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.

A Christmas Miracle

“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…

It was a cold wintry December night as I began the long journey home, gazing wonderingly at the lights and displays upon the Tudor style homes, the smell of burning wood permeating the air as it wafted from the chimneys. Yes, it was that wondrous time of year once again…or that wondrous time of week anyway. It was another glorious Thursday evening. A couple of hours of peace and quiet awaited me at home while my wife, Jenn and two year old son, Justin were busy at nearby Archetots; his weekly playgroup. I could almost smell the Spam (a guilty pleasure) frying on our kitchen griddle while the living room stereo was cranked up far louder than that which would be considered acceptable by my adoring spouse. Ascending the front steps (both of them), my reverie was suddenly interrupted by the sound of E.L.O.’s Turn To Stone reverberating from the inside of my left front pants pocket.
Flipping open the cell phone I said, “Hello Snoog,” addressing my wife by her pet name of the month.
“Oh my God”, we lost Blue,” she said, the sound of panic in her voice clearly evident. “I don’t know how. What are we gonna do...?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I answered trying hard to sound just a bit more concerned and a little less annoyed.
“Let me get inside first. I’ll call you right back.”
Answering nature’s call in our horrific lime green bathroom I thought sullenly to myself, oh well so much for quality alone time.
Blue came into our lives several months after our son had arrived. Justin, who was somewhere between infant and toddlerhood had started to become restless that Saturday afternoon on a brief shopping excursion to a nearby Kohl’s store. Thinking quickly, I grabbed a stuffed animal off one of the shelves and dropped it into his lap providing a temporary distraction that was supposed to last only until checkout time; however he was a bit reluctant at that point to surrender his new friend. Parting with an additional five dollars, a miniscule amount I figured, for something that would become a young child’s lifelong companion seemed like a good parent thing to do.
“Alright, now explain to me exactly what happened,” I said half-heartedly into the phone, my eyes distractedly gazing upon the clean and unused griddle sitting atop the stove.

“He had him at my mom’s house, and then we went to Sears before coming here.”
Having grudgingly accepted her shopping obsession several years ago, I asked her anyway, “Why did you go to Sears?”
“What difference does that make,” she snapped?
Ignoring her, I pressed “Did he have Blue with him when you went inside?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember. I think so.”
“He definitely had him when he left your mom’s?”
“I don’t know,” she yelled.
This was going nowhere fast. In my mind, I’d already made the decision that I would get over to Sears as quickly as possible which meant making the 1.5 mile trek back to town to jump on the Subway, but not before begrudgingly calling her mom whom I’d known would exercise a calmer, more rational demeanor in the face of what would probably wind up ending in tragedy and heartbreak.
“He’s definitely not here,” she said. “We checked the parking lot, street, hallway, lobby, and all three elevators. I would call the store first. If someone found him, they would surely turn him in to Lost and Found, or Security.”
“Oh, dear, dear, where did you come from my little friend? Some little boy or girl must really be crying for you right about now. Oh, that poor child. I’m going to bring you right downstairs,” the kind matronly part time employee soothingly comforted the wayward animal.
That would be my mother in-law’s reality.
“Where the hell did you come from,” the disgruntled underpaid part-time employee sneered as he uncaringly dumped the defenseless blue animal into the trash.

That would be my reality!
Several minutes later after waiting interminably on hold for a disgruntled underpaid Lost and Found employee to actually pick up the phone, I’d obtained the expected result; no Blue. The half hour that had passed since I’d last conversed with my anxious wife had done little to soothe her.
“Does he know Blue is missing, I asked, now starting to become genuinely concerned?
“He hasn’t said anything,” she responded.
Having told her of my plan to race back out into the dark cold night, she stopped me, illustrating in detail that no time would really be gained in doing so. Half an hour later Sherman (that’s the name our ’99 Corolla goes by), horn blaring screeched up in front of the house.
“Hey buddy,” I grinned, greeting my lil’ guy as I climbed into the passenger’s seat.
He smiled.
Turning the radio up to keep him from overhearing any frantic conversation I asked, “Do you remember exactly where you parked?”
“I think so”
“What about the entrance you walked in?”
“I always use the same one”
No comment.
“Which department were you in?”
“Women’s.”
No comment.
“Remember how you got there?”
“I think so”
Starting with the parking garage, which was now pretty empty at this point, I drove around slowly looking for any signs of what might later be construed as Furry Blue Road Pizza.
So far, So good.
Next, I started looking underneath the few cars parked in the vicinity, thinking to myself I’m either going to get shot or arrested. Happily, it had been neither. Sadly though, no sign of Bluey.
“When we get inside, you go ahead of us and start looking. I’ll keep him distracted,” I instructed looking forlornly at our 17 month old.
Stopping First at the Security/Lost and Found desk, I had wanted to do the talking, but Jenn had walked in first.
“We lost a little blue dog, I was here earlier and I think I may have lost him in the women’s department. Did you hear anything? Has anyone turned in a blue dog? He has a tail and long nose…”
Two nodding silent faces stared back at us.
“He’s not real,” I offered dryly.
A feeling of hopelessness began to pervade as we made our way through the store looking under shelves, and behind counters. It was in the large tools section when Justin looked up at me with his blue eyes and innocently asked, “Where’s Bluey?”
I froze.
Choked is more like it!
The only thing that appeared to have gone right this evening was that he had seemingly not yet noticed his little companion’s disappearance.
“Wh, who’s Bluey,” I stuttered, looking at Jenn and shrugging my shoulders.
Parenting skills had not come naturally.
As we ascended the escalator to the next level, a semi worst case scenario was beginning to play out in my mind. We would simply get back in the car drive almost an hour east to the nearest Kohl’s store and pick up another one. Of course the worst case scenario was that they wouldn’t have another one.
In the women’s section Jenn just disappeared.
No surprise there.
Every few seconds amidst the racks of clothing within the middle of the bright, cheery maze of colors and fabrics, her head would pop-up but for a brief a second. With Justin in tow, the two of us got down on our hands and knees acting as if this were all a game, looking under racks and displays of dresses, pantsuits, blouses, and I didn’t even know what half the stuff was called, thinking for the second time that night that I would either be shot or arrested.

Then…suddenly, the unmistakable sound of jingle bells ringing from overhead caused Justin and I to look up while simultaneously somewhere off to our left I’d heard an unmistakable gasp that could only have come from my wife.
Could it be??
Had Santa made an unscheduled appearance, flying miraculously unscathed and unseen through the crowded store? Had eight tiny reindeer passed by above without leaving behind any cheery droppings?
“I found him,” Jenn squealed excitedly, holding the little blue dog triumphantly above her head.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I yelled jubilantly, causing a number of rather not so jubilant shoppers to look briefly in our direction.
“Justin, it’s Bluey,” Jenn gushed, happily handing over the little critter that looked no worse for wear.
“Yea, Bluey,” he answered in a way that only a bewildered young child could.
We laughed, we sang, we shared our success with the disgruntled, underpaid security employees as we marched proudly past them on our way back outside, a parade of three stepping in time to the tune of “Sleigh Ride” playing gaily from the circular ceiling speakers above.

It had truly been A Christmas Miracle!

Odd Jobs: A Résumé for Disaster

“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 bar was set pretty high when I’d finally acted on my parent’s not so gentle prodding and decided to get a job. Simply – no fast food and no supermarkets.
A recipe for disaster, it had become apparent that I would not be holding a job of any magnitude for very long following “The great Pennysaver Debacle.”
If you’re reading this from somewhere outside of the Long Island area (hopefully), or outside of the greater New York area (incredibly), or possibly outside of the United States (WOW!), a Pennysaver was nothing more than a weekly classified paper delivered to your door at no cost whatsoever. The fifteen or sixteen jam packed pages were filled with personal and business advertisements offering the talents of everyone from Astronauts to Zoologists. Alright, bad A to Z example, so for the sake of argument I’ll say Attorneys to Wallpaper Hanger-Uppers. Once a week through rain or snow or sleet or hail, this venerable wealth of information and talent would be hand delivered by a smiling teen or pre-teen looking to accrue a little wealth of their own.
It was life’s first lesson in corporate greed.
The pay-scale – if you could call it that started at .03 cents per paper which didn’t sound too bad on a route that guaranteed nearly a hundred homes. Add to that the ¼ cent (not a typo) extra for bonus circulars on certain weeks and the dream of unimaginable wealth and riches seemed like something that was now within my grasp.
A dream that was shattered long before the first paper had been delivered!
Sometime midweek the papers, circulars, and plastic bags were dropped off at my home by a smiling Pennysaver representative; my Pennysaver mentor so to speak, all in neat little stacks. Piece of cake. Beforehand, I’d had visions of racing through the streets on my three-speed, wind in my face, papers a blur as I tossed them out of my basket landing perfectly on the beautifully landscaped lawns of Searingtown.
That vision was shattered long before the first paper was delivered.
Unlike the generic-no name circulars of the same type that were left strewn across the same neighborhoods, the Pennysaver had a certain set of delivery standards, the parcel to be artfully hung on each individual door, or gently laid upon the front stoop should a door handle or doorknob not be readily available. By the time my dad had arrived home that evening to the smell of dinner burning in the oven, papers and circulars lay all over the living room, dining room, and hallway areas, my mom and I begrudgingly stuffing it all into plastic bags.
The next morning, armed with a number of friends on foot with whom I would be splitting a small percentage of my earnings, along with my mom and little sister (who would not see a penny) we set out on the arduous journey. Sweating, as a.m. gave way to p.m. and the rumblings of lunchtime hunger began I started doing some mental calculations, rapidly coming to the conclusion that financially this was a raw deal.
The following week, the delivery went much quicker as we shamefully performed the task in much the same way that those of the generic ilk had, haphazardly depositing the papers anywhere else but on the stoops or door handles for which I received a written admonishment delivered with the neat little stacks on what would be my final week. That third attempt at making money in this job went smoothest of all and was done solo, as I unflinchingly delivered each and every one of them to a nearby dumpster.
Next!
My first real job was landed compliments of my Dad at F.A.O. Schwarz on the miracle mile in Manhasset, this too with some not so gentle prodding. When I’d arrived to fill out the job application the manager seemed surprised to see me as he was not really in need of help…until I mentioned my father; a vice-president at the flagship NYC location had sent me.
I got the job!
It lasted through my senior year of High School and first year of college until the store closed during the summer of 1982. It was a great gig. I got to work with a lot of hot older girls and the mom of a local guitarist named Greg Meade who was playing and recording with Gary U.S. Bonds at the time. I collected unemployment for several months after that while supplementing it with cash from assorted DJ’ing gigs which for me had become a true passion. Of course unemployment would run out soon, so I took my stock room expertise to Toys ‘R Us, quitting on day two shortly after being told to re-hang the Hobby Horse (which was no easy feat) because its eyes had to appear as if they were staring into those of the customers.
Next!
Harrow’s warehouse, Melville Long Island, a tough job loading and unloading tractor trailers during the holidays. This job had lasted a scant few months. I’d taken a number of sick days mostly due to disgust, and a fair number of late weeknights out partying, making them the first employers to fire me before I’d had the chance to quit; not however before I’d left my mark…literally. Mazarin; a local band that I would follow to present day, not to mention all over the U.S. was indirectly responsible for my untimely dismissal, partially due to the abovementioned late nights but mostly due to my obsession towards a song called “Smile” whose lyrics I’d partially inscribed upon a virgin clean bathroom stall…
“I eat when I’m hungry, and I sleep when I’m tired,
Late in the morning maybe I’ll get fired…”
And I was!
Next!
Looking through the classified ads, there was always a driving job to be had.
I’d had plenty.
The first one entailed making deliveries of cosmetics and stationery to local supermarkets which was not bad as I was on my own for most of the day. Somehow I’d lucked out, working half day Wednesday’s (at full day pay) in exchange for using my own vehicle to make a trek out to a Waldbaum’s store in Rockaway Beach. Playland was still in existence then allowing me to spend some of that extra cash riding the roller coaster, not to mention the beach was a great place to be on a mid-week afternoon; especially when I was being paid to be there.
In keeping with the tradition (hopefully) that began in my last blog, assorted obscure, trite details that don’t really mean anything tend to surface as I commit some of my past to paper (computer, cyberspace, whatever). For instance, I distinctly recall driving to this job one gorgeous morning and hearing Dire Straits “The Walk Of Life” on the radio for the very first time. Also keeping with the tradition started in my previous posting, the more pertinent details of why or how this job didn’t last that long either escape me.
Next!
False teeth!
There was actually a living to be made in picking up and delivering false teeth…and I did!
Remembering the day I’d started there might seem like yet another trite inconsequential detail, but January 28th 1986 would long be remembered as the day the space shuttle Challenger had exploded.
This job entailed making no less than 50 to 60 pick ups and deliveries a day from dentists and labs while putting no less than five hundred miles on the car weekly causing some serious angst on the home front. At least I didn’t have to pay for gas.
In April of that same year while still gainfully employed there, I’d accompanied my good friend Scott one night to see Irene; a psychic he’d been in contact with (no pun intended) for some time.
She blew my mind!
“I feel that you’re at a sort of crossroads in your life right now,” she said, echoing the same exact thoughts I’d literally had just a few days earlier, “unsure of where you’re going or what to do next, but I see that changing soon, maybe within the next few months. An opportunity will be presented to you that will set you on the right path…”
That opportunity arose four months later when one of my closest friends – who remains exactly that to this day - offered me an unbelievable position overseeing the daytime operations of Hosftra University’s Special Events A/V group. Bob C. had been videotaping Mazarin (that band again) for close to two years, and somewhere during that period we’d become acquainted. Mazarin, who had been indirectly responsible for my losing one job had been redeemed as they now had become indirectly responsible in my finding one! Taking on a position of this magnitude and importance would require a certain degree of professionalism and maturity, neither of which I had completely mastered quite yet, so following a cue from my first real job at F.A.O. Schwarz all those years ago I had opted to surround myself with beautiful women under the guise of "Student Aides."
Nobody complained.

This opportunity which lasted a record breaking three years taught me another important lesson in life – It’s not what you know, it’s who you know! Alright, that’s not entirely true. There probably is a gentler, more feel good lesson here as well, that shouldn’t be overlooked, but for now I’m going to do just that.
My dream job came in October of ’89 compliments of a close friend I’d met in college several years earlier further reinforcing the abovementioned not what you know life lesson. It was at New York Tech’s WNYT radio that I had met John C in 1983. A couple of years younger than I was, he would soon move on to greatness and unbelievable success, but not before helping me along the way. Having become restless in my position at Hofstra, John offered me the opportunity of a lifetime in joining Long Island’s 92.7 WDRE as morning show producer to local icon Larry the Duck. I had finally landed a real job in radio, something I had dreamed about from a very, very young age. Prior to actually being hired, I had been forewarned in a lunch meeting with program director Dennis McNamara that Larry was not easy to work with. Lucky for “The Duck”, I was! Together we had successfully brought the ‘DRE morning show to it’s highest ratings in the station’s history. Unfortunately that accomplishment would be short lived with the arrival of a new program director and the untimely dismissal of Larry and me.
Having been let go on a Wednesday morning in the spring of ’91 I did what any normal newly unemployed twenty-something would do. I hopped a plane for Austin, Texas two days later following Mazarin to the South by Southwest music conference kicking off a several month employment free hiatus. Unemployment checks and unreported income from assorted DJ’ing gigs financed my travels over the next several months taking me from Canada to Atlanta, and multiple escapes to the Jersey Shore. During that time I had sent out résumés to assorted radio stations both locally and afar, but unfortunately to no avail.
Life took a downward turn here as I was in between girlfriend’s and the finances were running low forcing me to take a management position with a scammy (for lack of a better word) multi level marketing firm called Scentura Creations. Look it up on the web.

I was suckered in and within a few short months lost everything including my ’89 Grand Am, and a fairly excellent credit rating. Luckily I had an understanding Mom (my dad had passed on a few years earlier) who allowed me the comfort of a roof over my head. It’s a chapter in my life I pretty much gloss over when my past comes up in conversation.

‘Nuf said!
Next!
Humbled, with no other options left before me, I lowered the bar I had set for myself as a teen and took a job in retail. Ugh!!
It was the most rewarding experience of my life!
Jenn and I met in August of 1992 at a week-long Radio Shack training course in Manhattan; a course I’d considered blowing off the night before. There were fifteen guys in that room and one girl.
I won!
Although she’d been engaged at the time, she had quickly broken it off, knowing the future that lied before her was probably a dead end. We began dating immediately, got married in 1999, and brought Justin Thomas into the world on July 18th, 2003. (A retelling of those events in full will definitely follow).
A couple of short months into my Radio Shack management training position I once again found myself searching the classifieds from A to Z hopefully for the very last time. Surprisingly, under the heading of driver, I’d found the work number for yet another close friend; a senior partner in a widely known New York City Audio Visual firm, Marc Mazarin (not his real last name). Starting out on the lowest rung there in October of ’92, which I maintain to this day that I would never have it any other way; I made my way up to where I sit today; on the corner of Park and 27th in Midtown Manhattan, working as a corporate video editor on projects ranging from dental surgery (teeth again?!) to Tarzan on Broadway. It’s been a ride!