'Green Sheet' impressions of yore

People with any familiarity whatsoever with the Comox Valley will also recall the old Comox District Free Press (AKA the Green Sheet). The Free Press ceased publication (after a history of 103 years) on Friday, Aug. 18, 1994. A day that is etched possibly more traumatically in my memory bank than two divorces, the deaths of my parents, and the realization that if the Nobel people were going to contact me to offer my an aggregate award for the body of my lifetime's work, they would have already done so.
Anyway, the reason for this screed is I am in the process of writing a sort of history of the Green Sheet. It's actually a kind of combo job. It will be a history of the paper and all of those (some of those) who toiled therein over the years. It's a worthy subject in the sense that the GS defined much of the Comox Valley over the years, for good or for bad. It will also be a kind of personal memoir of my recollections duirng my GS time, which covered the years 1977 to the absolutely last issue of 1994. During that period I worked there as a columnist, general news reporter, assistant editor, as well as being editor of our weekend edition, the North Island News. I have no problem pulling forth my own memories -- some of them even true -- and that is a relief knowing I haven't yet gone into terminal brain-fart. I don't think. Hey, maybe none of the memories are true. Does this mean I didn't actually fall in love with the person who became my second wife, and we didn't marry, and we didn't have an excruciatingly painful divorce? Cool! But, wait a minute, how did she manage to secure a good chunk of the house in our settlement if that was the case? OK, enough frivolity.
What I am wondering is that any of my cherished friends out there who might read this and might have some GS reminiscences, I would be delighted to hear them. I plan to talk to many people over the next few months, but I would love some candid input.
By the way, the Free Press didn't die in my esteem. I have a framed press plate of the the front page of our last edition sitting right above my terminal here. It's a pleasing, though very sad souvenir. Oh, call me an old sentimentalist.

Is there something sinister afoot?

They're killing all the heroes of my childhood. Is this a conspiracy. Within three days three icons of 1950s television have bought the proverbial, in this order we have lost Don Knotts, Darren McGavin and now Dennis Weaver. Hmm. Their names all begin with the letter 'D'. What does that mean? Furthermore, they were all in their early 80s. What does that mean? And finally, I found a photo that shows Don Knotts and Darren McGavin in the same scene. That seems even more ominous, not to mention just a teeny bit creepy. So, this leads me to wonder, who is next? What 1950s video stalwart will I find in tomorrow's obit section? Who else from that time has a given name beginning with 'D'. Let's see, Desi Arnaz has already joined the other Mambo Kings in the skies. Durwood Kirby died years ago, I think. The two Darrens from Bewitched are both deceased, but the Darren name just came from the role -- by the way, did you ever wonder how Samantha got into bed with the second Darren and never wondered why he didn't look even remotely like the husband she knew and loved? Oh well, for witches such things as appearance are amorphous, so maybe she didn't really notice.
I was also thinking, in my own sick way, how somebody genuinely warped might mount an on-line poll to guess who would be the next from that era to shuffle off this mortal coil. There are still lots around. But, it struck me that such an enterprise might be a bit morbid. Mind you, when I was at the newspaper, we had obits of the not-yet-deceased-but-notable at the ready just in case God paid a call at deadline time. No point in scrambling when the Reaper strikes unannounced.
I was thinking this morning when I read about Weaver -- if you never saw him in the early Spielberg vehicle Duel, make a point of doing so, he's brilliant. I, of course, remember him as Matt Dillon's slightly lamebrained deputy, Chester B. Goode, complete with his gimpy leg and Missouri drawl. Others will recall him as McCloud in the series of the same name. As for McGavin, to most he is the lovably curmudgeonly father in A Christmas Story, but those of us who were there at the time first noticed him in Riverboat, in which he was the skipper of a sternwheeler and an impossibly young Burt Reynolds was his mate. As for Deputy Fife, I already covered that ground in another blog.

Procrastination is enticing

An acquaintance with more verbal dexterity than good taste once opined: "Procrastination is like masturbation; in both cases you fuck yourself." And that, you see, is part of the problem with procrastination it (too) can be a lot of fun.
I'm a professional writer, and we invented procrastination. The terror of the blank page, or screen, fills us with despair and sometimes pants-wetting anxiety. Our every inadequacy comes to the fore so that the avoidance of putting down even a single word becomes increasingly enticing. Any old excuse to avoid that which helps to put bread on the table compels the scribe to find excuses.
So, does the house need vacuuming? Does the lawn need cutting? "When did we last clean the crud from the grouting in the ensuite? Uh-oh, the cat's claws demand trimming and it should be done right this minute.
I am not a famous writer, but I've always been able to earn a living at it, both in the newspaper business, and as a freelancer. But, I've also always been a procrastinator.
I recall reading an article on Norman Mailer's daily routine. No, I'm not putting myself in the same league as Mailer. I've never had a wife stab me. I think I had one who wanted to, but she didn't carry out the deed. Anyway, Mailer says he begins his day by doing the New York Times crossword. Then he plays a few rounds of solitaire. He does the aforementioned, he says, to limber up his brain and to get set for the day's writing. Actually, I do the NYT crossword as well (though I usually crap out after Wednesday, when it starts to get really hard), and I play electronic solitaire, and I shave, and I shower and I find if I linger long enough, then it is almost time for 10 a.m. coffee. And then, there just might be a bit of shopping to do. And then, when I get back I have to check my email. Sometimes I have to respond to said emails. And then, if nothing else is happening to deter me from actually functioning, I'll blog. That is exactly what I am doing right now, as much as I love it, and as much as it allows me to give vent to (some of) my innermost passions, and as much as it allows me to interconnect with some people I've come to find quite special, it allows me to procrastinate.
One good thing devised by newspapers in their wisdom, and in their knowledge that all who write, procrastinate, is the invention of the deadline. That is, even if your mother has just been killed in a car crash, the paper must get out -- grieve later, buster.
Freelancing has deadlines, too, but they're pretty loose-ended, so they encourage procrastination even more. Anyway, dear ones, I now must actually get back to functioning, or I'll continue to fuck myself.

RIP Barney Fife

I was sorry to read that Barney Fife had been transferred to that big HQ in the sky. Never was a lawman so inept, so pushy, so egomaniacal, but ultimately so charming as Deputy Bernard Fife of the Mayberry NC Sheriff's Department.
Don Knotts, a remarkably skilled actor for all his 97 pounds soaking wet, who walked onto the set of the old Andy Griffith Show and made it his owned. Designed as a vehicle for Andy himself, a widely-respected actor, both comic and otherwise, there was no doubt that scrawny Barney was not to be tampered with. Griffith, who became in real-time Knotts' closest friend, said that while he (Griffith) was intended to be the comedic centre of the Mayberry universe, after Don came on the scene it was game over in terms of the original premise. Griffith didn't mind playing straight-man one little bit. He invariably deferred to Knotts' comic talents, many of them doubly emphasized by his physiognomy.
Knotts had already earned his stripes as one of the comedic troupe on the old Steve Allen Show, further members of which included Tom Poston, Louis Nye, Pat Harrington, Bill Dana and others. Knotts always played the incredibly nervous guy who had intolerable jobs for his disposition, such as tightrope walker or lion-tamer.
Knotts also made a number of movies, and later did an amusing stint as the landlord on the otherwise execrable Three's Company. But it was Barney, with the single bullet in his breast pocket, who was truly Knotts' everlasting alterego, and even if he didn't want that legacy, that is what he got. Not such a bad thing.

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I fought the law, and the law won

I had a run-in with the cops yesterday. Don't worry, there wasn't any gunplay. But, I'm still pissed about the whole thing.
OK -- I got nailed for speeding in a school zone. The man said I was clocked at 50 in a 30 zone. It was on a road that I travel almost daily and I didn't think I was driving any differently than I normally drive along that stretch. I probably wasn't. I didn't even know it was a school zone. There's no school on it. The school's up at the end of the block. I mean, how big do they want their &*^% school zones to be, for chrissake? I say if the school's not on the actual road, then tough shit. At least, that is what I thought at the time. I also thought of voicing the opinion that if teachers are incessantly whining about class sizes being too big, which they seem to be, why are we worried about drivers nailing the odd one? But, I refrained from suggesting my 'modest proposal.'
I think what really pissed me off is that I have a virtually flawless driving record. I have only been nailed once for speeding, and that was back about 30 year's ago. Shouldn't that count? Couldn't I have been let off with a warning? Of course I could have. But, he chose not to. And I couldn't argue the point. I wanted to say, "What about those assholes who go screaming down my street full-tilt boogie; or the morons who who squeal their tires every chance they get; the goddamn straight-pipe motorcyclists on their Harley's; the cretinoids who drive up onto people's lawns and leave tire marks; etc. etc. etc.?" I wanted to say all of those things. But, I didn't. I was just so fucking Canadian about it all. I mean, I even thanked him when he gave me the ticket, for heaven's sake.
I used to cover the police beat for both the Echo and the old Green Sheet here in the Comox Valley, and I always wrote real nice things about the cops. I even did features on some of them. I even had a big crush on one of the lady cops -- something I never told her, the detachment, or even especially my wife; it's OK, it was all innocent, just something about a gorgeous woman in a red serge uniform -- and never did I waver about extolling the virtues of those who labor in an often thankless calling. I could have told this bozo that. I refrained.
I thanked him for my ticket. He actually wished me a "nice day."
"Lay rubber when you're leaving," Wendy said, jokingly, I think. "That'll show the bastard."
I refrained from doing that, too. So, OK, the law won this time, but I just don't think I'll be quite so warm towards my crushee the next time I see her.

Remember the days at DRS

"When you are old and in distress, remember the days at DRS." So an uncle taught me when I was very young. The DRS was Douglas Road School in the heart of what was then relatively rural Burnaby. The school is pictured above. It assuredly did not look like that when I was there. Landscaping would have been unheard of during those dark days. It was a %$#&* school, not a showpiece. Was it a good school? I have no idea. It was the only one I experienced in my tender years, so I can't make comparisons.
My part of Burnaby -- the Deer Lake area -- was amazingly static in those days. I say 'amazingly' considering an unfettered growth in recent years that has rendered Burnaby unrecognizable, and remarkably unappealing to me. But, when I first set foot on the turf of DRS, I was following in a tradition set by my mother and assorted aunts and uncles in a Burnaby that was virtually unchanged from when they were growing up in the 1920s and '30s.
The school was more than a mile from my home, but I was expected to walk. We were all expected to walk in those bus-less days, including the kids who lived two and three miles distant.
The school pictured above is what was known in those days as the "brick building", for obvious reasons. Newcomers did not have the privilege of entry to the brick building. Tiny tots were relegated to what was absolutely unaffectionately called "the old grey building." It was a four classroom, nasty smelling (a lot of pee had been voided on those horrible oiled-wood floors by generations of incontinent, terrified kids who had been hauled into the corridor to have the bejesus strapped out of them in those less salutary days) ancient monstrosity that had, even in retrospect, no redeeming virtues.
Aside from the classrooms, there was the basement. There was a girls' side (with their bathroom), and a boys' side, with their equivalent can; a concrete floored 'play' area, and a massive coal bin to fuel the monstrosity furnace, and woe-betide the hapless kid who, on a dare, decided to run into the girls' side. That strap was always at the ready for transgressors, regardless of how young they might be.
So, I notice that that PAC at Douglas Road has a website, and it is interesting to me to read some of the information (and mis-information, for example, the principal in days of yore was Mr. Scutt, not Mr. Scott, as stated) on my old alma mater.
I suppose part of my problem with the whole thing is that my memories of Douglas road are not altogether pleasant. I remember a lot of tyrannical and small-minded teachers (with the odd decent one interspersed), classmates who mean little to me today, and a huge desire to exit the place all day and every day.
In fact, I don't quite understand those who wax nostalgic about their school days. I didn't really like any of my schools, either Douglas road, Kensington Jr. High or the especially loathsome Burnaby Central, at least as it was back then.
Life moves on, and the only academic experience I had that I actually cherish in retrospect, was my university days at UBC. Now, there was a time that still can offer me enchantment.

C-mon -- wish me a Happy Birthday!

Today is my birthday. I don't know how I feel about that. On the one hand, I'm grateful that I am still around to have another birthday. On the other hand, I don't think I want to be the age I am. But, I can do nothing about that.
So, mainly I'm ambivalent about the entire thing.
I think that somehow a birthday should have more magnitude than it does. Yet, that's illogical. The only person for whom a birthday really has any meaning is the person marking the date.
But, somewhere in the back of my mind there is an 'idealized' birthday. No, I don't know what it looks like, and the concept is kind of Aristotelian, I suppose. You know how in Greek philosophy there are idealized versions of everything from dogs and cats through to truth and justice. There must be a version for birthdays, too.
Remember how when you were a young child you would long for it to be your birthday? All that was good would befall you on that day. Aside from ice-cream and cake, there was the sheer power suggested by being one year older. Children always want to be older -- "I am five-and-seven-sixteenths years old!" (in other words, nearly six, and in being six there was power. You knew that instinctively. There was no power in being five. And, as you got older, you had your watershed birthdays -- "16 candles make a lovely light". Ah yes, 16. Sweet 16 and never been kissed. I suppose now it might be never been kissed on any other part of the anatomy than on the mouth, but maybe that's crass and vulgar. Whatever. But, after your 16th you can get a driver's license. After 18 you can vote. Can you go to bars at 18? I don't remember. When I was young the age for booze was 21; so that was a monumental birthday. After that it was all downhill. I had my first birthday angst when I was turning 30. Youth was gone. A decade from age 20 had passed in a heartbeat. At 35 I wrote a column bemoaning the fact I was now middle-aged. It was a very whiny column. I suppose the whining kept me from shrieking into the darkness of a life in which nobody really cared what my age was. After that the years, and then the decades fell like dominoes. Now I am the age I am today. I know I am only a day older than what I was yesterday, but it feels like more.
So, I don't know what I am going to be doing later today. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. Got an email from my cutie-pie younger female friend who said a card was on its way. Not to worry. She is just a 'friend'-friend. At one time we toyed with it being something more than friendship, but there was such an age disparity (as in, I then was twice here age, though no longer am; funny how that works) that we felt the gap in years had meaning more than we could handle. So, we became friends, and are both happily ensconced in our own relationships. Anyway, I will welcome her card. Then, my wife and I might go to dinner. She said we might.
And that will be it. And then tomorrow I will be my age plus one day, and it will all start over again.