Great People Need to Stop Dying

Randy Pausch passed away from pancreatic cancer. He was 47. I didn't know the man, but I wish I did. He was an inspiration to all that knew him. I wish I had more to say, but thankfully it's easier to let his own words speak for him.

"I think it's the Duty of the Comedian to Find Out Where the Line is Drawn and Cross it Deliberately"

I remember when Princess Diana died. I saw the thousands of people lined up bawling their eyes out. I didn’t get it. I thought they were a bunch of fools mourning some lady they’d never met or had done anything for them.

Today, I’m one of millions of people mourning the death of someone they’ve never met.

George Carlin died yesterday of heart failure.

I never thought I’d cry over the death of a celebrity, but today I did.

I was first exposed to George Carlin in 7^th grade. My best friend at the time, Collin, and I were going through my dad’s record collection. We were going through albums from the Stones and the Beatles, CCR and the Eagles. We came across an album of a middle aged man sitting by himself on a stool in the middle of a blue painted room. We were intrigued by this cover, different from the others, so we pulled it out.

It was a scene out of a nostalgic 1970’s movie. Two kids lying on their stomachs, propped up on their elbows in front of a stereo speaker; except instead of listening to rock 'n' roll, we were listening to George Carlin, who was the bad ass that most rock frontmen wish they could be. We sat there listening; wondering what was going to happen. Here was a guy talking about words. We understood what he was saying, but we didn’t quite get it. We kept listening, because even then we could tell that his guy was building up to something.

“There are 400,000 words in the English language and there are 7 of them you can't say on television. What a ratio that is. 399,993 to 7. They must really be bad. They'd have to be outrageous to be separated from a group that large. All of you over here, you 7, Bad Words. That's what they told us they were, remember? "That's a bad word!" No bad words, bad thoughts, bad intentions, but no bad words. You know the 7, don't you, that you can't say on television?”

Ever the master, George Carlin let loose:

“Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits”

We just lost it. We were rolling on the floor laughing. We couldn’t stop. We couldn’t breath. We moved the needle back to listen to it again.

We were laughing so hard that my mother came in. “What’s so funny?” We showed her the record, and she flipped. “You can’t be listening to that! You’re too young to listen to that filth!” The irony isn’t lost on me, and it wasn’t then. She took the record from us. She even hid it so we couldn’t listen to it while she was at work.

But it was too late. The damage had been done. Carlin’s name, and more importantly, his attitude had been seared into my consciousness. I didn’t have much exposure to him again until 10^th grade. I rediscovered Carlin through his comedy specials in reruns on HBO. I saw the first airing of Complaints and Grievances. I even recorded it and wore out the tape from watching it too much. In college, I would fall asleep listening to recordings of his shows.

I knew he was getting old for a while. I wanted to see him live before he retired (ever the consummate entertainer, he performed until the day he died). When he came to Syracuse a couple years ago, I made it a point to see him. As much as I love the man, his material had declined in recent years. He sort of fell into the angry, bitter, cynical old man cliché. But that’s still better stand-up than 99% of comedians out there.

There was this dude in the front row that started heckling Carlin within like the first two minutes. He was starting the show with I'm a Modern Man, one of his "list" routines. The guy is interrupting him and he's all like, "Hey. Hey. HEY! Shut the fuck up motherfucker! This is a hard sketch and I need to concentrate, and I can't do that with you jawing away over there, so sit down and shut the fuck up." It was amazing.

One can see Carlin’s influence on me after talking for five minutes. His ideas on the simultaneous power and triviality of words are something I hold dear in my own heart. He didn’t suffer fools gladly or at all for that matter. His calling bullshit on authority, especially government and organized religion was always sharp and insightful. But it was his ability to make us laugh while making us think abut the absurdity of our lives that made him special. Despite his turn to bitterness and cynicism, part of him was always lighthearted, like his interest in words (because hobbies cost money). I’ll never be as smart or funny as George Carlin, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to emulate him.

The world needs more George Carlins. It’s suffered a great loss with the death of the one it had.

Joe Pesci rest his soul.

Gone Fishing

When I was a kid, I learned how to fish. My family had a lakefront campground in Canada on the Rideau Canal system. We had an old, 27-foot trailer from the 1970’s that was less than 20 feet from the shoreline. My dad was the person who taught me to fish, and everything I know about fishing, which admittedly isn’t much, I learned from him. I learned that one doesn’t need any fancy lures or poles or reels. A normal fishing pole with a hair-covered hook called a jig was just fine. The jig may or may not have had a small piece of fish on it, depending on what had been caught that day. I learned that you should hold the line between your thumb and index finger, so you could more easily tell when a fish was biting your lure. I learned that because fish are cold blooded, in the early season, spring and early summer, you should stick to shallow waters. Later, the fish move to the deeper, cooler waters. I learned that when reeling in, you couldn’t go too fast, because if you don’t have a fish yet, it will know that your lure isn’t food, and if you do have a fish, the line will snap.

I can still remember my first fishing pole. It was about three feet long, cream colored, with a brown reel. I didn’t really catch much with it; just some small, spotted rock bass and some sunfish, neither of which were kept. Whenever I did catch something worth eating, it was always thrown back because it was too small. I was always afraid that someday a fish so big would bite my line that it would just rip my tiny, little pole out of my tiny, little hands.

My dad owned a 14-foot long light green fishing boat with an 18 horsepower motor. We would use that to go to the good fishing spots on the lake. There was the spot across the lake, about 200 yards out from the boathouse S decal on the face that was good for bass fishing. There was the spot about 300 yards south of that, near a tiny peninsula with a brown house with a big satellite dish; which was good for catching perch. There was a weed bed south of our campsite in the middle of the lake. My dad would stop the boat at the edge of the weed bed. “Keep your jig outside of the weed bed,” he would tell me. “The fish will see it and come out and bite it.” There was another bed to the north, along the shore. These were good places for catching calicos, or strawberry bass. There were other kinds of fish in the lake, like northern pike and walleye, but pike were too bony to eat, and my dad didn’t feel like going through the trouble of trying to catch walleye. I was too young to know if they actually were good fishing spots or not, and even today, not knowing enough about fishing, I don’t know how good they are. We never seemed to have much trouble catching anything, so I think there were probably worse places to fish on that lake.

I’ve got many fishing stories, but most of them would probably sound like the stereotypical variety. The fish in the story would be twice and long and weigh three times as much as the fish that was actually there. Usually, my mother takes great delight in telling this story, but one has to make do with me this time.

I live about a quarter mile from the Seneca River. When crossing over the bridge, I would look down and see people standing in the water fly-fishing. “That looks fun,” I thought. So one morning, I decided to do it. I woke up and put on a pair of faded blue jeans. It was damp and chilly, so I put on a gray, hooded sweatshirt. I put on my old, dirty sneakers (I was considerate at that age). I went outside the trailer and found my tiny, faded blue life jacket (I was safe, too). Now, if one knows anything about fly-fishing, I am missing a very important piece of clothing at this point. I’m not wearing hip waders. I was six, I didn’t know any better. I walk to the shore and begin to work my way into the cold water of the lake. I get to the point where I’m waist deep in water and cast the line. My first try? Nothing. I try again. Nothing. At this point, my mother comes out. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m fishing,” I reply.

“Why are you standing waist deep in water?”

“I’m fishing like they do back home.”

“You’re not in a river. And if you were, you’re not wearing hip waders.”

“What’re those?”

I was called out of the water at this point. Needless to say, I didn’t catch anything.

I haven’t been fishing in a few years, for a variety of reasons. Simply put, I’ve outgrown it. Regardless, I’ll always remember what I’ve learned and the time that I spent enjoying it.

An Addendum

It’s 12:30 on a Saturday night, and I’m out with some friends. We all go to Limerick’s in Armory Square. I’m with Adam and Alex and a bunch of other people.

One of Adam’s friends decides he needs to smoke a cigarette, so we head out back. It’s a warm nigh, befitting the summer that’s going to be coming. There’s an outdoor area set up with a few tables and chairs. More people Adam knows are sitting at one table. Near them are two women talking. They’re both older. One of them seems more sober than the other. She’s wearing dark khakis and a long sleeved black shirt. The other one is wearing a black and white striped sundress and has strawberry blonde hair.

Adam and I sit down at the table with his friends. This puts me about five feet from the drunk woman. He friend goes back inside. For some reason, probably because she’s trashed, she turns to me.

“Hey, how old are you?”

No introduction, no lead in, just that question out of the blue.

“I’m 23.” Three expressions crossed her face right in a row. The first was a sad, “I’m too old to be here,” followed by, “23, eh? I can work with that,” and finally a sly, “Let’s see if mama’s still got it.”

“So, where are you from?” she asks

“I’m from Syracuse. Well, about 20 minutes away.”

Some sort of scene is happening behind us, so everyone turns to see what it is. As I turn back, Adam looks up at me, “Dude. What the fuck?”

“Look. I dunno. She just started talking to me.” He gives me this stupid, shit eating grin. “No. Absolutely not.” He just laughs at me.

“So, what do you do?” She’s starting to get coy. It’s kind of scary.

“I’m a student.”

“Oh really? Where? I’m not trying to pick you up or anything.”

That’s exactly what she’s trying to do. I’m just being polite, while trying to make it clear from the minimalism of my answers that that’s all I’m doing. She doesn’t really get the hint. “Oswego.”

“I really like your earrings.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m glad you don’t have those big holes in your ears. Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Tim over here? Hey, Tim, why do you have plugs?”

They talk for a few minutes. She’s confusing the word aesthetic with anesthetic. It’s sort of sad. Adam has also gotten up at this point and gone inside. He comes back out with the entire group that we showed up to the bar with. He leans over to me, “Dude, I had to get witnesses for this.”

”Thanks, asshole. At least she’s not talking to me, anymore.”

“So, what are you studying up at Oswego?”

God dammit, I spoke too soon. “I’m an Adolescent Education and English dual major?”

She looks at me funny. She’s so drunk she doesn’t know what those are. “So, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Ladies, if you’re ever going to cougar it up, don’t use that line. It makes us feel like we’re talking to our mother, and really, nothing is more unappealing than getting picked up by your mother.

“I’m going to be a high school English teacher.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

My God, the lady just won’t stop. I catch myself before I roll my eyes. “I like to read,” is the simplest answer I can come up with. I want this to be over as fast as possible.

“Yeah, but why?”

“So I can teach other kids to enjoy reading and when I’m grown up, I’ll have interesting people to talk to.” Okay, so that was sort of mean.

“Oh, that’s cool. I’m really not trying to pick you up.” I just shrug, smile, and shake my head. I’m 23, I’ve been blasted out of my mind before. I know how it is. “I’m just a little depressed. My friends decided to throw me a surprise 40^th birthday party.“ Adam can’t help himself. He bursts out laughing. “Let me give you some advice. Enjoy your 20’s, don’t marry young, and 20 years from now, remember this moment.” She gets up and walks away.

“You so totally should’ve hit that.”

“I’ll pass on that, thanks.”

“It would’ve been awesome. Just think of the story it could’ve been.”

“You know, I’m perfectly okay with how the story’s going now.”

“Whatever. I would’ve done it.”

“I know. But you’re drunk.”

“Shut the hell up. You and I both know that if you were drunk, you’d do it too.”

He’s got me. “Probably.”

Alex chimes in from behind me, “Dude, God must totally hate you.”

I think he’s right. Gay men on one end and 40 year old women in the throes of a midlife crisis on the other. Where the hell are all the really attractive 21-25 year olds? Seriously, it’s only fair.

Hey Now, You're an All Star

One day I was driving down 690 towards Syracuse. It was a nice summer day, mostly sunny and warm. My windows were rolled up and the AC was on. Around the Lakeland exit, there’s an older forest green sedan in the left hand lane. He’s going slower than I am. I ride his bumper for a few seconds until he moves over. I pass aggressively because at the time I actually thought it meant something. I drive past and think nothing of it.

A couple miles down the road, near the Hiawatha exit, the same car pulls up alongside me. The driver is waving his hands and gesticulating wildly, trying to get my attention. I think he’s trying to tell me there’s something wrong with my car; I have a light out or my gas cap is open. Whatever, I’ll check it out when I get where I’m going.

About a mile further is my exit, Wet Genesee Street. I pull off and the car follows me. I’m a little worried now, thinking, “Shit, I pissed off a gang member.” The driver is this big, bald black dude. There’s a red light at the bottom of th ramp. I stop and he pulls up along my right side. He motions for me to roll down my window. I figure, all right, fine, let’s see what this is all about.

I roll down my window, he looks right at me and says, “Mmm, you are gorgeous,” with the gay lisp and all.

I’m stunned. “Uh… what?”

“You are fine, sweet thang!”

I can’t even come up with words. My mouth is just hanging open.

“Do you work out?”

“I… uh… um… no,” is all I can manage to stutter. It’s a lie, but honestly, I’m so astounded I can’t even think straight.

The light turns and I book it. He follows me, screaming his number out the window and “Call me! Call me!” as I shake my head going, “No! No!”

About nine months later, I was working a temp job at an insurance company in downtown Syracuse. I’m washing my hands in the restroom and another guy walks out of one of the stalls. He’s pretty big, standing over six feet and probably close to 250 pounds. He’s in his mid 30’s, but his hair is already starting to go gray.

“Hey man, how are you?” he asks as he moves next to me to wash his hands. This is a little uncomfortable, but not technically a breach of men’s bathroom etiquette, so I respond with a simply, “Good, you?”

“You been here long? Where do you sit? I just started my customer service training.”

He seems like a nice guy, so I play along. “Just a few weeks. I’m a temp. I work over… in that general direction,” I say, pointing.

“That’s cool. I’m Mike, by the way,” he says, offering his hand. This is really pushing the boundaries, but he just washed them, so whatever. I shake his hand, “I’m Mike too.”

“Cool. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

I saw him around a lot. Well, not so much around. He came to my cubicle two or three times a week. Even when he finished his training and moved to the third floor (I was on the sixth), he’d come by on his breaks. I mostly thought nothing of it. He was just a lonely guy and for whatever reason, he’d chosen me to be his work friend.

It wasn’t until he gave me his number and said we should hang out that I began to think something was up. I just nodded my head and said, “Maybe.” I threw his number away as soon as he left. He came to my cubicle on a Monday, “Hey, how come you didn’t call me?”

“Oh. Uh… I must’ve lost your number.”

“That’s too bad. You could’ve come over, I would’ve cooked us dinner. We could’ve relaxed and had a good time.”

That totally set off alarms in my head. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Here’s my number again. Call me sometime.”

“Okay, I will.” I’m such an asshole. I wouldn’t, and I promptly lost his number in the trash again.

I got laid off a few weeks later, so I never knew for certain if he was trying to hook up with me. He apparently came out to a friend of mine that worked in the same building, so my guess is probably yes.

Finally, there was a night in Armory Square. I was out with some friends, and we were drinking, because that’s what you do. We started at Syracuse Suds. I had had two long islands, so I’m pretty much in the bag. We decide to cross the street and go to Teddy’s. When we talk in, there’s a guy sitting at the table near the door. He touches my arm. Not like a sharp, “Hey dude, what’s up?” touch I might get from someone I know, but a soft, lingering, “Heeeyyy, how you doin’” touch.

Like I said, I’m pretty trashed, so I don’t recognize it as the latter. “What’re you drinking?” he asks. I look at him. It’s dark and I’m drunk, so I’m squinting. I’m trying to figure out if I know him. Did I go to school with him? Did I work with him? Is he a friend of a friend, what?

“What are you drinking?” he repeats.

And then it hits me. It happened again. It happened again.

“I, uh… I don’t know yet,” was the best answer I could come up with as I made a beeline for my friends. As I recounted what had just happened, they laughed and called me stupid. “Dude, you could’ve gotten a free drink out of it.”

This is all sort of amusing to me. I don’t think I put off the gay vibe. Most of my straight friends do, though. It’s good to know that if I ever decide to switch teams, I’m already an all star.

Look Ma, I'm in the Paper

So, there was some controversy at my high school this past week. Apparently a parent found a book (a choice of multiples, mind you) offensive and demanded it removed from the curriculum. I called shenanigans and wrote to the newspaper about it. It was printed in the Opinion section of the May 25 edition of the Post Standard. Here it is:

To the Editor:

In response to the article about "A Girls Life Online" being used n Baldwinsville schools, I commend Mr. Crobar for building a relationship with his daughter that allows her to feel comfortable askign questions, and where he is involved enough in her life to read one of her school books. The world needs more parents like him.

However, I take issue with how he handled the situation. English teachers are very sensitive to censorship and banning books. As a future English teacher, I know that Ms. Casler would have vigorously defended the book. However, English teachers are also sensitive to the delicate nature of questionable material, and I am sure Ms. Casler would have allowed his daughter to choose a different book, ahd she been approached first.

I am pleased that the school district stood behind Ms. Casler. One only has to look at a banned books list to see how many pieces of classic literature have been banned due to objectionable content.

I am sorry that he found a book warning of a very serious and real issue to today's teens objectionable. But his right to decide what is inappropriate ends with his daughter.

Mike Edinger
Baldwinsville

There is very little in this world that gets me more riled up than issues of censorship. It's so bad that I can hardly articulate the sheer rage I feel when I witness it happening. I'm amazed that I was able to write that letter to begin with, let alone do so without a massive amount of F-bombs and calling people all sorts of names. That's a good idea for a future project- a manifesto of my opinions of censorship. Until then, I leave you with this: if you find something offensive, don't read it. But don't tell me that I can't.

Everything I Ever Wanted to Tell You, But Was too Afraid to Ask

What am I? Like, do I have a chance? Did I ever have a chance? Do you have feelings for me? What’s going on? I know you said you didn’t want to lead me on, and I don’t think you have, since that sort of implies intention. But you have been sending mixed signals.

This sounds like I’m mad. I’m not. I’m confused. It seems like there’s this elephant in the room and we keep dancing around it (yay for mixed metaphors). And I wanted to use it to segue into how I feel about you.

I think you’re amazing. I think you’re absolutely beautiful. But more than that, you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re caring, you’re dedicated, and yes, you’re strong and independent. And all of this makes me absolutely crazy about you. I’m totally into you. I want to know everything about you. I’m genuinely interested in everything you have to say and what you’re thinking. I want to know what gets you excited and passionate, so I can be that way too.

I love hanging out with you. I love just being around you. The best time that I’ve had with you? Those fifteen minutes you feel asleep in my arms. Remember how I stopped talking the other night? That’s because I just wanted to be quiet and let the moment last as long as possible. I wasn’t lying when I said I was perfectly okay standing there holding you all night while you slept. Every time I see you, I just want to wrap my arms around you and pull you close and hold you tight. And it’s the thought of doing it again that helps me fall asleep at night (that’s not creepy, is it?).

I love kissing you. You’re so soft and tender. I’m gentle because I don’t want to put you off, and I’m glad that you like that. The world really does spin, and I get all light headed. I always feel like I’m walking on air right after. It’s such a wonderful experience.

I love the time I spend with you. I love our conversations (seriously, sexy raspberries? Sign me up). I love how you ask me if I’m sure I’m not gay (No, I’m not. Really. I'm pretty sure reading this will convince you). I love it when you laugh at my god awful mispronunciations. I love your smile and your little dimples that come with it. I love the thing you do with your tongue when you’re giving me a hard time. I love it when you laugh; I think that’s why I try so hard to make you do it.

The other night, I realized how much I care about you. When you started telling me what happened, my thoughts were, "Oh no. Don't let this end badly." And, reletively speaking, it didn't. But I said I was up for 45 minutes after you were. That's the truth. I was shaking. I was so concerned about how you were. I wanted to make sure you were okay (I know you said you were okay, but still). I started off concerned, and I stayed that way. Then I was angry. I was furious. My hands literally were shaking with rage. You don't need protection, but the lengths I would have gone through to ensure your safety know no bounds.

I’m sad that I didn’t get to make you dinner, though (or glad, depending on how well or poorly it might’ve turned out). I wish we could’ve gone on a couple of walks and watch the sunsets over the lake. I think we both would’ve enjoyed them.

God, I feel like such a dork for telling you all of this stuff over AIM and through a blog. I really wanted to do this face to face, but I totally chickened out. But it’s probably better because I don’t know if I would’ve had the balls to say this to you. At least, not without some liquid courage, but then you might not have taken me seriously. And I’m sorry for just dumping all of this on you; it’s selfish and totally unfair to you. I just like you so much it hurts sometimes (it’s not you, or your fault, I promise, so don’t feel bad). The best parts of my day are when I’m with you or talking with you; or when I’m able to be distracted by something enough so that I’m can actually stop thinking about you, which, honestly, doesn’t happen much. And I know it’s totally selfish to say all of these things, but I don’t know if I could live with myself having not told you.

I hope this doesn’t ruin our friendship. More than anything, I like talking to you. I don’t know if you ever picked up on this, but for me, it’s go hard or go home. I hope that at the very least, we can be friends and talk and have fun. But it’s part of my nature to just put every thing on the table and let the pieces fall where they may.