Category: Life

On Shared Cinematic and Literary Universes

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

These days, you can’t go to the movies or turn on a television without being pulled into one of the many cinematic universes that exist. The MCU. The DCEU and now the DCU. The Conjuring-verse. The Fast and the Furious-verse. The Flanaverse. Star Wars and Star Trek. I could continue but I’d wager you know what I’m referring to.

Shared literary universes are less common. I can only think of two that I’ve read: Stephen King’s Dark Tower universe (which basically encompasses many of his 70+ books in some capacity) and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation/Robot universe. If there are others that I’m missing, please feel free to drop them in the comments. I love a good, shared universe. Hell, my Endworld books have elements of other things I’ve written over the course of my life, some published/circulated and some not in them. I even have a rough plan to incorporate other ideas into what may, one day be my own, shared literary-verse. Sadly, there are days where I feel a bit like Geoffrey Chaucer, and I wonder if I’ll ever complete half the things I want to write outside of the Endworld novels. Time is never on my side. But the idea remains. I even have a checklist in my OneDrive of WIPs that if completed would amount to the bare minimum of published writing that would in my mind make me a legit writer/author. Some of you reading this, right now may already consider me that. If you do? Thank you. I appreciate you more than you know. But inevitably it all comes back to how I feel about it, and for me? I need more. I need to do more. Once upon a time…

…because all good stories, and some sh*tty ones begin as such…

…I set a goal for myself to one day be a published author, and I guess, in a way I’ve achieved that goal. But it’s not what I envisioned. I have a lot of work left to do. Which begs the question: Why am I writing this blog entry now when I could be working on my HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD edit and prepping that for publication? Well friends, occasionally, an idea grabs you by the nape of your neck and refuses to let go. Anyone that’s been reading these pieces of Mental Flatulence for the last, few decades knows that every so often, I need to write a JJ Abrams-esque take on Dora the Explorer, or outline a play called “You Got Old, Charlie Brown” which postulates what happens to the Peanuts gang as they get older. This is no different. A few years back, a movie came out about the Gen X, childhood icon that was Mister Rogers. I still haven’t seen it–though I fancy a good, Tom Hanks movie and I do have it DVR’d on my YouTube TV account–but at the time it was released, I considered the possibility of a public broadcasting shared universe, centered on the idea that Bob Ross–yet another Gen X icon–was the Nick Fury character, i.e. the guy that brings everything from Mister Rogers to Sesame Street, to Julia Child to Rick Steves together. This idea has recently resurfaced since I have been a frequent visitor in what down time I have to the official, Bob Ross YouTube channel which has been running weekend marathons of up to five of the show’s 32 seasons in chronological order, and is currently running what it is calling “A Happy Little Week Long Marathon.” That’s right: Seven straight days of 24/7 Bob Ross’ “The Joy of Painting,” linkable HERE if you’re interested.

You’re welcome. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

So how would a public broadcasting shared universe work? Well, if you want to follow the template of the most successful, shared universe–the Marvel Cinematic Universe or MCU–you’d need to start with a recognizable, but not overly GOAT’ed personality, which means Big Bird is out. So is Elmo. I think I’ll stick with Fred Rogers though I’m sure my minions would prefer Abby Cadabby or the Super WHY kids. Just not DirtWorldGirl. Sheesh. She still freaks me out. Regardless, let’s say that at the end of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” they roll the credits. But mid-way through you’re back in Mister Rogers’ living room. He’s putting his shoes away and throwing on his jacket when he hears a knock at the door. He goes and opens it, and there stands Bob Ross in all his afro-tastic glory. He’s wearing his customary blue or white chambray work shirt, which is unbuttoned down to his naval and a pair of light-blue jeans. Fred Rogers says, “do I know you?” And Bob says “No my friend, you may not know me yet, but you will. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news but apparently, the current administration wants to defund public broadcasting. Our happy little livelihoods are in jeopardy, and I want to talk to you about something I’ve been developing for some time now…”

“…I call it ‘The No Mistakes, Just Happy Accidents Initiative.'”

Okay. So that needs work. Regardless, Fred, though hesitant decides to follow his new, granola-esque friend with the bushy, brown hair and greying beard down the proverbial happy little squirrel hole. What follows is a series of productions (I’m okay with movies and/or television shows, along with some literary pieces, as well) wherein Mister Rogers and Bob Ross begin to recruit other members of the public broadcasting family onto their team of heroes. Big Bird and Elmo. Snuffy from Sesame Street. Daniel Tiger. The hosts of Antiques Roadshow. Bob Villa. And yes, DirtGirlWorld because the larger the team, the more chance they’ll have to offset the force arrayed against them by the current administration, even though she freaks them all the f*ck out.

Fast forward a few productions to what is now, in modern entertainment-speak an Avengers Level Team up even though the MCU didn’t really pioneer the idea (but IMO they did perfect it). I don’t quite have a name for it yet–I’m sure that will come when I decide what to call this team–but in it, the heroes team up to take on the evil forces of the administration. Not just the BBEG (Big Bad Evil Guy or Girl for those of you that have never played an RPG), but all the BBEG’s minions, departments and non-governmental groups that are tasked with promoting government efficiency and saving money via downsizing which includes all public broadcasting.

You can likely figure out what happens next. The heroes persevere, but in the process of defeating their enemies, they lose their leader: A curly-haired painter named Bob Ross, who sacrifices his own existence to ensure that institutions like NPR and PBS never disappear. The credits roll less a mid-or-post-credit scene, but they roll to the music that closed every episode of “The Joy of Painting” for 32 seasons as one, final Easter Egg honoring the passage of the man that gathered them together to ensure that evil doesn’t triumph and that good is not dumb ala Dark Helmet’s observation in “Spaceballs” because the world needs more people telling us that there are no mistakes… Just happy accidents.

Finis.

What do you think? Not quite as elaborate as my JJ Abrams Dora idea or my Peanuts one, but I’m still in the early stages of Creator Mode on it so give me some time and I’ll work it out. Or I’ll never revisit it again. I honestly don’t know, and truth be told I never do. Where do the majority of my ideas go once conceived of? It’s a mystery. Sadly, they do not often end up on the page in totality and that’s something I need to reckon with moving forward. Let me be honest, folks: I’ve no intention of reaching out to anyone and pitching this idea, anymore then I intend to dig up my Dora or Peanuts treatment and pitch them. If you really want to read them, they’re both on this blog somewhere. These ideas are, in essence Fan Fiction, a concept which makes me almost as squeamish as DirtGirlWorld did and still does. I pitch them herein to hopefully elicit a chuckle or two from you, my sometime readers and to keep my ability to create a story fresh, even if that story is a contrived take on a beloved institution, or beloved characters from my Gen X past. It’s an exercise that many writers/authors go through. In creating something unoriginal we gain the confidence we need to create something mostly original. I’ve gone on the record in the past as saying that most of the good story ideas are played out, and it’s not about coming up with something inherently original anymore. It’s about telling a story in a new, and different way that has both familiar, and unfamiliar elements.

Do I have original ideas that I don’t think anyone else has ever conceived of? Sure, I do. There are a couple of titles on that WIP list that offer new takes on everything from time travel to space exploration, as well as one or two that are slightly Meta. I guess what it all boils down to for me, this God awful warm and steamy, late July night in 2025 is that it’s not so much about the idea as it is about writing the idea… Getting it out of my head and onto a page. Some of those ideas will land and others–like my infamous blog post about Dennis Rodman which I’ve referenced in the past and will not link herein because God, why would I subject anyone to that ever again–will fall flat. Yet again, I find myself questioning the balance of my life as it is now, as it was before and as I want it to be in the future. I can’t always force myself to stay up until 3AM each night and wake up at 6 or 7 to take my kids to camp or school, start work et al. My soon-to-be 50-year-old body and mind simply can’t sustain itself like it used to on a combination of caffeine and nicotine. But much like how I sat down tonight and kept working on this idea despite my reservations about it falling flat–and I leave that for you to decide friends and countrymen/women–I need to do what I can, when I have the time and the energy needed to go into Creator Mode. Even the MCU… Even the other shared universes I mentioned above… Even Stephen King and Isaac Asimov wrote stories that didn’t land. Should I allow myself to be constrained by my reservations and my fear of not achieving my own, personal goals as a writer/author? Or should I simply nut up, and get back to editing HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD so I can move onto my next idea? There is another option. I could retire for the night and watch another hour or two of “A Happy Little Week Long Marathon” before I pass out.

This… This is a timeless question y’all. I wish I could answer it, but truth be told? I honestly don’t know. I guess I’ll appeal to my shared universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence again and ask it to point me… Yet another Sh*thead… In the right direction.

Please?

FM.

On Water, and Letting Your Art with a Capital A Flow

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

I have a couple of couches in my living room. One is positioned lengthwise across the front of the space, directly beneath my large, bay window. The other is on the wall opposite it, lengthwise so that if I lay on it, my feet are pointing directly at the window and the other couch. Said second couch is, actually a loveseat so please, enjoy the mental picture of me, a 6′ 2″ beast of a man lying in a V, with my pale, white legs hanging over the side of my loveseat.

Actually? Here you go. For posterity:

My apologies for the ankle socks. Old feet are cold feet, and I am proverbially wearing socks at the ripe, old age of 49.

I had to take that with my Night Sight setting on my camera because presently, I’m watching a thunderstorm, and it’s prematurely dark out at two minutes until 8 on a Wednesday night in July. For some reason, I’ve grown accustomed to this view over the last, few years. Even when my minions are here, and I make them unplug their always charging phones and turn off all the electricity that we can in the house to avoid electrocution, I assume this position and they… Begrudgingly engage in “conversation” with their dear old, almost 50-year-old, overly paranoid Dad, much of which centers on their complaint that they cannot plug their phones in for the duration of the storm.

I should note herein that I know the possibility of electrocution while on computers, phones and electrical devices in a thunderstorm is very minimal. Surge protectors help. But my own mother, God love her, conditioned the fear of horrific, flaming electrocution while watching TV in a thunderstorm into me at a very young age. And we couldn’t afford surge protectors. So, I’m simply keeping tradition alive with my own kiddos. Thank you, Mom, and your granddaughters thank you too…

Begrudgingly.

Believe it or not, it wasn’t the storm, raging outside that drove me to unplug my own, charging phone, stop watching “William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet (1996)” and start blogging. It was this view… The view beyond my pale, white legs and ankle socks that did. You see friends and family, I love my home in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. I love it despite the constant headache and oft times money pit it has grown into. This is the place where I started over, after my separation and eventual divorce. This was the first home that I, not my now ex-wife and I but me… That I created for the two most important people in my life: My Biggish Bear, and her not-so-smallish, little sister. This place is my ride or die as a single dad. Despite the leaks, the occasional carpenter ants etc., I cannot see myself nor my kiddos anyplace else.

For now.

And that leads me to the point of this piece… This freestyle, First Person composition, drafted in premature darkness to the sound of the rain hitting my bay window and the thunder rumbling nearby. As much as I love this place… This home, there’s one thing missing, and over the last few years, as I’ve inched closer and closer to the half century mark, I’ve felt a longing that I’ve not felt in a long time.

The ocean. A lake. A bay. An inlet. Water, and I’m not talking about the rain running down my street currently like a mini river. I miss water. Whether near a city, in the mountains or down the shore, I want to be able to look out my big, bay window and see water. Flowing, crashing… Or just sitting stoically, unmoving. I want to open my window and hear waves, lapping or crashing against a shoreline/lakeside/riverside.

When I drew up my dream existence, many moons ago in a piece of Mental Flatulence that referenced a little town in Florida called Weeki Wachee, there were kids… Two of them, and a thunderstorm raging outside. I’d just stopped working on my latest WIP: A book long prologue to the trilogy of books I’d penned and published… Something about Halcyon Days and eternal youth. I’d turned off my computer to avoid electrocution as my mother had taught me and was watching the storm from my front, bay window as its shelf cloud rolled in over the ocean/lake/river, a bit worried that my kids–who had been outside playing–had gotten caught in it. But my fear was quickly allayed as they ran soaking, screaming and laughing down the shoreline in my direction. I opened the door for them, and they ran inside, dripping water and carrying something in their hands. They showed it to me: A freshly formed piece of glass where lightning had struck the sand. They’d gathered it quickly so as to avoid electrocution and ran all the way home to me, enamored with their new treasure. I celebrated with them before cautioning them too never do it again. Satisfied at not being reprimanded or rebuked (for who would reprimand or rebuke two children for being children in the summertime?), they ran off into the house to dry off and grab a snack, leaving me to silently marvel at Nature’s Fury outside. Awe-inspiring. Beautiful. Serendipitous.

A perfect moment.

That was my dream then and apparently, it is still my dream now. I can picture that beach/shoreline/lakeside in all its many variations. I could draw it if I wanted to and have many times before this. I don’t consider myself good at drawing–I’m more of a pencil sketch guy–but I still do it. Because part of being an Artist with a capital A is being able to express yourself and your emotions in something palatable. Concrete. I chose writing, guys and gals, but I could have gone in a number of other directions. And in dreams? Emotion. Not palatable or concrete but can it be? Can I at this juncture of my life, on the cusp of 50 make my dream a reality? Is there enough power in my pen or pencil to write/draw it into existence. Survey says?

Probably not. But that’s not really tenable for anyone, is it? No one save for God or whatever deity or deities you believe in–I still dig the Roman Catholic one myself–has that power. Wishing something into existence is impossible. But willing it into existence? Working towards it… Grinding a 9-5, routine existence for it… That, I believe is attainable. And that’s what I need to be focusing on.

If everything goes well, I’ll retire in about 15-16 years. That is, of course wishful thinking because inevitably in my life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence something or many things will not go well. But hypothetically, let’s say that 15-16 years until retirement is feasible. Come that day, when I turn in my 9-5 polos for a Bermuda hat and a pair of Birkenstocks, I want… No, I need to be near my dream. At least in the vicinity of it. I need to keep the plot and not lose it because those kids on the beach/shoreline/lakeside may not be my Biggish Bear and Smallish Bear anymore, but their kids… My one-day grand minions could easily assume that role.

I like that plan.

One thing remains however. There’s one part of my aforementioned dream existence that I haven’t addressed yet. Shortly after the kids have left and the storm has slackened (as summer storms generally do within minutes), I hear the front door open. I turn from the rainbow that is materializing over the water and there see her. She is the last piece of my vision. Once upon a time, I could see her face. Her faces. Because in lock step with my ever-changing and ever-evolving life, her face has changed and evolved. These days? I don’t recognize it. It’s a new face… A stranger one, and somehow unlike any other incarnation of her former faces. Her hair is white or maybe gray and not as easily distinguishable as brown, blonde, black or red hair is. She has crow’s feet at the corners of her colorless eyes, colorless because I, the Artist with a capital A haven’t written or drawn them yet and remain open to the possibility that they could be any color. Blue, brown, green or hazel… Any color that you like. Yet her smile folks… Her smile is distinguishable, not because I recognize it, but because it beams happiness. Peace. Contentment. I see it in her smile, and I smile the same smile back. How can I not?

The moment is perfect.

That is my past, present and future dream my oft times casual readers. Rebooted a bit for 2025 but in essence the same. Disclaimer: I’ve written this entire post in a bit of a fugue state. Somewhere between Stream of Consciousness and the state I used to lapse into when I smoked too much weed. I’m not stoned right now and have no plans to get stoned anytime soon. But for once I didn’t think. I just let my chosen art form do its thing. I let my words flow like water without thought or purpose and that is something I have not done for a very, very long time. It feels good. It feels freeing. It feels like Truth with a capital T. My Truth.

What’s yours?

Winky emoticon. Smiley Face.

FM.

On Almost 50 Years of Summer’s Enduring Impact

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Good Evening, Morning or Afternoon fellow denizens of the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. It’s been a bit, hasn’t it? Almost nine months by my count since I last wrote anything substantial on this blog. My absence has not been due to a lack of inspiration. In truth, I’ve probably written more in the last, nine months than I’ve written in a few years. You simply haven’t seen anything because it’s all been short stories, poems, started novels and WIPs–with a little bit of a HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD re-write thrown in. I’ve also been busy running what I like to call my “Dad Gauntlet.” Between school for the minions, their activities and other, related concerns–not to mention my job–my time to simply sit in front of a computer and randomly muse has been limited. But as of last Friday, school is out for the summer (respect, Alice Cooper) and activities, though still a factor, are less than they were a few weeks ago. So here I am, returning to what many consider my best writing format–freestyle, First Person and journal-lite–to write about… Summer! Yes, sirs and madams/madams and sirs, the title gave it away.

I’ve written about summer in the past, most notably in “The Mayor of Maple Street” which has been and remains my most read (and re-read) blog entry/piece of Mental Flatulence ever, even 10 plus years after I wrote it. I often revisit that one because it reminds me not just of where I came from, but of how enduring an impact those summer days of youth had on me–back when my entire, subjective universe was centered on a little place that I and my neighbors endearingly called “J-Town.” I look at my minions now–one 15 going on 16 and the other 13–and I marvel at how different their summers look compared to how mine did when I was their age. Nights out playing Spring and Doors with the neighborhood kids until after dark have been replaced by nights on their phones, watching movies and spending time with their friends at the shopping metroplex, their houses, the pool or away on vacations down the shore or to the mountains. I’m not averse to this evolution–technology has changed everything from how we work to how we engage in interpersonal relationships–but I often ask myself if their situation is better than mine was when I was their age. Survey says? Not better. But different. Their memories of summer that they will one day pass onto their minions are and will always be different than mine. And their children–my grandchildren–will have a different view of it, as well. Onward and upward, generation after generation until this old universe we Sh*theads inhabit finally heaves its last breath and consigns itself, and those of us still alive within it to the halls of oblivion.

To be frank (no pun intended), I’m not a huge fan of summer. I like aspects of it–thunderstorms for instance; God you know I love a good “thunder boomer”–and the refreshing embrace of cool water on a hot day, whether said water is from a pool or from an ocean/lake. But the heat and humidity thing irks me. Sweating irks me. Yet despite this, summer holds an enduring sway over me, even now after almost 50 years of life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. I find myself considering the why of this, today–as the gray, hazy sky that vaults overhead threatens rain and a few days of thunder boomers beginning tomorrow. The answer is really quite simple: Memory. A repository of memories from summers past that follow me no matter where I am or what I am doing. I close my eyes, and I helplessly feel my mind ticking backwards like a clock, moving in reverse…

Tock…

…To two years ago, when my minions and I travelled to Mexico with a few friends and their families for a week of tropical relaxation. It was the first real trip we’d taken since my divorce. I carry many, lasting visions with me of the week we spent there but the one that sticks with me the most? Swimming in a cenote with them, the cool, subterranean water soothing our sunburns and easing the heat stroke that I am relatively sure we were all within moments of suffering. I remember thinking–as I floated with them and glanced up at the distant sky above–that for the first time since I left my once-home in Broomall, PA and moved into my now-home in Swarthmore, PA I felt alive. I could glance past the hazy sky above me and see into a boundless future. While the time since then has not been without issue–life never is–I can look back on that moment now and realize that it was the moment I healed. Not physically of course–life, and specifically age brings with it a progressive slate of physical maladies–but mentally? Emotionally? I was, for the first time in many years OK…

Tick…

…To 2018, when I travelled to Disney World with my then-wife and our two minions for a final, family vacation pre-the divorce which we would file for a few, months later. We’d already agreed in principle to the terms of our dissolution and given its inevitability, there was little to no pressure on us. We simply went with the intention of enjoying ourselves and fortunately? We did. Against all odds we spent a wonderful week together. I have a number of memories from that week, a few of which have been captured for posterity, and one in particular that I have a framed picture of, sitting roughly four feet away from me on top of one of my bookcases: Myself and my minions, sitting upon the stoop of a porch somewhere in Animal Kingdom, eating ice cream in the shade and looking like a group of travelers garnering a respite from the tropical heat and humidity. But the one that sticks with me the most is from the day we got caught in a pop-up thunder boomer in the Magic Kingdom. I was easily within a few moments of suffering from heat stroke (again; in case you missed my earlier observance of how much I do not like heat/humidity) and the storm? It cooled me and may have saved me from passing out. I snapped a selfie of the moment we found shelter and while many of the pictures I took, over the years of my now ex-wife and I have disappeared, that one remains on my photo reel, and likely always will. It is a reminder of my family as it once was, pre-the moment it was diminished and a foursome became a threesome a few, short months later…

Tock…

…To the last time I ever saw the woman who I once called “the feminine bane of my early existence.” We ate Chinese food on the unfurnished floor of my then-apartment in Northeast Philadelphia, PA and mused upon our lives, which had been so irrevocably entangled for more than a half a decade. We focused on the good–our friendship, and our capacity to always find a way back to each other–and we avoided the bad. When we did touch upon the latter it was done in jest, and it elicited many long, overdue chuckles. I remember the red, golden glow of the setting, late-summer sun as it streamed in through the front windows of my duplex, like something out of an ENDWORLD novel. We said goodbye and parted with a long hug. I kissed her on her forehead and called her “kiddo” for the last time. She reminded me of my long-before promise to “write this all down someday” before she smiled, walked down the stairs and out of my life forever. I remember thinking as she departed that there was something left unspoken: Two words in a foreign language. “Je t’aime.” They hung upon my lips though, and they would for another, 10 plus years before appearing on the dedication page of my first, published novel. ENDWORLD was not dedicated to her publicly but privately? It was for her. It was the fulfillment of the promise I made to her when we were young, in love and allied against the world around us.

Tick…

…To the night, many years before that in 1995 when we hung out at my above mentioned, once-feminine bane’s house. We sat around her pool. We drank Zima malt liquor despite the oldest of us still being a few months shy of 21. We smoked regular and clove cigarettes, talked, laughed and sang. I remember crooning “Gallows Pole” by Led Zeppelin as my good friend played his guitar. We took requests. There was no love at that time between her and I outside of the love that one feels for a good friend. Yet by the time I had finished singing “Thank You” (also by Led Zeppelin) per her request, I was experiencing the early vestiges of what would soon grow into a feeling, and a relationship that would threaten to tear down everything that we as a group of friends… A family had built. Yet that conflict was still six months away in our collective future. At that moment under a clear, summer sky in far, Northeast Philadelphia, PA there was only a group of kindred souls, spending a summer night together in celebration of their existence.

Tock…

…To the day, a few years earlier when my friends and I–my newly minted family–gathered in Lorimar Park in Huntington Valley, PA for Water War 2.0, a war which I and my team would eventually win. We celebrated that evening by eating dinner as a group in Abington, PA on 611/Old York Road at a restaurant which no longer exists. Winners and losers alike drank Shirley Temples and Roy Rogers because alcohol was still a few years in our future. We shared baskets of fries and onion rings and marveled at how full our lives were. We were young. The world beyond our Super Soakers and water balloons was still a half a decade away. Our proverbial clocks had long, stopped ticking and we were frozen in a moment in time, something akin to the one described by Sting in his song “Fields of Gold.” With my eyes closed, I can still envision that moment as the sun set outside. I remember the feel of the air conditioning on my still-damp clothing and the goosebumps dotting my skin. I can see their smiles and hear their laughter and as much as I do not want the vision to end, I know it will remain with me, long past this moment, over 30 years later: A rapidly graying, divorced Dad with a complimentary pot belly, a bruised tail bone and a touch of osteoarthritis in his left shoulder and in his knees. Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Beyond this there are other memories, but I’ve devoted much of my freestyle, First Person, journal-lite writing to them over the years (“The Mayor of Maple Street” is only one of a handful of pieces I have written that I hope to eventually compile into a novel tentatively called “Searching for J-Town”). Not much of what I have written in this format has focused on my life post-J-Town, and today felt like as good a time as any to revisit that era… That epoch of my life. There are others–a weekend away with my then girlfriend, one day to be fiancé, wife and ex-wife in Margate, NJ on my mother’s houseboat with our good friends who just so happened to be staying on another boat in the same marina. A day in Seaside Heights, NJ with the woman I was at the time living with in celebration of her birthday, a woman who I was hopelessly in love with and who I am relatively sure felt the same toward me. It was about as close to a perfect day as I can remember.

Obviously, these days and others, along with the days of pool parties and water wars carried over into the days of Mexico and Disney, and many of the same folks that armed themselves with water guns sometime in the early 1990s were with me for those experiences, as well–my always family. Family, friends and countrymen and women, is an all-encompassing term that goes far beyond blood, and while I love my minions, and I adore my blood family, the classification does not begin nor end with them. It includes them. Including my most recent memories of summer in this rumination simply demonstrates that the title I chose before I wrote “good evening” at the start was the appropriate one. Summer is and always will be a time that breeds stories for me because so many of my greatest memories are of it. ENDWORLD kicked off in the summer. “The Mayor of Maple Street” was about summer. And this blog entry? It further bolsters the claim that at even a few months shy of the big 5-0, summer’s enduring impact on me–whether I go by the pen name of El Autoro or the Madchronicler, or by my given name of Frank/Francis Marsh–will remain until such time as I breathe my last, proverbial breath in this universe on one side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, and consign myself to the halls of oblivion. Their laughter. Their smiles. Always with me.

FM.

On Six Years and Appeals to the Universe

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Six years. It doesn’t seem like a long time, does it? Given an average, human lifespan of 70 years in 2024 (SOURCE), and a universe that is billions of years old, six years seems like nothing. Less than a drop of water in the world’s biggest bucket. Less than a grain of sand on the largest beach on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Six years is miniscule when compared to other, time-reliant concepts. Yet for me, your old buddy The Madchronicler, who was formerly known as El Autoro and before that, Frank Marsh, six years feels like an eternity.

I was shocked upon opening what my good friend Ed likes to call “The Book of Faces” this morning, going to my memories (one of the rare things I check daily on it; on that point, I apologize for not wishing all of my 350 or so followers a Happy Birthday consistently for the last, few years–I simply don’t spend a lot of time on social media these days) and realizing that today, September 30, 2024 is the six year anniversary of when I moved into my current home in Swarthmore, PA.

Six years. Six years since I left my once-home in Broomall, PA for the last time as a resident, my then-truck (my trusty Honda Pilot, which finally fell apart at a shade under 160K miles, last Fall) loaded down with the last of my sparse possessions–the others were already here in the place I am writing these words now, from my now-combination office/bedroom on the second floor, overlooking a dreary, humid and chilly early-autumn day which hangs over the street below. Blackrock Road. What a cool name for a street. I should really look up, after six years, why they call this street “Blackrock.” Be right back. Or, in teen-speak, BRB.

Not unsurprisingly, there was nothing on Google (or Bing; I use both on this computer) to explain why my street is called “Blackrock.” The most I could find was a Wikipedia article on SwarthmoreWOOD, which is the sub-sect of Swarthmore, PA that I reside in. Given the lack of online information about Blackrock Road, I am going to simply assume (even though doing so generally makes an ASS out of U and ME), that when this area was developed in the 1950s, they found a bunch of black rocks lying around or in the soil. My apologies for how anti-climactic that probably is to a few, if not all of you reading this. Even storytellers, sometimes are forced to simply say “ah, f*ck it.” Acknowledge and move on.

I digress. Back to six years. I remember that day vividly. It was a surprisingly beautiful Saturday given what was happening–I guess Mother Nature didn’t think my situation was dire enough to warrant a gray and gloomy day like today. The temperature was about the same as it is currently–hovering in the high 60s/low 70s–and it was a bit humid, as the last vestiges of summer seem to hang on the longest in the Mid-Atlantic, every year. I remember watching my soon-to-be ex-wife drive away from our home in Broomall with the girls in tow, heading to dance class. I remember my friends and some family arriving to help me pack the last of my belongings into my U-Haul and Pilot. I drove the U-Haul down Route 320 (known colloquially as “Springfield Road”), 20 minutes away first, left it here, and then went back to get my Pilot courtesy of someone driving me back (apologies that I cannot remember who). Thereafter I was back here and have been here almost every night since I arrived save for those few nights, over the last six years where I was away for the weekend, or on vacation, or on a business trip. I never slept another night in Broomall, and that house is no longer owned by either a Marsh or a Gentile, my ex having moved out many years ago. As best I can tell–because I still spend a lot of time in Broomall and Newtown Square between school, and dance–it is now owned by someone who doesn’t like trees–they cut them all down–and hates decorating for the holidays. Every time I drive past it, I say a prayer for them. I hope they made/are making as many, wonderful memories as we did for many of the years we lived there.

Six years folks. Over the last, six years I’ve watched my two daughters grow into teenagers. I’ve been in a few relationships, but all ended for one reason or another–usually me. I retired the Pilot in favor of a gently loved 2020 Equinox which I hope to pass onto my oldest when she starts driving. I’ve maintained my abode in SwarthmoreWOOD as best I can, though admittedly, some repairs are starting to evade my expertise. I’m on my third job, but I’ve been in my current one for almost five years. I’m a lot greyer than I was in 2018 and a bit skinnier, and I can no longer deny the fact that my once-beloved head of hair is beginning to recede. I’m less than 365 days away from the Big 5-0 and I’m having difficulty coming to grips with the idea that the average human life expectancy in 2024 is 70 and I’m less than 21 years away from that. Maybe my keen awareness of such things is a product of the comfort level I have achieved in my life after the six most turbulent years of my existence. I’m not averse to the changes. Time can be a cruel companion, but only if you let it be one. I tend to look at time these days as a welcome partner on my journey deeper into the latter third of my life.

Six years. Gone in a blink. 21 more until I hit (and hopefully exceed) our corporeal terminal velocity as human beings. Six years to get to a point in my life where things have grown relatively quiet again. The past remains–the pain I felt, the hurt I endured and what I regrettably dished out at times–but only because, to quote Matthew McConaughey, “sometimes you gotta go back to go forward. And I don’t mean going back to reminisce or chase ghosts. I mean go back to see where you came from, where you’ve been, how you got HERE.” There are lessons to be learned from the past, but you cannot let all of the above factors affect your present, or your future.

Six years. When I started writing this piece, I was fixated on that. But the more I compose, the more I think that this little blog entry, piece of Mental Flatulence or Dissertation is more of a reflection on where I’ve been, and where I’m going. Inevitably, we humans reflect on where we’ve been and consider what we could have done differently. I’ve done plenty of that in my 49 plus years, here on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. When I was in college, I considered going into IT like many of my friends at that time. Frank Marsh, Computer Programmer. There was and remains a ton of money in that field, though the landscape has changed a lot–I see it every day in my current job. IT folks are opting for the life of a digital nomad versus a steady, in-office, 9-5 mundane, routine existence. Many of them become independent contractors and work multiple gigs for multiple companies at a time. They’re not tied to one place… One location. They can do the same job from East Jipip that they do from Bumf*ck (or, if you prefer a less vulgar comparison, SwarthmoreWOOD and Dominica). IT folks in 2024 are part of a world in which there are no borders save for the ones that their forefathers and mothers drew, hundreds of years ago. It’s about as close to the digital world of Neuromancer as we’ll ever get as a species (sorry William Gibson, but AI is going to take the digital highways and byways of this world over long before people start “jacking in”). That could have been me. But sometime in mid-high school I fell in love with English and there was, from that moment forth no line of code that could or would ever replace it.

Speaking of English, my plan had always been to teach. I had it all figured out, and I came closer to it than I did a career in tech: A few content credits and a stint as a student teacher away from an MA in Education. Yet those of you that know me know that didn’t play out the way I drew it up either. Life, and Probability and Statistics intervened, and I settled for a career in the staffing industry which… If we’re being honest, has absolutely nothing to do with English unless you count drafting emails as a similarity. That decades old vision of me, bearded and standing in front of a group of high school or college students as Frank Marsh, MA or PhD in a pair of faded jeans, a button-down Oxford shirt and a corduroy suit jacket with patches on the elbows teaching Shakespeare is only a memory now. It too could have been me.

I could continue to cite examples–Frank Marsh, Actor/Director. Frank Marsh, Published Author (I guess this one kind of happened, though if you ask some folks, self-publishing does not count, even if said self-publisher made a profit, and maintains a relatively high rating/review standard for his two, SELF-published novels), Frank Marsh, Outside Salesperson for a hydraulic and pneumatic distribution company, Frank Marsh, Training Store, or even Regional Manager for CVS/Pharmacy–but to do so at this point is fruitless. All could have been me. But this is not about reminiscing or chasing ghosts. This is about NOW. I am a 49 plus year old Business Development Manager. I know how I got here. The answer is simple: I made a choice. I made choices that led me to this point. And let’s be fair friends: I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My success as a BDM is one of the main reasons why things have grown quiet in my world for the first time in… Honestly longer than six years (because none of what led me to that beautiful but fateful, late September Saturday morning six years ago today happened overnight). I still deal with stressors, but for the first time in a very long time, career-wise they’re not primarily employment-related. I have and will continue to embrace my NOW, here, on the cusp of 50. I intend to make the best of whatever life I have left beyond this moment in time, up to and God willing past my corporeal, terminal velocity. But there are still questions that beg to be answered because despite the general silence, there remains a desire for more. Six years. I know where I was six years ago today. The question: Where will I be, six years from NOW?

It’s later now. I’m at dance, waiting for the girls to finish their nightly slate of practice–four hours for the oldest, and only one for the youngest. The above asked question has haunted me since I posed it to myself (and you, readers) a few hours ago. I don’t know that I can say, for sure where I WILL be. But I know where I want to be, and that may be the closest a non-divination human of 49 plus can get (yes, that was a veiled D&D reference).

Leg one is simple: I want to be even more secure and at peace than I am now. No more lingering home repairs or financial concerns. Fewer stressors. A better sleep pattern and about 25 additional pounds lighter than I am presently. But legs two, three et cetera are trickier (or “tricksier” to quote everyone’s favorite Gollum). Here’s where I grow tentative because I know what I want to answer. I’ve answered this same query, the same way multiple times pre-tonight. But I’ve never had the ability or, to be honest (TBH in teen-speak) the energy/desire to follow through. I’m okay with being a co-parent, homeowner and BDM. I’m okay with being a Dance Dad, Theater Papa, Basketball Father (and occasional private coach for my youngest daughter) and whatever else the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence desires me to be. I ask only one thing in return of said universe, and if he/she/it can grant me this, okay. Let’s f*cking go (LFG in teen-speak).

Six years. Six years from now, I want to be, nay I need to be a writer too. I have too many stories kissing my subconscious, some more forcibly than others to not keep doing what I’m doing right now. Here in this silence, I’ve never felt more imaginative. I feel like I have a new idea, or the return of an old idea every day. My words are beginning to flow, more freely than they have in some time and there’s something new in them. Good or bad–I leave that up to you, friends; I can see it in this blog entry–I have… I am changing. Evolving once again, both as a writer and a person. I want to harness this. 21 years is still a lot of time, and assuming my trusty Marsh/Hamilton genes keep me upright like my trusty Pilot kept me mobile, 70 may just be the start. After all, my mother and father are both well into their 70s and my grandparents, for the most part lived well into their 80s and 90s. There IS time. And if you, oh universe grant me this, I swear to you, this night–as the rain that has been threatening all day begins to slowly, methodically pitter-patter on the fuselage of my new, so far trusty Equinox–I will be everything that you require me to be and more.

Back home now and sleep is calling. Or some semblance thereof. I know I need to be up early in the morning to run the girls to school before returning, back here to Blackrock Road in SwarthmoreWOOD to work. I’ve no scheduled meetings tomorrow–which is not always a bad thing. Tomorrow is October 1, 2024: Day One of Q4 and marks the start of my yearly “sprint to the finish.” Can I hit my numbers this year? Can I exceed my output from last year? Thus far, each year has improved on the one before it. Hopefully this year–which has, at times been very good, and at times less so–follows suit. Good, bad… The continued duality of my existence on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, no matter whether I’m living in Broomall or SwarthmoreWOOD, PA, or somewhere between the two. Much of my life, these days is spent in that gray area between the two locations, and some is spent between the two poles of morality. Maybe that’s just me, going too hard on myself. I do believe I am inherently a good person. Even good people do bad things sometimes. I guess I’ll leave the final ruling on that up to the universe that I am appealing to but one thing I know for certain is that every decision I have ever made, not just in the last six years, but over the course of a good portion of my 49 plus year life has been a measured one. I trust in that. I trust in myself. I trust in the universe to hear me this night and maybe, just maybe, the next six years WILL prove to be less chaotic, and more peaceful than the previous six.

Six years. An appeal to the universe. And hopefully a good night’s sleep. I wish you all the same, friends.

Booyakasha. RESPECT. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

F.

On the Return of Power Ballad Friday and Retrospectives

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

NOTE: This was originally written on Friday the 17th of November, I just forgot to post it.

Back in the day–when a select few colleagues and I worked for a semi-large fluid power distributor, halfway between York, PA and Royersford, PA (and no one lived anyplace else)–our in-office, Friday tradition was to listen to Power Ballads from the 1980s and 1990s for as long as we could before our boss, or someone else in the office ordered us to turn them off. We usually made it until around lunchtime before our radio station (yes, we used to listen to the radio back then) was silenced. I remember those days fondly, even now–as I sit here in my home office on an unusually mild, November day less than a week away from Thanksgiving in the Year 2023 of our Lord–so much so that every so often, I have my own, Power Ballad Friday whilst I go about my week ending business, and pray that someone doesn’t hit me with a rush pre-5PM EST. So far, so good today. Fingers crossed that it remains so. It’s been a long week.

For those of you reading this that do not know what a Power Ballad is, I offer you this definition, courtesy of Bing and the interwebs: “A Power Ballad is a slow love song that is sung with a lot of emotion and grows bigger, louder and more fervent on the way to [it’s] impassioned finale. Power Ballads are a mainstay of popular music since the 1970s and combine the euphoric uplift created by rousing music with sentimental themes and ploys. Power Ballads often sing of an emotional Valhalla where everything has to be forever.”

Okay so maybe that last part was unnecessary, but any reference to “Valhalla” is a good reference in my opinion, so I included it. The key part of the definition is the first sentence, and while I understand that technically, the Power Ballad (abbreviated PB moving forward to save time and space) has been around since the 1970s, it wasn’t truly perfected in my humble opinion until the 1980s with the rise of bands like Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, Poison, Motley Crue, Guns N Roses, Cinderella, Whitesnake et al. I could go on and on–there were more bands releasing PBs in the 1980s and 1990s than there were Motown bands releasing hits in the 1960s and 1970s–and guess what friends? Every one of them was a hit. And every person that grew up and listened to PBs then has their own Top 10 list, me included. While I’d love to share that list herein, I’m worried that doing so would eat up too much time and space and keep me away from the whole point of this little piece of Mental Flatulence. Which is? I am glad you asked.

Full transparency: Power Ballad Friday (shortened to PBF moving forward in the interest of yadda, yadda yadda) was only a gateway to retrospective. I was listening to PBs long before the call I had this morning with one of my prospective market makers (what we call staffing companies in my staffing-adjacent business, abbreviated to MM moving forward). I get to speak with a lot of folks on a daily basis in my line of work. I also get to leave a ton of voicemails and send a ton of emails and LinkedIn messages, but I prefer the conversations. While I tend to keep my written correspondences diverse and targeted, I find that the conversations I have with folks speak more to my strengths. Back in the day–long before we all lived between York and what we endearingly called ROFO and listened to PBs all morning every PBF–there was limited email and no LinkedIn. We couldn’t even text one another which I am quite sure comes as a shock to the same segment of people, reading this that had no idea what a Power Ballad was and think Cinderella is a Disney princess, a deaf leopard is a big cat that can’t hear, and a motley crew is a… Well? A motley crew. We communicated in two ways: Via snail mail (that would be the USPS for those of you who are uninitiated and too young to remember when stamps actually had a monetary value and weren’t just “forever stamps”) and most commonly, via phone.

Ah, ye’ ol’ phone call. I had dozens, maybe hundreds of epic phone conversations back in the day. They weren’t just “hi! How are you” calls either. We’re talking two-to-three-hour marathon sessions which oftentimes happened after dark and occasionally resulted in one, or both parties passing out with the call still connected. And oh, my friends and loved ones, I am here to tell you that there is nothing cooler than waking up in the middle of the night with the phone still by your ear and hearing the sound of a friend or a girl/boyfriend you truly care for sleeping on the other end. You wake them up with a soft recitation of their name, only to hear a low sigh, and a breathy voice speak your name before saying, “I must have fallen asleep.” You can see the soft smile upon their face despite the fact that it is only their voice you are hearing. That was trust, guys and gals. Attachment. And more often than not? Love. At least it was for me… More often than not.

I digress. This morning, I had a call with a prospective MM that I have been speaking with for a few months now–what we in the Business Development (abbreviated as BD for short) world call a “slow burner.” The upshot? He was being forced to put a move forward on hold indefinitely due to… Wait for it… The divorce he was going through with his soon-to-be ex-wife. She was the co-owner of his recently dissolved company, and everything related to it and his future business dealings were and are to remain frozen until sorted through. This knowledge led to genuine sympathy on my end, and a deeper conversation about relationships and, more accurately, separation and divorce. Shockingly enough, his situation was, and is very similar to the situation I found myself in over five years ago now. I won’t get too heady on the specifics as that would be a disservice to him, his soon-to-be ex, myself and my own ex whom I truly consider both a co-parent and a friend. For me, what is passed is Past, but for him, what is in my Past is his Present. I told him this, and his response?

“How did you get through it?”

Anyone who has been through a divorce has, at some point been asked this question by someone else who is going through a separation and a divorce. Hell, I’ve asked it of people in the past, and the responses I received from them were as different as “Something To Believe In” by Poison is from “Hysteria” by Def Leppard. For all the Gen Z’ers reading this that are still grappling with what a PB is and why a band would name themselves Guns N Roses, those are two of my favorite PBs and for educational purposes, I am linking them both herein so that you can see what I mean and maybe, just maybe experience the majesty and awesomeness of a PB for the first time.

Rad, huh? Totally tubular. In 2023 terms? Lit. I’d love to hear your thoughts so hit me up in the comments section if you’d like or just… You know, forget I ever introduced you to these and go back to listening to Olivia Rodrigo. I won’t judge you. I’ve got two teenage girls and believe it or not, I think Olivia slays.

Anywhos, back to the question I cited above. How did I get through it? How did I, an uber emotional, hopeful romantic survive losing the woman I once vowed to spend the rest of my life with? How did I go from the guy, celebrating the anniversary of his last, first date to the guy writing these words today a shade over six years later? Unaware of how I was going to answer my colleague’s question, I started talking, as I oftentimes do, and have done for as long as I can remember dating back to those nights on the phone with my friends and girlfriends until one or both of us fell asleep without disconnecting the call. Many times, in the past, I’ve started speaking and have quickly forgotten what I said, but today, I realized quite quickly that the words coming out of my mouth were and remain the greatest lesson I have learned from my own, personal experience in the last five plus years, and I should remember them. While I won’t list them verbatim, I feel comfortable paraphrasing them herein.

It’s never easy. Regardless of how amicable the split is, voluntarily walking away from something you committed heart, mind and soul to x-amount of years before is hard. Damaging. You will carry the scars of it with you for the remainder of your life, regardless of how long that life is, where you go, if you love again et cetera et cetera. You will wake up at night in a cold sweat occasionally from a nightmare, and you’ll promptly look to your left or right for the person that you’d snuggle with in the past to ward off the fear. They will not be there. You’ll go somewhere during the day and remember the time you and she/he were there together, what you did, even what you ate and what you talked about and if you’re like me, you’ll even recall what they were wearing. Yet they will not be there. You will find yourself in a place where you are looking for “something to believe in” and you’ll wish that you “didn’t know now the things you did know then.” You may even “get hysterical, hysteria.”

The key, in these moments is to not give into despair. When you’re struggling to pay your bills and you wish you had a second income to contribute, don’t grow withdrawn and depressed. Embrace the challenge of learning how to do it on your own and draw strength from it. You’ll have moments where life blindsides you–as it did me a few weeks ago when I had to buy a new car with little to no warning–but that’s not because you’re on your own. It’s not God or whatever deity you believe testing your resolve or paying you back for the bad stuff you did before. It’s just the nature of Life with a capital L. As time passes, these moments will begin to pass too. They may never entirely go away, but through perseverance… Through not giving up, you will develop into something you never thought you would when your relationship took a hard left turn into Sh*tsville. An individual. You, but a new version of you. You 2.0. And you’ll realize, eventually that you are in a better place than you were before. You’ll move on with your life into the “magical mysteria” that is your new future. End paraphrase.

The result of this was a decision to speak again pre-the end of the year, and an offer extended by me to speak with my prospective MM again in the future if needed, whether said conversation is work-related, or other. We hung up, and I went about my day which, eventually, found me writing these words on my lunch break. I realize–as I read back over what I just composed–that somehow, against at times overwhelming odds I moved on. It didn’t take me five plus years–this started some time ago–but I’ve not yet been able to fully explicate the feeling, and my current state like I did today and am doing now. As for how I feel, I’ll be honest with y’all: Not much different than I did when I woke up this morning. I think that too is a sign that this has been a gradual process of emotional evolution as there is no watershed moment that I can point to where the light just “clicked” on, and I knew I was okay. But I am okay. And given the conversation I had with my colleague earlier… Given the moment when the punk truly became the godfather and spoke to someone facing the same, uncertain future that I did back in 2018, I am grateful… Beyond thankful to those who saw me through those early days, post-separation and pre-divorce when I admittedly ran low on the strength to continue, and they shared theirs with me. It would take me too long to list them all here but if they are reading these words right now (and I’m pretty sure that more than a handful of them are)? Booyakasha. Respect. Yoda once told Luke Skywalker (Star Wars, guys; even Gen-Z knows Star Wars, right?) in “Return of the Jedi” and again in “The Last Jedi” to pass on what he had learned. I guess that really is the way of not just the Force, but Life with a capital L. Lesson learned and passed on guys and gals.

I think that’s a good place to close this little blog entry/piece of Mental Flatulence out. My mind grows weary, and my lunch break is just about over. I feel like I should have written more about PBs and PBF, as well as MMs, BD et cetera. but as I mentioned earlier, those abbreviated topics acted as a gateway to what I really needed to write about, and in that, I have achieved my goal. Fitting that the last PB I’m listening to as I conclude is “Heaven” by Warrant. No, I didn’t plan that, it just happened. Why? Well, give it a listen. You tell me.

Happy Power Ballad Friday friends and oftentimes casual readers. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

F.