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December 16, 2007 – 9:16 pm
In the year 1974 dinosaurs roamed the Earth, I was 10 years old and had the biggest crush on Olivia Newton John. This could be embarassing to many but to me, Olivia Newton John was the second greatest girl in the world.
Keep in mind, this was long before “Grease” and Olivia was a country rock singer with the sweetest voice. Olivia was Shania before Shania. Bigger than “The Dixie Chicks”. Olivia was blond, friendly and smart. Her albums showed her playing with labradors and horses. She smiled and ran and was unattainable. Olivia Newton John was a grown up version of the greatest girl in the world, my crush from kindergarten on, Ann Daley. Both blond, both beautiful, both brilliant, both unattainable.
At 12, I recall reading that the then probably 27 year old Olivia was dating her “manager”. I didn’t even really know what a manager was but I do remember thinking it trite. Olivia could do better, I figured. Heck, Olivia could have me, one of the best 12 year old pure basketball shooters in South Carolina. What more could a newly minted inter-Continential Superstar want?
As the years went on, Olivia became an even bigger star as she left all country music behind and became more of a pop star. It was a time ruled by the “John’s”. Elton John ruled the airways along with Olivia. Tommy John threw baseballs for the Dodgers and Port-A-Johns were America’s favorite outdoor toilet. Heady days.
Olivia went from dating her manager to dating her “record producer”. I recall thinking it trite. Olivia could do better. She could have me. A 15 year old basketball player for perhaps the worst and least friendly private school in America.
Soon after, “Grease” came out and Olivia was bigger than ever. I loved everything but the last 5 minutes of the movie where Olivia threw away her good girl image to become a tramp in black leather as a way to attract John Travolta. I much prefered the good girl but America loved the tramp. But hey, that’s America.
Olivia dated John Travolta and Eric Estrada from “Chips”, I gathered. Seemed trite to me, once again. But who was I but a kid going to a ghetto high school wasting time hitting golf balls and shooting baskets. Still, I thought that Olivia hung the moon. (”Hung the moon”? What am I 94 years old?)
Years went by, I stuck with Olivia. Dated a girl in College who was our campuses closest version to Olivia.
When I went to sleep at night, if I wasn’t listening to classic Elton John or Genesis, it easily could have been Olivia Newton John on tape serenading me to sleep. This is so humbling but even in those days when Olivia concerts would come on H.B.O., I would wake up whatever time of the night they aired to watch even if it was 3 A.M. I know that sounds pityful but it was a time before VCR’s, much less DVD’s and I adored Olivia Newton John even as she broke up with this and that Hollywood hot shot. “Physical” was the biggest album in the land in a period where people actually paid for recorded music. Oh, and dinosaurs roamed the Earth.
I loved Olivia so much that I even saw the movie “Zanadu” with a girl perhaps EVEN more beautiful than Olivia. My “date” found me as odd as I found Olivia kinetic and we only dated a couple of times.
It was on the set of “Zanadu” that Olivia met the man she married, a very handsome younger man that was a part time model and actor. The reason he did it “part time” is that it is very hard to get full time work as a model/actor because each job takes only minutes to do and there are many hours to fill in the day.
Olivia and this gent married and had a daughter. I went on to become a stand-up comedian and comedy writer in L.A.
Somehow, I was ok with the fact that Olivia had married another man. I had girlfriends with whom I napped late at night. So why should Olivia be alone? Even if Olivia could’ve had me.
I gathered from a friend, Don, that writes for a national magazine that Olivia’s husband was a good egg. Somehow, this bit of inside knowledge made me happy.
My friend went to Olivia’s house to write an article on her and while walking the property with her mate, Olivia’s husband offered my pal a joint. Even as a non-toker, I did appreciate his willingness to share. And figured that he must make Olivia happy there on the cliffs of Malibu, the handsome part time model, even if he had a career perhaps less significant than my own.
A few years later, I learned that Olivia was getting less than pleased with her Husband. I heard stories through friends that she had yelled at him something to the effect of “You lazy bum, why don’t you go get a REAL job.”. Oh, if I only had a dollar for every time a woman has yelled that at a man. Heck, if I had a dollar for every time a woman has yelled that at me. Then I wouldn’t need a real job.
It was about then that I figured it was not so great to be a Celebrity.
Here I am a minor comedian, a minor comedy writer and I know all about Olivia Newton John’s business from the time she was 22. I know that her Father was a noted teacher, her grandfather the Noble Prize winng physicist, Max Born and some stuff so personal (and perhaps incorrect) that I would never write it in public.
I was feeling sorry for Olivia.
Sure enough, a divorce came along. Long before I ever married and longer still before my divorce came tumbling along.
Olivia ran a business successfully and then lost it. I ran a business successfully and then lost it.
Olivia battled and beat breast cancer. Her daughter grew to be smart and beautiful.
I thought I might have pancreatic cancer. (I did not.) My son grew to be smart and handsome.
Then about a year or so ago, I heard on some trashy entertainment program that Olivia’s live-in “boyfriend” had fallen off a boat and drowned. His body was never recovered.
I saw some film of the guy and he seemed like a creep. But still I do not wish creeps dead even as I thought “Wow, Olivia could do better.”. She could have had me.
Olivia spoke of the tragedy. And again, somehow, without ever having known her on any genuine level, I honestly felt supportive.
About 6 months later, there were reports that the “boyfriend” was discovered at a resort area of Baja in Mexico with another woman. He had faked his own death and not for insurance money. It appeared from these reports that he faked his own death just to get out of debts and perhaps his relationship with Olivia.
Wow!!
Could Olivia be so difficult that a man would fake his own death just to get away from her? That’s just not possible.
Could a woman go from being everything that is light, pure and happy to such a miserable shrew that a bum will pretend to drown at sea just so he does not have to sleep beside the star of “Grease”, “Zanadu” and my every boyhood fantasy of warmth, romance and happiness. No, that’s just not possible.
And I thought “Wow, it really sucks to be a Celebrity.”. I’ve had some break-ups that were more than humbling. But even the suggestion that your boyfriend had faked his own death was beyond my imagination. This sort of thing to happen and be broadcast coast to coast.
A break-up is bad enough without a possible faked death being part of “Entertainment Tonight” and “People” and “US” Magazines. And then you get the bonus of all the “investigative journalists” being sent to Mexico and your house to “seek the truth”. Wow, it must suck being a Celebrity most days.
Her “Ex beau” was never found in Mexico although Investigative Journalists probably drank 6 metric tons of tequila with billing to their respective Networks.
I felt sorry for Olivia. She could have had me.
Not so long ago, a friend told me about a mutual friend of ours, David, that is a comedy writer for Bill Maher. David was flying cross country and was bumped up to First Class. Sitting in the seat next to him was Olivia Newton John.
David got the impression from Olivia’s body language that she did not want to talk. HE knew that she was Olivia Newton John. SHE knew that she was Olivia Newton John. And nothing that he could say about loving her “I Honestly Love You” record could possibly matter on this flight. Olivia wanted to be left alone. She seemed to be wondering why John Travolta was piloting his own G-5 and she was stuck drinking Sprite next to some middle aged oaf in jeans.
Somehow, they did start some minor conversation and it came out that my pal is a comedy writer. This was interesting to Olivia. She said that she was going to speak at some cancer fundraiser with other dignitaries and politicians, which she does all the time as a supporter of cancer research, and that she wished she could inject some humor into her speeches. She asked our friend David if he had any suggestions for her?
David had a few jokes but the one I remember and the one that made Olivia Newton-John laugh so hard that she snorted was this…”I’m glad to be here as a cancer survivor. It’s frightening discovering that you have cancer. And speaking of unwanted tumors, I see that tonight George Pataki is here.”. David says that making Sprite come out of Olivia Newton John’s nose because she was laughing so hard was the highlight of his comedy career.
I don’t know what the highlight of my comedy career is but it certainly does not involve Olivia Newton John. The only thing that has ever involved Olivia were my hopes, dreams and peaceful bedtime thoughts. I believe that just having a cup of tea with Olivia and discussing Orphans and charity and the deliciousness of the tea would be the highlight of my career.
What one second? Who says that dreams can’t come true.
Hmmm…so Olivia loves comedians.
I am a comedian.
Olivia loves a man with a job.
Hmmm…I have a job. Heck, I have several jobs. I’m practically Jamaican
Olivia supports cancer research
Hmmm…I support cancer research. I mean, c’mon, what are AIDS Orphans but kids effected by cancer? I support them every day.
Hmmm…Olivia can still have me.
Lets piece it together.
I honestly love her and always have from the time I was 10. And if by some abstract impossibility, we should ever break up, I will leave her house the way I came…by 91 Lexus. And I will never, ever under any circumstance fake my own death to get away. The Lexus works fine.
I will never embarass her either privately or publicly. I take out the trash and cut the grass. I’ll never need money, I’ve done quite well to this point without much of it. And have never much bothered anyone for it in the past.
Heck, I’m even in Malibu all the time for my very important consulting job as the “Ambassador of Fun” for Malibu Country Club.
Olivia, I’ve made my case. I could be the man for you or at least a decent man with whom to have a cup of tea and talk.
I believe that I just might understand you. (Something I have been oh so wrong about in the past.)
I understand how hard it is to be a Celebrity. I’m as handsome today as I am ever going to be. I’m funny and loyal. Take me as I am and I will oh so happily do the same.
Just call. If nothing else, I bet we can help some Orphans with cancer.
December 16, 2007 – 9:08 pm
Sorry, Harvard Wins.
Of late, I have been wearing a Harvard sweatshirt almost every day.
It’s turning colder, I’m a runt and I need a sweatshirt. No big deal
and not even worthy of commentary, I would think. I would be wrong.
I get plenty of commentary here, wearing my Harvard sweatshirt in our
little coastal Southern town.
Let me tell you about my Harvard sweatshirt. It has a style and block
lettering from the 1920’s. There is a medium size “H” on the sleeve
as well, And it is the standard “Harvard beet” burgundy. It is one
of my 2 sweaters and I love it.
Every day that I wear this sweatshirt, not really seeking second looks
or attention, I always get questions. And often negative commentary.
It’s not as if I were wearing a mismatched tube top and codpiece.
(Which I only do in Summer.) C’mon Kids, it’s only a Harvard
sweatshirt. Why all the hating?
The basics that I have gathered from other mammals walking the planet
is that wearing a Harvard sweatshirt is “elitist” and “arrogant”.
I am certainly not “Elitist”. I am the first one and perhaps only one
down for a Socialist revolution, either armed or pacifist. I like my
revolutions in both styles “smooth” and “chunky” and by “any means
necessary”, if necessary.
And I am certainly not arrogant, even with my very impressive grade
point ratio over 3.6 from the locally regarded political science
program of the College of Charleston.
I just rather like Harvard. It is a fine school from which many great
minds have come. Off the top of my head and without using “Google”,
lets try John F. Kennedy, Bill Gates, Al Franken and my pal, Kemp for
four.
And not that I’m bragging, this Harvard sweatshirt is totally mine. I
totally paid $2.99 for it at the Kidney Foundation thrift store and
no one can take it from me. I have the receipt and it is mine free of
debt or lien. As are my other dozen or so articles of clothing.
C’mon, what is SO wrong with liking Harvard? Even if you are the last
of the hopeful Socialists. Is it some form of anti-intellectualism? Is this some sort of regional animosity of
the South? I often hear grads from places like Suwanee and Davidson
refer to their Alma maters as the “Harvard of the South”. I try not to
laugh out loud because in all my sojourns to the Boston area as a
comedian or Orphan worker, I have never once heard anyone refer to
Harvard as the “Davidson of the North”.
Why is it that people can proudly wear t-shirts from completely
non-descript and useless places such as East Carolina or Montana State
when I am insulted for Harvard?
I’ve had numerous people ask me if I attended Harvard? And in truth,
I no more attended Harvard than the out of shape rubes wearing Chicago
Bears sweatshirts actually played middle linebacker for the Bears.
Although I never attended Harvard, not even the night school, summer
school or on-line programs (which they have). I do feel rather
connected to the place. My brother in law, Harold, graduated the
Harvard Law School as did my nieces husband, Eric, with whom I am
close. My dearest pal, Kemp, graduated from Harvard’s Kennedy
Business Grad Program and my first girlfriend out of college was a
Harvard grad. So, while I may not have attended the ivy halls of
Harvard, I do feel that I have spent time inside some of their warm
walls. So to speak.
And now that I think of it, none of my Harvard pals. Not even my
comedy writing pals like Pam Norris or Josh Lieb ever wear Harvard
clothing. I guess they can’t stand the heat for their education,
humanity and brilliance but I can.
All this has made me ponder, why exactly do I like Harvard? And all I
can come up with is that I like what Harvard stands for and all that
America offers. Harvard is plus or minus, our best school. Our best
and brightest kids worry about getting into Harvard. They do not
worry about getting into Oklahoma State. Harvard has history.
Harvard has a sense of dignity, hope and planning for the future and
code of decent behavior that I just enjoy. Harvard gets our best
researchers, writers and lecturers. Harvard cares so little about big
time athletics that they refuse any invitations to bowl games. And no
kid is ever turned away from Harvard because of an inability to pay.
Harvard is Harvard. And the rest are just great schools. Sorry.
Harvard wins.
And, one other thing…
When I wear my Harvard sweatshirt, girls treat me better.
I suppose they look at me and figure, “He’s not that good looking but I bet
he’s smart.”. Maybe they think I’m rich. Little do they know, I’m just looking for some company.
And waiting on the Socialist revolution. At which point, I will see
that we keep Harvard up and running.
October 15, 2007 – 2:06 pm
Stephen Colbert is a jerk. I only say this because Stephen Colbert is in fact a jerk.
Don’t get me wrong, I have never called out a celebrity or anyone else publicly for being a jerk before. Sorry Stephen, you jerk.
OK, I did suggest one time that perhaps Hugh Hefner is a doddering old coot who can’t seem to get out of his pajamas to face the day. But I never called him a “jerk” like Stephen Colbert…the big jerk.
So, why all the player hating toward SC? Especially from a man like me filled with nothing but love for all Orphans, puppies, sunshine and freedom? Well, it’s because Stephen Colbert is a jerk.
You see, I know Stephen Colbert and have always liked Stephen Colbert. But then I realized old Stevie is a jerk.
Steve and I know each other from town, we have the same comedy writer friends, I know his wife and his sister, I know the people that he went to school with, I know what happened at his school and our children have played on the beach together at Sullivan’s Island. I have given gifts to Stephen. And when his first child was on the way and he felt that it was time to move out of N.Y.C., I tried to help him find a home on Long Island. I have had his cell numbers, his office numbers and his home numbers. I have his e.mail address and for awhile, we used to talk quite a bit. But as he got more famous, I left him alone more and more because I could see that he was busy. And I did not want anything from him. I wasn’t looking for a job from Stephen. I liked being happy for Stephen’s success from the sidelines. I figured that if Stephen ever needed me, he would call. And I would only bother him if it really, really mattered.
Then last Summer, I was traveling America with a cameraman, Shawn getting a 1965 Mustang signed by celebrities to benefit A.I.D.S. Orphans. I was making fun of myself, while giving people a glimpse into the off stage lives of famous people that are constantly pestered by hundreds of charities. I asked Stephen to sign the car when we passed through New York. I sent e.mails to Stephen and never got a response. I chatted with his sister. Nothing.
I figured, Stephen is busy. We gets all sorts of requests. I reasoned that other people will sign the car, a good time will be had by all, we’ll get it edited, sell the car and make money for Orphans. I’ll see Stephen Colbert another day, perhaps when he retires and moves home. It doesn’t matter. I like Stephen Colbert and his whole family. And I went back to enjoying Stephen’s success.
Then, I gather that Stephen breaks his wrist while wandering his own stage. Perhaps the bright lights threw him? Perhaps the non prescribed painkilllers from his friend Rush Limbaugh? Perhaps he has weak wrists from some boyhood activity? I don’t know.
All I know is that Stephen Colbert breaks his wrist and then goes on to create a “Wrist Strong” bracelet, similar to the Lance Armstrong “Live Strong” bracelet, except that in Stephen’s case it is to promote wristal health rather than cancer awareness.
OK, I get it Stephen, you are making fun of everyone that does projects for charity, all the people with 1000’s of pet causes for the retina, the hypothyroid and the pancreas. People like me. All very funny. But that doesn’t make you a jerk.
Then Stephen starts pestering celebrities and politicians to sign his cast to be auctioned off for a veterans charity, the Yellow Ribbon Fund. OK, very funny. You are mocking the very thing that I asked you to do, you smug idea stealing prankster. You get the Mayor of New York, Michael Bloomberg, Bill O’Reilly, Speaker of the House- Nancy Pelosi, the White House Press Secretary and the Anchors of the national nightly news, Katie Couric and Brian Williams to sign your cast. Good for you. Then you get Katie Couric and Brian Williams to say on-camera that they will wear your “Wrist Strong” bracelet on TV that night. And when they do not, you call them “jerks”.
Ahhh, on the contrary, Mr. Colbert…you are the jerk. Katie Couric and Brian Williams actually took the time to meet with you. And film with you. And be nice to you and the cause that you represented. Just like me, you masked a stupid idea- your wrist cast auction around a great and legitimate charity to have some fun However, you, old pal, could not make the 90 seconds for me and the Orphans that we represent.
Katie Couric and Brian Williams played along with your joke, knowing that if they did not participate, you would mock them. Which you did anyway.
Well, you wouldn’t make the time to sign a car for dying Orphans, because you knew that I was too polite to ever mock you. And I was…until I saw you making fun of people that went out of their way to be nice to you…you jerk.
So, what do I want from Stephen? As usual, nothing. Oh, it would be great if he apoligized. It would be great if Stephen politely lied to me and said that he never got the e.mails. It would be the best if he would film with us and sign the car. Stephen would be joining teachers, health care workers, firemen, policemen and famous folk like Jay Leno, Al Franken, Spike Lee, Jeff Foxworthy. All people that have done great things for children.
Some things you can count on. One pound equals 16 ounces. Rush Limbaugh is a big, fat idiot. And Stephen Colbert is a jerk.
I’m still happy for your success, Stephen Colbert . And bless you in every way…you jerk.
October 15, 2007 – 2:05 pm
Some philosopher or acting coach or other guru once said that “Life can only be understood 25 years in hindsight.”
I don’t know if it really takes 25 years of reflection to understand the events of your life. Maybe it takes years or perhaps just months. Significant things may takes years. I like to think that the sort of short term relationship that I just went through should only take months before I can properly analyze it. So here goes…
Hmmm…, I really fell for that silly girl in the field of animal maintenance out on the West Coast of America.
She was darn easy to fall for with her bright mind, skinny legs and active imagination.
Was she too smart for me?
Without doubt. They all are.
Did I let my heart get ahead of my head.
Without doubt. I always do.
C’mon pal, the relationship was really nothing more than many e.mails and phone calls. Still, I really fell for the way that she read everything I had ever written and seemed to love it all.
Then I wrote something that she didn’t like at all. And the funny thing is that I thought it was nothing more than complimentary. Extremely complimentary.
Well, you live by the pen. You will also die by the pen, I suppose.
As I look back on it all. I didn’t exactly think that it was going to last forever.
We met in June and with friends, I gave it and “Over/Under” of Oct 1. I was betting “Under”.
So, we really didn’t make it until July. Such is the nature of phone calls and e.mail and “love”.
She said in a final e.mail that she had “met someone”. I don’t know if it’s true. She certainly could with those skinny legs and sharp mind. If so, I hope the brother likes bumpy roads. And I suggest that he not write.
October 15, 2007 – 1:58 pm
If a real estate agent were forced at gunpoint to describe the bungalow in the ghetto that I desire in print, it might read like this:
“BUN-GHETTO- the joys of simple, bungalow living with the fun and action of the ghetto. Human resident ready (already rat occupied), close to bus lines, proximity to homeless shelter. Near-by motorcycle club, great aluminum can pick up potential, plenty of activity- both knife play and gunfire. Very close to numerous established street drug reps. Make offer and duck.”
I kid, of course. I am delighted to be a potential first time homeowner thanks to the city’s “Homeowner Initiative” program that has been set up to help low to moderate income first time homeowners that have been priced out of the peninsula market.
With a price tag of $109,000 this former 1840’s dilapidated cabin, restored to just above code by the city is without doubt the lowest priced habitable dwelling in the city. For the man that wants next to nothing, this is it. And I would love to live there.
Of course to “qualify” for this low to moderate income house there are a few hoops to jump through. There is only 1 Bank, The Charleston Bank Consortium, the only “Bank” that is allowed to lend money for these City homes.
My understanding from the City and the Consortium is that these rehabilitated homes are for people that are long time Charleston residents, first time homeowners and be in a low to moderate income area from approx. $20,000- $50,000 per year.
Well, I certainly am a long time resident. If I’m not in L.A. trying to help Orphans, golf course managers or making jokes, for the past 27 years since I was a College Freshman, I have been in Charleston. And my family has been here since the 1890’s.
And when it comes to being “low income”, no one is more ghetto fabulous than me. I made $20,000 the past 2 years when I froze my salary at that level while working for Fireball Sports on behalf of Orphans although this year I am on pace to make slightly more than $40,000..still within the guidelines.
I didn’t see how I could be turned down for this bungalow that I had watched sit unoccupied for the past couple of years.
To the Consortium, I gave my past 2 years of tax returns. A profit/loss statement that showed I had about $10,000 cash in the bank. Along with a history of my past charity work and civil work in Charleston over the past 27 years.
I could not wait to take possession of that little house and decorate it fully as I had my former apartment with a mattress, a desk and 2 chairs.
I figured that soon after I moved in, I would entertain certain select “street dignitaries’ with maltish beverages and chat. And upon discovering that I lived without anything of value or even possessions, no one would ever bother to break into my home. I would just be the crazy white guy that likes plays basketball in the neighborhood and invites everyone in come N.B.A, Playoff time.
After making sure all was in order, my Consortium Counselor, Tammie, said that I would get an answer on a Friday after they had done a credit check.
After the credit check, Tammie came back with some slightly negative news. It wasn’t that I had “bad credit”, it was that I had no credit at all. The check revealed that I was a “Ghost”.
I was like “Am I at least ‘Casper the Friendly Ghost’? The Friendly White Ghost.”.
Tammie did not laugh.
As I reminded Tammie, I had told her that might be the case with my credit.
You see, in my 44 years, I have never had a credit card and never borrowed money from a bank for any reason. Not for a car, not for a house, not for a student loan. I always thought that if I didn’t have the money to pay for something outright…I shouldn’t buy it.
Tammie told me that they would need more information on me, it would be helpful if I could get a letter from my landlord saying that I paid my rent on time and letters from the electric company, my car insurer, a certified letter from a C.P.A. attesting to my cash worth, letters from my employers and whatever else I could think of to help.
So, within 2 days, I got letters from my landlord saying that I had paid my rent on time for the past 8 years, a letter from my insurer saying I had paid my car insurance on time for the 15 years. I got letters from my 2 major Employers saying exactly what I was paid and that they are happy with my work. Along with a certified letter that said I had more than $10,000 in the bank from a certified tax attorney. I thought about getting letters from old girlfriends saying that I am a good kisser and clean up around the house.
Tammie thanked me for my promptness and told me that I should have an answer from her Executive Director by the next day.
On the next day, Tammie called me to tell me that I could NOT have the little bungalow. She said that by their tabulations, I was too poor to make the payments of $650 per month.
I explained that I had been paying about that amount for my apartment over the past 8 years. And that I was making more than twice that amount of money this year than in those years.
Tammie said that she was “sorry”.
I decided to go talk with a friend at the City that works on this program. I suggested to my City friend “What if I get a roommate?” Certainly then I could afford it.”
My friend from the City said “Well, they would have to be on the application with you.”
And I said “But how would we decide which family to pass on the house down to over the next 100 years? (a stipulation of buying these homes)”.
My friend said “Well, y’all would have to decide that.” and she shook her head. My City pal then said “I can’t seem to get anyone in that house. You are about the only person that can see a vision for that neighborhood.”. And I told her honestly, “It’s not a vision that I get. I just want a place to rest at night. And a place that I can pass down to my Son. I’ve never really had a home. And it’s time.” I felt defeated.
So, as it now stands, even though I have no debts and over $10,000 in the bank. And I very much desire to live in a place that no one seems to want, I can’t live there.
A Consortium tells me that even though I owe no one nothing, work 2 jobs and do plenty of charity work…I am too poor to move into the ghetto. I am too poor for the cheapest cottage in town.
I imagine Gabriel being taunted by kids at school…
“Your Mama’s so fat….”
(And Gabriel cuts them off.)
“Actually, my Mother is quite thin. Please try again”.
“Well, your Daddy’s so poor that he can’t afford to move into the ghetto.”
(And Gabriel will have to go…)
“Actually, that’s not a cut. That’s more a historical fact. My Daddy IS too poor to move into the ghetto.”
Rich people trust me with their multi-million dollar homes and all their possessions. The City doesn’t trust me to live happily and pay my bills in the ghetto.
Some dream big. I dream of a tin roofed cottage in the ghetto. And that’s what it remains. A “dream” for the poorest, happiest man in town.
October 15, 2007 – 1:56 pm
Master of bad ideas that I am, today I decided to run in a light rain from “my” house by the Battery to the house I hope to have in the ghetto. I figured that it was probably 5 miles away which would be at the outer limit of how far I can jog. And then of course, I would be exhausted and in the ghetto, on foot, as nights falls on a Friday. Genius thinking. But I was excited by it.
Actually, I wanted to know exactly how far it was in distance from this the best neighborhood in town to the absolute worst neighborhood. Worst being subjective, of course. But in terms of being run down, overrun by gangs and so on…the term “worst” would probably come to the minds of many that think of places like America and Nassau Street. Other things may come to mind for those that think of other ghetto landmark streets such as Krack Street and Cool Blow Avenue.
The neighborhood that I am in right now is so good that nobody actually lives there anymore. I’m not kidding, the 7 houses closest to me are completely unoccupied. No grown-ups, no children, no nothing. They are owned by people that live in NYC, Florida, Ohio or by local people looking to sell them, now that their parents are in homes and they can cash out.
Where 40 years ago, there would have been a beehive of activity of kids playing in the streets and riding bikes, now there is nothing but an errie silence. It’s as if tumbleweeds should be blowing down Gibbes Street.
Still, it’s a great neighborhood where, all in all, I feel incredibly safe. OK, lets forget the fact that a crack addict broke into my place last Summer while I was in California, stealing my French vistors wallet, passport and car. Still, it’s a neighborhood, where my former across the street neighbor, a MUSC doctor said upon finding out that I was floating from place to place, “Ohhh, you can stay at my place as long as you need. I’m at my girlfriends every night.”. Did I mention that his house is probably worth $1.5 million? But that’s how much people trust me…”Here take my million dollar home and just relax. Here are the keys to the liquor cabinet and my safety deposit box.”.
As I started my run to the ghetto, I realized two things. I am an incredibly slow runner and I am incredibly content in the neighborhood. Eight years in one safe place will do that. Some of the fondest memories of my life are tied to this place, primarily memories of being with my son, Gabriel. Putting him to bed, watching him sleep, playing paddleball in the house, making him pancakes in the morning and getting him off to school. Really the happiest days of my life have been in that Battery and Colonial Lake neighborhood and I decided to just relax and enjoy my jog to the ghetto.
After only a mile and a quarter, I was on the edge of what I consider a potentially bad neighborhood. I was just on the other side of Calhoun Park where I have thrown frisbees and played with Gabriel about a 1000 times. Although, I would never play “Hide and Seek” with him there because I worried about him potentially being harmed by the homeless.
It was just on this other side of Calhoun that my body started to tense and I realized that I was suddenly more “on-guard”.
I realized that this was just silly and I should relax and enjoy the jog. My body felt fine, hell, I had only gone less than a mile and a half.
My plan was to take Calhoun down to right past the library and then cut into the hood intentionally looking for America Street.
I figured that I must feel confident if I am going to move into a neighborhood. And in my wanderings of the neighborhood, it was probably America Street where I felt least confident. So, why not go on a late Friday evening jog through it? Genius thinking.
There is a rebuilt home owned by the city at 133 America Street but every time I drive by it whether 9 A.M. or midnight, there seems to be so much activity of guys cruising on bikes, flexing on the sidewalks as I pass, burning paper on the road, whatever…that I can’t imagine living on that street.
But somehow, it made sense to me to jog on through.
I figured, if I am polite to everyone I see. Essentially, the exact way that I am everywhere I go…things will be perfect. And I’ll enjoy the jog. At this point, as I cruised past blocks of public housing coming up to what I consider to be the very worst of America Street, I was only 1.7 miles from my $1.5 million dollar guest house.
Even though it was only 1.7 miles, it may as well have been 1.7 million miles. It was dilapidated dwelling after dwelling, people with obvious mental or drug problems mumbling to themselves in the street and a bunch of dudes hanging out.
But in reality, I consider hanging out to be a great thing. Hanging out is how you get to know people, it is how friendships are built, it is how businesses are built, it is how communities are built. And frankly, I felt that I was in a community of people that actually care about each other.
I saw little kids playing while their grandmothers were near-by. I saw teenage girls talking about boys as I jogged oh so slowly. And I said “Hello” to anyone that looked my direction or made eye contact. Because as I jogged through, I felt like just by being there, I belonged there.
This community was like the community I just left, 1.7 miles ago… 40 years in the past. The bones of the homes are the same, Charleston singles, corner stores, bungelows and the like.
There is actual human life taking place on the East Side which is more than you can say for 1 block off the Battery.
As I passed about a dozen guys on the sidewalk of America Street outside a corner beer and soda shop, I nodded and said “Hello” or “Evening Gentlemen” to anyone that was taking particular notice of me a middle aged, incredibly slow white guy on a rainy jog in the ghetto. And to a person, each young man was polite in response. That is, polite until I had passed them by 100 feet when they started saying things like “I know he’s not a fag. But that motherfucker sure acts like a fag.”. Big laughs all around.
Whatever the rest of the commentary was, I missed it because I was on a jog to the home I hope to get on 72 Lee Street.
I jogged straight down America Street, past John and Mattye Jones house. I used to be a partner in comedy with their son, Orlando and I have been in their Charleston house plenty since they bought and renovated it a couple of years ago. Trust me, it is one of the very few renovated houses on America Street and stands out like, well, stands out like a middle aged white guy jogging down America Street on a Friday night.
I jogges past a corner Baptist Church where I attended the funeral for a friend, Teddy Thorne a few years ago. Just past the the church is the city run swimming pool where I have taken Gabriel 2 dozen times. And another 300 feet past that was the little bungelow in the ghetto in which I hope to live. I looked at my pedometer and I had gone almost exactly 2 1/2 miles. I looked all around me and it didn’t look as if I was just in a different neighborhood, it looked as if I was on another planet.
It was deathly quiet because this was the land where the old Cooper River Bridge used to be. Now, it is just 15 acres of vacant land while the city decides what to do with it. Trust me, they will turn it into townhomes and retail to make it the greatest possible tax base.
And there I stood by my little green and red bungalow, my knee suddenly aching after 2 1/2 miles, I wondered “Can I really make this $109,000 bungalow my home?”.
I wandered up the street 180 feet and I talked with a couple of black guys about my age selling shoes on the Meeting Street corner across from the Thunderguard Motorcycle Club. I asked them if they were from the neighborhood and they said that they were. I talked about the people I knew in the neighborhood, The Jones and Thorne’s and Hill’s and Boss from the pool. After about 10 minutes of idle talk, one guy said to me “Why would you move from the Battery to the East Side, that’s crazy?” and I said “Because the people will love me here. An old comedian, living in a hut. I’ll be the most popular man in town.”. He just shook his head and laughed.
The other guy shook his head and said “Man, I wouldn’t live on the East Side.”. And sure enough, it turned out that neither of these guys actually lived on the East Side, they lived in West Ashley and North Charleston respectively.
Hell, these guys aren’t even residents, who are they to tell me how awful the neighborhood is. If it’s so awful, why are they selling shoes there?
All I knew is that after only 2 1/2 miles, I was in a place that is desolute at the moment but I knew that I was in a real community. There’s no reason I can’t build happy memories here. I am home.
October 15, 2007 – 1:55 pm
For the first time in my life I am considering buying a house. I am considering this because I do not have a place to live.
Oh, do not worry. I have a place to sleep. Primarily, because I will happily sleep anywhere. And have proven this fact.
After giving up my apartment of 8 years in late Spring, I have crossed our nation doing charity work, consulting work, real estate work and no work at all while traveling with my son, Gabriel.
In these 110 days or so since giving up my dwelling, I have slept in more than 50 places. Lets see if I can get my mind around the places I crashed in this “hot summer 07″. There have been Indian motels (both Native and Asian), hotels, cars, vans, campgrounds, bungalows on golf properties, a friends guest house on an island in Washington state, a friends place in California, 4 nights with my Uncle at Folly Beach, 7 nights with one older brother at his condo, 10 nights with another older brother in Tacoma, 2 nights on a friends couch at the Isle of Palms, 2 nights on the floor at my Ex-wife’s house, and the past 10 or so nights at a friends vacant house directly across the street from where I lived the past 8 years. I have traveled over 15,000 miles and now am directly across the street from where I started. I am officially homeless and I have become a mooch. OK, a friendly mooch. It was not my intent, just reality.
I’ve joked that my goal is to keep mooching off my friends and neighbors, not pay rent or a mortgage until I have all the cash I need to buy a house outright with cash.
This may sound New Agey, dopey or dumb but I just knew that if I gave up what I was clinging to, I would end up in the proper place.
And I know this is selfish, my being an Orphan worker, non-materialist, humanist and all… but I want a place to live.
A home where I am not at the whim of a landlord, or a woman. A place where all I must do is pay the mortgage, insurance, flood insurance, wind insurance, city tax, state tax and federal tax. Or they kick me into the street. Just like a landlord, with even more responsibility.
People say “Why did you give up your $500 apartment in a great part of town?”.
It just felt like time. The new owner landlord is the 45 year old daughter of my former landlord. (My old landlord, 86, now lives in a very nice assisted living home with his wife. I get to see them often) Any way, the daughter decided to gut the big house in which I had a 2 room apartment so that she and her family could move in to the whole house and do away with the 2nd floor apartments in which I had lived the past 8 years.
The daughter will put nearly a million dollars into “modernizing” the home. In the time I lived there, we put approximately $300 into modernizing the home with a new refrigerator.
Don’t get me wrong. The daughter is a sweet lady and I have considered her a friend. She even kindly offered me the 220 square foot “guest house” in the back at my old rent but somehow being a middle aged guy, moving into an even smaller space while living in the backyard of a family did not appeal to me. It seemed somehow undignified. Almost as if I was some sort of lucky troll that the Landlord family passes down from generation to generation.
Also my own child, Gabriel (12) is getting bigger, rather than smaller. Frankly, there was just no way that the two of us could have fit in that guest house at the same time. One of us would have to sleep outdoors. On his nights with me, I suppose he would get the guest house and I would camp in the van. (I borrowed a friends van without backseats because I left my car in Seattle.) Everything is going perfect!
All of this, vagabonding makes me realize that I would LOVE an actual home. All I care is that it is over 220 square feet. I would like it big enough so that Gabriel has his very own room. And nothing more.
I often feel that much of the worlds violence comes about because of peoples insecurity about not having a home, a place to feel secure, a place that will be theirs for generation to generation. I see it time and again in places like Palestine. In South Africa and Rwanda. And while I am not yet driven to violent outbursts…I sure would like a place to call home.
I work every day. I pay taxes. I am the working poor, with an emphasis on both “working” and “poor”. And, just like other working poor, I’d sure like a place to sleep at night.
About a year and a half ago, a pal, Bill Davis, told me about a program being run by the City for low and moderate income people to help people get their first homes. The “Homeowner Initiative Program” was looking for long time Charleston residents that had been “priced out” of the Charleston markets. The homes are former run down properties in the East Side of town that had been declared uninhabitable. Then the City came in and fixed the homes to code and are now selling them to “qualified” buyers at prices from $110,000-$160,000. Not exactly, give away prices but much cheaper than anything else available in the Charleston area.
One caveat to buying these homes is that you cannot sell it for 100 years. The intent is that you pass it down from generation to generation, giving a family a secure foothold in the city in which they have lived.
It sounds great to me. I’m not looking to make money. Never have been. I am looking for a place to sleep. A place to love. A place to be a good neighbor. And a place to pass down to my son. Passing a home to my son sounds better than almost anything I can imagine, personally.
I went and saw one of these 800 foot bungalows with an agent.
Did I mention that these homes are in the center of our towns worst ghetto?
Did I mention that some residents looked at me like “What the Hell are you doing around here Whitey? Do you want drugs…or are you a real estate speculator??? Either way, I hate you!”
Did I mention that no one seems to be buying these homes and some have sat on the market for long periods?
Naturally, I very much want one of these homes.
I have cruised by this bungalow at 7 AM, 7 PM and midnight to get a feel for the neighborhood at night. It is spitting distance from a renowned motorcycle gangs club and equally close to renowned drug dealing locales.
All I know is that I feels like home.
An agent showed me a “condo” for sale under this program on Daniel Island, cloistered and safe…99.98% Caucasian. I couldn’t wait to leave. I didn’t feel that I belonged there at all.
Some dream big. I dream of a Little Bungalow In The Ghetto. Should I call it a “Bun-ghetto”. Or a “Ghetto-low”.
All I know is that I will happily call it home. For me and my son.
October 15, 2007 – 1:52 pm
My pal, Jack, is a psychologist for schoolchildren and prisoners of the State.
Jack is a great guy, older than me by about 25 years. We play tennis together. As a young man, Jack was card playing friends with my Father. And anybody that has fond memories of my Father that has been gone for 12 years is automatically my pal.
Jack has raised great kids, not a single one in prison.
Any way, Jack was telling me that after the age of 44, the State might do well to release many of the men in jail that are there for violent crimes because a mans leaning toward violence has rapidly diminished by that age. I believe Jack may be right. Certainly, on reflection, the people that I wanted to kill in my youth, I simply want to now avoid. And I do avoid them, leaving my criminal record blank to date.
Jack also told me during this conversation that the other two things you can count on failing at around age 44 are your eyes and your sex drive.
Wow, was that ever news that I didn’t want to hear.
Although, to be frank, given the choice, I would rather that my eyes go first before my sex drive.
Thankfully, my sex drive is just fine. Bout as good as at 22. And it keeps me plenty entertained. I realize this is shallow but I would rather be a blind man that can beat off than a guy with 20/20 vision looking down at his penis screaming “Do something!!”.
Shallow and frisky. Just the way I want to go through life.
October 15, 2007 – 1:45 pm
I’m afraid that we have hit very hard times in the Male-Female human dynamic.
Pornography has gotten so good, I mean “available” that many men feel that they do not need women. And vibrators, I mean “marital aids” have gotten so good that women feel that they do not need men.
Oh, this is a rocky road. This is an impasse. And I do not know what to do.
You see, I have a horrific problem. A problem that is terrifying to discuss. A problem that I do not even like thinking about. But here goes for the sake of journalism, honesty and my goal of personal “transparency”.
My problem is…I really like women. And yet, I seem to drive ALL women that I kiss…insane.
Oh sure, I could take the easy way out and claim that all these women came to me pre-packaged and insane. But I must accept that most likely I am the problem.
But I’m no quitter. And can be quite the problem solver. So, I must go forward because even though I have met probably over 10,000 men in my life, the next man that I want to kiss will be my first.
You see, I really, really do like women. (You can be assured because I used the word “really” twice.)
All of my 4 biological sisters are women. My Mother is a noted woman. My Ex-wife, a noted physician is a woman. And I love and admire all of these women tremendously.
I once joked that I was “looking for a girl like Mom. But there aren’t that many 80 year old Jewish women with 8 kids looking for a guy like me.”
And although I am loathe to compliment myself, I can say that without doubt, the women that know me best, my Sisters, my Mother, my Ex- wife and even my occassional girlfriends all admire me in significant ways. Go right ahead ladies, choose between my intellect, my spirituality, my concern for humanity or my dedication to charity…it’s all there. But somehow I seem to drive every single woman that I kiss insane. The statistics bear me out. Over the years, I am guessing that I have kissed over 20 women and not a single one is still with me today. Because I drove them crazy. Just by being me.
And because of this absolute fact and statistical reality, I am starting to doubt that there is a woman on the planet that I can please enough to ever be her “Husband”.
Just more work for vibrators, I suppose.
But, once again, I am not going to give up that easily.
I didn’t quit when I was just a sperm cell looking for an egg. And I’m not quitting now.
I like the concept of marriage. I like the concept of continually being there for someone until age and death seperate you temporarily. (See that spiritual side kicking in?)
I just know that I can beat those damn vibrators back. Even those dang “butterfly” ones that women keep talking about.
I’m no quitter and that’s why I am not going to give up on the Male-Female dynamic.
Oh sure, I could quit. I have already reproduced once…and with tremendous results. I have a lovely 12 year old son, Gabriel. Better and brighter than I could ever hope to be. He speaks Chinese, is athletic, sincere and funny and girls LOVE him. (Mostly, because he does not care. Why is it that women are attracted to men that care very little about them? Hell, I’ll tackle that quagmire another day.)
But as of today, I have decided to date again.
And I’m not jumping into this without foresight. Rather, this is my attempt to stand up for something bigger than myself…the concept of marriage.
If my brothers and sisters of America can go off to fight in foreign wars for the concept of freedom that why can’t I cook a few dinners, go for a walk or pretend to be interested in beat poetry or “American Idol” for the concept of marriage?
Hell, I’ve even had a few moments of late in which I got the impression that I am not completely repulsive to women. So, damn the torpedoes, damn the dildoes, I am going forward for the sake of a principle, the sake of an institution, the sake of my son seeing…that men and women can work it out.
I believe we CAN get along.
And ladies there is a tremendous up side to dating me, I have a long held pattern of women marrying the next man that they date after me. So, if you’re serious about getting married, you may have to kiss me first. Sorry, but I am here to help.
October 15, 2007 – 1:42 pm
Wow, I thought that I had had women break up with me in every possible way. I’ve had guys move into our apartment while I was out of town. I’ve had girls break the news to me after a quick read of Tarot cards. I’ve also had women tell me they are going back to old lovers, occasionally other women.
Now, I’ve had the e.mail break-up. New technology, new age, bub.
OK, I knew it was coming. We live 3000 miles apart. She didn’t much like the way I dress. She didn’t much like the inflection of my voice. She often questioned just exactly what sort of person I am.
I saw it coming. And it still stings.
In the early days of our “relationship”, which never even really became a relationship. In those days of multiple e.mail messages, she left me a 3 minute phone message that she had read in a novel in which the author went on and on about the strengths and virtues of the beet. Yes, the red beet that some people eat. The general thrust of this long passage was that I, Michael Fechter, am like a beet.
All I could think is “OK, I am like a beet to this girl, I suppose.” But I knew that I had never personally given such deep thought to even vegetables that I love and my reckoning was “This girl is too deep for me.”.
No, in truth, this girl was too scared for me. Oh well.
She would leave this phone messages after I had left her town like “I don’t know why I’m still thinking about you but I am.” And I would tell her “Because you’re crazy about me. And I’m fascinating to you. Get over it. It’s alright.”
But it really wasn’t alright.
She perceived herself as a loner. She perceived herself in so many ways. The one thing she did not do was perceive herself simply. And I do.
I see myself as a very simple man. I need very little…except an enormous amount of affection. I pointed this out to my pal one day and it didn’t please her all that much. She wanted a man more like a cat. A cat that needs no real maintenance. A cat that might wander into the hills for weeks at a time.
Something that simple was not in her nature for me. And based on what she told me of her past, it doesn’t appear it had been in the cards for anyone else. Oh well.
It’s funny what pushed us over the edge. It was something I wrote.
On and on, she loved the things I wrote. She loved the honesty and my attempts at being “transparent”. So, like any comedian or writer, I pushed the honesty and transparency even more.
Frankly, it was sort of a “love” letter that made her back away. I will have to re-read it someday to see what it was that may have offended but it was definitely a letter telling her how much she meant to me from the time of our “first date”. A date where we did not even kiss.
Or perhaps, it was a late night phone conversation and my honest answers to her questions and turned the river the other way.
I’ll analyze later. There’s plenty of time.
I haven’t liked a woman that immediately. That intensely in over a dozen years. So, it could easily be a dozen more. So, there should be plenty of time for analysis.
For now, I’ll just bask in the dull ache that is a break-up, at any age.
At least, I know that I can still meet someone and love them instinctively. Love them almost immediately. Love them for who they are. Love them for the traumas they have already suffered. Love them as completely as I am possible. And be able to walk away, if that’s what they desire.
I remember my friend once asked me in an e.mail “How can you love someone that is hedonistic and self centered? Someone that often relies on convenient ignorance and often goes into wild forays into mindless spending?”.
All I could say is “I don’t know. I just do.”.
Frankly, I saw more. She is brilliant. I felt blessed to meet her. I could tell that she was capable of bringing out more in me.
Even in our brief time together, she did.
I’ll analyze later. Today, I’ll bask in a bit of misery and happiness. All break ups are miserable. And yet, I’m happy for the time we had, the thinking we shared and happy because we just don’t belong together forever.
I knew that.
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