Does dramatizing real life tragedy help or hinder the healing process?

Pearl Harbor. Challenger. Columbine. 9/11. Words and numbers that instantly conjure indelibly burned images of tragedy in the hearts and minds of those who bore witness as well as the friends and families of their victims.

Debates on the artistic merits of Oliver Stone’s “World Trade Center” are taking a back seat to the discussion as to whether it should’ve been made in the first place. Does dramatizing real life tragedy help heal wounds or is it merely exploitation?

For millions of Americans who were born in the former half of the 20th Century, their defining moment was the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, an act which finally drew the United States into World War II.

Pearl Harbor was arguably the loudest rallying cry this country has ever seen, but aside from propaganda films like John Ford’s government-edited “December 7” (1943), the attack wasn’t directly depicted in movies until 1953’s “From Here to Eternity.” Still, that melodrama is mostly about the struggles of a handful of servicemen stationed in Hawaii in the days leading up to the attack and how their personal problems suddenly took a back seat to war.

When “From Here to Eternity” hit theaters in 1953, WWII was still fresh in America’s minds, and many veterans and their families probably wouldn’t have been too accepting of any movie that tried to humanize the kamikaze pilots who perpetrated the assault. By 1970, audiences were more willing to look at both sides of the battle.

Co-produced by Japanese and American filmmakers, “Tora! Tora! Tora!” was a two and a half hour, $25 million dollar epic (huge in that day) that, for the first time, depicted the anxiety-fueled Japanese mission from THEIR perspective as well as the mistakes the US military made in detecting and defending against the attack. It’s hard to imagine such a non-propagandist movie being made while the conflict was ongoing.

But time can have a dulling effect on the impact of historical events. In Michael Bay’s “Pearl Harbor” (2001), the events of December 7th are mere backdrop to soap opera, the violence and destruction diminished to plot-driving thrill ride level, with bomb’s-eye-view explosions and gunfire designed to elicit Oooh!s from teenagers. Most critics found the candy-coated piffle offensive in its exploitation of one of the most tragic days in American history.

When the Space Shuttle Challenger disintegrated shortly after liftoff on January 28, 1986, the disaster was amplified by the death of school teacher Christa McAuliffe, who was going to beam a presentation from space to schools across the nation. Meanwhile, the marketing execs at 20th Century Fox had a problem. “Space Camp,” a film about a group of teenagers and their female instructor accidentally sent into space was set to premiere that summer. Considering that the malfunction of the shuttle in the movie had a parallel (albeit with a happy ending) to what caused the destruction of the Challenger, it’s amazing the movie was released at all. Fox pushed the release back to Autumn, hoping for either a short memory on the part of the public or that people would view “Space Camp” as a tribute to the memory of the lost astronauts. Neither scenario came to pass and the film quickly became a sad, ironic footnote to an American tragedy.

But “Space Camp” is an example of coincidence, as opposed to when a movie intentionally adapts a horrific real life incident.

Gus Van Sant’s 2003 film, “Elephant,” is based loosely on the 1999 Columbine High School massacre. Told in a non-linear, non-narrative style, the movie follows a number of high school students as they meander through a typical, purportedly aimless day in a way that (not coincidentally) resembles the visual motif of a video game. That structure remains as two of the students begin calmly and methodically killing students and teachers, underscoring the horrific depths of nihilism to which humans can succumb as well as commenting on a culture that, some would say, shoulders much of the blame.

Films have always used historical events (whether ancient or recent) as springboards, whether the tales are apocryphal or not. And art can (and should) be potent enough to tackle any subject, no matter how difficult. But when the wounds of an actual dramatized incident have yet to heal, you can’t help but contemplate a movie’s effect on the real life victims of the story.

Imagine if you were a student at Columbine in 1999... or Red Lake High in 2005... or any school where gun violence has taken a life. How would it feel to sit and watch actors pretending to be your friends pretending to fall as pretend bullets trigger squibs of pretend blood?

It took sixty years for Pearl Harbor to be trivialized in a big budget film. It’s only taken five for Hollywood to start dramatizing (if not trivializing) a day that most of us can still see as clearly as if it happened yesterday. In the days and weeks that initially followed September 11, 2001, much lip service was given to the notion that the movie industry was forever changed by the events of the day. The Arnold Schwarzenegger terrorist thriller, “Collateral Damage” was bumped from planned release, and showbiz pundits wondered if moviegoers would ever casually accept mass destruction as entertainment again. Cynics predicted that this new restraint would be short-lived.

The cynics were right, and soon New York and other major cities were again being destroyed in movies, most notably in “The Day After Tomorrow” (2004). Still, despite too many comments that 9/11 looked “just like a movie,” the idea of actual film dramatizations of the day were impossible to imagine right away. To some, they still are.

The “Too Soon?” question first arose earlier this year with “United 93,” a “docudrama” about the highjacked plane that missed its intended Washington target on 9/11 due to the intervention of its passengers. While many critics lauded the film, we must say that we found it both painful and pointless. The uncomfortable “acting” of some of the actual participants of the events of the day, the pure speculation as to much of what happened on the flight and the predetermined ending made the movie ultimately feel exploitative. The movie manipulates audience anxiety and anger over the events of that day to the point of making the viewer WANT to see the murder of the terrorists (which we don’t know occurred) and the taking back of the cockpit (which didn’t actually happen). When the film ended a split second before the plane crashes in that Shanksville, PA field, we felt guilty for having seen it.

Dealing with personal tragedy is something we all must do at some point in our lives. The reflective nature of pop culture inevitably forces us to relive whatever pain we’ve endured. If your father died of a heart attack, it’s going to hurt any time you see a movie character clutch their chest and fall to the ground. It’s not only impractical, it’s politically correct to the extreme to expect that any film should take the feelings of every potential patron into consideration.

But with a collective tragedy like 9/11, does pop culture need to be more careful? Perhaps “World Trade Center” would feel less crass had it been given a more poetic title, something underscoring the theme of courage and survival (too bad “The Lord of the Rings” already claimed “Two Towers,” which could’ve served as a metaphor for the courage of the WTC cops while retaining that all-important immediate name recognition). And don’t get us started on the use of Coldplay music in its advertising and the WTC MySpace page....

Once again, subjectivity reigns. For some, September 11th will always be far too painful to see it turned into popular culture, regardless of the respect and care given by the creators. For others, the experience of re-living the day, particularly communally, can help in the healing process. And, hard as it is to accept, there are still more for whom “World Trade Center” is something they’ll go see simply because they like to see stuff blow up. The motivations of the filmmakers become irrelevant once you’re sitting in the theater.

Does “World Trade Center” help or hurt? It’s a question that can’t be answered by anyone other than you.
___________________________________________________
ORIGINALLY POSTED in REWIND on MTV.COM, August 2006

Black Light

I’ve got a lot of adolescent trappings in my apartment. Comic books. Too many records and CDs out in the open. Actions figures placed about the place. Framed posters of James Bond films, rock bands and comic book covers. I’ve accepted that I’m now and forever a geek and don’t feel ashamed of anything on display in my home.

With one exception: a functioning 17” Black Light.

No, it’s not in the living room or even the bedroom. My black light hangs in what I refer to as “the CD alcove,” a three-foot hallway between the living room and the bedroom into which I’ve built floor to ceiling shelving for most of my CDs. Placed at various points on the shelves are numerous glow-in-the-dark items: Some super balls, other gumball machine and variety store toys, a few pieces of Kryptonite, a Swamp Thing action figure, some silly putty, a DC Direct Spectre figure, a Creature From the Black Lagoon mini-statue and more. Hanging over the doorway across from the fixture are two fluorescent pieces of art: a glow-in-the-dark postcard of two people kissing and the top to an old box of Krypton Bubble Gum from the 1970s.

I’ve had a black light since I was about 10, when Terry Jensen gave me his old four foot fixture (which I still have, and which still works, but is stored in my parents’ basement). The Jensens were a young married couple who moved across the street when I was little. Over the years, I would be the happy recipient of much of the detritus of Terry’s youth as he felt he needed to discard them, including (topping even the black light) a huge pile of old Playboy Magazines.

In high school, I had a few black light posters, but not of the Led Zeppelin / stoner variety. I never smoked pot and my aesthetic was always more geek than rebel. I had a fluorescent Dracula poster from Dynamite Magazine and one of those Marvel Comics black light posters from the 60s. I have a vague recollection of owning one velvet black light poster, but for the life of me, I can’t recall what it was.

The perhaps sad fact is, along with Bugs Bunny cartoons, punk rock and candy, I still love glow in the dark stuff. Those pieces of junk loaded with Strontium Aluminate or Zinc Sulfide that create that mystical fading glow still fill me with an awe similar to when I see really nice cleavage. Okay, not quite like that, but they’re two visual stimuli of which I’ll never tire. Hey, at least I’m secure enough with myself to admit it.

Because I know I’m not alone. Like junk food, Friends and the Darkness, glow in the dark stuff is a guilty pleasure for many so-called grownups. At the bar where I tend, the door guys use a black light hand stamp and I’ve seen hundreds of people ooh and aah at the green “Snuka” as it phosphoresces on the top of their right (or left, if it’s a double show) paw. And who doesn’t love that time of day during the winter when the level of light makes the snow seem to glow a soft purple?

I’ve contemplated taking down the black light a handful of times. But then I look around at the pile of Peanuts books, the framed 1960s Batman puzzle, the autographed Life in Hell print, the shelf of cartoon DVDs and books, the (as of this writing) 70 Superman action figures and I think, “Nah. This is me,” and I flick the switch.

Oooh, look at the glowing skeletons! Cool!

POSTSCRIPT, September 2010:
Sadly, in my current abode, there is no black light on display. Oh, it's in the closet, but it isn't put up.... right now.
____________________________________________________________
ORIGINALLY POSTED on TOUGH GUY GOODS & SERVICES, June 2004

Jersey Pride

THE SOPRANOS ended its fifth season last Sunday with a ba... no, no, I won’t say that, and not just because one of the brilliant things about this season finale was its relative lack of bang! Far from being the setup for a major New York / New Jersey gang war (as most assumed), the season finale seems to bode for some renewed peace in the land of northern New Jersey.

Which is a relief, because that’s where I live.

Being a resident of Hoboken, NJ (a town wholly familiar with corruption), I can relate to much in The Sopranos. Not that I’ve ever whacked a guy or had a no-show construction job (ah, to dream!), but I do know the proper response to seeing an overweight Italian gentleman in a running suit walking down the street. It’s not to smirk, it’s to genuflect.

There’s a well known local pizza joint that is, uh, connected, and if the titular owner walks in, the entire place reacts as if Sinatra just strolled into the lounge at the Sands. I witnessed this once. I was sitting there with my piece o’ pie and he sauntered in and the place erupted and he slapped me on the back and asked, “How’s your slice?” and I loudly proclaimed it the best pizza I’ve ever had, thank you sir!

I know some people who’ve been on THE SOPRANOS. I offered my condolences to Gibby on the death of his former producer Adriana. Shelley was at the Mudvayne show that AJ went to (which is odd, because Shelley usually has good taste). Local bands like the Swingin’ Neckbreakers and No Soap Radio have graced the stage at the bar where I work in addition to the Crazy Horse.

I know the places shown in the opening and have been to some of the businesses that have served as meeting points for various crew members. When Feech told the tale of being at the Clam Broth House when a famous hit took place, I jumped because the Clam Broth House is within walking distance of my apartment.

Two summers ago, a lady and I sat in a Honda on a Jersey beachfront road in dead traffic. I assumed it was an accident, but when we got rolling again, I saw that cars were stopped to allow the filming of something. It wasn’t until a year later that I saw the Season 4 finale “Whitecaps” and realized we drove past the house Tony almost bought that day.

There’s a weird sense of pride that comes from living in Sopranos-land. It’s not the same as being a New Yorker or an Angeleno.... most movies and TV shows are set in one of those towns, and its denizens are mostly cynical enough to at least pretend that they don’t care they live down the block from Monica and Chandler. And it’s not the kind of aw-shucks partial defensiveness I felt being from Lancaster PA when WITNESS came out. Watching The Sopranos while sitting a stone’s throw from the Bada-Bing! definitely enhances the experience.

Maybe it’s because New Jersey has been little more than a punchline in pop culture for so many years. I realize that THE SOPRANOS embraces much of the stereotypes of the big-haired, gold-chained cheeseballs and suburban malaise, and that, like so many stereotypes, they’re rooted in fact. But, like most pop culture phenomena, the hipness of the show has rubbed off a teeny tiny bit on the very unhip thing it depicts. Suddenly the ugly industrial byways of northern New Jersey have an ethereal mystery to them.... ooh, is that Adriana’s suitcase over there?

Finally, and with all humility, I feel that I have to acknowledge the thanks that’s bestowed upon me at the end of every episode of THE SOPRANOS. It’s lovely of David Chase to extend such a gracious acknowledgement to myself.... okay, and the other nine million “people of New Jersey” in the end credits every week. Really, David, you don’t have to thank me, it was no big deal. All I did was move here.
____________________________________________________________
ORIGINALLY POSTED on TOUGH GUY GOODS & SERVICES, June 2004

Heep

My parents have lived in the same house for my entire life. Fifty years ago, my father bought the property in suburban Lancaster Pennsylvania for $3000.00 and built the house that same year (for an additional twenty five grand... ah, the fifties).

When someone lives in a house for fifty years, they can accrue a lot of stuff. Perhaps that lack of moving is one of the major contributing factors to the pack rat tendencies of my entire family (although I’ve made great strides to get away from that). It’s also probably why my sense of nostalgia is stronger than most people’s.

You know how you can be around something your entire life and then suddenly, one day, look at it with completely subjective eyes and wonder, “what the heck is up with THAT?”

Such is the case with what has come to simply be known as “Heep.”

Sometime in the early Sixties, on a trip to New York City with his pal Ken (my brother’s namesake), my dad was walking past one of those sidewalk artist galleries, when something grabbed his eye: an oil painting of a basset hound, with the signature of the artist plainly written at the bottom right corner: “Heep.” He paid a couple of bucks for it and brought it back to Pennsylvania where it hung on the wall, sometimes in the living room, accentuating one of his “legendary parties” (according to a bronze badge that was bestowed upon him by one female guest).

Only one photograph exists documenting one of these parties, and it’s so worn and faded that it’s hard to see. Click on the image below for a larger view, but you’ll have to strain to see the debaucherous details. What you will notice is Heep’s painting, hung over the fireplace, at a sharp angle.

Heep never hung in the living room during my lifetime. Heep has, for the last forty years, hung in the stairway to the basement. It is the only thing adorning that area (unless you count the graffiti that covered those walls during my adolescence and the small marks measuring Kenny’s and my height as we grew).

Both Kenny and I always took Heep for granted. We never really thought about it, never asked where it came from, never wondered who the artist was.

Until one day, Heep wasn’t there.

Long after my brother and I had moved out, my mother painted the hallway, covering up the punk rock / comic book scribblings that had been there for about a decade. But she neglected to rehang Heep when the job was finished.

Until my brother and I were home one Sunday morning for brunch and noticed Heep’s absence. “Where the hell is Heep!?!??!” we screamed. When our confused mother stated that she had just put it in the attic (since they don’t throw anything away), Ken and I threw a fit as if she’d tossed a bag of kittens in the Susquehanna River. Heep was quickly rescued from the silverfish-laden attic and returned to its place of honor.

And, I must add, rehung at an angle. Heep must never be level, for it has never been level. Part of the glory of Heep is that it’s off-kilter. This bizarre little mediocre piece of art from four decades ago has attained an iconic status that few other things in our parents’ home have, at least to my brother and me (I have a small framed photo of Heep hanging over my bed).

Our parents own a lot of antiques. There are tons of family heirlooms and photo albums and tools and books and things. But I’d wager that when that horrible day comes that Ken and I have to split up the detritus of our parents’ lives, the main thing we’ll fight over is Heep (the Volvo 1800 would take that spot if I hadn’t claimed it before my brother was even born).

As we grow older, strange things become important. Heirlooms often have nothing to do with monetary value. Kenny and I don’t love Heep because of some great affinity for basset hounds or outsider art. We love Heep because it’s always been there. The thousands and thousands of times we walked up and down those steps, this weird painting looked down on us. And we’ve come to love Heep’s history... Heep was present before either or us, he even came before our Dad met our Mom. Ah, if only Heep could talk.... the tales Heep would tell.

____________________________________________________________
ORIGINALLY POSTED on TOUGH GUY GOODS & SERVICES, April 2004

We Called it an "Alternative Record Store" Back Then...

In 1986, I was recruited to leave my job at Sam Goody at the Park City Mall in Lancaster PA to work a couple of days a week at BBC Records, the cool indie record store downtown. Ironically, the owner who asked me to work there thought I was someone else. He always got me confused with another brown haired youngster who was in a local band and was likewise a fan of the New Wave. Alternative. Whatever.

To make a looooooong story short, two years later I was running the place. It was a job that I’d have for the next eight years until I left Lancaster to move to Hoboken. And I loved it. Oh, there were headaches, to be sure, but they’re almost all forgotten when I look back. My boss, Steve (not the guy who hired me) let me have almost anarchic reign over the store. He let me follow whatever vision I had for BBC, whether it was carrying Fantagraphics comics, building a jazz section or starting a cult video rental section.

I did almost every job that needed to be done at the store. I did 90% of the ordering (Rex, the comically titled “singles buyer” handled the rest), I stocked, I did the books, I put up displays, I hired and fired, I worked the counter, I swept the floor... and I did all the artwork for advertising and promotion.

I recently came across this collection of ads for BBC. And even though I did them all, I was a bit startled by them. I was struck by the whole DIY esthetic, the cut and paste (literally, this was pre-photoshop and scanner for this boy) feel, the hand lettering and the screw you attitude. I love these ads.

I used to hear that some people were afraid to buy things at my store because they thought I would make fun of them or judge them, which I never understood. I mean, I’ve always been an opinionated bastard, but it was MY STORE! If something was for sale at BBC, I ordered it, I thought it belonged there! And fer cryin’ out loud, we were a specialized little alternative music store, we NEEDED THE BIDNESS~!

Oh, well. It amazes me that eight years later, I still sometimes get people at the bar who recognize me from those days. Billboard magazine even called BBC a “Lancaster landmark.” The store isn’t there anymore. Zap & Co., the renowned vintage store that’s also owned by Steve has since moved into the space. But whenever I stop in, that black slat wall, angled fluorescent lighting and art deco counter always make me think of those bygone alternative rock days. They make me think of The Exorcist, cheesesteaks and cheese fries in the window with Rex, the FB list (how old are those JBFBs now?), wheat paste and posters, Mary Marcus, DIRT and the Warner Bros. Alternative Marketing Dept., six packs on Saturday afternoons with Rob, renovations with Ken, chasing down UPS, stolen used CDs, girls, Troy's jazz/rock bipolarism, Christmas Eve and cases of champagne... youth and freedom.

POSTSCRIPT, September 2010:
Nostalgia for those days remains as strong as ever in many ways, especially as the indie record store winds its way into extinction.
______________________________________________________________
ORIGINALLY POSTED on TOUGH GUY GOODS & SERVICES, March 2004

Consumer vs. Producer

So, just for the record: I am not a success. I am not any of the things that I’ve spent most of my life wanting to be. Despite the occasional published work (sometimes even in venues other than this website), I can’t honestly call myself a cartoonist, illustrator or writer (if one chooses to define those as “jobs”). Rather than being a freelancer who bartends on the side for extra cash, I’m a bartender who does a tiny bit of freelance work (usually for little or no pay). And it’s mostly my fault.

It’s not that I don’t have a good work ethic; This German boy had that instilled in him at a young age by a father who taught that any job isn’t done unless it’s done well. And I’m not untalented: I’m a pretty good writer, a fair cartoonist and a decent artist. I have an excellent sense of design. These are my honest, immodest beliefs in myself.

So what the heck is my problem? How come I’m not making a living at one of my so-called passions? Is it just that I’ve never been able to focus on one thing and make that my goal? Should I pin it on the rampant nepotism in the media world that keeps giving the work to the same people? Maybe I really don’t have enough talent. But I think it’s more likely my problem lies in something I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember...

Most great artists (in any genre) are not collectors. Naturally, they don’t live in a vacuum (well, usually) and most artists can list their influences, both in and out of their chosen media. But they can’t be bothered to be obsessive about other people’s work. They’re consumed by the drive to create (Some may point to Quentin Tarantino as an exception to the rule, but I think he bears me out: If Quentin weren’t the obsessive pop culture maniac he is, he’d probably be far more prolific).

I’m consumed by the drive to consume. As much as I hate to admit it, most of my time is spent gathering and absorbing the creative output of others: cartoonists, musicians, filmmakers, artists, writers whose work inspires me... or so I used to think.

Maybe their work doesn’t inspire me. Maybe it just... distracts me. Keeps me occupied. Keeps me from creating my own work.

I come from a family of collectors. With Mom, it’s blue glass, cats and hearts. For Dad, it’s Coke memorabilia, tin toys and lawn mowers. My aunt collects dragons and kaleidoscopes. My brother has tens of thousands of records. For me, it’s been a number of things, but mostly comic books.

At its zenith, my comic book collection probably numbered around ten thousand. About ten years ago, however, I went through a massive cleaning-out stage (the first of many) and slashed my collection in half. In the years since then, I continued whittling it down little by little.

When I discovered eBay some years back, it initially helped with the crap-reduction. In my first six months of selling my own junk (comics, books, stuff acquired in my ten years in the music biz), I netted over $3500.00 and got rid of a lot. But then I’d switch gears, and start BUYING crap-junk-stuff, including items I’d spent the last ten years eliminating. I’d think of a short-lived comic from the 70’s that I used to own and start searching eBay for a run of that book. It’s a cycle that’s been repeating ever since.

I greatly identified with Steve Buscemi’s character of Seymour in the film adaptation of Dan Clowes’ GHOST WORLD (for which I own the original comics, the soundtrack and the DVD). The character’s love/hate relationship with his collection resonated. “What, you think this is healthy? You can’t connect with other people, so you fill your life with STUFF.” “What makes you think I wanna meet someone who shares my interests? I hate my interests!” For better or worse, I feel more connected to Charlie Brown, Superman, Frank Sinatra and Alfred Hitchcock than to most people I know.

I’ve always admired the Zen lifestyle, people who have only a dozen books, not because they’re illiterate, but because they don’t need to own a lot of stuff. They can read a book and then pass it on instead of creating a huge library of books read only once.

But at the same time, and with at least as much fervor, I... love.... my..... stuff. I get genuine joy from my collections, and I just like the way a wall of packed shelves looks.

Also, my sense of nostalgia is certainly stronger than most people’s. Pulling out an old comic book can make me think of when I originally bought it, which drug store, with whom I rode my bike there, what flavor Slushie I got.... I think much of this has to do with the fact that my family never moved, my parents still live in the house that my Dad built in the fifties. As such, every trip home conjures up memories of the past, many of them forever tied to such stimulus as, yep, television.

I’ve got a lot of distractions all around me. Of my thousands of CDs, how many do I actually listen to? Of my hundreds of books and thousands of comics, how many will I read more than once? How many of my 197 DVDs (as of this writing) will be watched once and then sit on the shelf forever? How much can I rationalize my enormous library as reference material (especially since the internet has made that obsolete)?

And this isn’t even dealing with the amount of money I’ve spent on this stuff. That’s a whole OTHER column. But just averaging the cost of each DVD at $18, that’s over $3500.00 in just the past two years. So, is it okay because I’ve sold so much on eBay? Or is it just more time wasting?

Of all these things, music is certainly the least “distracting.” You’d be hard-pressed to find an artist who DOESN’T work while listening to music. Music can actually keep you from being distracted, can keep your spirit up, keep you energized. Right now, the brand new Foo Fighters record is blaring in the background, and I swear it’s helping rather than hindering the process.

The question I’m asking myself is, am I forever doomed to be a consumer, and only a consumer? Do I continue with my projects-list, keep my sketchbook, continue to buy art supplies? Will the graphic novel I’ve recently made my biggest priority continue to be so, or will I get distracted yet again and let it languish YET AGAIN? Is writing this column itself a distraction, or is this producing something?

I still have time. At my 20 year high school reunion some weeks back, one of my old chums admonished that I “get a real job.” I was a bit taken aback, but it wasn’t until a couple of days later that I got mad. Who’s he to tell me to give up my dreams and suck it up and get a Job-Job? The best advice my father ever gave me was “don’t work at a job you hate,” something he did for forty years. I still have the luxury of being able to pretty much do whatever I want (something rare for most men approaching 40).

Maybe I’m being delusional, maybe I just don’t wanna give up. Ask me a year from now. Right now, I gotta get back to work.... right after I read that article in the new TIME OUT NEW YORK, check what’s on TV, look at the new COMIC BOOK HEAVEN, see if my MARY TYLER MOORE DVD showed up yet, check my e-mail......

... and so it goes ?

POSTSCRIPT, September 2010:
Well, to a certain degree, this malady remains. I've certainly been published a lot more places since this piece than before it, but the distractions have not gone away.

_________________________________________________
ORIGINALLY POSTED on CHEEKYMONKEY, Autumn 2002

You Are What You Drink (an Anti-Coors Rant)

Everyone has prejudices. Yes, you, too. There are different levels of prejudice and degrees of insidiousness, but all humans have some bias that cause them to instantly (although hopefully not permanently) dismiss someone based on something superficial. A guy I work with states that he hates everyone until he meets them.

If working in a bar has taught me anything, it’s that, sad as this may be, 90% of the time, you most certainly CAN judge a book by its cover. The way a person presents him or herself to the bartender speaks volumes. Aside from clothing and overall visual style, manners, attitude, and taste all come into play. And this is where my greatest prejudice can rear its ugly head.

It’s a long standing one, and one that has only deepened in my years as a bartender: With precious few exceptions, I cannot stand people who drink Coors beer. Any Coors product, but most egregiously of all, Coors Light.

I’ve hated everything about Coors since I’ve been old enough to drink beer. How strong is this hatred? When I was in my early 20’s, I attended a party where Coors Light was the only beer available. I drank water that night. On a date about four years ago, the young lady ordered a Coors Light. That choice immediately confirmed my suspicions that we had no future together. This past July 4th, some friends brought a six-pack of Coors Lite to the party at my girlfriend’s place (as a joke). We later took it and left it on a bench at Pier A Park on the Hudson in Hoboken (although I’d like to think that even homeless people have better taste). Why am I so full of vitriol for this concoction, you ask? Let’s tackle the reasons one by one, shall we?

First and most obviously, the taste: Succinctly, Coors Light tastes like urine. Okay, so I’ve never actually TASTED urine, but since I can’t think of another beverage that’s as offensive to the taste buds for the sake of comparison, we’ll stick to pee. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m lucky enough to work in a bar that doesn’t carry any Coors products, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t get the requests. And when I do, I’m always baffled by people whose reaction to my telling them (with a slight sneer) that “we don’t carry Coors” is shock and disappointment akin to a kid finding out there’s no Santa. “Do you have anything similar to that?,” they may query. The temptation is to retort “I can piss into a cup of ice!”

Coors’ second crime is its politics. While in recent years, the corporation has made great strides to try to curry favor with the gay and lesbian community (by offering same-sex benefits and contributing to GLAAD), those actions came only because of a very successful boycott. The Coors family’s history of financial donations to right wing organizations (mostly through the Castle Rock Foundation) includes such ominously-titled groups as the Heritage Foundation, the Center for Popular Culture (who publish an anti-gay monthly called “Hereodoxy”), the Promise Keepers, a right wing think tank called The Institute on Religion and Public Life and such individuals as Jesse Helms, Jerry Falwell, Pat Buchanan, Ralph Reed, Pat Robertson and Donald Wildmon. These donations continue today, although officially the corporation is “neutral” on controversial social and political stances. Coors has also come under fire for being anti-union, racist and sexist (do a Google search on “Coors Boycott” and spend a week or two reading up... there’s some good stuff buried amongst the rhetoric).

And finally, my third major gripe with Coors is its image, unabashedly catering to the misogynist frat boy lurking within weekend warriors. Billboards picture a woman holding a six pack of “the silver bullet,” showing her only from the neck down to the waist, clad in a bikini top. Another infamous billboard shouts “Here’s to twins!” as two silicone-stuffed blondes press boobies to sell the pee-beer. Commercials give us groups of drooling sports fans who seem to barely be able to afford the coveted sixer. Party animals light up the night, every one of them yelling “whoooooooo!!!” Bear in mind, this is a company that intentionally misspells words (remember Coors Artic Ice?) rightly assessing its demographic as a bunch of morons.

Coors is endemic of something I despise at my core: the apathetic, unquestioning, unthinking consumer. They’re the people who go see the big blockbuster movie because they think they should, they stay home to watch Rachel have a baby on FRIENDS, they wear Nikes and buy whatever fluke million-selling CD fits into their demographic. And I’m not trying to be a snob here, if you genuinely love FRIENDS, knock yourself out! But most Americans just accept whatever’s laid in front of them without making the effort to see what else is on the menu.

And, although I’m acutely aware that all taste is subjective (hell, that’s my mantra!), I honestly cannot see how, in a world of delicious beer, anyone would choose to drink this sour, annoying little brew. Light beer drinkers in general give me pause. There’s a time and a place for counting calories, and a night out at a bar ain’t one of them. Skip that fast food lunch and have a salad. Then enjoy a good, hearty beer that night. Light beer is like meatless hamburgers and Quentin Tarantino movies edited for television: Without the guts, what’s the point?

But even if you’re someone who’s used to the watered-down “taste” of light beer, why harbor such staunch brand loyalty? Most light beers taste alike. At my bar, I always feel a little beat of pride when some Coors drinker steps a rung up the ladder and has a Rolling Rock or even an Amstel Light, fer Chrissakes.... maybe they’re starting on their way out of the sludgepit of the worst beer on Earth and embarking on a delightful journey into the wide world of hops! If only more people would make the trek, the world would be a better place! * sniff! *

POSTSCRIPT, 2008: Sadly, a few years after this piece, my bar began carrying Coors Light.
_________________________________________________________________
ORIGINALLY POSTED on THE NEW YORK HANGOVER.COM, September 2002.

...and Make it a Stiff One.

NOTE: This piece was originally posted on THE NEW YORK HANGOVER.COM just after September 11, 2001.

So, I wasn’t going to write about you-know-what. Actually, I already have, quite a bit, in mass-e-mailed missives (frustrated writers such as myself tend to... abuse... the power of the internet), some of which have actually frayed the edges of some long time friendships. So I was just going to finish one of two different pieces I have started for this column and pretend that we’re done talking about September 11th, 2001.

But of course, we’re not. And I can’t.... not yet. So here’s one more column about What Happened. From a bartender’s perspective.
I was lucky. Nobody I know directly was killed when the terrorists drove into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. But, as with most New Yorkers, there’s a mere one degree of separation, about a dozen times over.

Bartending is one of the most social of vocations; it’s part of the job requirement. You’re not just serving drinks, you’re being the customer’s pal (but NOT their “chief, ace, sport” or “yo”), even if it’s a brief and tenuous relationship. Each bartender knows dozens of familiar faces, even if names rarely go with them.

Then suddenly, after September 11th, the bartender found him or herself starting to wonder about where some of those faces were. Regulars who didn’t stop by became question marks. A sense of relief came with the reappearance of some customers that I never particularly liked, to be honest, but was nonetheless glad to see were not, in fact, dead.

Then there were the customers whose names are known, people who hover in that gray area somewhere between friend and acquaintance. The ones who walked into the bar to the question everyone was asking and being asked: “Is everyone you know okay?” The number of times the answer was “no” was staggering.

There’s a woman I know who comes into the bar where I tend. Her name’s Meg. My relationship with Meg was always friendly and flirtatious, she’s one of those customers that I thought I might like to see outside of the club sometime, but we really don’t know each other well. The Saturday night after the attack, Meg came into the bar with a friend. I asked her The Question, and she answered, with a startling numbness, “No... three relatives and one friend.”

I’m sure she’d said it a hundred times by then. And a hundred times since. And while I’d done my share of consoling, I just didn’t know what to say. I can’t even remember what I did say. I do remember wishing I would’ve known Meg a little better, if only so my condolences didn’t sound rote or hollow.

I had to work the night of September 11th. The regular bartender couldn’t get there and, living two blocks from the club, I often pull emergency duty. I didn’t want to work, but at the same time, I thought it might help. I needed to be around other people, and figured that others would feel the same. I wondered how busy we would be, though, lacking a television at the bar.

We were slammed. The need for camaraderie and escape was strong at every watering hole. Everyone needed to talk, and it was all anyone was talking about. Background music was less raucous (Miles Davis replaced the Supersuckers). Buybacks were more frequent. When people asked, “How are you?” they actually wanted you to answer. For a week or so, bartending became social work, moreso than usual.
Which brought about an odd side effect of the aftermath: A kind of Survivor’s Guilt, I guess. In stark contrast to most businesses, bars found themselves busier than usual. When things are good, people like to drink. When things are bad, people like to drink more. Sad, maybe, but a truism.

So. It’s a month later. Some pundits talk about things settling into some new sense of what’s “normal.” I don’t know. I see a difference, and it’s not entirely the heart-warming solidarity that the press is so fond of reporting. I see an underlying sadness in just about everybody that makes me feel very alone. But still, I’m glad that I work around people, trying to move on, trying to have a good time, trying to be alive.

“How are you doing? What can I do for you?”