» Posts in Childhood
February 6, 2012
I have a folder in a box under my bed. It’s bursting with rejection letters from publishers, agents, movie studios, theaters, colleges, literary magazines, employers, societies and probably even the Columbia House Record Club (trust me, children, this is funny). I started the folder in my ambitious teenage days, and I guess at first it was an enemies list, or a “big mistake, pal, you haven’t heard the last from this kid, no sir, not the last by a long shot, and you can be sure I’ll bring your name up at Nobel Prize ceremonies and in a chapter titled The Clueless Ones in my five volume autobiography” list.
Now the folder is just something I bring on school visits, to show kids that the world is full of rejection, but that doesn’t mean they should give up on their dreams. Unless they have a folder thicker than mine (Pynchon-thick at this point), they’d be fools to throw in the towel. It’s hokey, of course, but it’s effective in sobering up a world drunk on overnight sensation (note to self: if I ever create my own brand of malt liquor, call it Overnight Sensation).
A rejection letter (or these days, an email) always beats a good old-fashioned lack of response, and a good rejection letter is something to savor. I’ve received a few good ones, including a gem from a university that basically said, “if you do well in life, please let us know we made a mistake.” So lovely in its smug passive aggressiveness, that letter. And no, I haven’t yet informed aforementioned university of the number of heart pieces I’ve found in The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. A man must be bigger than these things.
So while you can stuff most sorries in a sack, there are a few you might want to frame. If only, if only, if only, my book The Only Ones had received this one that my old pal Gertrude got:
1 Comment | Posted by Aaron under Books, Childhood, School Visits, The Only Ones | Bookmark or Share
March 10, 2011
I was once an addict. Shocking, I know, but before you go calling Dr. Drew and booking a 20/20 interview, let me provide some clarification. My addiction was a common one for young’ns and agoraphobes and the pasty-skinned of this world . I was obsessed with video games. Many of my pre-teen and teenage years were spent slaughtering goblins and dunking over Larry Bird. Time, money and opportunities to chat up girls were wasted. And what do I have to show for it? An unhealthy knowledge of Kid Icarus and some undying regrets that involve never finishing Metal Gear. All things considered, not so bad. At least I’m not on a street corner, holding some cardboard, and talking about my “radio voice.”
Once an addict, always an addict, they say, but I’m going to dispute that. I set down the video game controller when I went to college, and aside from a few poor showings at Mortal Kombat and NHL Hockey, I didn’t pick it up again. It was an activity I associated with whelps. College meant I was sophisticated, and did sophisticated things. Like drink Gatorade cocktails and run through campus in nothing but my skivvies.
After college, video games occupied the same place in my mind as amusement parks. Sure, I knew they could be fun and they had gotten a lot bigger and better than they were when I was a kid, but I wasn’t about to spend my day riding The Great American Scream Machine and then writing fan fiction about it. I laid off the stuff completely for nearly 10 years.
Then my wife bought me a Wii for my birthday. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I was always comparing her to the masked love of my adolescence, Samus Aran. Perhaps I was talking in my sleep, mumbling, “look out above for Koopa…Paratroopa,” or “up up, down down, left right, left right…” In any case, she tracked a Wii down for me, in the days when they were kinda hard to get. And I was pleasantly surprised.
We had some friends over for a night Wii Sports, and it was just like a commercial. We were laughing and high-fiving as we plowed down bowling pins and beat the stuffing out of each other. The snacks were diverse and plentiful. Good times. And in the following weeks, I played a little bit on the weekends, perfecting my short game and my hook. It was fun, but I was definitely a recreational user.
Then I was reintroduced to Zelda. Just so you know, one of my greatest accomplishments was being the first kid in my 6th grade class to win the original Legend of Zelda. And I did it without the aid of hints and magazines. For a brief time, I was like some guru on a hill. Kids would come to me in the cafeteria with desperate queries and I would answer them in riddles.
“How do I defeat the Digdogger?”
“Well son. I ask you this. Do you have music in your heart?”
As games went, Zelda was bona fide – a top shelf, genuine issue classic. It’s hero, Link, was the sort of icon that Funyon-eaters and children in Kyoto tattooed on their necks. And years later, as I putted around the online Wii store, I realized I had missed out on almost all of Link’s other adventures during my hiatus from the gaming world. And my hands began to shake. I got cotton mouth. I downloaded The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time. The addiction returned.
This was about two years ago, and I got hooked on the Majora’s Mask too. They are both undeniably cheesy fantasy adventures, where people talk about Triforces of Power and descending darkness and undying pixie love and whatnot. There are amphibious jug bands and rapping scarecrows and kleptomaniacal Amazon women. All manner of ridiculous stuff. But the brilliance of the games is that they never bore you. They are designed so that you can always make progress. There are always puzzles to solve, and livestock to goose, and townspeople’s houses to trash, and woodland creatures to kill. No matter how bad a gamer you are (and trust me, my skills are pedestrian after all those years off ), you will always find something to accomplish, and find yourself proudly saying things like, “I can’t believe I out-swam a beaver in a race for a bottle! My finest moment!”
I dedicated many early morning weekend hours to solving those two games, and had to be pulled away kicking and screaming on more than one occasion. But I beat them both. And I thought I’d beat the addiction too. I set the controller back down and resumed my normal life. It was a relapse, but a minor one.
And then, a few days ago, I found myself on EBay, trying desperately to beat a demon supercomputer in some mildewy Belarusian crime den (or so I imagined) at an auction, so that I might be able to purchase Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess for less than $22 (which is like 75% off retail, if you must know). Yes, the monkey had his claws in once again and his banana-breathed whispers in my ear were working.
“You’d be stupid not to try and get it at a low, low price. Just keep bidding. Your wife will never make fun of you for playing a game called Twilight Princess. Certainly not. Certainly not. Ooo Ooo. Eee Eee.”
Guess what? It arrived yesterday. God help me.
3 Comments | Posted by Aaron under Childhood, Monkeys, Video Games | Bookmark or Share
March 4, 2011
This week I had the distinct pleasure of visiting two schools in Washington Township, NJ, a charming little community in the northwest corner of the state. According to Wikipedia, Jean Shepherd, author of The Christmas Story, once lived here. I didn’t see any leg lamps in any windows or kids with tongues stuck to poles, so I can’t confirm that fact. But I can confirm that the kids of Port Colden Elementary and Brass Castle Elementary schools are a welcoming and inquisitive bunch, and about the best audience an author could imagine. It was Dr. Seuss’s birthday, otherwise known as Read Across America Day, and the kids were decked out in homemade shirts and hats celebrating the late, great master of Whos, and Yooks, and Sneeches, and Zooks. Too many people complain about how kids have no attention spans. Not so with this crew. They sat quietly and cross-legged in the Auditoria (or perhaps it was a Cafetorium?) and locked eyes with me as I gave a presentation on writing. I could see what they were thinking:
“Entertain us, old man. Tell us something we don’t know, because we are culturally refined and our intellects are not to be trifled with.”
When I finished, they hounded me with brilliant questions. I hope I lived up to their expectations. Don’t believe it? Proof lies in this collection of photos from the kind folks at Lehigh Valley’s Express Times. My favorite question?
“What happens at the end of The Only Ones?”
I informed the young man (probably a junior blogger angling for an unprecedented scoop) that I can’t give out such spoilers, especially since the book doesn’t hit shelves for another six months. But I respect his guts and his willingness to get right to the point. To reward that, I am offering a teaser. The Only Ones ends like this:
…him.”
Intrigued?
5 Comments | Posted by Aaron under Books, Childhood, DWEEB, News and Events, School Visits, The Only Ones | Bookmark or Share
March 3, 2011
When I was a tot, my pals and I would gather in my garage, set up some pots and pans as if they were a drum-kit and wield some tennis rackets like stratocasters. We’d pop Def Leppard’s freshly minted Pyromania into the Fisher Price tape deck and crank that puppy up to its fattest arrows. We’d charge the neighborhood gang a nickel a head to watch us lip-synch and strum the nylon to Billy’s Got a Gun. Rock and roll, friends. Rock and roll.
Flash-forward about five or six years. I’d pop some gangsta rap into the yellow Sony walkman and go jogging in the state park bordering my house, raging against the machine of upper middle class suburbia, something to which I’m sure Eazy-E could relate. A couple years later, it was Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan and the Beatles, perhaps Nirvana and R.E.M. Played in the dark, of course, so I could get all introspective. And my musical tastes evolved from there, matured in the way these things mature. The teenage girls I knew were into the Lilith Fair fare – the mid-90s-heyday of Amos, DiFranco, McLachlan, etc. I couldn’t blame them, but I shied away from the stuff for fear it might paint me as twee. And the thing that irked me the most was that these girls always referred to the musicians as if they were good friends, and used only they’re first names.
“You going to the Sarah concert tonight?”
“No, but I’m getting Tori’s new CD later today. I heard Ani really likes it.”
I mean, really. You can pull that stuff with Chaka Khan, because there aren’t a lot of Chakas out there in the world. But Sarah? And no, I never refer to Bruce Springsteen as merely Bruce. That honor is reserved for Fraggle-eating Mr. Vilanch. But let’s get back on track. My main point was that in my youth, the fellas listened to music by other fellas and the ladies stuck with the ladies, or for the most part. No surprise there.
Let’s now consider last night. I was watching a PBS documentary on singer-songwriters and the late 60s/early 70s Los Angeles Troubadour scene. This was partly because that’s how I roll and partly because I don’t get cable. No excuses needed though, because it was enjoyable, especially when they were discussing how James Taylor was ready to toss some knuckles up in Lester Bangs’s face. But the biggest thing I got from the film was the realization that I like Carole King. Actually, I really dig me some Carole King. No shame in that. She’s considered one of the greatest songwriters of all time. But just a decade or two ago, in my hair-band/gangsta-rap/rock canon phases, such a proclamation would have caused me great embarrassment. It certainly wouldn’t have gone over well in the lacrosse team locker room when my teammates were soliciting suggestions for our warm-up tape.
“How about some RATT? Let’s get some RATT up on this thing.”
“AC…DC”
“Hey, Starmer, you haven’t said anything. What psychs you up, dude?”
“Hmmm…pretty much anything off Tapestry…”
Yes, my musical tastes have changed a lot since my teenage years. They’re more accommodating. And the ladies, well the ladies are certainly welcome. Every night is ladies’ night on my Itunes playlists. And for the young lads out there who, like me in my youth, aren’t so sure about adding more XX chromosomes to their music collections, I offer you this little mix of a dozen random songs from my collection where female singers take the lead (n.b. some are from bands with male singers as well, cause you got to give the guys an escape route). True, none of it reaches RATT-like levels, but maybe you’ll enjoy one or two, and then join your mom and your aunts for a night out at Judy Collins concert. I, for one, will not tease you about it.
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Childhood, Music | Bookmark or Share
January 22, 2011
If you have friends, as I assume some of you do, then you know that nothing beats playing existential head games with them. Here’s an example. For the last five or six years, I’ve been telling one pal of mine that his job, his friends, his family – his entire life! – is one big ruse, set up from the moment he was born for a singular purpose. To pants him. None of us really like him and none of us are really the people we say we are. We’re all just actors employed to orchestrate the finest, most embarrassing pantsing in history, one that will leave him so full of shame that he will likely lose the confidence to even speak to another human again.
He, of course, can’t know when this pantsing will happen. Could be next week. Could be fifty years, perhaps at a family reunion, where dozens of grandkids will point and jeer and revel in his waist-down nakedness. That’s the beauty of it. The anticipation, the butter-thick air of tension that will envelop his entire life. I assure him that I’m his only true friend because I’ve revealed this truth to him. And he laughs as if I were joking, though I know I’ve hit a nerve. Because deep down he must wonder. Especially if he’s reading this now…and tightening his belt…
I know, I know. Sounds very Truman Show. Or The Game. But, if this premise were to hit the big screen (my email address is below, Scott Rudin), I think it would have more legs than those tired old hack jobs. Just imagine the trailer:
INT. CLASSROOM – DAY
Fade in on a math class full of grade schoolers. A TEACHER writes an unfinished equation on the blackboard. YOUNG JACK raises his hand.
TEACHER
Jack. Come on up and show us.
Jack stands from his desk. As he makes his way to the blackboard, a GIRL in the back row pantomimes a downward yanking motion with her hands. The teacher shakes her head subtly and mouths a silent “Not Yet.”
BOOMING VOICE: Prepare to be shocked.
EXT. FOOTBALL FIELD – NIGHT
A roaring crowd. TEENAGE JACK barrels down the middle of the field, football tucked under his arm. When he reaches the end-zone, he spikes it, and does a wobbly kneed touchdown dance. As teammates swarm him, the QUARTERBACK gives him a hug, but then inches his hands down close to Jack’s pants. Before anything can happen, the RUNNING BACK pulls the quarterback to the side.
RUNNING BACK
Chill, Peyton. No greenlight yet. Besides, that’s lyrca.
BOOMING VOICE: When you see the film that made them faint at Cannes.
INT. CONVENTION HALL – DAY
MIDDLE-AGE JACK, wearing a suite, accepts a trophy from an OLDER GENTLEMAN at podium in a jam-packed Las Vegas Convention Hall. Jack shakes the gentleman’s hand and steps up to the podium. The gentleman looms nearby, his hands trembling in anticipation.
JACK
I have to say, this is really unexpected. And to have my family here makes it all the more special.
JACK’S WIFE, sitting in the front row, smiles humbly. His KIDS give the thumbs up.
JACK
I can’t think of what would make this day better. I don’t know if I even deserve this…
Behind Jack, a giant screen suddenly displays a message to the crowd: ABORT! SUSPENDERS.
The crowd lets out a disappointed groan. Jack’s Wife can’t help but shake her head. The kids mumble something under her breath. Jack lights up, misunderstanding.
JACK
Okay. Maybe I do!
BOOMING VOICE: But please…whatever you do.
INT. BEDROOM – MORNING
OLD JACK stands at his dresser.
JACK
You know what, honey?
BOOMING VOICE: Please don’t ever reveal…
QUICK MONTAGE: A barrage of images, Jack’s seemingly normal life flashing before the viewers eyes. Creshendo of music.
BOOMING VOICE: The horrible secret of…
INT. BEDROOM – MORNING
Jack opens his dresser drawer.
JACK
I think I’ll wear sweatpants today.
TITLE CARD: THE PANTSING
No Comments | Posted by Aaron under Childhood, Movies, Mystery | Bookmark or Share
