Go to Your Happy Place

Alright, so just when you think the novelty has worn off and he's gone back to the everyday mundane aspects of daily life, he resurfaces. Yes, it's been a while since I posted; nearly six months to be exact. I've got a few things in the works that will at some point find their way here. In the meantime however, the writing has actually continued. In fact, it was with the completion of my first blog "Return to Innocence" that soon landed me a position (non-paying, but the dream actually came true) as a columnist in a local magazine that's starting to garner a bit of attention. I've aways been rather long-winded when it comes to committing words to the written page, so not knowing the first thing about writing for periodicals, my first entry which was very happily a shortened version of the abovementioned "...Innocence" selfishly spanned two issues. The publisher; knowing a good cliff hanger when he sees one left the reader panting (that's the way I envision it, anyway) for more. My wife, upon completing my debut entry into the world of literature exclaimed, "He stopped it right at the dirty part." I had to remind her that at the age of 13 which was more or less when "Return to Innocence" had taken place, there were no dirty parts! Today's youth at 13 however...I won't go there. While the original dream was to write and see some of my fiction published, seeing my name in print while I spin tales of my life has been pretty rewarding. I'm hoping to make some kind of mark locally, but as no one is really stopping me on the street as yet...
Ah-h-h, that's alright. I've already had what I consider to be my 15 minutes of fame (see Blog #2 "...Résumé for Disaster"). When asked what the column is about, I often compare it to a Seinfeld episode - It's about nothing. So far I've all but written my own book (no pun intended) as I wing my way through it with each new submission, writing about whatever comes to mind. I poke a lot of fun at myself which is OK, because frankly there's enough to poke fun at. The intent is simply to make people smile; something I don't do nearly enough of these days. Oops, no skeletons, remember? I intend on maintaining this site as a happy place. That way should someone ever tell me (highly cliché and unlikely) "Go to your Happy Place" well, here I am. I'll include a number of my submissions in this space both for the sake of some good old fashioned shameless self-promotion, and on the off-chance (realistically also highly unlikely) someone should find their way here either by choice or by accident. That said, feel free to leave comments at will. One day i'd love to pop in here and not hear my imaginary voice echoing back at me. With that, I leave you with one of my son's earliest proclamations at the beautiful age of two, "There Nobody's Here."
- - 'Nuf said!

I've Always Considered Myself Pretty Clueless Musically

"So What’s the Words…,” my two year old asked as he tried desperately to peer around the cover of the paperback I’d been attempting to read…

December 2006
“How can this thing not be here yet,” I silently cursed?
I’d paid for the merchandise several weeks ago, receiving an automatically generated e-mail stating that my item was already on its way!
Talk about expediency, I mused!
Yet here it was nearly a month after the fact and still NO PARTRIDGE FAMILY SEASON ONE DVD!
I’m 43 by the way.

I only blinked my eye; and now the world that I used to know is changin' on me;

why can't it be only a moment ago?
- Only A Moment Ago
The Partridge Family Album (1970)


Summer 1972
Skipping gaily on my way home from school – well, not really skipping, but there was definitely an extra bounce in my step - I thought happily, today is definitely the day!
It wasn’t!
In fact, barely a week had gone by since my mom had placed the order with Columbia House, but to the mind of an impatient nine year old it felt more like months! In the past my parents had been particularly remiss in allowing us to participate in the democratic process of choosing new music to enrich our lives, but in this case, something monumental must have occurred to effect such a sudden change of heart; planets realigning, a windfall of unexpected cash, a probable lack of any truly exciting musical offerings this time around. Whatever the reason as far as I was concerned, The Partridge Family’s At Home with Their Greatest Hits could not possibly arrive fast enough! Already by this time in my young life I had somehow managed to obtain all of the vinyl from which said greatest hits had been compiled, so adding this new tidbit to my collection should really not have been a big deal.
It was!
And on so many levels!
With the impending delivery of this soon to be latest acquisition (and much to my family’s delight) we would now have the pleasure of taking the family Partridge with us wherever we went, for this was no simple LP…This was an 8-Track!
8-Track tape representing the latest in audible technology, now allowed you to take your music almost anywhere, be it in the car on a state of the art 8-Track car stereo, or maybe on the beach with the coolest pre boom-box, post transistor radio invention; the Dynamite 8!
“But wait, there’s more!”
(Think special TV offer featuring over-zealous announcer here)
“But wait, there’s more!”
This particular greatest hits collection boasted a brand new unreleased album track!!
I’d never heard of “Breaking is Up is Hard to Do,” and was eager to feast my ears on the Partridge’s latest! On the day that the package had finally arrived at our front door, my mom had been kind enough to leave it sealed until returning home from my institute of lower learning. There it was, the cardboard box, gleaming like a Holy Grail atop our monstrous maple wood grain stereo. Dropping my schoolbag haphazardly to the floor I raced across the worn beige rug and seized the coveted prize, ripping it open none too carefully, a blizzard of packing material and worthless plastic tape cartridges bearing the blurred faces of Perry Como, Andy Williams, Vic Damone and Steve & Eydie burying me nearly to my neck.
“OH NO”, my mind screamed!
Could they somehow have impossibly forgotten to include it in this lackluster order of non-imaginative old people’s smorgasbord of crap, was it out of stock, discontinued…?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” my mom admonished me from somewhere behind.
“It’s not here, it’s not here, it’s not here…” I repeated disconsolately, until…
“HERE IT IS, I triumphantly announced!
“Oh, hi mom,” I half heartedly acknowledged, before wholeheartedly sweeping the ridiculous vase of fake purple flowers to the side, throwing open the heavy lid to reveal the dusty components within. Studying the track listing as if it were a roadmap , I contemplated the quickest way of getting to the as yet unheard track, suddenly realizing the major downfall of this newest technology; no instant access to the song of your choice.
An interminable, (almost as long as it had taken for Columbia House to make good on this order it seemed) three minutes and twenty-four seconds later having only to endure one cut; the not loved “Echo Valley 2-6809” – what was this doing here anyway? – my reward had finally been delivered in the form of multi-layered incredible harmony.
WOW, what a catchy tune!
“Brilliant,” I sighed contentedly
I’ve always considered myself pretty clueless musically, and yes, it would be a number of years before I was to realize that “Breaking Up is Hard to Do” was not a true Partridge Family original recording. It would take slightly less than that to realize there really was no true Partridge Family to begin with. So what had brought me to this euphoric high, (or lowly low, truth be told)? Like most things in the life of a small town nine year old, it had begun innocently several months earlier on a cold winter’s night. Having wrapped up our weekly viewing of the Brady Bunch, my parents had erred only slightly in not changing the channel or scooting us off to bed quickly enough before the unmistakable sound of a Wurlitzer electric organ emanated from the small television speaker giving way to the abovementioned multi-layered harmonies inviting all to “hear the song that we’re singing and Come On Get Happy.”
“This is the Partridge Family,” I said breathlessly.
Having never seen the show, I don’t know how I had come to be blessed with that little bit of TV knowledge. I’d known absolutely nothing of the Partridges; who they were what they were, why they were. Whatever they were, I was immediately tuned in, having seamlessly made the transition to the more personal, intricate family structure that was Partridge. The Brady’s could never compare with their infantile domestic issues and pathetic musical aspirations. Their lame “Time to Change,’ and “We Can Make the World a Whole Lot Brighter” couldn’t hold a candle to the Partridges far more complex “I’m On My Way Back Home,” the first tune I had been introduced to on that historic Friday evening. My taste in music now evolving well past the ditties of childhood past, life suddenly had new meaning. Armed with nothing more than the paltry allowance my parents had afforded me (which I didn’t deserve anyway) I was on a mission to obtain Partridge vinyl, the first acquisition being the band’s third release; Sound Magazine.
Opening the album, Side A’s One Night Stand; a musician’s lament features Keith in raw vocal form…
Alright, that’s ludicrous.
Up until the moment of this writing I have doubtfully ever used the word lament in a sentence, be it complete, incomplete or run-on. Sitting cross legged on the floor, the new record booming from the maple wood monster’s speakers (beginning a mother’s lifelong lament in repeatedly urging me to turn it down) I scanned the contents inscribed on the album’s back cover paying particular attention to the fact that there were two earlier releases I would have to get my hands on while ignoring (call it denial) the fact that there were far more musicians listed on this record than there were Partridges under the heading “It Takes a lot of Good People.”
Hal Blaine: Drums
Hal Blaine, Drums, I wondered, confused? Who the heck is Hal Blaine?! Chris plays drums…and he’s only six, a regular prodigy! Granted, I’d yet to hear him play a drum solo, but his tasty fills…
Yes, Tom, There is a Partridge Family.
I stuck with denial.
A few short months later at a tag sale in the parking lot behind the local Methodist Church, I was introduced – compliments of the Minister’s two eldest daughters; Katie and Julie, with whom I was friendly at the time – to the Partridge’s second release; Up to Date spinning one of those 1970's era high-tech portable record players. I wasn’t wowed, but was determined however to add this to my not yet growing collection. How and when I’d finally acquired both Up to Date, and its debut predecessor; The Partridge Family Album escapes me, but in time I came to relish both of these and the later released Christmas album as well. Shopping Bag; the fifth release, I had been eyeing in a local five and dime for several weeks before I’d saved up enough pennies (literally) from my undeserved allowance to afford it. This was a great one because it came with a little something extra; an actual Partridge Family plastic shopping bag!

WOW!

I couldn't wait to be seen in public with that baby dangling by my side. Choosing to join my dad one night in a short excursion to the store, I quickly gathered up my new prize and headed towards the door.
“Where are you going with that,” he asked warily?
“I just thought I’d take it to…you know hold stuff,” was my lame reply.
With great wisdom and diplomacy, he advised:
“I would leave it here. The store clerks may think you're up to something walking in there with an empty shopping bag."

I was flabbergasted.
The nerve, I thought angrily!
In hindsight, I often wonder if in a way he was saving either me or himself from almost certain ridicule as I gaily perused the aisle with my brightly colored little plastic Partridge Family bag. Notebook; the sixth release followed in December, arriving under our tree via Santa. I remember Christmas morning sitting on that same worn rug bestowing upon my family future classics like Together We’re Better, Friend And A Lover, and We Gotta Get Outta This Place; a real rocker and oddly different from the other tunes on this collection. I’ve always considered myself pretty clueless musically, and yes, it would take me nearly a decade before realizing that this too was not a true Partridge recording. I remember feeling no small amount of pride at hearing the single; Looking Through the Eyes of Love played occasionally on AM radio. Crossword Puzzle; the band’s final release – so I’d believed until recently – pretty much spelled the end of this love affair with the Partridges; whom I’d finally admitted to myself were really nothing more than It Take’s A Lot of Good People. My clearest memory of this album was listening to it in Katie’s bedroom…yes, the minister’s daughter!
In addition to my now complete vinyl collection I was also working on keeping up with the nonstop deluge of paperbacks that continually appeared on drug store book racks, at one time actually owning sixteen of the seventeen published.
I read only one of them in its entirety; #5 Terror by Night.
Great story.
“The Partridge Family was ready for a vacation,” my first fifth grade book report began. Staring at that short introduction, I could almost hear the uproarious laughter of my classmates as my dirty little secret was revealed.
I was a closet Partridge Family fan!
Not cool! In fact the only person out of my immediate circle I can remember admitting this to would be the surgeon who was setting my broken wrist several months earlier as I lay there drugged and delirious imparting upon him my musical wisdom. I crumpled up the paper and went on to something that was not nearly as significant to me, but would at least leave me with some respect.

“Ah, but you're gonna find if you hang around awhile
you will remember me when you're gone”
- There’s No Doubt in my Mind
Up To Date (1971)

Realizing that I was now somehow maturing, the time had come to put away the Partridge books and vinyl, knowing that with Junior High School in the not so distant future it would be for the best. Those items spent many years hidden away in my bedroom closet until without warning they seemingly vanished like so many other tokens and mementos of my childhood innocence. Decades have literally passed, but not without the occasional brief resurgence of Partridge interest. Sometime in the early to mid-nineties when the albums were re-released on CD (now allowing immediate access to the tune of my choice) I wasted no time in purchasing them, amazing myself that I had not forgotten the lyrics to all of those songs that had brought me so much happiness. Caught up in the excitement of musically revisiting my childhood, I’d attempted to share this youthful exuberance with my wife who just didn’t get it, forcing me to realize there may actually be some credence to the old saying "guess you had to be there." Another decade would pass before those discs would see the light of day again.


December 2006
“Justin,” I yell, at my three year old, trying desperately to get his shoes on. He’s spent the better part of an hour running around the apartment singing “Come On, Get Happy” as loud as his little lungs will allow. Having finally received the long awaited Partridge Family Season One DVD, the two of us have spent several evenings glued to the television. I don’t know how much of it he’s retaining, but he’s definitely digging it. Once again enmeshed in the obsession of my childhood I have also decided to revisit the old Partridge paperbacks, already completing #5, Terror by Night for the second time in over three decades.
Not a great story!
And no by the way, I did not hold on to all of those literary masterpieces for all these years. I painstakingly reacquired them through Ebay at far more than their original worth, keeping them hidden from prying eyes, locked within a double reinforced steel door behind a secret panel at the rear of the linen closet. The CD’s (now including a bootleg copy of the hard to find final release; Bulletin Board) reside in the lowest darkest recesses of the media rack for much the same reason.

I wish I knew then what I know today,
I'm on my way back home again
- I’m On My Way Back Home
Sound Magazine (1972)


Skipping gaily on my way home from work – well, not really skipping, but definitely with an extra bounce in my step as I disinterestedly pass by a group of shabby looking youth’s with no taste in music I smile inwardly as I once again revel in the music of my childhood (old people's music as they would think of it) playing on a newly purchased iPod. This not only allows me instant access to every single Partridge tune, but I can keep my guilty pleasure (dirty little secret) literally close to the hip and away from prying eyes. Another step forward for technology, while I myself have undeniably taken two steps back.

The Pen Is Mightier Than...Part II: A Blog Begins!

"So What’s the Words…,” my two year old asked as he tried desperately to peer around the cover of the paperback I’d been attempting to read…

The Present

Why Blog?
I guess you can say that on the surface it was really the birth of my son that was the catalyst to get the pen moving again, but beneath that surface lies a little more of the real story. While I’ve subtitled this particular section The Present, I’m going to avoid spending too much time there. This is primarily to be a celebration of the past, somewhere that my son can go to and read about life through the eyes of his dad – who he adores right now at the innocent age of three, but will one day come to the conclusion that, “my parents are so not cool,” as all kids inevitably do. For me it has become a celebration of the fact that I have actually picked up a pen (this usually starts out in the aforementioned composition book as noted in part 1) and begun to create again. Somehow, within the last decade or two my mind seems to have succumbed to just ordinary, for lack of a better description, creativity beating a hasty retreat, so in a way this is almost therapeutic for me. The idea of starting a journal a.k.a. blog is not a new one however. In fact, there are several composition books strewn all over the apartment that remain primarily empty. Occasionally I would jot down a sentence or two (“What is about to transpire on these pages I have no way of knowing”, comes immediately to mind) but then quickly abandon it due to lack of interest or inspiration. Besides, who would read it anyway, but then the idea came to me, why not just put it out there? Naturally though, in revealing myself to the wide, wide world via the World Wide Web would require some tact.
“We all have skeletons in the closet” a close friend confided to me one afternoon last summer, stopping himself immediately after saying so. I plan to do the same…for the most part. This page (or site, or blog, or whatever you choose to refer to it as – I prefer shameless self-promotion, myself) will remain a positive place. No whining and complaining about the present state of my life, or the world for that matter, no political opinions and no slandering of persons past or present which may prove difficult in bringing up old relationships and exes…
Think tactful, I remind myself.
‘Nuf Said!

Why Now?
Several months ago I joined a Yahoo! Group started by some old acquaintances. The moderator e-mailed me back asking, “Why should you be allowed to join this group?” to which I replied simply, “I was Morty once, people loved me.” I therefore owe kudos to “Joey Angel” of georgeandjoel.com (who by the way has done a little writing of his own and will forever be linked to this site) for lighting the fire underneath me to actually get past the silly opening sentence mentioned above that has graced so many virgin composition books.

Currently, I continue to sign off on most e-mails to old friends and acquaintances with the moniker (Still) Morty!I’m not Still Morty, however... at least not the Morty of the past that once was so loved. Somehow with maturity all of that changed.
I guess it’s called growing up.
Somewhere beginning around the early 90’s a certain degree of cynicism began to evolve within me. Before I had decided on “So What’s the Words” as the title for my life’s story I was also considering two others. “There Nobody’s Here” was another utterance that Justin used to say at a much younger age, and while I fear that may be true where this website is concerned, it seemed a bit cynical. The other consideration, “Because You Didn’t Ask,” was just way too negative, and would probably turn potential readers immediately away.

So I thank my lil’ feller for the current title which I find both positive and intriguing (hopefully!).
What can I say?... with age came cynicism, and on that note we’ll leave the skeleton closet closed. While my life’s story will most likely not sell any books, I really feel that it may - if nothing else, raise a few eyebrows here and there.
Am I a complex person?
No.
My top three favorite movies of all time are

(Raise eyebrows here)!

“The Gumball Rally,” “Time After Time” (Malcolm McDowell/Mary Steenburgen), and “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” not necessarily in that order. Bubbling just under you would probably find “Capricorn One,” and “Rollercoaster.”

Call them guilty pleasures…just like Spam and the Partridge Family (not necessarily in that order either).

I look forward to revisiting and regaling you with tales ranging from college to concerts, music interests, employment, romance, cars,etc.

What is about to transpire on the following website I’ve no way of knowing...

I do hope you’ll all

(is “anybody’s here?”)

come along for the ride.

(Still) Morty!

The Pen is Mightier Than...Part I: Prequel to a Blog

"So What’s the Words…,” my two year old asked as he tried desperately to peer around the cover of the paperback I’d been attempting to read...

The Past

Writing was something that had come very naturally to me at a really young age, and while I can’t remember (no surprise there) those earliest attempts at creativity I can reach as far back as the third grade – a simple assignment set before the class by Mrs. Rosov, who had placed a photo upon the blackboard ledge and instructed us to simply write a short story based on what we were looking at. The picture was that of an alley behind what I would assume to be a row of apartments, clothes hung out to dry on clotheslines stretching across the street, two women talking to each other from their windows, kids playing ball in the street below, and a barking dog. What I had written about these people I couldn’t say, but I’d embraced the assignment with a fervor that was unmatched to anything else we were being taught at the time. In the months and years to follow this would result in something that would become nothing less than an obsession for me. What was it about a blank page that had so excited me, the call of an empty legal pad, or virgin composition book?

“You Poor Thing, Charlie Brown,” was to be one of my earliest attempts at writing something I had dreamed may actually see publication, based loosely on the Peanut’s Paperbacks of the early 70’s. I’d started a few lines on a yellow pad probably sometime around the 4th grade, but I don’t recall it ever panning out. That title would actually resurface sometime later in Junior High School as part of another creative writing assignment. I was getting pretty decent at tracing pictures of assorted Peanut’s characters from my collection of books and decided why not write the tale around that? It began with a lone picture of Charlie Brown and a caption underneath that read “It was another boring, do-nothing day.” I received an “A” on that assignment.

Somewhere around that same time while seated one afternoon on the horrendous looking brown cushion chair in our blue shag carpeted living room I opened to the first page of a brand new spiral notebook and wrote two words - “Thunder Mountain.” Thus began a tale of two teenagers; Bob Felder and Lisa Anderson who meet while on vacation and stumble onto some sort of mystery or other ala The Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew. It's all but impossible now to recall the specifics, but some of the elements included a chairlift, unexplained disappearances and hang gliders. What I do remember most however, is having absolutely no plot or direction in mind, just the challenge of the empty pages before me. That story had taken on a life of its own, seeming to write itself until one day I just abandoned it. Of course that notebook in return has abandoned me, never to allow a conclusion be reached, or a sequel, or…

Stupidly, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, I nearly plagiarized a children’s book for another assignment some years later. Chalk it up to laziness, apathy, or temporary insanity. Luckily I’d allowed a classmate to read a few pages several periods before I was to present it. He'd remembered reading the tale in grade school, as would a number of my other classmates, not to mention the English teacher. I spent the remainder of that day furiously writing “The many tales of Jimmy Piekarski” (the last name I’d borrowed from a female semi-famous someone I’d privately been stalking). I hated and despised the story of this habitual liar’s ridiculous fantasies, yet miraculously received a “B” on the assignment. Following that, I put down the pen and paper for close to two years, and would not reacquaint myself with the creative bug that still lurked within until my first year of High School. “Introduction to Creative Writing,” for which I’d received half a credit re-ignited my earler obsession, but not immediately, and not without some trepidation. During those first few weeks, I was simply uninspred, my first real case of writer's block I suppose. One of the first assignments we’d been given; describe an early childhood experience, seemed simple enough as my memory was still pretty much spot on at that point. The result had been nothing more than a bland retelling of a day spent seeing the big city for the very first time with my grandfather and younger brother, some of which I can still recall vividly today and should probably write down before those memories are no longer spot on! In a lame attempt to see what others had thought of my writing, I baited a girl from class one day while waiting on the lunch line, asking her about some of the stories that had been read aloud by the teacher (we’d had the option of not having our identities exposed). “What about the one of the kid and his first big trip to the city,” I’d hinted? “Oh, that was awful, terrible,” She replied.

I was mortified.

I was dismayed.

She’d insulted me to my face without ever knowing it. I was not however, a quitter, and fared slightly better on the next assignment. “El Dorado; A Modern Day Fairy Tale,” became my second offering. Not well received by the instructor, I had chosen to read it aloud in class; who looking back on that now probably did not receive it all that well either.

“What makes this a modern day fairy tale,” Mr. Calandros had asked?

“It’s loosely based on an album by the Electric Light Orchestra,” I responded, for which I’d received a satisfying nod.

Apparently this had meant something to him.
Trying not to repeat the failure of my earlier autobiographical attempt, I tried again, penning “Nelson’s Family Campground: The Truth Speaks Out…Almost!” Based on several trips to a Connecticut paradise in my mind, this story did everything but speak out! I recently went back to those now time worn and deteriorated pages in the hopes of ferreting out a memory or two for inclusion in my first blog; “Return to Innocence,” but found that reading it was as painful as it was repulsive, similar in scope to a bad movie screenplay that could never live up to the splendor of the original book.

The next outing was vastly different, and a real leap into new territory for me. “Lost Love” was a story of two teens who make it big in a tennis competition, but not without complications. Jean, (a girl I’d met camping a year or two earlier) played a central character who eventually met her demise during one of the matches in which we had made it to the finals (yes, I was the other central character). I think she had slammed hard into the fence trying to retrieve a long ball, fell to the ground, hit her head, and… It had been my longest piece as yet, but again was not well received until I’d redeemed myself by revealing that it had actually been based on a dream I’d had several weeks earlier, earning yet another satisfying nod from the instructor. I try not to look too deeply into dreams and their meanings, but to this day I have never played a game of tennis, and I’m relatively sure that up until that point neither had Jean. “Lost Love” clocked in at somewhere around 11-14 written pages, and really started the ink flowing again as my confidence began to grow.

The great thing about "Introduction to Creative Writing" had been that there was no true curriculum. In fact, students weren’t even required to actually write anything! As long as you participated in class conversations, offered insights, opinions, comments, criticisms, etc. and appeared to be doing something other than sleeping, you were awarded credit. I opted to go the other way, taking full advantage of the opportunity to write. It had become all consuming, the ideas coming hard and fast, stories flowing from me in what I can only describe as a raging river of ink. The following year I would be paid the ultimate compliment when a classmate would spoof something I had created! Over the past years, I have gone back to some of these stories sometimes just for old time’s sake, and sometimes playing with the idea of recreating them, building upon them, now with the mind of an adult while trying not to be too hyper-critical of the sophomoric writing style of my youth. I was after all, only a sophomore at that time anyway.

By the time I’d reached college in September of 1981, I had once again lost the urge to write, though every now and then assorted ideas and/or inspiration continue to surface. It has literally taken me a quarter of a century to pick up a pen again (that’s how most of these start out), returning first to the autobiographical style of my earliest Introduction To Creative Writing assignment, and with the hope that one day the creative juices may flow again.