Now go read this.
Today I'm sharing a short fiction suite I wrote 20 years ago for a publication I put out sporadically for a handful of years. SLANK featured short stories, essays, editorials, cartoons, poetry and other art by yours truly as well as friends and family. It was the successor to another 'zine I'd done called frog spit, and a precursor, I suppose, to this blog and my other one, The Backside of America.
So, without further ado, I give you....
1) Let Me Leave
I slept outside last night. I fluffed up the dirt, pulled back the blanket of crispy, crackly leaves and wandered off to sleep, dreaming of supernovas, rocks from Mars and creatures from "The X-Files." During the night, smoke from my neighbor's wood stove curled across my yard, into my nostrils, filled my head with warmth and sanity. A dog sniffed his way across the tree line before venturing over to pee at the foot of my resting place. I thanked him.
Bugs wound their way around the stems, up the veins and chewed their way across my leafy blanket. I did not move but to bat an eyelash at them. They didn't care; I was one of them, part of them. I welcomed them.
Around 2 a.m., I woke to a tickling on my chin. Perhaps, I thought, my whiskers are growing more quickly in the fresh, autumn air. But no, it was an inchworm, late for work and hoping to gather some speed by tumbling down my cheek. I laughed at him.
Precisely at 4 a.m., as I'd suspected, the awe-wielding maniac skulked across the yard, scaring the squirrels and crickets into silence. He was surprised to see a pair of beady eyes checking him out from inside this cozy outdoor bunk. He attempted to menace me from twenty paces, but I simply told him to bug off. I waved at him.
At 6, the cock crowed, and this scared the hell out of me, for I have no rooster. I sat upright, and what did I see, but a bright red rooster with a yellow comb on top of his clucky head. He winked at me.
Rising slowly, I took the time to see what the place looked like in the daylight, as I hadn't really done so in a long, long time. I'd forgotten where I lived, you see, what wonders existed in my own backyard, what creatures lived outside my imagination. Things were not so pretty in the daylight as they were under the stars.
There was Johnson's tree house, falling apart and pretending to be the Honeycomb Hideout; Washington's swimming pool, glowing aqua and shimmering with steam; Bailey's broken-down jalopy with windows for doors; Sing's crumbling woodshed mocking Mother Nature; and my own foolish lawnmower, strong enough to propel itself into the next county, if only it were smart enough.
Why did reality have to rise with the sun? Why did man have to create so much junk? Why did the axe-wielding maniac leave a trail of blood across my limestone patio?
I fear the Great Pumpkin, for he is a mammoth, orange Disciple of Gaia. Born in the musty soil of Concord, hard by Route 2; raised on the vine -- the twisting, gnarly umbilical cord through which Mother Nature's nutrients flow; now, fat with maturity, rolled with great effort and farmer's sweat into the market, to be sold to an unsuspecting victim.
"Three-hundred-seventy-one pounds of pure evil is sitting over there," I tell this kid. "Almost four hundred pounds of grotesquely round menace, colored by the Flames of Hell," I say to him. He runs, screaming his fool head off, back to his mommy and the promise of a caramel apple. I say a quiet prayer for him.
Surrounded by hundreds of squashes of all sizes, shapes, colors, smells and temperaments, only I know where the truly diabolical one sits. Sure, here and there I spy a Hubbard squash or bottle gourd that may send a chill up my spine. But I am not really worried by this. They are merely supporting characters in the Game of Evil being played by the G.P., who sits over there, like Jabba the Hut, next to the rusty tractor, waiting to be thumped just the wrong way, so he can wreak havoc on the world.
My sworn duty -- my reason for being placed ever-so-softly on this Earth -- is to save mankind from the G.P.
Boldly I stride across the open field of the market, brushing aside women and children, making a plumb line for the tractor.
"How much?" I ask the crusty salesman in his John Deere hat.
"Ain't for sale," he tells me in his bad, nasally grammar. "Just for show," he adds, wiping caramel from his hands onto his Big Smiths.
This is not acceptable," I say to him.
"Ain't for sale," he repeats, drone-like.
"Fair enough," I say, smiling.
I stroll nice and easy to my truck. The door creaks as I open it; I slide behind the wheel, thinking about oiling that door, but putting it second on my list, just behind "rescuing mankind." I cruise slowly, past the yuppie parents and their Radio Flyer children with rosy cheeks and tainted minds, to the end of the dirt lot closest to the tractor. Jamming the shifter into "P," I leave the motor running and hustle over behind the tractor. Then I dash for the G.P., using the Lord's adrenaline to help me lift it onto my back and rush over to the truck, where I carefully roll it into the bed, and throw up the gate. As I pull out, I look upon a sea of astonished faces. No one can believe what they've seen. They do not know they've been saved.
AS I haul out of the parking lot, an unwitting Tool of Satan veers her stupid Geo in front of me. I swerve to miss her (only out of instinct, not compassion) and the damn G.P. goes flying over the tailgate, bounces off the stupid little car's roof and smashes into pieces on the asphalt.
My foe has multiplied. I cannot hope to thwart him now. Each splinter of pulpy fruit is a harbinger of evil to come. I drive on into the uncertain gloom of the Harvest Moon.
3) Family Portrait
I can smell their shoes.
Walking overhead, their floor = my ceiling. Old boards creek like arthritic joints -- the same ones again and again. It's a shame no one has fallen through. Lately.
Each time they drive away, I scurry up to see what they've left behind. A half-empty Snapple bottle (mmmm....Kiwi-Strawberry) once; a pamphlet about the Worcester Outlets another time; a small footprint preserved in horse manure; the scent of Grey Flannel.
Every year they come when the shadows lengthen, the temperature drops and the trees shed. They stay for an hour or so, until Mr. has made plans to change his life, simplify his goals and move out to the country. I have followed the growth of their children, the rift in the marriage, the patterns of life.
When Boy was a young crawler, he almost fell through a weak board and into my waiting grasp. His little Weebok foot (smelling of new Lexus leather seats) dangled there for a few precious seconds before Mrs. scooped him back to safety. Tantalizing.
Girl = getting to the difficult age, probably 12 or 13 now. She doesn't like to listen to her parents, only to the headphones clamped permanently to her ears. She scuffs her Penny Loafers up (to cover the smell of freshly mown grass) and wears ripped jeans and tight t-shirts. Rebellious, despite the shoes.
I remember Mr. when he was a little older than Boy = now, would come here with Old Mr. -- just the two of them -- and throw rocks into my river and drop pipe tobacco onto their floor = my ceiling.
And I remember when Mr. first brought Mrs. here. She didn't feel right about it, she said. Something eerie about the place. She had ESP, or something, she said. She is still the last to arrive, and always the first to leave. She sniffs the air, looks through the cracks in their floor = my ceiling.
She has never caught on to me. She never will. If Mrs. fell through a weak board, I would throw her in the river. But I would keep her Espadrilles, because they smell of salt water and beachfront property.
This time she seems more guarded than usual, keeping her distance from the family. Girl doesn't notice, nor does Mr., but Boy keeps asking her to hurry along and see the fishes swimming in the river, the bright orange leaves floating along the top. But she is preoccupied.
Finally they all leave, with Mrs. stepping off the bridge last -- something that's never happened. After they drive off, I scramble up top to see what they've left. At first I don't see anything. There are no candy wrappers, baseball cards or cigar butts. Nothing. That's not right.
As I shuffle along close to the wall, I come across a scrap of paper stuck in a crack. It simply says, "OPEN." So I do.
"Dear Troll:" it begins.
"Thank you for keeping watch over my family when we come to visit. I've always known you were there, and have always felt safe, if a little weird. After all these years, I think you should know that I am leaving my husband. I hope to bring the children with me to Florida, so we shall never be here again. My husband will no doubt wish to forget this place after we leave him, so I doubt he will return. Goodbye."
On the back of the paper she had drawn a crude map, which included the bridge, the nearby grove of maple trees and a cluster of large stones that used to be part of a gate leading into an old farm. With an arrow she indicated that under this pile of stones I would find a pleasant surprise.
After nightfall I limped out of my quarters and made my way over to the old wall. Making sure no one had seen me, I lit my kerosene lantern and unstacked the stones.
At the bottom, nestled in the cool, moist dirt was a Saks Fifth Avenue bag. Nervous with anticipation, I opened the bag, ran my hand along the heavy cardboard box inside and closed my eyes, ecstatic. Inside, hidden beneath fragrant tissue paper, was a pair of my very own leather boots, "for the coming winter," her note said.
I always liked her.
I love to read but I'm not good at reviewing books. In junior high school I considered reading book reports to my classmates to be a fate worse than eating tofu-covered lima beans. Shrinking in my seat like an ashamed Rottweiler who's afraid to chase the mailman, I would agonize as student after student volunteered, hoping that somehow the teacher would exempt me. Of course she never did, and I never learned the lesson that going first means you get to kick back and enjoy as other kids stammer and turn red and tremble so badly their reports nearly tear in half.
In my adult years the fear of reading my work out loud has been replaced by the realization that I'm just not that good at critical analysis. I've always had difficulty plumbing the depths of long works of fiction, teasing out the symbolism, deciphering characters' ulterior motives or simply even remembering at the end of the book just what the hell happened in the first few chapters. These reasons attest to why I've never written a novel. I've diagnosed myself with executive function disorder.
Nevertheless, to coin a phrase, I've persisted. I've reviewed plenty of books here over the years, many of them non-fiction. Below you'll find links to three attempts. If you're so inclined, search the site for others.
April 4, 2013, Bill Bryson's The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America
January 20, 2012, Myles J. Connor, Jr.'s The Art of the Heist
July 24, 2012, Annie Proulx's That Old Ace in the Hole
I've come to you today with a somewhat different approach than the longer-form reviews I've done previously. I'm going with a quick-hit approach, offering up basic reviews and also a look at what's on my nightstand right now.
Also, there will be nepotism. Well-earned nepotism.
Earlier this summer I read Andrew Forsthoefel's Walking to Listen: 4,000 Miles Across America, One Story At a Time. The author of this memoir is young and freshly graduated from Awesome College or some such institution. He doesn't know what to do with his life, so he sets out from his mother's house in Pennsylvania on foot, a rucksack across his back, with the goal of simply talking to people along his route. He figures that he can learn from his fellow citizens how they make their lives work best, and apply those lessons to himself.
I really enjoyed Walking to Listen. Forsthoefel has an easy writing style and doesn't shy away from examining his own warts. The tales of kindness and generosity offered by his fellow Americans that he shares will make you think that in these polarizing political times there is hope for our nation.
Reading Forsthoefel's book was a dangerous thing for me to do, perhaps even brave. As regular readers know, I've been working, on and off, for several years on a road-trip memoir. So reading a really good book from a major publisher about trekking across the US of A is the sort of activity that could drop me into writer's depression. But instead I decided to take inspiration from Forsthoefel's book, go back and look at my work-in-progress and make it even better.
While I was the first member of my family to publish a book -- well, since you asked: (C)rock Stories: Million-Dollar Tales of Music, Mayhem and Immaturity -- I will not be the first to publish a memoir. That honor goes to my mother, Joan Bogert Brigham.
Published earlier this summer, her book, Invitation to Inner Light: To Love and Wisdom...an Essential Step for Personal and Planetary Peace, is part memoir, part travel guide to Peru and part revelation. The revelations for many readers will come in learning about my mother's spiritual path and how perhaps to follow their own, similar route to "opening to the sacred seed within." The book is about following your inner voice, which my mother tunes in via meditation, to realize who you are and how to realize your dreams and fulfill your destiny. She places great weight on love and learning how to discover the light that's inside each of us. This is my clumsy attempt to translate the message of Invitation to Light, as a person who is not at all spiritual and can't relate to many of the experiences my mother has had in her 85 years.
For me, the revelations in my mother's book were more personal. I had no idea that she'd yearned since she was a teenager for a meaningful spiritual experience. I never knew what motivated her to make not one, but two, trips to Peru in the 1990's. And I certainly didn't recall all that she'd told me about her transformative experience at Peru's Machu Pichu, the sacred and breathtaking ancient Inca city in the Andes mountains.
Additionally, I wasn't aware of just how important meditation, sounding and dream interpretation were, and still are, to my mother. Sure, I've heard her talk about all of these things all of my adult life, but reading it just makes it all the more evident and powerful. The message of my mother's book -- we as humans need to look inside ourselves to find the strength and courage to love ourselves and one another -- isn't unique. But given the tenor of our times, it certainly is a message that needs repeating. I can't express how proud of my mother for putting her heart, soul and, yes, LIGHT, into her book!
A few years back, I gave my mother a copy of Mark Adams's Turn Right at Machu Pichu: Rediscovering the Lost City One Step at a Time. I'm not sure whether she read it. More recently, I purchased a copy for myself, after reading and thoroughly enjoying Adams's Meet Me in Atlantis: Across Three Continents in Search of the Legendary Sunken City.
Now seemed like a perfect time to take Turn Right at Machu Pichu off my growing stack of books to read. And just as with his Atlantis book, I am getting tremendous enjoyment out of this one. Adams has a self-deprecating writing style that I both enjoy and employ myself. The basis of his book is retracing the route the Hiram Bingham III took in 1911 to expose Machu Pichu to the wider world. Adams ties his own trials and tribulations along the rigorous adventure to Bingham's pursuit, as well as to the history of the Inca people.
So far I'm loving it, and I expect that will continue.
A new year has arrived, but I've been taking some time to look back -- way back.
While at my mother's house after Christmas, my sister, brother and I spent some time rummaging through the basement. I do this every once in a while to look at old photos and other mementos. This time, my sister found a shoe box with a treasure trove of old stuff that belonged to our grandfather, who died long before any of the three of us were born.
There are documents related to his time as a Mason in Vermont:
There are also documents related to the international travel he undertook as a salesman for the Jones & Lamson Machine Co., which made automatic lathes (the company, founded in 1869, lives on as J&L Metrology in Springfield, VT). My grandfather, George Hazen Brigham, Sr., was traveling on business in Russia when the revolution began in 1917.
"During my second trip to Moscow we began to hear of riots in Petrograd; and as the situation grew worse, exaggerated reports of the number killed were circulated," he wrote in an article titled, "A Jones & Lamson Man in Russia During the Revolution," in an industrial machinery publication. "It was only after the second or third day of the revolution in Petrograd that we saw anything of it in Moscow. First the electric cars stopped, then the cabs, and then all public and private conveyances disappeared....About noon on the second day of the revolution the red flag appeared in Moscow, and then all but the active manifestants disappeared as if by magic and were not seen again until it had become evident that there would be no resistance."
After traveling across Russia for 10 days on the Trans-Siberian Railway, he went to Japan, which he found much more pleasant compared to the chaotic Russia.
"Japan was a wonderful contrast to Russia, the officers were...courteous and the baggage was soon examined," he wrote in the article. "Everywhere we saw evidence of organization (and) energy, and could readily understand the reason for the outcome of the Russo-Japanese war." My grandfather was an engineer, so he took special notice of the transportation infrastructure in Japan. "Their train service is excellent, their roadbeds are rock-ballasted and dustless, most of the locomotives are American, and their express trains compare favorably with ours."
Here is a document that allowed him into (and, perhaps more importantly, out of) Japan. I had to split the scan into two photos:
As amazing as these documents are, I've gotten just as much enjoyment out of reading his yearly diaries.
Picking one at random (1926), I learned from one of the 365 very short entries that my grandfather took my grandmother, Josephine (he called her "Jo"), to a Broadway production of "Naughty Cinderella." A farce starring Irene Bordoni, the show ran for 121 performances between November 1925 and February 1926, according to the Internet Broadway Database.
In the 1925 diary, I learned of the silent film, "Charley's Aunt." A farce that was first performed on a London stage in 1892, "Charley's Aunt" was revived many times in numerous countries in the ensuing decades, the last being in 1970.
The Internet being the awesome tool that it is, I was able to find a 10-minute clip of the 1925 film:
Pretty cool to be able to watch the same movie that my grandfather watched more than 90 years ago!
As I said, my grandfather died long before my siblings and I were born. He passed away from lung cancer in 1953 at age 64. I gathered from talking to my father over the years, that his dad was somewhat strict and distant with his three sons. After traveling the world in the 1910's, he settled down in the U.S., where he continued to travel on a more local basis (from his diary: "Thursday, October 22, 1925: "In Newark, Bloomfield, NYC and Brooklyn today."). By 1929, the year my father (the second son) was born, he had a real estate business with a partner, but lost everything when his partner took off with the money.
I'm so happy that years ago my brother spearheaded a project to record my parents' respective biographies. I tapped my mother for information about the subject of my father's father, and she forwarded me some great passages from the biography.
"My Dad (was) originally an engineering salesman for Jones and Lamson Co. which was a tool machine company in Springfield, Vermont," my father told us. "At some point they moved to Philadelphia, where my brother George was born. At some point he left Jones and Lamson because he didn't get along with the sales manager and so they were living in Philly. Eventually they moved to New Jersey and my Dad went into the real estate business (with another person). I don't know how he met him or anything about him. I don't know how long they were in business, but eventually his partner turned out to be a crook and wiped out all of the company money and left town."
"My father never talked about it," my dad continued in the biography. "Dad went into bankruptcy I guess. I don't know if that happened before or after the crash - October 1929 - but eventually they lost the house (they owned it) and lost the car and moved to Orange, NJ in a flat in a 3 or 4 family house."
Man, that is a serious blow. The last bit my mom forwarded says a lot: "Then my Dad was working for the Golden Key Coffee Co. where he drove a small pickup truck and I don't know how long he did that."
My grandfather must have felt like a real dude, traveling to Europe and Japan in his finest clothes, making sales of large equipment, writing diaries in French. Oh, did I not mention that some of his diaries are written in the "langue de Moliere"?
He did alright for himself, considering he was an orphan at age 3. I'd forgotten until I went back to my Ancestry.com account that my grandfather's father died when he was 3; his mother when he was 1. He and his siblings -- two brothers, John and Alfred, and a sister, Eunice -- were raised by relatives. My grandfather was raised by an older cousin about whom my father knew little. This guardian sent my grandfather to private school in Montpelier and the University of Vermont, from which he graduated with an engineering degree, I think (his education was a sore spot with his brother John, who went by Wes, according to my father. None of the other siblings went to college.) He married my grandmother in 1920, I believe, and did fairly well career-wise as far as I can tell.
While I'm finding it difficult in reading the diaries to get a real picture of my grandfather, some everyday details come through. In 1925 he bought a Nash, although he doesn't say what model or whether it was new or used. My dad used to talk about Nashes, and I believe he owned at least one in his life.
My grandfather spent A LOT of time traveling around New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania for work, but I'm not sure what company he was selling equipment for at this point. He mentions working on his car with some frequency, and also going for pleasure drives."Went for a nice long drive this eve" was a regular notation. I can relate to that.
As befits a father in the early decades of the 20th century, he didn't spend a lot of time with his kids, at least so far as I can tell in the diaries. His first son, my uncle George, was born in 1924. My grandfather rarely mentions his oldest son in the diaries, other than to indicate when my grandmother took the boy to the doctor.
He mentions needing a "Palm Beach suit" in one diary entry, which seems like a pretty fancy outfit. From the Ask Andy About Clothes blog, I learned that such a suit was "made from Palm Beach cloth, a warm weather blend of mohair and cotton" that was popular many years ago.
Another cool little thing of note: my grandfather, probably like most people of the time, referred to the morning as "forenoon."
He also makes note of the weather on just about every day of the year, and mentions with regularity having dinner with friends. "Sunday, August 9, 1925: Mr & Mrs (illegible) were in for dinner & the eve. Went for a ride. Rained very hard just after we got back."
So imagine going from this life -- maybe he was a bit sentimental about his bachelor days traveling the world and keeping diaries in a foreign language, but things seemed pretty good stateside with a wife, a son (George Jr.), a nice car, close friends and a decent job -- to losing everything you had and working as a coffee salesman and moving, during the Depression, from one relative's house to another in Vermont and New Hampshire. A man who never really knew his parents, and who was separated from his siblings, finds success, only to end up broken and seeking shelter in the homes of others again.
My dad always said that his father didn't talk much about his past life, and it's no wonder why. I'm thankful that I have many of my grandfather's papers and old photo albums, so I can gain some sort of connection. I've been told I look a little bit like George Hazen Brigham, Sr., which feels good to hear.
Maybe someday I'll hire somebody to translate his French diaries. Perhaps that's where all the secrets are....
I share the relief of Chicago Cubs fans. No, not because after more than a century their goat-cursed baseball team finally won the World Series. But rather because after telling people over and over during the last few years, "I'm writing my first children's book," I can finally finish that sentence with, "and here's where you can buy it."
I refuse to look back over my emails, documents and copy shop paperwork to see how long ago I started working on this book. Suffice it to say, it's been a wicked long time since I began work on "A Wicked Good Trip!"
I had a draft of a rhyming alphabet book that involved a generic subway system, inspired by my son, Owen, who has loved Boston's subways since he was in kindergarten -- 9 years ago. But once my wife's brother-in-law asked me if I wanted to produce a book about Boston's underground transit system, for his company, Sidetrack Products, I scrapped that idea and got to work on a new concept.
Fairly quickly I arrived at the idea that you'll see in "A Wicked Good Trip!" The book is about a group of elementary school students on a field trip, riding Boston's Green Line subway through the city. The kids learn about the trains and stations, and go above ground to visit landmarks including Faneuil Hall, the Boston Common, Fenway Park and the Museum of Fine Arts.
Once I had the basic story down, I began working with an artist who I knew casually through a friend of my wife's. We met several times to discuss my story and her approach, but after a while we came to a mutual realization that she wasn't right for the book (she had a hard time drawing kids' faces, which is a crucial element of the book). She suggested I post a job on two art college web sites, which I did. I then reviewed a handful of portfolios and found the right person, Martina.
I was very taken by the bold colors she uses in her illustrations. I also liked the fact that she had done art for another children's book, albeit one that never got published. She longed to work on picture books, and I had the basic story for one about riding Boston's Green Line subway, so we set to work.
Honestly, I don't remember all of the steps we took early on, but we had to meet on occasion and email frequently to hash out some wording and ideas for how each page should be illustrated. I had ideas and passed them along, knowing full well that she would have better ideas most of the time. Because my book would be part of the Sidetrack Products line of MBTA-themed toys and apparel, during each stage of the process I needed to meet with the licensing agent for the MBTA, which runs Boston's subway system.
The agent, a really nice and interesting guy named Steven, had ideas about the book, and edits both for content as well as grammar.
The entire process took longer than I thought or hoped it would. Sometimes Martina held things up because she has a full-time job and couldn't get to the illustrations as quickly as I'd like, or she was in Europe for a few weeks during the summer. Other times Steven was the hold-up, as he had to put reviewing the latest draft of the book on the back burner because he has at least one full-time job and is working on a book of his own. Most often, though, I was the reason things got gummed up. I would work on other writing projects -- this blog, my other blog (The Backside of America; check it out!), my road trip memoir -- or was too stressed out with the job of raising two kids or simply forgot about the book, hard as that may be to believe.
There were plenty of times when I was sure the book was done, or nearly so, only to learn that the MBTA wanted some little thing changed, or I had made an editing error or Martina had forgotten or misunderstood some suggestion I had made about an illustration. Once Martina and I had a decent working draft, I printed copies and mailed them to two publishers I had targeted, once because it was a new company starting out in Massachusetts, the other because several years ago the company published a book about riding an MBTA bus.
Both publishers rejected the book. I realized that the best idea was to self-publish "A Wicked Good Trip!" and hope that if the book did well perhaps a traditional publisher might then be interested.
Through Steven, the MBTA's licensing agent, I learned of a printing company that works quite a bit with self-publishing authors. King Printing is based in Lowell, Mass., and they have been wonderful to work with. Helpful at every step, for sure. Once I was sure the book was ready, I had a proof copy made. I expected to give it a once-over and then give them the thumbs-up to publish.
But no. I had to reject it because I had neglected to include a blank page in a crucial spot, and hadn't noticed that some of the kids' faces looked green or gray when they should have been brown or black. So Martina had to go back to her computer and fix that stuff and then I had to review that draft with a microscope to make sure nothing was missing or looked weird.
But persistence has paid off...although there was one last snag. I ordered 500 copies from King Printing and eagerly awaited their delivery. Ten days ago, 492 copies were placed on my porch in small, but heavy, boxes (somehow the print job came up 8 books short; I wasn't charged for them). But I noticed that the books didn't have an ISBN barcode on them. I had discussed buying an ISBN -- the International Standard Book Number that you need in order to sell books to retailers and libraries -- with the printing company early on, and assumed that discussion would follow the print job. But somehow, it didn't.
So after ordering an ISBN and attendant barcodes online, I had to visit Staples to get them printed, and then I slapped them on my books. This week Sidetrack Products has started placing the book with local retailers. Additionally, the book is available through the company's web site.
So that's the long, strange tale of "A Wicked Good Trip!"
Because I know you care, here's the wrap on my 2016 home run derby fantasy sports effort....
As I mentioned in July, my 15-man roster lost a man, Kyle Schwarber of the Chicago Cubs, just two games into the season (see July 5, 2016, "Home Run Derby Update"). Also this year, Lucas Duda of the New York Mets missed the lion's share of the season, and ended up with just 7 round-trippers.
So I essentially worked with a 13 1/4-man roster this year. But with one exception, the players I selected back in April turned out to be very good home run hitters. Whereas I'd taken some risks with my picks in 2015, this year I opted for more proven players, as I didn't want to finish in last place again (see April 3, 2016, "Picking a Winner").
Here's the breakdown of my team by division:
**American League East**
ADAM JONES -- I like Jones; he's a solid power hitter. He hit 29 this year, two better than last season, which means, based on the rules of the derby, I can select him again next year, which I most likely will (you can't choose players who had 30 or more HR's the prior season).
MARK TRUMBO -- He hit more long balls than anyone in all of Major League Baseball, so I'm patting myself on the back for choosing him. His 47 is a career best, and more than twice as many as he hit last year. Can't take him in 2017, however.
BOSTON RED SOX
I'm embarrassed to say I made a big mistake not choosing anyone from my favorite team, the team I've loved since before I even knew what baseball was. Mookie Betts hit 18 last year, and was projected to hit only a few more this year. I don't recall what Hanley Ramirez and Jackie Bradley Jr. were predicted to hit, but I wasn't impressed enough to select them. As you know, Big Papi was ineligible due to having hit more than 30 long balls last year. Well, Betts ended up with 31; Bradley had 26 (so I'll pick him next year); Ramirez had 30, after hitting 19 last year in a miserable season. And the X Man, Xander Bogaerts, had 21, so I'll consider him in 2017 as well.
**American League Central**
MIGUEL CABRERA -- What a player Cabrera is: hits for power and average and only missed four games this year. His 38 homers tied his second-best output of his career.
JUSTIN UPTON -- He cranked it up in the second half to match his career-best at 31 big flies. He had only 8 back in July, and I've more or less written him off. With all the big hits that he and Cabrera had, though, they still couldn't blast the Tigers into the playoffs.
MIGUEL SANO -- I wish he'd played in more than 116 games. With 25 home runs in 116 games, he was on pace to push the 30 mark. Still, I can't complain, other than about the fact that I didn't select his teammate, Brian Dozier, who belted 42 homers. He'll be in the running for my team next year.
**American League West**
GEORGE SPRINGER -- He didn't hit for average all that well at .261, but with 29 homers, Springer just managed to beat the predicted 26-28. I'll probably choose him next year.
KYLE SEAGER -- With a career high 30 home runs, Seager was a nice addition to my team.
**National League East**
GIANCARLO STANTON -- He played in 45 more games this year than last year, but hit the same number of homes runs: 27. I'm not complaining, but he was projected to hit between 40 and 45. OK, so I'm complaining. Next year? Maybe.
NEW YORK METS:
LUCAS DUDA -- He played only 47 games, and hit 7 home runs. Projections had him at 25-30. This was a big bummer.
MAIKEL FRANCO -- He hit 25 long balls in his first full year, so there's a good chance I'll pick him next year.
**National League Central**
KRIS BRYANT -- He finished second in the National League, so I'm very happy.
KYLE SCHWARBER -- In 69 games in 2015, he hit 16 home runs. He was predicted to hit 25-27 this year. He suffered a season-ending injury in the second game this season. Thankfully, I was far from the only guy who picked him this year. In fact, the third place finisher in this year's derby was a fellow Schwarber-less team. Wait 'til next year....
JOEY VOTTO -- He had a somewhat slow start but ended up with 29, matching last year's total. He's 33, so I doubt I'll pick him next year, but I was pleasantly surprised with his production.
CHRIS CARTER -- A career .218 hitter, he is nonetheless a big masher. He hit a career-high 41 this year, which put a big smile on his face.
**National League West**
LOS ANGELES DODGERS:
ADRIAN GONZALEZ -- At age 34, he can still hit (.285 this year/.290 career) for average, but his power dropped from 28 last year to 18 this year. He'll turn 35 shortly after the beginning of next season, so there's no way he's making my team.
I finished either 11th or 12th, depending on whose numbers you believe. By my count, I came in 11th; by the tally of the league's commissioner, I finished in 12th. Somehow he misplaced three of my HR's, but of course he may have miscounted other competitors' numbers as well, so maybe I did come in 12th out of 45. Either way, it's way better than my last place finish in 2015.
For next year the commish is considering letting teams draft 16 players and using the top 15 results, to avoid a situation like this year when so many competitors lost a player -- Schwarber -- so early on and had in some cases little hope as the season progressed. I support that change. Until then....
If you've made it this far, here's your reward:
On the eve of my 26th birthday, a woman was murdered in Cambridge, Mass., a few hours before two friends and I walked by the scene. We'd been having a few celebratory drinks in Harvard Square, and noticed police on the quiet street, outside an Armenian church. We had no idea about the crime until the next day, when it hit the news.
Mary Jo Frug, a professor at New England School of Law, had been stabbed at 9:00 p.m. while walking the short distance from her home to a convenience store. My girlfriend, Beth (now my wife), was then a student at the law school, and knew Professor Frug, although she was not one of her students. She, like many who learned of the murder, was stunned. I too was shocked, especially when I learned that my friends, Jim and Jeff, and I had walked right by the scene on Sparks Street on our way back to Jim's apartment.
I don't recall seeing police tape anywhere outside the church, although there might have been. Didn't seem there were many officers or detectives, either. Twenty-five years have passed, though, and my memories of that night have faded. I also don't recall where my friends and I had drinks, although I suspect my friend Jim remembers, because that's the way his brain works. I have fuzzy recall on seeing a guy walking quickly by us after we'd passed by the scene, but since we had no idea a murder had occurred, I didn't think anything of it. I'm sure the murderer, whoever he (let's face it, it was a "he") was, was long gone by the time we strolled by. The murder weapon, however, was found in the backyard of a house on Jim's street.
Beth and I followed the news reports and were surprised that no suspect was named in the weeks immediately following the brutal slaying. The neighborhood where the murder took place, while quiet and affluent, is hardly isolated, as it sits just off busy Brattle Street. There were rumors that a male student with a crush on his professor had killed her. There were also rumors that her husband, a professor at Harvard Law School, had a gay lover who had committed the heinous crime.
A quarter-century later the crime remains unsolved.
But that doesn't mean people aren't thinking about it. The murder popped into my head earlier this week as I drove by the scene on the way to my son Owen's camp. I knew that the crime hadn't been solved, but I took to the Internet just to double-check. Man, did that turn out to be a deep, dark hole.
Believe it or not, there are conspiracy theorists out there on the Wacky Wide Web who implicate President Barack Obama in Mary Jo Frug's murder. Fasten your seat belts, this is gonna get weird.
As I said, Mary Jo Frug's husband, Gerald, was a professor at Harvard Law School. Among his students at the time of his wife's murder was Barack Obama. The future president of the United States in February 1990 was elected as the first African-American president of the Harvard Law Review, an event significant enough to earn a story in the New York Times.
Then 28, Obama had worked for four years as a community organizer in Chicago after graduating from Columbia University, according to the Times article. In 1991, Obama spoke during a campus rally organized around the simple idea that the law school needed to hire more women and minority faculty.
Three years earlier, Michelle Robinson a third-year student at Harvard Law School, wrote an article in which she also advocated for HLS to hire minority and female professors. She would marry Barack Obama in 1992, the couple having met while working together at a Chicago law firm.
As you are aware, there are unhinged people among us, people who, because of the awesome power of the First Amendment, can say whatever they want on radio, TV, the Internet or at their weekly I Receive Radio Transmissions Through My Gold Fillings support group. These types of folks are always prattling on about the powers that be and the evil spirits who command them, or how lurking in the recesses of the halls of power there exist lizard people controlling all of our movements, or how Barack Obama is a Kenyan Muslim Communist.
Has any U.S. president been subjected to more idiotic rumors and hate-mongering than Barack Obama? The bullshit birther movement, fostered by none other than current Republican presidential candidate and the most dangerous man in America, Donald Trump, maintains several theories about why Obama is Constitutionally disallowed from being president. He was born in Kenya, not Hawaii, they say (Obama's father is Kenyan). He became a citizen of Indonesia when he and his mother moved there during his childhood, so therefore he lost his U.S. citizenship. Others in this movement maintain he's not a natural-born citizen because he was born with dual citizenship (U.S. and British).
During the 2008 presidential primary season, Obama released his birth certificate, something which I doubt many, if any, other candidates for president in our nation's illustrious history have had to do. I didn't realize until I started digging into this issue, that anonymous supporters of Hillary Clinton are blamed for sending emails that initiated this controversy. The Republicans have been running with this moronic idea ever since.
This brings me to Martha Trowbridge and her ilk.
In a nutshell (emphasis on the first half of that word), Trowbridge maintains that Obama (she calls him "a.k.a. Barack Hussein Obama II") has completely fabricated his life story, and that his father isn't a deceased Kenyan economist but rather Malcolm X (birth name Malcolm Little), and that the 44th POTUS is a Communist whose real mother isn't the white American anthropologist named Stanley Ann Dunham, but instead Jo Ann Newman, who as a teenager fell under Malcolm X's sway and bore him a child who they named Bari Malik Shabazz.
I could go on, and believe me, I do love to read conspiracy theories of any sort because I consider them a rigorous form of mental gymnastics, as well as a great way to bring out my inner giggler. But let's get back to Mary Jo Frug.
A well-known feminist, Frug surely agreed with the arguments of Barack and Michelle Obama that the legal profession needed to open up to women and minorities. Ten months after her murder, the Harvard Law Review published Frug's last article, "A Postmodern Feminist Legal Manifesto (An Unfinished Draft)," in which the professor attacked the male power structure in the legal realm, according to Toxic Diversity: Race, Gender and Law Talk in America by Dan Subotnik, which is available free online via Google Press.
My Internet search for information about Frug's murder led me to MoralMatters.org, a web site run by a guy named Nathan M. Bickel that provided the ladder with which I climbed into this deep hole dug by Martha Trowbridge. The comments section under a post Bickel wrote titled, "Obama's real father: Forget what you have already been told," is where the crazy really begins, as it always does on the Internet.
A woman named Charlotte asks about "the photo of Obama superimposed on a report of a death of a Harvard professor sent to the NYT in 2008." Bickel, a former Lutheran minister, blathers on about how he was once was lost, but now is found thanks to the "wonderful and insightful" articles written by the "distinguished investigative author" Martha Trowbridge. He then directs readers to Trowbridge's "excellent website," Terrible Truth, which, frankly, is a goddamn disaster, design-wise. In responding to Charlotte, Bickel says, "I remember reading on Martha Trowbridge’s 'Terrible Truth' something about which you may be referring. Perhaps, she will respond to your comment."
(I have a feeling that either Bickel and Trowbridge are the same person, or that at the very least, Bickel is a complete and total shill who probably gets a cut of Trowbridge's likely pathetic book sales.)
Lo and behold, Trowbridge pipes up, as though conjured up by her alter ego, Nathan Bickel.
"Accompanying an early-on NYT (New York Times) profile of Presidential Candidate Obama was a photo of Obama at HLS, digitally altered to include imagery of the murder of New England School Of Law Professor Mary Joe Frug. Reportedly submitted by ‘a friend’ of a.k.a. Obama, it may have been sent for the purpose of extortion. Full report available at my shop."
And then Bickel, doing his best to pretend he's not Trowbridge, prods her: "Thank you for your informative comment which, I believe, elaborates upon what commenter 'charlotte, was referencing. Could you leave a link to your 'shop,' for that 'full report?'
Which of course she does. When I clicked through and tried to buy a copy of her report, "TT Investigative Report: Murder at Harvard Law School," for ten bucks, however, the site got a bit screwy and I gave up.
The commenter Charlotte then asks, "WHY WAS MARY JO FRUG wife of Gerald Frug, Obama’s law professor murdered? Was it to create a vacancy at Harvard so Regina Austin could be appointed as Derrick Bell and the Obamas were agitating for?"
This makes no sense, as Mary Jo Frug wasn't a professor at Harvard Law School. She was on sabbatical from New England School of Law at the time of her murder.
I have no idea what "evidence" Trowbridge offers in her report, but if her kicking off point is that there exists a photo that somebody sent to the New York Times in which Obama is superimposed over crime scene photos of Mary Jo Frug and this somehow ties the President of the United States of America to the homicide, then I don't even need to buy her report because she's an obvious whack job.
Trowbridge offers no link to this original Times story or the accompanying photo, expecting people instead to buy (or attempt to) her book. Searching Google for such an article and photo inevitably leads you back to Trowbridge's sloppy web site.
I had no intention of diving down into a black hole; I simply was curious about this long-unsolved murder. Makes me realize how easily people can believe the asinine things that Donald Trump says, because it's so easy to look online and find liars and cheats and frauds and not realize that's what you're looking at.
I'm done, but I want to let Mary Jo Frug's son, Stephen, have the last word. Luckily when I searched for Mary Jo Frug online, I didn't find only idiotic blathering. I stumbled across Stephen's web site, on which five years ago he wrote a wonderful remembrance of her and her funeral as he looked back 20 years to that awful time. You can read it here.