Re: Alumni Update Third Request

To Whom It May Concern:

This is not the email for John McNaney, Loyola Blakefield alumni from 1981. Please stop sending emails about your alumni newsletter.

Send.

But then I thought about it. Just how often do we have the opportunity to invent the person we wished we could’ve become since high school? To voice all the imagined triumphs and accomplishments we wished we’d achieved?

Here is the reply I could have sent:

Dear Loyola Alumni Association,

This is John McNaney, class of 1981. Thank you for contacting me. I apologize for my late reply. As you may have read in the newspapers, I have been out of the country for the past year.

Since graduation from Loyola in 1981, I’ve accomplished so many things. Where to begin? After winning the 1983 Pulitzer Prize in literature for my autobiography, I am John, which I proudly began penning in the halls of ol’ Loyola, I completed my medical degree at Harvard. Lying on a blanket in Harvard yard one night, watching a meteor shower, I felt God spoke to me and told me to start a medical foundation that would allow children in third-world countries to receive vaccines free of charge. Turns out, it was incredibly easy to set up this foundation. You just have to know the right people.

On one of my many pilgrimages to South America, I met the woman who would become my wife, Linda. Turns out she was not only a doctor, but also a swimsuit model. And they say brains and beauty can’t coexist! Linda and I rushed back to the states to marry at her father’s country club, and within a year we had our first child, Benjamin. Benjamin is now a Rhodes scholar, if you can believe it. They grow up so fast.

Most recently, as you no doubt know, my Pulitzer Prize winning autobiography was picked up by Hollywood production agency to turn into a film. Originally, the casting director had chosen Brad Pitt to play the character based on me, but then had the novel idea of allowing me to star in the film. Having studied briefly at Juilliard, between graduating from Loyola and beginning medical school at Harvard, I felt confident in that endeavor. After the film’s release in theaters, and the subsequent Academy award nominations and wins for Best Picture, Best Actor and Best Original Screenplay, I have been doing non-stop press tours throughout America and, now, Europe. As a matter of fact, I am writing to you from an Internet café in Rome right on the outskirts of the Collosseum. I am truly blessed.

I hope that this will suffice for the Loyola alumni newsletter. If you would like a photograph to accompany the article, I can have my good friend Ms. Annie Leibovitz send one over from our last shoot.

And, as always, our alma mater’s cheer: “Roll, Dons, Roll!”

With Warmest Regards,

John McNaney

Top Ten Albums of 2013

All-female post punk band, Savages, my #1 pick for 2013

Complete Top 10 list here:

http://www.thetens.us/users/joanna

Don't forget to check out the other awesome Top Ten lists on the site created by the great Tony Tambe.

Put on your headphones and get listenin'!

The Secret History of Oo*Ahh

Did you know that oo*Ahh has existed for over twenty years? It's true.

I created oo*Ahh in 1991 as a gossip rag to circulate among close friends my sophomore year in high school. I spent hours conducting interviews with friends, writing articles, drawing pictures, and cutting and pasting it all together (literally, with scissors and tape). We didn't have the internet yet, folks. 

Here are three different 1991-era covers and an article (a handwritten, transcribed phone interview with my best friend Beth about the existence of the Easter bunny and Santa Claus).

Then, ten years ago, as a graduate student of English at SUNY Brockport, I started oo*Ahh again as a zine. The goal was two-fold: to keep my writing practice alive while avoiding the real work of my Master's thesis.

During down time at my day job, I would write short articles, cut and paste pictures (the way I'd done it in high school), and make photocopies of the oo*Ahh zine. When I went to class in the evening, I would bring a stack of oo*ahhs with me and drop them off in the English department. To my surprise, the stack was almost always gone when I went back the next night (though, who knows, someone may have just thrown them all out). We weren't recycling yet, folks.

So, if you're looking for back issues, hit me up! If not, just enjoy the "artwork."

Running the Christmas Emo-Brain-K marathon

I used to be an athlete. I played (in order from terrible to very good):

1) Soccer (Terrible). I was a goalie and I was eight years old & once someone kicked the ball into my head during practice and still managed to score the goal.

2) Basketball (Not very good). Freshman year in high school, I made the JV team simply because I was tall, and could rebound (picture Wilt Chamberlain as a 14-year-old girl wearing umbros).

3) Softball (Also not very good).  I was also on the JV softball team my freshman year in high school, but God knows why. My best friend Beth and I were constantly benched, except most times there wasn't even a bench, so we just sat in dirt on the side of the field, naming the batter's helmets with a roll of masking tape and a Sharpie.

4) Baseball (Fair). For a ten year old playing on an all-boys' Little League team, I was especially resilient when my teammates called me names. I also remember hitting a couple of solid doubles.

5) Volleyball (Pretty good). Freshman and Sophomore year of high school I played on the JV team. I had a hell of a serve, until I dislocated my shoulder during practice. Subsequently, I started doing theater, but that is another blog post.

6) Field Hockey (Very good). Freshman and sophomore year, I played on the JV team, and was even captain of the team during sophomore year. I also played on the Varsity team my junior year in high school. I was a brute of a halfback. You wouldn't have recognized me. I could steal the ball away from any of those little plaid skirted ladies. I could also run really, really fast. (#23 in the pic).

During my junior year of high school, when I was at the top of my field hockey game, I could run a mile in just about eight minutes. I heard that was pretty good. Yep, I've been hanging onto that compliment for just over twenty years now.

But for all the sports I used to play, and all that running I used to do, I've never kept up with it.

Wait. I did try running once during a summer break after my first year at college. I remember I even made a mix tape with Toto's "Africa" on it for inspiration. I wound up getting heat stroke and never running again. I don't blame it on Toto.

The type of running I do now, however, is what I like to call Emo-Brain-K marathons (emotional marathons run in my brain). They mostly involve running around in my head, obsessively perseverating on thoughts and ideas until I'm completely exhausted. Very few people cheer for me and even fewer offer cups of water. I'm not blaming you. 

If you suffer from anxiety or depression, you know what I'm talking about. If not (and/or if you are a real runner of marathons) I am super jealous. 

The holidays can be especially challenging for those of us who run Emo-Brain-Ks. We replay events from our past, not too unlike the plot of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, but often without spiritual tour guides to help us draw concrete conclusions. Also, if we're feeling ornery, it's not because we are intrinsically Scrooge-like, it's because (like Scrooge), something in our past has stuck with us and the psychic pain is hard to shake off.

Hopefully, our Ghosts of Christmases Yet to Come will soon show us much brighter pictures of ourselves, surrounded only by those cheering us on, handing us cups of water -- learning not to run so many Emo-Brain-Ks alone.

Mom's Birthday

Today my mother would have turned 61.

Last year, two days after her 60th birthday, she died at home just as the sun was coming up. It was the cruelest light I'd ever known.

For the past year I've walked around with an unparalleled emptiness. This morning I took that emptiness and forced myself awake early to take a walk. After a few blocks, when my ears were ice cold, I realized that I'd once again left my winter hat at home. Then I remembered how angry my mother used to get when I didn't dress properly in cold weather.

Just then, I heard a young mother across the street struggling with her son in his stroller:

"You have to keep your hat on."
"No."
"It's cold."
"No."
"Do you want munchkins?"
"Yes!"
"Then you have to keep your hat on."
"No."
"Then you can't have munchkins. Do you want munchkins?"
"Yes."
"Then you keep your hat on."
"No."

I hope he kept his hat on, not only because munchkin donuts are delicious (especially when you're two), but also because his mother just wanted him to be warm and safe.

Today, I'm reminded of all the sacrifices parents make for their children. All the energy, all the love, all the care. Sometimes we don't realize these things until it's impossible to go back and say "thank you." Today, if you're lucky enough to still have your mom, thank her. Thank her for yourself. Thank her for me.

And for god's sake, wear at hat. It's cold outside.

Pennies from Heaven, Remembering Columbia House's Mail-order Music

We leave them on counters at the register.

We throw them on the ground.

We no longer pick them up for good luck.

What are they?

You guessed it....PENNIES.

 

The throw-away copper cousins to all the other, more valuable coins in US currency. 

But there was a time, friends, a magical time during my childhood, when a one single penny was worth ELEVEN records, tapes, or CDs. 

All I had to do was fill out a little yellow piece of paper with my monthly selection of music, and a little company called Columbia House mailed me The Doors, Billy Joel, The Beatles, REM, Heart, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Journey, Fleetwood Mac & David Bowie.

Of course, 11 albums for a penny was a bit of marketing scam, better known as a negative billing option. Every month, you were automatically sent Columbia House's music selection and billed for it, unless you explicitly turned down the product before it arrived. This resulted in a lot of random music being delivered to my doorstep. I didn't necessarily want Simply Red's Greatest Hits album, but turns out my Dad really liked the guy with the stringy red hair who wore the beret. I also didn't want Grateful Dead's American Beauty, but my younger brother felt it was ideal accompaniment for taking bong hits in his closet. Turns out my negligence, resulted in strengthening my family relationships.

Thanks for the memories, Columbia House. 

P.S.

Other important pennies: 

1. Penny Marshall

2. Penny from Inspector Gadget

3. When The Golden Girls did their production of the children's tale "Henny Penny"

I forgot I had a blog

It's true: I forgot I had a blog.

It’s an easy thing to forget about. You wake up one day, log in to your account, and a whole year has gone by. Sometimes you wake up, a whole year has gone by and you’re still wearing the same jeans. Things like this happen.

In honor of forgetting all about my blog, I’ve decided to post an essay of mine with pictures. Who doesn’t like pictures in their essays? Certainly not me.

Here you have it.

 ***

Why the h*ll did I hate my sister so g*d d*mn much when I was 10?  

A thorough investigation into my 1987 diary

From the outside cover you can tell the thing has been through it all. Great loves, great losses, great fears. The golden metal lock, imprinted with the words Made in Italy (seriously do you remember there was a time not all things were made in China?), has been pried open a million times over. The key is long gone.  The tear in the cover has been affixed with black electrical tape. The sides of the diary read “Don’t Open” and in between are sketches of tiny red and black hearts.

This, folks, is my 1987 diary.

Welcome to my 10 year-old mind: a complex creature filled with anxiety and angst translating into often-misspelled curse words shot off in rapid fire. My 12 year-old sister, Jessica, was almost always the target.

Exhibit A) February 13, 1987, the hate begins

The entry reads:

Jessica was being a fuckin-bitch, asshole, and an apbsoulute Fucker!!!

I warned you that my spelling wasn’t that good.

I’m not exactly sure what my sister did to warrant my first tirade.  Jessica and I had shared a room together at this point since we were toddlers. Maybe I had finally lost it? Maybe I borrowed her plaid stirrup pants and she’d gotten angry with me? Or maybe she had kept me up the night before talking to her boyfriend on the phone under her covers. It could have been any (or all) of those things. One thing was for sure, I was mad enough to use three (!!!) exclamation marks.

 Exhibit B) March 3, 1987, the hate continues (and I go to Girl Scouts)

 The entry reads:

Jessica was an asshole. I had to go to girl sckouts. It was okay.

By March, my sister Jessica had apparently stopped being a “fuckin-bitch,” but had turned into an “asshole.” At least I knew to vary my choice of swear words. Again, I don’t go into specifics about why I was so angry. Maybe this was the day when Jessica told me to start shaving my legs because they looked like ape legs?

 Exhibit C) April 13, 1987, Jessica gets perverted

The entry reads:

Today Jess is being an asshole. AND A FUCKIN’ PERVERT!

First off, I’m not sure I even knew what a pervert was. I knew it had something to do with sexy, but I wasn’t exactly sure what sex was, so I had no right calling her a pervert. Secondly, I used her nickname “Jess,” so I couldn’t have been that angry, though a year or two earlier she had drawn cartoons of naked people, cut them into small pieces, and hid them in a metal tin. Man, I wish I could find that tin.  

Exhibit D) April 15, 1987, I realize I actually LOVE my sister

The entry reads:

Julie Figura said that Jessica almost got ejected [meaning: injected] by drugs. I’m scared! It was a kid at her school. I don’t know who to tell.

I remember walking down the hall of my middle school when I overheard Julie telling someone else this story. At the mention of my sister’s name I made her tell me everything. Of course my sister wasn’t almost “ejected” with drugs, but she was almost “injected” with something. Now that I think about it, this could have been someone’s insulin pen and not something serious like heroin. Though it was the 80s and there were a lot of drugs around. I ran straight to the guidance counselor’s office and bawled my eyes out. He told me to tell him what I knew and to try to calm down. I didn’t know what I knew, but as it turned out, I knew I loved my sister.

May 4, 2013 - 25 years later

Jessica is married with two children, my nephews Andrew (20) and Mark (15). We are in the process of grieving for our mother who passed away in December 2012 of colon cancer. Jessica was my mother’s caretaker during her last months. Jessica and I talk every day. I’m married now, too, and I still swear too much, though it’s no longer directed at my sister.