Well, spring is fast coming to a close and with it all the great, life-altering plans I had for these past few months. This was the season I was really going to search out my destiny, not just await its arrival. This was the season that I was going to take those first important steps to becoming the person I always knew in my heart I could be, not just walk the same old path to despair. This was the season I was going to give it my all and become all that I can be. Or something like that. Whatever.
But here it is, almost mid-May, and I have yet to make the most of Netflix streaming on my Wii. I have yet to find a better alternative than the vegetable crisper to store my laundry quarters. And, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I have yet to build my writing business empire, going from an unknown principality to an unrecognized feudatory while fighting back both nationalism and stronger royal houses.
But then there is summer. Yes, summer will be my moment. Summer will be my time to shine, to get my act together, not only to improve my life and outlook but also my very soul. Summer will definitely be my year. Uh, season. Whatever.
And just to prove that this isn’t another case of idle boasting or mothballed dreams, I am seriously, definitely, sort of considering enrolling in an adult education course. And while I was indeed surprised to learn just how many classes are no more than a chance to get an autograph from a D-list celebrity or learn that shyness is a poor tool in self-promotion, there were a few options that sounded if not educational then at the very least not entirely booked up:
“Getting Your Classified Ad Published”
“Cooking with Ingredients”
“Finding Your Inner Child with a Flashlight and Scalpel”
“Avoiding Intimacy Issues”
“Daytrading, Horse Track Betting, Slots—The Three Paths to Financial Success”
So stand back, summer. Francesco Marciuliano is here and this time he's going to do more than just tan at a preternatural pace. He's going to learn "How to Start Your Own Handbag Line." Or "How to Invest in Tax Delinquent Properties For Pennies on the Dollar." Or just watch the last three seasons of Lost on his Wii. Maybe. Whatever.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
I'm Simultaneously Attacked and Defended in Today's Onion AV Club
In the comments section of today's Onion AV Club Article Marmaduke!: And 39 Other Blockbusters Coming Out Between May And August my comic strip and writing abilities are both savagely beaten and nicely praised. The fact that the second comment immediately follows the first makes it all the more fun.
"the worst comic ever is Sally Forth. the worst comic ever has always been Sally Forth. the worst comic ever will always be Sally Fucking Forth And Her Goddamn Condescending Smirk In The Last Fucking Panel Of Every Comic Fucking Fuckity Fuck."
"Sally Forth is somewhat redeemed by its surprising all-is-lost attitude toward life and marriage. Plus, Francesco Marciuliano, its writer, is an all-around fucking badass who happens to write for the Onion News Network. Seriously, this man is pretty amazing."
Francesco Marciuliano: Engendering the Hate and Love Since 1967.
"the worst comic ever is Sally Forth. the worst comic ever has always been Sally Forth. the worst comic ever will always be Sally Fucking Forth And Her Goddamn Condescending Smirk In The Last Fucking Panel Of Every Comic Fucking Fuckity Fuck."
"Sally Forth is somewhat redeemed by its surprising all-is-lost attitude toward life and marriage. Plus, Francesco Marciuliano, its writer, is an all-around fucking badass who happens to write for the Onion News Network. Seriously, this man is pretty amazing."
Francesco Marciuliano: Engendering the Hate and Love Since 1967.
Lionel Richie: The Working Artist's One True Inspiration
Being an artist--whether that be writer, painter, musician, actor, comic or any multitude of undertakings--is a peculiar life in that you often have to live TWO lives: the one you want and the one that you need so you can do the one you want. (It's also a life that seems to involve copious tears and pointing at your old college English degree while screaming, "You did this to me! YOU DID THIS! I could have chosen a major with a financial future and less public and professional disdain but nooooooooo! GOD, I HATE YOU SO!!!")
As an artist you want to follow your muse. But as an artist you need to focus on a job (or sometimes a parallel career) to afford such a pursuit. A job that, alas, can be just enervating and exasperating enough to deprive you of the time, energy and desire you need to create and truly feel alive. So you wind up feeling a division within yourself, one that can often have a detrimental effect on both halves of your life.
But I'm here to say that you can do it all! You can have both your "serious, mature adult" life and your "passionate, expressive artist" life! And the best way I can prove such is to cite an actual, successful artist who has spent a lifetime expertly balancing these two conflicting sides. An artist who has been serious when need be so he can be playful and creative when he chooses to be. An artist who is able to write prose that in one case edifies and in the other purely entertains. An artist who is a veritable walking Janus mask.
An artist named Lionel Richie.
Lionel Richie Creative Impulse #1: Philosopher
Yes, innumerable renditions by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of wedding bands have made listening to the already excessively treacly Endless Love not unlike shoving a thorn bush through one’s ear canal. And yes, Easy (Like Sunday Morning) is second only to Norah Jones’s Don’t Know Why in causing automotive fatalities, inflicting almost instant narcolepsy upon the hapless driver who comes across the song on their car radio. But that in no way should diminish the astounding grasp Mr. Richie has had on the nation’s zeitgeist from decade to decade.
Take the year 1983. US Forces had just invaded Grenada. That “sonofabitch” Reagan had initiated the Strategic Defense Initiative. And Karma Chameleon was the number one song in the land. Clearly we were a nation on the brink of utter self-destruction. We needed answers. We required hope. And then, in the middle of one of our darkest hours, one individual had the courage, the conviction and, yes, the chutzpah, to utter the following startling words to a nation hungry for bold new ideas and a brave new direction:
I had a dream, I had an awesome dream
People in the park playing games in the dark
And what they played was a masquerade
From behind the walls of doubt
A voice was crying out!
Strong words. Strong, bewildering words from the poet laureate of pop himself, Mr. Lionel Richie. The very same man who had the stamina to party “all night long,” the temerity to “dance on the ceiling” and, in that one earnest, emotional video, the willingness to say “hello” to a blind art student. A blind art student who responded in turn by presenting Mr. Richie with a clay bust in his likeness–a bust that, quite frankly, could only have been sculpted by a person completely devoid of sight.
Now, to be perfectly honest, Mr. Richie’s Say You, Say Me is not without its faults. The song seemingly introduces an all-together different tune smack dab in the middle where one would normally expect to encounter a musical bridge or, at the very least, the same song. And for years pundits have argued over the precise meaning behind such cryptic turns of phrase as “Say you, say me/Say it together naturally” only to conclude that sometimes expressing a lucid thought comes second to simply finding the necessary number of syllables to utter during a tune.
But that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is that Mr. Richie–philosopher–was willing to share his dream with the public. He saw a problem in our society–a problem apparently having to do with either lax curfews or an impromptu costume party–and sought to address it the best way he knew how…during the closing credits sequence for the movie White Nights.
Lionel Richie Creative Impulse #2: Voluptuary
And then there’s the man who brought us Brick House. If Say You, Say Me was Mr. Richie’s Ulysses, Brick House was his, uh…Fear of Flying? Instead of the penetrating–if somewhat perplexing–social disquisition of the former song, Brick House laid bare the carnal impulses that truly make us human in a succinct dictum that defied criticism. After all, who in their right mind can cast aspersions against The Commodores’ hard-drivin’, rump-shakin’ machine of flat-out funk? Ronald LaPread’s rubbery bass groove. Clyde Orane’s tasty horn arrangements. Walter Orange’s come-hither vocals. Lionel Richie’s slithery stanzas. All these factors helped not only serve up a massive slice of 70’s soul but gave the world perhaps one of the best verses to ever worm its way into the collective unconscious. A verse that captures the conversational rhythms of William Carlos Williams, the atypical syntax of e.e. cummings and the immediate, lyrical intimacy of Rita Dove. A verse that reads in full:
She knows she got everything
A woman needs to get a man, yeah.
How can she lose with what she use
36-24-36, what a winning hand!
So there you have it, people. Mr. Lionel Richie. Bertrand Russell by day. Russell Simmons by night. How he keeps these two worlds from colliding we may never know. But if he can do it, then why can’t I? Why can’t we all?
I say good day.
As an artist you want to follow your muse. But as an artist you need to focus on a job (or sometimes a parallel career) to afford such a pursuit. A job that, alas, can be just enervating and exasperating enough to deprive you of the time, energy and desire you need to create and truly feel alive. So you wind up feeling a division within yourself, one that can often have a detrimental effect on both halves of your life.
But I'm here to say that you can do it all! You can have both your "serious, mature adult" life and your "passionate, expressive artist" life! And the best way I can prove such is to cite an actual, successful artist who has spent a lifetime expertly balancing these two conflicting sides. An artist who has been serious when need be so he can be playful and creative when he chooses to be. An artist who is able to write prose that in one case edifies and in the other purely entertains. An artist who is a veritable walking Janus mask.
An artist named Lionel Richie.
Lionel Richie Creative Impulse #1: Philosopher
Yes, innumerable renditions by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of wedding bands have made listening to the already excessively treacly Endless Love not unlike shoving a thorn bush through one’s ear canal. And yes, Easy (Like Sunday Morning) is second only to Norah Jones’s Don’t Know Why in causing automotive fatalities, inflicting almost instant narcolepsy upon the hapless driver who comes across the song on their car radio. But that in no way should diminish the astounding grasp Mr. Richie has had on the nation’s zeitgeist from decade to decade.
Take the year 1983. US Forces had just invaded Grenada. That “sonofabitch” Reagan had initiated the Strategic Defense Initiative. And Karma Chameleon was the number one song in the land. Clearly we were a nation on the brink of utter self-destruction. We needed answers. We required hope. And then, in the middle of one of our darkest hours, one individual had the courage, the conviction and, yes, the chutzpah, to utter the following startling words to a nation hungry for bold new ideas and a brave new direction:
I had a dream, I had an awesome dream
People in the park playing games in the dark
And what they played was a masquerade
From behind the walls of doubt
A voice was crying out!
Strong words. Strong, bewildering words from the poet laureate of pop himself, Mr. Lionel Richie. The very same man who had the stamina to party “all night long,” the temerity to “dance on the ceiling” and, in that one earnest, emotional video, the willingness to say “hello” to a blind art student. A blind art student who responded in turn by presenting Mr. Richie with a clay bust in his likeness–a bust that, quite frankly, could only have been sculpted by a person completely devoid of sight.
Now, to be perfectly honest, Mr. Richie’s Say You, Say Me is not without its faults. The song seemingly introduces an all-together different tune smack dab in the middle where one would normally expect to encounter a musical bridge or, at the very least, the same song. And for years pundits have argued over the precise meaning behind such cryptic turns of phrase as “Say you, say me/Say it together naturally” only to conclude that sometimes expressing a lucid thought comes second to simply finding the necessary number of syllables to utter during a tune.
But that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is that Mr. Richie–philosopher–was willing to share his dream with the public. He saw a problem in our society–a problem apparently having to do with either lax curfews or an impromptu costume party–and sought to address it the best way he knew how…during the closing credits sequence for the movie White Nights.
Lionel Richie Creative Impulse #2: Voluptuary
And then there’s the man who brought us Brick House. If Say You, Say Me was Mr. Richie’s Ulysses, Brick House was his, uh…Fear of Flying? Instead of the penetrating–if somewhat perplexing–social disquisition of the former song, Brick House laid bare the carnal impulses that truly make us human in a succinct dictum that defied criticism. After all, who in their right mind can cast aspersions against The Commodores’ hard-drivin’, rump-shakin’ machine of flat-out funk? Ronald LaPread’s rubbery bass groove. Clyde Orane’s tasty horn arrangements. Walter Orange’s come-hither vocals. Lionel Richie’s slithery stanzas. All these factors helped not only serve up a massive slice of 70’s soul but gave the world perhaps one of the best verses to ever worm its way into the collective unconscious. A verse that captures the conversational rhythms of William Carlos Williams, the atypical syntax of e.e. cummings and the immediate, lyrical intimacy of Rita Dove. A verse that reads in full:
She knows she got everything
A woman needs to get a man, yeah.
How can she lose with what she use
36-24-36, what a winning hand!
So there you have it, people. Mr. Lionel Richie. Bertrand Russell by day. Russell Simmons by night. How he keeps these two worlds from colliding we may never know. But if he can do it, then why can’t I? Why can’t we all?
I say good day.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Thoughts upon Seeing David Byrne on the Street
Recently, my mind has turned to thoughts of fame. Not the thought of becoming famous but about who is considered--or what it now takes to be--"famous." Such musings are the direct result of my little celebrity run-in yesterday, when while walking to my office in the West Village I saw David Byrne--DAVID BYRNE!--ride past me on his bicycle (minus, as some have inquired, his big white suit).
Naturally, being the citizen of such a cosmopolitan destination as Manhattan, I was able to maintain a respectable level of composure. So after a few double-takes--and briefly contemplating doing a quick pivot and chasing after the bicycle like some sad, starving dog in desperate need of attention or scraps--I skipped (well, more a manly "caper") to my destination, deliriously overjoyed in the knowledge that I had caught a fleeting glimpse of one of my favorite artists.
In all honesty, it was a very important moment for me. In fact, I have not had such a transcendental celebrity sighting since several years ago when while walking I felt a hand rest on my shoulder and a commanding yet remarkably genial voice state, "Excuse me, son, but can you tell me what time it is?"
At first I had no idea who was speaking, mostly because I tend to walk with a downward gaze (not simply because I'm a New Yorker but because I'm shy by nature). While I was at first surprised to hear someone refer to me as "son," my immediate response was to dig out my cell phone for the time. Then I heard the same strong yet sonorous voice say, "Oh, son, there's no need to go to any trouble." But I quickly took out my phone, flipped it open, looked up to show the gentleman the time...
And found myself gazing straight up at the face of Morgan Freeman.
Now, I have had my fair share of run-ins with "stars." I almost stepped on Joan Rivers' dog outside of Barney's. I stepped on Ed Koch's foot in a movie theater. I walked right smack into Paul Schaeffer on Madison Avenue (like I mentioned earlier, I tend not to look where I’m going). Sigourney Weaver even once asked me for the time in Central Park (Note to celebrity-watchers: Always have a timepiece handy...and never underestimate what inadvertent full-body contact can accomplish).
But Morgan Freeman is not another "celebrity." Morgan Freeman is not just another "star." Having Morgan Freeman ask you for the time is like being in Ancient Greece and having Zeus ask you to pass the grappa. Morgan Freeman is not supposed to walk among us. Morgan Freeman is not supposed to have a need for the mortal concept of "time." And yet there he was on a street corner in Manhattan, in T-shirt and baseball cap, proving both distinguished yet down to earth, baronial yet affable, imposing yet, well, really, really nice. Plus, he touched me on the shoulder, which more or less means I'll never get cancer on the left side of my body.
Anyway, back to the notion of "fame." "Fame"--a wholly intangible quality that eludes most of us even when one consistently and crassly flogs their "humor" on blogs and in comic strips--is a transitory attribute at best. While some individuals like the aforementioned Messrs. Byrne and Freeman will be recalled with great admiration long after they pass on, most "famous people" will go from "household name" to "mortgage defaulter" within a matter on months. That's because we have become a society where the most accessible and meteoric paths to fame is apparently being an Italian-American without a shred of self-awareness, as we all have witnessed through such programming as Jersey Shore, Frank the Entertainer, The Housewives of New Jersey, Jersey Couture, Jerseylicious and the no doubt upcoming Dagos in Wifebeaters Eating Funnel Cake at The Feast of San Gennaro while Yelling How Those Fuckin' Mets Fuckin' Broke Their Fuckin' Hearts Again. (Ed. Note: The author of this blog post is Italian and more than a bit miffed at some of his "paisans.")
Clearly we have become a culture that rewards people devoid of pride or shame or even the slightest ability to manage their own small lives by making those very people larger than life itself. Not only is this patently offensive from a societal point-of-view, but it's also remarkably dismissive of all those individuals blessed with true skill only to see their 15 minutes of fame indeed last no more than a quarter of an hour. Of course, I'm referring to all those former "celebrities," those scrappy contestants of Battle of the Network Stars who made us laugh, made us cry or simply made us change the channel. Where are they? What are they up to? What were their names again? In my quest to truly learn what it means to be "famous"--as well as the inevitable consequences of "fame"--I uncovered the following. Enjoy.
Erin Moran (Happy Days)
Writes an online column for eBay collectors titled "Joanie Loves Tchotchkes"
Wilford Brimley (Cocoon)
Still sitting at kitchen table touting the beneficial qualities of Quaker Oatmeal to viewers, despite the absence of any cameras or television crew.
Lee Majors (The Six Million Dollar Man)
Trouble seeing out of both eyes. Bursitis in right arm. Legs could use a little toning.
Mr. Ed (Mr. Ed)
Stuffed with straw.
Joyce Dewitt (Three's Company)
Still not dead.
Naturally, being the citizen of such a cosmopolitan destination as Manhattan, I was able to maintain a respectable level of composure. So after a few double-takes--and briefly contemplating doing a quick pivot and chasing after the bicycle like some sad, starving dog in desperate need of attention or scraps--I skipped (well, more a manly "caper") to my destination, deliriously overjoyed in the knowledge that I had caught a fleeting glimpse of one of my favorite artists.
In all honesty, it was a very important moment for me. In fact, I have not had such a transcendental celebrity sighting since several years ago when while walking I felt a hand rest on my shoulder and a commanding yet remarkably genial voice state, "Excuse me, son, but can you tell me what time it is?"
At first I had no idea who was speaking, mostly because I tend to walk with a downward gaze (not simply because I'm a New Yorker but because I'm shy by nature). While I was at first surprised to hear someone refer to me as "son," my immediate response was to dig out my cell phone for the time. Then I heard the same strong yet sonorous voice say, "Oh, son, there's no need to go to any trouble." But I quickly took out my phone, flipped it open, looked up to show the gentleman the time...
And found myself gazing straight up at the face of Morgan Freeman.
Now, I have had my fair share of run-ins with "stars." I almost stepped on Joan Rivers' dog outside of Barney's. I stepped on Ed Koch's foot in a movie theater. I walked right smack into Paul Schaeffer on Madison Avenue (like I mentioned earlier, I tend not to look where I’m going). Sigourney Weaver even once asked me for the time in Central Park (Note to celebrity-watchers: Always have a timepiece handy...and never underestimate what inadvertent full-body contact can accomplish).
But Morgan Freeman is not another "celebrity." Morgan Freeman is not just another "star." Having Morgan Freeman ask you for the time is like being in Ancient Greece and having Zeus ask you to pass the grappa. Morgan Freeman is not supposed to walk among us. Morgan Freeman is not supposed to have a need for the mortal concept of "time." And yet there he was on a street corner in Manhattan, in T-shirt and baseball cap, proving both distinguished yet down to earth, baronial yet affable, imposing yet, well, really, really nice. Plus, he touched me on the shoulder, which more or less means I'll never get cancer on the left side of my body.
Anyway, back to the notion of "fame." "Fame"--a wholly intangible quality that eludes most of us even when one consistently and crassly flogs their "humor" on blogs and in comic strips--is a transitory attribute at best. While some individuals like the aforementioned Messrs. Byrne and Freeman will be recalled with great admiration long after they pass on, most "famous people" will go from "household name" to "mortgage defaulter" within a matter on months. That's because we have become a society where the most accessible and meteoric paths to fame is apparently being an Italian-American without a shred of self-awareness, as we all have witnessed through such programming as Jersey Shore, Frank the Entertainer, The Housewives of New Jersey, Jersey Couture, Jerseylicious and the no doubt upcoming Dagos in Wifebeaters Eating Funnel Cake at The Feast of San Gennaro while Yelling How Those Fuckin' Mets Fuckin' Broke Their Fuckin' Hearts Again. (Ed. Note: The author of this blog post is Italian and more than a bit miffed at some of his "paisans.")
Clearly we have become a culture that rewards people devoid of pride or shame or even the slightest ability to manage their own small lives by making those very people larger than life itself. Not only is this patently offensive from a societal point-of-view, but it's also remarkably dismissive of all those individuals blessed with true skill only to see their 15 minutes of fame indeed last no more than a quarter of an hour. Of course, I'm referring to all those former "celebrities," those scrappy contestants of Battle of the Network Stars who made us laugh, made us cry or simply made us change the channel. Where are they? What are they up to? What were their names again? In my quest to truly learn what it means to be "famous"--as well as the inevitable consequences of "fame"--I uncovered the following. Enjoy.
Erin Moran (Happy Days)
Writes an online column for eBay collectors titled "Joanie Loves Tchotchkes"
Wilford Brimley (Cocoon)
Still sitting at kitchen table touting the beneficial qualities of Quaker Oatmeal to viewers, despite the absence of any cameras or television crew.
Lee Majors (The Six Million Dollar Man)
Trouble seeing out of both eyes. Bursitis in right arm. Legs could use a little toning.
Mr. Ed (Mr. Ed)
Stuffed with straw.
Joyce Dewitt (Three's Company)
Still not dead.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Conversations with My Brother, A Corporate Mascot
The following are actual phone conversations with my brother, Marcello, from his years as the official Lycos mascot for all Boston corporate events.
Conversation #1
Marcello: Ces!
Me: Cello! How are you?
Marcello: Not bad. Was the Lycos Dog at the opening of the Star Wars exhbit for the Museum of Science.
Me: Oh...Didn't expect to hear that. What did you do?
Marcello: Usual. Waved at school kids, Danced a bit. You know, usual advanced dog tricks.
Me: Sounds like fun.
Marcello: Yeah, you'd think so. My entire body is covered in black and blue marks.
Me: From what? Wearing the heavy costume?
Marcello: From getting repeatedly punched.
Me: Punched?!
Marcello: Punched, Ces! The kids punched me! I'm here to tell you that children are bastards. Mean, viscious, wholly evil bastards!
Me: What happened?!
Marcello: Remember that Simpsons epsiode when Homer pretends to Krusty at parties and big events? And he tells Lenny what hard tiring work it is, "But when I see how those little kids' eyes light up...I just know they're getting ready to jab me with something"?
Me: Oh god.
Marcello: They wouldn't stop, Ces! The little kids wanted hugs, so I gave them hugs. They were actually really adorable. But when the junior high school kids would ask me for a hug...
Me: Oh no.
Marcello: I would stretch out my arms and then BAM! Straight in the gut!
Me: Every time?
Marcello: Every fucking time! They were relentless!
Me: Then why did you keep stretching out your arms?
Marcello: Because I'm a chocolate lab, Ces! I'm supposed to be friendly! Plus, I think I'm monitored.
Me: Couldn't you do anything?
Marcello: Like what? Wave at kids from behind a pillar? Start swinging wildly at anyone over the age of 12? I'm not even allowed to talk! I'm defenseless, Ces! Defenseless!
Me: But what about the people who were supposedly with you. You know, monitoring. Couldn't they do anything?
Marcello: They were too busy taking pictures! Every time I got clocked I saw a flash go off. They said it was the best sponsored event they ever had.
Me: I'm so sorry, Cello.
Marcello: And you know what? It was never the kids from the city. It was never the poor kids from the tough parts of town. It was always these over-privileged white bastards who kept punching me! Every time I got punched it was some grinning white boy. I'm serious, Ces. I think I hate white people now.
Me: How long did this go on?
Marcello: About an hour. Maybe more. I lost count when I started to pass out.
Me: From the punching?
Marcello: No, heat stroke.
Conversation #2
Marcello: Hey, Ces!
Me: Hey there! What's up?
Marcello: Just got barred for life from Gillete Stadium (note: Home of New England Patriots)
Me: I'm sorry, what?
Marcello: Their was some...unpleasantness.
Me: What happened?
Marcello: Got into a fight with the CEO of Monster.com.
Me: What?!
Marcello: We were at the Lycos Box at Gillete with my CEO when the Monster guy kept telling me I have a stupid laugh.
Me: Well, it is...distinctive.
Marcello: I know! It's great, right?! So, I told him to go fuck himself. But then my boss got upset because I'm not allowed to talk while in costume.
Me: Wait, you were in the dog suit?!
Marcello: I was on the clock, Ces! Anyway, he got real pissed and yelled, "Do you know who I am?!" So I said, "Yeah, you're a fucking loser!" The we went at it.
Me: Cello...
Marcello: Do you know how hard it is to beat someone with fabric hands?
Me: Oh god...
Marcello: Eventually I just started choking him and we rolled down the aisle. Then the little pussy started crying, security came and I got escorted out of the stadium in handcuffs, still in costume.
Me: Jesus...
Marcello: But on the plus side, I remembered to keep waving at the kids as they drove me off.
Everything Was Going Great Until the Funeral
"I swear, if he fucking went to Alabama again I'm gonna kill him. That bastard is dead to me."
Back in September 2004 my then-wife and I went down to her hometown of Birmingham, Alabama to catch the premiere of her brother’s movie at a local film festival (a movie initially created as a birthday video for me that eventually served as the basis for a charming feature-length film about zombies, rednecks and full-frontal male nudity). By all accounts the trip was a success. My brother-in-law’s film was received with great enthusiasm, my ex got to see her family and we all got to watch several movies for the price of a small popcorn at a Manhattan Regal Cinema. All was well in the land...at least in the Southeast.
Back in my hometown of Dix Hills, New York, however, it was a markedly different story. For some inexplicable reason my parents got visibly—not to mention quite vocally—upset whenever we would visit my ex’s family. It's not that they didn't like my former in-laws. In fact, they truly did enjoy her folks’ company. But my parents live in a zero-sum world. They are also territorial to the point that would unnerve Germans. In my parents’ world every visit to my in-laws somehow deducted a visit to my family. In my parents’ world final tallies aren't so much added but subtracted. In my parents’ world you reflect not on what you have but recall what didn't come your way. Simply put, were the Marciulianos to write their family story it would be titled This Book Should Be Twice As Long and Printed on Saffron and Platinum.
Not being the types to suffer in silence—or at least mutter inaudibly—my parents openly and repeatedly questioned why we would regularly spend a full week at my in-laws’ house after driving 18 hours from New York to Alabama but only a mere weekend after driving 30 minutes on the L.I.E. to Dix Hills. Thus, had I told my parents we were going to stay in Alabama for a couple of days that September the ensuing interrogation would have made Columbo look like a concussed Chief Wiggum. That's because to engage in a dialogue with my folks is to enter a conversational Mobius strip, in which the phrase "But why?" is repeated again and again and again and again and again. Conclusions give way to more theories. Answers only reveal more problems. There is no resolution, just ultimate rejection. And then maybe some cake.
Having ridden that loop one too many times I struck upon a plan. A devious plan. A brilliant plan. A plan that could only come from the cunning foresight God gave a retarded squirrel. In short, I would tell my parents nothing of our trip. True, an actual plan is perhaps best defined as "a prescribed course of actions" whereas mine could best be defined as "evasion" or "remarkably immature." But despite my ex’s then simply worrisome but now clearly wise assertion that such a move would ultimately bite us in the ass, hard, I could detect not a single flaw. My folks would be completely ignorant. I would be completely happy. We would all experience familial bliss. Everything, for once, would go right. And everything, for once, did go right. It really, truly did.
Then came Sunday.
As my ex, her family and myself were engaging in that favorite Alabama pastime of trying to order breakfast without bacon or fried cheese—a arduous task even when requesting only orange juice—my mom was at that very moment leaving a message on our home answering machine. She was calling to inform us that my best friend from childhood, Val, had just lost his father after a long bout with cancer. Now, not only had I known Val’s father since I was about three but Val is a big part of my life, including giving me my nickname "Ces" back in kindergarten when even I had difficulty pronouncing my full name. And although we probably could not have made it back in time for the funeral service I most certainly would have wanted to call my friend that day to offer our condolences—something we could have done had my mom also left a message on my cell phone. True, thanks to my so-called "plan" my mom had no idea we were away and thus had no reason to think we would not get her message in time. But this was the very same person who just the week before had left messages on both my home and cell phone saying "Don't forget, the Emmys are on Sunday." In other words, another call would not have been completely out of character—unless, of course, that character was either trying to prove a point or had gone funny in the head, both of which ultimately proved to be true.
As for the answering machine message, we didn’t hear it until we returned late Tuesday evening, along with another message from Val telling me of his dad's passing and giving directions to the funeral service...which, of course, was held that Tuesday morning.
Naturally, I felt horrible and rightly so. Had I a backbone (or at least a well-starched shirt) I could have stood up to my parents' lunacy and just dealt with the ensuing inquisition and irrationality. I also wouldn't be calling my friend at 11 P.M. Tuesday night apologizing over and over again for not being there. Val, however, took the news much better than anyone could possibly imagine or deserve. In fact, he assumed that since I didn't call back we were probably on vacation and chose not to leave a message on my cell for fear of putting a damper on our time...a thoughtful and kind gesture that made me feel all the worse.
And had I this requisite backbone, I also would have spared my friend and his family from my folks' senior-cast production of An Inspector Calls that very morning. For apparently nothing but nothing brings out the detectives in my parents like a funeral. While others at the service reached for their handkerchiefs the Marciulianos reached for their notepads and pens, determined to solve the mystery that was "Where’s Ces?" The church might has well have been a Victorian drawing room. The mourners a suspect house staff. The deceased a McGuffin. Let others reflect on the passing of a father, husband and friend. The Marciulianos had come to make a statement and regrettably it was not "I'm sorry for your loss.”
My mom surveyed the people and perimeter of the church, spending most of the funeral service wandering around asking "Has anyone seen Ces?" like a bag lady inquiring the whereabouts of her invisible baby. My dad cornered the supposed accomplices. Opting for a direct approach, he sat next to Val on the front row pew and proceeded to grill him, asking over and over again "C'mon, you can tell me. Ces went to Alabama again this weekend, right?" Val just kept nodding "no" while looking straight ahead at an open casket no more than ten feet away. My dad, seeing that he had hit an investigative dead end, then tried a new tactic—"Well, then where would he be if he's not in Alabama? He didn't visit us, that's for damn sure. So where does that leave?" Yes, thanks to our nation's lackluster geography studies, my Dad was convinced there are only two places on Earth--Birmingham, Alabama and Dix Hills, New York. Well, three, when he bitched about my brother moving to Boston.
When Val proved to be of no help, and his sister Danielle rudely interrupted any further questioning by commencing the eulogy, my Dad turned to Val's mother Barbara—the wife of the deceased—and began complaining about our numerous trips down south. "They never visit us. At the drop of a hat they'll go down to Alabama but they never visit us. Can you believe that shit?" Realizing that Barbara neither knew of my current whereabouts nor could empathize, my father slumped in the pew, folded his arms and, according to my friend Val, said to no one in particular out loud "I swear, if he fucking went to Alabama again I'm gonna kill him. That bastard is dead to me." He might as well have stood up, pointed at the casket and said, "Make room 'cause I'm throwing my son in, too.”
And so the service and the scrutiny played out. My mom wandered aimlessly, looking for someone she knew wasn't there but making sure everyone else knew it as well ("I can't believe my son wouldn't come. It's his oldest friend. Where could he be?"). My dad sat in the front pew with the grieving family, wondering if the priest had any information and cursing out my name—in church—while audibly planning his own son's funeral ("And when I bury that fucker I'm not even going to show up. Two can go to Alabama."). Neither of them thought to call my cell phone and resolve the issue once and for all...although there's a good chance I would have simply lied. That’s because for some, you see, maturity is a gradual, almost glacial, process.
I wish I could say the gathering back at Val’s family's house after the service went better. I really do. But the play just continued for another act, only to turn into a one-woman show. With my dad leaving to teach his class my mom was left to uncover any further evidence of our trip to Alabama, which my all accounts she did with a vengeance. She questioned people who did not know me, friends who frankly could care less and Val, repeatedly. Perhaps she felt a certain kinship with my friend, thinking "You lost a father, I lost my son...for a few days." Perhaps she chose this time to make it known she was hurt, not realizing a far greater pain was being felt. Perhaps she had been drinking since dawn. I don't know. I do know I messed up in not realizing when to take a stand. I know my parents messed up in failing to realize when not to take a stand. I know my inaction unwittingly made my ex a de facto accomplice in a disappearance that that never was. And I now know that in general Marciulianos have an almost heliotropic craving for the spotlight, like a flower pushing a massive boulder out of the way to bask in the sun if only for a moment. The facts speak for themselves. In telling the story of my friend's loss I chose to make my plight the central concern. In attending a somber occasion my parents hoped tears would be wept for them as well.
Six years later I’d like to say I’ve learned my lesson. Six years I’d like to say I feel comfortable enough to tell my parents anything, no matter what the possible consequences. But here it is six years later and I’m worried about what my parents will say when they read this…and what I will have to say to immediately change the subject.
Back in September 2004 my then-wife and I went down to her hometown of Birmingham, Alabama to catch the premiere of her brother’s movie at a local film festival (a movie initially created as a birthday video for me that eventually served as the basis for a charming feature-length film about zombies, rednecks and full-frontal male nudity). By all accounts the trip was a success. My brother-in-law’s film was received with great enthusiasm, my ex got to see her family and we all got to watch several movies for the price of a small popcorn at a Manhattan Regal Cinema. All was well in the land...at least in the Southeast.
Back in my hometown of Dix Hills, New York, however, it was a markedly different story. For some inexplicable reason my parents got visibly—not to mention quite vocally—upset whenever we would visit my ex’s family. It's not that they didn't like my former in-laws. In fact, they truly did enjoy her folks’ company. But my parents live in a zero-sum world. They are also territorial to the point that would unnerve Germans. In my parents’ world every visit to my in-laws somehow deducted a visit to my family. In my parents’ world final tallies aren't so much added but subtracted. In my parents’ world you reflect not on what you have but recall what didn't come your way. Simply put, were the Marciulianos to write their family story it would be titled This Book Should Be Twice As Long and Printed on Saffron and Platinum.
Not being the types to suffer in silence—or at least mutter inaudibly—my parents openly and repeatedly questioned why we would regularly spend a full week at my in-laws’ house after driving 18 hours from New York to Alabama but only a mere weekend after driving 30 minutes on the L.I.E. to Dix Hills. Thus, had I told my parents we were going to stay in Alabama for a couple of days that September the ensuing interrogation would have made Columbo look like a concussed Chief Wiggum. That's because to engage in a dialogue with my folks is to enter a conversational Mobius strip, in which the phrase "But why?" is repeated again and again and again and again and again. Conclusions give way to more theories. Answers only reveal more problems. There is no resolution, just ultimate rejection. And then maybe some cake.
Having ridden that loop one too many times I struck upon a plan. A devious plan. A brilliant plan. A plan that could only come from the cunning foresight God gave a retarded squirrel. In short, I would tell my parents nothing of our trip. True, an actual plan is perhaps best defined as "a prescribed course of actions" whereas mine could best be defined as "evasion" or "remarkably immature." But despite my ex’s then simply worrisome but now clearly wise assertion that such a move would ultimately bite us in the ass, hard, I could detect not a single flaw. My folks would be completely ignorant. I would be completely happy. We would all experience familial bliss. Everything, for once, would go right. And everything, for once, did go right. It really, truly did.
Then came Sunday.
As my ex, her family and myself were engaging in that favorite Alabama pastime of trying to order breakfast without bacon or fried cheese—a arduous task even when requesting only orange juice—my mom was at that very moment leaving a message on our home answering machine. She was calling to inform us that my best friend from childhood, Val, had just lost his father after a long bout with cancer. Now, not only had I known Val’s father since I was about three but Val is a big part of my life, including giving me my nickname "Ces" back in kindergarten when even I had difficulty pronouncing my full name. And although we probably could not have made it back in time for the funeral service I most certainly would have wanted to call my friend that day to offer our condolences—something we could have done had my mom also left a message on my cell phone. True, thanks to my so-called "plan" my mom had no idea we were away and thus had no reason to think we would not get her message in time. But this was the very same person who just the week before had left messages on both my home and cell phone saying "Don't forget, the Emmys are on Sunday." In other words, another call would not have been completely out of character—unless, of course, that character was either trying to prove a point or had gone funny in the head, both of which ultimately proved to be true.
As for the answering machine message, we didn’t hear it until we returned late Tuesday evening, along with another message from Val telling me of his dad's passing and giving directions to the funeral service...which, of course, was held that Tuesday morning.
Naturally, I felt horrible and rightly so. Had I a backbone (or at least a well-starched shirt) I could have stood up to my parents' lunacy and just dealt with the ensuing inquisition and irrationality. I also wouldn't be calling my friend at 11 P.M. Tuesday night apologizing over and over again for not being there. Val, however, took the news much better than anyone could possibly imagine or deserve. In fact, he assumed that since I didn't call back we were probably on vacation and chose not to leave a message on my cell for fear of putting a damper on our time...a thoughtful and kind gesture that made me feel all the worse.
And had I this requisite backbone, I also would have spared my friend and his family from my folks' senior-cast production of An Inspector Calls that very morning. For apparently nothing but nothing brings out the detectives in my parents like a funeral. While others at the service reached for their handkerchiefs the Marciulianos reached for their notepads and pens, determined to solve the mystery that was "Where’s Ces?" The church might has well have been a Victorian drawing room. The mourners a suspect house staff. The deceased a McGuffin. Let others reflect on the passing of a father, husband and friend. The Marciulianos had come to make a statement and regrettably it was not "I'm sorry for your loss.”
My mom surveyed the people and perimeter of the church, spending most of the funeral service wandering around asking "Has anyone seen Ces?" like a bag lady inquiring the whereabouts of her invisible baby. My dad cornered the supposed accomplices. Opting for a direct approach, he sat next to Val on the front row pew and proceeded to grill him, asking over and over again "C'mon, you can tell me. Ces went to Alabama again this weekend, right?" Val just kept nodding "no" while looking straight ahead at an open casket no more than ten feet away. My dad, seeing that he had hit an investigative dead end, then tried a new tactic—"Well, then where would he be if he's not in Alabama? He didn't visit us, that's for damn sure. So where does that leave?" Yes, thanks to our nation's lackluster geography studies, my Dad was convinced there are only two places on Earth--Birmingham, Alabama and Dix Hills, New York. Well, three, when he bitched about my brother moving to Boston.
When Val proved to be of no help, and his sister Danielle rudely interrupted any further questioning by commencing the eulogy, my Dad turned to Val's mother Barbara—the wife of the deceased—and began complaining about our numerous trips down south. "They never visit us. At the drop of a hat they'll go down to Alabama but they never visit us. Can you believe that shit?" Realizing that Barbara neither knew of my current whereabouts nor could empathize, my father slumped in the pew, folded his arms and, according to my friend Val, said to no one in particular out loud "I swear, if he fucking went to Alabama again I'm gonna kill him. That bastard is dead to me." He might as well have stood up, pointed at the casket and said, "Make room 'cause I'm throwing my son in, too.”
And so the service and the scrutiny played out. My mom wandered aimlessly, looking for someone she knew wasn't there but making sure everyone else knew it as well ("I can't believe my son wouldn't come. It's his oldest friend. Where could he be?"). My dad sat in the front pew with the grieving family, wondering if the priest had any information and cursing out my name—in church—while audibly planning his own son's funeral ("And when I bury that fucker I'm not even going to show up. Two can go to Alabama."). Neither of them thought to call my cell phone and resolve the issue once and for all...although there's a good chance I would have simply lied. That’s because for some, you see, maturity is a gradual, almost glacial, process.
I wish I could say the gathering back at Val’s family's house after the service went better. I really do. But the play just continued for another act, only to turn into a one-woman show. With my dad leaving to teach his class my mom was left to uncover any further evidence of our trip to Alabama, which my all accounts she did with a vengeance. She questioned people who did not know me, friends who frankly could care less and Val, repeatedly. Perhaps she felt a certain kinship with my friend, thinking "You lost a father, I lost my son...for a few days." Perhaps she chose this time to make it known she was hurt, not realizing a far greater pain was being felt. Perhaps she had been drinking since dawn. I don't know. I do know I messed up in not realizing when to take a stand. I know my parents messed up in failing to realize when not to take a stand. I know my inaction unwittingly made my ex a de facto accomplice in a disappearance that that never was. And I now know that in general Marciulianos have an almost heliotropic craving for the spotlight, like a flower pushing a massive boulder out of the way to bask in the sun if only for a moment. The facts speak for themselves. In telling the story of my friend's loss I chose to make my plight the central concern. In attending a somber occasion my parents hoped tears would be wept for them as well.
Six years later I’d like to say I’ve learned my lesson. Six years I’d like to say I feel comfortable enough to tell my parents anything, no matter what the possible consequences. But here it is six years later and I’m worried about what my parents will say when they read this…and what I will have to say to immediately change the subject.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
"Sally Forth": No Longer Imperceptibly Impacting Geopolitics
Ever since I was a child I've had a dream. In the dream I'm being chased by a bear and the faster I ran the slower I moved. Then suddenly I found myself in Mr. Penino's AP History class only to realize it was the day of the big test, all the questions were written in tiny print on a blackboard three miles away, I hadn't studied all year and I was completely naked. Soon every student carried a much bigger sword than me, I was the only ones who couldn’t fly, a large hammer kept pounding a spike into the ground but couldn't break the dirt, a train failed to get through a tunnel and a volcano prematurely exploded, leaving me utterly ashamed yet completely relaxed.
I also had another dream--minus the Freudian imagery so barefaced and incontestable that it caused my pet cat to burst into laughter and shake her head in bemusement and disgust. And that dream was to be a syndicated cartoonist. To write a strip that would be seem by some number hopefully that was followed by a comma or two and a few zeros. To feel not only professionally but also psychologically and emotionally satisfied by having a public venue to express myself in the most candid and creative means I know how. To expose my mind and soul to the world so that I could elicit such feedback as:
"I'm pretty sure that, like 'Prince Valiant,' 'Sally Forth' is used to transmit coded messages to CIA operatives, because nobody else ever reads them."
And so with that one savage, stinging comment all my hopes and dreams were undone...along with my multi-year contract with the federal government. In a way I'm happy I no longer have to live a lie, to spend each and every day trying to figure out how to write a middle-of-the-road family strip while simultaneously transmitting secret tactical codes without somehow resorting to unwritten Native American languages. It was long, tiring work that regularly put my life in danger, resulted in numerous overnight excursions and got me repeatedly shot by Basque Separatists.
So below I present to you the last encoded Sally Forth strip ever to be published (click on image to make legible). Can you discern both its top secret message and the cross-continental conflagration it was meant to spark? Kudos and an immediate target on the back for the first person to get it right. Enjoy.
I also had another dream--minus the Freudian imagery so barefaced and incontestable that it caused my pet cat to burst into laughter and shake her head in bemusement and disgust. And that dream was to be a syndicated cartoonist. To write a strip that would be seem by some number hopefully that was followed by a comma or two and a few zeros. To feel not only professionally but also psychologically and emotionally satisfied by having a public venue to express myself in the most candid and creative means I know how. To expose my mind and soul to the world so that I could elicit such feedback as:
"I'm pretty sure that, like 'Prince Valiant,' 'Sally Forth' is used to transmit coded messages to CIA operatives, because nobody else ever reads them."
And so with that one savage, stinging comment all my hopes and dreams were undone...along with my multi-year contract with the federal government. In a way I'm happy I no longer have to live a lie, to spend each and every day trying to figure out how to write a middle-of-the-road family strip while simultaneously transmitting secret tactical codes without somehow resorting to unwritten Native American languages. It was long, tiring work that regularly put my life in danger, resulted in numerous overnight excursions and got me repeatedly shot by Basque Separatists.
So below I present to you the last encoded Sally Forth strip ever to be published (click on image to make legible). Can you discern both its top secret message and the cross-continental conflagration it was meant to spark? Kudos and an immediate target on the back for the first person to get it right. Enjoy.
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