Accentuate the positive

While I was trying to find an image file on my computer that was going to be the basis for an article about something my grandfather invented, I instead ran across a bit of video I shot just over 11 years ago. (Never found what I was originally looking for, though.) To give it some context, I shot the video on a camera that I’d just bought around that time as an early Christmas present to myself. The reason for that was because a gig that had started out as a “two day only” temp assignment in the middle of the previous July had turned into a full-time job that lasted over a decade by the end of that October. I shot the video over the course of a work day that was also the day of our office holiday party, my first with the company.

It was strangely nostalgic to see all of my former coworkers again. In fact, out of everybody in the video, only two of them made it with me all the way to the end, when the company self-destructed. But that’s not what this story is about. It also brought up the feels because that particular office — the first of four which the company occupied during my time with it — was long since converted into a Target Express, a sort of mini-version of the bigger stores. I visited it once, and bought a DVD about twenty feet from where my desk had been.

But, the point of the story: In this video, I was interviewing coworkers and narrating and I was once again reminded of how much I hate the sound of my own voice when I hear it coming from anywhere that isn’t inside my own head. This is not at all uncommon. In fact, when I googled it, I only had to type “Why do people hate” before it auto-filled with the rest of the question — “the sound of their own voices.” Basically, when you talk, the sound you hear isn’t coming through the air. It’s coming directly through the bones in your ear, so the voice you hear is probably deeper and richer.

In my case it’s even weirder than that. The voice I hear in my head lacks two things that are very obvious when I listen to it recorded. One: I’m a lot more nasally than I think I am. Two: I actually have a noticeable accent, although I really can’t place it. I won’t count one other bit as three, though, because it’s true of everyone — the voice outside my head is probably half an octave higher than the one in my head.

The other noticeable thing, to me at least, though, is that despite being gay I absolutely do not have “gay voice.” And yes, that’s a thing. And despite being Californian, I do not have surfer dude voice or Valley guy voice either. I also exhibit none of the vowel shifts that are apparently part of the “California accent,” whatever that is. Another complication is that, since the entertainment industry is centered here, the standard accent of film and TV is also pretty much how Californians, particularly of the southern variety, talk.

But, to me, the non-California accent I apparently have is really baffling. Well, at least the part about not being able to place it. I was born and raised in Southern California and so was my father. However, his parents came from Kansas and my mother was from Northeastern Pennsylvania. As a kid before I started going to school, I spent a lot more time with my mom. Meanwhile, my dad’s accent was clearly influenced by his parents despite his growing up here.

The best way to describe my mom’s accent is Noo Yawk Lite. That is, while a lot of it was flat, there were certain words and vowels that just came out east-coasty. For example, a common household pet was a “dawg.” You dried your dishes or yourself with a “tahl.” The day after Friday was “Sirday” — which I think is unique to where my mom came from. Then again, apparently, the whole state has a ton of different dialects.

Meanwhile, the Kansas side contributed a very flat, plain, and tight-lipped manner of speech, and I certainly heard this quite often from my dad’s mom, since we visited her more often than my mom’s mom, who lived ten times farther away. And although my dad’s grandfather was German, I don’t think he had a lot of influence because great-grandpa died just before my dad turned 22, and my dad’s own father sort of abandoned the family when my dad was 12. (Long story. Don’t ask.)

And none of any of this explains the way I talk. Or tawk. Oddly enough, when I’m not speaking English, I’m pretty adept at doing a Mexican Spanish accent (casi pero no completamente en el estilo chilango), although that’s probably not all that weird when you consider that the major (but not only) Spanish influence in Southern California is, in fact, from the country that used to be most of California. On the other hand, when I speak German, it’s in total Hamburg Deutsch despite my German ancestors being Alsatian, mainly because my German teacher was from that very northern town. And, to be honest, I never met any of my German ancestors because they all died long before I was born — Sie sind alle gestorben bevor ich geboren werde.

To complicate things, when I’ve listened to recordings of myself speaking either Spanish or German, the most notable thing is that I am not nasally or half an octave higher at all. Or, in other words, my voice only sucks in my native language. Funny how that works, isn’t it? And the weirdest part, I suppose, is that none of that nasal thing happens in my head, even though, technically, nasal voice happens entirely in one’s head due to that whole sinus thing.

So, back to the beginning. When I speak my native language I hate the way I sound, but when I speak a foreign language, I don’t hate the way I sound. Then again, that’s also true when I’m performing onstage and playing a character. I just forget to play a character in real life, but maybe that’s a good thing.

There’s a book by Dr. Morton Cooper, first published in 1985, called Change Your Voice, Change Your Life, which posits exactly this premise. Ironically, though, he specifically mentions the flaws in voices — like Howard Cosell’s nasality and Barbara Walters nasality, hoarseness, and lisp — as their strongest points. Although his references are dated, I guess he has a point, stating that, “These personalities have all managed to project voice images that are— however unattractive and displeasing to the ears— distinctive and lucrative.”

Then… maybe I should change nothing? Hell, if Gilbert Gottfried (NSFest of W) can get away with talking the way he does, maybe I’m onto something. And maybe it’s not so much a matter of changing my voice as it is changing my feelings about it.

And that’s really the takeaway here — surprise, this was the lesson all along. There are certain things we can’t really change about ourselves, like our height, our hair, eye, or skin color, our looks, or our voices. (Okay, we can change hair, eye, or skin color through dye, contact lenses, or tanning, but those are only temporary and, in some cases, really obvious.) But we are stuck with our height, looks, and mostly our voices, unless we want to go to the expense of physically altering the first two, or learning how to alter the latter.

Or… we can just learn to accept ourselves as we are, flaws and all, and realize that we do not have to be some perfect ideal media version of a human in order for someone to love us. And the part I intentionally left out of this up to now is this: Plenty of people have told me that I have a sexy voice. I may not agree with them at all, but if they think so, then that’s good enough for me. I mean, I got to be the Pokémon they chose before they threw their ball at me, right? And, in the end, that’s the only part that counts.

So… stop judging yourself for the flaws you think you see. Instead, listen to the flaws that people who love you clearly do not see.

Rewind

If you could go back in time to your younger self — say right out of high school or college — what one bit of advice would you give? I think, in my case, it would be this: “Dude, you only think you’re an introvert, but you’re really not. You just need to learn now what it took me years to understand. No one else is really judging you because they’re too busy worrying about how they come off.”

But that worry about what other people thought turned me into a shy introvert for way too long a time. At parties, I wouldn’t talk to strangers. I’d hang in the corners and observe, or hope that I knew one or two people there already, so would stick to them like your insurance agent’s calendar magnet on your fridge. Sneak in late, leave early, not really have any fun.

It certainly didn’t help on dates, especially of the first kind. “Hi, (your name). How’s it going?” Talk talk talk, question to me… awkward silence, stare at menu, or plate if order already placed.

Now this is not to imply that I had any problem going straight to close encounters of the third kind way too often, but those only happened when someone else hit on me first. Also, I had a really bad habit of not being able to say “No” when someone did show interest. I guess I should have noticed the contradiction: Can someone really be an introvert and a slut at the same time?

What I also didn’t notice was that the times I was a total extrovert all happened via art. When I wrote or acted, all the inhibitions went away. Why? Because I was plausibly not being myself. The characters I created or the characters I played were other people. They were insulation. They gave me permission to just go out there without excuse. (Okay, the same thing happened during sex, but by that point, I don’t think that introversion is even possible or very likely.)

However… the characters did not cross over into my real life. I was awkward with strangers. I was okay with friends, but only after ample time to get to know them.

And so it went until I wound up in the hospital, almost died, came out the other side alive — and then a funny thing happened. I suddenly started initiating conversations with strangers. And enjoying them. And realized that I could play myself as a character in real life and have a lot of fun doing it. And started to not really care what anyone else thought about me because I was more interested in just connecting with people and having fun.

The most important realization, though, was that I had been lying to myself about what I was for years. The “being an introvert” shtick was just an excuse. What I’d never really admitted was that I was extroverted as hell. The “almost dying” part gave the big nudge, but the “doing improv” part sealed it. Here’s the thing. Our lives, day to day and moment to moment, are performance. Most muggles never realize that. So they get stage fright, don’t know what to do or say or how to react.

But, honestly, every conversation you’ll ever have with someone else is just something you both make up on the spot, which is what improv is. The only difference is that with improv you’re making up the who, what (or want) and where, whereas in real life, you’re playing it live, so those things are already there.

Ooh, what’s that? Real life is easier than performing on stage?

One other thing that yanked me out of my “I’m an introvert” mindset, though, was an indirect result of doing improv. I’ve been working box office for ComedySportz for almost a year now — long story on how and why that happened — but I’m basically the first public face that patrons see, I’ve gotten to know a lot of our regulars, and I honestly enjoy interacting with the public, whether via walk-ups to the ticket counter or phone calls. Young me would have absolutely hated doing this, which is another reason for my intended message to that callow twat.

And so… if you’re reading this and think that you’re an introvert, do me a favor. Find something that drags you out of your comfort zone. Remind yourself that no one else is really judging you because they’re too busy worrying about themselves, then smile and tell way too much to the wait-staff or checker or usher or whomever — and then don’t give a squishy nickel over what they might think about it.

(Note: “squishy nickel” was a fifth level choice on the improv game of “New Choice” in my head just now. Which is how we do…)

Influences, influencers, the influenced

I seem to be slowly developing a following here, and it’s not all people I know in real life. In fact, it’s mostly not people I know in real life. And a lot of you seem to like what I’m doing, and I’ve gotten positive comments and messages, and I appreciate them all. This next sentence is going to sound like a mega-tautology, but here you go: I write what I write here because I’m a writer, and what writers do is write.

In other words, this all began as an exercise in keeping my chops up. When I started this blog, it was right after the end of a decade-long gig which involved, in part, ghost-writing a weekly column for a certain D-list celebrity. Since I was given a ridiculous amount of free-rein, I basically took their philosophies in one subject area and applied them to human psychology and self-improvement, and got to at least enjoy the praise vicariously. I made the words. D-lister got the thanks. Go figure.

So it’s nice to actually get the positive comments myself, finally.

But this also reminds me of my own adventure with a columnist. The Los Angeles Times used to run daily columns by a writer with the most generic of names: Jack Smith. When I was a kid, my parents subscribed to the Times, and I used to read his column regularly, but one of them stuck with me. It was about the etymology of the word “undertakers,” and this sentence in particular, referring to the U.S. Civil War, jumped out: “…undertakers used to follow the armies like prostitutes, not to pleasure the soldiers but to embalm them.”

It stuck with me enough that I eventually wrote an entire play about undertakers, a prostitute, and the Civil War, called Noah Johnson had a Whore… (Later productions would try to drop the last three words from the title only for me to learn an important lesson: As offensive as they might seem, those words effin’ sold tickets.)

Anyway… this was the first full-length play I ever wrote, the first of mine ever produced, and I wound up starting at the top. It won an award from and was first produced by South Coast Rep, which is basically the Center Theater Group of Orange County. In other words, big time. It was an amazing experience that I will never forget and, to this day, I happen to have one of the 19th-century style wooden coffins from that production sitting in my living room as a coffee table as a constant reminder. (Note: Yes, coffins and caskets are different.)

But… to quote another produced play of mine, “I do digress…”

Because my play won a contest and turned out to be a big deal and got a lot of PR at the time, SCR reached out to the Times and Jack Smith to get a comment about the whole thing, since he had given me the idea in the first place. And not only did he respond, but he came down to see the show, I got to meet him, and then he wrote about it in another one of his columns.

Yeah, talk about an ultimate fan-boy squee moment. It was all really overwhelming for a baby playwright. And then the show closed and life went on.

Jump cut: About 2010. An old actor friend of mine remembers one of the plays I wrote not long after Noah, but had long since abandoned. Called Bill & Joan, it was about a fateful night in Mexico City in 1951 in which the writer William S. Burroughs shot his wife Joan Vollmer in the head and killed her in front of horrified party guests in what may or may not have been a game of “William Tell” gone horribly wrong. I was inspired to write it because Burroughs was one of my early influences as a writer. Unfortunately, right around the time I started to shop it, David Cronenberg released his film version of Naked Lunch, which infuriated me on two fronts. First, it really had nothing to do with the book (and mostly de-gayed the entire thing). Second, in order to come up with a plot, they did the whole “Bill shoots Joan” storyline, which killed the market for my play.

But… the actor who had read one of the young roles ages ago remembered the play and was now old enough to play the lead, so he got in touch, we pitched to his theater company and… they turned it down on the first pass. (This particularly hurt because one of the artistic directors at the time was French Stewart, whom I have always admired the hell out of.) But, persistence paid off, so we tried again the next year, with a new artistic board (they change every year by design) and ta-da!

So the play opened at the beginning of 2014, to coincide with the centenary of Burroughs’ birth. Bonus points: His birthday was the day after mine and, as we found out in pre-production, his wife’s birthday was the same as mine. Whoa!

But the best and trippiest part was that this whole process became a collaboration between me and my younger self. I hadn’t looked at the play in years, so looking at it again effectively put a third pair of eyes on it, even if those eyes were still mine. When I’d written the play, I was the same age as one of the hustler characters Bill lusted for. When it was produced, I was only a tad older than Bill was when he killed his wife.

Combine all of that with an amazing director, dedicated production staff, and a killer cast, and I think that the whole thing turned out well. But the icing on the cake came after the Burroughs estate sent a spy to see the play, he reported back that I had plagiarized Bill’s words, and we got a cease and desist. This being small theater in L.A., that notice came after we had closed, so the one producer who was and is a major asshole dumped it on me. I replied by just sending them the play, and the ultimate vindication came from James Grauerholz himself.

If you don’t know who he is, you don’t know your Burroughs. He was a fan who wound up being Bill’s secretary and personal assistant in the 1970s and stuck with him to the end, and hence became executor of the estate. In other words, he is William S. Burroughs’ living representative on Earth. It’s not even clear whether they were actually ever lovers. Honestly, probably not, but Jimmy is the fiercest protector of Bill’s legacy.

And his response to reading my play? (Which didn’t quote Burroughs, but just made shit up in his style.) Paraphrased: “There is no plagiarism here. We give you our blessings to produce this play.”

So on the one hand, I’m really flattered to realize that I duped some people into thinking I quoted a literary idol instead of wrote in imitation of his voice. On the other, I am super honored that Hand of God told me, “Yes, oh yes. You can do this. Carry on.”

And that’s a lot of words to get around to saying this: If you appreciate a writer’s work, let them know. We are solitary creatures who do not trust feedback we get from friends and family, because with rare exception, they will tell us we’re brilliant. (If you have a friend who will tell you to your face that something you wrote sucked, hang onto them, because they truly are a friend.) But when the compliments come from strangers, they are the best kind of validation.

And if you are a writer yourself, then  just hang on, do what you do, and trust in yourself until someone else says, “Hey… I like this.”

Because nothing feels better than that.

Image: From the Sacred Fools Production of Bill & Joan; Betsy Moore and Curt Bonnem

Bye bye bunny

You’ve probably heard of Coney Island, which is a beachfront amusement park located on Long Island, New York, in the borough of Brooklyn. If you’re from Southern California, it’s somewhat analogous to the Santa Monica Pier, and the now defunct Ocean Park, which closed in 1967. But… have you ever wondered how Coney Island got its name?

It wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that it was named after a member of the Coney family. After all, a lot of places are. The name New York itself refers back to the famous Yorks of England. Perhaps Coney Island was named after the famous Nathan Coney, who founded Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, a world-renowned place. Oh… except that it was founded by Nathan Handwerker in 1916, long after Coney Island had been named. And, to be fair, “Handwerker” is a really great name for somebody who makes their living crafting foodstuffs by hand.

When was Coney Island named, exactly? Well, most likely when the place had been settled by the Dutch and what we now call New York was known as New Amsterdam. They decided to name this stretch of Long Island Konijn Eiland.  You don’t really need to speak Dutch to realize that those words sound a lot like the final name. In fact, Konine Eyelant is pretty much it. So where did the Konijn/Coney come from?

Let’s jump back just a moment to my childhood, when we used to visit my paternal grandmother, who lived in a town called Atascadero, up the end of a street called Conejo Road. And what does Conejo mean? Well, if you grow up in a place with a big Spanish influence, like Southern California, you’ll learn very quickly that “conejo” means “hare.” So grandma lived on Hare Road. And that’s exactly how Coney Island wound up with the name. The Dutch knew it and later settlers just followed…

The place was hare island, originally because it was covered by them, later from linguistic inertia. But, at the same time, it was a misnomer to name the entire place “Hare Island,” because they weren’t everywhere, just in certain places. Like where later New Yorkers built their amusement park.

Note that I’m not using the word rabbit, because there is still no agreement on how this word wound up in English. It may have come from generic Franco-Germanic terms for “little animal,” but who knows? Ultimately, the sounds that led to the name for this creature are most likely Germanic.

As for bunny, again, no one knows. It may have come from a term for a squirrel or a tail, or could have somehow been derived from “cunny,” a diminutive for the aforementioned coney, although with rather unfortunate connotations in the modern era, at least in English.

Then there’s hare, which gives root to “harrier,” either dogs made for running down rabbits, aka hares, or the description of military airplanes that can jump and shoot the shit out of other planes.

None of which would have flown over Coney Island. And the real answer to all of this, may I abandon my linguistic purist roots, is this: In the great long run — as in centuries away from now — folk etymologies are as good as reality. If I say now that Coney Island was named that because the Dutch thought the place was overrun with hares, then so be it… the Dutch win. If, however, my version — or the version in my links wins — and someday the place is renamed Bunny Brooklyn, or whatever… that will be our future history. And that’s just the thing. History is fleeting and, while I like to try to teach what I can learn from what we know now, I also know that in a century or two or three everything we think we know now will be proven wrong.

All I can really say for now is that my grandma lived in a place named for lots of rabbits, and they were definitely there. An amusement park in Long Island was named for the same, although what they called rabbits probably were not. As a kid, I owned and took care of a lot of bunnies, and they were amazing. As an adult, I do improv, a lot of which involves a game called “Bunny, Bunny.” But forget bunnies and rabbits. If you’re really keeping track, it’s coneys and hares.

Same thing as bunnies and rabbits, except not as cute and more durable, and with different words. Really…

5 Things that are older than you think

A lot of our current technology seems surprisingly new. The iPhone is only twelve years old, for example, although the first Blackberry, a more primitive form of smart phone, came out in 1999. The first actual smart phone, IBM’s Simon Personal Communicator, was introduced in 1992 but not available to consumers until 1994. That was also the year that the internet started to really take off with people outside of universities or the government, although public connections to it had been available as early as 1989 (remember Compuserve, anyone?), and the first experimental internet nodes were connected in 1969.

Of course, to go from room-sized computers communicating via acoustic modems along wires to handheld supercomputers sending their signals wirelessly via satellite took some evolution and development of existing technology. Your microwave oven has a lot more computing power than the system that helped us land on the moon, for example. But the roots of many of our modern inventions go back a lot further than you might think. Here are five examples.

Alarm clock

As a concept, alarm clocks go back to the ancient Greeks, frequently involving water clocks. These were designed to wake people up before dawn, in Plato’s case to make it to class on time, which started at daybreak; later, they woke monks in order to pray before sunrise.

From the late middle ages, church towers became town alarm clocks, with the bells set to strike at one particular hour per day, and personal alarm clocks first appeared in 15th-century Europe. The first American alarm clock was made by Levi Hutchins in 1787, but he only made it for himself since, like Plato, he got up before dawn. Antoine Redier of France was the first to patent a mechanical alarm clock, in 1847. Because of a lack of production during WWII due to the appropriation of metal and machine shops to the war effort (and the breakdown of older clocks during the war) they became one of the first consumer items to be mass-produced just before the war ended. Atlas Obscura has a fascinating history of alarm clocks that’s worth a look.

Fax machine

Although it’s pretty much a dead technology now, it was the height of high tech in offices in the 80s and 90s, but you’d be hard pressed to find a fax machine that isn’t part of the built-in hardware of a multi-purpose networked printer nowadays, and that’s only because it’s such a cheap legacy to include. But it might surprise you to know that the prototypical fax machine, originally an “Electric Printing Telegraph,” dates back to 1843. Basically, as soon as humans figured out how to send signals down telegraph wires, they started to figure out how to encode images — and you can bet that the second image ever sent in that way was a dirty picture. Or a cat photo. Still, it took until 1964 for Xerox to finally figure out how to use this technology over phone lines and create the Xerox LDX. The scanner/printer combo was available to rent for $800 a month — the equivalent of around $6,500 today — and it could transmit pages at a blazing 8 per minute. The second generation fax machine only weighed 46 lbs and could send a letter-sized document in only six minutes, or ten page per hour. Whoot — progress! You can actually see one of the Electric Printing Telegraphs in action in the 1948 movie Call Northside 777, in which it plays a pivotal role in sending a photograph cross-country in order to exonerate an accused man.

In case you’re wondering, the title of the film refers to a telephone number from back in the days before what was originally called “all digit dialing.” Up until then, telephone exchanges (what we now call prefixes) were identified by the first two letters of a word, and then another digit or two or three. (Once upon a time, in some areas of the US, phone numbers only had five digits.) So NOrthside 777 would resolve itself to 667-77, with 667 being the prefix. This system started to end in 1958, and a lot of people didn’t like that.

Of course, with the advent of cell phones prefixes and even area codes have become pretty meaningless, since people tend to keep the number they had in their home town regardless of where they move to, and a “long distance call” is mostly a dead concept now as well, which is probably a good thing.

CGI

When do you suppose the first computer animation appeared on film? You may have heard that the original 2D computer generated imagery (CGI) used in a movie was in 1973 in the original film Westworld, inspiration for the recent TV series. Using very primitive equipment, the visual effects designers simulated pixilation of actual footage in order to show us the POV of the robotic gunslinger played by Yul Brynner. It turned out to be a revolutionary effort.

The first 3D CGI happened to be in this film’s sequel, Futureworld in 1976, where the effect was used to create the image of a rotating 3D robot head. However, the first ever CGI sequence was actually made in… 1961. Called Rendering of a planned highway, it was created by the Swedish Royal Institute of Technology on what was then the fastest computer in the world, the BESK, driven by vacuum tubes. It’s an interesting effort for the time, but the results are rather disappointing.

Microwave oven

If you’re a Millennial, then microwave ovens have pretty much always been a standard accessory in your kitchen, but home versions don’t predate your birth by much. Sales began in the late 1960s. By 1972 Litton had introduced microwave ovens as kitchen appliances. They cost the equivalent of about $2,400 today. As demand went up, prices fell. Nowadays, you can get a small, basic microwave for under $50.

But would it surprise you to learn that the first microwave ovens were created just after World War II? In fact, they were the direct result of it, due to a sudden lack of demand for magnetrons, the devices used by the military to generate radar in the microwave range. Not wanting to lose the market, their manufacturers began to look for new uses for the tubes. The idea of using radio waves to cook food went back to 1933, but those devices were never developed.

Around 1946, engineers accidentally realized that the microwaves coming from these devices could cook food, and voìla! In 1947, the technology was developed, although only for commercial use, since the devices were taller than an average man, weighed 750 lbs and cost the equivalent of $56,000 today. It took 20 years for the first home model, the Radarange, to be introduced for the mere sum of $12,000 of today’s dollars.

Music video

Conventional wisdom says that the first music video to ever air went out on August 1, 1981 on MTV, and it was “Video Killed the Radio Star” by The Buggles. As is often the case, conventional wisdom is wrong. It was the first to air on MTV, but the concept of putting visuals to rock music as a marketing tool goes back a lot farther than that. Artists and labels were making promotional films for their songs back at almost the beginning of the 1960s, with the Beatles a prominent example. Before these, though, was the Scopitone, a jukebox that could play films in sync with music popular from the late 1950s to mid-1960s, and their predecessor was the Panoram, a similar concept popular in the 1940s which played short programs called Soundies. However, these programs played on a continuous loop, so you couldn’t chose your song. Soundies were produced until 1946, which brings us to the real predecessor of music videos: Vitaphone Shorts, produced by Warner Bros. as sound began to come to film. Some of these featured musical acts and were essentially miniature musicals themselves. They weren’t shot on video, but they introduced the concept all the same. Here, you can watch a particularly fun example from 1935 in 3-strip Technicolor that also features cameos by various stars of the era in a very loose story.

Do you know of any things that are actually a lot older than people think? Let us know in the comments!

Photo credit: Jake von Slatt

Tribute must be paid

This is going to be a little different than my other entries because this is more personal than educational, but I think it’s worth sharing. I found out from a former co-worker today that our boss died suddenly yesterday evening. He’d been out riding his bicycle, a favorite pastime, and then was found by paramedics, unconscious and on the ground next to the bike, with no heartbeat. They took him to the hospital, managed to get his heart started briefly, but then it stopped and he was gone.

The reason he was no longer our boss was because the company fell apart piece by piece due to forces outside of our department, but we had all promised each other that we’d have a reunion one day, then it kept getting put off, and now it will never happen with all of us.

His name was Dave R., and beyond being just a boss, he was a friend and a mentor to all of us, as well as a fierce protector. If anyone outside of our group, the Digital Team, tried to mess with us, he would have none of it, and was always there to go to bat for us. He supported us without question, and if somebody needed time off for personal reasons or just needed to telecommute for a while, he would okay it without question.

He was a huge fan of Seth Grodin and gifted us several of his books. We even once did a sort of book club thing with Linchpin, reading a chapter on our own and then meeting to discuss it. He also organized a work-day field trip for all of us to the L.A. County Museum of Art to see the Stanley Kubrick exhibit, which was amazing — and he paid for all of our tickets and bought us lunch.

I had been with that company for over a decade, but I can truly say that the best years were the last ones, once Dave came aboard. He provided leadership and direction in the midst of an organization that could often be chaotic, with ever-changing goals — this is what happens when the company is owned by a celebrity who likes to come up with ideas but then forgets to follow through. He never got stern with any of us on his team. He reserved that for putting the other execs in their places when they tried to overstep.

He’d had a long career, a lot of it involved in corporate training and education, and used to regale us with stories of his days at the ice cream company Baskin-Robbins, or working with the toy company Mattel. He was an avid fan of Disneyland and collected memorabilia from there. He didn’t have a lot of decorations in his office, but there was a huge framed print behind his desk, maybe 3 by 5 feet, of a hand-drawn map of Disneyland in Anaheim in its early days after it opened in 1955.

He liked to listen to music on his computer while he worked, and his tastes were very eclectic, ranging from jazz classics of yesteryear to modern indie bands. He also had a thing for coffee, buying imported beans from around the world, then roasting and grinding them himself. It was an office tradition that every day around 3 p.m. he would use a French press to make a pot of some exotic caffeinated brew, and then bring out the carafe, for our department only. Generally, it would be gone in a minute as people jockeyed to get their cup. I often felt sorry for our video editor, Peter, who worked in an office converted into an editing bay, often with headphones on, because he would frequently miss out on coffee time whenever I forgot to remind him because I didn’t notice myself that the pot was out.

He was a physically slight man, average height, very slim, and although his hair was completely white, it had style, standing straight up. If they’d ever made a Fido Dido movie, he would have been the person to cast.

And all of that, gone, in an instant. At least he was doing something he loved at the time. He survived a heart attack not long after my own adventure with heart failure, but seemed to have bounced back and was doing well, so in that regard it’s a grim reminder to me. But where it gets really personal and where it hits home is that he’s the second inspirational friend that I’ve lost in two months.

Her name was Cynthia S., and she was a neighbor who lived in a bungalow on the other side of the garden apartment complex where I live. I met her while walking my dog because she often sat out on her front porch, and had a smile and a friendly word for everyone, and treats for all of the dogs. She became a gathering point for neighbors and this was how a lot of us actually got to meet each other. This might not seem unusual if you’re from a smaller town, but there’s a running gag in Los Angeles: The only time neighbors in L.A. ever meet each other is right after a big earthquake.

I stopped to chat with her many a time, and that’s how we became friends. I always felt comfortable sharing things with her, and she did likewise. I’d often told her that she would have been perfect for doing voiceover, and if she’d been cast in a film or play it would have been as the archetypal Earth mother. She was one of the few people that my dog Sheeba ever decided to trust, and had the extremely rare “top of head” privileges. That is, she could pet my dog’s head without her trying to duck or move away. She was also one of two people I ever trusted to take care of Sheeba when I was away, and it was via one of the times that Sheeba stayed with Cynthia while I was out of town for the weekend that I learned the awful truth: My dog likes cats.

Shocking, I know, right?

And then, not long before Halloween last year, I was walking Sheeba past Cynthia’s place and she was on the porch, but did not seem to be in her usual ebullient mood. I stopped to talk, although something seemed off, and then she finally said the three words that no human being with a heart or soul ever wants to hear from another person they care about.

“I have cancer.”

She had just been diagnosed but didn’t have a prognosis yet, but it was like the world fell out from under my feet. To be honest, over the years I’d known her, she had begun to feel like the mother I hadn’t had long enough because my own mother died when I was way too young. It was like being stabbed in the heart by some dark malicious demon who hated any hint of goodness or light in the world. It was, honestly, devastating to me.

And then my walks with Sheeba became more difficult because I would still pass by her porch twice a day, but she was on it less often. And then came the days when I’d walk by and there’d be some hospice van parked out front, maybe an RN sitting on the porch filling out forms, Sometime after that revelation and the end, I did run into her one more time, but the buoyant energy was gone, the spark had left her eyes, and she had lost so much weight that it was frightening.

A week before Christmas last year, I was walking my dog past her place and ran into one of the many neighbors I’d met only because of Cynthia, and she smiled and waved at me and said, “Did you hear?” And I hadn’t heard, but those three words told me all that I needed to know. On December 18, 2018, Cynthia passed away at home, and the Bitch Demon Hellhound called Cancer claimed another good and gentle soul.

I’m not a religious person at all. I don’t believe in an afterlife. But if one did exist, I’d like to think that Cynthia is sitting on a rocking chair next to the rainbow bridge, greeting all of the arriving dogs and looking out for them until their humans arrive.

And typing that made me cry like a baby.

Here’s the point, though. At the end of the day — or the end of your life — what matters isn’t what you’ve done, what you own, what you’ve said, or created, or any of that. What matters are the people you have loved and the people who have loved you. What we can so easily lose sight of is the simple but nasty fact that any of us or any of them could be gone in an instant. Strangely enough, this truth is hidden in the climax of Avengers: Infinity War, when a finger snap kills half of all living things. In case you didn’t know, the character doing the snapping, Thanos, has a name derived from the Greek word for death.

Anyway… I needed to make sure that I memorialized these two amazing people, but also wanted to remind all of my readers of this: There is no guarantee that any of us will ever see tomorrow, so take the time today to remind someone you care about that you love them, because in 24 hours they might not be around for you to say it, or you might not be here to say it yourself.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it, for I love you so,

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O! if, I say, you look upon this verse,

When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;

But let your love e’en with my life decay;

   Lest the wise world should look int’ your moan,

   And mock you with me after I am gone.

— Shakespeare, Sonnet 71

Going back up the family tree

I became fascinated with genealogy years ago, and used to spend many a Wednesday evening in the Family History Center next to the Mormon Temple near Century City in Los Angeles. Say what you want about them as a religion, but their work in preserving family history has been invaluable and amazing, even if it did originally start out for the most racist of reasons wrapped in a cloak of theological justification. Fortunately, the nasty justifications have long since been removed, and if it takes believing that all family members throughout time are forever bound together in order for the Mormons to keep on doing what they do in this area, then so be it.

It had been a while since I’d actively done any research, largely because I no longer had time for it, but back in the day, I did manage to follow one branch, the ancestors of my father’s father’s mother’s mother, also known as my great-great grandmother, to find that at some point this line had been traced back to the magic date of 1500.

Why is that date magic? Well, if you do genealogy, you know. If you manage to trace all of your own family lines back that far, you can turn your research over to the LDS, and they will do the rest for you. Keep in mind, though, that it isn’t easy to get all of your branches back to 1500, and certain ancestries naturally create blocks to progress. For example, if you’re descended from Holocaust survivors, you’re probably SOL for any time during or prior to WW II. Likewise if you’re descended from slaves, or your ancestors immigrated from Ireland, you’re not going to find many records after a few generations.

This is, of course, because paper records can easily be lost. For example, almost all of the records from the U.S. Census of 1890 were destroyed by a fire in 1921. During the period from June 1, 1880 to June 2, 1890 — the span between the two censuses — around 5.2 million people legally immigrated into the country. At the same time, the population grew from just over fifty million to just under sixty-three million. Or, in other words, the major and official historical record of just over eleven million people newly arrived in the country, through birth or immigration, were destroyed forever, with no backup.

Fortunately, over the last decade or so, science has developed a way of researching genealogy that cannot be destroyed because every single one of us carries it within us, and that’s called DNA, which can now be tested to match family members. On the upside, it can reveal a lot about your ancestry. Oh, sure, it can’t reveal names and dates and all that on its own, but it can tell you which general populations you’re descended from. Of course, this can be a double-edged sword. At its most benign, you might find out that the ancestry you always thought you had is wrong. At its worst, you may learn about family infidelities and other dark secrets.

I haven’t had my DNA tested yet, but my half-brother did, and his girlfriend recently contacted me to reveal that at least one family secret fell out of it, although it doesn’t involve either my brother or me. Instead, it looks like a cousin of ours fathered an illegitimate child in the 1960s and, oddly enough, that woman lives in the same town as my brother’s girlfriend.

Of course, the test also came with a minor existential shock for me, since she gave me the logon and password to look at the data. It turns out that my half-brother’s ancestry is 68% British Isles and 15% each from Scandinavia and Iberia. Now, since we have different mothers, the latter two may have come from there, but the surprising part was that there is nary a sign of French or German, although our common great-grandfather, an Alsatian, is documented to have emigrated from the part of Germany that regularly gets bounced back and forth with France, and the family name is totally German. I even have records from a professional genealogist and historian who happened to find the small village my great-grandfather came from, and my brother’s girlfriend tracked down the passenger list that documented his arrival in America from Germany on a boat that sailed from France.

But that wasn’t the troublesome part of the conversation. What was troubling was finding out that one of my cousins, her husband, and two of their kids had all died, most of them young, and I had no idea that they were all gone. This led me to search online for obituaries only to wind up at familysearch.org, which is the Mormon-run online genealogy website, and decide to create an account. Once I did, I searched to connect my name to my father’s, and… boom.

See, the last time I’d done any family research, which was at least a decade ago, I’d only managed to creep up one line into ancient history, as in found an ancestor that the Mormons had decided to research. This was the line that told me I was descended from Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine via an illegitimate child of King John of England. This time, things were different, possibly due to DNA testing, possibly due to better connection of data. Whatever it was, though, wow.

Suddenly, I started out on my father’s father’s father’s side of things and kept clicking up and… damn. After a journey through England and back to Scottish royalty and beyond, I wound up hitting a long chain of Vikings that eventually exploded into probably legendary bullshit, as in a supposed ancestor who is actually mentioned in the opening chapter of Beowulf. That would make my high school English teacher happy, but it’s probably not true.

The one flaw of Mormon genealogy: Their goal is to trace everyone’s ancestry back to Adam, and so shit gets really dubious at some point.

But… if you’re willing to write off everything claimed for you before maybe Charlemagne’s grandmother, then you will find interesting stuff, and the stuff I found after clicking up a few lines was, well… definitely interesting, and maybe reinforced the idea that, despite a German great-great-granddad, my half-bro and I are apparently British as bollocks for one simple reason: Everybody and his uncle invaded Britain over the centuries, including the Romans, the Vikings, the Danish, the Gauls, the Celts, and so on.

And, true enough… up one line, I wind up descended from nothing but Vikings. Up another, from but Vandals and Goths. Several lines tell me I’m descended from a King of Denmark. Along another path, it’s the Franks, house of Charlemagne, except that the Mormons tell me I’m descended from there long before Karl Magnus himself. Several other lines, including that King John one, I’m more Welsh than the Doctor Who production company. And there are all the royal houses: Swabia, Burgundy, Thuringia, etc., as well as several Holy Roman Emperors, and kings of France, the Franks, the Burgundians, and the English, that are dancing a pavane in every cell in my body.

So, what does it all mean? On the one hand, it’s nice to be able to flip back through history and look up people from past centuries — bonus points if they made enough of a dent in time to at least have some records to look up, and big ups if they appear in Wikipedia. On the other hand, you only have to go back six generations — to your great, great, great grandparents, to find a point where each of the 32 of them contributed less than one whole chromosome to your genetic make-up. About 40 generations back, each ancestor could not have contributed more than a single atom from that DNA to you, and before that, it gets meaningless. (I’ll leave you to do the math, but it’s about 8.5 billion atoms per chromosome, times 46.)

Yet… life and time marches on. A lot of our history is oral or traditional or recorded on paper. A lot of it is false, although science is marching us toward a sort of truth. Maybe I’m not as German as I thought, but I won’t know until I test my own DNA, and may very likely run into the ancestral roadblock on my mother’s side common to people of Irish descent — ironically because people of English descent were such right bastards a few hundred years ago. That’s one set of ancestors trying to wipe out another.

But if you go back far enough, what you learn about humans is what you learn about air and water. By this point in time, every molecule of air has been through countless lungs and every molecule of water has been through countless plants, animals, and people. All of us now living have literally breathed the same air and drunk and excreted the same water. We have shared precious resources that keep us alive. Likewise, our human DNA has been through each of us, has existed long before any of us, and ultimately came from the same primordial ooze of long ago, and is also essential to our continued existence as a species.

Or, in other words, while it’s fun to do genealogy to try to pin specifics on our ancestors, there’s really only one truth. We are all related to each other. We should all treat each other like family. And this circles back to the Mormons. While they might try to justify their interest in family history based on some sort of theological belief, they’re still on the right track. Yes — all family members are sealed to each other throughout history. The thing is, all humans are family.

That’d be all humans, no exceptions. And that, perhaps, is the most amazing thing about studying genealogy. All roads lead to the idea that borders, nationalities, differences in belief, and separations by geography are complete and total bullshit. There’s another religion that put it succinctly and nicely. They were founded about twenty years after Mormonism, and they’re known as the Bahá’í. Their motto is “One planet, one people, please.

I think that’s a motto we can all get behind right now. It’s one we need to. Otherwise, we’re not going to leave any people on this planet to carry on our DNA.