A Birthday Introduction

[Note: Since I suggested we start another round of introductions a lot of
people have written and asked for mine. Well, my birthday is not until the
1st (Dec. 1, 1947) and I thought I would wait. I've been fighting a wave of
depression the past week or two because of decisions I made (you read the
posts earlier), as well as other "stuff" going on in my life. I was cleaning
out some folders and came upon this Intro that I posted who-knows-when. It
made me feel better when I read it, so I thought I would post it in answer
to those who wanted to read MY intro. If explicit languague offends you, you
better pass on this.]

* * *

Call me Ishmael. Yeah, well I didn’t think you were going to buy that. And I
don’t care either. Today is my fuckin’ birthday and as is the sacred
traditional on this board (a loose collection of whacko’s, misfits, and
malcontents) we are supposed to stand up and say, “hey asshole’s, look at
me!” Yeah, well, at 52 I can barely stand without pain somewhere and if I do
I know the wind will blow off more of what hair I have left.

“Let’s grow old together… the best is yet to be.” Fuck you Emily.

OK, so I’m not in a great mood. You got a problem with that. What? Are you
my mother or something? She knows me well and thinks I’m the greatest son
that ever walked the planet. That’s probably why she kept me instead of
burying me in the snow of the New York City blizzard of 1947. I was a good
child, and a smart child. I was reading Shakespeare at age three and doing
quantum physics at five. It was hard for everyone to realize that even as a
little child that I was smarter than they were! Of course, everyone in the
50s was an idiot.

I was so smart as a kid that I realized that there was no reason to try to
excel at school because I’d only embarrass the other kids, so I opted out of
the system. I had a great time in high school. While everyone was busy
studying trying to get into college I was busy trying to get into Lois
Berk’s underwear. I mean, what you would you rather tell your grandkids at
age 50… that you got A’s at Yale or that you got laid by Dale (aka “the
student body.”) Of course we all had sex in high school. Didn’t we? Yeah,
what, you think I’m as stupid as you are… you’re lying just like I did. I
had a better chance of doing Dale than being spit on by the Statue of
Liberty. But it was a more worthwhile endeavor than studying the history of
Chad or Bottswana, that’s for damn sure.

One of the two great miracles of the century was that they didn’t have to
burn down my high-school to get me out… and that I got into college at the
University of Virginia. I didn’t really want to go to college. I would have
rather hung in “the village” smoking reefer (that’s what we called it back
then) and learning how to play the bass in a beat jazz group. Probably the
shortest book in the entire literary history of the world is titled “Jewish
Kids From Long Island Who Didn’t Go To College in 1965.” And I still
remember what my father told me the night before I left. He said “Alan, I’m
sending you to college for just one reason…. so that when we meet in later
life, I have more to say to you than “fill ‘er up!” So I was off to college.
And no, I never did it with Dale… or anyone else… but I was an expert at
“virtual sex.” Oh yeah, and you weren’t I suppose? Don’t give me that shit.
You were a horny virgin at 17 just like I was, so cut the crap. You too were
a member in good standing of the Society of Hairy Palms.

College was great. No parents, no responsibility, no nothing. Class? You’re
supposed to go to class? For what? I already knew all they were going to
teach me. Hell, I should have taught the damn classes. Hell, I should have
been the fucking dean! All these stupid kids were running off to class,
sweating exams, trying to get good grades… for what? So they could go off
to Vietnam and have their ass blown off? Or so they could get a job with
IBM, wear a blue suit and wing tip shoes and get a nice brown nose? We were
young. Times were changing (even in crusty old Virginia), girls were
changing. By 1968 even a guy with a Plymouth Valiant could get some nookie
(I remember at the Esso (now Exon) station when the guy walked up to me,
leaned into the car window and said “Mister, put a tiger in your tank?” I
would reply “Hell, man I can’t even get a little pussy in the back seat!”) .
Hey, you’re gonna tell me you don’t remember your first big time? Don’t give
me that “Oh it was terrific… I saw stars” shit. You were scared as hell,
had no idea what you were doing, but you WERE going to be cool about it.
Becky. I do remember Becky. Had a face like Jane Fonda, and body right out
of the centerfold (and I got to remove the staples!). She taught me a hell
of a lot more than I learned in any of my classes, that’s for damn sure. I
loved Becky. It was a great year, until she flunked out of school and had to
go live at home in Norfolk. Never saw her again. She got knocked up by some
car jockey and married him. I wish to hell I still had that Valiant. In my
daydreams I can still see it. About 5 years ago I went to see Becky. This is
true. Honest. I tracked her down via the net and when I was on the East
coast (Redding, PA) I rang the door bell. Whoa! Step back, Jack. She blimped
out and had a face like thirty miles of bad road. Had only the foggiest idea
of who I was, but we had a nice chat. It will make a nice scene in my novel
(as may this piece.)

“Hell no, we won’t go.” The next shortest book is “Jewish guys who went to
Vietnam.” No way, Jose. After college I had a strategy. Oh, did I tell you
what my mother said to me on graduation day… actually just before my name
was called to get my diploma? She said that she always had two dreams about
me. This happened often. The first had me in front of a microphone saying “I
want to thank the Nobel Prize committee for…” The second dream also had me
in front of a microphone. I was saying “you want fries with that?” Anyway,
I, like anyone else with half a brain, got a draft deferment by teaching
school in a rural, poverty-stricken area. Webster Springs, West “asshole”
Virginia (where men are men and sheep are scared!) I was 21 years old, never
taught a day in my life and walked into an 8th grade class of 35 kids, all
ten feet taller than me, to say “Like wow man, I’m your teacher! Can you dig
it?” If you think that Oakland has no there, there, let me tell you a few
things about Webster Springs. Blink and you miss it. The town sport used to
be hanging Jews or blacks on the courtyard square. They quickly ran out of
each. You pick your prejudice and you would find lots of sympathizers in
Webster County. They bought their sheets and hoods by the dozen. How rich.
A nice Jewish kid in West Virginia in 1969. I would have been fucking safer
in Vietnam! But I did well there. I was a hell of a teacher. I wish I had
stayed as a teacher. I was good. And hell, I was only a few years older than
most of the kids! There was nothing do to except write. So I wrote, and
wrote, and wrote. I even got a few things published (on educational topics).
I had time to hone a craft that has stood me in good stead for a lifetime. I
was doing OK for a young man. I knew how to write, how to teach, and how to
screw. Worked for me!

A couple of years of West (bigoted) Virginia and I was ready to get back to
real living. I had a low draft lottery number, got called for a physical but
never went. I’m sure they are still looking for me. I’d love to see my FBI
file! Vietnam! Lyndon Johnson, Nixon, what assholes. They fucked over a
whole generation.

Got a full scholarship in 1972 to the College of William and Mary to study
Government. Now how could an idiot like me get that. Simple. They had a new
MA program, needed students, and had Federal funds. Now W&M was terrific. We
would get really stoned and walk right back into 17th century Williamsburg.
(I dare any of you to find the words to “With Hounds and Horns In Chorus.”)
I loved graduate school. As a grad student, I got more ass than a toilet
seat. And I actually went to class. And I wrote the papers. And I did a
thesis on the Political Philosophy of Herman Hesse. Now THAT was a
challenge. They kept rejecting it saying that it was not exactly
“scholarship.” But after three years they finally decided that they needed
to graduate some students (to keep the Federal funds flowing) so that
granted me a degree. I didn’t go to the ceremony as I was stoned out of my
mind and getting laid by one of my professors. Life was good.

Well, there is a lot more to my story. Maybe next year I’ll relate the rest.
But I figure I’ve told enough for now. But there are some good parts to
come. I grew up, got a job, got married, became my parents… not much
different than what happened to you. You know, you sit back, look back over
your life and think “Jeez Louise, I’ve seen a lot of shit.” And now I’m 52
and where did the time pass? Why am I here when so many of my college
friends were either killed in Vietnam or stroked out on drugs? Why am I
living in a nice house when so many people in the world don’t even have an
out house. Why did things unfold the way they did? Karma? Luck? Hard work? I
mean here it is your birthday, you’re 52, and you still think of yourself as
a kid of 23. My hair is thinner, my ass sags a bit, and I don’t get off the
tee as far as I used to. So you gotta ask, what’s it all about (Alfi?)

Well I KNOW what it is all about (like you had any doubts?). It’s about
never being satisfied. It’s about wanting to learn more. It’s about not
suffering fools gladly. It’s about working hard to live as full a day as you
can. It’s about doing all you can to be creative. It’s about not giving in
to the Pat Gundry’s and Pat Buchanan’s of the world. It’s about asking “why
not” instead of just why. It’s about doing good works. It’s about liking
yourself. It’s about answering the phone on the third ring. It’s about being
happy about what you are and being angry about what you’re not. It’s about
knowing that you can die tomorrow and not being afraid. It’s about knowing
that you might live to 100 and not being afraid. It’s about having good
friends, and worthy enemies. It’s about thinking. It’s about knowledge. It’s
about understanding and dealing with “the Great and Terrible.”

That’s the key. The “Great and Terrible.” Do you know what the “Great and
Terrible” is? It’s when you let down all your phony defenses and enter into
something that puts you at risk where the results can be great or terrible.
Like going into business for yourself. Or moving to Alaska. Or deciding at
any age to screw the middle class mediocrity that you’ve always known (and
hated) and do something, anything (write a book, train for a marathon, go to
medical school, become a teacher, adopt a kid, have an affair, buy a boat,
fly a plane, join a convent, …. just get your ass “in the arena” and be
one of those who are making something happen instead of being one of those
who keep asking what “is” happening.

Look, if you want to be a 52 year old with mush for brains, who is afraid of
the future, and who can’t quite grasp the present, and who lives in the
past, well that’s fine. But I tell you that you are better off accepting who
you are today, realizing that it is a crock of shit, and that twenty years
from now, you are going to be a hell of a lot different, better, or
whatever. You gotta live. You gotta risk. You gotta reach out. You gotta
decide that no matter what, you’re going to do it your way… not your
spouses way, or your kids way, or your parents way, so that with your last
gasp of breath you can say “Hey asshole, I lived it my way!”

Get out there and live. Make memories.

Simon and Garfunkel said it all in Bookends.

Time it was,
And what a time it was,
It was…
A time of innocence,
A time of confidences.
Long ago… it must be…
I have a photograph.
Preserve your memories;
They’re all that’s left you.

Happy Birthday to me… and happy trails to you,

Alan N. Canton
Adams-Blake Publishing