Small.

The films 10, THE WOMAN IN RED and AMERICAN BEAUTY all center around guys who are suffering midlife-crises. And in each of those movies, the protagonist (played by Dudley Moore, Gene Wilder and Kevin Spacey respectively) is precisely 42 years old.

I’m 42 years old. And I ain’t nowhere near a midlife crisis. On the contrary, despite some physical signs of aging like deteriorating eyesight, thinning and graying hair (the latter part of which I actually like) and a Grampa-Simpsoneque tendency to bitch about everything, I still feel like I did when I was half my age. Hell, I’m still not sure what I wanna do when I grow up.

But there are some things that I have to accept are never going to happen in my life. Some of them are small (I’ll never be able to grow sideburns) and some are big (my grandfather’s prophecy upon my birth shall never come to be… never mind what it was). But most fall somewhere in the middle.

When my father’s first marriage ended in 1962, he did what lots of freshly-single guys did. He sowed some oats, he started smoking and he bought a brand new sports car. A gorgeous white Volvo P-1800 S.

From the time I was old enough to even think about driving, I coveted that car. Dad bought me a toy version of it, an Impy Road-Master Super-Car (sorta like a Matchbox), which I painted white to match Dad’s. Jokes about the 1800 being mine when I got old enough eventually turned into a promise. But somewhere along the way, the Volvo fell by the wayside. A rusting frame rendered it immobile and landed it into storage, sleeping under a tarp first next to the garage, then inside a barn my father bought a mile up the road.

I had intentions. I wanted to get the Volvo fixed up and on the road. But life didn’t make room for that. First, it was financial. I just wasn’t making enough money. By the time I was solvent enough to afford to do so, I was living in Hoboken, New Jersey, a town not conducive to driving / parking / owning a low-riding, white vintage sports car. I can afford to fix it, not own it up here.

But in all honesty, the biggest issue is, I’m just not a vintage sports car guy. I’m not a motorhead at all, I didn’t even get my driver’s license until I was 17. I’ve owned exactly two cars in my life, a 1986 Honda Accord and my current vehicle, a 2004 Jeep Liberty. Not exactly “cool” modes of transportation, but they suited my needs… including my need for simplicity. Not only do I not possess the mechanical knowledge required to drive and own a car with a manual transmission and no power anything, I couldn’t come close to being able to answer the questions that people would ask me every single time I got out of the damn thing.


I never wanted to fully give up on the idea of the 1800 someday being “mine,” but I have to. Dad finally got tired of waiting for me to do something, so last year he took it to a body shop to begin the process of restoration. When it’s done… well, it won’t be mine. It’ll probably be sold. My parents need the money more than I need to own a car that will sit in Lancaster so I can drive it four times a year. My biggest wish at this point is that Dad hangs onto it for a while, driving it himself. Dad just turned 78 last month and he’s feeling his age more than I am. Maybe even just driving the Volvo to the diner will make him feel a little bit young again.

At least I still have the toy. It’s sitting on a shelf in my living room. Plastic and metal. Easier to have than the real thing. Small.

Time the Avenger

I've just started a new review blog, 50 WORDS OR LESS. The idea of reviewing practically everything that I read, see, hear, watch and collect is daunting and time consuming, but at least potentially worthwhile. Right now I’ve got a lotta stuff on the plate, so hopefully 50 Words will be an exercise in productivity rather than a time wasting distraction.

The problem with being an anal-retentive archivist (I so prefer that term to collector) who happens to be a freelancer is the ease with which one can spend too much time on projects that really serve no purpose. But again, the relative importance of projects falls under my favorite umbrella of subjectivity. Burning compilations of segments from THE DAILY SHOW and THE COLBERT REPORT is just step one; I need to make a cover for the DVD once it’s finished.

Yes, “Need.” Whether it’s to find a particular segment quickly to show at a video-related gathering or just for my own future reference, if I don’t know what the content of the compilation is, along with when it was aired and how long it is, it’s not complete (to that end, where the hell is the index on the SNL Season One box set? Now I have to go and make my own!).

But I used to be even more obsessive than that. I used to redo covers for DVDs if I thought they were ugly. Not my own compilations, I’m talking about official, purchased discs that had artwork that I felt was substandard compared to the content. I redid covers for IT’S A MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD WORLD, ANNIE HALL, CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS, about a dozen Hitchcock films, THE INCREDIBLE HULK TV Pilot DVD (which, in a crass case of cross promotion, used art from Ang Lee’s film), some cheapo collections of public domain Christmas Cartoons and the first three James Bond films (I did abandon that project after GOLDFINGER, however).

I’m not saying never, but these days I realize that spending three or four hours either scanning or downloading artwork, resizing it, designing or appropriating logos, laying out, printing and cutting covers for things that already have covers puts me firmly in the realm of the basement-dwelling über-nerds. I actually do have more important things to do (“important” again being relative). And so, as much as I despise the packaging for the 14-disc ULTIMATE SUPERMAN COLLECTION, I will fight the urge to design individual cases for the films and just leave them be (at least for now). Instead, I’ll use that time to write about my urge to design individual cases for the 14-disc ULTIMATE SUPERMAN COLLECTION because I despise its packaging.

See? MUCH better use of time.

POSTSCRIPT, October 2010:
Hey, guess what I spent a month doing in August! Making new DVD covers for about half of my collection (including the rest of the James Bonds). The impetus this time was as much about saving space as aesthetics.... I made new covers that fit into the slim DVD cases, so they take up literally half as much space as they used to. I still haven't tackled that Superman set, though..... hmmm.....

POSTSCRIPT, August 2012:
Finally got around to that Superman set last month. Good thing I waited, though, because I replaced the DVD set with Blu-Rays.

I am Urban Legend

So, the Tale of the Upturned Mercedes (see below) continued.

That night, the one thing that nobody could figure out was HOW on Earth, despite it being a bit slippery out, the car could’ve gotten turned on its end HALFWAY DOWN THE BLOCK. The cars at the beginning of the street were untouched, it was just our four vehicles in the middle of the block that were damaged. Turns out that the “bright light” the drunk driver saw was indeed a fire engine speeding down 10th Street that struck him and knocked him up on end.

The driver was still at fault, as he was drunk and ran a stop sign, but it’s an interesting note that has mostly been swept under the rug in this oh-so-corrupt little town. But there’s a part of the story involving myself that’s now become the source of amusement for the Hoboken police dept.

My neighbor pal Ann was present the night of the accident, so she saw everything, including my previously stated hesitance to lose my parking space by moving my dented Jeep so the fire dept. could flip the Benz and have it towed. To reiterate, the facts are as follows: I shouted two times that I didn’t want to lose my space after midnight in Hoboken. I then realized I was being silly and moved the car into a driveway a little further down the block. When the Benz was towed away, I was able to quickly return my car to its parking spot. No problem.

However, that’s not the story that’s being told at the Hoboken PD. The other evening, Ann was at Louise & Jerry’s, a local watering hole of note with her wienerdog, Ernsesto, having a celebratory bowl of water in honor of his graduation from Puppy School when she overheard some off duty cops discussing the accident.

They got most of the details right until they got to the part about my reluctance to move the Jeep. To paraphrase the cop, “So this guy wouldn’t move his car and when they flipped the Merecedes, it smashed into his car and ripped the side off of it!”

Not a shred of truth in it, but I’m sure by now the story has me getting run over by the tow truck. Just goes to show ya, do not believe everything you hear. Hell, don’t believe ANYTHING you hear. Especially if it comes from off duty cops at a bar.

Flippin' Jerk

It’s been a year for drunken assholes in cars. A few days after New Year’s, I was walking home from work one night when a stretch limo went by with a drunken idiot hanging out the window shouting at everyone he saw, “Hey! I won the lottery! Fuck you!” Nice to see that he’s putting his hard-earned winnings to good use. Regardless of how much this douchebag won, it’ll be gone by June.

But that wasn’t nearly as annoying as what happened Thursday night. I was in my usual spot, slingin’ drinks for the peeps when I got a phone call from my upstairs neighbor, Cara. Now, in the three-plus years that Cara’s lived above me, she’s only called me at work two times: Once when there was a fire and once when there was a scary guy sitting on the steps outside. So I knew right away it wasn’t good.

“Someone hit your car,” Cara said, and so, with Lysa covering me at the bar, I ran back home with Neel as my witness and restraint. About ten fire engines and another dozen cop cars filled the are surrounding the scene.

Seems that someone driving a brand spankin’ new 2007 Mercedez Benz decided that the best way to break it in was to get hammered and go speeding through the crammed, narrow streets of Hoboken NJ, making a too-fast turn off of Bloomfield and onto 10th St, at which point he “saw a bright white light,” slammed into a parked Saab, flipped up on his side and skidded into my Jeep (as well as the car parked behind me).

The damage to the Saab was substantial. The entire driver’s side was pretty much wiped out, and the rear bumper was pushed into the tire. I was comparatively lucky. He somehow only put a giant dent in my rear passenger side panel. He barely missed breaking the tail light and the window and bumper are unscathed. Still, as I watched the guy fail his sobriety test, I did fantasize about clocking him as the cops put the cuffs on him.

The funniest (okay, funny) part of the incident came when the cops asked me to move my car so they could flip the Benz back onto its wheels. I shouted (yes, SHOUTED) at the police, “I DON’T WANNA LOSE MY PARKING SPACE!! IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT IN HOBOKEN!!!” I relented, but stuck around long enough to reclaim it after the tow truck took das Deutsches wagon away. See? I told you people how premium parking is in this tiny hamlet!!

The irony is, just one day earlier, as I was driving to Target (a local shopping emporium), I was reveling in the fact that I’ve had my car for two and a half years in the most congested, overpopulated parking town in the country and nothing’s happened to it. In fact, one of the reasons I chose a Liberty is that its design makes it fairly resistant to the kinds of dings that occur in a town where double parking and pressed bumpers are commonplace.

So Friday, I called my insurance company, went to the police station for a copy of the report and now the game of “who’ll pay” begins. Oh, and the “funny” postscript: Turns out the guy works for Mercedes. The car he smashed (and oh, is it smashed) belongs to the company.

So, I’m sure they’re thrilled.

PXMD

My annual Post-Christmas Depression has set in, but with a slightly different feel this year. Usually it occurs because the holiday has failed to live up to my always-unrealistic expectations. This year, however, Christmas was merrier and brighter than it’s been in many years. Almost everything went well. The Video Party was a big success, my shopping for gifts went smoothly (and more importantly, was appreciated), there were some really special times spent with really special people. My trek back to PA was remarkably free of any anxiety or agitation (not one fight with the nuke!). I got to see some friends I haven’t seen in a long time (although the ones I missed were sorely missed). The ever-declining Fulton Bar was replaced with the far more enjoyable Quips Pub and there was a too-brief encounter with the Winger Wine Cellar. We got some great new stories that will be told for years (“I’m 69 but I feel 18 because I got Jesus in me~!”). My cousin Gretchen’s absence was palpable, but it was great to have Gary there. I got to see, hear and smell the 1800 starting up for the first time in decades. The fireplace raged despite the too-warm weather. The kind woman at the CVS gave me $20 off the memory card I suddenly needed on the 25th. I received a gift of the heirloom Christmas glasses! The rest of my pile of swag entices me to ignore work and just read, watch and listen for days and days. In fact, the entire holiday, the only real drag was the fact that Global Warming makes it seem as if the concept of a White Christmas is really going to be an anachronism found only in old recordings.

So why so glum?

Because this year I could FEEL the impending inevitability of time. A number of losses among extended family and friends this past year (yet another of which I just found out about while writing this entry!) hammered this home. And as I’ve said before, with no families of our own, my brother and I cling to our (countless) beloved holiday traditions tenaciously. But the day will come when they are going to be forced to change, and Christmas will never be the same. That’s the natural order of things, but I honestly don’t know if we’ll be able to deal with it. When friends of mine talk about NOT going home for the holidays or make comments about how it’s not a big deal in their family (or, worst of all, express outright cynicism towards Xmas), I’m frankly dumbfounded. I can’t imagine NOT having the enormous celebration of family and friendship (Jesus ain’t always the reason for the season) that we have every December.

I tend to be pretty self-absorbed (says the guy writing a blog, presuming people give a crap about his thoughts and tales). I can be petty and whiny and materialistic and impatient. But amidst that, I think I do have a sense of perspective. Over the past several years, the main thing I’ve learned is to not take what I do have for granted. Which made this Christmas both wonderful and heartbreaking.

And now comes the Hell that is New Year’s. Stay tuned.

Names Withheld (but easy to figure out)

Santa came early this year. Last night at the bar, I got to fulfill one of my bartender fantasies (as mentioned in this posting)… I got to tell an underage celebrity that she couldn’t have a drink. I’m not going to say which one, but she’s a TV “star” on one of those shows with all the pretty young people having difficulties while wearing bathing suits (and she was mentioned hypothetically in that very post).

She was there with an absolutely awful band from L.A. who personify everything wrong with L.A. bands… completely obsessed with image, artlessly aping classic rock riffs and bringing nothing new to the table. The lead singer even took off his shirt (trust me, it wasn't hot). They blew, but not as much as the following band, a concoction fronted by some guy from Rock Star Supernova, a show which I had heard of, but never seen. Apparently it’s American Idol with “rock” pretense, but this guy seemed every bit as vacuous as any Idol contestant.

It’s always interesting to see the crowd that comes out for a band that sprang from the Tee-Vee. One of the craziest nights at the bar ever was when the band Flickerstick from the VH1 reality show Bands on the Run played. People were acting as if the Beatles resurrected and were playing the tiny room. Girls were snapping photos, cheeseballs in gold preened, thinking they were in the presence of cool and one sycophant was even heard to say that she couldn’t eat her dinner because she was so nervous being so “close to a rock star.”

Um, I’m not sure about this one, but I think one of the pre-requisites for being a rock star is to have an album out, which at that point, Flickerstick did not (They do now, though… their debut can be found used on Amazon for $1.81).

The point is, people who are awed by non-bands like this are people who do what TV tells them to. They don’t (or maybe even can’t) put any effort into developing their own tastes, music means nothing to them, at least in comparison to the tinny sheen of fame that TV applies better than anything else.

Anyway, back to the girl. Word spread through the club that she was there, although I wouldn’t have recognized her if she weren't pointed out to me. I will say that she wasn’t obnoxious at all, and even kept a cap on her wee head, somewhat hiding from the crowd. But she was also drinking a beer, and it suddenly dawned on me that I’ve seen her mentioned on the list of underage Hollywood clubbers. I got confirmation from Lauren (who knows about such things) and just waited.

She finished her beer and came up to the bar to order another. Taking a breath and relishing the moment, I asked for her ID. She paused for a second, stammered that she didn’t have one and pointed out that she’d already gotten a beer.

Not from me she didn’t, and I told her that I couldn’t serve her, at which point she kinda stomped away, perhaps cursing the backwards mentality of the wilds of New Jersey.

I was not trying to be (and hopefully didn’t come across as) a jerk. I was just doing my job. The law states, you gots to be 21, not 21 or on The OC. She no doubt called me an asshole and probably got another drink from someone else at the club at some point, but that’s okay. I am an asshole; I did get some sense of satisfaction in bringing a spot of perspective to the pampered state of celebrity. A teensy tiny infinitesimal temporary spot, but hey, you take what you can get.

Bronze Beauties Christmas Comics Blowout

Time to put the Bronze Beauties to bed, as an overhaul of TGGS in the offing for early 2007, so I thought I’d go out with a holiday themed blowout installment.

My oft-mentioned love of this time of year follows through to all media. Christmas movies, music, TV shows, short stories by Dickens and Sedaris, vintage design and yep, comic books. The four collections below left impressions on me almost as indelible as the markers with which I colored some of their inside covers. Whoops. The Archie digest in particular contains such great stories and art from the 50s and 60s that the book has become as perennial to me as IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE or Mom's sand tarts. The DC and Marvel collections (both in that great huge tabloid size that positively screamed “YOU MUST OWN ME!!!!” from the newsstands in the ‘70s) were the first of what became tradition for the publishers. When the well of worthy holiday themed tales from the past started to run dry in the next decade, both of the Big Two started putting out Xmas comics of new material, which were welcome, but didn’t (and by definition, couldn’t) bring forth that same sense of nostalgia that old stories from a simpler time when Superman and Santa Claus could co-exist in the same story without ruining the “believability” of the character. Sheesh.

From the top, DC LIMITED COLLECTORS’ EDITION #C-34 (1975), art by Nick Cardy; ARCHIE COMICS DIGEST #3 (1973), art by Stan Goldberg; MARVEL TREASURY SPECIAL #1 (1974), art by John Buscema; and DENNIS THE MENACE BONUS MAGAZINE #123 (1973), art by an unknown Hank Ketcham ghost.

And I thank you for your indulgence. Again.