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It was somewhat of a reunion-filled weekend for me this past weekend. I met up with a good high school friend, some old friends of Michelle’s (who in turn have become my friends), and got together with a group of good college friends to celebrate Erin’s birthday. In seeing all of these friends, I’ve noticed that all of my long-term friends fall into one of two categories–the first group has stuck with their life goals from day one (either by choice or because they know no other way to live) and the other has let life lead them by the hand, having their careers/destinies determined by forces other than their own. I most definitely fall into this latter category.

I wasn’t always like this, and I’m not upset that this is where I’ve ended up. I’m quite happy actually. But I’m reminded of my life goals at 16, and that’s where we’ll start today’s story.

When I was in the 11th grade, we had career assessment day at our school. We were taken to the local military base and given a standardized test to help determine our career aptitude. If you’ve never taken a test like this, it’s pretty fascinating how blatant and subtle it is all at the same time. Questions were as obvious as, “Do you like to work with cars?” and as semi-obtuse as “Are you happiest at home, at the mall, at school, or at a party?”.

Overall it was a pretty sad career day. There were few colleges with kiosks to visit (apparently the NFHS graduating class of ‘94 was not as ‘all that and more’ as we thought), and the only business that had a kiosk with which to visit was the local radio station “Kiss 98.5″, and the host at that stand (morning DJ “Rocky Allen” or some variation thereof) was clearly coming down from whatever uppers he had taken to pep up his morning Zoo crew and had very little desire to entertain a bunch of ignorant teenagers at partially defunct military base.

Weeks later we receive our results. My top 3 careers were “TV/film producer/director”, “museum curator”, or “priest”. It was then that I realized that maybe life wasn’t as easy and pre-determined as I was lead to believe. So seeing as how I hated memorizing history and that I was essentially Jewish, my only other option was TV/film producer/director, which having been obsessed with my video camera and film my entire life thus far, didn’t seem to be too much of a stretch for me.

Now none of my other friends seemed happy with their results. I don’t really remember how everyone netted out, but I do remember everyone generally feeling “I was kind of hoping for some guidance here and all I’ve been given is the recommendation to be a pharmacist”. So a lot of my friends spent the following few weeks moping about, concerned that the rest of their life would consist of dispensing analgesic creams and such. I, on the other hand, was quite proud that I had found a life-path that I was truly happy to travel down.

One night, a group of us had gathered at a friend’s house, and were discussing our lives. Everyone seemed saddened to think about their future. I, however, regaled in the idea that I would become a great filmmaker, as destiny (or the US military) had set this life in place for me. My friend’s mother had come into the room and mentioned that she was starting her career as (coincidentally enough) a career counselor for students, and did anyone want to talk about anything. No one really chimed in except me who declared, “I’m going to be a filmmaker!” and I beamed with pride.

Her response: “Oh dear, don’t do that. You’ll never make it. Try for a career in cable TV or something.”

My heart sank. How could destiny (or the US military) have been wrong? I’d taken their stupid test and they had looked inside my soul (or my markings from my No. 2 pencil) and found my true calling was film. And yet here was a live-person, a grown-up no less, telling me that this was not to be. I was crushed. I was crushed because I was impressionable and I believed everything she said.

Now, I eventually went to school to study film because there was a small part of me that still held on to the idea that the moving image was where my heart belonged. But I must say that ever since that day, the dream was never quite as strong.

Seeing as how I’m avoiding some work, I thought I’d blog twice today.

Now this story should be prefaced with a disclaimer: What I’m about to say is as true as I remember, even though I was about 11 when it happened, and some of my recollections about events in the story defy some logic. But you’ll make your own judgments.

So after my parents separated, my dad moved into a 5-room shack about a mile away from my mom. I hated this house for so many reasons (probably the biggest being it was the first home that I had to commute to from my other one), but it really was a shitty house. It was one floor, and had awful wood flooring that desperately needed a good sanding. Plus I think the house was just always cold (I imagine it wasn’t insulated, and I don’t recall seeing a heater, even though one must have existed). But it was the best my father could afford at the time, and the address was 123 4th St., which I still get a kick out of.

This particluar block of 4th street was quite the little community. Everyone knew each other–mostly because there were only 6 houses on the block and 1 held my dad and another housed my future step-mom and her 2 kids. So right away we ruled over about 1/3 of the block.

Friends of friends visited often, and doors were always open, so people went freely from house to house, in a weird Pleasantville meets white trash sort of way. One guy who visited was Tony (I think he was Tony. I want to call him Mike, but I did that in the last story I wrote).

Now, I don’t remember what Tony looked like, but I do remember he showed up at odd times, leading me to think that he didn’t have a 9 to 5 job. Or prior commitments. Or a sense of purpose. But there he was. Tony, if I recall, developed a thing for one of my stepmom’s sisters, so he seemed to be around a lot. But then it didn’t work out, so Tony didn’t hang as much after a while (This part doesn’t make total sense to me because this sister was married, I think. Maybe they were just friends? I just have a vague recollection of the 2 of them hanging out together, and now I’m spreading lies).

One particular night Tony came to say hello to my dad. Very drunk. He came inside, and I vaguely remember having the feeling that my dad was taking him to ensure that he didn’t hurt himself or others. I think my dad just figured he’d let the guy sit for a while, sober up and then send him on his way.

Now here’s where it gets fuzzy.

Tony turns to me and says, “Have you ever seen a gun?”, to which I being 11 said, “No.” He then said, “Well, I have a BB gun here.” and pulled out a gun from a crumpled brown paper bag. It could have been a BB gun because it was small (kind of like those guns that you think are real guns, but turn out to be lighters), but I remember it being steel, with an ivory handle, not plastic like a BB gun. My dad seemed to be paler than normal–looking back I imagine he was coming up with an exit strategy for Tony–but smiled, so as not to make Tony uncomfortable or anxious.

I don’t really know what happened next, but my dad got him to leave, using the “So & so just called and said they want to see you”/Fool the drunk excuse. It worked because I remember Tony left, and neither one of us (nor my step-mom or step-relatives) got shot. So that happened.

Today’s tale begins sadly, but stay with me dear reader(s), as it is brief, and will have a happy ending. Mostly. Well, for me anyway.

My dad passed away in September of 2006, and as my dad subscribes to the religion of theater, my step-mother coordinated a memorial service that was more secular, but in the best way possible. I spoke briefly, my brother and sister sang, and it was send-off that was more representative of my father than I could have hoped.

It was an emotional day for obvious reasons, and I found myself really jumping between elation and sadness at a high speed. Overall though, I had grieved earlier and knowing my dad, I really felt that he would have preferred we make less of a fuss over him, so I kept my sadness to myself (and to my lovely future wife).

As I said earlier, the service consisted of essentially a show, followed by refreshments and greetings afterwards. So at the end of the performance segment, as people were billowing out of the auditorium (my father’s church), a few folks came over to me to share condolences and stories.

There were some familiar faces I hadn’t seen in a while, and was happy to. There were some familiar faces that I hadn’t seen in a while and was not happy to (but I put on a good front anyway, as my dad would have were he in the same position). And then there was Mike.

Now, I’m not sure that his name was Mike, but he looked like a Mike. He was 40ish or 50ish, and he had the air of a reformed biker, both in appearance (he had donned a faded sweater-vest and black t-shirt) and speech (excessive use of the word “You’s” and “damn”). Behind him was a doting and silent woman, who I assumed was his wife, as they both had similar body types and similar appearance of a couple who has been together for multiple decades.

I mock Mike not because I am a mean-spirited person, and what he was trying to convey to me was his appreciation for the help my father had given him in his time of need, so I feel a little bit of guilt in painting this picture of Mike. But I do so because this is the anecdote he shared with me:

“Hey, I’m [Mike]. This is my wife [Mrs. Mike]. (No response from Mrs. Mike). I just wanted to tell you that your dad was a great man. There were so many times I just didn’t know what to do in my life, or with my marriage, and he just sat and listened and gave me such great advice that I just wanted to say thanks.

I mean, he really saved my marriage. Not sure it was the best thing looking back, but he did (No response or reaction from Mrs. Mike).”

I was a little taken aback. I thought that maybe I hadn’t heard him correctly, because why would anyone share with a total stranger (within seconds of meeting) that his marriage was a profound disappointment in his life. But, then I realized I probably misheard him. Until,

“So yeah, your dad was so great. Like I said, he really saved my marriage. Which again, probably isn’t the best thing looking back.”

Nope, I fucking heard correctly. This guy was in a loveless marriage, all thanks to my dad, and he was grateful for the advice to stick it out! I was silently in shock, but I didn’t want to make the situation more awkward (especially for the mute Mrs. Mike), so I simply responded the way I thought my dad might.

“Well, thank you very much for the kind words. And thank you for coming.”

Mike thanked me and he and Mrs. Mike huddled off. As they walked away, I wanted to laugh a little, but instead I smiled. I smiled because this brief glimpse into the lives of two interesting characters was a wonderful, if short, scene in a bigger play. And my dad would have loved to know that he helped put on one last great show.

Seeing as how I’ve shared a fond memory of my father, it’s only fair to recall a story about my mother. Which is surprisingly more difficult than I thought it would be (as there are a certainly plenty to choose from) because there are a great many I don’t wish to share, and a few more that I’m sure she would prefer me not to share as well. But here goes nothing.

Many years ago, my sister, brother and I were involved in a youth theater group. Although I did have many great times as a member of that group, it was lead by a man who later turned out to be a pedophile, thus tainting any joy or love I may have had for those times. But that’s another story for another day.

The group (who shall remain nameless for this story) performed shitty reviews of songs based on a theme (“The Sounds of America!”, “Did someone say Ragtime?”, that sort of thing), and the cast consisted of attention-starved children, semi-talented kids from ages 9-18 (I must stress that I most certainly fall within this category, which is why I declare it as such).

One of the performers, who for the purposes of this story shall be called “The Ninja” (just because it sounds cooler. Thank you HIMYM), was an awkward boy with a severe speech impediment, a stutter, and absolutely no rhythm whatsoever. In fact, when he danced, it seemed as if his skin was desperately trying to prevent his skeleton from leaping out of his insides in some sort of internal prison break.

Now, I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in a theater group of any kind, but it usually consists of a band of outcasts (no one ever turns down being captain of the cheerleading squad or the football team for the opportunity to sing “Summer Nights” in front of your fellow classmates). And when you gather a group of outcasts, they usually find outcasts within that group to thrust their personal frustrations and disappointments upon. The Ninjas was our outcast.

A bunch of us (parents included) blatantly mocked him, ideally not within earshot of The Ninja, but I can’t be certain. And soon enough, he became the punchline of many a joke. Which is where our story picks up.

The Ninja lived only a few blocks away, and his parents weren’t the most dependable of people (there was a pretty substantiated rumor that his father had a small crack problem. Awww), so my mother opted to give him a ride home with us after rehearsal one day. Now, this is the same day that one of the popular boys in the cast broke up with my sister. And although he wasn’t the best of catches, she was actually quite upset about the whole situation.

So the ride home went like this: My mother driving, my sister crying in the front seat, and me, my brother, and The Ninja in the back. With my sister crying, my mother’s gut instinct was to make her laugh, and the way she tried to do so was to suggest other cast members she could date–all of whom were known losers in one way or another. It went like this:

“You could go out with Bob Sampson!” (a known bed-wetter)
“Or you could go out with John Kelly!” (clearly very gay)
“Or you could go out with Tim Matthews!” (guy caught masturbating in a gas station bathroom)

This game starts working and we all start laughing, and my mom keeps amping up the names and the delivery to exaggerate her point and stress what losers these guys were, all the while having us all in stitches. That is, until she says,

“Or you could go out with THE NINJA!”

We all stop laughing. The Ninja brings his hands to his head, and assumes a plane-crash position. I (fighting the urge to laugh more so than I’ve ever had to do) put my arm around him and simply say, “There, there buddy”.

My mom, panicked, blurts out,

“OR…OR…YOUR BROTHER! HA HA HA! WOULDN’T THAT BE FUNNY?!?”

But it wasn’t. In fact, although it was only 3 or 4 blocks left to The Ninja’s home, it was the longest 3 or 4 blocks we’d ever driven.

As we pulled up to the house, my mom turns to The Ninja as if the previous 10 minutes were all part of a Dallas-esque dream and says,

“Have good night Ninja! See you next week!”

He smiled and ran (awkwardly) into his house. As soon as the car door slammed, my mother turned to us all and yelled,

“HOW THE FUCK WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE WAS BACK THERE?!? HE’S SO GODDAMN QUIET!!!”

My sister didn’t cry the rest of the night.

I’m enjoying this narrative-streak, so let us continue with a tale about one of my favorite people, my father.

I’ve actually been thinking about this one quite a bit, because I had a hard time remembering specific stories about him. Sure, there are plenty of moments to remember, and mannerisms, and general descriptions of the man he was, but aside from the handful of stories that get passed around my family, it’s hard to recall specific instances worthy of a story arc. But, I did think of one that I particularly liked, so I thought I’d share.

My dad used to be a projectionist for the Lincoln Center Film Society. Now, I don’t know if it was because of this, or just a general love of film, but he was constantly taking me to the movies. High brow, low brow, shoot ‘em up, talk it out, whatever. We saw a lot of stuff. The few times we went just the two of us, I remember fondly. One such time was when we went to go see “The Empire Strikes Back” at the Jerry Lewis Cinema (RIP JLC).

I must have been 4 or 5, so my memory of the movie is kind of fuzzy (well, that screening anyway. I can pretty much recall every frame of that movie from subsequent viewings). I remember not really following the plot, but really loving the explosions and the running and yelling (I still love the yelling). And of course, I remember one of the most infamous scenes in that film (and possibly of all time), when Darth Vader turns to the monopodic Luke Skywalker and says,

“Luke, I am your father.” and then follows it up with, “And together, we can rule the galaxy as father and son.”

I thought that was the greatest moment in my life (thus far). My name was associated with the overseeing of an entire galaxy, and although I had no concept of space, time or distance, I knew it must have been pretty big, especially for a guy with such an awesome moniker. My dad, seeing the giddiness on my face, turned and smiled his huge Tim Ward smile at me, proudly–a vision I hope I never lose.

After the movie, we get into the family Mustang (our family car was a ‘78 Ford Mustang–a story for another day), and begin the drive home. My dad starts asking me what I thought of the movie, and I’m pretty sure I went into childish glee about the explosions, running and yelling, and how cool the scene with Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker was.

Now, a lesser man would immediately resort to repeating the line, “Luke, I am your father” for obvious reasons. Not my dad. Instead, he simply smiled and looked at me and said, “That could be us.”

I smiled back because deep down, I knew it really could be. Well, with less killing and more Legos.