Stories About Us

05/10/2024

In 1969 Jim Henson premiered a fuzzy puppet on the new educational show he was producing for public television. After a bit of character development, that puppet earned a name - Cookie Monster. I was 3 years old, so this was kismet, synchronicity, a meet-cute through our console tv as my wide little eyes met his great big googly ones. He liked some of the same things I liked, he was learning the alphabet (same as I was!)…if this was a monster, then I was all for ‘em.

This is where I first learned the word “monster”: a fuzzy lovable talking pile of fluff. Full disclosure - I’m with Grover: his curious optimism and entirely boneless arms soothe me to this day, but all of the monsters of Sesame Street are an amazing demonstration of difference without threat, acceptance without fear, because the children on the program spoke to them and weren’t afraid, so neither was I. On Sesame Street, to be a monster was to be open and vulnerable, unique and authentic, honest and courageous.

Then there was Godzilla. Not the computer rendered mutant horror dinosaur of today, but a middle-aged man dressed in a 200 pound rubber suit. The original TOHO movies (on after school TV) all ended with children in short panted school uniforms waving and thanking Godzilla, most often for shooing away another giant creature with a grudge of some kind. This monster fought other monsters - the enemy of my enemy was my friend.

It went downhill after that. Cinematic technology made it easy to create more horrifying visuals, and filmmakers seemingly steeped in nihilistic ennui began to crank out more horrific plots. Now the monster was us, the creatures were we; zombies and aliens and demons and serial killers. Dread itself became the star of all these films, served at a bargain price since you got to take so much of it home with you, like the uneaten popcorn in that extra large bin you decided to buy.

I had felt compassion for the Frankenstein monster. He didn’t ask for all that. The Wolfman was an unwilling victim of a leash law violation, and Dracula was a guy with a food allergy dealing with a houseful of uninvited guests. Even Godzilla was just chillin’ until Mothra and Mecha-Godzilla decided to bring all that noise.

But I could never dredge up sympathy for these new disappointed killing machines, unsatisfied with their summer camps, neighborhood clubs, or high school experiences. They weren’t monsters - they were maniacs, and there seemed to be an endless supply of them.

Which brings me to Air Supply.

They were a soft rock duo from Australia who became super famous in the 1980’s for songs about love. We had a lot of love songs on the radio back then, in every style of music, but Air Supply created tunes you couldn’t help but memorize - power rotation tone poems.

Our current popular music is filled to the brim with virulent break-up songs, but the music of Air Supply made love seem like something wonderful, not only to be survived or afraid of.

They did lean a bit on the clingy side, but so did the work of Chicago, Lionel Richie, Foreigner, Journey: each offering a selection of hits fully appropriate to be “Our Song” to any couple.

But they couldn’t be written today, as through a contemporary lens, they all seem a bit…suspicious; the syrupy lyrics now read as obsessive, giving an “I just wrote these lyrics with letters I cut out of magazines” kind of vibe.

To be fair, I did try singing one of their songs to my date at a high school dance, soon realizing that the words,“you're every woman in the world to me…you're my fantasy, you're my reality…you're everything I need…” were a bit much for a 9th grade second date.

My point is: I don’t think that only movies have gotten scarier - EVERYTHING has: love, bread (well, I’m allergic to both gluten and dairy, so a grilled cheese sandwich looks like a ninja throwing star to me), the sun, traveling, laundry detergent (apparently we shouldn’t eat it, even if it’s delicious), each other, ourselves...

The stories of Frankenstein, Wolfman, and Dracula span all the core conflicts - person vs. nature, person vs. person and the hardest of all, person vs. self. All three characters are in circumstances beyond their control, doing the best they can with where they are with very little help, facing ultimately (in all three cases) the insurmountable distraction of torches and pitchforks.

But they’re not maniacs.

I mean, we all have days we just don’t feel put together right, or our hair seems to have a life of its own, or we eat something we know we shouldn’t.

In a world that’s gone from monochromatic creatures to 4K maniacs, each of us has the choice to still be open and vulnerable, unique and authentic, honest and courageous.

You know. Monsters.

27/07/2024

If you attended American grade school you probably remember the blackboards, topped with long card stock banners depicting the alphabet in red letters as print and cursive, complete with little arrows explaining the best way to render each character. But just as ubiquitous was the bulletin board, usually filled with thematic collages depicting current holidays or collections of student work.

The boards at my school also sported a rotating roster of GOOD EXAMPLES, cardboard cutouts of American Heroes, the hard working folks we were supposed to STRIVE TO BE.

Abraham Lincoln. George Washington, and Thomas Jefferson.

Martin Luther King, George Washington Carver, Harriet Tubman.

Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Edison, Neil Armstrong.

No matter who the featured icons were on this bulletin board, the title, in carefully cut out red construction paper letters, remained the same –

“Good Better Best: Never let it Rest, until your Good becomes Better, and your Better becomes Best.”

I mean, that’s a lot of pressure for six year olds, and the averages are crazy - it doesn’t take math into account at all. I’m incredibly lucky that my grade school made a clear distinction between personal best and outwardly competitive best; it was really motivating to try to do our best, to be the best we’d ever been, to best our last achievement. But to be THE best was a radical perversion of the idea, leading to a treadmill of competition against every other human being on the planet.

It’s Olympics time again.

The experience of being an Olympic level athlete must be incredible. I myself find it hard to imagine as my body type is very distant from that level of pliability, but I admire them greatly and watch absolutely in awe of the years of training which led to this moment.

At least once a year our grade school bulletin board had Sports Heroes. Jesse Owens made the list in fourth grade. (His story was a little confusing because we hadn’t learned a great deal about World War II yet; he ran the fastest and we won and the bad guys were super upset about it, something like that.)

Not every athlete can take home Olympic gold. Gold medal winners are inspiring, and will be used to motivate children around the world. But if you are from a country that doesn’t have a winner, whose photo do you put up? What if your nation’s hero came in fourth? - not a bad showing in a worldwide contest. Do you, as an trainer, speak of how hard they tried, how proud you nation should be?

The answer most likely is no, because as all the Jackson brothers besides Michael can tell you, there is no second place. You win, or you do not. Best is a singular title reserved for one person per genre. It’s the only thing you’re supposed to want, the One True Goal. Win or go home.

Except, maybe not straight home.

Last Olympics (or maybe the Olympics before) I heard an interesting story about Olympic Village and what happens after each event: while the medal recipients are whisked away to photo shoots and morning tv shows and product placement contracts, the “losers” come back to Olympic Village and become fans, just like us at home. Wiping tears of disappointment from their eyes, after a lifetime of careful eating, early bedtimes and far too early mornings, and limited contact with anyone not associated with either their home or gym, they find themselves surrounded by a Noah’s Arc of the most fit people in the world, with no real plans for the next couple of days.

Relieved of the responsibility of competition, they bond and mingle.

Now there’s a unique experience, an opportunity that may lean a bit toward bacchanalia, but truly creates an Olympic Village. What sort of conversations can you have with a table of people from around the world? The gold medal winners don’t get that.

Of course, America celebrates not only the top, but the bottom of scales as well, which is why “the worst” has become a distinction which some people also strive for, having faced the reality that they’ll never be the best at something, coupled with the comforting fact that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS BAD PRESS. Attention is measured in absolute value.

Alas, there is the middle, a wonderfully broad place, because there is only one best, and one worst, and if you don’t hold the distinction of being one of those you are guaranteed a comfy place right smack dab with everyone else. I’d love to be at a bar where those middle athletes go, drinking deeply and laughing loudly, no medals to insure, no endorsement legal issues to sort out.

No matter what we do, we are always the best at being ourselves. We always take home the Gold Medal in Us. Isn’t that nice?

Of course, due to the lack of participants in the category, we’re always the "worst" us, too. That’s just math.

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21/06/2024

By the time you read this, it will be summer.

The solstice will have occurred, one of the two times each year the sun seems to stand still in the sky for a moment before continuing its orbital motion.

Target™, in its trademark spirit of nearly intolerable seasonal anticipation, having been outfitted with inflatable beachballs since late March, will today begin shifting its display towards “Back to School” (if not Halloween).

There will not be a “warm” day again until autumn… days will either be “really hot”, “kind of hot” or “not as hot as yesterday”.

As it is now summertime, I have instantly gained five pounds.

Being originally from the Midwest, my personal physics do not recognize the need for a svelte summer shape. I hail from the center of the continent, far from the oceans, where “beach bodies” are entirely unnecessary.

There is no midwestern equivalent to a “beach body” – there is not a “lake body” or “pool body” (unless you're the first detective on the scene in a television show).

As midwestern summers were always very hot, I tended to move less frequently than during the school year. I also drank more soda, because I was “on vacation” at home, without the luxury of public school air conditioning, and it was important that I remain hydrated. Thus, I actually could gain weight during the summer months. When I was old enough, I got a summer job dancing at the amusement park, which should have helped exercise-wise but was still troublesome due to the theatre’s generous breaks between showtimes and proximity to a Haagen-Daz ice cream cart.

If I do need to remove a t-shirt for any reason during the next 90 days, I will, like everyone else, gird my abdominal muscles continually to fashion a physique I have titled “The 1 Pack”. I will then endure the searing pain of my cramped yet presentable midriff until I can get into the water or back in the car or behind a significant tree, to once again breathe freely.

1958: The Jamies, a sister and brother band from Boston, release what would be their biggest hit,

“It’s summertime, summertime, sum, sum, summertime…”

For the late 1950’s, the lyrics are rebellious, flippant, daring. The song is a madrigal that doesn’t suspect it is secretly a punk anthem, an early precursor to Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” or Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” that became synonymous with the season, played on every AM station on the first day of summer for decades.

I cannot help but sing it myself every year. It is a summer Christmas carol.

Summer is now in full effect.

People are in mall parking lots, pausing after they open the doors to their car in order to “let the heat out”. Refrigerator doors are also being held open a few seconds longer, as owners languish in the sudden wave of delicious coolness. Coffee now requires a straw.

Days are long, nights are short, movies are blockbustery, and we forgot sunscreen again! We’ll have to pick some up at the drugstore on the way.

Suddenly, a Big Gulp™ seems like a perfectly logical amount of potable liquid.
It’s sum sum summertime.

25/05/2024

A mashup of my two Songs of the Summer. Quick: go listen before it gets taken down. Happy Long Weekend.

Mashup of Lunch and Nightshift. Thank you, Billie. Thank you, Charlotte.Lunch - written by Billie Eilish Nightshift - Charlotte Plank.