Tara's Rants and Raves
Tara's Rants and Raves
I Could Have Been Phoebe Prince
By now, I'm sure you've become acquainted with the horrifyingly tragic news about Phoebe Prince, who killed herself as a result of bullying at school. This story haunts me. Because it could easily have been mine.
Bullying has existed since the existence of life on Earth. The bigger creatures harass and kill the smaller ones. It's Darwin's Survival of the Fittest, the Circle of Life. However, it's one thing to watch a lion tear apart the carcass of a gazelle on the Discovery Channel; it's quite another to stand by and let human beings eviscerate one another.
When bullying is permitted in schools, when kids don't report it for fear of being victimized themselves (the "unwritten code" that seems to exist in every school in every town), when adults look away under the guise of letting kids be kids, we all suffer for it. We lose smart, pretty girls like Phoebe, who don't yet have the self-esteem to see the cruelty of others' for what it truly is: jealousy. Jealousy turns an already hormonally insane teenage girl into a evil monster filled with venom. In Phoebe's case, it seems to be born of the classic high school love triangle gone bad. The pretty Irish girl, once popular, had fallen from grace and had to not only tolerate verbal abuse, but the evils of the text message and internet as well. The way misinformation is now passed around, it takes only seconds to destroy someone's reputation, something that is already a delicate and fragile thing at this age.
And now, because a bunch of kids thought it would be a blast to torment this particular girl for no reason other than they could, Phoebe is dead. She was encouraged to kill herself on Facebook postings. I can't even find words to describe how much that disgusts me. I got told that once, too, a long time ago, just not for the entire world to see. I can't imagine what it would have been like if we'd had cell phone cameras and You Tube when I was in grade school. I'm beyond grateful to have grown up in the electronic Dark Ages, because localized humilation is plenty bad enough.
My own experience with the Mean Girls began in sixth grade. We had all known each other since Kindergarten, but I had spent the previous year in the Gifted and Talented program in another school in our district (that's a misery for another blog). Returning to my old school, back with all my friends, I started sixth on the highest note of my life at that point. But about a month into the new school year, things started going downhill. I honestly can't remember what exactly started it, but I know the first time I really got into trouble with my friends was when a boy at Hebrew School liked me instead of one of them. First, it was prank calls. Then, it was being excluded from the circle of about eight girls that gathered together every morning on the playground. It got progressively worse.
The ringleader--though she always denied it--was Stacey (in the interest of not getting myself into trouble, I'm not using last names). We had always been close, but when boys started noticing me and not her, well...you do the math. Stacey's closest partners in crime were Debbie, Debbie, Debbie (last names beginning with S, R, and W), Jennifer, and Kristin. The boys watched as they tormented me on a daily basis. Soon everyone had caught on that it was not cool to be my friend. I sat alone at lunch. That was the worst part of the day. We had to eat at our desks, and everyone ate in groups. The Cheese Ate Alone. It made me an easy target. I always made sure to have a book with me, so that I could pretend I didn't hear them. Soon, I developed the ability to shut out all sound when I was reading. It often came in handy. I knew they were talking about me, that the laughter I was almost not hearing was directed at me, but I learned to not let them see me upset. But they were tough, mean kids, and they were relentless in their verbal torture. One time, it was so bad that I asked the lunch lady if I could go to the bathroom and just kept walking until I got home. My mother wasn't there, and I ignored the ringing phone. Mom rushed home to find me fully clothed under the covers of my bed. I refused to go back to school ever again.
Somehow, I was coaxed back. I recall the Principal lecturing my homeroom class. Yeah, that really helped...helped things to get even worse, that is. I was followed home one day and someone yanked my hat off of my head, one that my Grandma Dorothy had knitted for me. After the kids played Keep Away, one of them threw it into the sewer. My notebooks would go missing from my desk, only to be found in garbage pails, wet in a bathroom sink, or hidden in one of the ceiling panels above us. I didn't have to do a thing to provoke an attack; my mere presence was disgusting enough for them.
My memories of sixth grade shut off after that. I don't remember anything from after Christmas break. I went to a sleepaway camp that summer, and worried about going back to school for seventh grade. At that time, there were no middle schools in my crappy little New Jersey town, so all of the elementary schools went from K-8. You went to the one nearest to where you lived. There were no private school options, unless you counted Catholic school. And since I'm Jewish, that was out of the question. I had no choice but to return to the scene of the crime.
You'd think the summer break would have mellowed out some of the meaner kids, but you'd be wrong. They picked up from where they'd left off in June. They made fun of what I wore, my hair, the fact that I'd gained weight over the summer, my braces. I stopped speaking up in class entirely unless I was called on. I wanted to be invisible. I have a memory (though I can't recall what provoked it) of my entire homeroom, seated and waiting for the dismissal bell, chanting "Nobody likes Tara" over and over. My teacher gestured to me to leave, and kept the class behind. I ran to the front of the school, where I hoped my mother would be parked (I begged her to pick me up every day instead of making me walk, but sometimes she couldn't get there after school). I knew I couldn't outrun anyone. Thankfully, she was there. I remember getting into the car, nearly passing out from lack of air. Running while crying is tough on the lungs.
This problem with the kids at school had done a lot of damage at home as well. My father, not the most compassionate human being to begin with, couldn't understand why they were ganging up on me. "You must do something to make them treat you like this!" he once barked at me. My mother was trying to save my sanity while also protecting me from the abuse I was getting from all sides. They'd both dealt with the endless prank phone calls, discussions with other parents and teachers, and they were running out of patience. On this particular day, when I recounted to my very angry father what had happened, he got even angrier. At me. I didn't want to go to Hebrew School that afternoon; plenty of the kids from my class would be there as well, and it would just get worse. I wanted to stay home and hide. It enraged him.
"You just sit there and take it like a little wimp!" he exploded. "I want you to go to Hebrew School, and I want you to beat the shit out of that Stacey ____!"
My mother yelled his name, objecting. It wouldn't do any good, it would get me into trouble at Temple, and when does violence solve anything?
You go, he said to me. And I better get a call from the Rabbi telling me to pick you up.
I didn't want to. But I was more afraid of my father than I was of the kids at school, and this was a no-win situation. I'd lose my Bat Mitzvah, maybe get my family kicked out of the Temple. The next day would be a nightmare when everyone else found out. I could beat up Stacey, but what would stop the rest of those bitches from ganging up on me and beating me up?
The consequences seemed irrelevant, anyway. I had stopped caring about myself. I had instead simply started believing what the Mean Girls said to me every day. I was fat. I was ugly. No boys would ever like me. It would have been better if I'd never been born. The world would be a better place without me in it. I believed all of that to be true. No matter how many times my mother sat on my bed and stroked my hair and told me every last good thing about me, I had been deeply damaged. I had lost the energy it took to maintain a good attitude. I was exhausted from the effort. I wanted it all to end.
So I did it. I went to Hebrew School, asked Stacey to step out into the hallway, and launched myself at her. I knew I was screaming and crying, and she was yelling for me to get off of her. Jennifer came out of nowhere and latched one of her claws onto my head and tried to pull me off of Stacey by my hair, but I just kept wailing on her.
Finally, a teacher separated us. We were brought to the Rabbi, who was mortified by our behavior. Stacey got away with playing the victim, as I knew she would. We were told our parents would be contacted, dismissed back to our class, and I remember walking out of the Rabbi's office feeling as though I'd swallowed a lead balloon. I know my father was mad that I hadn't been sent right home. Father of the Year.
That night, I imagined the next day at school and what it was going to be like for me. My father refused to let me stay home, champion that he was, so I knew I was going to be in for it. They couldn't really get to me until after school. I imagined myself laying on the pavement, everyone taking a kick at me. I'd look at the sky and think of my mother's mother, my Grandma Ethel, who'd died when I was seven, and whom I still missed ferociously. I imagined her greeting me with open arms, happy to have me back with her. She'd make me feel safe. It would be nice to let go of all the pain in my life and just float away to a place where I could lay my head in her lap and be calm.
The next morning, my mother tried to give me a pep talk, something about walking in there with my head high because I had finally stood up for myself. Instead, I walked into a verbal assault. Choruses of "How could you" and "Oh poor Stacey" surrounded me all day long. At lunch, the Debbies and Kristin loudly plotted their afterschool revenge on me. "I bet her MOMMY is coming to get her," Jennifer chimed in. You better believe she was.
As soon as we were dismissed after the final bell, I walked as fast as possible to my mom's car. From close behind me, I heard them:
"Hey, you fat shit, where are you going?"
"Hey, you fat coward, why don't you fight ME next?"
"Fuckin fat BITCH, I should kill you!"
"No, she should kill herself, save us the trouble!"
"Yeah, you ugly fat bitch, go home with your Mommy and fuckin KILL YOURSELF!"
And the laughter. Is there any sound uglier than a bunch of grade schoolers laughing that evil group laugh?
My mom drove me home. I went up to my room. I thought about dying. I'd read you could die from swallowing a whole bottle of aspirin, so I considered doing that. I didn't want to do it in a way that hurt. I thought about what the other kids would say. Would they laugh? Would they feel bad? Would they be relieved? And then I laughed at myself, because even in the most selfish moment of my life, I was worried about what THEY would think. When did that ever end? And why should I give them any satisfaction, anyway? My mother would also never recover, and I couldn't do that to her.
So I decided to not kill myself. I decided to ignore what everyone said about me, although the emotional damage was certainly present and palpable. I had terrible dreams of being pursued into the woods by an unseen presence, my brain's way of dealing with all the repressed anger of my waking life.
I continued going to school. I found a friend, Stephanie, and we stuck together into our high school years. I tried out for Chorus, which I had to do in front of the entire grade. Even with the catcalls and jeers, I got up and I sang. I don't know where I got the balls, but I got em.
Those girls didn't totally defeat me, but they hurt me. I had an immediate dislike of all new girls who came into my life, so deep was my mistrust of my own gender. It was years before I could make lasting friendships with other women. I developed a sharp, sarcastic wit to use as a suit of armor, and sometimes as a weapon with which to defend myself. I have done a lot of soul-searching and self-analyzing and today I can say I'm happy with myself.
Phoebe Prince will never have that chance. She never got the help and support she needed and deserved. She'll never be able to find solace in a new friend, or tell her story to other girls who may be struggling with the same problems. She won't experience heartbreak or true love. She won't be singing any sweet Irish lullabies to her babies. I ache for her mother.
Human nature can't be changed. The weak will still be overpowered by the strong. But it's time to keep a closer watch on bullying in our schools. As bad as it got for me with mean notes and constant phone calls, the techno-bullying of today is a million times worse. I tell my story to my kids, to make sure they never treat anyone the way I was treated.
To the Phoebes of the world, I want to tell you something, and I want you to take this in: You are not alone. You are not the only one who feels this way. There is a person in your life you can talk to, and you already know who it is. Don't be afraid to let your voice be heard. Speak up. Make it stop. You matter. You are important, you are strong and beautiful, and you deserve a long, happy life where yours is the only opinion that truly counts. You can make it through this, because I did.
Bullying has existed since the existence of life on Earth. The bigger creatures harass and kill the smaller ones. It's Darwin's Survival of the Fittest, the Circle of Life. However, it's one thing to watch a lion tear apart the carcass of a gazelle on the Discovery Channel; it's quite another to stand by and let human beings eviscerate one another.
When bullying is permitted in schools, when kids don't report it for fear of being victimized themselves (the "unwritten code" that seems to exist in every school in every town), when adults look away under the guise of letting kids be kids, we all suffer for it. We lose smart, pretty girls like Phoebe, who don't yet have the self-esteem to see the cruelty of others' for what it truly is: jealousy. Jealousy turns an already hormonally insane teenage girl into a evil monster filled with venom. In Phoebe's case, it seems to be born of the classic high school love triangle gone bad. The pretty Irish girl, once popular, had fallen from grace and had to not only tolerate verbal abuse, but the evils of the text message and internet as well. The way misinformation is now passed around, it takes only seconds to destroy someone's reputation, something that is already a delicate and fragile thing at this age.
And now, because a bunch of kids thought it would be a blast to torment this particular girl for no reason other than they could, Phoebe is dead. She was encouraged to kill herself on Facebook postings. I can't even find words to describe how much that disgusts me. I got told that once, too, a long time ago, just not for the entire world to see. I can't imagine what it would have been like if we'd had cell phone cameras and You Tube when I was in grade school. I'm beyond grateful to have grown up in the electronic Dark Ages, because localized humilation is plenty bad enough.
My own experience with the Mean Girls began in sixth grade. We had all known each other since Kindergarten, but I had spent the previous year in the Gifted and Talented program in another school in our district (that's a misery for another blog). Returning to my old school, back with all my friends, I started sixth on the highest note of my life at that point. But about a month into the new school year, things started going downhill. I honestly can't remember what exactly started it, but I know the first time I really got into trouble with my friends was when a boy at Hebrew School liked me instead of one of them. First, it was prank calls. Then, it was being excluded from the circle of about eight girls that gathered together every morning on the playground. It got progressively worse.
The ringleader--though she always denied it--was Stacey (in the interest of not getting myself into trouble, I'm not using last names). We had always been close, but when boys started noticing me and not her, well...you do the math. Stacey's closest partners in crime were Debbie, Debbie, Debbie (last names beginning with S, R, and W), Jennifer, and Kristin. The boys watched as they tormented me on a daily basis. Soon everyone had caught on that it was not cool to be my friend. I sat alone at lunch. That was the worst part of the day. We had to eat at our desks, and everyone ate in groups. The Cheese Ate Alone. It made me an easy target. I always made sure to have a book with me, so that I could pretend I didn't hear them. Soon, I developed the ability to shut out all sound when I was reading. It often came in handy. I knew they were talking about me, that the laughter I was almost not hearing was directed at me, but I learned to not let them see me upset. But they were tough, mean kids, and they were relentless in their verbal torture. One time, it was so bad that I asked the lunch lady if I could go to the bathroom and just kept walking until I got home. My mother wasn't there, and I ignored the ringing phone. Mom rushed home to find me fully clothed under the covers of my bed. I refused to go back to school ever again.
Somehow, I was coaxed back. I recall the Principal lecturing my homeroom class. Yeah, that really helped...helped things to get even worse, that is. I was followed home one day and someone yanked my hat off of my head, one that my Grandma Dorothy had knitted for me. After the kids played Keep Away, one of them threw it into the sewer. My notebooks would go missing from my desk, only to be found in garbage pails, wet in a bathroom sink, or hidden in one of the ceiling panels above us. I didn't have to do a thing to provoke an attack; my mere presence was disgusting enough for them.
My memories of sixth grade shut off after that. I don't remember anything from after Christmas break. I went to a sleepaway camp that summer, and worried about going back to school for seventh grade. At that time, there were no middle schools in my crappy little New Jersey town, so all of the elementary schools went from K-8. You went to the one nearest to where you lived. There were no private school options, unless you counted Catholic school. And since I'm Jewish, that was out of the question. I had no choice but to return to the scene of the crime.
You'd think the summer break would have mellowed out some of the meaner kids, but you'd be wrong. They picked up from where they'd left off in June. They made fun of what I wore, my hair, the fact that I'd gained weight over the summer, my braces. I stopped speaking up in class entirely unless I was called on. I wanted to be invisible. I have a memory (though I can't recall what provoked it) of my entire homeroom, seated and waiting for the dismissal bell, chanting "Nobody likes Tara" over and over. My teacher gestured to me to leave, and kept the class behind. I ran to the front of the school, where I hoped my mother would be parked (I begged her to pick me up every day instead of making me walk, but sometimes she couldn't get there after school). I knew I couldn't outrun anyone. Thankfully, she was there. I remember getting into the car, nearly passing out from lack of air. Running while crying is tough on the lungs.
This problem with the kids at school had done a lot of damage at home as well. My father, not the most compassionate human being to begin with, couldn't understand why they were ganging up on me. "You must do something to make them treat you like this!" he once barked at me. My mother was trying to save my sanity while also protecting me from the abuse I was getting from all sides. They'd both dealt with the endless prank phone calls, discussions with other parents and teachers, and they were running out of patience. On this particular day, when I recounted to my very angry father what had happened, he got even angrier. At me. I didn't want to go to Hebrew School that afternoon; plenty of the kids from my class would be there as well, and it would just get worse. I wanted to stay home and hide. It enraged him.
"You just sit there and take it like a little wimp!" he exploded. "I want you to go to Hebrew School, and I want you to beat the shit out of that Stacey ____!"
My mother yelled his name, objecting. It wouldn't do any good, it would get me into trouble at Temple, and when does violence solve anything?
You go, he said to me. And I better get a call from the Rabbi telling me to pick you up.
I didn't want to. But I was more afraid of my father than I was of the kids at school, and this was a no-win situation. I'd lose my Bat Mitzvah, maybe get my family kicked out of the Temple. The next day would be a nightmare when everyone else found out. I could beat up Stacey, but what would stop the rest of those bitches from ganging up on me and beating me up?
The consequences seemed irrelevant, anyway. I had stopped caring about myself. I had instead simply started believing what the Mean Girls said to me every day. I was fat. I was ugly. No boys would ever like me. It would have been better if I'd never been born. The world would be a better place without me in it. I believed all of that to be true. No matter how many times my mother sat on my bed and stroked my hair and told me every last good thing about me, I had been deeply damaged. I had lost the energy it took to maintain a good attitude. I was exhausted from the effort. I wanted it all to end.
So I did it. I went to Hebrew School, asked Stacey to step out into the hallway, and launched myself at her. I knew I was screaming and crying, and she was yelling for me to get off of her. Jennifer came out of nowhere and latched one of her claws onto my head and tried to pull me off of Stacey by my hair, but I just kept wailing on her.
Finally, a teacher separated us. We were brought to the Rabbi, who was mortified by our behavior. Stacey got away with playing the victim, as I knew she would. We were told our parents would be contacted, dismissed back to our class, and I remember walking out of the Rabbi's office feeling as though I'd swallowed a lead balloon. I know my father was mad that I hadn't been sent right home. Father of the Year.
That night, I imagined the next day at school and what it was going to be like for me. My father refused to let me stay home, champion that he was, so I knew I was going to be in for it. They couldn't really get to me until after school. I imagined myself laying on the pavement, everyone taking a kick at me. I'd look at the sky and think of my mother's mother, my Grandma Ethel, who'd died when I was seven, and whom I still missed ferociously. I imagined her greeting me with open arms, happy to have me back with her. She'd make me feel safe. It would be nice to let go of all the pain in my life and just float away to a place where I could lay my head in her lap and be calm.
The next morning, my mother tried to give me a pep talk, something about walking in there with my head high because I had finally stood up for myself. Instead, I walked into a verbal assault. Choruses of "How could you" and "Oh poor Stacey" surrounded me all day long. At lunch, the Debbies and Kristin loudly plotted their afterschool revenge on me. "I bet her MOMMY is coming to get her," Jennifer chimed in. You better believe she was.
As soon as we were dismissed after the final bell, I walked as fast as possible to my mom's car. From close behind me, I heard them:
"Hey, you fat shit, where are you going?"
"Hey, you fat coward, why don't you fight ME next?"
"Fuckin fat BITCH, I should kill you!"
"No, she should kill herself, save us the trouble!"
"Yeah, you ugly fat bitch, go home with your Mommy and fuckin KILL YOURSELF!"
And the laughter. Is there any sound uglier than a bunch of grade schoolers laughing that evil group laugh?
My mom drove me home. I went up to my room. I thought about dying. I'd read you could die from swallowing a whole bottle of aspirin, so I considered doing that. I didn't want to do it in a way that hurt. I thought about what the other kids would say. Would they laugh? Would they feel bad? Would they be relieved? And then I laughed at myself, because even in the most selfish moment of my life, I was worried about what THEY would think. When did that ever end? And why should I give them any satisfaction, anyway? My mother would also never recover, and I couldn't do that to her.
So I decided to not kill myself. I decided to ignore what everyone said about me, although the emotional damage was certainly present and palpable. I had terrible dreams of being pursued into the woods by an unseen presence, my brain's way of dealing with all the repressed anger of my waking life.
I continued going to school. I found a friend, Stephanie, and we stuck together into our high school years. I tried out for Chorus, which I had to do in front of the entire grade. Even with the catcalls and jeers, I got up and I sang. I don't know where I got the balls, but I got em.
Those girls didn't totally defeat me, but they hurt me. I had an immediate dislike of all new girls who came into my life, so deep was my mistrust of my own gender. It was years before I could make lasting friendships with other women. I developed a sharp, sarcastic wit to use as a suit of armor, and sometimes as a weapon with which to defend myself. I have done a lot of soul-searching and self-analyzing and today I can say I'm happy with myself.
Phoebe Prince will never have that chance. She never got the help and support she needed and deserved. She'll never be able to find solace in a new friend, or tell her story to other girls who may be struggling with the same problems. She won't experience heartbreak or true love. She won't be singing any sweet Irish lullabies to her babies. I ache for her mother.
Human nature can't be changed. The weak will still be overpowered by the strong. But it's time to keep a closer watch on bullying in our schools. As bad as it got for me with mean notes and constant phone calls, the techno-bullying of today is a million times worse. I tell my story to my kids, to make sure they never treat anyone the way I was treated.
To the Phoebes of the world, I want to tell you something, and I want you to take this in: You are not alone. You are not the only one who feels this way. There is a person in your life you can talk to, and you already know who it is. Don't be afraid to let your voice be heard. Speak up. Make it stop. You matter. You are important, you are strong and beautiful, and you deserve a long, happy life where yours is the only opinion that truly counts. You can make it through this, because I did.
Teenage Humiliation, or Getting More Than My Two Dollars' Worth
There was no such thing as "stalking" back in the 80s.
I mean, there WAS, of course; we just didn't call it that. We saw what happened to John Lennon. But that was a crazy person. Regular people who have a thing for a famous person don't usually shoot them. Regular people usually just go to a famous person's movie, or read magazine articles about said famous person, and leave it at that.
But hormonally charged teenagers cannot be considered 'regular', can they? Especially not ones who never really had a boyfriend but instead had a best friend who liked making phone calls to famous people.
When I was a junior in high school, my friend Pam was a serious influence on me. First of all, she didn't go to my school, which made her instantly cooler. She introduced me to strange music, like Einsturzende Neubauten and Feargal Sharkey. She's the one who brought me to my first thrift shop, leading me to wearing "dead peoples' clothes", as my mom would say. She had a passion for low-budget vampire films, onion rings, and Canadian hockey.
That last detail is what led to us searching the New York City phone book on a regular basis. In 1986, you could still find the listed phone numbers of rising celebrities who most likely weren't even aware they were listed. Pam had managed to get numbers for a few of the New York Rangers, as well as a bar in Canada that she called regularly, just to hear the bartender's accent. I know you're rolling your eyes at that last one. I never understood it, either.
And so it was that during one sleepover, as her fingers did the walking, Pam gasped somewhere in the C's.
"H0ly fucking shit, Tara," she said. "JOHN CUSACK."
"Where?" I shrieked, jerking my head around the room.
"Dipshit, in the phone book!"
"That can't be OUR John Cusack," I replied.
"Our" John Cusack. As if we were the only teenage girls who had discovered him. "The Sure Thing" had quickly become one of our favorite movies, and we quoted it at length whenever we could. But there was also "Class", "Sixteen Candles", and that 80s classic, "Better Off Dead". Woe was the person who mentioned the monetary increment of two bucks.
"TWO DOLLARS!" we'd yell. "I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!" (Everyone gets that joke now, but few did back then. Yeah, we were always ahead of the curve, Pam and I.)
"I bet you it's him," she said.
"Why would he be listed?" I asked.
She shrugged, exhaling smoke from her billionth Virginia Slim. And then, she dared me to call him.
At this particular time in my life, Pam could probably have gotten me to eat paste naked in the middle of Times Square, so making a phone call to a cute actor wasn't really a daunting task. Especially not after calling John Van Biesbrouck (Pam's current hockey obsession) to ask him what he wanted for his birthday.
I dialed. It rang. We got an answering machine with two male voices, discussing their plans for the evening. One was definitely OUR John Cusack. They were apparently going to a club called Heartbreak, which was hot at the time. We, in turn, were sixteen and living in New Jersey. And it was a school night. We weren't going to show up at Heartbreak.
But we had his number. Eventually, he'd answer.
One night soon after our discovery, he did. At first, he pretended he wasn't himself. I mean, random chicks are calling, the guy's gotta protect himself. But, with Pam goading me on, I managed to make myself sound cool enough for the "real" John to take the phone. After some witty banter, I'd convinced him that I was not only smart and cool, but also pretty enough to actually meet in person. We decided to meet under the arch in Washington Square Park on the following Saturday. I told him I was short with dark hair and that I'd be wearing a black jacket.
Pam didn't go with me. I begged her to shadow us, to make sure I didn't totally humiliate myself on my own, but for reasons lost to the ages, I ventured into the City solo. On the train, I tried to think of cool opening lines. What if he stood me up? He was an ACTOR who probably dated leggy supermodels or skinny actresses. I tried not to bite my nails and hoped I looked thin enough.
I waited under the Arch, nearly driving myself insane with worry and anticipation. I checked out every tall guy that passed me. I imagined him checking me out from across the street, deciding I wasn't worthy of his time, and going on about his day. And then, suddenly, a guy quickly ducked under the arch and back out. It was so fast, it took a second to register.
Our John Cusack. He showed.
He ducked back in. "Is it you?" he asked. We shook hands. I admitted my embarrassment. He shrugged. "It's cool," he said. "Wanna walk with me? I have some videos to return."
So we walked to Tower Records (oh, Tower...how I miss you), chatting about music, movies, and what New Jersey teenagers do for fun. "The mall?!" he sneered. I could only apologize. Like it was my fault I lived in LameLand. I desperately wished I had something so unique about me, he'd overlook the eager teen thing and like me anyway.
I recall him being impressed with my list of current favorite films. After Tower, we went to a diner. He got a cheeseburger and a beer, and I remember questioning how he got served when he wasn't 21 yet. While he hadn't made "Say Anything..." yet, he was very much in Lloyd mode: the long coat over a Clash shirt, the bouncing of the jittery knee, the way he spoke in run-on sentences. And he was just so damn cute.
Alas, a great romance simply wasn't in the cards. At sixteen, I was too young to be anything more to him than a silly girl who had somehow managed to get to him. He was on the cusp of a great career, and I had to study for finals. But he was totally nice, if a little unsure how to process my blazing hot teenage crush. If nothing else, I thought, maybe we could just be friends. And, no. A hot 19 year old actor doesn't need a 16 year old 'friend'. We parted with an awkward hug (he's just so tall!) and I had myself a story to tell when I got home.
The next time I tried calling Our John Cusack, the number had been changed. I couldn't really blame him for that.
I've followed his career since then, of course. We all know how successful he's become. My decades-old crush continues (despite "Serendipity" and "Must Love Dogs"). In fact, he was the first celebrity I ever met, and that encounter helped me learn how to be chill around the Famous. It came in handy when I met two of my other major heartthrobs, John Taylor and Dave Grohl. Three down, one to go.
Look out, Matt Dillon. You just might be next.
I mean, there WAS, of course; we just didn't call it that. We saw what happened to John Lennon. But that was a crazy person. Regular people who have a thing for a famous person don't usually shoot them. Regular people usually just go to a famous person's movie, or read magazine articles about said famous person, and leave it at that.
But hormonally charged teenagers cannot be considered 'regular', can they? Especially not ones who never really had a boyfriend but instead had a best friend who liked making phone calls to famous people.
When I was a junior in high school, my friend Pam was a serious influence on me. First of all, she didn't go to my school, which made her instantly cooler. She introduced me to strange music, like Einsturzende Neubauten and Feargal Sharkey. She's the one who brought me to my first thrift shop, leading me to wearing "dead peoples' clothes", as my mom would say. She had a passion for low-budget vampire films, onion rings, and Canadian hockey.
That last detail is what led to us searching the New York City phone book on a regular basis. In 1986, you could still find the listed phone numbers of rising celebrities who most likely weren't even aware they were listed. Pam had managed to get numbers for a few of the New York Rangers, as well as a bar in Canada that she called regularly, just to hear the bartender's accent. I know you're rolling your eyes at that last one. I never understood it, either.
And so it was that during one sleepover, as her fingers did the walking, Pam gasped somewhere in the C's.
"H0ly fucking shit, Tara," she said. "JOHN CUSACK."
"Where?" I shrieked, jerking my head around the room.
"Dipshit, in the phone book!"
"That can't be OUR John Cusack," I replied.
"Our" John Cusack. As if we were the only teenage girls who had discovered him. "The Sure Thing" had quickly become one of our favorite movies, and we quoted it at length whenever we could. But there was also "Class", "Sixteen Candles", and that 80s classic, "Better Off Dead". Woe was the person who mentioned the monetary increment of two bucks.
"TWO DOLLARS!" we'd yell. "I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!" (Everyone gets that joke now, but few did back then. Yeah, we were always ahead of the curve, Pam and I.)
"I bet you it's him," she said.
"Why would he be listed?" I asked.
She shrugged, exhaling smoke from her billionth Virginia Slim. And then, she dared me to call him.
At this particular time in my life, Pam could probably have gotten me to eat paste naked in the middle of Times Square, so making a phone call to a cute actor wasn't really a daunting task. Especially not after calling John Van Biesbrouck (Pam's current hockey obsession) to ask him what he wanted for his birthday.
I dialed. It rang. We got an answering machine with two male voices, discussing their plans for the evening. One was definitely OUR John Cusack. They were apparently going to a club called Heartbreak, which was hot at the time. We, in turn, were sixteen and living in New Jersey. And it was a school night. We weren't going to show up at Heartbreak.
But we had his number. Eventually, he'd answer.
One night soon after our discovery, he did. At first, he pretended he wasn't himself. I mean, random chicks are calling, the guy's gotta protect himself. But, with Pam goading me on, I managed to make myself sound cool enough for the "real" John to take the phone. After some witty banter, I'd convinced him that I was not only smart and cool, but also pretty enough to actually meet in person. We decided to meet under the arch in Washington Square Park on the following Saturday. I told him I was short with dark hair and that I'd be wearing a black jacket.
Pam didn't go with me. I begged her to shadow us, to make sure I didn't totally humiliate myself on my own, but for reasons lost to the ages, I ventured into the City solo. On the train, I tried to think of cool opening lines. What if he stood me up? He was an ACTOR who probably dated leggy supermodels or skinny actresses. I tried not to bite my nails and hoped I looked thin enough.
I waited under the Arch, nearly driving myself insane with worry and anticipation. I checked out every tall guy that passed me. I imagined him checking me out from across the street, deciding I wasn't worthy of his time, and going on about his day. And then, suddenly, a guy quickly ducked under the arch and back out. It was so fast, it took a second to register.
Our John Cusack. He showed.
He ducked back in. "Is it you?" he asked. We shook hands. I admitted my embarrassment. He shrugged. "It's cool," he said. "Wanna walk with me? I have some videos to return."
So we walked to Tower Records (oh, Tower...how I miss you), chatting about music, movies, and what New Jersey teenagers do for fun. "The mall?!" he sneered. I could only apologize. Like it was my fault I lived in LameLand. I desperately wished I had something so unique about me, he'd overlook the eager teen thing and like me anyway.
I recall him being impressed with my list of current favorite films. After Tower, we went to a diner. He got a cheeseburger and a beer, and I remember questioning how he got served when he wasn't 21 yet. While he hadn't made "Say Anything..." yet, he was very much in Lloyd mode: the long coat over a Clash shirt, the bouncing of the jittery knee, the way he spoke in run-on sentences. And he was just so damn cute.
Alas, a great romance simply wasn't in the cards. At sixteen, I was too young to be anything more to him than a silly girl who had somehow managed to get to him. He was on the cusp of a great career, and I had to study for finals. But he was totally nice, if a little unsure how to process my blazing hot teenage crush. If nothing else, I thought, maybe we could just be friends. And, no. A hot 19 year old actor doesn't need a 16 year old 'friend'. We parted with an awkward hug (he's just so tall!) and I had myself a story to tell when I got home.
The next time I tried calling Our John Cusack, the number had been changed. I couldn't really blame him for that.
I've followed his career since then, of course. We all know how successful he's become. My decades-old crush continues (despite "Serendipity" and "Must Love Dogs"). In fact, he was the first celebrity I ever met, and that encounter helped me learn how to be chill around the Famous. It came in handy when I met two of my other major heartthrobs, John Taylor and Dave Grohl. Three down, one to go.
Look out, Matt Dillon. You just might be next.
The Luck (?) of the Non-Irish
What do you do when you KNOW you're right about something, and it seems like all the odds are stacked against you?
I've lobbied for a great local radio station for the past 10 months, ever since I got laid off. People have told me to give it up, to "get over myself", to forget about it, to move on. I have, somewhat. I no longer pine for the 94/7 studio; I know I'll never set foot in there again. I'm volunteering with KZME, and it's great to be surrounded by people who share my passion, even if we don't have the money we need and I'm still living off unemployment.
Every time I turn on the radio, I play a game called Anything Good? I have six stations preset in my car, and I punch each one to hear what they're all doing at whatever time it is. The answer to Anything Good? is more often no than yes. Rarely have I paused to wonder what I was hearing, because I already knew. This morning in the car, it went like this:
Preset 1: Green Day
Preset 2: Jimi Hendrix
Preset 3: Harvey Danger
Preset 4: Colbie Caillat
Preset 5: Green Day
Preset 6: Red Hot Chili Peppers
I mean, SNORE.
But I should just shut up, right? I mean, why bother fighting? Since I seem to be one of the few people in Portland who believes that "commercial" and "local" are not mutually exclusive. I mean, who the hell do I think I am, huh? I should forget about it, concentrate on the book that I'm shopping to agents (which I am, TRUST ME; I am uber-focused on that like a mofo), and let the mediocrity on the airwaves continue because I'm Daniel and corporate radio is Goliath.
Yesterday, maybe I might have agreed with you. I beat myself up daily for allowing my passion to get me into trouble, so much so that maybe I'm getting a bad rep. When a man speaks up for his beliefs, he's a visionary; a woman speaks out on her passion, and she's a whiner. It gets me so angry and frustrated, I don't know what to do. Sometimes the thought of continually having to prove myself is exhausting. It would be a relief to just release this intense love into the ether, like letting go of a toxic ex-lover, to purge myself of it so I can begin the next stage of my life.
But today, I got this email from a former listener:
Hey Tara, I just felt compelled to send this message your way.
I honestly one day turned to 94.7 when I was hoping to hear my favorite dj.. I find some random. I never knew you were let go until I dug a little deeper to find out what happened. I still don't honestly. I would never imagine them letting go of someone who completed and was such a crucial asset to the station. Anyways, I'm sorry to keep this at the surface for ya.. I just wanted to let you know from a loyal fan, that you are amazing. I hope whatever your doing now you are enjoying. And I wish you the best of luck. Don't ever change a thing about yourself. Your rad. Thanks for taking the time to read this by the way..
*always a fan -- Andrew
And then I called Dosha, to make a massage appointment. They had me in their system under my old email. The woman on the other end of the phone said, "Oh my gosh, you're THAT Tara? I miss you so much, I listened to you every day!"
That's twice in one day. On St. Patrick's Day. For a non-Irish girl with one hell of an Irish name. So maybe I get to borrow a little of that Irish luck?
People still remember me, which is fantastic. Especially when I spent the first 36 years of my life feeling invisible. So I'm gonna keep fighting for great localized radio, while also doing lots of other things. Someday, it's going to really happen. And then I can tell everyone that for once, I was actually right.
Oh, and Erin Go Bragh!
I've lobbied for a great local radio station for the past 10 months, ever since I got laid off. People have told me to give it up, to "get over myself", to forget about it, to move on. I have, somewhat. I no longer pine for the 94/7 studio; I know I'll never set foot in there again. I'm volunteering with KZME, and it's great to be surrounded by people who share my passion, even if we don't have the money we need and I'm still living off unemployment.
Every time I turn on the radio, I play a game called Anything Good? I have six stations preset in my car, and I punch each one to hear what they're all doing at whatever time it is. The answer to Anything Good? is more often no than yes. Rarely have I paused to wonder what I was hearing, because I already knew. This morning in the car, it went like this:
Preset 1: Green Day
Preset 2: Jimi Hendrix
Preset 3: Harvey Danger
Preset 4: Colbie Caillat
Preset 5: Green Day
Preset 6: Red Hot Chili Peppers
I mean, SNORE.
But I should just shut up, right? I mean, why bother fighting? Since I seem to be one of the few people in Portland who believes that "commercial" and "local" are not mutually exclusive. I mean, who the hell do I think I am, huh? I should forget about it, concentrate on the book that I'm shopping to agents (which I am, TRUST ME; I am uber-focused on that like a mofo), and let the mediocrity on the airwaves continue because I'm Daniel and corporate radio is Goliath.
Yesterday, maybe I might have agreed with you. I beat myself up daily for allowing my passion to get me into trouble, so much so that maybe I'm getting a bad rep. When a man speaks up for his beliefs, he's a visionary; a woman speaks out on her passion, and she's a whiner. It gets me so angry and frustrated, I don't know what to do. Sometimes the thought of continually having to prove myself is exhausting. It would be a relief to just release this intense love into the ether, like letting go of a toxic ex-lover, to purge myself of it so I can begin the next stage of my life.
But today, I got this email from a former listener:
Hey Tara, I just felt compelled to send this message your way.
I honestly one day turned to 94.7 when I was hoping to hear my favorite dj.. I find some random. I never knew you were let go until I dug a little deeper to find out what happened. I still don't honestly. I would never imagine them letting go of someone who completed and was such a crucial asset to the station. Anyways, I'm sorry to keep this at the surface for ya.. I just wanted to let you know from a loyal fan, that you are amazing. I hope whatever your doing now you are enjoying. And I wish you the best of luck. Don't ever change a thing about yourself. Your rad. Thanks for taking the time to read this by the way..
*always a fan -- Andrew
And then I called Dosha, to make a massage appointment. They had me in their system under my old email. The woman on the other end of the phone said, "Oh my gosh, you're THAT Tara? I miss you so much, I listened to you every day!"
That's twice in one day. On St. Patrick's Day. For a non-Irish girl with one hell of an Irish name. So maybe I get to borrow a little of that Irish luck?
People still remember me, which is fantastic. Especially when I spent the first 36 years of my life feeling invisible. So I'm gonna keep fighting for great localized radio, while also doing lots of other things. Someday, it's going to really happen. And then I can tell everyone that for once, I was actually right.
Oh, and Erin Go Bragh!
A Regular Person's Take On the Oscars
I'm not a film critic. I don't host a TV show. No one pays me to air my opinion about movies. But when all the pros complain about the state of film and how bad the Oscars are, no one in the industry pays attention. They just keep rolling out the crap. So I might as well throw in my own opinion. Because, unlike the people who review films, I pay for the movies I see. And as a person currently living off unemployment, I have to be super choosy with where my meager entertainment dollar goes. I've managed to see only a handful of the nominated films, and I purposely avoided "Avatar" (and will continue to do so).
However, I did see "The Hurt Locker", at a special screening at the Portland Women's Film Festival where Kathryn Bigelow was in attendance. And even then, in the months B.A. (Before Avatar), I predicted this film would go a long way. I knew it would be lauded come Oscar time, and when Ms. Bigelow was nominated, I knew she would win.
So I watched the telecast, as I have every year since I can remember. I recall the glory years when Johnny Carson hosted, and it felt like a great big cocktail party. Then there was Billy Crystal, the best host in recent memory. This year's show had to be one of the worst I've ever seen, which was a sincere disappointment. It was promised to be the best ever, and...NOT. In the past decade, the Oscar broadcast has become a running joke in the industry, because it's too long and it's too boring and everyone's always coming up with ways to make it better.
This is where I come in.
As a veteran of more than (I hate to say) three decades of Oscar-watchin', I have come up with a list of suggestions for next year's Oscar producers. I'm the one you want to please, the person who's sitting in their yoga pants on the couch, eating Oatmeal Squares out of the box (this may or may not be a rhetorical setup). Here's how you make the show worth watching again.
1. One Host to Rule Them All. Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin should have KILLED together. Instead, their patter was awkward and mostly unfunny. They were better when presenting separately. And I think this year will make everyone pine even more for Billy Crystal and his outrageously hilarious medleys and film montages. Bring him back. This show needs a solid leader who can keep it moving.
2. Keep The Clips to a Minimum. Speaking of montages, enough already. Yes, you're the Oscars, we already know you're there to honor the movies. But it's time to quit patting yourselves on the back with this kind of filler. The salute to horror films was a waste of time and editing. Films not really in the horror genre were shown ("Marathon Man"?), and the fact that the Leprechaun from "Leprechaun" was shown on the Oscars makes my stomach hurt. The only montage we want to see is the In Memoriam reel, aka The Dead People Montage. And this year, Farrah Fawcett was left out, which is an embarassing oversight for the Academy.
3. No Dancing. Ever. This isn't the Grammys or "So You Think You Can Dance to Film Scores". The Oscars did us a solid this year by sparing us the usually unbearable live performances of the nominated songs by showing a quick clip reel. Why couldn't they do the same with the Best Score nominees? Now whenever I see Jeremy Renner, I'm going to think of him having to watch a dancer do the Robot in a "Hurt Locker" dance sequence. You might as well call that sequence The Bathroom Break.
4. Pare Down the Broadcast Categories. I realize the mother of the guy who won Best Documentary Short Subject is kvelling somewhere, but the harsh truth is that a hearty portion of the viewing audience couldn't care less. They want the meat. They want the big categories. They don't want to have to sit through a guy muttering his way through a list of thank yous. If you want people to watch the show in its entirety, these are the categories they care about:
Best Picture
Best Director
Best Actor
Best Actress
Best Supporting Actor
Best Supporting Actress
A smaller portion of the viewers will care about costumes and sets and sound effects editing. Perhaps those categories could be awarded earlier, and broadcast on ABC Family. Then, once we hit the prime time, you go live on ABC at 9pm, and pack those six categories into a tight, 2-hour broadcast. That way, when it's getting to the point where your eyes are rolling back in your head because it's so late and you just want to see WHO WINS ALREADY, the sight of five different actors coming out on stage to honor the acting nominess won't make you want to throw your glass of HI-C at the screen.
4. Hire Smart People for the Pre-Show Coverage. It's clear Kathy Ireland was fresh off the Fembot assembly line when 'interviewing' the nominees she cornered. Why not get actual movie buffs to host your pre-game, so that their questions aren't innocuous and condescending? They may not be as telegenic, but these actors see pretty people all the damn time. Get someone who knows something about film to ask the questions next year. PLEASE.
5. Get More Civilians Involved. The biggest joke about the Oscars is that it's like the high school prom, only everyone is rich and pretty. We get to watch the insiders' party, but without us little people, there wouldn't be all that money going around to make their movies. The emotional connection isn't there, because most of us don't know what it's like to wear fancy gowns and ride in limos and get to find out what George Clooney smells like. Next year, let some non-industry people come on board to live-blog the show from a non-jaded perspective. Or have a contest to have a movie fan stand on the red carpet and do interviews. Make it more interactive with handheld audience cameras. Basically, I just want a way in, and those are some cool ideas.
It's supposed to be a FUN show, and right now, it's kind of like being forced to go to your grandmother's funeral. I got more laughs off my Twitter feed than from the actual show. I doubt that's what the show producers were going for. It's time for the Oscars to catch up with its audience...whatever's left of it, that is.
However, I did see "The Hurt Locker", at a special screening at the Portland Women's Film Festival where Kathryn Bigelow was in attendance. And even then, in the months B.A. (Before Avatar), I predicted this film would go a long way. I knew it would be lauded come Oscar time, and when Ms. Bigelow was nominated, I knew she would win.
So I watched the telecast, as I have every year since I can remember. I recall the glory years when Johnny Carson hosted, and it felt like a great big cocktail party. Then there was Billy Crystal, the best host in recent memory. This year's show had to be one of the worst I've ever seen, which was a sincere disappointment. It was promised to be the best ever, and...NOT. In the past decade, the Oscar broadcast has become a running joke in the industry, because it's too long and it's too boring and everyone's always coming up with ways to make it better.
This is where I come in.
As a veteran of more than (I hate to say) three decades of Oscar-watchin', I have come up with a list of suggestions for next year's Oscar producers. I'm the one you want to please, the person who's sitting in their yoga pants on the couch, eating Oatmeal Squares out of the box (this may or may not be a rhetorical setup). Here's how you make the show worth watching again.
1. One Host to Rule Them All. Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin should have KILLED together. Instead, their patter was awkward and mostly unfunny. They were better when presenting separately. And I think this year will make everyone pine even more for Billy Crystal and his outrageously hilarious medleys and film montages. Bring him back. This show needs a solid leader who can keep it moving.
2. Keep The Clips to a Minimum. Speaking of montages, enough already. Yes, you're the Oscars, we already know you're there to honor the movies. But it's time to quit patting yourselves on the back with this kind of filler. The salute to horror films was a waste of time and editing. Films not really in the horror genre were shown ("Marathon Man"?), and the fact that the Leprechaun from "Leprechaun" was shown on the Oscars makes my stomach hurt. The only montage we want to see is the In Memoriam reel, aka The Dead People Montage. And this year, Farrah Fawcett was left out, which is an embarassing oversight for the Academy.
3. No Dancing. Ever. This isn't the Grammys or "So You Think You Can Dance to Film Scores". The Oscars did us a solid this year by sparing us the usually unbearable live performances of the nominated songs by showing a quick clip reel. Why couldn't they do the same with the Best Score nominees? Now whenever I see Jeremy Renner, I'm going to think of him having to watch a dancer do the Robot in a "Hurt Locker" dance sequence. You might as well call that sequence The Bathroom Break.
4. Pare Down the Broadcast Categories. I realize the mother of the guy who won Best Documentary Short Subject is kvelling somewhere, but the harsh truth is that a hearty portion of the viewing audience couldn't care less. They want the meat. They want the big categories. They don't want to have to sit through a guy muttering his way through a list of thank yous. If you want people to watch the show in its entirety, these are the categories they care about:
Best Picture
Best Director
Best Actor
Best Actress
Best Supporting Actor
Best Supporting Actress
A smaller portion of the viewers will care about costumes and sets and sound effects editing. Perhaps those categories could be awarded earlier, and broadcast on ABC Family. Then, once we hit the prime time, you go live on ABC at 9pm, and pack those six categories into a tight, 2-hour broadcast. That way, when it's getting to the point where your eyes are rolling back in your head because it's so late and you just want to see WHO WINS ALREADY, the sight of five different actors coming out on stage to honor the acting nominess won't make you want to throw your glass of HI-C at the screen.
4. Hire Smart People for the Pre-Show Coverage. It's clear Kathy Ireland was fresh off the Fembot assembly line when 'interviewing' the nominees she cornered. Why not get actual movie buffs to host your pre-game, so that their questions aren't innocuous and condescending? They may not be as telegenic, but these actors see pretty people all the damn time. Get someone who knows something about film to ask the questions next year. PLEASE.
5. Get More Civilians Involved. The biggest joke about the Oscars is that it's like the high school prom, only everyone is rich and pretty. We get to watch the insiders' party, but without us little people, there wouldn't be all that money going around to make their movies. The emotional connection isn't there, because most of us don't know what it's like to wear fancy gowns and ride in limos and get to find out what George Clooney smells like. Next year, let some non-industry people come on board to live-blog the show from a non-jaded perspective. Or have a contest to have a movie fan stand on the red carpet and do interviews. Make it more interactive with handheld audience cameras. Basically, I just want a way in, and those are some cool ideas.
It's supposed to be a FUN show, and right now, it's kind of like being forced to go to your grandmother's funeral. I got more laughs off my Twitter feed than from the actual show. I doubt that's what the show producers were going for. It's time for the Oscars to catch up with its audience...whatever's left of it, that is.
The Stephen King and I
When I was a sophomore in high school, I wrote a paper for my Honors English class comparing and contrasting the works of H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King. While there was plenty of material at the library on Lovecraft, I couldn't find too much biographical material on King, whom I worshipped at the time.
I was as ballsy then as I am now, so 15-year-old Tara Dublin wrote a letter (on PAPER, even!) to Stephen King, and mailed it to him via his publisher. I told him about my paper, that I was a big fan, and asked if THE DARK TOWER was available anywhere, because it was out of print at the time. I didn't really expect much, but I had learned early on that it never hurts to ask, because the worst thing someone can say is no. And I figured if it never got to him, I'd cobble together whatever information I could get from magazine articles. He's a busy guy, after all, writing stuff to scare the bejeebus out of everyone, and I was just this little girl from New Jersey.
So imagine my surprise when I received a packet of information from Stephen King just a few weeks later. It was a generic, fan-club type mailer with his bio- and bibiliographies. It also included a photocopied letter from Mr. King, explaining that in the past, he'd had the time to answer all fan inquiries himself, but there was now so much mail, he couldn't keep up with it. It's understandable. But at the bottom of that page, he'd personally typed: "Hope I'm not toooo late with this info. Good luck and hope you get an A! SK"
I brought that letter to school to show to my English teacher, Mr. Martin. He was duly impressed, as were many of my friends, and my mother. This was the same year I had my first ever letter published in a magazine (a missive to PEOPLE magazine regarding Band Aid), so my mom predicted I was headed for my own fame via the written word.
I simply basked in the fact that Stephen King had taken the time to read my letter AND to type out a personal response to me. It was just cool, the first of many celebrity encounters I would come to have in my life.
Shortly after I turned in my paper, I got another surprise in the mail. Check it out...it's become one of my most prized possessions:
If you can't quite make it out (it's framed and I don't want to handle it too much), this is what it says:
5/31/85
Dear Tara Dublin:
Thank you very much for your interest. As of November 1985 Don Grant in Kingston, Rhode Island, told me THE DARK TOWER is officially out of print. If you're still interested in obtaining a copy, may I suggest you contact a reputable dealer of used books and out of print editions. May I also suggest you refuse to pay more than $50.
Stephen King
Forgot to enclose this information
with the stuff for your term paper.
Now, I ask you: how COOL is that? Stephen King didn't have to write to me. He was probably working on MISERY at the time or something. That just rules. And if that wasn't enough, check this out: Stephen and his wife Tabitha own The Zone Corporation, a central Maine radio station group consisting of WZON, WZON-FM, and WKIT, which has the tagline "Stephen King's Rock 'n' Roll Station." I mean, come on. The man supports terrestrial radio as well. DUDE.
I look at this framed postcard every day of my life. I remind myself that Stephen King was on the brink of poverty when "Carrie" sold. I tell myself that if my book does indeed ever get published, I will answer the hopeful kids who write to me, because Stephen King set the example of how to remain a class act while being a big deal writer at the same time.
And if anyone out there actually knows Stephen King, shoot him this link, would you? It's the only way I know how to thank him for being such a badass all these years....and for helping me get an A on that paper. ; )
I was as ballsy then as I am now, so 15-year-old Tara Dublin wrote a letter (on PAPER, even!) to Stephen King, and mailed it to him via his publisher. I told him about my paper, that I was a big fan, and asked if THE DARK TOWER was available anywhere, because it was out of print at the time. I didn't really expect much, but I had learned early on that it never hurts to ask, because the worst thing someone can say is no. And I figured if it never got to him, I'd cobble together whatever information I could get from magazine articles. He's a busy guy, after all, writing stuff to scare the bejeebus out of everyone, and I was just this little girl from New Jersey.
So imagine my surprise when I received a packet of information from Stephen King just a few weeks later. It was a generic, fan-club type mailer with his bio- and bibiliographies. It also included a photocopied letter from Mr. King, explaining that in the past, he'd had the time to answer all fan inquiries himself, but there was now so much mail, he couldn't keep up with it. It's understandable. But at the bottom of that page, he'd personally typed: "Hope I'm not toooo late with this info. Good luck and hope you get an A! SK"
I brought that letter to school to show to my English teacher, Mr. Martin. He was duly impressed, as were many of my friends, and my mother. This was the same year I had my first ever letter published in a magazine (a missive to PEOPLE magazine regarding Band Aid), so my mom predicted I was headed for my own fame via the written word.
I simply basked in the fact that Stephen King had taken the time to read my letter AND to type out a personal response to me. It was just cool, the first of many celebrity encounters I would come to have in my life.
Shortly after I turned in my paper, I got another surprise in the mail. Check it out...it's become one of my most prized possessions:
If you can't quite make it out (it's framed and I don't want to handle it too much), this is what it says:
5/31/85
Dear Tara Dublin:
Thank you very much for your interest. As of November 1985 Don Grant in Kingston, Rhode Island, told me THE DARK TOWER is officially out of print. If you're still interested in obtaining a copy, may I suggest you contact a reputable dealer of used books and out of print editions. May I also suggest you refuse to pay more than $50.
Stephen King
Forgot to enclose this information
with the stuff for your term paper.
Now, I ask you: how COOL is that? Stephen King didn't have to write to me. He was probably working on MISERY at the time or something. That just rules. And if that wasn't enough, check this out: Stephen and his wife Tabitha own The Zone Corporation, a central Maine radio station group consisting of WZON, WZON-FM, and WKIT, which has the tagline "Stephen King's Rock 'n' Roll Station." I mean, come on. The man supports terrestrial radio as well. DUDE.
I look at this framed postcard every day of my life. I remind myself that Stephen King was on the brink of poverty when "Carrie" sold. I tell myself that if my book does indeed ever get published, I will answer the hopeful kids who write to me, because Stephen King set the example of how to remain a class act while being a big deal writer at the same time.
And if anyone out there actually knows Stephen King, shoot him this link, would you? It's the only way I know how to thank him for being such a badass all these years....and for helping me get an A on that paper. ; )
Here Comes Your 19th Nervous Breakdown
Yesterday was bad.
It didn't start out that way. Yesterday (February 9, for those reading this at a later date) was gloriously sunny and warm for this time of year. Thanks to a connection at KINK, I had passes to a session with the Barenaked Ladies, a band I'd always liked in a casual way. I was curious about how they'd sound without their main lead singer, who'd parted ways from the band a couple of years ago. And, to be honest, I wanted certain people over there to see me and remember that I'm still kicking around town, and I'm available.
My sweet friend Ann joined me, and as we were led up to the KINK Live Lounge, I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach. I used to do this all the time, host sessions with bands. And now, I was a guest, just another face in the crowd. Still, I put on a brave face, and said my hellos to the wonderful people on the KINK staff that I've had the pleasure of meeting before. Ann and I settled in and the band took the stage. The BNL are known for their sense of humor, and they didn't disappoint on that level. But what people forget about them is that they're also seriously talented musicians. In the middle of their set, they played their new single, "You Run Away". It's not a funny lark like "One Week"; in fact, it's the polar opposite. You can hear it HERE.
When Ed Robertson sang the line, "I made a mess/who doesn't?/I did my best/But it wasn't enough", I lost it. I started crying. CRYING. In public. Because of a line in a song, and also because that part hit home, and it hit hard.
I made a mess of some professional relationships because of an unfortunate slip of the tongue, and I still am feeling badly about that. I am also still unemployed, which makes me feel like a failure in a lot of ways, and so right there in the KINK Live Lounge, my all-day Pity Party began.
After the session was over, we were offered a tour of the radio station. Now, I didn't really need it, having had been over there the week after I was fired (and thank you again, Dennis Constantine, for your kindness in that meeting). But Annie had never seen a radio station, and so I indulged her. I was fine until we were led into the booth, and there was my ex-competition, Steve Pringle, doing his thing. He's a really good guy, and we joked about how he'd had that gig long enough, he was ready to move on, and he should take an extended vacation so I could fill in, ha-ha.
That sealed it. The lump I'd been holding onto moved from my throat to my stomach and settled there. It was one of those moments we've probably all had, where everything is dark and everything you think has a finality to it that could become self-fulfilling prophecy: I will never be on the radio again.
I mean, I know I'll be on the radio again. I'm still all about KZME, and someday they hope to give me a show once it's live. So there's that. My "time off" has been occupied with some good things, like being able to volunteer with the Human Rights Campaign. But I walked out of KINK with a dark cloud over my head nonetheless.
Then I went over to Cupcake Jones, to support Live Wire Radio, and lo and behold, it was filled with so many fabulous and talented people. In the 45 minutes I ended up standing around (and drinking surprisingly tasty $8 "Champagne"), I encountered local writers, performers, and a notable filmmaker, all of whom I consider friends. And all of whom had a job, or a class, or a rehearsal to go to. The stone in my stomach twisted and burned, and yet I kept smiling. I adore these people and support their every effort, and it wasn't jealousy I was feeling. It was disappointment, in myself. Because the only place I had to go was home (with a pit stop at Whole Foods).
It just made me ache for something to finally happen already, DAMMIT.
Because, there's also the book thing. I've sent it off, and it's in the hands of a very capable agent, who is going to decide my fate. He will either say yes or no. He will assess my talent, he will decide if what I've written is something people other than my mom will want to read. So I'm waiting on that. And like the wise philosopher Tom Petty once wrote, the waiting is the hardest part.
I feel like I've been in this eternal holding pattern since May. And I don't like it. I'm frustrated, I'm anxious, I'm worried about my mortgage and my sons. Mostly, I'm exhausted from keeping up the front. I'm keeping it together, but barely. With every step forward (the agent, the performance I did last week), there is a yank backwards (dead car battery, broken dishwasher, boyfriend not getting the job we thought he was going to get). My new mantra has gone from "This too shall pass" to "Well, this is another funny story to tell Oprah", mainly just to make that joke.
But I'm tired of joking about my life. It's enough already. I can't keep putting up this front for much longer, kids. I burned my 2009 calendar, I'm trying to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative, but even an optimist is entitled to the occasional journey into the abyss.
If anyone needs me, I'll be smashing the crap out of tennis balls on Wii Fit.
It didn't start out that way. Yesterday (February 9, for those reading this at a later date) was gloriously sunny and warm for this time of year. Thanks to a connection at KINK, I had passes to a session with the Barenaked Ladies, a band I'd always liked in a casual way. I was curious about how they'd sound without their main lead singer, who'd parted ways from the band a couple of years ago. And, to be honest, I wanted certain people over there to see me and remember that I'm still kicking around town, and I'm available.
My sweet friend Ann joined me, and as we were led up to the KINK Live Lounge, I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach. I used to do this all the time, host sessions with bands. And now, I was a guest, just another face in the crowd. Still, I put on a brave face, and said my hellos to the wonderful people on the KINK staff that I've had the pleasure of meeting before. Ann and I settled in and the band took the stage. The BNL are known for their sense of humor, and they didn't disappoint on that level. But what people forget about them is that they're also seriously talented musicians. In the middle of their set, they played their new single, "You Run Away". It's not a funny lark like "One Week"; in fact, it's the polar opposite. You can hear it HERE.
When Ed Robertson sang the line, "I made a mess/who doesn't?/I did my best/But it wasn't enough", I lost it. I started crying. CRYING. In public. Because of a line in a song, and also because that part hit home, and it hit hard.
I made a mess of some professional relationships because of an unfortunate slip of the tongue, and I still am feeling badly about that. I am also still unemployed, which makes me feel like a failure in a lot of ways, and so right there in the KINK Live Lounge, my all-day Pity Party began.
After the session was over, we were offered a tour of the radio station. Now, I didn't really need it, having had been over there the week after I was fired (and thank you again, Dennis Constantine, for your kindness in that meeting). But Annie had never seen a radio station, and so I indulged her. I was fine until we were led into the booth, and there was my ex-competition, Steve Pringle, doing his thing. He's a really good guy, and we joked about how he'd had that gig long enough, he was ready to move on, and he should take an extended vacation so I could fill in, ha-ha.
That sealed it. The lump I'd been holding onto moved from my throat to my stomach and settled there. It was one of those moments we've probably all had, where everything is dark and everything you think has a finality to it that could become self-fulfilling prophecy: I will never be on the radio again.
I mean, I know I'll be on the radio again. I'm still all about KZME, and someday they hope to give me a show once it's live. So there's that. My "time off" has been occupied with some good things, like being able to volunteer with the Human Rights Campaign. But I walked out of KINK with a dark cloud over my head nonetheless.
Then I went over to Cupcake Jones, to support Live Wire Radio, and lo and behold, it was filled with so many fabulous and talented people. In the 45 minutes I ended up standing around (and drinking surprisingly tasty $8 "Champagne"), I encountered local writers, performers, and a notable filmmaker, all of whom I consider friends. And all of whom had a job, or a class, or a rehearsal to go to. The stone in my stomach twisted and burned, and yet I kept smiling. I adore these people and support their every effort, and it wasn't jealousy I was feeling. It was disappointment, in myself. Because the only place I had to go was home (with a pit stop at Whole Foods).
It just made me ache for something to finally happen already, DAMMIT.
Because, there's also the book thing. I've sent it off, and it's in the hands of a very capable agent, who is going to decide my fate. He will either say yes or no. He will assess my talent, he will decide if what I've written is something people other than my mom will want to read. So I'm waiting on that. And like the wise philosopher Tom Petty once wrote, the waiting is the hardest part.
I feel like I've been in this eternal holding pattern since May. And I don't like it. I'm frustrated, I'm anxious, I'm worried about my mortgage and my sons. Mostly, I'm exhausted from keeping up the front. I'm keeping it together, but barely. With every step forward (the agent, the performance I did last week), there is a yank backwards (dead car battery, broken dishwasher, boyfriend not getting the job we thought he was going to get). My new mantra has gone from "This too shall pass" to "Well, this is another funny story to tell Oprah", mainly just to make that joke.
But I'm tired of joking about my life. It's enough already. I can't keep putting up this front for much longer, kids. I burned my 2009 calendar, I'm trying to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative, but even an optimist is entitled to the occasional journey into the abyss.
If anyone needs me, I'll be smashing the crap out of tennis balls on Wii Fit.
ME AND MY BIG MOUTH
I have a big mouth. I talk a lot. Sometimes, my passion gets the better of me, and I end up saying stuff that's taken the wrong way, and people I care about get mad. I could skywrite a thousand times my intentions, but once you make people mad at you, it's really hard to make them un-mad. But still, I'm going to try.
I was asked to call in to a local radio show this morning, on 101.1 KUFO. Kidd Chris, the morning host, openly bites the hand that feeds him, complaining about the state of radio. Last week he was ranting about how, when anything goes wrong in radio (be it sales, ratings, the coffee maker's broken), they fire the DJ. That falls into the "It's funny 'cause it's true" category, so I sent him an email. The fact is, there aren't many people who know what he's talking about on a personal level. We had a nice email exchange, where he learned about me and how I'd been fired, and he invited me to call into his show this morning to talk about it.
Now, I thought this over carefully. Did I want to be back on Portland radio? Hell yeah. Did I want it to be on KUFO? Not as a first choice, but this was offered to me as a chance to speak openly about Portland radio. If nothing else, I could make a plea for a great local station because of all the people who've been fired in this last year. So I accepted, knowing that he'd probably try to go to dark places, and I was going to do my best to not go there with him. There was banter, there was a chance for me to make my plea about the power of radio at the terrestrial level, it was going fine.
And then came the old "Why don't you just do a podcast?"
I have to tell you all this: I have heard that about 1,000,000 times since I got laid off. Unfortunately, I replied with a very offhand comment about how 'anyone can do a podcast'. And that pissed people off. People I admire, and care about, and want to succeed because they are all so very good at what they do.
Here's the thing: while anyone CAN do a podcast because of the technology that is out there, NOT JUST ANYONE can do a GREAT podcast. I believe with all my heart that I am not capable of doing a great podcast. Not unless there's a team of people to help me. Because I have no techie skills, no fun sidekick to chat with, no money to build a home studio, and frankly, because I'd rather be an employee than a boss. It's so much work to maintain a great podcast, and I really don't know how the people who are so good at them make them work day after day.
I liked going to work, being in the studio, having the guidelines to put together a great show. I still believe with all my heart that one day, I'll have that again. In the meantime, I suggest you all bookmark PDX.FM, as I have. Because the people on there have everything it takes to make great podcasts. Not only do I admire them, I'm jealous of them. I know I can't do what they do. And I hope they keep doing it, because the internet is a better place with them on it.
To all the podcasters in Portland, please accept this as a heartfelt apology. I will certainly be more careful about what I say and how I say it in the future.
I was asked to call in to a local radio show this morning, on 101.1 KUFO. Kidd Chris, the morning host, openly bites the hand that feeds him, complaining about the state of radio. Last week he was ranting about how, when anything goes wrong in radio (be it sales, ratings, the coffee maker's broken), they fire the DJ. That falls into the "It's funny 'cause it's true" category, so I sent him an email. The fact is, there aren't many people who know what he's talking about on a personal level. We had a nice email exchange, where he learned about me and how I'd been fired, and he invited me to call into his show this morning to talk about it.
Now, I thought this over carefully. Did I want to be back on Portland radio? Hell yeah. Did I want it to be on KUFO? Not as a first choice, but this was offered to me as a chance to speak openly about Portland radio. If nothing else, I could make a plea for a great local station because of all the people who've been fired in this last year. So I accepted, knowing that he'd probably try to go to dark places, and I was going to do my best to not go there with him. There was banter, there was a chance for me to make my plea about the power of radio at the terrestrial level, it was going fine.
And then came the old "Why don't you just do a podcast?"
I have to tell you all this: I have heard that about 1,000,000 times since I got laid off. Unfortunately, I replied with a very offhand comment about how 'anyone can do a podcast'. And that pissed people off. People I admire, and care about, and want to succeed because they are all so very good at what they do.
Here's the thing: while anyone CAN do a podcast because of the technology that is out there, NOT JUST ANYONE can do a GREAT podcast. I believe with all my heart that I am not capable of doing a great podcast. Not unless there's a team of people to help me. Because I have no techie skills, no fun sidekick to chat with, no money to build a home studio, and frankly, because I'd rather be an employee than a boss. It's so much work to maintain a great podcast, and I really don't know how the people who are so good at them make them work day after day.
I liked going to work, being in the studio, having the guidelines to put together a great show. I still believe with all my heart that one day, I'll have that again. In the meantime, I suggest you all bookmark PDX.FM, as I have. Because the people on there have everything it takes to make great podcasts. Not only do I admire them, I'm jealous of them. I know I can't do what they do. And I hope they keep doing it, because the internet is a better place with them on it.
To all the podcasters in Portland, please accept this as a heartfelt apology. I will certainly be more careful about what I say and how I say it in the future.
Ode to Jack
My firstborn baby boy, Jack Henry, turns 11 today (January 8th). He shares his birthday with Elvis, David Bowie, and Stephen Hawking, among others; upon learning this soon after his birth, I decided he was sure to be a musical genius.
And oh, he is that and more, my Jack. People tell you how much you will love your children, but your body can't comprehend it until your child that you've carried inside you is placed in your arms. In those first few seconds of our life together, Jack opened his eyes at the sound of my voice and looked right at me. From that moment on, we were tight. Those early months and years, where we spent so much time getting to know each other, are the most delicious of all my memories. I talked to him constantly from birth, so that he would pick up language early; his first word, at 13 months, was "car." Like me, he read early, and often. For the first three and half years of his life, I was his main teacher until I handed him over to the wonderful people at his Montessori school. By then, I knew he was brighter than I, and I wouldn't be able to keep up with his intense desire to learn.
Jack has gone through all of the typical boy phases: obsessions with construction led to many years of Bob the Builder, then Thomas the Tank Engine (the latter now his younger brother's main hobby). There was a brief period of dinosaur fascination, but then The Lego Years took hold. Just before he turned 6, he put together a Lego ship all by himself. It took him hours, but he was happiest when building from that age until about a year ago.
Now we are into the Long Rule of The Video Game, an era I see no end to. But Jack also loves music, and is currently all about The Beatles. He is learning the guitar, still plays the violin, and is an excellent swimmer. He would still rather read than do most anything else. Jack is sweet and kind, a pure hearted soul who doesn't have a mean bone in his body (unlike his younger brother, The Booger) and goes out of his way to make sure everyone around him is doing well. His empathy knows no bounds, and if he doesn't become a chef, like he's currently planning to do, I could see him being a wonderful veterinarian someday because of his love of animals.
My baby, my boy. My son. He was this little tiny peanut baby in my arms, eleven years ago.
And now he's this big 11-year-old, nearly as tall as I am, brilliant and beautiful, smart and loving, infuriating but hilarious, a wonderful big brother and a fabulous dining companion. I could not have asked for a more perfect first born child than my Jack Henry. Oh my man, I love him so.
And oh, he is that and more, my Jack. People tell you how much you will love your children, but your body can't comprehend it until your child that you've carried inside you is placed in your arms. In those first few seconds of our life together, Jack opened his eyes at the sound of my voice and looked right at me. From that moment on, we were tight. Those early months and years, where we spent so much time getting to know each other, are the most delicious of all my memories. I talked to him constantly from birth, so that he would pick up language early; his first word, at 13 months, was "car." Like me, he read early, and often. For the first three and half years of his life, I was his main teacher until I handed him over to the wonderful people at his Montessori school. By then, I knew he was brighter than I, and I wouldn't be able to keep up with his intense desire to learn.
Jack has gone through all of the typical boy phases: obsessions with construction led to many years of Bob the Builder, then Thomas the Tank Engine (the latter now his younger brother's main hobby). There was a brief period of dinosaur fascination, but then The Lego Years took hold. Just before he turned 6, he put together a Lego ship all by himself. It took him hours, but he was happiest when building from that age until about a year ago.
Now we are into the Long Rule of The Video Game, an era I see no end to. But Jack also loves music, and is currently all about The Beatles. He is learning the guitar, still plays the violin, and is an excellent swimmer. He would still rather read than do most anything else. Jack is sweet and kind, a pure hearted soul who doesn't have a mean bone in his body (unlike his younger brother, The Booger) and goes out of his way to make sure everyone around him is doing well. His empathy knows no bounds, and if he doesn't become a chef, like he's currently planning to do, I could see him being a wonderful veterinarian someday because of his love of animals.
My baby, my boy. My son. He was this little tiny peanut baby in my arms, eleven years ago.
And now he's this big 11-year-old, nearly as tall as I am, brilliant and beautiful, smart and loving, infuriating but hilarious, a wonderful big brother and a fabulous dining companion. I could not have asked for a more perfect first born child than my Jack Henry. Oh my man, I love him so.
Highlights of 2009
I know I've been bitching plenty about this year (and my mother says I never complain, ha!). I wanted to try to begin the new year with a good attitude, so I decided to make a list of good things about 2009. Positivity begets positivity. SO, here we go!
1. Of all the people that died this year, I wasn't one of them.
2. My kids still think I'm awesome and my boyfriend didn't dump me despite the constant crap.
3. My friends and family stuck by me without judgment and with plenty of encouragement.
4. I had the greatest birthday party of my entire life. Those of you who were there, I cannot thank you enough. I will hold the memory of that night with me forever.
5. I reconnected with a very special old friend, whose live show was the best of the year. 
6. I wrote a book, which my editor believes WILL sell in 2010. Please, publishing peoplegods, please.
7. The world's greatest cat continues to live in my house.
8. The Hangover and I Love You, Man made me laugh so hard, I forgot that I was depressed.
9. Them Crooked Vultures made me love music again.
10. Um...cupcakes? Yeah, I ate a lot of cupcakes this year.
Well, at least I tried. There just wasn't a whole lot of great things in 2009. Everyone seems to be in agreeance on this (my favorite Durst-ism of the past decade), so I'm putting a fork in this bad boy and calling it done.
This time next year, I'd like to be blogging about how mind-blowingly radtastical 2010 was. Oh, yes, how I'd like that.
Bring On 2010 Already!
I am SO over 2009.
2009 kicked my ass in ways no other year could match. 2003 tried, what with Ben being born early and spending 12 days in the NICU at Emmanuel Hospital. 2005 wasn't too kind, neither: that's when I got divorced and began Ms. Tara's Wild Ride of Stress that carried into 2006, another not-great time. That was the year I developed a heart condition and had to have a surgical procedure to correct it.
2007 and 2008 decided to cut me some slack and let me have some good times. Thanks for that.
But oh, 2009, you have been one big, bad bitch, and you need to go. I realize you're gonna stick around for a few more weeks, but let me be the first to send you off and give you the kind of eulogy you so rightly deserve.
I have come to bury 2009, not praise it.
While it started off as the most promising year in recent history, thanks to Mr. Obama taking office (and when a year has its peak in January, you know you're in for it), it rapidly declined into a fiery shame spiral of death, fear, panic, poverty, and uncertainty. The weakening economy, the war in Afghanistan, and a never-ending line of celebrity deaths dominated the headlines. The news was so bad, we allowed ourselves to watch reality TV show marriages collapse and followed a floating (and passenger-less) balloon for hours.
While my personal life at home thankfully continued to thrive, my professional life suffered its greatest blow in 2009, and I am still in recovery. Being laid off from a job you loved is bad enough; being laid off from a job that puts you in the public eye is harder. Everyone who knows you is watching to see what you'll do next. In public, I put on a happy face and let people know I wasn't taking it lying down. But oh, at home? Let's just say the summer of 2009 passed in a haze of hysterical crying, pot smoke, and diarrhea. I lost at least 10 pounds thanks to what my mom calls The Aggravation Diet. My sweet, devoted man (who dealt with his own crap this year--stand by) stayed by my side and did nothing but encourage me. I never expected to be a 40-year-old unemployed single mother, but here I am: a statistic. I never thought I'd ever have to worry about money, but here I am: scared about the holidays and whether or not we'll have a house to celebrate in come December 2010.
I found out who my real friends were; certainly not the ex-co-worker who simply sent me a text the day after I was canned: "R U OK?" Seriously? We worked together for five years, and you can't even be bothered to write out the words "Are" and "you"? Get bent. Those I expected to stand by me vanished; others whom I didn't know well surprisingly stepped up and have become close allies.
Thanks to 2009 being such a JERK, I was able to devote time to writing, something I've always loved to do but never managed to get serious about. So I wrote a book. In about 5 weeks. I am working with a fantastic editor and hope to get an agent. But something tells me it won't happen in 2009, because 2009 sucks ass and doesn't want me to succeed or be happy.
2009 took my friend Marc's mother Megan, and my boyfriend's close friend, Will. Both to cancer, both at different stages in their lives. Megan, close to 70, felt she'd had a wonderful life and was ready to go out on her own terms. Conversely, Will suffered from stomachaches for well over a year, finally went to the doctor, was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer, and died roughly two weeks later at the age of 28. Tell me, what do you say when something like that happens? Don't roll out that "God has a plan" shit. 2009 was the year that made me start to question everything we've ever been taught about a supreme deity. If there is a God (and we can get all philosophical some other time), I'm guessing S/He was on vacation the entire year.
So goodbye, 2009, and good riddance to you. From the OctoMom to the Twilight Moms, from Jon & Kate to Spencer & Heidi, from Sarah Palin to Glenn Beck, you have brought us enough misery to last a lifetime. I'll be very glad to close the book on the '00s, the oughts, the whatever-the-hell-they-were.
Come on 2010, please be the year we need you to be.
2009 kicked my ass in ways no other year could match. 2003 tried, what with Ben being born early and spending 12 days in the NICU at Emmanuel Hospital. 2005 wasn't too kind, neither: that's when I got divorced and began Ms. Tara's Wild Ride of Stress that carried into 2006, another not-great time. That was the year I developed a heart condition and had to have a surgical procedure to correct it.
2007 and 2008 decided to cut me some slack and let me have some good times. Thanks for that.
But oh, 2009, you have been one big, bad bitch, and you need to go. I realize you're gonna stick around for a few more weeks, but let me be the first to send you off and give you the kind of eulogy you so rightly deserve.
I have come to bury 2009, not praise it.
While it started off as the most promising year in recent history, thanks to Mr. Obama taking office (and when a year has its peak in January, you know you're in for it), it rapidly declined into a fiery shame spiral of death, fear, panic, poverty, and uncertainty. The weakening economy, the war in Afghanistan, and a never-ending line of celebrity deaths dominated the headlines. The news was so bad, we allowed ourselves to watch reality TV show marriages collapse and followed a floating (and passenger-less) balloon for hours.
While my personal life at home thankfully continued to thrive, my professional life suffered its greatest blow in 2009, and I am still in recovery. Being laid off from a job you loved is bad enough; being laid off from a job that puts you in the public eye is harder. Everyone who knows you is watching to see what you'll do next. In public, I put on a happy face and let people know I wasn't taking it lying down. But oh, at home? Let's just say the summer of 2009 passed in a haze of hysterical crying, pot smoke, and diarrhea. I lost at least 10 pounds thanks to what my mom calls The Aggravation Diet. My sweet, devoted man (who dealt with his own crap this year--stand by) stayed by my side and did nothing but encourage me. I never expected to be a 40-year-old unemployed single mother, but here I am: a statistic. I never thought I'd ever have to worry about money, but here I am: scared about the holidays and whether or not we'll have a house to celebrate in come December 2010.
I found out who my real friends were; certainly not the ex-co-worker who simply sent me a text the day after I was canned: "R U OK?" Seriously? We worked together for five years, and you can't even be bothered to write out the words "Are" and "you"? Get bent. Those I expected to stand by me vanished; others whom I didn't know well surprisingly stepped up and have become close allies.
Thanks to 2009 being such a JERK, I was able to devote time to writing, something I've always loved to do but never managed to get serious about. So I wrote a book. In about 5 weeks. I am working with a fantastic editor and hope to get an agent. But something tells me it won't happen in 2009, because 2009 sucks ass and doesn't want me to succeed or be happy.
2009 took my friend Marc's mother Megan, and my boyfriend's close friend, Will. Both to cancer, both at different stages in their lives. Megan, close to 70, felt she'd had a wonderful life and was ready to go out on her own terms. Conversely, Will suffered from stomachaches for well over a year, finally went to the doctor, was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer, and died roughly two weeks later at the age of 28. Tell me, what do you say when something like that happens? Don't roll out that "God has a plan" shit. 2009 was the year that made me start to question everything we've ever been taught about a supreme deity. If there is a God (and we can get all philosophical some other time), I'm guessing S/He was on vacation the entire year.
So goodbye, 2009, and good riddance to you. From the OctoMom to the Twilight Moms, from Jon & Kate to Spencer & Heidi, from Sarah Palin to Glenn Beck, you have brought us enough misery to last a lifetime. I'll be very glad to close the book on the '00s, the oughts, the whatever-the-hell-they-were.
Come on 2010, please be the year we need you to be.
