Author: Aaron Collins, Topic: Space

Outer space is really cool, my friend Marty used to say over a tall can of Milwaukee's Best Ice. He even wrote it in black sharpie accompanied by magic marker drawings of planets and stars; like a child's artwork, it was hung on the fridge with a magnet in Dan's apartment. He loved to talk about Carl Sagan and introduced me to the original Cosmos documentary series. We would sit and drink beer after beer, watching and excitedly talking about the universe. Marty would say in slurred speech: The probability of our civilization encountering another during the arch of its existence over unfathomably vast distances, is very very small.  He would then crush the empty can in his hand and place it amongst the graveyard of empties on his desk. I told him that in my last days, I wanted to be launched into space toward a black hole so that I could see if I would really be stretched out like taffy or if it would be a portal that would lead me into another world. Can you grab me another beer out of the crisper, Marty would ask. I always obliged. A quick viewing of Marty's apartment would have alarmed most sane people. There were empty cardboard boxes scattered about from his case-a-day regimen,

empty cans with cigarette ash peppered on the top, a few holes and dents in the plaster in the living room and in the bathroom, and a sink full of dishes crusted with old food, exuding a foul odor. In his freezer there were empty Sky Vodka bottles and half a box of freezer burnt chicken patties. I ignored all that as I walked to the fridge for his Milwaukee's Best Ice and whatever affordable/high alcohol craft beer I could afford. He later told me that the damage to the apartment walls were caused by him stumbling into them and in other cases punching them in some alcohol induced rage. But my own inebriated state numbed me to these facts. 

       Marty introduced me to one of my favorite bands. Their ambient drones swelled through the speakers and it felt like a benevolent universal presence had evoked its peace over the room, while also reminding you of the emptiness and overwhelming vastness of space. The sounds would slowly come into being out of a vacuum and gently fade away into nothingness, only for a new sound to emerge quietly after. They were guitars that sounded like starlight. And with his eyes tearing up he told me that the music would envelope him in a serene weightlessness and made him feel the power of the cosmos. As much as he insisted he was an atheist, I think he was actually in search of a higher being. 

       On nights like these, we would drink through the night and into the early morning. Marty liked hanging with me because I drank like he did; though I've always thought he drank more than me, got more drunk than me. He was the only person with whom I played a drinking game in which there were only two players. Sometimes while sitting on the couch in deep drunken discussions, he would put his arm around me. Not wanting to hurt his feelings I allowed it. I sensed that it was out of loneliness, that he longed for love and companionship.

      Then,  a blackout. Marty at some point was crawling to his bedroom on all fours mumbling to himself and occasionally yelling obscenities at me. I tried to help him to his bed but he shouted and slapped my arms away. His eyes were glazed over, blank, not seeing. He seemed to be somewhere between a dream and awake; like a child having night terror; I left him on the floor.

      After vomiting in the bathroom I would lay on the couch, spinning. Thinking about spiral galaxies, death, Marty's alcoholism coupled with his child-like wonder for the stars. I thought about my alcoholism and where this life would lead me. 

        Only a few months later I got thirty days of continuous sobriety together. I didn't hear from Marty for sometime until one night he called me, threatening to kill himself. The police officer at the scene told me he was okay and that they'd taken him to the hospital. They told him that he had the blood pressure of a fifty year old man with a history of heart problems. From what I hear he's been sober for some time, living under lock and key at his parents house in Dayton. I wonder if he still looks up at the sky, if he still seeks that connectedness with God, the Universe, and Man. If he still blacks out, stars around his head, spinning into a quasar, gathering pulsating energy and shrieking out through the blackness in hopes of reaching another soul, a better world. 

Topic: Space

Author: Chris Dunn

As I type this, sitting in a spacious house that I share with one special lady and a pair of very fortunate cats, I count myself lucky. I managed to score this space, in one of the currently thriving communities in Cincinnati, through the power of pure inertia. As the torrent of the 90s finally blew to a close, and everyone began to settle in the early 00s, I simply stayed put. One by one, all the other members of the lose affiliation known collectively as The Pit, moved out and on, settled down or drifted away. And then there was just me. Me and all this space, but it wasn’t always this way.

“Norwood?!” I remember Drew asking derisively as soon as he got me on the phone. He did not hold the neighborhood in the highest esteem and wanted to let me know what he thought of my latest housing choice. But, hey! He wasn’t in my situation. Time was tight and procrastinators don’t typically get their first choice. Norwood would do just fine, and if he didn’t like it, he didn’t have to come visit. I honestly can’t recall if he ever did stay at the “The Hotel” as we dubbed it. Just as well, it was small. Too small for guests actually.

I remember when we first looked at it, Kit and I. The Pit was being forcibly sundered. Our current landfolks at Hawaiian Terrace were restructuring to garner more financial support from the State, and we had been dubbed too well-off to remain. You’ve heard of DINKs – Dual Income, No Kids? Well our anagram would’ve been something like TIACHHs – Three Incomes and an Assorted Collection of Hippies and Hangers-on. However, it didn’t matter how they added it up, my income alone was over the cap. Finding another three bedroom townhouse with a fireplace, rec room and laundry room wasn’t feasible either. Half the crew wanted to move north to train as ninjas, and Kit and I had work here in the city, splitting up seemed like the only sensible choice.

Two bedrooms, the ad had clearly stated TWO bedrooms, but it failed to mention that one of those bedrooms was only set off by a sliding, slatted door only installed to up the price of the place. One of us, Kit, would have to share mental space with the common room, but it didn’t seem an insurmountable hurdle, and so many things were right about the space. It was close to both my work and Kit’s, the price was well with our shared range, it was ready now, and the landlords were a couple of LARPers who owned a partial interest in Wanna Play, our local game store. It was only going to be for a year or so… How bad could it be? We’d settle here for now and look for a more permanent solution as time allowed.

Moving in was fun. When I said the place was ready, I wasn’t being completely honest. They still had carpet to install in the main room that was also attached to the larger bedroom. However, since our stuff was being thrown out of Hawaiian Terrace, we had no choice but to pack everything we owned, Kit and I, into the smaller  bedrooms and the kitchen. All my Tetris skills and years watching my father pack 5 people’s stuff into one vacation trunk, were brought to bear, but it worked. Once the carpet was down, everything came exploding out to fill the space, and no one believed it could ever have fit. Will finds away.

Of course once everything came crashing into place, Dennis showed up on the couch. He didn’t want to go north with the Ninjas and had nowhere else to go. Neither Kit nor I had the heart to kick him to the curb, and he didn’t take up much space - giant, spindly thing that he was. So three guys in four rooms. It’s not that much of a stretch. Did I mention the place had a second story porch? Just head through Kit’s bedroom and you could step outside to smoke and listen to the Norwood’s Perpetual Dog Chorus. They’re world renowned. Oh, but only 1 bath mind you, and when I say bath, I mean bath. This place had no shower. The landlord said he was thinking about putting one in, but… you know… It was nice clawfoot tub, but you could forget about dropping in for a quick rinse and running off late to work. It was ten minutes for the water to warm up and another fifteen for the tub to fill. Oh, and make sure everybody who needed to use the facilities did so before you even got started.

Now, at this point you’re probably saying, “Gee, that sounds pretty tight.” But I’m not through, by a long shot. You see, there’s the simple fact that I am pretty awesome, and I run some of the best campaigns you’re going to find this side of gamedom. Though we had parted ways and over half the crew had settled in Fairfield, there were still games to be played. Back in those days, we gamed every chance we could get and spent our remaining free hours getting high and watching MST3K. So, rather than drive down and then home stoned each night, it made more sense to stay over. Tony, Tonya, Misty and Bobby would all pile in their van and drive to Cincinnati and stay the weekend. Saturday & Sunday at first, then they realized Tony had no work to do on Fridays, so we made them 3-day weekends. Then Monday got absorbed somehow. Before long they were all hanging out about 5 days per week on average.

Where did they all sleep? I really have no idea. Floors and couches... Kit had a large bed. It was the bathroom situation that was the worst! Then there was waking up in the middle of the night and having to climb over and around a minefield of splayed limbs on your way to take a piss… People hanging out talking loudly in the next room when you had to work in the morning… The pressure of everyone else having a good time, when you were had a work deadline and were just trying to do the responsible thing… But I never once told them, not to come. I never once tried to shoo them on their way early.

Seven people in what was essentially a large 1 bedroom apartment. It’s a good thing we were like family. I didn’t regret a minute of it, mind you. Sure it was tight, but I was glad to have the old Pit Crew back together. I was certain we were going to get kicked out at any minute for violating the lease, but all we ever heard from the landlords was newlywed screaming fits. In fact, when my old childhood home opened up as available, and I went to tell our landlord we would be moving on, he informed me they were splitting up. We haggled a bit, and he agreed to give back 50% of our deposit, even though we were technically breaking the lease. He never sent the money, but considering the wear we put on that place in five short months, he deserved it.

Topic: The One That Got Away

I’ve been musically inclined my whole life, as far back as I can remember. My mom encouraged me to take piano starting at an early age. Around age 10 we got rid of our piano and got an organ so I changed to that. Then came band in grade school. I started playing saxophone in 5th grade. I stopped taking organ lessons because I was basically too lazy to practice both sax and organ. 

Then I slowly became obsessed with rock music. This was in the late 60’s. I remember the initial popularity of the Beatles and I was fascinated with Woodstock. I decided I wanted to be a drummer. So I switched to drums in 9th grade. Again, I stopped playing sax because I was too lazy to practice both sax and drums. 

My parents were strongly pushing me to get an ROTC scholarship. My dad had fantasies of me going to the Air Force Academy and from there to medical school. But I was convinced my future was in music, specifically drums. I spent every possible moment practicing and jamming with other kids and trying to form bands.

I did cave in to my dad and joined ROTC in 10th grade but I was miserable. The Viet Nam war was winding down and the military was quite unpopular at the time. And I had to wear my hair in a buzz cut and wear that fucking uniform every Thursday. I met some very nice people in ROTC but I became extremely depressed and my dad finally agreed to let me drop ROTC and get back in band.

I became the drummer for the school jazz band. I got a lot of experience with them playing out in public. But I continued to fantasize about playing rock music in front of thousands of people.

After high school I went off to study premed at the University of Dallas in Irving, Texas. Of course I brought my drums with me and I soon found several pickup bands with which to perform. I made only fair grades because I was focused on making music. And I have to confess that I was trying to live what I perceived as the rock lifestyle - i.e., lots of beer and drugs.

I went back home to Kentucky after two years in Dallas. This was a good thing because I don’t think my liver would have survived much longer down there. I resumed premed studies at a local college but continued to play out in rock bands with some old friends.

Finally I talked my parents in to sending me to Belmont College in Nashville, Tennessee. They have a very strong Music Business program and my plan was now to become a recording engineer or producer. I should have gotten a clue when, on the very first day of Music Business 101 the professor said to forget about becoming an engineer or producer - there were way too many people wanting to do that and too few jobs. But I persisted because I was convinced that at age 22 I would land a drumming gig with a big time band. After all, my friend Rick (a pianist) got a job playing piano for Neil Young through connections he made at Belmont!

And shortly after moving to Nashville, I landed a drumming gig with a metal band called 2C. We did some covers but mainly original stuff. I thought this band would be my ticket into the big time because our bass player was Dolly Parton’s first cousin and his dad was a very successful music producer who owned Fireside Studios in Nashville. We got a gig at a showcase club called the Exit/In, opening for a band called the Rockets. They were on the charts at the time with a cover of the Fleetwood Mac tune “Oh Well.” 

And that was the closest I ever got to the big time. Soon thereafter my lifestyle choices caught up with me. I was drinking alcoholically and I had to leave that band. And I was forced to recognize that being a good drummer isn’t enough to make a living at the music business - you have to be lucky too. 

I got in to recovery in 1982. I was 25 at the time and playing for an Elvis imitator. Back then one didn’t find younger people at AA meetings. I heard plenty of old-timers grumbling about how they’d wrung more alcohol out of their necktie that I had ever drunk. And I heard guys saying they took their first drink at age 6 and so on. I thought, "I never took a drink when I was 6 but I damn sure could have used one." Anyhow I ignored them because I wanted to never have to be enslaved to alcohol again.

So I started playing with a gospel band. I thought that way I could continue to play music in a safer (for me) environment. Oddly enough, our gospel band went to Nashville and made a record. And I finished school and ultimately through quite a circuitous route I became a doctor. I continued to play heavy metal throughout med school, however. Our band did all originals with titles like”Anal Birth” and “Dead Girls Don’t Say No.” Our bass player wrote those lyrics. He went on to become a psychiatrist.

My career in music got away. But I haven’t had a drink in many, many years - and I never have to worry about anyone offering me a drink at the clinic!

The One That Got Away or How I Never Made it to the National Spelling Bee

The One That Got Away or How I Never Made it to the National Spelling Bee

 

     I grew up listening to show tunes.  “A Chorus Line” was and still is my favorite musical.  There’s this song called “At the Ballet” and these girls are lamenting how everything sucks in their life except when they are dancing.  One verse in particular seemed to be written about me.   When I was 8 or 9 I thought the lyricist must have been hanging out at our house and listening in on conversations between me and my mom.

     She sang, “Mother always said I’d be very attractive when I grew up-different she said with a special something and a very, very personal flair.  And though I was 8 or 9, I hated her.  Well different is nice, but it sure isn’t pretty.  Pretty is what it’s about.  I never met anyone who was different who couldn’t figure that out.  So beautiful I’d never live to see, but it was clear, if not to her, well then to me that everyone was beautiful at the ballet.” 

     I didn’t dance, but I felt “different” like the girl in the song.  And I felt like I had to compensate somehow for being an ugly duckling of sorts.  At least that’s how I saw myself back then.  I was the second shortest girl in my school.  I was chubby and pale and freckled and round-faced.  I had boring reddish brown stick straight hair.  I was convinced as I entered junior high that I would never date or get married, that no one would ever find me attractive. 

    The only thing I had going for me I believed at the time was that I was pretty smart.  We had a school spelling bee every spring at the parochial grade school I attended in Cincinnati, Ohio in the seventies.   I started competing in fourth grade and I either won first place or placed in the top three in my age group every year until I left for high school in the ninth grade.   

    The spelling bees became an even bigger deal in grades 7 and 8, because the winner of that bee got to go to the regional spelling bee and compete against students all over the Cincinnati area-usually about 50 contestants.  The winner of the regional bee would go to the state of Ohio spelling bee and the winner of that one would go to the National Spelling Bee. 

     In 8^th grade, my final year of grade school I made it to the regional spelling bee.   It was televised.  It was only public television, but I still felt like a rock star.  I was representing my school at a regional competition.   I was going to make it to the National Spelling Bee.  I just knew it would happen.  It would make up for everything-my acne, my thick thighs, and my stringy hair. 

    I have a theory about why I’ve always been a good speller.  It’s not due to anything I’ve done.  I can’t take any credit for it really.  When I hear people speak or see a word in print there is a sort of close captioning going on inside my brain.  As each word is spoken or read it’s as if someone is typing the words across the front of my brain.  I was surprised to learn that not everyone experiences this phenomenon.  In fact, I haven’t met anyone yet who knows what I’m talking about.  It’s how I’m wired, and it helps because once I see a word in print I have this image of it embedded in my brain. 

     I did study for the regional spelling bee.  It was more like training for a sporting event.  There was this book they gave us called “Words of the Champions” that contained something like 10,000 really hard spelling words.  I divided the book up and worked on sections every night in the days leading up to the bee.  They didn’t have to take the words in the bee from the book, but most of them came straight from “Words of the Champions.”

     The big day came in spring of 1978.  I got off school.  I didn’t have to wear my uniform.  Both of my parents took off work to support me.  We drove downtown to the Channel 48 studios where the regional spelling bee was held.  It lasted for about two hours.   In a spelling bee, once you misspell a word, you’re out.  It goes on until there are only two contestants left.   I made it all the way to the final two.  Then if one of us missed a word, the other would have to spell that missed word plus one additional word to be declared the winner and more importantly to earn the chance to go the state spelling bee and then maybe even go to the National Spelling Bee. 

     They gave me a word that wasn’t in “Words of the Champions.”  At the time it was a word I had never heard or read before.   I asked for a definition which didn’t help.   Then I stalled by asking the moderator to use the word in a sentence.  I still had no clue.  In desperation, I said, “Could you say it three times really fast?”  Seriously, I said that.  It’s in the PBS archives somewhere. 

“Matrix, matrix, matrix,” the lady said with a chuckle. 

     There was no template of this word embedded in my mind.  I was certain it had never been “typed” across my brain.   So I just spelled it the way I thought it sounded.

“M-a-y-t-r-i-c-k-s,” I said. 

     The buzzer went off,  and the rest is a blur.  I suppose the winner spelled matrix correctly and then one additional word and then we all left.   All I remember is trying to hold it together long enough to get to the back seat of my parents’ car so I wouldn’t have to choke down my sobs anymore. 

     My mom tried to cheer me up by suggesting lunch at Zino’s, one of our favorite pizza places, but that didn’t help.  I cried like someone had died.   I tried to explain to my mom that I had blown it.  This was my last chance.  I was going to high school in a few months and I’d never get the chance to be in the National Spelling Bee.  It was only for grade school students.  And I really believed deep in my little junior high heart that this was my only chance to excel at something, to do something special.

     My mom put it in perspective for me, “Will this matter five years from now?  Will this even matter a year from now?”  I told her I thought it might matter next year.  She urged me to trust her on this one.  She said I wouldn’t always feel this way, that it would pass, and that I would go on to do things even bigger and better than the National Spelling Bee.   So I took a leap of faith and pulled myself together and ordered a zinover, their version of a calzone, and a Coke.  We went home and sang along to the original cast recording of “The Fantasticks.”  I didn’t cry anymore that day.   

     In fact, I never cried again about losing the bee, and I got over my low self -esteem as I got older.  I got over feeling like I had to accomplish things or win to prove I was okay.  What hasn’t changed is that I still see words in a teletype across my 53 year old brain every day and I still know a lot of show tunes. I’m still short and round- faced, but it’s all good.  Mom was right. 

 

Topic: The One That Got Away

"I Don't Want to Go to Canada"

We circled the building a few times before formulating a plan. Right off the bat, we saw flashing lights; an undercover police truck pulled up and parked nearby, an officer quickly handcuffing a couple of teenagers. We'd seen them cut a hole in the fence and try to run in. They had made it all of 10 feet before the police pulled up. Amateurs, I thought.

"Turn down this street again and park over there. Let's walk around the block," I suggested. Jacob made a quick left and pulled up behind a parked car. He locked the doors as I grabbed my camera bag and we headed down the street, careful to stay on the side opposite the train station.

Michigan Central Station.

A 15 story now windowless building on the outskirts of downtown Detroit, the old train depot could be seen from miles away. In fact, with the right vantage point, the absence of all windows made it possible to see clean through the train station. Jacob and I had discovered that the previous day, when a glance out of the window of an abandoned hospital had revealed the monstrosity in all its glory.

I was determined to find a way in.

The station's main gate was a quick and definite no. Every minute or two, another carload of tourists pulled up in front of the building, its inhabitants hopping out to take pictures with Detroit's Greatest Eyesore. A quick walk around the building revealed large cameras on either side entrance, but the station backed up to several sets of old train tracks. That looked promising.

"How about we drive a few blocks down the tracks and walk them back?" I asked. "Maybe we can find a way under the fence and in through the trainyard." A few minutes later, we were doing just that. After climbing up the side of a hill and wandering through a few crumbling buildings, we found ourselves on one side of a slowly moving train. This is perfect, I thought.

And it was. We followed the train's procession down the tracks, nearly reaching the gate to the trainyard by the time the caboose appeared. As it faded into the distance, my heart sank. The same silver undercover police truck we'd seen handcuffing teenagers earlier was barreling toward us.

"What do we do?" I asked Jacob, as he continued to step from railroad tie to railroad tie.

"What do you mean?"

"Do we run? Do we hide? Do we just keep walking and pretend like we're supposed to be here?"

"Let's keep walking and see what happens."

It wasn't long before the truck reached us, red and blue lights flashing. "Please approach the vehicle," a voice boomed over the loudspeaker and we walked over to the truck.

"IDs please," the officer said, climbing out of the truck. "What are you doing here?"

"We were just going for a walk," I said, handing him my ID.

"A walk on the train tracks?"

"Yessir. I like graffiti - taking pictures of it, I mean, not doing it, and there's lots of it around here."

"Clearly." He collected our IDs and quickly returned them. "How did you get up here?"

"We walked up a hill."

"You walked up a hill?"

"Yessir. A few blocks over that way. My car is parked over there."

"And where are you going?"

"Nowhere, just around. Just taking pictures. Of the graffiti."

"Do you see that bridge over there?"

"Yessir."

"That's the Ambassador Bridge to Canada. Are you trying to walk illegally to Canada?"

"No sir. I don't want to go to Canada."

"It is a $500 Federal trespassing charge to be where you are standing right now. Do you understand that? Just for being on these train tracks I can charge you both $500 each. Now get in the truck. I'm going to give you a ride back to your car."

Jacob and I climbed into the backseat of the truck, my camera bag in my lap. Thankfully, he hadn't asked to see my bag. I briefly thought of the mace and knife stowed inside, the camera with thousands of pictures, and beneath it, the list of 30+ places we'd been exploring that weekend.

"Why are you guys in Detroit?" The Canadian Railroad Officer asked.

Jacob and I looked at each other uneasily.

"Vacation."

"Have you ever been to Detroit before?"

"I played some shows in Hamtramack," Jacob said.

"Okay. Well, be careful. And stay off of the train tracks." We climbed out of the truck and ran down the side of the hill, waiting for the truck to drive off before walking back to my car.

"We can try again tomorrow," Jacob said, as we turned down a nearby street and made our way toward another building. "If you think it's worth it."

It wasn't.

The promise of a $500 ticket and a federal charge were enough to persuade me to give up my dreams of standing on the roof of Michigan Central Station. At least, temporarily. Thankfully, when Ford Motors purchased the building a few years later and opened it to the public for one weekend, it was no longer the one that got away.

Topic: The One That Got Away…

Author: Chris Dunn

Did I ever tell you about the time I wrote a pilot for TV? Back in the early 00s, my long-time friend and oft creative partner, Tony Doench – co-creator of our groundbreaking web-comic Galena – had just graduated from animation college. Two years of training under his belt had him itching to ply his new craft, but unfortunately Cincinnati, where most of his friends and family lived, provided little in the way of career opportunities for an animator. We played around with a few other ideas, launched a failed t-shirt company, sketched out a concept for a dungeons-and-dragons / heavy-metal action comedy cartoon, but nothing got far beyond the planning stage until Z-Ernie came to town.

Z-Ernie was a larger-than-life, Flastaffian character. A friend of our mutual friend Frank, Z-Ernie rolled through town in the middle of a cross-country tour bringing with him wondrous tales from the road and a nearly endless supply of some of the best weed I’ve had the privilege to bum. He rolled joint after joint while regaling us with tales of the old days when he and his crew would imbibe near-lethal amounts of everything on Schedule 1 and then proceed to have the most amazing adventurers. The stories fell and the smoke billowed until I had to cry, “Hold, enough!” and retire to a couch corner to stare at the carpet for a long while. Tony stayed in, however, matching him joint for joint, hit for hit, and in due time, he got around to showing Z what he had been up to.

Tony’s talent is obvious to anyone who sees it, and of course Z was no exception. “What are you doing with this?” he asked, and Tony began our long litany of failed launches which Z dismissed with a hand-wave. “Tutt-tutt, my good man.” He didn’t talk like this, but I was too high to recall the exact words. “This won’t do. We need to go bigger! We need to take this to the next level. What would you need to finish this?” By the time Z was ready to hit the road and return to his cross-country journey, sketchy plans had been made to do a pilot for a cartoon to pitch to Adult Swim. Z knew people you see, people he could show this too, people who were even more connected than he was. This was going to be it!

To be honest, I didn’t think much about it at first, assuming it was all just the dream ramblings of a room full of high guys. (Interestingly, “Room Full of High Guys” was a TV show idea our crew had come up with the late 90s. One which, we thought, really had legs.) Even when Tony started having weekly project management calls with Z, I dismissed it as just another dying project, only in its early stages. But there was more to Z than mere puffery. Before I knew what was happening, Tony’s friend from animation school, Dave, had moved into the third floor and Z was sending them both monthly checks to cover living expenses so the pair could focus on churning out a pilot to pitch.

“Shit!” I thought. “This is really happening. And without me….” That would not stand! No way was Tony going to fly off to fame, recognition and (the end-all-be-all) getting paid to create,  without me. I started panicking trying to think up a way into this project. Of course, my panic was unwarranted. Tony wasn’t about to leave me out. Shortly after Dave’s arrival, he came to me and showed me what they had – a pile of very detailed character concepts, complete with powers, backstories and motivations, but that was it. No action. No dialogue. No story. They needed me, and I gladly stepped up. I dove in head first. I read books on screenwriting, comic writing, screenwriting format for animation, and storyboarding. I sat with Dave and fleshed out his vision for show and plumbed his amazing imagination trying to find the hook for each character. I not only finished the pilot, but had a stenciled plot for a good year’s worth of episodes (two or three years by Rick and Morty standards). I allowed myself to get psyched.

I handed over my idea and waited. Every now and then I would break up a light-saber fight and inquire how the project was going, only to be the last guy on earth to discover that pot – while an excellent way to get you to take time off to dream up some crazy shit - is not the best motivational tool. I can’t complain too much. Mine was the shorter part, and I was more than willing to help the guys shirk work when other activities seemed more amusing. Days became weeks, and as the deadline fast approached and the money began to run low, pencils were finally put to paper. We even got some voice recording done and synced with an opening bit, but in the end there just wasn’t enough time.

Tony and Dave took a train to California, armed with a lot of notes, sketches and a brief animated piece where a folder marked CONFIDENTIAL slid across a desk. I was nervous as hell, and crossed my fingers that it would be enough to impress the investor to throw in another bunch of funding, so we could at least complete the promo. A week later, they returned looking guardedly upbeat. “We’re making a video game!” Tony insisted. Apparently, the project had pivoted somewhere during the pitch. I shrugged my acceptance, realizing a game wouldn’t require my input. It turned out the game idea didn’t really have much energy. Tony hadn’t been back a whole week before he declared he wasn’t actually interested. The money dried up, and Dave moved back to New Jersey. And just like that, another big idea bit the dust.

But to this day, I still occasionally stumble across the pitch folder or a blue-pencil sketch and dream about the one that got away…

Bureaucracy

I've had a lot of name changes in my life.  When I was born in 1965 I had one middle name, my great grandmother's surname, Murray. Mom told me they added my second middle name, Remembrance when I was about seven.  My younger brother Chris in 1968 was given two unusual middle names, Parnell and Telemachus.  Marty followed in 1971 with his two equally interesting and discussion-provoking middle names, Luther and King.  I suppose they didn't want me to feel left out, and Remembrance was and is a pretty badass middle name.  It had been in our family for generations.  Nevertheless, I found having two middle names to be a bit tedious so when I divorced in the late 1990s I discovered that one of the "benefits" of going through a divorce is that the woman can change her name for no extra charge.  I know this is supposed to be a story about bureaucracy and that simple maneuver/name change seemed like I was cutting through some red tape.  But it was only temporary.  That seemingly simple name change would come back to haunt me. 

When I divorced I didn't want to keep my ex husband's last name.  I wasn't particularly fond of the man--he was my ex husband after all.  I didn't want to go back to my maiden name either.  I was a grown woman in my thirties with two children.  I had a wonderful childhood and wonderful parents.  I mean, just look at the cool names they picked out for us-my parents were the best!  But somehow the idea of going back to my maiden name post divorce made me feel like an even bigger failure than I already felt because my marriage had failed-again.  Yes, again.  I married my first husband and divorced him and married him again and divorced him a second time.  I didn't change my name the first time.  So as part of the second divorce I opted to drop my middle name, Murray, and use it as my last name.  Buried in the fifty or so pages of our divorce agreement is the single line that legally changed my name, "The wife shall take the name Bridgid Remembrance Murray."

When I remarried a few years later I simply dropped the Murray altogether and just took my new husband's last name. Fast forward to 2017 when I tried to get a TSA pre-check clearance.  Basically this helps if you travel by plane frequently.  You avoid having to go through the long lines and having to remove your shoes at the airport.  It's supposed to cut through a lot of bureaucracy and save time. I made an appointment at the TSA place.  You couldn't just walk in.  I had to take off work, because they only had Monday-Friday business hours.   I brought all the required documents-or so I thought.  They looked at my birth certificate which had an addendum stapled to it that showed when my parents added the "Remembrance" to my name. The clerk remarked about how cool my middle name was.  Then she saw my social security card and my id wanted to know what happened to the "Murray" in my name.  I explained how it had been dropped legally in the 1990s. 

"We're gonna need to see some documentation, maam. I mean, you can't just drop your middle name. How do we know this is your birth certificate?  This birth certificate has Murray on it, but this social security card doesn't show Murray." Really?  I mean how many people are named Bridgid Remembrance?  I suspect I might be the only one in the country.  I really didn't want to miss any more work, but they wouldn't budge.  So I drove 45 minutes home and found my old divorce decree.  I triumphantly placed it on the counter,

I flipped through the document and proudly pointed, "There, you see, it says on page 32 item #45,  the wife shall take the name Bridgid Remembrance Murray.  See what I did there?  I was tired of having two middle names and so I just used Murray as my last name." 

She wasn't having it. "Okay, that's all well and good, but I'm gonna have to see your original marriage certificate then.  I mean what was your name before the divorce?"

"Which divorce?" I asked. 

"Well how many times have you been married anyway, maam?" she demanded with an eye roll for emphasis.

I asked what that had to with anything.  I really didn't want to get into all of that.  I reluctantly explained that I married this husband and divorced him twice.  She chuckled.  "Didn't learn your lesson the first time, huh? Well I need to see your marriage certificate from your first marriage then" 

But that was 30 years ago!  I stormed out. I called the Boone County Kentucky recorders office the next day.  After an hour on hold they explained I could order a new copy of my marriage certificate from 1987.  I'd  just have to send a cashier's check or money order for $9.95 or so.  It couldn't be a personal check. 

It was then that I decided I was done playing this game and gave up on getting  my TSA clearance.  I thought it would be easier to just go through airport security.  At least no one there asked me how times I'd been married or passed judgment about my choices.  I'd take a pat down any day over what they put me through at the TSA clearance place.