I Am My Own Dramaturg

One good thing about being a struggling writer is that you are forced, by sheer necessity, to learn how to edit yourself.

Can’t say I always do that in this blog. Occasionally, I’ve been known to ramble. But that’s what this is for---so if you don’t like it, you can get your finicky little ass over to TheNewYorker.com and I hope you’re very happy together.

Anyway, last night, I drug myself out to a local writer’s series. I don’t quite know why I went. I certainly have enough writing of my own to do right now. And this particular group always makes me slightly nauseous.

I know very few of them. And they all know each other.

That uncomfortable social situation when you’re in a roomful of people who’ve all known each other for years and you’re the odd man out. Of course, you go because someone told you to go. And you show up and you realize that you only know that one person. But they know everybody! So now you’re forced to do this dance where you talk to them briefly, then you let them go off and be with their friends while you stand there awkwardly. Don’t want to appear too clingy, but also don’t want to look bored. That would be bad form. So you try to make small talk with strangers, but oh god how I hate the small talk. I’ve answered the question, “What’s your name?” with this group more times than my freshman year orientation.

You have to be social. Even if you don't want to, you have no choice. It's that or go outside and smoke.

I did a lot of smoking.

And I’m a pretty social person. My gay friends think I’m the perfect cocktail party guest. I’m witty and I like gin. But these things are a whole different animal. It’s like a cross between a blind date, a job interview and a police interrogation. There’s something expected of you. Only, in this case, it’s even worse---because you don’t even know what it is! Every time I go there I feel like the female Josef K. I feel guilty. And I don’t know what of.

While I often mention the fact that I write things outside of this silly little blog, I never go into much detail. Nor do I plan to now. But I will say that the main character in my current project IS a female Josef K. If you think I was getting all clever and literary just for you guys---well, I admit, I re-used that reference from my book. Yes, a novel. One that’s already been completed.

And already turned down by just about every literary agent in town.

No real reason. Mostly just the “not for us at this time” chestnut. One agent managed to scribble the fullest review I got in the margin of my query letter, “Loved the title, but just didn’t fall in love with the writing.”

Sorry you didn't fall in love. I was kinda going for a "just friends" thing. My bad.

No one read the full manuscript. A few read the partials (generally the first 10-100 pages, per the agent’s request). All declined.

Were they wrong? Not necessarily. While I made fun of that agent's "falling in love" comment---it's kind of true. For an agent to take you on, they really have to believe in you. Because it's going to be their job to sell you. And to do that, they have to believe in you even more than Mom. That's a pretty big deal.

The few friends who read my novel loved it. I was told by one friend that it could be a “Christmas classic”. Yes, it’s set during the holiday season. But not your typical holiday fare. One friend who is quite well-known and established in the business read it and recommended it to two editors and an agent. I haven’t heard a peep from any of them.

I still think it’s good.

Am I crazy? Maybe. But I still think it’s good. My being crazy has nothing to do with it.

My friend who recommended me also said, “This is a screenplay.” He also said, "You're the kind of writer that other writers get; but the business people don't yet."

That's good enough for me.

So recently, over the holiday season, I was finally able to sit down with my rejected book and figure out if I could, indeed, turn it into a screenplay. Of course, I knew I COULD. You can turn anything into a screenplay. But would it be any good?

I’m not new to screenplays. I’ve written a few of them. The first few just turned out to be practice screenplays. Of course, at the time, you think that the first one is going to be IT. It’s not till about the second or third that you realize that this is a marathon, not a sprint. An old friend of mine finally made the big time out in LA with his recent screenplay. He’s being touted as an overnight sensation. That overnight took about fifteen years.

My theory is: you just have to keep writing.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. I just keep writing. And writing. And hopefully editing. And cutting. And if I want to over-write, I just come here and get it all out of my system. Sorry.

I’d never turned a novel into a screenplay before. It seemed like an interesting exercise. And the nice thing was, it was MY book. I knew the characters, the story, the setting---what could be easier?

A month later, I found myself re-writing entire scenes, sending my characters off for some serious re-tuning and pacing around the apartment like a caged bear. Turning one’s own novel into a screenplay could be a blog post in and of itself so I won’t go on too much; except to say that the experience has been maddening. Why? Because the time limitations of a screenplay demand expediency. It’s like turning T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” into a haiku. You have to cut, merge, re-arrange, re-write, re-characterize, and cut, cut, and cut some more. You have to break it down to an atom. What is your story’s source of life?

It also forces you to see your mistakes.

But it’s good. All good, she says with a Renfield-like laugh. Recently I’ve had to force myself to go back to the opening scenes to see how I can get 35 pages of material to boil down to 15. In cooking, it’s called a reduction. In writing, it’s called a pain in the ass.

I needed a break. And it’s been a cold, New York winter. Last night, I just needed to get out on a slightly warmer evening and watch someone else struggle with words. Sure, I might be Josef K. But last night, I wanted to look thru the Plexiglas and watch another condemned man go to his literary death.

Is that so wrong?

Luckily, the pickings were ripe. Last night at the writer’s group, I was treated to a great display of over-written scripts, one-dimensional characters, premises that fell flat on their feet, and jokes in the script that just didn’t get a laugh.

Did these writers suck? No. Absolutely not. There was good writing in all the scripts I saw. But they all needed work. And hopefully, the writers were savvy enough to spot this. I could see most of their mistakes. But then, I was outside looking in. I was the silent dramaturg.

After the reading was over, I got the hell out of there. My script was practically turning somersaults in my bag.

I had some work to do.

Non, Je ne regrette rien!

Last night I woke up four times.

This morning, my friend Val called me and I discovered that she woke up four times last night, too.

Why?

We don't know.

I suggested that maybe it's the subtle approach of Spring. Maybe we're both so anxious to wake up and greet our day, I suggested. She laughed. She works full-time and has a daughter in school---she soaks up any sleep she can get.

As for me, the single gal---I have no idea. Piaf songs raced thru my head all night. Chansons with accordians about love and loss and broken dreams and sheer bliss.

I can't say it's exactly what wakes me up; but Piaf is the first thing I think of as I shuffle the cat off the bed this morning.

What are these occasional, maddening, sleepless nights all about? Sometimes I wake up happy. Other times, bleak and sad. I have no idea.

Over a cup of coffee, I try to remember and analyze the dreams. If I can even recall them, they never seem to make sense.

The next day, I'm exhaused. I drag thru the day, fully aware of the fact that I didn't get enough sleep the night before. I'll sleep good tonight, I tell myself. One for the records.

Crawling out of work, exhausted and dazed, I get onto a train and nearly fall asleep several times---somehow managing to jolt myself awake two stops before I have to get off. Beddy-bye plans have been in preperation all day. A hot bath. A soft pillow. A cup of herbal tea. And...well, that's pretty much it.

And then, somewhere between the walk from the train and opening my apartment door---I'm awake.

Wide awake.

One sleepless night tends to extend itself into the next three days.

I woke up four times last night. Today is Monday. I will, most likely, not get this mental clock fixed till sometime Wednesday afternoon.

What did I accomplish?

Absolutely nothing.

That is, nothing in the practical sense. Thru a series of complete time-wasters, however, I did learn some new Polish words, discovered my friend Nina didn't like donuts via her Facebook status, realized that the piece of tilapia in my refrigrator wasn't "bad" after all, watched clips from "Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?" on YouTube, sewed a button onto a coat, took care of a potential hangnail, read up on the history of jug bands, dusted off my tennis racket, and found my good scissors.

I'm exhausted.

But I regret nothing.

This is life. In all its meaningless splendor. C'est la vie.

I don't know why I woke up so much last night. But I must have needed something. My body must have been craving some kind of attention. Maybe the hangnail took care of it. Or the discovery of the long-lost scissors. Either way, I've learned to live with my cravings. For sleep or otherwise.

Life always seems to be protrayed as either a series of accomplishments or a string of miraculous events piled on top of the other. But sometimes, I've discovered, it's just about enjoying a delicious loaf of bread. Or a hug from a friend. Or maybe even the brilliance of Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?"

In any case, I'm too tired this morning to try to figure out what life's really all about. I'm just trying to enjoy my coffee. Outside my kitchen window, nothing goes on except a piece of newpaper wafting back and forth in the wind. I try to make sense of it. Turn it into something. But I can't.

I'm so tired now, but I'll survive. Something inside of me was fulfilled last night. For hours, I strained to discover what the thing was---perhaps thinking, if I knew why I was waking up, I could find a more sensible way of fulfilling my body's needs.

A few minutes ago, I gave up wondering. I decided I prefered the mystery.

Non, je ne regrette rien.

The Money Shot

Sometimes, when life gets a bit messy and hopes and dreams seem lost, I begin to dwell over where I went wrong.

These aren’t exactly moments of clarity. They’re more like sucker punches to the mind.

Of course, your close friends and family assure you that things aren’t that bad. It’s going to get better, they promise. And who doesn’t have that friend who can always top your sob story with another tale of woe…

“I know things seem bad, but did you hear about Bob?”

Damn that Bob. He tops me every time.

The past few days have been particularly heinous. And no, I didn’t say that just because I like the word “heinous”. Suffice it to say that the past few days, I’ve had to seriously question the focus of my life.

It all boils down to two questions: What am I doing? And why am I doing it?

Last week, I found myself dashing around town trying to complete a short film. Was anyone waiting for this short film? No. Was this for a job? No. Was even the tiniest part of my life hinging on this film’s completion? No.

And yet, I lost hours of sleep cutting and honing the two-minute script. Hopped on a subway to race down to Chelsea to record the voice-over. Called into work and said I’d be a few minutes late as I tried to secure the last shots. And stayed up till seven o’clock in the morning editing till I could barely focus on the screen.

My point?

Well, that’s the thing---what WAS the point? What drives me to dedicate my entire life to a short film, a blog post, a one act play, a script, or a novel that no one ever reads?

Anyone, with even a mild artistic temperament, will gleefully admit to a bit of quirkiness. But sometimes I wonder, what am I thinking?

Picture, if you will…

Last week I was out in the cold trying to get pictures of Curbside Christmas Trees---you know, the pine trees people throw out after the New Year. I had a whole photo essay/comedy/parody sort of thing all planned out. Pretty much put my life on hold for a week to see this baby thru.

Last Thursday, I was out with my camera, trying to get a few last shots before I hopped on the train for work. One large apartment building had a fenced in space for garbage and I saw, what I knew would be, a great shot for my film. As I pulled the lens cap off my camera, I heard a strange buzzing overhead. I looked up, and saw a plane flying dangerously low. Not a jumbo jet. But not a two-seater, either. More like a small mini-jet flying overhead.

“Wow. That’s REALLY low,” I thought to myself. Like all New Yorkers, memories of 9-11 came rushing back. I kept my eye on the plane. It barely cleared the Washington Avenue Bridge.

I listened for a crash, but heard nothing. “Oh good,” I thought. “Must just be flying low.”

I lifted my camera and aimed it at a dead pine tree.

A few minutes later, I arrived at work to find my co-workers gathered around the TV.

“What’s going on?”

“A plane crashed into the Hudson.”

“Oh my god, “ I could barely breathe. “I just saw that plane. I just saw it! While I was out shooting. Oh my god. That was that plane!”

When they said “crashed into the Hudson” I couldn’t imagine survivors. As far as I knew, I had just stood there on a street corner watching hundreds of people go to their deaths, then took a few snapshots and hopped onto a train to read my book. I felt sick to my stomach and went outside for some air.

The plane had crashed about five blocks away from my work. Ambulances, with sirens blaring, raced past me towards the river. News media trucks wedged in with rush hour traffic. Cops were everywhere.

It was 9-11 all over again. The chaos, the fear and the cops.

Security to remind you that you weren’t really secure.

I thought about the fragility of life. One moment you’re here and the next… Like those strange, unexplained feelings everyone has as they stand on a bridge or a precipice and silently think, “If I took just one step this way…”

That brief flicker of mortality. The curious death wish we flirt with at the edge. What is that? That archetypal phenomenon. There must be some long German word.

A few minutes later, a co-worker came up to me and said, “Everyone’s okay. Everyone survived. It’s a miracle.”

And then, another co-worker finally got up the nerve to ask, “So, did you get a shot of that plane?”

Suddenly, to a roomful of non-artist types, I had to explain why, with camera in hand; I had failed to get a shot that looked like this:

And instead, took one that looked like this:

As Mayor Bloomberg and Governor Paterson stepped in front of the cameras for Happy Talk---I continued trying to explain why a picture of a dead pine tree was more important than a crashing plane. But frankly, I didn’t know myself. The only thing I could figure was that my brain was so hard-wired to complete the film that it was the only thing that really mattered.

A friend at work looked at my shot and shook his head. “Do you realize that you could have gotten big bucks if you had just turned your camera in the other direction?”

I looked feebly down at my camera. “But this…” I muttered, “...this is The Money Shot.”

But we all knew that the true Money Shot would have been of that plane. This is why I'm not a journalist. I've never seen so much head shaking in my life.

In fact, had I lifted my camera just a few inches, I might have gotten a shot that would’ve paid a few bills or given me some cash to take some time off to write. Do news organizations pay for these shots? I guess if it's good and they want it and you demand payment for your little gem... But what do I know? And if everyone hadn't survived, would I really have demanded money for the shot? Just didn't seem ethical somehow.

I suppose that’s what agents and managers are for---to raise your artistically deluded arm and point it in a different direction. Not necessarily a bad thing. After all, once I’d gotten a shot of the plane---I could easily have turned my camera down and to the left and still gotten the tree.

But apparently, I couldn’t see the forest for the dead tree.

So this week, I find myself with a completed film that my friends watch online and comment upon with short little notes saying things like “hilarious!” and “SO funny!!!”. And that’s so sweet that they take the time out of their busy lives to watch and send little notes of encouragement. Some days, it's the only thing that keeps me going.

But meanwhile, I find myself one week closer to having to pack it all up and move back home to Mom. Mom might find my short film amusing, but she’s more likely to rub her hand across her forehead with a sigh and say, “Oh but honey---why couldn’t you get a shot of that plane?”

I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.

25 Random Things About Me

Recently, a very dear playwright friend of mine posted a note on her Facebook page.

25 Random Things About Anne.

Except for item Number 9: “At one time, I did a lot of puppet shows. They were not very good.”---I was unaware of ANY of these things about her.

It was a wonderful little patchwork quilt of her life so far. I was so inspired; I decided to try a list of my own.

25 Random Things About Me

1. My great-grandfather was a riverboat gambler on the Mississippi. Before that, he rode in a D-List Jesse James-style gang with his brothers.

2. My first word was “Apple”. I didn’t want an apple. I wanted Apple Jacks.

3. In college, I once interviewed Metallica. They told me I was the only girl who’d ever interviewed them with her hair in pigtails.

4. I am part Native-American. A tiny part. But my great-grandmother was too ashamed of the ancestry to ever tell anyone which tribe. We suspect Cherokee.

5. I used to hate liver. Now I kind of like it.

6. A few years ago, I had a pet mouse named Bitty. When she got a tumor, I spent $500 at the vet having it removed. Two months later, it was back and I took her into the vet to have her put to sleep. That was another $50. They gave me a few minutes alone with her before the end. I petted her little head and cried. I still miss that little mouse.

7. The first time I played golf, I “chipped one in”.

8. I was potty-trained by being given a penny and a Smarty Candy every time I used the little potty. I used the money to buy a Snow White Sticker Fun Book.

9. Sometimes, when I’m happy, I have to go off to a quiet corner and jump up and down.

10. On my desk, I have a dead killer bee in a jar.

11. When I was little, people were always asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I decided I wanted to be a Saint.

12. My Mom and my Aunt taught me to sing harmony with them to Lennon Sisters albums.

13. My parents divorced when I was a baby. My father died when I was thirteen. The only time I remember seeing him was at his funeral.

14. No one makes better lentil soup than me. No one!!!

15. After I broke my jaw, I was on heavy doses of Percocet. My mind was all hazy and I was homesick for family and thinking of good times when I was a kid. Two weeks later, when I was feeling somewhat better, there was a knock on my door. It was the postman. He delivered a giant box filled with a dozen boxes of Frankenberry Cereal. I had completely forgotten that in my Percocet haze, I had ordered an entire case of it online.

16. At the Louvre, I almost knocked over a statue.

17. I was once in New Orleans during a hurricane. Not THE hurricane. The year before. It turned out to be just sprinkles.

18. My secret wish is to do an Apache Dance with Tom Waits.

19. In high school, I was habitually ten minutes late for school. If you were late, you had to go to the Principal’s Office and get an Admittance Slip from the secretary, Margie, explaining why. It got boring telling her, “I overslept”. So I would make up long stories about an elephant sitting on the car or a giant beanstalk growing in the driveway. Margie would listen to my stories and write on my Admittance Slip, “Beanstalk in Driveway.” Sr. Christine, my homeroom teacher, would read it and shake her head.

20. I once planned a party for fifty people---and forgot to show up.

21. Every month, I send money to a little boy in India thru Children International. His name is Sanju. My mother complains that it’s the only grandchild she’ll ever have.

22. I once had a fan. She was kind of weird.

23. When I’m depressed, I open a Microsoft Word program and write everything down. Once I’m finished, I delete it.

24. Once, a guy called me for a second date. I actually said that I couldn’t go out with him that night because I had to stay home and wash my hair. Had NO idea it was Bette Davis’ famous kiss-off line! I really did have to wash my hair. Needless to say, he never called again.

25. I love getting catalogs in the mail. It makes me feel pertinent. Pertinent is my favorite word. And if I’m not watching myself, I tend to spell “favorite” with the British spelling, “favourite”.

Geektown on YouTube

Who amongst us has not been sucked into the vortex of YouTube?

One minute you're watching your friend's latest short film, and next thing you know, it's four o'clock in the morning and you're watching footage of Klaus Kinski screaming obscenities in German in the middle of the Amazon jungle.

While many of my friends list MySpace and Facebook as their time wasters of choice---for me, it's YouTube.

At first, I was completely un-intrigued by the America's Stupidest Home Videos of cyberspace. I've always been of the mind that movie cameras are like guns---they should only be placed in the hands of professionals. Amateurs should be relegated to nothing more than muskets and Super 8 cameras---both weapons forcing them to actually THINK about what they're about to shoot.

Oh, you may disagree, but if I forced you to watch the entire four-hour version of my family's Christmas 1998 shot by my mother the first time she picked up a VHS camera (including the unedited 20 minute scene of two of my great-aunts playing a mechanical fishing game on my Aunt Suzie's kitchen table)---trust me, even Charlton Heston racked with Alzheimer's couldn't sit thru this Doctor Zhivago of home movies . "Oh, Pauline---you dropped that fish again. Oh well."

There's something to be said for the old Super 8 camera. One roll of film was not only slightly pricey, but it forced the home filmmaker to limit their shooting time to two and a half minutes per roll. There was no rewind and tape over. No sound. No fancy editing software. Hell, you were lucky if it was in color.

But this time and financial constraint forced home filmmakers to be judicious in their cinematic choices. Footage of an Easter Egg Hunt consisted of a few token shots of the little dolls carrying their baskets, with the cameraman hoping and praying he could get the Money Shot of Little Timmy actually finding an egg. However, no sooner did my Mother purchase a VHS camera, than she thrust it into my hands and forced me to shoot the ENTIRE egg hunt.

Yes, I DPed an Egg Hunt.

You will not find this on my resume. In fact, like many other great filmmakers, once I finished the film, I never looked at it again. For this reason alone, when I hear filmmakers like Woody Allen say that once Annie Hall was done, he never watched it again---I believe him. After all, I was present at that Egg Hunt. I put everything I had into making that Egg Hunt Film the best it could be. I have no desire to watch it again to add a Director's Commentary where I would describe how my mother kept saying, "Oh honey, get closer. Get closer."

"Mom. I'm using the zoom lens."

"Oh. Okay." And then, a few moments later, repeating---"But honey, move in closer."

Apparently, Mom had no idea of the concept of a Zoom Lens.

And how tight of a shot can you get on a plastic egg? Where's the drama there? For me, the drama was in the long shot. The Egg Hunt wasn't about the eggs, but about the journey. And I wasn't about to let any Money Mom ruin my artistic integrity. Yes, she may own the camera---but she didn't own my soul.

Needless to say, I resisted the Home Movies of the World on YouTube for quite some time. It was only recently, while doing some research for a project, that I kept stumbling across YouTube clips of vintage films.

I am, admittedly, a film geek.

And my geekiness goes all the way back to the silent days.

Sure, I watch modern films and try to keep up on the newest TV shows, music and general trends. But, let me put it this way, I was once sitting at a bar discussing silent comedies with comedian, Emo Philips. Emo, I was surprised to discover, was just as much of an old film geek as me. Another local comic tried to sit in on our conversation. And, to his credit, the guy held his own as we tossed out references to Chaplin, Keaton and even some Harold Lloyd stuff. But once we started geeking out on Chester Conklin, Ben Turpin and "those horrible Larry Semon comedies" (which Emo swore weren't all that bad and about which I respectfully disagreed)---the other comic grabbed his pint of beer and quietly slunk away. Later, he admitted that he had been "out of his league".

An hour later, as Emo and I continued discussing Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle comedies, Al St. John's pratfalls and the recent added musical score to Sherlock Jr. by Vince Giordano's Nighthawks Orchestra, Emo turned to me and said, "Wow. I've never met anyone who knew this much about silent film who wasn't a smelly, old guy."

Sadly, this is the highest compliment I've ever been paid.

But it's not just silent film. Oh no. My geekiness extends to things like ragtime and 1920s jazz, early talkies, old radio shows, and yes, vaudeville. I walk thru life with a brain packed-full of useless vaudeville trivia that NO ONE cares to hear about. And this is coming from a gal who runs into Joe Franklin on a regular basis. Not even Mr. Nostalgia Himself seems to recall much of this completely useless information.

I could literally write the Wikipedia entry on acts like The Hilton Sisters. No, not Paris and Nicky. I'm talking about the great vaudeville act of Daisy and Violet Hilton. The Hilton Sisters were most notably known for being conjoined twins. Their "mother" actually bought them from their real mother (an unmarried, British barmaid) and taught them how to sing, dance and play musical instruments in between regular beatings so she could make her fortune off their fate. Violet and Daisy were talented and pretty girls who were proud of the fact that they were not just a freak show, but were talents in their own right. In their early twenties, they finally sued their family and took control of their careers.

One of my favorite stories about them concerns a young Jack Benny. Benny had worked with them in vaudeville, and, several years later with a hugely successful national radio show under his belt, ran into them backstage at a theatre. They walked up and re-introduced themselves. Jack Benny, always the gentleman, spent a few moments reminiscing with them about old times. Towards the end of the conversation, Violet finally turned to Daisy and said, "See! I told you he'd remember us!"

One of my other favorite little tidbits about the Hilton Sisters was the fact that when they started to get the big time vaudeville gigs, Daisy decided to dye her hair blond---so people could tell them apart. Apparently one always being on the left and one always being on the right wasn't enough.

This is the sort of useless knowledge I walk around with ALL DAY!

And, oddly enough, in my small bits of spare time, I love to acquire more of this completely useless shit for my head. I don't know why this all appeals to me. It means absolutely nothing to my life. There is no one in my immediate circle with whom I would even bother to share any of this useless information. It's not like I'm eighty years old. This isn't nostalgia for me. It's just more crap floating around my brain that no one wants to hear about. And I am quite aware of this. People like Emo Philips notwithstanding, if I broke out into a long, full-blown conversation about F.W. Murnau's cinematography in the 1927 release Sunrise...most people would look at me like I was completely insane. I know this. I am in touch with my inner-geek. And, over the years, have learned how to keep it hidden from view. And yet, the search continues.

Lately, I find myself constantly stumbling across wonderful treasures on YouTube. Other geeks like myself have posted these tantalizing tidbits of esoteric lore. Everything from still photos to film clips to vintage recordings can be found on YouTube.

In the past month alone, I have found old 78 recordings of Fanny Brice, early talkie shorts with Eddie Cantor, vintage Lumiere Brothers films, the entire 1935 Tod Browning film Mark of the Vampire with Bela Lugosi, outtakes of Abbott and Costello with Lou Costello belting out swear words to throw off the romantic leading lady and amuse the crew, and even a small blip of footage of Harpo Marx actually speaking!

For geeks like me, YouTube can be a treasure trove of completely useless clips to bore your friends into acquaintances.

It's also a revelation. Because the simple fact that people out there are posting this material online and commenting on it on the YouTube boards means that I'm not alone. There are others out there like me who thrill at the discovery of an obscure clip of an old Merrie Melodies cartoon from the 1930s called Page Miss Glory---which was a parody of the recently released Marion Davies film that same year. People putting an inordinate amount of time and effort into carefully placing an old Billy Murray 78 record from 1909 onto their antique gramophone and having a digital camera nearby to record the momentous occasion of the turn-of-the-century's most popular Irish-American Singer as his voice goes from 1900 analog to 2000 digital and then up online for the entire world to see. On the wall behind the gramophone hangs a lithograph of the RCA dog barking into a Victrola.

What was the dog's name? Nipper. How do I know this? I have no fucking idea.

These people are geeks. And proud of it.

And then, within moments, their fellow geek friends immediately comment upon their post---thanking them for posting such an awesome, amazing piece of history and direct them to their YouTube page where they posted an even MORE obscure video of their gramophone playing a recording of some old Edison 78 recordings of marching bands from the late 1800s...

These people scare me.

The same way I was scared in high school when I was cast in a production of Camelot, enthusiastically read up on the Arthur legends and then suddenly, found myself face-to-face with members of the local chapter of The Society For Creative Anachronism who came to one of our rehearsals to show us what a Medieval Joust was really like. Sure, I enjoyed being knighted by the "King". But when one of the St. Louis Knights began telling me how he wanted to "die on the battlefield"...

Well, I hesitated to remind him that they were using plastic swords. As a Mid-Westerner, he would be more likely to die from the "Death By Chocolate" dessert at the Shoney's Restaurant down on the Interstate.

Yes, I may be a closeted geek; but to be considered a sane, social human being, some things need to remain hidden.

After all, don't all geeks want to hang with the cool kids?