Tales of the Tarantula

by Frank Terranella

  What I want for Christmas: A bunch of feel-good, extremely formulaic holiday movies

  December 2012

  I have had a Christmas tradition for the last several years: I set my TiVo to record a couple dozen Christmas movies, and then I watch them for weeks and weeks. Sometimes I run into Valentine’s Day. Why do I subject myself to what are often mediocre movies – formulaic and predictable to the extreme? Because that’s what I want at Christmas. No surprises. Just assured, feel-good happy endings with not a few tears.

  For example, recently I watched a film on The Hallmark Channel called Come Dance With Me. Andrew McCarthy plays an ambitious finance professional who meets up with a woman who runs a small dance studio. Of course, McCarthy’s client wants to rip down the dance studio and put up a mall, or something else that makes a lot of money. McCarthy falls in love with the woman, and then faces the classic question found in almost all Christmas movies. He actually stops a co-worker and asks him, “If you had to choose between love and money, what would you choose?”

  The co-worker says he would try for both, but McCarthy won’t let him off the hook.

  “No, if it was just one or the other, what would you choose?” The co-worker opts for money. And of course, that’s the same choice that Ebenezer Scrooge and Henry F. Potter make in A Christmas Carol and It’s A Wonderful Life, respectively. But McCarthy, being the protagonist of the piece, must choose love over his job.

  After watching scores of these films with titles like Christmas Every Day, Silver Bells, and A Dog Named Christmas, I have come to see a pattern. These movies usually prefer rural life to urban life, they prefer characters who care more about others than themselves, and love always wins over money.

  The conflict between heart and head is a staple of romantic comedy. Sometimes it’s blatant like in Arthur. Other times it’s more subtle like in The Bridges of Madison County. In Christmas movies, we generally have a 30-something protagonist who has spent the last decade or so in the big city pursuing success. He or she has been career-driven to the exclusion of personal relationships.

  Now comes the day of reckoning – Christmas. The character is faced with a choice between staying on the career fast-track, or taking the exit ramp to a more fulfilling life. The choice to go with love rather than money is assured by the last reel. Characters in these movies continually are moving from rural areas to urban areas and coming home for Christmas, only to decide never to return to the city.

  The older I get, the easier it gets to become cynical, and feel that there is no hope for the world, with all the wars, terrorists and politicians. Christmas movies provide a recharge of the hope supply for the new year. So tune in for some tidings of comfort and joy this Christmas season.

  Life at the speed of light

  January 2013

  2013!!! That’s not a real date. That’s a science fiction date, isn’t it? I think there’s nothing that makes me feel old like writing a date that should still be in the future, but it’s not; it’s here. What contributes to making me feel old is the fact that recently I helped my son move into his first apartment. He’s the first child off on his own. Later this year, he will be the first child to be married.

  Over the Christmas holidays we played some video of my son from when he was a baby. Parents tend to do that so fiancées can see just how adorable her future husband was as a child (and what her children might look like). But after watching close to two hours of my children as infants, I felt depressed. Just as it couldn’t be possible to be 2013 already, my infant son could not really be moving out and getting married. Where did the years go? The fact that the memory of those intervening years is hazy at best is quite depressing to me. Fortunately, I did take the time to shoot video of their early lives and so I have reinforcement of some memories, but taking those videos ended by the time they graduated from grammar school. Where did those high school years go? College was a blur – although I have loan payments to prove it happened. And now they’re about to go off on their own and it seems like they took their first steps last year. Of course the problem is that what I really want is a time machine to go back and re-live the ‘60s, the ‘70s and the ‘80s. This time I would pay more attention to the details.

  I know that what I am describing is part of being over 50. It’s the time we find out that our parents were right when they told us over and over – “the years go by faster and faster as you get older.” But they didn’t tell me it went into a warp speed out of Star Trek. These days, I am usually wrong when trying to judge how long ago something was. Like when someone asks “when was the last time you ate at that restaurant?” and I think it was two or three years ago and it turns out it was in 1998.

  Being in your 50s means that the phrase “50 years ago” comes out of your mouth more often than you would like. I remember not too long ago (it seems) I was talking to my former law partner and I said “remember 50 years ago when we were in kindergarten” and he said “I’m not old enough to remember things from 50 years ago” (even though he is). Well the truth is, I can remember things from 50 years ago. But those memories seem no more hazy than my memories of changing diapers and getting up in the middle of the night to pick up and walk the floor with a crying child. It’s all things I did, but the time separation has collapsed. The 1980s do not seem that much more recent than the 1960s. It’s all a distant memory.

  That’s why it’s so tough to come to terms with dates that begin with a 20. Can it really have been more than a decade since we celebrated the millennial new year? Has it been nearly 50 years since the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan? Where did the intervening years go? 2013? I demand a recount.

  What, me retire?

  January 2013

  In 1953, when I was born, my life expectancy was 66. That’s why back in the 1950s, when my grandfathers quit working, most people were retired by age 65. The American Association of Retired Persons admitted members at age 50. Today, my life expectancy is 83. Those 17 extra years are literally life-changing and quite significant for retirement planning.

  In a few weeks I will turn 60 and rather than consider retirement as my grandfathers did at this age, I am looking forward to at least another decade of work. I can’t imagine retiring in my 60s. That’s the difference the extra 17 years of life expectancy have made.

  Yet the world has not adapted to the longer life expectancies. The AARP still admits members at age 50. Senior citizen housing is available at age 55. Most senior citizen discounts still kick in between 60 and 65. Perhaps this is a subtle hint for us baby boomers to step aside and make way for the younger generation to move into our jobs.

  But I have a problem thinking of myself as a senior citizen at age 60 because there are still members of my parents’ generation alive and well in their 80s and 90s. Those are the real senior citizens – the Greatest Generation. People in their 60s and 70s are perhaps juniors. That makes 50-somethings just sophomores in the school of life.

  So with almost another quarter century until my life expectancy age, I have no intention of slowing down. It’s full speed ahead into my pre-retirement. The only thing I hope to do is begin retirement saving in earnest. But that will be tempered by all the vacation traveling I hope to do in the next 10 years. My wife and I already have the next five years of trips mapped out. This is really my idea of a hedge against not making it to retirement. For someone like me who has had heart disease and cancer, it’s more important to live life than to save for retirement.

  Actually, as long as I can take frequent vacations, I see no reason to ever retire. I’ve seen retirement and it didn’t look like fun for my grandfathers. It was just a lot of television. I would much prefer to be useful every day and earn a paycheck. Maybe I’ll revisit the issue of retiring when I hit 80. But I doubt that it will be attractive even then. I think that our generation may actually retire the word “retirement.”

  New York unplugged – Electroholism revisited

  January 2013

&nbs
p; While many continue to suffer, Hurricane Sandy is just a memory for most of us now. The one effect that just about everyone experienced was a loss of electricity. For some it was just a day or two, for others it was weeks. In my case, my house was without power for 54 hours. The signs of electronics withdrawal manifested themselves almost immediately.

  Back in 1976 I wrote a piece for The New York Times about what I saw at the time as an addiction to electronic devices. This was before cell phones, MP3 players and even VCRs. The first commercially-available personal computer, the Apple 2, would not be introduced until the next year. So the electronic items I was writing about in 1976 were basics like televisions, radios and lights. The more exotic electrical uses were electric can openers, electric vacuum cleaners, electric ovens and electric toothbrushes. In my 1976 article I labeled people who are addicted to electricity as “electroholics.”

  In 2012, the loss of electricity was a very different matter. No electricity meant no Internet, no DVD player and no home phone service (since the phones now run on house current). We had a battery-operated radio so we could get news. But that was about it for electronic entertainment. Fortunately, in the world of 2012 we now had battery-operated telephones and iPads. But since the charge in these devices is quickly depleted and there was no way to recharge them, we used them sparingly. I used the iPad to access email and the cell phone to talk with relatives.

  What I immediately noticed was that my 20-something children were more put out about the loss of electricity than I was. Their entire world requires electricity. They are true electroholics. My wife and I took the opportunity to catch up on reading of books, magazines and newspapers sitting around the house. My son paced the house like a caged animal. Occasionally he went out to his car and ran the motor to (a) listen to music and (b) charge his phone.

  Based on what I saw, I would say that being 59 was an advantage during the blackout. Since I was not born into a world with computers and the Internet, losing them didn’t mean as much to me as it did to my kids. I could take the opportunity to unplug and actually enjoy that (for a while). Since the blackout did not affect our hot water or our stove, the deprivation was purely electronic.

  So has the incidence of electroholism increased or decreased since 1976? I think it has undoubtedly increased. We have so many more electronic gadgets that we use every day. Back in 1976 I wrote, “There are steps you can take to ward off electroholism. The next time you have an urge to watch television, read a book instead – by candlelight. If the stereo beckons, play the piano. If we make an effort to wipe out electroholism, the next blackout may not even be noticed. The trick is to ward off dependency by occasional abstinence. Some of us can hold our electricity better than others.”

  I think the advice is still sound. It’s healthy to unplug from electronics every once in a while. My wife and I stayed at Glacier National Park in Montana a few years ago and while there was electricity, there was no television and no cell phone service. We griped about it at the time, but looking back I think it was good practice for the blackout. In any case, it made for a relaxing vacation.

  I think many people today, and particularly many young people, are electroholics and the 2013 version of the disease is far worse than in 1976 when I first identified it. We consume more electricity than ever, and we love our electronic gadgets more than ever. The spell of the Wizard of Menlo Park is still strong. But being in your 50s means that you remember a time before these “indispensable” electronics. And that makes it easier to cope when you lose access to them. It’s still true that some of us can hold our electricity better than others.

  Sondheim and me

  January 2013

  Recently I attended one of those cultural events that only happen in New York. The New York Philharmonic played an entire evening of the music of Stephen Sondheim with the composer in attendance. We reveled to an orchestral music-only evening of selections from Sweeney Todd, Sunday in the Park with George, Into the Woods and other less well-known masterpieces like Pacific Overtures and Stavisky.

  As I sat there listening to the concert, it occurred to me that I have been enjoying the music of Stephen Sondheim on New York stages my entire adult life. I saw the original productions of A Little Night Music, Pacific Overtures, Sweeney Todd, Merrily We Roll Along, Sunday in the Park With George and Into the Woods. This was as a result of being turned on to Sondheim by a college professor whose History of the American Musical course that I took in 1973 named Sondheim as the current torch carrier for the art form.

  Stephen Sondheim poses with our group

  In the late 1970s, I started to correspond with Sondheim. I found him to be a most diligent correspondent. He never failed to answer every letter I sent him. I treasure those today. We conversed about his work on Do I Hear a Waltz with Richard Rodgers and his adaptation of George Kaufman and Moss Hart’s play Merrily We Roll Along. He shared his feelings about collaborating with Leonard Bernstein on West Side Story and about Sweeney Todd being performed by opera companies.

  Over the course of the next 20 years I sometimes spied Sondheim on the streets of New York. I saw him outside the theater where a revival of Follies was being staged, and he sat behind me at a revival of West Side Story. Abiding by the unwritten code that New Yorkers have regarding celebrities in their midst, I did not try to engage with the musical master.

  Then, in 2007, I had a chance to meet Stephen Sondheim and spend some time with him discussing his work. A good friend of mine who teaches theater at a Midwest college was leading a theater tour of students through New York and London. Knowing what a big fan I am, he and his wife graciously invited me to join a small get-together they had arranged where the students would meet with Sondheim and get to ask him questions. And so on a spring day in 2007 I found myself shaking hands with Stephen Sondheim and sitting around a table asking the master questions. It was a delightful hour.

  It’s not often you get to meet someone who has given you so much cultural enjoyment over so many years. From the movie versions I saw of West Side Story, Gypsy and A Funny thing Happened on the Way to the Forum in the early 1960s, through Assassins and Passion in the 1990s, it has been a wonderful ride. Unfortunately, with ticket prices now routinely more than $100 and nearing $150, Broadway has turned away from the Sondheim type of show in favor of spectacles like The Lion King and Wicked. These days the master can only get revivals of his earlier work produced on Broadway. Sondheim’s latest musical, Road Show, was seen only off-Broadway and out of town. There has not been a new Sondheim show on Broadway in nearly 20 years.

  However, the change in Broadway fashions has not reduced the respect that the New York theater community has for Stephen Sondheim. We know that we are not likely to ever again see such a talent writing for the musical theater. But we will always have his great works. And perhaps the master, who will be 83 on March 22, will give us a few more masterpieces in the years when most men are long-retired. After all, he’s been through Phantom, and he’s been though Spiderman too, and he’s here. He’s still here. And aren’t we lucky.

  When newspapers

  were king

  January 2013

  I am part of an ever-growing fraternity – former newspaper journalists. It has been sad to see the industry implode over the last three decades. Like most people who have worked in newspapers, I wish I was still doing it. But the combination of poor pay, anti-social working hours, and an industry that has been slowly going out of business for a generation, has produced a diaspora of journalists. My journey from newspaperman to lawyer/blogger is typical.

  In my junior year of college, I started writing for the college newspaper. I loved it so much that I arranged an internship with the Telegram & Gazette in Worcester, Massachusetts for my senior year. Over the summer before my senior year, I worked on a local weekly in my hometown. This was back in the days when newspapers were printed using linotype machines. These now-extinct machines consisted of a keyboard that created lines of ty
pe (similar to the striking keys on a typewriter) out of molten lead. As might be expected by the last two words of the previous sentence, this machine threw off a lot of heat – hence the term “hot type.”

  My job at the Lodi Messenger included melting down the previous edition’s lines of type and making the long lead cylinders (called “pigs”) that fueled the linotype machine. In my spare time, I also re-wrote press releases and proofread the newspaper. This prepared me well for my internship at the Worcester Telegram & Gazette (T&G).

  Here I am on the copy desk of The Journal-News

  At the T&G, I was placed on the copy desk. This was a horseshoe-shaped desk. The copy editors like me sat along the outside of the horseshoe – called the “rim.” And the chief of the copy desk sat on the inside of the horseshoe – called the “slot.” The slotman’s job was to assign copy to the editors on the rim. Sometimes the copy needed a full editing job. Other times, it was wire copy from the Associated Press or some other wire service, and we would just scan it for obvious errors and then write a headline.

  Headline writing is an art. Editors are always looking for a clever head that will draw readers into the story, while fitting the allotted space. The New York Daily News had some of the best headline writers ever. People still quote “FORD TO CITY: DROP DEAD,” more than 35 years after it appeared. Humor was highly prized as long as it was in good taste. We were, after all, a family newspaper and that meant something back then. While newspapers did not have a federally-mandated list of words they could not use, they all exercised self-censorship in the cause of good taste. Words like “penis” never appeared in newspapers. One newspaper I worked for banned the word “Mafia” because they thought it might upset Italian-Americans.