I Read the News Today, Oh Boy...

Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson both passed away on 6/25/09; yesterday, as I write this. I wasn’t planning to write anything about these events, as it looks to me like a surplus of articles, blog posts, commentary, tweets, and stories are already inundating the web and airwaves. But as both a student and a product of pop culture – and an old Gen Xer – I felt inclined to add my single, small voice to the choir of those affected, in varying degrees, by these two losses.

Like most people, I have no personal claim to the lives of Farrahand Michael. I never met them, and they obviously lived their amazing lives well beyond my little social circle, probably yours too. Yet I feel their deaths are strangely affecting. Admittedly, the sense of loss I have in their wake is personal, but not intimate. Perhaps it’s more of a sense of loss of some fragment of my own history and youth. They were, after all, cultural icons whose influence will last much more than their lifetimes could. They meant something to me, maybe to you too, and I’m curious as to what it might actually be.

So what, really, is the big deal? People die every day. Yesterday, my local evening news reported the death of a homeless man who fell down drunk in the middle of a street. A truck, its driver unable to see him there in the dark, simply ran over him. Who mourns him? Even now, people are putting their lives on the line, and sometimes losing them, in the streets of Tehran and elsewhere. Only days ago, the world watched in horror as a young Iranian girl, known only as Neda, was shot dead protesting the supposed democratic re-election of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Neda’s last moments caught on video and broadcast around the world are a blunt reminder both of the fragility of life, as well as the sheer boldness and courage of a human being acting under their own unyielding sense of duty. A meaningless loss? Or a sacrifice for a greater good? Who decides? Service men and women have been dying at such a rate in Iraq and Afghanistan that many blithely note the daily losses the way one might check the stock report; is it up or down today? It’s simply impossible to process the immensity and impact of each loss and the real mourning must be the unpleasant and terrible responsibility of the friends and family of the one who has passed. This particular reality is still a very fresh one for me; just weeks ago, I lost a family member, someone very dear to me and to many in my family, in a sudden, terrible way. I’m still coping with the depth and sting of that grief and I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever really heal.

In what way can we really compare such events? Who deserves the ache of a heart? Clearly, the loss of a loved one must trump that of a celebrity, or even that of a brave young woman whose blood, we hope, was shed to move her country and her people toward stability. The weight of one’s grief must somehow correlate to proximity and relationship.

Yet as I write this, untold thousands worldwide are mourning together, crying, and remembering Farrah and Michael; two people we all knew, and yet never met. How do such people, known to us only through the media, elicit such an outpouring of genuine grief and heartache from so many left in their wake? All I can do is search my own experiences for answers.

As with many in my generation, my initial encounter with Farrah came in 1976 when I first laid eyes on that iconic poster, in this case, taped to the wall of my boyhood friend, Scott’s bedroom. I walked into his room one day and there she was, in that red one-piece bathing suit, ringlets of long blonde hair draped around those shimmering eyes and a smile as big as her home state of Texas. I took one look and thought, “That is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Granted, at ten years old, any pretty girl in a bathing suit seemed to have a certain, still undefined, appeal. But what I knew as I stood there slack-jawed, trying to absorb her stunning loveliness was that, this time, I meant it. I quickly developed a habit of staring at that poster whenever I went to Scott’s house. I thought I might stare at that smiling beauty until the poster faded and fell off the wall under the weight of my constant gaze. No male alive in 1976 will blame me for that. That one poster sold around 12 million copies and was, I suppose, the Mona Lisa of 70’s boyhood. For much of my more impressionable years she occupied a place in my mind as “the ideal woman.” And what an impression she made.

Farrah was a remarkable blend of “girl-next-door” wholesomeness and good-natured fun with a healthy dose of decidedly scintillating sex appeal. Her magnetism seemed universal, and her appearance caused a sensation in hair design; seemingly overnight, girls and women of all ages adopted that feathered, bouncy “Farrah-do” hairstyle. She was the much-adored, all-American girl of the 1970s. Shortly after the poster came out (or perhaps it was around the same time), she appeared on Charlie’s Angels, a TV show I was not always allowed to watch. I did anyway, of course. You put Kate Jackson, Jacqueline Smith, and Farrah Fawcett on television, and you can bet your bellbottoms I’ll be tuning in.

I can’t say I remained a lifelong fan of Farrah. Probably like many, I lost track of her life and career until the news of her cancer began to surface. Much has been written about her courage during her last months, and I can’t pretend to be able add to that, let alone properly eulogize her from a distance. But I can pay a certain tribute to the small but strangely significant impact she had on one pre-teen boy. She was my first dream girl. And even in the video footage of her last days, as her body was clearly fighting a heroic but losing battle against a relentless foe, I noticed that same wonderful smile, though a little wearier, that I saw 23 years ago. Cancer couldn’t change the fact that I was still looking at the face of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

During the summer between 7^th and 8^th grade, I came down with a severe head cold. I spent days in bed, covered in Vicks Vapo Rub and listening to the radio. It was 1979. The radio station I listened to seemed addicted to a steady rotation of The Cars, Journey, The Eagles, Donna Summer, and Billy Joel, and I had pretty much tuned it all out in favor of some comic books when a song came on that hit me like a bolt from the blue. “Don’t Stop til You Get Enough” was the first single off “Off the Wall,” and to this day I can’t listen to it without some serious toe tapping. At the time, it was new, exciting, and somehow – even to a 13 year old, awkward white kid from Portland, Oregon with a Kleenex shoved up his nose – accessible. Against all odds, I could relate to this music. My mother, feeling sorry for me for being so pathetic (I played it up a little), called to ask if she could bring me anything on her way home from work. I didn’t hesitate. I asked if she would be willing to stop at the record store and purchase Off the Wall. To my immense gladness, she did, and for the next several weeks I listened to nothing but Michael Jackson yipping and whooping and crooning through one hit after another.

My grandfather wondered aloud whether he was in pain, what with all the “hee!” and “hoo-hoo!” His verdict: “Sounds like somebody torturing a cat.” My mother, of a younger generation and with some fond recollections of the hits of the Jackson 5, was a little warmer to the music. She could often be observed bopping around the house and singing along to “Workin Day and Night,” and “Rock with You,” as that record would spin for hours on my turntable.

Understand that Michael’s music was not what I was into at the time. Rush, Styx, Cheap Trick, Queen, The Police, yes. Michael Jackson? Disco? Who was this guy anyway? Looks a little like a girl, and sings like one too. But he quickly became a lifelong guilty pleasure, and like pretty much everyone else who heard his music or saw him perform, there just was no way I could deny his outlandish talent and strange appeal. But what would my hard-rock-loving friends say? Black Sabbath, this was not. Turns out, they were all falling under the same spell and some of us admitted to one another that we kinda, sorta, liked Michael’s music, the way we might have quietly admitted to still sleeping in Scooby Doo pajamas. His music won me over, and song after song found their way into the soundtrack of my life.

While this was my own introduction to the MJ phenomenon, all of this was just another chapter in the amazing story of Michael’s rise to stardom. By the time Off the Wall came out, he was more than a seasoned performer. He was a veteran of the stage and studio by the age of 10. But even with a multi-platinum record under his belt, no one, including Michael himself, could have predicted the absolute immensity of what was to come in terms of popularity.

In 1982, Michael released his masterpiece, Thriller, the top-selling album of all time (mind you, this was not just a best-selling pop album or rock album, but any and all albums, and this was before you could download albums with the click of a mouse). Thriller has sold nearly 110 million albums worldwide, more than double the 49 million sold by the runner up, AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” The album is only 42 minutes long and contains only nine songs, but every one is a flawlessly crafted pop recording. To call Thriller a “pop” album is accurate, and yet misleading. It’s “pop” in that it is, in the real sense of the term, popular music (if Thriller wasn’t popular, nothing was). But it also transcended any one label or genre. Michael’s musical gift was his ability to weave influences of R&B, soul, jazz, funk, and rock into a cohesive hybrid that somehow sounded both accessible and completely original. Besides its amazing musical presence, Thriller demonstrated something else, something almost subliminal. It was a record of dualities, juxtaposing elements of black and white, dark and light, good and evil. Michael himself was nothing if not enigmatic. His life, as we all know, was full of odd and unsettling dichotomies. Thriller, with its alternating themes of paranoia and optimism, love and betrayal, pacifism and aggression, seems strangely revealing of its creator in retrospect.

Thriller also continued a trend Michael started with Off the Wall, by breaking down more barriers, musically and culturally. Thriller was essentially an album of nothing but hits, perhaps none bigger than Billie Jean, and the accompanying music video was the first made by a black artist to crack the “color barrier” at MTV. Telling the ostensibly true story of a deranged fan’s allegation that Michael had fathered one of her children, Billie Jean was smooth and soulful, as well as eyebrow-raising. Whatever reticence the executives at MTV had to air a video by a black artist moon-walked their way out the door as soon as Billie Jean hit the screen; it became one of the most-watched music videos of all time and helped propel both Michael and MTV to a new stratum of success.

As much of a staggering impact as Thriller had, not just on the recording industry, but on pop culture as a whole, it was still only a slice of the success – perhaps the unbearably heavy success – Michael would earn in the months and years to come. He became, for better or worse, a kind of god to the millions who loved him. Thousands would flock to catch a glimpse of him boarding an airplane. CIA-style tactics had to be used to simply transport him to and from a concert venue to avoid gridlock, and the inevitable and reckless actions of fans who might even throw themselves in front of his vehicle in hopes of a peek at the King of Pop. Crowds would bring city streets to a standstill to watch him run from curb to doorway. The only thing one could hear in the roiling ocean of fans was the constant cry, “Michael! Michael!” He was idolized in a way that bordered on the insane.

It certain can be argued that all of this is ridiculous fan obsession. Just a bunch of people with too much time on their hands wasting their own lives obsessing about someone else’s. If there was ever “too much” adoration heaped upon a celebrity, Michael Jackson must also hold that record. Then again, the very word “fan” is a derivative of “fanatic,” and Michael inspired fanaticism as much or more than anyone before or since. It’s the heavy chore of some biographer to attempt delineate the extent and impact of all of Michael’s successes. I wouldn’t relish that immense challenge, especially in his wake. How can you sum up a life so complex and sometimes bizarre? Since his death only a few hours ago, the range and variety of adjectives used to describe both the man and his talents are legion: “electrifying,” “inconceivably gifted,” “musical perfection embodied,” “a true musical genius,” “an unstoppable creative force,” “other-worldly.” But there are other terms that are applied not to the pop star so much as to the man: “childlike,” “wounded,” “wonderfully kind,” “lonely and compassionate,” “a modern-day Peter Pan,” “misguided and imprudent,” “dangerously out of touch.”

Fred Allen, the classic old-time radio comedian once said, “A celebrity is someone who works all his life to become well-known, and then wears dark glasses to avoid being recognized.” It’s an amusing observation, but sorrowfully true in Michael’s case. His drive to succeed won him every ounce of success the world had to offer. But in the end, he seemed somehow unable to fully shoulder the load of that success and to meet the expectations of millions who had deified him.

When I heard the news of his unexpected death, it felt like someone had hit the rewind button on my life. I was drawn back to a dozen memories of this song, or that one; images of a sequined glove pulling down a Sinatra fedora over dark eyes; a thin and fragile looking man, angular yet graceful, slinking and gliding in the spotlight to the frenetic adoration of the audience; and the ever-changing countenance of a strange and heartbreaking man-child whose complex life may never be thoroughly understood.

Now that he’s gone, what do we make of him? Was he an innocent, caught in the bright lights of stardom, who only wanted to love and be loved? Was he so robbed of his childhood that his very work was only a means of recapturing it? A dangerous and misguided man who used his image and power as both weapon and shield to manifest some darker needs? An abused abuser? Did fame do him in? Or was it a lifelong battle to meet the expectations of cruel and perpetually demanding father that simply wore down his spirit? If you find these kinds of questions as tedious as I do, better get used to them. For now that he’s gone, those who were not free before to speculate are loose, their tongues wagging overtime, and the picture of Michael Jackson is not likely to become any clearer because of it.

Maybe the most ironic and poignant truth, one of the few that can safely be asserted, is that Michael Jackson did crave love in whatever way he could get it. Yet even with untold millions of adoring fans worldwide, it was his own colossal success which kept him so utterly distant and alienated.

I spent a couple hours downloading a dozen or so Michael Jackson songs today, replacing the music I had lost or misplaced years ago, as well as reclaiming a few treasured memories along the way. I never knew Michael, so I can’t say I’ll “miss” him the way I would miss someone close to me. But I will miss his place, and Farrah’s, in my life; as voices and faces from my personal history; like treasured souvenirs I keep tucked away in my mind. I can't deny their impact on me, and whatever one's view of it, their influence has left an indelible impression on millions. I suppose even after writing this, I'm really no closer to articulating just how or why two dead celebrities would leave me with such a hollowed-out feeling of loss. It can certainly be argued that there are greater, or perhaps more tragic losses (though not to their families and loved ones, of course). But I do know that while their loved ones mourn for them deeply, I mourn for something else too; for the pressure and heavy price we place on celebrity, and the unrelenting expectations we heap on our heroes and stars to fill something up in our lives.

During his last official interview in 2003, Michael said that the real hope of any artist is that his or her body of work will outlive them, and continue to live on to inspire others after the artist is gone. In Farrah's case, her bravery, grace, and very struggle to live was an inspiration. And with Michael, there is a vast legacy of music and a treasure trove of video footage that millions are discovering, and us older fans are rediscovering. It’s a dog-eared cliché, but I think it’s safe to say that both of these remarkable people will most certainly live on in the hearts and minds of those of us who admired, cherished, and wondered at them from a distance.

An Only Child's Only Childhood

I was an "only child." Such a sad and lonely term isn’t it? And yes, sometimes it is sad and lonely being an only child. But being an "only" also has its perks. I don't remember the first time I heard that term, but it's never been one I've warmed up to much. For one thing, there are so many stereotypes about it, positive and negative: Only children are spoiled. Only children are antisocial. Only children tend to have higher IQs. Only children make good leaders.

I blame psychologists for some of this. I also blame China. Let me explain.

Alfred Adler, renowned psychologist and part of the famous "Vienna Psychoanalytic Society," was the first to consider the role of birth order where personality development was concerned. He decided that firstborn children were more likely to be "problem children," and that only children were especially likely to be very spoiled. And G. Stanley Hall, eminent psychologist of the early 20th century actually said that being an only child is "a disease in itself." Wow! I feel so.... special!

In addition to Al and Stan, other researchers have deemed only children to be aggressive, bossy, antisocial, and petulant. But it's NOT true, dammit! And I'm ordering you to take that comment back right now, or I'll slap you in the head and never speak to you again!

As for China, here is a nation that has battled the challenge of overpopulation for generations. In the 1970s, the Chinese government instituted the "one child per family" policy as a means of reducing the drain on resources simply by reducing family size. The result is a surplus of only children; children who, according popular belief are often so spoiled they're referred to as "little emperors."

I'm sure that in some cases, the "problematic-spoiled brat-disease-ridden-emperor, likely-to-get-into-a-bar-fight-bossy-jerk," label fits some only children to a T. But the fact of the matter is that even though being an only child might come with its own unique troubles, more recent research indicates that many of the only child stereotypes are more myth than fact. Social psychologist Susan Newman says, "There have been hundreds and hundreds of research studies that show that only children are no different from their peers."

I guess that means I'm not special after all.

In my experience, Newman's right. I've never been able to spot another only child in a crowd, and I wouldn't know what to look for if I wanted to. Onlies don't have any secret clubs (and if they do, they need contact me!). They don't have special handshakes or wear their hair in any unusual ways. They do have their own website though: www.onlychild.com . And there are plenty of famous only children, like:

Frank Sinatra
Robin Williams
Rudy Giuliani
Kareem Abdul Jabbar
Natalie Portman
Franklin Delano Roosevelt
Cary Grant
Lauren Bacall
Mahatma Gandhi
Cole Porter
Leonardo da Vinci
Lance Armstrong
John Lennon
Joe Montana
Tiger Woods

...so I think I'm in some pretty good company. And that company is growing. Only 20 years ago, less than 10% of children under the age of ten were onlies. Today, nearly 25% of households with children have just one.

Now that I'm in my early 40s and almost an adult, I thought I'd write down a few thoughts on the subject as it pertains to me (Yes, it's all about me and my petulance. Get your own blog).

Before going any further, a little more non-fascinating autobiographical background might be pertinent: My mother and father divorced when I was about three years old. I have no real memory of this event. It wasn't a terribly bitter divorce, although I know that it was a very difficult time for them both as they loved each other, but couldn't make it work. It's a real blessing to me that they both still do love each other, in spite of it all. Loving someone and being able to maintain a marriage are two very different circumstances, as I myself would learn in my own marriage and divorce. As with most situations, there were many factors leading up to my parent's divorce, but it really boiled down to the usual "irreconcilable differences." So, one rainy Oregon day, mom packed her things, packed her baby (me) and left to live with her parents, my grandparents. And that was how I would grow up: mom and me living with my grandparents, and me seeing my dad on an occasional basis.

My childhood had its ups and downs, but was pretty good overall. Some people have very remarkable childhoods, often for some terribly traumatic reasons. Mine had its "moments," but I have to say that I was, for the most part, a pretty happy kid. Sometimes a little shy and frequently uncomfortable, yes, but I wasn't forced to live in the cellar (we didn't have a cellar anyway), was not beaten, ignored, or yelled at (much). My mom and grandparents certainly weren't perfect and never claimed to be, but I was pretty fortunate in that I grew up in a loving, comfortable, and very supportive environment. In spite of tough times, we all stuck together in a spirit of love and connection. It was an unconventional family, but it worked, and it often seemed a preferable situation to that of some of my friends with "normal" families: a mother and father, with 2.5 children.

There are some good things about being an only child. One of the perks is that you don't have to share your stuff with any nosy, grabby brothers or sisters. There are no sibling rivalries or competition. Nobody runs off with your stuff, nobody pesters you when all you want to do is sit and watch some Bugs Bunny cartoons over a nice cold glass of chocolate milk, and there’s no fighting over toys or candy. You pretty much get to reign over your room and stuff according to your own desires (with consulting assistance from mom, in my case).

The downside is that you have trouble finding playmates. Adults generally make terrible playmates. They really do. The adults in my family certainly tried to engage me on a playmate level. But these were three adults, two of them close to being senior citizens, all working full time. When they made it home from a long day at work, they were disinclined to want to wrestle, or make car noises while helping me put mileage on my Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars.

So, when you're on your own, you make your own fun. And like any kid, I found ways of entertaining myself with books and toys, or else I just ran around in yard a lot and pretended I was Captain Kirk stranded on an alien planet unsettlingly reminiscent of Earth and wondering when the hell Scotty would have the transporter fixed so I could get back to my bridge.

I tend to think that only children have to rely even more heavily on their imaginations than their sibling-abled peers. That sounds like a nice thing, but it has a dark side. In my case, I used to be scared of things that weren't there. I would go into my room at night, flip on all the lights, and check everywhere - under the bed, in my closet, behind the door - to make sure that no trolls or Sasquatches were lying in wait for me. Yeah, I was one of those weird kids who believed that there were monsters around every corner. This was when I was very little, of course. I usually don't worry about things like that anymore. Much.

Later in life I would discover that some children invent imaginary friends. Only children do this a lot, for obvious reasons. To this day, I kick myself for not thinking of that on my own. It's brilliant! Why didn't anyone clue me in? You're small, alone, and terrified of things that aren't there (but maybe are there). What better ally to have than an invisible friend to handle the bodyguard duties? I would have come up with a damn good imaginary friend. Maybe something like a Transformer, in the guise of my school book bag, that could transform into an indestructible, 14 foot-tall missile-toting badass capable of dispatching any half-sentient ghoul (or bully) upon my command. But I never had an imaginary friend. I guess my imagination got as far as conjuring up something terrifying, and then basically took a coffee break and left me to face the invisible evil hoards on my own. Thanks a lot, imagination! Sheesh.

There are logistical issues to consider too, when you're an "only", especially where toys are concerned. If someone gives you a game for Christmas, you look to see how many players it requires, and you're kinda screwed if it says: "For 4 to 8 players." For that matter, most board games are out. Try playing Monopoly or Connect Four by yourself. It's fun for about six seconds. I liked playing Battleship, and I always seemed to win (and lose)! Only children don't usually play with walkie talkies because, well, it's all walkie, no talkie. Frisbees? Is there anything more pathetic than a lone kid with a frisbee? Foosball? Hungry, Hungry Hippos? Badminton? Gimme a break. And don't even bring up the Twister incident.

I was once given a baseball glove and a solid rubber baseball, which I would throw against the side of the house and catch on the rebound. I would spend hours doing that - THUNK - against the house, catch, throw, THUNK. Playing catch with the house! After weeks of this, I was strongly encouraged by my grandfather to use soft Nerf balls instead. Come to think of it, I still don't know how I lost that rubber baseball. Odd.

The advantage of Nerf toys is that you can play with anything labeled "Nerf" indoors. Or so it was advertised. This is very important if you live in a climate like Oregon’s, where if you want to play outside you get to choose between playing in the rain and mud, or during the sunny, warm and dry season, which was usually on August 12th. But the truth of the matter is that even a soft squishy Nerf ball, when thrown with sufficient force and insufficient aim, is capable of breaking knick-knacks, or in my case, one of my mother’s bells from her crystal bell collection. Nerf stuff is cool, but just because it's made of orange foam rubber doesn't mean it can't get you into trouble. Word to the wise: waking up adults early on a Saturday morning with a barrage of Nerf darts in the face doesn't make you the most popular kid in the house, even if you're the only kid in the house.

Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of toys for an only child to play with. I had an Etch-A-Sketch, LiteBright, Magic 8 Ball (which continues to guide many of my biggest life decisions), and as I mentioned in a previous post I had lots of action figures. And then there was Simon. That UFO-shaped battery powered thing with the four colored buttons that would beep and light up in difference sequences and you had to memorize the sequences, and...ah hell, you know what I mean. I was a butt-kicking Simon player. I got really, really good at it. I fantasized about entering into some sort of World Simon Championship. I tried to get people to play with me, to the point of taunting them. "You talkin to me? Are you. Talking. To me? Yeah ok, meet me behind the school at 3 o'clock. Bring Simon. And some batteries." Nobody ever agreed to the duel because they were clearly flat-out terrified of my Simon skills.

But the real salvation of an only child in the late 70s was video games.

In about 1979 I received an Atari 2600 for Christmas and my life hasn't been the same since. Once attached to an old black and white television in the family room, I entered into that most intimate and sacred of teenage relationships: a boy and his console. I'm sure my mother had no idea what she had just done when she gave me that thing. All she knew was that I was around 12 years old when I got it, and about 33 when she next saw me. I don't remember all the games I had, but I had enough to stay busy for hours, if not days at a time.

Of course by today's standards these were the Tinker Toys of the video game genre. Pitfall, Frogger, Chopper Command, in all their blocky, pixilated glory! Today, my son, also an avid gamer (and an only child too), watches in amazement when I “go all old school" on him and play Galaga, Asteroids, or Ms. Pac Man. He thinks it's funny. It must be the equivalent of watching some old-timer rolling a big hoop down the street with a stick. Nevertheless, I routinely kick his teenaged butt at Galaga.

Before my love affair with the Atari began, my next-door neighbors and boyhood friends, Scott and Chris, were gifted with a Pong console from Sears. Pong, in case you were born yesterday, is a two-dimensional game in which each player has a "paddle" (a white rectangular block) you control with a knob to keep a little white square-shaped thing (the "ball") from getting by you. It was beautiful, monochrome, zen-like simplicity. Or it was tennis for morons. It all depends on your perspective. Whatever the case, we played the hell out of it. Of course, as an only child, it was a blast to be able to play against Scott and Chris. But even better, the game allowed you to play against the computer, thus eliminating the need for a human opponent. So when I finally scored my own Pong game, I would disappear into a trance-like state for hours in the dim light of the television. So on behalf of only sons from the late 1970s, thank you, Pong!

While video games dominated my attention as a kid, I also still played with “regular” toys. In 1980, a Hungarian named Erno Rubik first invented, then managed to get Ideal Toys to sell, a little something he (rather unoriginally) called "Rubik's Cube." Of course I had to have one. Only children are supposed to be amazingly patient. That’s another stereotype I managed to burst. After screwing around trying to solve the Rubik's Cube for about an hour, I became more interested in how it was actually put together. I didn't see how each of the rows of little blocks could move independently of one another. So I took it apart and learned the magical secrets of its engineering. It really is kind of interesting. But alas, like Humpty Dumpty, you can't put a Rubik's Cube back together again once it's in pieces. Such was my own "solution" to Rubik's Cube.

Being an only child (or any child) isn’t all fun and games, of course. New social situations used to cause me great anxiety. On the first day of 1^st grade, I was dropped off at school by my dad. My mother couldn’t bear to do the deed, so dad stepped in and managed to dislodge me from his car, and send me, with my Gunsmoke lunchbox and sweaty palms, into Mrs. Howard’s 1^st grade classroom for the first time. I was there early, and there were only a couple of other kids around. I felt utterly alone and afraid. It was all very foreign to me. It smelled funny and the lights were too bright. Nothing about it felt right. It was a very “Woody Allen” moment. Standing in the middle of the room while other kids began to arrive, I started to cry, and I saw from the window that dad’s car was gone. I was on my own.

But then something happened that would eventually prove to be a milestone of social salvation for me. Some skinny kid sitting on the floor in the corner of the room noticed me standing there, teary-eyed. He waved to me and said matter-of-factly, “Hey. You want to play army men?” His name was Carlon, and he would become my best friend throughout most of my school years, all the way through high school. Playing army men certainly seemed preferable to spending my first day of school hunched-over, red-eyed and snot-nosed in the middle of the room. My tears quickly dried, and Carlon and I reenacted a battle involving much in the way of explosions with the little green army men flying around the room. Eventually, class began, and I knew I’d be all right.

Carlon was, in one sense, just like me, and in another, completely different. Whereas I was an only child, Carlon came from a family with 14 brothers and sisters. In spite of that, or maybe because of it, we bonded like brothers. I’m sure my life as an only child was a curiosity to him, and I occasionally listened in amazement as he talked about his own living conditions; he and two other brothers sharing a common room in the basement. Neither of us came from families with money, but with 14 kids to clothe and feed, I’m not sure how his parents managed to do it; lots of hand-me-downs and leftovers, I suppose. So from 1^st grade through senior year of high school, Carlon and I – the only kid, and the kid with a Leviticus-sized family – went through the indescribable dramas and insanity of growing up. We listened to Black Sabbath and Kiss. He liked Jethro Tull and Frank Zappa, and I liked Styx and Rush. We went through heartache and despair at the hands of some girls, while occasionally competing for the affections of others who rarely acknowledged our presence. We rebelled against the authorities of our private school by skipping class and running off to the 7-11 to play Asteroids, or by inventing our own swearwords that didn’t actually get us into trouble if overheard by adults. We defied school policy by letting our hair grow over the tops of our collars, and then took to folding our collars down even lower to allow for longer hair. We read the underground classic teenage literature of the day: Mad Magazine and Rolling Stone, and we discussed the quality of the stereo equipment ads only found within the glossy pages of Playboy. I’m not sure how we managed to avoid getting into much trouble, but we somehow emerged from our schooling mostly unscathed, and relatively happy.

School can be an ordeal for any kid. But when you’re an only child, finding a good friend is like finding a lifeboat when it feels like your ship is sinking. Maybe you value those people in your life who choose to be there for you a little more than those who are expected to be.

Being an only child isn’t easy. But the older I get, the more I realize the value of my upbringing. I learned about self-reliance and how to enjoy my own company when no one else could be there with me. I also learned a lot about the adult world at an early age. If there’s an accurate stereotype about only children, it’s that they’re likely to be keen observers of human nature. I remember being hungry to understand how the adult world worked. I’m still working on that. But I figured out pretty early on that adults weren’t perfect. Still, in spite of the views of most of my friends, nor were they irreparably flawed embodiments of evil. They were really just older kids, with responsibilities I couldn’t completely comprehend. They had beautiful dreams, not all of which would come true. They had dark problems, not all of which would completely resolve. While I spent childhood dreaming of becoming an adult, when I could earn money and buy my own toys and stay up as late as I wanted, I now spend much of my adulthood missing those days of cartoon-watching, trick-or-treating, first-kissing, semi-innocence. The freedoms you long for are never the freedoms you have, I suppose.

I also have observed the lives of my friends, those with siblings and those without. Most of my schoolmates are, of course, my age, and it’s interesting to see their lives unfolding. Some have become successful and secure. Some have not. Some of the school bullies are now wonderfully compassionate human beings, and some who were expected to do great things, well, haven’t yet. A few of the wild partiers have settled down into a strikingly domesticated existence, and some of the bookworms are busy recapturing their youth, or a youth they are just now discovering. One of my classmates from a relatively poor family is now one of the most successful plastic surgeons in the country. And one former class genius is barely making ends meet. Irony is the natural by-product of the wild twists and turns of unforeseen circumstance. I wonder what ironies they see in me.

It’s funny how time alters one’s perception of good and bad, right and wrong. It seems to me that life as a child was a simple matter of learning right from wrong. Knowing the good guys from the bad guys. Understanding the consequences of the obviously unwise choices and just doing the opposite. But aging is a process of watching the black and white world resolve into varying shades of gray, at least for many in my generation. There is no right or wrong to being an only child, or any child. Life simply moves too fast to waste energy on such worries. And a happy life depends on connecting with something decidedly un-adult. Whether I’m 8 or 42 or 82, I hope I can always maintain contact with that strange, creative, lonely, inventive, mischievous, curious child inside.

Notes From the Twilight Zone

A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow -- Charlotte Bronte


Have you ever wondered why middle-of-the-night television programming is so dominated by infomercials? Is it because when you're sleep-deprived, like I am, you'll buy just about anything? Soap that will wash the spots off a leopard? An upright vacuum that generates its own black holes? An automatic dog food dispenser? Perfect! Wait a minute, I don't have a dog. It's 3 am, and I think I just bought a time-share in Beirut. Now I just need a dog.

Insomnia: from the Latin for "no sleep." When you suffer from insomnia, you have time for things like looking up word origins and watching infomercials. As entertaining as that might seem, I can tell you from experience it's a poor substitute for "the balm of woe," as Elizabethan poet Sir Philip Sidney called sleep.

I don't know when the sleeplessness started, probably when I was in college and playing as a drummer in a 90s grunge band. In those heady days of my youth, I was quite used to being up late, or sometimes all night (weren’t we all?).

But now here I am in my early 40s, leading what some would call a "normal life," and my mind still wants to party like it’s 1999. When it gets to be bedtime I’m about as sleepy as a polecat on a black coffee drip. Here’s how most of my nights go: Sometime around 11 or 12, I dutifully brush my teeth, get in bed and just...lie there. I read, watch TV (usually cartoons or old classic movies), or listen to calming music, but nothing seems to produce the desired somnolence, and I remain frustratingly, persistently conscious. Time seems to play games with my mind, sometimes moving too fast, sometimes too slow. Either way, minute by minute, I roll this way, then that way, wrestle with my pillows, stick a leg out from the covers and pull it back in, watching the clock stubbornly progress from 1:30 to 2:00 to 3:15, and all too soon the sky begins to lighten and I hear birds chirping outside my window.

Insomnia stinks. But even as I toss and turn in the wee hours, I know I’m not alone in my red-eyed sleeplessness. More than 64 million Americans suffer from some form of insomnia. And historically speaking, I’m in some pretty good company. Marlene Dietrich suffered from insomnia. Her remedy? A sardine and onion sandwich on rye. Greta Garbo may have wanted to be alone, but Marlene’s late night eating habits virtually assured her plenty of personal space. Theodore Roosevelt had his share of sleepless nights, but coped with a shot of cognac in milk. Groucho Marx was a notorious insomniac. Notorious because Groucho’s reputed cure involved phoning people in the middle of the night to insult them. Groucho was fortunate to have lived in an age before caller ID. Vincent Van Gogh, had considerable trouble getting to sleep. His remedy of applying camphor to his pillow helped him sleep, but had an undesirable side-effect: it poisoned him.

One thing that unites many insomniacs in their nightly pursuit of slumber is a propensity toward excessive and obsessive thoughts. Homer said, “There is a time for many words, and there is a time for sleep.” In the case of many of us insomniacs, there’s no real distinction. During those dark, sleepless hours, one's mind can race. “Racing” is too general a description, though. More like inventing, scheming, devising, innovating, philosophizing, and problem solving. Insomnia can be torture, but it also can be a fount of great ideas. In my case, my head is filled, not with visions of sugarplums, but with story lines, book ideas, ways of ending world hunger, and reducing gas prices. It’s one of the ironies of the condition for many of us: the time when you should be dead tired coincides with the mind on fire with thought. The insatiable mental restlessness combines with stunning creativity, and I begin to develop a kind of self-deluded confidence in my ability to problem-solve. Economic recession? No prob! Energy crisis? Bring it on, baby! Unified field theory? Child’s play. Want to know what’s really at the center of a black hole? Well it’s…nah, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I jest, and yet I’m pretty sure that in the middle of the night -- in that strange dimension of both shadow and substance, my mind seems to have somehow tapped into something almost superhuman. And that, gentle reader, irks me.

It irks me because those high-voltage moments of creative inspiration that keep me awake at night have gone the way of the Dodo bird by daybreak. I know of people who do drugs and have these kinds of experiences. I know people who meditate and have these kinds of experiences. Me? I go to bed every night and spend several hours mentally puzzling my way through a myriad of life's riddles, wonders, and mysteries big and small, composing poetry, music, and making plans to become a sculptor (I do have some Playdoh around here somewhere), and when I'm back on my feet, my brain has reverted to that of a Neanderthal. I might be Einstein or da Vinci at 2am, but by seven in the morning, I'm like Rocky Balboa after a fight: thick-tongued, baritone-voiced, and staggering around.

What is it about those sleepless hours spent in the dim blue light of the television that seems to fire up the synapses to an agonizing level of wakefulness? Even Edgar Allan Poe wondered at the intensity of experiences he had, “only when I am on the brink of sleep.” There is something surreal and fantastic that happens during those sleep-scarce nights, and I’m not alone in wondering what it is.

As it turns out, sleep researchers tell us there really is a kind of Twilight Zone where sleep is concerned; a state where the rational aspects of the conscious mind overlap with the fantasies and free-spiritedness of our unconscious. It’s called the “hypnagogic” state. Hypnagogia is a kind of bridge between wakefulness and sleep. As the tiny neuro-electrical impulses of our brains gradually slow down from around 15 cycles per second to 10, and then 6, and 3, we pass through this hypnagogic state and drift into a deep, peaceful sleep. That is, unless you are an insomniac like me, in which case your brain can actually stall-out in the middle of the hypnagogic state and stay there for extended periods. Being in this half-awake, half-asleep state is like being stranded in some sort of strange, Rod-Serlingesque purgatory. And it ain’t always fun. It’s a little like parts of New Jersey; the fortunate drive straight through, the unlucky get stuck there.

Consider these two quotes from Wikipedia: "The hypnagogic state is sometimes proposed as an explanation of experiences such as, alien abduction, apparitions, or visions, also known as a trip or psychedelic experience." “Transition to and from sleep can be attended by a wide variety of sensory experiences. These can occur in any modality, individually or combined, and range from the vague and barely perceptible to vivid hallucinations.” It’s no wonder some people compare the hypnagogic state to an LSD trip.

Hypnagogic states also have been associated with experiences of unexplained presences, night terrors, holy or evil visitations, loss of body control or awareness, sleep paralysis, and auditory hallucinations. Unexplained presences? Evil visitations? Mother-in-law jokes aside, try sleeping through that!

According to researchers like Andreas Mavromatis, hypnagogia is a state of mind in which the conscious and unconscious literally overlap. In his 1987 book, Hypnagogia, The Unique State of Consciousness Between Wakefulness and Sleep, Mavormatis describes hypnagogia as a kind of halfway house between the familiar sticks-and-stones world of wakefulness, and the decidedly bizarre (but often compelling) landscape of the inner mind; it’s a place where horror and bliss commingle, and where ideas flow unencumbered by things like logic and common sense.
One interesting phenomenon associated with hypnagogia is the so-called "Tetris Effect." Named after the hugely popular video game developed by Alexey Pajitnov in 1985, the Tetris Effect refers to the obsessive tendency of the brain to mentally visualize various puzzle-piecing activities, such as rotating differently-shaped colored blocks to make them fit together like you do while playing Tetris. People who spend a lot of time in hypnagogic states are prone to this sort of thing. Whether it's Tetris, Pong, chess, or Solitaire, games easily find their way into our obsessive tendencies and have been responsible for many sleepless hours (but some pretty solid high scores) for plenty of people.

But there's another phenomenon associated with hypnagogia fewer people are likely to be familiar with. It goes by the staggeringly alarming name: "Exploding Head Syndrome." That's right, the good old EXPLODING HEAD SYNDROME. As if I needed one more thing to keep me awake at night. According to Wikipedia, Exploding Head Syndrome, "causes the sufferer to occasionally experience a tremendously loud noise as if from within his or her own head, usually described as an explosion, roar, or a ringing noise. This usually occurs within an hour or two of falling asleep, but is not the result of a dream and can happen during the day as well. Although perceived as tremendously loud, the noise is usually not accompanied by pain." Call me old-fashioned, but I like my nights, sleepless or not, free of explosions.

(Reassuringly, Wikipedia also mentions, "Note that exploding head syndrome does not involve the head actually exploding." Well, there's a relief.)

All things considered, I guess my hypnagogic hyper-thinking isn't as bad as it could be. No evil presences, no alien abductions, no paralysis, and, so far, my head hasn't exploded. And truth-be-told, I rather enjoy those moments of heightened inspiration, fleeting as they may be.

Maybe all the secrets to life really are kept in that twilight zone between wakefulness and sleep. All the answers to life, the universe, and everything could be just a sleepless night or two away. Maybe hypnagogia is a kind of built-in drug trip we all have access to, where windows to hidden mysteries are opened for us, and the next great novel is already composed, waiting for someone to just write the damn thing down.

So I can't honestly say I am completely unhappy with my occasional bouts of insomnia. It certainly gives my brain a good workout. But then again, if sleeplessness is a drug, it's a drug I'd be better off without. Maybe having written all this blather on my hypnagogic dilemma I will actually get a couple of hours of sleep tonight before heading off to work. Meanwhile though, I'd sure like to find a better way of tapping into that strange, dormant brilliance, and coaxing out into the daylight that too-shy muse that resides in us all, somewhere, in the Twilight Zone. Goodnight…maybe.