How lucky are some writers? Take Time Magazine’s Joel Stein, for example. Now here’s a skilled, observant, funny scribe who was at the right place at the right time when Time decided they wanted a humor/opinion column called “Joel Stein.” What are the odds of that happening? If his parents had happened to name him Howard, he’d have been out of luck. Granted, the official name of Mr. Stein’s personal essay is “The Awesome Column,” but every time I’ve seen it his byline is in dark bold letters and “The Awesome Column” is grayed out underneath—not nearly as noticeable. It’s almost as if Mr. Stein is embarrassed to let people know that his column is awesome.
Anyway, if the nation’s other great newsmagazine, Newsweek, which not too long ago brought back its print edition after going all-digital a few years back, ever decides to have column called, let’s say, “The Breathtaking Column,” or maybe something like “Just Your Average Joel.” I’ll probably miss the announcement because I’ll be sleeping on a Metro North train on my way to the corporate communications job that I have only because I’m not lucky enough to have a column called “The Breathtaking Column” or “Just Your Average Joel.”
Would I like a column like that? More than anything, folks. But on the other hand, I’d also like a classic 1957 Seeburg jukebox for my music and an authentic 1963 Gottleib ‘Slick Chick’ pinball machine for my entertainment. But since I’m pushing sixty and having dreams come true gets less likely with each new liver spot, I’ll probably have to settle for Pandora for my oldies music and a ‘which-Beatle-am-I?’ Facebook game for my recreation. (I won’t enjoy either one. Pandora, no matter how many times I tell it not to give me Neil Diamond gives me Neil Diamond, and I despise Facebook almost as much as I despise liver spots.)
Sometimes I feel that in order to be successful, a writer needs four things in almost equal measure: talent, interesting experiences to write about, connections, and a closet full of skeletons. I have only two of the four.
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| No skeletons, either |
As the thirtieth anniversary of the death of singer Karen Carpenter approached a few years ago, I thought the New York Times might be interested in a piece I wrote on spec about her legacy, especially since I had added what I believed was an interesting anecdote about how I was slammed against a locker in junior high school by two pimply morons who heard that I listened to the Carpenters. But the Times rejected the article. A year later, a column appeared in the Times’ magazine section with a story remarkably similar to mine—about how the writer was taunted as a child when he expressed admiration for Richard and Karen Carpenter’s music. The writer was on the Times’ editorial staff.
I have no such connections. (Cousin Brucie once invited me into his studio to watch him do his radio show, but that's about it.)
Many successful writers have been addicted to drugs or alcohol, were shot by their wives or mistresses, spent time in jail, were investigated by the FBI for one reason or another, have been caught in uncompromising positions, lied about their education, or have three or four other skeletons in their closets. (I am not proposing that Joel Stein has any of these skeletons; then again, I really don’t know anything about him.) Many writers who have one or more of these career-affirming skeletons often end up writing for GQ and Vanity Fair, and just as often get profiled in those same magazines and walk away with an added measure of fame and celebrity.
I have no such skeletons. (I once stumbled onto a clothing-optional beach in Cape May, New Jersey--and hung around for a while, but that’s about it.)
Maybe I should count my blessings. Do I really want to cheat, be shot, or get addicted to anything (at least anything more lethal than the Carpenters)? Maybe I should just kiss my wife, sleep on the train, and listen to “For All We Know” for the millionth time. I know that won't get me a “Breathtaking Column,” but without a measure of fame and celebrity, at least no one will recognize me if I ever go back to that beach.
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Emotional Infections
Ticks aren’t that big anymore, what with Zika dominating the viral news and getting under our skin. (And yes, I’m going after a dual meaning for viral news.) It’s not that the little leaching freeloading parasites aren’t a problem anymore—heaven knows, where I am in rural Connecticut it’s almost an epidemic—but the mosquitoes responsible for Zika are getting all the press lately for quite obvious reasons: Zika is a dreadful disease carried by a flying foe that can infect you even when you’re not crawling around in the dirt on your hands and knees. You can be sitting on an Adirondack chair sipping iced tea and still get an infectious bite from one of the infernal micro-beasts.
Since moving here five years ago I have had to have four ticks removed from my body. It always happens when I’m doing yard work. The first time was a surprise, simply because it was the first time. The second time was due to carelessness because I didn’t learn any lessons from the first time. The third time was irritating because I had indeed taken some precautions. The fourth time was beyond maddening because prior to working in the garden I had pulled my socks up over my pant legs, duck-taped rubber gloves to the long sleeves of my pullover shirt, tucked the shirt into my pants and tightened the belt almost to the point of cutting off the blood flow to my legs, and sprayed my neck and face with tick repellent—and still found a tiny black bloodsucker later that day digging his way into my chest.
I guess I’m a tick magnet.
Fortunately, I caught all four ticks early enough so that they did not have a chance to swap any of their diseases for my blood. But the frustration, not to mention the $260 I was charged by an urgent care doctor on a late Saturday night to remove it with a pair of tweezers, provided a sort of emotional infection that makes me angry as hell.
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| Urgent care instrumentation |
On one hand, I should just put up with it as one of the byproducts of working hard enough and being lucky enough to have a nice house with a big yard and the desire and skills to make it look charming and inviting. I had always dreamt of having a little bit of land, and I am finally living the dream. But on the other hand, what purpose do those little bastards serve on Earth? I know they say that every living thing on the planet plays a part in the ecological balance, but after my fourth experience with a tick I became convinced that I discovered the one species that does not. Still, as a journalist, I knew I could not depend solely on my own opinion, but had to do a little research to confirm. Through several sources, such as Science Buzz, Encyclopedia of Entomology, and the New York Times, I discovered that I’m probably wrong, for at least two reasons. One, ticks are food for reptiles, amphibians, birds and other animals—or at least the mites, nematodes and fungi carried by ticks provide nutrition that the birds and others need. (Come on—isn’t there plenty of other food around?) Secondly, ticks help control the populations of some larger hosts which, apparently, is one of nature’s goal. (Come on—humans are larger hosts, too, but do you think nature really intended us to be ‘controlled’ by ticks?)
I was prompted to find out where the U.S. government wastes the most money, reasoning that we can divert some of those funds not just to the Zika problem, but to the tick issue, as well. I’m sure I don’t have to mention that government financial waste is, like real diseases, an epidemic. As just one of dozens of examples that I came across, two students from the University of Washington received a grant of $1.3 million from the National Science Foundation to explore how foam sleeves keep beer cans cold on a hot day. Well, why not give me just half of that money—$650,000—so that I can hire a landscaper to crawl around in the dirt for me?
Even the fear of ticks can't stop me from dreaming.
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Shortly before he passed away in 1999, my grandfather asked me to do whatever I could to promote and protect his musical legacy. So that's what I've been doing, off and on, for more than 15 years, with reissues of his comedy material, new compilations that I produced, articles and books that I write about him, and more.
His oldest son--my father (who passed away in 2008)--supported my efforts wholeheartedly, but his younger son--my uncle (who passed away in 2012)--was aghast when he discovered the extent of my activities. I'm even considered the principal of the company my grandfather founded in the 1940s called Madison Music. It became one of those classic family feuds that perhaps I'll write about one day. Quite nasty at times. My uncle thought that 1) I was reaping enormous profits without sharing any of it with him or the rest of the family, and that 2) despite starting out as a sweet, meek, modest, simple, red-headed, freckle-faced nephew, I had somehow evolved into a ruthless business titan who knew how to wrap music companies around my little finger--yet I was not letting him share in my ruthlessness.
There are just a handful of companies that, from time to time, send me checks for some of the musical activities in which I'm involved. Rarely are they worthy of a "Hey, You Never Know" column because they're neither large nor small.
But the one I received today does deserve a column of its own, because it gives me a chance to say to the rest of you what I would like to have said to my uncle, if I had had the chance.
"Dear Uncle: Here's my latest check from one of the four reporting agencies involved in my ongoing Benny Bell legacy project. Am I reaping enormous profits? Well, as you can see, no, I am not. But am I corporate titan who can wrap a music company around my little finger? Oh yes! You see, the company that issued today's check had to spend 48 percent more on me as a client (in postage) than the total sum of royalties collected on my behalf in the first place. That's how important I am."
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