I dunno. I'm not the world's most optimistic soul. (You can stop guffawing now.) But I do have a particular talent for perseveration, as a shrink once said, trying to see if I really was as smart as I think I am. (I defined it to his liking, so I guess I won that round. I didn't get a 700-and-something on my GRE verbal for nothing.) And I've observed some things lately that have made me wonder if mankind, or at least the American version thereof, actually might be capable of -- oh dear -- evolving.
I mean yeah, there are still the Pat Robertsons of the world, but I suspect Pat is in love with himself and his ability to stir the shit. Among the great unwashed, it's been interesting lately to discover what's become acceptable.
There's not much point about talking about "back in the day," because it's so far back for me that it's incomprehensible to most now. (Seriously -- if I tell you that I didn't know the F-bomb existed, much less what it meant, till I was 12, could you extrapolate that to a 12-year-old in 2010 and not die laughing?) But my generation got farked in a whole lot of ways -- and the sociologists FINALLY are giving us some data to prove that to the haters -- and one of them was in our inability to stand up for who and what we are from a young age. These days, those around LGBT kids who come out in their teens often don't bat an eye. It's just not a huge deal. "Back in the day" (late '70s and forward some), it was a *tremendously* huge deal, to the point that many of us didn't come forward till adulthood, and then with trepidation.
So it's been interesting to me to see the 7-year-old boy who came through my line at the Bullseye with his mom, handed me two cheap-ass, made-in-China, Disney princess figurines (Cinderella and another one, I forget who), and excitedly said, "THESE are MINE!" Mom didn't blink. Nor did the mom of the young male teen tonight who handed me a "My First Salon" (as in beauty, not literary, although I'd be tickled to see an Algonquin Round Table playset) and said he didn't mind that the package was open, he'd take it anyway. And of course, neither of those things means those boys are budding 'mos, but my larger point is that those kids didn't have parents flipping out that they weren't buying war toys or Hot Wheels instead.
*My* mother once informed me, while watching a St. Patrick's Day parade in which a LGBT group was participating, that she would be "mortified" -- her exact word, which I have never forgotten -- if one of her children turned out to be gay.
It might be a generational thing, or we might actually have come a long way, baby. But props to all the parents who let their kids be who they are rather than who the parents want them to be.
And perhaps things really can change: Tonight the one person who has been uniformly awful, mean, snippy, hateful, etc toward me since the day I started -- smiled at me and genuinely apologized for all the times she'd been awful, mean, snippy and hateful toward me. Wonders actually may never cease. ;-)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Thursday, December 24, 2009
"I still have Santa's phone number. Capisce?"
And that, friends, is the best threat to a screaming toddler I have heard not just this holiday season, but for all time. Those of you with young children, feel free to steal it. I'm sure the frazzled mom who uttered it won't mind. ;-)
Random Tales from the Bullseye, Part 2:
-- Once, my freshman year of college, I wrote a check (remember those?) for 48 cents. The 21st-century version? Somebody ran through a debit card for 52 cents.
-- Dozens of inches of snow on the ground. Freezing rain. Miserably cold temps. And yet? There are bikinis on sale. In December. In the Upper Midwest, which means, inevitably, that you can buy one in a camouflage pattern. I *LOVE* this place! ;-)
-- Why people insist on asking me for fashion advice (stop laughing), I do not know. I have had a multitude of people ask me if I thought this top goes with those pants or whatever. I offer an opinion, but this is my disclaimer: If you (or your kid) ends up looking stupid, I'm not to blame, as I am strictly a Tshirts and jeans kind of girl.
-- Yesterday, as I was bagging somebody's stuff, I felt this insistent little tap in the general vicinity of my posterior. Annoyed, I turned around to find Miss Cindy Lou Who -- who was no more than 2 -- and wanted to know if she could have an empty crate (which formerly contained clementines). She was just tickled pink when I handed it to her and announced proudly to one and all, "I got a box!"
You gotta wonder where the creativity and sense of wonder goes as you age.
-- Then there was the "hey buddy! Nice to meet you!" I overheard while doing something else. I glanced over to find a 6-year-old (at best) boy greeting a newborn. THAT caused an outright guffaw.
-- Dept. of "I'd Rather Not Know": -- the chick who bought 25 boxes of candy canes ... and a pair of socks.
And then there have been the people who get that it's not all about buying stuff. Like the disabled gentleman who was out shopping not only for himself, but his neighbor (and paying for her, too). I said it was nice of him to go shopping for two (especially because a wheelchair's gotta be tough to navigate in this weather), and he said, "well, she can't get out. She's 97."
Then there was the woman who said she was buying bakery items because she'd been so busy working she hadn't had time to do it herself, and she didn't know if her kids were going to come anyway. Her husband dumped her after 30 years, remarried as fast as he could, and convinced their adult kids that she was the problem. So none of them came for Thanksgiving, either.
"How sad!" I said.
"It will be what it will be," she said. "God didn't promise me that my kids would love me, but he did tell me I have to love them."
Amen, peace out, and Merry Christmas.
Random Tales from the Bullseye, Part 2:
-- Once, my freshman year of college, I wrote a check (remember those?) for 48 cents. The 21st-century version? Somebody ran through a debit card for 52 cents.
-- Dozens of inches of snow on the ground. Freezing rain. Miserably cold temps. And yet? There are bikinis on sale. In December. In the Upper Midwest, which means, inevitably, that you can buy one in a camouflage pattern. I *LOVE* this place! ;-)
-- Why people insist on asking me for fashion advice (stop laughing), I do not know. I have had a multitude of people ask me if I thought this top goes with those pants or whatever. I offer an opinion, but this is my disclaimer: If you (or your kid) ends up looking stupid, I'm not to blame, as I am strictly a Tshirts and jeans kind of girl.
-- Yesterday, as I was bagging somebody's stuff, I felt this insistent little tap in the general vicinity of my posterior. Annoyed, I turned around to find Miss Cindy Lou Who -- who was no more than 2 -- and wanted to know if she could have an empty crate (which formerly contained clementines). She was just tickled pink when I handed it to her and announced proudly to one and all, "I got a box!"
You gotta wonder where the creativity and sense of wonder goes as you age.
-- Then there was the "hey buddy! Nice to meet you!" I overheard while doing something else. I glanced over to find a 6-year-old (at best) boy greeting a newborn. THAT caused an outright guffaw.
-- Dept. of "I'd Rather Not Know": -- the chick who bought 25 boxes of candy canes ... and a pair of socks.
And then there have been the people who get that it's not all about buying stuff. Like the disabled gentleman who was out shopping not only for himself, but his neighbor (and paying for her, too). I said it was nice of him to go shopping for two (especially because a wheelchair's gotta be tough to navigate in this weather), and he said, "well, she can't get out. She's 97."
Then there was the woman who said she was buying bakery items because she'd been so busy working she hadn't had time to do it herself, and she didn't know if her kids were going to come anyway. Her husband dumped her after 30 years, remarried as fast as he could, and convinced their adult kids that she was the problem. So none of them came for Thanksgiving, either.
"How sad!" I said.
"It will be what it will be," she said. "God didn't promise me that my kids would love me, but he did tell me I have to love them."
Amen, peace out, and Merry Christmas.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
influences and advice and stuff
Or, "I miss you, Joe McGuff."
I have an ancient, yellowed Guindon cartoon that says "Nostalgia is only bad if it causes you to go back through life." But remembering the little things that ended up being turning points isn't so bad.
I have been writing since I could hold a pencil. In first grade, I wrote a story centered around some blob figure my sister cut out of green construction paper. I'm sure it has been lost to the sands of time now, though I did know where it was for many years. It centered on a family named the Burstein-Applebees (Kansas Citians of a certain vintage, and particularly those familiar with Metcalf South Mall in that same vintage, should be grinning right about now. B-A was a record store on the mall's lower level). Other than that, basically all I remember is that Mr. and Mrs. Burstein-Applebee were getting a divorce. I think that was probably a wish I didn't know how to articulate otherwise, even at that age, but we won't go there.
In second grade, for some reason, there were a few days I was well enough to go to school, but not to go outside for recess. So I stayed in and wrote "books." Illustrated 'em myself, too, stapled them together and scrawled "BESTSELLER!" across the top in big red letters.
But fourth grade ... Fourth grade is when my dad took me to my first Royals game. He had gotten tickets through work, and my brother had something else going on, and my mom wasn't interested. I remember not caring much that I was last choice.
The Royals beat the A's, who in the mid-'70s were a helluva team -- Gene Tenace, Sal Bando, Joe Rudi, Reggie Jackson, Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers -- wow. They won a pile of World Series and were the Royals' biggest rivals, next to the Yankees. But that night, John Mayberry hit one into the fountains, the Royals won 5-3, and when my dad said "so what'd you think?," I said, "when can we come back?"
Next morning, he handed me the sports page. I looked at it and had one of my first Eureka! moments: I could go to baseball games and GET PAID TO WRITE ABOUT THEM. That pretty much solidified my career choice.
In 9th grade social studies, we had to do a unit on careers. Part of it involved interviewing someone in your chosen field and then giving a report to the class. I chose Joe McGuff, who was sports editor of the Kansas City Star.
At the time, he must have been in his 50s, and he was remarkably patient with dumb-kid questions. And he also gave me some of the best advice I've ever gotten: Read everything you can. It'll all come in handy at some point.
A couple of years later, I read an interview with Garry Trudeau, creator of Doonesbury. He said the trick to his success was to know just enough about a topic to make it look like he knew a lot, and that this trick not only got him through college and cocktail parties, but writing a daily strip.
I bring all this up because I've been doing a lot of auto-related writing lately. Do I know diddly about cars? Well, I know how to stick the key in the ignition and turn it. That's pretty much the sum total of my knowledge. And yet, the people I talk to for these stories, and then the people who read them, are all utterly convinced I am a car fanatic. It's kind of amusing. :-) All I can say is, god bless the Internet, and thank you, Joe McGuff. You taught me a lot, not only by reading and absorbing your stuff, but by suggesting learning both happens outside of school and should be continuous.
I have an ancient, yellowed Guindon cartoon that says "Nostalgia is only bad if it causes you to go back through life." But remembering the little things that ended up being turning points isn't so bad.
I have been writing since I could hold a pencil. In first grade, I wrote a story centered around some blob figure my sister cut out of green construction paper. I'm sure it has been lost to the sands of time now, though I did know where it was for many years. It centered on a family named the Burstein-Applebees (Kansas Citians of a certain vintage, and particularly those familiar with Metcalf South Mall in that same vintage, should be grinning right about now. B-A was a record store on the mall's lower level). Other than that, basically all I remember is that Mr. and Mrs. Burstein-Applebee were getting a divorce. I think that was probably a wish I didn't know how to articulate otherwise, even at that age, but we won't go there.
In second grade, for some reason, there were a few days I was well enough to go to school, but not to go outside for recess. So I stayed in and wrote "books." Illustrated 'em myself, too, stapled them together and scrawled "BESTSELLER!" across the top in big red letters.
But fourth grade ... Fourth grade is when my dad took me to my first Royals game. He had gotten tickets through work, and my brother had something else going on, and my mom wasn't interested. I remember not caring much that I was last choice.
The Royals beat the A's, who in the mid-'70s were a helluva team -- Gene Tenace, Sal Bando, Joe Rudi, Reggie Jackson, Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers -- wow. They won a pile of World Series and were the Royals' biggest rivals, next to the Yankees. But that night, John Mayberry hit one into the fountains, the Royals won 5-3, and when my dad said "so what'd you think?," I said, "when can we come back?"
Next morning, he handed me the sports page. I looked at it and had one of my first Eureka! moments: I could go to baseball games and GET PAID TO WRITE ABOUT THEM. That pretty much solidified my career choice.
In 9th grade social studies, we had to do a unit on careers. Part of it involved interviewing someone in your chosen field and then giving a report to the class. I chose Joe McGuff, who was sports editor of the Kansas City Star.
At the time, he must have been in his 50s, and he was remarkably patient with dumb-kid questions. And he also gave me some of the best advice I've ever gotten: Read everything you can. It'll all come in handy at some point.
A couple of years later, I read an interview with Garry Trudeau, creator of Doonesbury. He said the trick to his success was to know just enough about a topic to make it look like he knew a lot, and that this trick not only got him through college and cocktail parties, but writing a daily strip.
I bring all this up because I've been doing a lot of auto-related writing lately. Do I know diddly about cars? Well, I know how to stick the key in the ignition and turn it. That's pretty much the sum total of my knowledge. And yet, the people I talk to for these stories, and then the people who read them, are all utterly convinced I am a car fanatic. It's kind of amusing. :-) All I can say is, god bless the Internet, and thank you, Joe McGuff. You taught me a lot, not only by reading and absorbing your stuff, but by suggesting learning both happens outside of school and should be continuous.
Monday, November 30, 2009
no one here gets out alive....
Or, life and death and the ever-increasing awareness of mortality in between.
Today is the birthday of one of my nieces. It is always a day of much reflection for me (whether you know it or not, Miss C), for reasons I'm not willing to get into publicly. Ask if you wanna know.
Late last night, I learned of the death of someone I admired and who had provided me much-needed help (of various sorts) and encouragement at a time in my life where I really, really needed some extra TLC and a *whole* lot more belief in my basic worth as a human being. That he survived some really horrible crap that life threw at him in the last several years was inspiring in itself. I always knew him to be kind and generous with whatever resources he had to offer that he thought you needed. Those who disagreed -- publicly, doing much damage -- surely contributed to the stress that eventually killed him via a heart attack at a relatively young age.
Same thing happened a few years ago to someone else in the same profession who always went above and beyond for me, although I just heard from him the other day and he sounds upbeat and well. It's a risk you know is out there when you become a professional caregiver, I guess. And although the ones I've known decided to do what they do for a living partly to heal themselves, they also all genuinely have been compassionate people who wanted to help others through painful times and get to reasonably OK ones. Takes one to know one, etc.
I'm at that particular life stage where I'm thinking about this stuff a lot, anyway, wondering what dreams may come when I shuffle off this mortal coil. Sometimes I miss being 22 and thinking I'm invincible and that I have all the time in the world. Enjoy it while you can, birthday girl.
Today is the birthday of one of my nieces. It is always a day of much reflection for me (whether you know it or not, Miss C), for reasons I'm not willing to get into publicly. Ask if you wanna know.
Late last night, I learned of the death of someone I admired and who had provided me much-needed help (of various sorts) and encouragement at a time in my life where I really, really needed some extra TLC and a *whole* lot more belief in my basic worth as a human being. That he survived some really horrible crap that life threw at him in the last several years was inspiring in itself. I always knew him to be kind and generous with whatever resources he had to offer that he thought you needed. Those who disagreed -- publicly, doing much damage -- surely contributed to the stress that eventually killed him via a heart attack at a relatively young age.
Same thing happened a few years ago to someone else in the same profession who always went above and beyond for me, although I just heard from him the other day and he sounds upbeat and well. It's a risk you know is out there when you become a professional caregiver, I guess. And although the ones I've known decided to do what they do for a living partly to heal themselves, they also all genuinely have been compassionate people who wanted to help others through painful times and get to reasonably OK ones. Takes one to know one, etc.
I'm at that particular life stage where I'm thinking about this stuff a lot, anyway, wondering what dreams may come when I shuffle off this mortal coil. Sometimes I miss being 22 and thinking I'm invincible and that I have all the time in the world. Enjoy it while you can, birthday girl.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A cornucopia of thanks
A cornucopia is a horn-shaped basket filled with food such as fresh corn and wild ucopias. -- fakeAPstylebook
Inspired by an old (in terms of decades known -- we're not really OLD, yet, Suz, right??) friend, herewith, my list of things to be thankful for in 2009.
In no particular order, I am thankful that:
- Very soon, I am going to get to hug my beautiful, wonderful, 20-something boy for the first time since he was 5 days old, and that he was raised lovingly and brilliantly well, as I wish I could have done for him.
- The wonders of technology have helped me to reconnect with old friends -- even if they live on the other side of the world now -- and make new ones. I had a chance to go home this summer and do some catching up, and it's the first time in years that I actually felt like it was "home" again and I had some roots there. Even if some of my favorite people were Indian Creeps. (NALLWOOD KNIGHTS, BABY!)
- I have a roof over my head and utilities that aren't constantly in danger of getting shut off, and that as much as we can annoy each other, Vic comes through for me every time. And that Rich puts up with me, although I know he'd rather not.
- The cat-in-law tolerates the occasional hug and smooch without complaining too much that I'm ruffling her Supreme Feline Dignity. In return, I let her wake me up meowing at obscene hours. I think it's fair.
- The kitties at the shelter are much more snuggly than the cat-in-law and love the hugs and smooches and petting. Happiness is a warm fur-baby, of whatever species.
- I once again am getting a chance, if only part-time, to do what I love best, and that the person paying me to do so (in both money and compliments) has gone from total stranger to friend in the space of a month. You rock, Ry.
- You too, John, but I've had a lot more years to tell you that. Doesn't make it any less true, though. Thank you for giving me a chance when no one else believed in me, for always offering to bail me out when it seems like I could use it, for understanding the days when I am nonfunctional, and for your infinite patience with same. If you gotta be crazy, it's nice to have a shrink for a boss. ;-) Thanks for getting it.
- You too, Gregory. It is a rare thing in life to meet someone and know the second your eyes meet that you are not only going to get along famously well, but end up as very good friends for a very long time to come. You have done my heart, soul and brain so much good over the years, whether by making me laugh, snarking with me over ANTM, or being tenderhearted enough to cry with me and not worry what it looked like. As humanoids go, you are one of the finest.
- As much as I complain about it, I have a reason to leave the house and something to do with most of my days for at least a few hours a day. You have no idea how depressing it gets to face endless days of nothingness.
- The Viqueens are the ones having to put up with Benedict Brett's ego. (Yeah, I don't CARE that you're 9-1 and he's on fire. We'll see how you all feel once the annual retirement drama begins in the offseason.)
- Even though my first bunch of students at Marquette, who were mostly 18 then, are mostly turning 30 in 2010, I'm still around to hear from them (and students from later years) reasonably often. I'm especially grateful that many of them have written *me* recommendation letters for jobs -- it's a good feeling to know you've made a difference. It's an even better feeling when I think back to 4 years ago around this time and how close to the edge my continued survival was.
- Which makes me thankful for Dr. Hake and Dr. Fenske and everyone who did what they had to do to pull me through a critical illness -- including not telling me what my actual odds of survival were. (I found that by reading my chart, like an idiot.) Scary stuff. And although I still have my share of "why bother" days, all in all, I'm glad to be around still.
- I've gotten to travel some, and live in different places, and be exposed to different cultures and ways of doing things, whether those different cultures were as far as Germany or as near as northwest Wisconsin. (Trust me -- it's a lifestyle all its own there.)
- I have not only gotten to meet Jake and Peg Leinenkugel, who are lovely people and very committed to their community, but that I still regularly get to drink their tremendously tasty brewskis on a regular basis.
- Even though it cost me a fortune and has done me absolutely no good in the well-paid job arena, I have two diplomas that I'm really damn proud of, from two really good schools that I worked really hard at. (Well, sorta, at the 2nd. I'm thankful that I was Dr. Thorn's golden child and could get away with whatever I wanted, including doing very little to actually earn my RAship. ;-)
- The friends I made there (hi, Nic and Marie and Mike, especially!) have been with me ever since. And the friends I made in greater Milwaukee, my adopted hometown, know me better than almost anyone and still like me, even if I met them at work (deadlines make me cranky).
- Even though it's freakin' cold and we haven't seen the sun in a million or two years, when you open the door leading out onto the deck, you can get lungsful of that yummy wood fire scent.
- I have had the opportunity to fulfill my dreams and meet my heroes. Not many folks can say one or the other, much less both.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tales from the Bullseye
Random weirdness that I jot down to comment on when I have the time:
-- If you've never seen me before in your life, you're younger than me, and you don't have the personality that will allow you to get away with that sort of affectation, you had best not be calling me "dear."
-- Corollary to the above: If you've never seen me before in your life, and you insist on calling me by name, repeatedly, just because you can read my nametag, you are a guaranteed annoyance.
-- Corollary to the corollary: The military guys are always just polite as hell, and don't even make me feel old when they call me "ma'am." THAT is more acceptable than "dear," or than plays on my name that amuse you because you clearly believe I haven't heard them all eight hundred and forty-two billion trillion times before.
-- People who come through the "10 items or less" lane with 72 items should be summarily executed. It's no more fun on the other side of the register, particularly because you get to look out onto a sea of irked people.
-- Apparently every pregnant woman in the greater Rochester area shops at Target North. Why they are all also buying KY and condoms I am not altogether sure. It may have something to do with the fact that they all seem to have a passel of kids already.
-- Dude: I closed last night too, but you don't hear *me* telling people to "have a good night" for the entire *day* when I come in at 9 the next morning. Fewer drugs, more sleep: It's a good thing.
-- Packages of undies that announce in bold caps that they are "WEDGIE FREE!": Too much information? Discuss.
-- Exactly what kind of person finds it amusing to buy a Halloween costume for his or her dog? How is that not animal cruelty? Inquiring minds want to know.
-- If you've never seen me before in your life, you're younger than me, and you don't have the personality that will allow you to get away with that sort of affectation, you had best not be calling me "dear."
-- Corollary to the above: If you've never seen me before in your life, and you insist on calling me by name, repeatedly, just because you can read my nametag, you are a guaranteed annoyance.
-- Corollary to the corollary: The military guys are always just polite as hell, and don't even make me feel old when they call me "ma'am." THAT is more acceptable than "dear," or than plays on my name that amuse you because you clearly believe I haven't heard them all eight hundred and forty-two billion trillion times before.
-- People who come through the "10 items or less" lane with 72 items should be summarily executed. It's no more fun on the other side of the register, particularly because you get to look out onto a sea of irked people.
-- Apparently every pregnant woman in the greater Rochester area shops at Target North. Why they are all also buying KY and condoms I am not altogether sure. It may have something to do with the fact that they all seem to have a passel of kids already.
-- Dude: I closed last night too, but you don't hear *me* telling people to "have a good night" for the entire *day* when I come in at 9 the next morning. Fewer drugs, more sleep: It's a good thing.
-- Packages of undies that announce in bold caps that they are "WEDGIE FREE!": Too much information? Discuss.
-- Exactly what kind of person finds it amusing to buy a Halloween costume for his or her dog? How is that not animal cruelty? Inquiring minds want to know.
War is war, and hell is hell....
Forward, he cried from the rear,
And the front rank died.
And the general sat and the lines on the map
Moved from side to side. -- Pink Floyd, "Us and Them"
Not sure if it's the weather, the time of year, or the PMS, but damn, I've been in a mood the last few days.
The Great Bullseye requires us to make conversation with the customers (oh, excuse me, "guests") whether we really feel like it or not. It probably goes without saying to anyone who knows me that I generally fall on the "not" side -- I suck at chit-chat in the best of circumstances. But, you do what you gotta do.
Tonight an elderly gentleman came through my line. He was wearing a Korean War Veterans jacket. I figured, what the hell, it's a point of entry for chitchat -- I comment on the right-thinking Americans who come in wearing Packers gear, might as well chat up an old guy about how my dad fought in Korea too.
The man's face instantly lit up, and he became very animated as he started telling me about his particular role. He was clearly very proud of his history. As he was leaving, he thanked me and told me to thank my dad for his service.
And I lost it.
I have missed him every freaking day of my life for the last 10 years, but at this point, it's usually just the anniversaries that get me. I thought these random breakdowns were long gone.
About 3 "guests" later, an older woman came through. Our point of chit-chat was my having to be at work well before dawn the day after Thanksgiving. I said I had never been much of a shopper and didn't understand people who would willingly get up at obscene hours to go spend money on mostly useless stuff. (One thing I have learned this past year and some is that "it's just stuff," but that's another post.)
She launched into a tale of how her mother's family all live in Kentucky, and she and her husband made the trip there every year for Thanksgiving, and she took "the girls," of whom she was the oldest, out at 4 a.m. on Black Friday. They (willingly!!) got up at 2:30 a.m., and even when the rest of them wanted to quit and go home and get some sleep, she pulled rank and kept them going, and it was always so much fun.
Except that this year, they can't make the trip because her husband's been unemployed for a long time, and she isn't really sure what they'll do. They've never made their own turkey, etc, and they don't have any family nearby, so there wouldn't be anyone to share it with anyway. She was just heartbroken about it. I felt like hell for dredging that up for her.
Early in my reporting career, I was struggling with a feature on an inspiring (here we go again) old lady. She was in her 70s, had built her own house, ran a greenhouse business, etc. I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to get across what I found so remarkable about her.
So I emailed my favorite feature writer at the Milwaukee paper. One thing nobody ever catches onto about journos is that we're really all terrible introverts. I tell people all the time, and it's true, that I can chat up anyone for a story, but if you insist I go to a party, I'm headed directly for the nearest corner, and I ain't moving. I've gotten really good at pretending -- so good that I routinely fool people. (My 3rd night at Target, which had been a particularly awful one, someone asked me how it had gone. I said, "terrible." She said, "It'll get better. You're personable, and that's half the battle." All I could think was, "Honey, if you only knew.")
Anyway, the point of that was to say that we're all also terribly insecure, and you can get us to do damn near anything by appealing to our extreme need for positive reinforcement. I emailed this guy and said "Look, I've been a fan for years, I love you to pieces, I study your stuff for tips, but tell me: How do you do it?"
He said, "Every human being has a story. I could interview you for 5 minutes and write yours. Your job is to figure out this woman's story and tell it."
It turned out very well (both the story and the advice, which I continue to use). But that's really what it boils down to: Everybody has a story. I have run into a number of crushing ones in the last week or so (more to come on that). It makes me sad as hell. But sometimes all you have to do to make someone's day a little brighter is let them tell their story, and receive it graciously.
And I still miss the hell out of my dad, and it kills me to think of all that he's missed in my life in the last 10 years. So the reminiscing is bittersweet, as is the imagining, via that elderly vet, of what he might be like if he were still around. But at least I still have part of his story to hang onto.
PS: The quote from the header:
Hawkeye: War isn't Hell. War is war, and Hell is Hell. And of the two, war is a lot worse.
Father Mulcahy: How do you figure, Hawkeye?
Hawkeye: Easy, Father. Tell me, who goes to Hell?
Father Mulcahy: Sinners, I believe.
Hawkeye: Exactly. There are no innocent bystanders in Hell. War is chock full of them - little kids, cripples, old ladies. In fact, except for some of the brass, almost everybody involved is an innocent bystander. -- MASH
And a little note from Bing and Rosie:
it's not my watch you're holding, it's my heart...
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