There it is again – a cover on a popular magazine proclaiming, that yet another celebrity is “finally free to reveal” her life story. Her struggles, setbacks, inabilities to cope with fame and wealth. And my guess is that lots and lots of people like to read about those adversities. Those same people watch reality television shows too, the really, really trashy ones that, for example highlight brains only working on a couple of cylinders paired with anger issues. The ones where people’s homes are so full of crap they can’t move. Or the best, where people fall in love with ax murderers and get married in the chapel of a maximum-security prison. The ones that, when you see the cast in a preview, you tell yourself they really should be titled, “Dear God, Please Don’t Reproduce” or “Too Stupid to Live”. But again, I’ve digressed.
So, yes, I guess somebody out there is interested. A headline blazed earlier last month that Brittany Spears was “spending obscene amounts of money . . . “ Of course, she had it, having just sold the rights to her music library for $200 million. (Side note: I’m putting the rights to my blogs up for auction. And I’d like to start the bidding at a modest $10 million. Any takers?). In more follow-up, I read recently that she was arrested for “driving under the influence”. With $200 million, she couldn’t use a car service for a night out?
Anyway, if celebrity tell-alls sell magazines, tabloids, and sleazy television shows, I think that lesser-known folks like us could, and rightly should, cash in on the trend. Possibly not on the scale of Ms Spears, but still, I do think that my memoirs should be worth something. My struggles, my challenges, my disappointments. So, let’s begin.
I grew up in a Republican household. Yes, my parents were loving and supportive, but they still liked Richard Nixon and feared George McGovern. I know what you’re thinking. How was I able to overcome those early obstacles and become the insightful, enlightened person about whom and from whom you read today’s message. But it happened. Over years. My generation lifted a glass of milk to President Dwight Eisenhower. From that flowed a stream of conscience that leaned a little right of center. They met later President George H. W. Bush during a campaign swing. They heard Barry Goldwater speak, although they never really supported him. And my mother, to her last breath, expressed a thought that Spiro Agnew would bounce back into public life. Under this undue influence, I’m a bit embarrassed to say that Nixon was the first candidate for whom I voted when I became eligible. A deep regret? In retrospect, without doubt. I’ve since tried to make amends and, I hope, voted a bit more wisely. Although I did flirt briefly with John McCain’s first primary run for president. And, I have to say in full disclosure, that while I didn’t vote for him, I could probably have lived with a Mitt Romney administration. Not President Obama, but far preferable to the current White House occupant.
My family is, and has been, solidly middle class. Middle income too, again in a spirit of full disclosure. We have lived comfortably. I was never homeless, or carried my belongings in the trunk of a car. I have never been in therapy. I was gainfully employed for my working life. I have been happily married for almost fifty years. To the same person. I have a highly successful daughter that’s a college professor. Yes, truth be told, when she told us her field of study was media, I thought she’d be a Hollywood movie producer, earning untold wealth, bestowing on her loving parents a beach house in the Bahamas, or a villa in Southern France, in addition to a mountain retreat here in New Hampshire. But it was not to be, so I’d have to fabricate something, and quite honestly, I think we’re getting enough of that from the White House. However, our condo here is comfortable and really all we need. The payments are up-to-date, the taxes paid, and it’s warm. We haven’t missed many meals either over the years, so, all good. But it brings me to:
I have not, as yet, won the lottery as I’d expected. My faithful readers know that this has been a largely unsuccessful supplement to my retirement income. By now, I’d planned to be living in . . . . well, see above. We’d anticipated making an appearance on “My Lottery Dream Home” with David showing us about some upscale real estate. Bestowing beaucoup bucks on friends and relatives. But nothing. The occasional ten or twenty on scratch tickets, but nothing requiring the services of a financial planning team. A chapter describing how we won millions and I squandered it all on houseplants and wine, or Herself went wild on Christmas shopping. But sadly, that didn’t happen. And, if I’m honest, it’s deeply disappointing when I see some of the people that David has on the show. We could have done so much better. Anyway, that’s another chapter that will go unwritten in my tell-all memoirs.
Nor is there suitable material that would inspire a true crime novel or docuseries. No bodies dismembered and buried in the back yard (of which I’m aware). In fact, not that many people have really pissed me off to that extent either, over the years. A couple have been mildly annoying, but nothing “murder-worthy”. No road rage incidents, or harsh disputes at the grocery store with tempers flaring. And as I’m not a member of the British Royal Family, nor was I an acquaintance of Jeffrey Epstein, those aren’t avenues to headlines either. In fact, Herself and I have never even received an email from him, much less an invite to his island retreat. We’re not in the DOJ files either. There was an interesting article, though, in this week’s magazine about a high school principal in Florida who used hypnosis on students, staff, and parents. It ran amok, though, resulting in a fatal car crash and a couple of suicides. He was, according to the report, trying to reduce stress and anxiety in his “patients”. Again, to my knowledge, I’ve never had a hypnotic effect on anyone, nor have I knowingly or deliberately tried. I’ve always taken a “Don’t try this at home” view of hypnosis.
I have not been detained by ICE, nor have I ever been stopped by someone in a face mask. Possibly because, as my daughter reminds me, I typically drive well below the speed limit – hence the nickname “Pokey”, and my appearance as an aging white person with no discernable accent probably spares me from identification while out and about. I can’t really write a feature piece on my time at a detention center, or being flown to a third world country. In fact, the closest I’ve been to a jail cell was a tour of Alcatraz when we visited San Francisco a few years ago. Although my daughter did take a humorous picture of me behind bars – that would, if we still have it, make a “captivating” book cover. I don’t have a war experience, and I’ve never been in a combat zone, unless you think a middle school classroom qualifies. In which case, there is ample material or a chapter or two.
I have never been the victim of physical, sexual, or really even verbal abuse. At least that I can recall. To quote comedian Mike Birbiglia, any potential abusers “knew I was a talker.” Their secret wouldn’t have been safe with me. Nor did I have contact with any bishops or archbishops to whom or about whom I could drop names. I’ve had to read about It all in the paper like everyone else. The closest I’ve come to verbal abuse are terse comments from Her Ladyship when I don’t put enough cream cheese on her bagel. In full disclosure, she tends to be, as our daughter calls it, “condiment forward”. Heavy on the mustard, butter, and, of course, cream cheese. She is a devotee of Miracle Whip, but I’m not sure if that’s the kind of suffering about which my readers are willing to invest their time and money. I prepare my own tax filings, and so far, so good. No prosecutions from the IRS or the Justice Department. Should legal issues pop up, Herself is a long-time watcher of “Law and Order”, and thus is well prepared to draw upon the offices of Jack McCoy to take command. Our wider circle of family, friends, and professional colleagues have also failed to provide the necessary bad judgement and notoriety that would propel my book tour and appearances on late-night talk shows. Whichever ones are left standing after, well, . . . .
All this being said, my working biographical masterpiece, “Blood on the Baton”, like Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony, may never be fully complete. A riveting, fascinating “tell-all” that will sell millions, win a Pulitzer, and propel me to the upper ranks of authorship or the cover of a scandal-ridden publication? I’m thinking . . .probably not.
I'm Thinking...No! 