will we see come as a result of all this? Hopefully a more mature Todd Vodka. Not because of anything I did, but hopefully because he sees the value in being real and not dealing in subterfuge.

The issue with “Bob C.” and the alleged multiple personalities of “Kevin” from TJ’s Place is yet unresolved. On a personal note, I would beseige all of us in our Blogger community to just ignore it and go on. And I have to also admonish Todd that he is close to becoming a person who may be close to becoming someone who people will decide to ignore, should he choose to pull stunts like he did the other day at Kevin’s blog.

Why air this dirty laundry? because I’m willing to grant him a chance to redeem himself and continue to be what we all agree he is, a wonderful writer and as such, a valuable member of our community.

**UPDATE** 08-04-04
Against my suggestion, Todd has requested that I post the text of a final e-mail that I received from him late Tuesday afternoon. This will be my final involvement in this story.

From: Todd Vodka
Subject: Re: Theodore Vodka
To: "AJ in Nashville"

I don't want to incriminate myself. I just want to raise this purely hpothetical course of reason: I was never Bob C. Kevin was Bob C. He really was trying to back out of his blog, you can see his lack of enthusiasm in his past few posts. When I
hypothetically claimed to be Bob C no one was around to dispute it, everyone bought it because the only people who knew it was not true where Kevin and I. Hypothetically, I saw what he was up to and cornered him into resurection. I, hypothetically, knew that people would easily buy that I pulled a lunker on
them, and could therefore dismiss Kevin's Bob C. story or any others of the sort.

Kevin, I guess, got pissed. He used other identities to spread little rumors all over the place that he and I where the same person. If you go back you can see
that I started going on a rampage disputing this. I, hypothetically, thought he was baiting me into being a braggart and taking the credit for his blog. Then he
would come back to life and show me up for doing this. See? Right when he saw that I was not falling for it he came back and posted.

This could all be coincidence. But hey, who am I to say?

Todd Vodka


finis

Every Picture Tells a Story, Don’t It? (Epilogue)

Epilogue: Innocence Lost
“If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you?”

My Mother died on August 22, 1968: My childhood didn’t end then, but it was certainly changed — irrevocably, permanently, and completely. Prior to that, I knew death only in the context of the bad guys getting what they deserved on TV. The picture taken in that photo booth is not only a snapshot of a goofball kid having fun and acting his age. It is a photograph of the end of innocence; the end of the period in my life in which I never felt freer.

The memories generated by this photograph will always be as important as they are priceless.

I will always remember my Cousin E, and the Bike Hike adventures we took together. That is a major part of my childhood. I will always remember the incredible role that comic books played in the development of my mind and imagination, and perhaps most importantly, in the inspiration of my career path. In my lifetime I've never aspired to be anything other than an artist; it was all I could ever see myself being. I never had to deliberate over the different options I might have had, or spend time trying to "find myself" in terms of a career objective. It was always a clear decision for me. And even though my vocation ultimately took a different form than I imagined it would, I am still an artist, and have been well-served by my earlier training as an illustrator in affording me a broader skill-set as both a graphic designer and web designer.

Our final year in Indiana was a blur. There would be one more Bike Hike to Anderson. Then began the preparation to move, which included a huge garage sale in which we sold our pool table and nearly all of our furniture. Included was my Mother’s prized Duncan Phyfe-style bedroom suite, which cost $1000 when my Dad purchased it for her in 1945 following his return from WWII. He had to sell it for $100. There’s no telling how much it would be worth today. Fortunately he decided to keep the nightstand from that set, which I now proudly possess, along with my Mother’s other prized furniture piece, her beautiful old china cabinet.

California would be the very definition of a brave new world to my family and me. My impending relationship with my Step-Mom would also bring revolutionary changes to my life — some bad, but many good.

A number of wonderful things happened to me as a result changes wrought by my Mother's death. Moving to California afforded me opportunities that more than likely I would never have enjoyed had we remained in Indiana; and we most certainly would have remained there if she’d lived. I gained much, but as is the case of so many things in life, there is give and there is take. In losing my Mother, I may indeed have gained a better life, but who can say it was a fair exchange? I look at that fun-loving young boy and I wonder to myself how he would have faired if that photo was simply one in a series of ongoing life-affirming moments she would oversee during his adolescence and teen years, instead one marking the end of his innocence as a carefree child. What kind of a man would he have grown up to be? That’s a question that obviously no one can answer. I can only strive to live my life as I think she would have wanted me to if she were here today.

I would like to think that I’ve done that.

I hope I have.


finis

Every Picture Tells a Story, Don’t It? (Part IV)

Story 3 of 3:
“The Cool Ones”
Two down, one to go. The third story that comes to mind from the photo booth picture I posted in this series’ prologue is the most fun, but least consequential of all. This story is a total lark; a fantasy; a make-believe dream come-true. Most accurately, it’s a frikkin’ joke!

You see, the twelve year-old making the goofy face there in the photo above, had another brief passion in back in 1968. He fancied himself to be a Rock star.

So you wanna be a Rock ‘N Roll star…
If you’ve been reading my blog long enough, or have taken the time to venture into the archives, you already know that music is one of my two top passions. I was lucky enough to grow up in not only the “Golden Age of Comics,” but the “Golden Age of Rock ‘N Roll” as well. I was born the same year that Elvis first appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, cementing his status as “The King of Rock ‘N Roll.” That event, according to many commentators officially ushered in the Rock era. So when people ask me how old I am, and I’m feeling a bit playful, I simply reply that I was born the same year as “Rock ‘N Roll” (that one always earns me a lot of blank stares, but I like it). Then I make ‘em guess.

The first in-person rock concert I experienced was The Beatles, in 1964, when I was only eight years old. Rock was in the blood of everyone I knew. It wasn’t just a part of the youth culture in the 60s, it was the culture.

Everybody who could lift an instrument dreamed of being a rock star. I was no different.

I don’t remember whom it belonged to, or how I got it, if indeed it was mine, but sometime during the summer of 1968, I got my hands on a snare drum & symbol set. There’s an old saying, “Those who can’t do, teach.” Well I’d like to proffer a corollary of that saying, “Those who can’t teach, become enthusiasts.” That’s me in a nutshell with regard to music. I can’t play, yet music has always been such a part of my life that I have to do something, so I go to as many shows as I can, learn everything I can, and love to talk about it whenever I can.

Following the back injury in 1977 that ended my gymnastics season I had to take 12 credits in summer school in order to become eligible for my senior season the following year. The injury had forced me to take a medical withdrawal from all my classes for the spring semester. Since you have to average 12 credit per semester to be eligible for intercollegiate athletics, I either had to go to Summer School to make up those credits, or sit out the following season.

I decided that since I was sacrificing my summer taking classes, I was going to have fun doing it. So I took racquetball, beginning acting, piano and voice — classes that I would never have taken in college under normal circumstances. I had a blast in everything but piano — I sucked — and discovered that I am completely devoid of talent with regard to musical instruments. However, the other classes I did well in. I found that while I would never be considered “good,” when properly trained and practiced, I had a decent singing voice. But then I always sort of thought I did, which somehow leads us back to the story…

I felt so strongly about my burgeoning musical passion that I, like so many others like me at that time, thought I could be a singer-songwriter. For several weeks I sat at that mini drum set and wrote songs to a beat that could only be described as hideously spastic. But hey, I thought I was the next Dylan. I remember writing three songs, but unfortunately, still only have one that I’d written down (the other two, one of which was entitled, She’s Gone — and no, I didn’t sell it to Hall & Oates — have completely left me).

The remaining song was my first, and best. It is at the same time, a source of great pride and huge embarrassment for me. The pride is in the fact that it enabled me to have my fifteen minutes of (local) fame as a rock star. The embarrassment is in that it is so incredibly (but understandably) trite (I mean whadaya want from an eleven year-old?). Furthermore, my Dad used to make me sing it a cappella to every freakin’ adult we knew for a solid year after he first heard it. And while it’s great that he was so proud of me, it was hard not to feel like a show pony being paraded around. That and the “Hey AJ, show ‘em your muscles” fiasco when I was in 10th grade were the only two times in my life I can remember really not likin’ my Pop all that much. But that’s a another story altogether. Back to this one…

I recently came across the ancient manila file folder I still have from the late 1960s in which I have kept all the odds and ends that aren’t already in scrapbooks from that period in my life. I found torn-out pages from an old Daredevil comics special issue, for some reason separated from the original comic book (which bit the dust in the basement flood). Also, two Major League Baseball programs; one, from the first Big League game I ever attended, in 1969 at old Crosley Field in Cincinnati; the other, a California Angels program from a game in 1975 in Anaheim, with Mickey Rivers on the cover. There were also the faded colored pencil renderings of my first attempt at drawing a comic book of my own league of superheroes, “The Challengers” (which I will scan and post as per Michael’s request, once he returns from vacation). And finally, a yellowed page from a spiral-bound drawing pad, featuring the lyrics, written in pencil and barely still legible, to the one product of my very short songwriting career.

Laughing, chortling, snickering and snorting are definitely allowed here…

Baby, My Hold on You

Baby, my hold on you
is fading away.
Baby, I can tell
It’s not going to stay.
But, I tell you now
I just don’t know how
that I’ll
live without you.
I love you, love you true.

I think
and sometimes even
break down and begin to weep
‘bout the love
that once was ours
that I’m still trying to keep

But, my thoughts of these
are only empty memories
of when
our love was really strong
I wonder where its gone

Chorus:
I love you baby, don’t mean maybe
Love you every day, yeah
Love you baby, don’t mean maybe
Love you all the way ay yayyyyy…

Baby, my hold on you
It is going so fast
I remember all
The things we did in the past
But, before you go
I want you to know
that I
will never forget
the day that we met

(Chorus)

My love for you
is everlasting
it’s constant as the sea
But now your heart
is someone else’s
it no longer belongs to me
But, you’ll never know
how much I love you so
and how
you linger in my brain
You’re driving me insane

(Chorus)

(Orchestral bridge…you know, with lots of strings and horns and shit)

Baby, my hold on you
now is simply gone
I just don’t know
where it all went wrong
But, I tell you now
I just don’t know how
that I’ll
live without you.
You don’t know how much I love you.

(Chorus x2…fades out, with strings and horns a’ blazin’)

Okay, I’ll give you a moment to compose yourself, but hurry up…this story is getting to be a bit too long…

The Shirt
Ah yes, the shirt. In case you were wondering how making a toothless, monkey-ears face in a photo booth relates to being a Rock star, relax — you didn’t miss anything. I’m gettin’ to it.

Here again, I’m a little fuzzy on the details of “how,” but in the picture above, the shirt I wore on the Bike Hike that day is the key to the story.

The original photo had darkened a great deal over the years, so I had to perform a little Photoshop magic to make it look good when I scanned it. However the scan of the entire photo was still too dark to see much detail in the shirt, so I re-scanned it larger and tweaked the contrast so that you can get a little better idea of what the print on this shirt looked like. It was a short-sleeve mock-turtleneck shirt that was a deep blue — probably just a tad lighter shade of the dark blue in the Blogspot banner ad at the top of everyone’s blog pages.

In black, printed over the top the dark blue base color, the shirt featured a very cool paisley print. If I’m not mistaken, I think that my soon-to-be-Aunt Mom, Maxine got me the shirt that summer, probably for my birthday in July. She bought it at JCPenny, or as we always more simply called it, “Penny’s.”
I don’t know if I have ever received as a gift an article of clothing that I was any more excited about. That shirt was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Much less put on my body. I wore it proudly.

I entered the 7th grade in the fall of 1968. Mike A was a suave neighborhood boy who was a casual friend, but way too popular to spend much time hanging around with the likes of me. Soon after the school year began, one day he took notice of my “cool shirt.” He asked me about it and I told him where my Aunt had gotten it. A few days later he showed up at school just like it. Our casual friendship immediately became fast.

Once again I don’t remember how the subject came up, but one day we were both wearing our “cool shirts” as we’d collectively dubbed them and were sitting around talking at lunchtime. Now it was common knowledge that Mike had a band he was putting together. Over the summer they could be heard pretty clearly from my house. Mike and his friend, another former casual neighborhood acquaintance, Mark S, both lived one street over and a half block down from us. They usually jammed from Mark S’s garage and they sounded pretty good for a bunch of 12 year-olds. They were still practicing, but they were pretty close to being ready to play at parties and such around the neighborhood. Mike played electric guitar Mark S played the drums. Some other guy whose name has completely escaped me was the bass player. But anyway, as we were talking, I mentioned that I’d written a couple songs. Mike asked if he could come over some time and hear them. I must have jumped out of my skin saying “SURE! How ‘bout today after school?” Mike said he’d like that, so he and Mark came over to the house that afternoon.

I sang Baby, My Hold on You, for him and he really liked it.

“You wanna sing in our band?” he asked. I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Of course!” I said. “That’d be totally groovy!”
“What’s the band’s name again?” I inquired.
“We haven’t come up with one yet,” He said
“How ‘bout ‘The Cool Ones?’” I offered. “We could wear our shirts!”
“Hey that sounds pretty good!” Mike smiled.

And so it was, “The Cool Ones” were born.

Mark S. and the bass player were soon dispatched to go get their own official signature band attire, but unfortunately JCPenny had sold out of the dark blue style. However there were three other colors of the shirt still had in stock. It came in a dark green, deep yellow, and red base colors. Mark S opted for the green and the base player picked up the red variety.

Showtime
My fifteen minutes of fame as a Rock star was actually about 3 weeks in duration. We played two parties, one at a popular girl’s house, in which I remember being really nervous, but doing really well singing my songs. The rest of the set were either instrumental covers of old “beach music” hits, along with a few pop covers that Mike sang lead on. I know that I wasn’t all that good, but I can take comfort in the fact that I sang better than he did.

The other party we played was at my house, an event that I still remember feeling nervous planning. It turned our well, but I don’t think I sang quite as well that time. No matter, we had a huge turnout and everybody had a good time.

Soon after that the “Cool Ones’” short-lived run came to an end, as the neighborhood fogies started complaining about the noise when we practiced and Mark S’ parents shut us down. The curtain was abruptly closing on my life as a Rock star.

So, the band just kind of faded off into the blue. To my knowledge, Mike never reformed the band before I moved to California the next year. I still heard Mark S. practicing his drums on an occasional Saturday afternoon. Who knows what the circumstances were in the lives of the other boys who were part of my brush with musical fame.

I’ve often wondered exactly happened to “the shirt.” I know it never made the trip to California. I don’t remember giving it to Good Will, but truth be known, as often as I wore it, it was probably a tattered rag by the time it either wore out or I grew out of it. Either scenario is equally likely to have happened. One thing is for certain, I’ll never forget wearing that shirt and the way it made me feel.

Powerful.

Popular.

Cool.


Next: Epilogue: Innocence Lost

Every Picture Tells a Story, Don’t It? (Part III)

Story 2 of 3 (continued): The Magazine Trading Post: The Marvel Group
After being “raised” on Superman and the rest of the DC line-up of comic book characters, somewhere around 1966, I became aware of a second publisher, offering a different set of superhero crimefighters. These heroes were different. They didn’t live in imaginary cities like Metropolis, Gotham City or Central City. Instead, this entire group of characters lived and worked right in Manhattan. New York City.

New York City?

Yep. As if saving the local population from the likes of The Green Goblin, Kingpin and the Red Skull, these guys had to deal with all the other crazies in the “Big Apple” while they were at it. And if that wasn’t even more difficult, the writers threw in a still more formidable opponent for each of these characters to deal with: themselves.

Stan the Man
This was the Marvel Comics Group, home of Spiderman, The Fantastic Four, Captain America, The X-Men, and Daredevil. These and several others were all the brainchildren of one man: the incomparable Stan Lee.

Lee, his writers and illustrators combined to produce a revolutionary concept the in superhero comic book genre: characters who you could believe were real people. People with real conflict, heartache, and personal demons. People who not only had to struggle against evil, but who also had to struggle to “get the girl” in the civilian lives. It was part action story, part soap-opera, and totally amazing to a ten year-old boy who was just beginning to have genuine crushes on girls and was already beginning to be able to empathize with some of the personal struggles with which the characters dealt.

Because of the recent spate of motion pictures based on Marvel comic book characters, most everyone is well aware of who Spiderman is. But back in the 60s, especially when I discovered him, the general public hadn’t caught on yet. I had no preconceived notion of who he or any of the other Marvel characters were, only that they were different and totally fascinating to me. On my weekly pilgrimages to the Trading Post I began to buy Spiderman and Fantastic Four more and more often. I bought Superman and Batman less and less.

As DC comics, which I still collected, had done before, reading Marvel comic books taught me things that I just wasn’t gleaning from my school teachers. Things like loyalty, dedication, and sacrifice for the greater good. And oh yeah, did I mention New York slang? I suppose there was one drawback.

Benjamin Grimm a.k.a. “The Thing” is a character in The Fantastic Four. He is for lack of a better word, a monster. In his former life he was a street tough from the Lower East Side, who by accidental exposure to cosmic rays was changed into a rocky orange humanoid. He was hideous to behold but possessed superhuman strength. Ben joined with his friends Mr. Fantastic, Invisible Girl, and The Human Torch, to form The Fantastic Four, fighting crime and any evil supervillian who would attempt to wreak havoc on New York City. The great thing about The Thing was that trying to figure out what he was saying was every bit as much fun for me as watching him beat up the bad guys. Wonderful new literary euphemisms like “It's clobberin' time!,” “I dunno,” “mebe,” and “shut yer fat yap,” quickly became part of my vocabulary. I really have to make a conscious effort to correctly spell the word, through, and not spell it thru, as was the habit of nearly all Marvel writers. That and shortening ever word ending in ing to in’ are bad habits that haunt me to this very day, but ones that I wouldn’t trade for all the java in the Big City.
If you aren’t all too familiar with The Fantastic Four now, just wait a year, you will. Like Spiderman, The Fantastic Four movie is now in production, and is scheduled for release on the 4th of July next year. As good as the two Spiderman films have been, I’m really intrigued about this one. It’s something I never thought I’d see done, but with the magic of CGI, I suppose the sky is the limit.

And if you’re reading this, Michael, I figure you already know this, but The Shield’s Michael Chiklis is staring in the role of The Thing. It should be very interesting!

Needless to say, comic books ruled my life from about age eight through twelve. And though I bought an awful lot of my collection from The Trading Post, I was concurrently collecting new issues of both DC and Marvel titles every month as they came out.

Supporting my habit
Y’know, I was thinking about it the other day in preparation for writing this blog story, and I had to stop and think, “How the heck did I come up with the money for this stuff?” I spent every dime I could get my hands on to buy comic books and later, baseball cards, which I started collecting in 1969 — but that’s an entirely different story. Where did it all come from. Well I mentioned the siphoning off of the lunch money, which I don’t completely remember, but I do think is highly probable for the time in question. But doing some additional straining of my frontal lobes I was able to come up with a few possible scenarios.

Two of my primary income sources were my Dad, and collecting empty pop bottles.

I remember accosting my Dad constantly for spare change, sometimes on a daily basis. He was always a soft touch though, and never refused to empty his pockets for me, despite his protests.

Another of the many places that Cousin E and I frequented via our bicycles were the roadsides in and around Middletown, particularly the stretch near the local golf course. These were always a rich source for discarded empty glass soft drink bottles, which carried a bounty of five cents per at the grocery store where we took them to cash in on the deposit. I looked at it as a comic book or a pack of baseball cards for every bottle I found along the rural, overgrown parkways we perused.

Finally, if pickins were slim on both the Dad and pop bottle fronts, there was always the tried and true petty larceny option to fall back on. Having older brothers and a few older cousins whose home I frequently visited, there was always an abundance of change on top of their bedroom chest-of-drawers. After excusing myself to go upstairs to use the bathroom, a quick glance here to make sure no one was lookin, followed by a quick swipe there, and I was a buck twenty richer. That was often enough to last me a week or more.

Sigh.

I’ve been carrying that secret around with me for the past 35 years. It feels so good to get it off my chest! Jack, David, TK, and Big Jim, I apologize. You weren’t that drunk after all. That money really did just disappear.

Sleeping with the fishes…and the rats
At its peak, my comic book collection numbered well over 500. That’s five hundred what are now classic comic books. The two mags I held up for display in the photo booth that day in 1968 were two of my earliest versions of Spiderman and The Fantastic Four, but I had some previously purchased DC titles that were much older. I had at least three mid-1950s Captain Marvel comic books that would be extremely valuable if I they were still around today.

Yes, I did say if.

Unfortunately, due to the extreme weight of the box, which housed my entire collection, shipping it to California when we moved in September 1969 was pretty much out of the question. We sold our house and everything in it, including furniture, so all that remained, personal items and clothing that we couldn’t fit into my Dad’s red 1966 Ford Fairlaine, had to be shipped, and as you know, weight is money in the shipping biz. So against my protests, it was decided that we couldn’t afford to ship my comics box. I was heartbroken, but my Dad assured me it was only a temporary circumstance and that once we got on our feet out in California, we would have the box shipped out to my waiting arms. In the meantime, Brother Jack would keep them, along with some other items also deemed too expensive to ship and thereby expendable in our journey to the brave new world. I grabbed between fifteen and twenty assorted comic books for the long trip and off we went. Had I known then what I would find out later, I would have taken more — a lot more.

Jack at that time was living in “the green house” as we always referred to it — our original house in Anderson, which my Dad still owned, and had previously been renting out. But now my brother would be living there and my pulp treasures would be living with him. I wasn’t worried. I should have been.

The green house had a basement. It was a dark, damp, creepy place of which I have only memories of fear and foreboding. I don’t believe I ever went down there on more than two or three occasions in all the time we lived in that house, which for me was from birth to age six.

Did I mention that it was damp down there? The basement, according to my Dad, used to flood regularly. So sometime in the 1950s he installed a sump pump which automatically came on when water in the sump pit reached a certain level. Now I don’t claim to know a single thing about sump pumps and what needs to be done to maintain them. Apparently Jack shared my lack of knowledge in this area.

My comics box was kept in the basement, along with the other things we couldn’t take with us. Jack didn’t do whatever he was supposed to have to have done to keep the pump working. Onr night it rained — a lot, but the sump pump never kicked on. Jack was apparently oblivious to what was going on, because by the time he knew that it was flooding, the water was up to the basement's ceiling.

My comics disintegrated. Everything that was in that basement was ruined. And the worst part was that it happened just a few months after we left, but Jack didn’t tell anyone about it for two years. And all that time I was under the assumption that my precious comics were safe and dry, just waiting for me to retrieve them.

I was devastated.

Aftermath
If you’re wondering, I forgave my brother for his sin of omission long ago, although it still hurts to think about it. I can’t really say how much money was turned into mush that fateful night, but I can say with reasonable certainty, that by today’s standards, that collection could have put both of my kids through college. I would never in a million years have sold them, but the fact that a wonderful legacy which could have been handed down to my kids and grandkids was lost forever — and needlessly so — is pretty hard to take.

However all the rain in the clouds in the sky couldn’t wash away the memories and the things I learned; the wonder and adventure; the peacefulness and excitement I felt simultaneously when I had a new comic book opened before my eyes for the first time. The 60s were part of what is now referred to as the “Golden Age of Comics,” but I like to think of it as the “Golden AJ of Comics” instead.


Next: Story 3 of 3: "The Cool Ones"

Every Picture Tells a Story, Don’t It? (Part II)

Story 2 of 3: The Magazine Trading Post
Two out of the three defining passions from my early childhood were directly related to one another: comic books and drawing. I’m not really sure which came first, but I know that I don’t remember drawing anything when I was a kid besides superheroes.

Understandably, Superman was my first hero. The old black-and-white TV series starring the tragic George Reeves was one of the first television shows to capture my imagination. I’m sure that I was introduced, by proxy, to comic books by my older brothers, because I began drawing Superman, Batman, The Flash, The Atom, and Green Lantern long before I actually began collecting their comic books.

These comic books, for those of you who aren’t familiar with them (and if you aren’t, welcome to the 20th century!) were published by DC National Comics. The star of the franchise, of course was Superman, who started out as a serialized newspaper strip in 1934. The Man of Steel debuted in his own comic book, Action Comics in June 1938. Batman joined the comic book scene with his debut in Detective Comics in May 1939.

There was a tangled web of interplay between detective and “spicy” pulp stories and the introduction of Superman and Batman into the DC Comics line-up, but by the 1950s, the “Golden Age of Comics” were ushered in and Superman and Batman led the way. By the late 50s-early 60s, superheroes dominated the comic book landscape. This is obviously where I came into the picture.

Again, because of how big a part of my life they were, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly where and when my collection began. However, I believe I can accurately credit my eldest brother Jack for turning me on to the greatest discovery a kid like me could hope for: comic book nirvana, a.k.a. The Magazine Trading Post.

The Trading Post, as I always referred to it, was located about three blocks from the house I was born in, on Pitt Street in Anderson, Indiana. I don’t know exactly when I began going there, but I’d imagine it was around 1964, when I was eight years old. I always rode the bus to school, but would often walk home with two of my kindergarten–through third grade chums, Keith and Kurt, who lived about a half of a mile away. From their house it was just over another half-mile to home, but no walk through that neighborhood was complete without a vist to the Trading Post, which was right on the way.

Don’t ask me how I got the money, I think I probably skipped lunch a few times a week to support my habit, but once I started, I couldn’t stop.

The Trading Post was as unassuming a place as one would ever imagine. It was in a residential neighborhood housed in the enclosed front porch of the small white house its owner lived in. The proprietor was an old, white-haired lady named Addie. She would greet me at the door with a smile on her face that was as predictable as the cardigan and housedresses that almost seemed to be her uniform. She was always nice to me — that is after she became convinced that I was a serious customer, and not there to damage or pilfer the merchandise.

As the name indicates, The Magazine Trading Post was a place to trade old magazines, paperback books, and comics for ones that may not be new, but ones that you hadn’t read before. Of course you didn’t have to trade. Money was also accepted as tender for Addie’s goods. I never traded one comic book for another, but she did tell me once that the bulk of her paperback stock came to her by way of one-for-one trade.

Given that the store was a converted porch, there wasn’t a lot of room to walk, even for a small boy. Naturally, Addie kept a close eye on me at first, to make sure I didn’t knock over the stacks of the used magazines atop the tables that lined the outside walls. Most of the remaining floorspace was claimed by a number of upright, cylindrical wire racks that held the hundreds of paperback novels she sold. However not all of the turnstile racks were filled with paperbacks. A few held those precious conglomerations of pulp, ink and action: my beloved comic books. The newer editions were always on the racks, while the slower-moving older titles were relegated to the stacks on the tables. By the time I’d been a regular customer for a couple of months, Addie knew that I was no danger to her inventory. She often would just leave me alone to peruse and go back into her house. When I’d found all I wanted (or had the money for that day), I would simply ring the doorbell, hand over the change, smile and move on.

Oh yeah, I did say change. Back in the 60s, comic books had a retail price of 10 cents. Near the end of the decade the price skyrocketed to 12 cents per issue. At the Trading Post, the everyday low price was a nickel.

Always.

Comic books were my greatest teacher when I was in elementary school. They taught me about grammar and sentence structure much more than any English cirriculum ever did. I’ll never forget the time I was reading a Superman comic and came across the word superb. I didn't recognize it. So I went to my brother David and asked him, "What does this “sooperbee” word mean?" He smiled at me knowingly and said, "AJ, it's pronounced “soo-per-b(uh).” A light bulb went off in my head, “So THAT’S how you spell that word!"

I credit comic books for teaching me how to read at a time when I couldn’t have cared less about anything that they were trying to teach me in school.

From the very early 60s to around 1966, DC Comics were all I knew in the superhero realm. But sometime around that latter period, no doubt upon coming across one of them among Addie’s stock, I discovered another brand of comics that would sweep me off my feet, and another brand of superhero that would completely engulf my imagination.


Next: Story 2 of 3 (continued): The Magazine Trading Post: The Marvel Group

A Break in the Action

Riddle me this Batman...
What do you get when you take an already tired birthday blogger, add a wonderful Italian Restaurant dinner, fold in liberal amounts of wine and 6-8 bites of a HUGE piece of chocolate fudge cake?

Eight hours of sleep and no blog written.

I had a wonderful birthday yesterday, guys, and you were all a big part of it. However unfortunately I did not get the next segment in my current series written last night. I just sacked out after a long day and a big dinner. However it's all pretty much on the tip of my tongue, so hopefully I'll be able to spit it out today on my lunch break.

Oh and by the way, if you're wondering what I got, Michelle bought me a wonderful little antique Hawkeye camera to add to my small, but growing collection of vintage cameras, and my son Shawn got me the only thing that I had asked for, Tom Brokaw's book, The Greatest Generation. This is a book that I've been dying to read and will definitely be blogging about in the future. I am in complete agreement with Brokaw's assessment that my parent's generation is deserving of such a mantle, and I can't wait to see what kind of tribute he gives to them.

Have a great day everyone! I'll have the next chapter in the series (and my favorite of the three stories) up before the day is done.

Every Picture Tells a Story, Don’t It? (Part I)

Story 1 of 3: Cousin ‘E’
Well folks, today, July 28th is my birthday. And I’ve been holding out for almost a month to write this story. I’ve been waiting until now because I wanted to give it to myself as a present. This is a subject that takes me back to perhaps the happiest time of my childhood, when my life had few rules, even fewer responsibilities, and every day was an adventure.

I can’t remember a time in my life in which I’ve ever genuinely felt bored. I’ve always seemed to be able to occupy myself with something, either indoors or out, to spur my interest. If I had to be inside, I drew, primarily comic book superheroes, copying them from the collection of comic books I started sometime soon after we moved to Middletown. I have to chuckle when I think about it, but I had my younger brother, Alex, trained so that if I ever felt something resembling boredom coming on I would turn to him and (quite over-dramatically) say, “Alex…GOTTA DRAW! Immediately Alex would drop what he was doing and go scurry off to fetch my Academé Sketch Pad and box of pencils, and then blissfully away I would wile away an hour or more in my own little world, trying my best to mimic those comic artists from DC and Marvel who at even a young age I held in such high regard. These were the men who I so very much wanted to be when I grew up — but more on them later. While drawing was my passion, I rarely opted for staying inside when I could be outdoors, exploring the wonderland that was my adopted hometown. And I was never alone in my quest to build the coolest fort out of cardboard boxes and construction scraps, or to conquer the highest tree in the neighborhood, or even to capture the biggest craw-dad in the creek. No I had a partner in all my adventures, a boy who lived just down the block. He was not only my neighbor, he was family — my best friend, Cousin E.

E was the son of one of my Mother’s younger sisters, Aunt Lee. She and Uncle Dub had four children, all of whom were either the same age as, or within a year of my older brothers and me. Maggie was the oldest, the same age as my brother David. Mickey was TK’s age, and E was a year older than me. Their youngest, Samantha, was my age, with only a couple of days separating our birthdays. All of E’s siblings were good friends with their counterparts in my family, but E and I were by far the tightest. From the day we moved to Middletown in December 1964, until we left for California in September 1969, we were inseparable.

There will doubtless be many more stories in which I remember my friendship with E, one that sadly has all but completely disappeared since we became adults. I suppose it’s just one of those things, but after I left Indiana, although we exchanged both written and audio cassette “tape letters” to each other constantly for the first five years, high school life found us beginning to move in different directions, personality-wise. Finally, by the time we were in college, even reliving our old memories, complete with the exchange of childhood nicknames and secret handshakes, wasn’t enough to carry a conversation.

Now I promised myself that this story would be all positive, so that’s as far down that dim road as I’m willing to go right now. With that in mind, allow me say that another reason I wanted to write this story was to dedicate it to my friend, Cousin E. Without his companionship there’s no telling how much trouble I might have gotten into during that period of under-supervision in my life.

So here’s to ya Big E. I love you still after all the years that we’ve not spoken. You were an irreplaceable part of my childhood, and although the adventures we shared may not have inspired a Mark Twain novel, they were certainly enough to inspire the imagination and light a fire in the eyes of this scrawny, daydreamer you chose to call your friend.

Bike Hikes
Remember the photo booth picture in the previous chapter that I indicated was the focus of this series? Well the reason for that is that it is the one element that ties together the three separate, yet related stories that I have to tell.

Now that you’ve been properly introduced to my partner in crime, E, the first story is about how that booth photograph came to be taken in the first place. When I came across it again recently in an old scrapbook, it immediately mad me smile, as it has done each and every time I’ve laid my gaze upon it for the past 36 years.

I pulled it out of the bright blue photo scrap book that I had purchased the summer following my Senior in high school. My folks had given me a totally cool Kodak Instamatic Camera set for graduation and I had suddenly begun fancying myself as the next Ansel Adams. The concept of “self-adhesive” clear cellophane cover pages to hold the photos in place has long proved itself to be a dismal failure as breaking technologies will be ranked by historians someday.

The only good news in surveying my long-neglected book of treasured memories is that the yellowed, cracked and peeling cellophane pages didn’t do any actual damage to the photos that lay beneath them. The notable exception being the increased probability that they could now simply fall out or slip down into the binding and become accidentally creased or bent by the closing of the album or the turning of it’s pages.

When I determined to use that wonderful photo as the basis for this blog entry and removed it to scan, I was happy to notice that on the back I had written the month and year that it was taken. “Nov. ’68” was written in felt-tip pen by a much younger hand than the one which now held it. I just stood there grinning like an idiot, remembering that day so long ago.

It was somewhat of a regular adventure that E and I added to our repertoire as thrill-seekers. We just called them “Bike Hikes.” If you didn’t have a bicycle in rural Indiana back in the 60s, and you were a kid, chanced are you weren’t having much fun. We went everywhere on our bikes. They were our chariots to adventure. And unlike today, our parents didn’t ever become particularly concerned about it. As long as we were home by supper, or at least we called and let them know where we were, it was never a problem. Oh I so wish my kids could have grown up in a time where they could have been as carefree as we were back then. It is really a shame that the world has changed so very much.

Bike Hikes weren’t limited to, but usually involved a trip to Anderson. I don’t remember exactly how many E and I took together, but just for the sake of argument, let’s say four or five. Because of the date of the booth photo and the merchandise I was flashing in the two bottom frames, I’m pretty sure we took at least that many. I’m reasonably sure of this because of the fact that we were allowed to go as far as we had to go in order for me to display my precious comic cargo in those images.

To give you a quick lay of the land, Middletown was about six miles due east by southeast from Anderson. My neighborhood was a fairly new sub-division, surrounded by farmland. Our house was a half-block from the highway that led straight into town. It was a busy stretch between Middletown and Anderson, and the road, State Road 236, was one lane in either direction.

The first trip we took into Anderson was probably as much as two years previous to this, and E and I took the highway all the way into town. Needless to say, nobody in my family knew we were going to do that, because I really didn’t think to ask. It’s just the way things were. If we thought about doing something we just did it. I didn’t really have anyone to check in with. Well this time, the doo-doo hit the proverbial circular blade. It seems that E, who did have someone he had to check in with, my Aunt Lee, didn’t tell her the route we were taking either. Once Aunt Lee hit the roof, she told my Dad, so we were both in hot water. Although nothing bad happened out on the highway that day (not even close), we still got in trouble. But heck, we didn’t know. And I guess that’s what really saved us from worse punishment. It was decided that from then on, we would take back roads, not the highway to make our semi-annual adventure trip into Anderson.

Those first couple trips I remember were short and sweet. We went no further than the 109 Bypass, which intersects with St. Road 236 right at the beginning of that six-mile stretch between Anderson and Middletown. So with this later trip in November, the fact that we got as far as we did tells me that we had a lot more liberty to do so at that time, because we had obviously earned it by being safe and responsible.

The fact that I had comic books to show off in two of the booth photo frames is proof of how much leeway we were given by this time, as the place I had to go to buy those particular comics was an additional four miles beyond our previous boundary of the Highway 109 and State road 236 intersection.

On the way back home we stopped at a department store in the shopping center located at that intersection. We each had our picture taken that day. The brand new photo booth machine had just been installed. It was too cool. I'm pretty sure it cost fifty cents to have your picture taken in that thing, because I remember it being real expensive. However I just had to do it to mark the occasion. It was okay to splurge. That department store was the one place we always stopped on all of our Bike Hike journeys. I guess it was our touchstone, our mile marker of achievement.

My biking adventures with E were a great part of that brief period in my early years, although it seemed as though I lived an entire lifetime in those five years.


Next: Story 2 of 3: The Magazine Trading Post