Friendly frigid felicitations from Marlborough!
Another year has gone by the boards, and after last year's more introspective, occasionally downright depressing letter I feel I owe it to everyone who anticipates these annual missives as more than just something to use in wrapping fish to try to make up for it this time around. This could have been made extra difficult by the fact that so many of you moved this year: The Stonebrood left Memphis for Bill to join a practice in South Bend, Indiana. Jeff bought a condo in Boulder. The Rebstocks moved to Mundelein (and Don got a posh new job at the NU Law School, which is no where near Mundelein). Wolsky finally escaped the Finger Lakes for a new radio job in Southwest Connecticut (although at last report he was living at the ancestral Wolsky home in Long Island temporarily), the Lauros left New Jersey, also bound for Connecticut and a new house. And Nate moved across town to a street that's a number with a phone number that doesn't spell anything. But the neat thing is they all told me about it. I think after 11 years you're starting to get the hint.
Well, some of you anyway. What's going on with Amy, Andrews, Dawn, Nina, or Cris I haven't a clue. You'd think that last year's twin bill of a death in the family and having a kid would have shaken anyone out of their uncommunicative stupor. But apparently not. Of all people, the ever-elusive Steve Creighton was surprisingly prompt to castigate me by mail for what he described as the "disgusting 30something touchy feely Big Chill my-but-aren't-we-all-so-much-fun" tone of last year's mailing. Dirks reports that this is not surprising, as inside information reveals that Creighton has "settled down with a nice Methodist girl, drives a Ford Windstar, and is making a living writing advertising copy for the Oklahoma Natural Gas Council." I always knew he'd put those eleven bachelor's degrees to good use one of these days. As the Random Complaint Generator said, "A day without Steve Creighton would be like a day without uncontrollable nihilism."
Let's get on to the good stuff, starting with the greatest event in the history of this or any universe, the Wildcats trip to Pasadena. I can't say enough about the once-in-a-lifetime status this weekend has attained in the lives of those who were there. I flew to scenic Southern California for the first time since the age of five, arriving shortly after Nate, the comedy team of Smith and Cohen, and Mr. Cohen's wife Liz, and shortly before Messrs. Lauro and Wolsky. Conspicuous by their absence were such former fans as Jeff Frankenstein (who mumbled something about suddenly having a work ethic) and Don Rebstock (who mumbled something about his wife being about to give birth). Rumor has it that the illustrious Jim Andrews flew in the day of the game, arrived by helicopter in the middle of the Northwestern tailgate, and was whisked back to the airport by limo before the final gun went off, but I didn't see it. About the only other alum that I recognized was Joe Garafoli. Tony, Nate and I stayed in Burbank at the posh Burbank Airport Hilton, much closer to Pasadena than all those poor stiffs who paid a year's tuition for the alumni package in Newport Beach. We spent much of New Year's Eve day cruising Colorado Blvd on foot in search of cheap and/or unique Wildcat memorabilia, and I was having so much fun that even Smith and Cohen were mildly entertaining. The aura of anticipation for those 48 hours before the game was like nothing ever experienced in Wildcat fandom before. Northwestern was the toast of the town, showing up on the local news, making guest appearances on the Tonight Show, etc. Nobody even mentioned who else was playing, never mind that they were supposed to be the home team. Got to see some of LA, also. Nate and I went to Hollywood Blvd, saw the Walk of Fame but no prostitutes, and we all took an evening drive through Beverly Hills and saw many front gates of the rich and famous.
The fateful day arrived. Nate, Tony, Liz and I were up before sunrise to head to Pasadena for the Rose Parade. As parades go, the Rose Parade is one that would be worth sitting on the street all night for in the freezing cold, but ironically, you don't need to because they set up about a million bleachers on the sidewalk and sell tickets months in advance. Of course, you can still camp out all night for free, and the temperature drops to maybe sixty, so there's really no excuse not to go. Even the traffic wasn't a problem once we made an end run around the most popular exit. The parade route is about five miles long, and we were at mile 4.2 or something, so there was quite a lull between the official start of the parade and when the first floats came by us. The end of the parade was more problematic, as the shuttle bus company was on strike and we were faced with the prospect of walking five miles to the site of the game. Nate was able to hijack a bus for us, though, and we got to the game with plenty of time to spare.
In the weeks before the game, the primary angst-producing worry everyone had was how to get tickets. If you were a student or a Hollywood bigshot or willing to fork over for the official alumni package it was no problem, but everyone else was scrambling. Nate was able to secure a package deal that was considerably more reasonable than the alumni-who've-never-seen-a-game-in-40-years package, and with only a week to spare he held in his sweaty hands six tickets valued at $75 dollars apiece. He only needed four of them but so what, we could easily sell off the other two to some sad ticketless fan who would then give us at least their eternal gratitute and maybe buy them at a premium, right? Well, due to the vagaries of the ticket distribution system, USC ended up with way more tickets than it needed, and as we walked down Colorado Blvd on New Year's Eve, even on the day of the game, everyone was desparately trying to unload extra tickets to anyone who would listen, but there weren't enough takers. Scalpers were taking such a beating that I'd be surprised if Creighton wasn't one of them. But we lucked out, my brother-in-law was in town and he and his brother not only took both tickets, but they paid full price for them, when in actuality they could have just driven around Pasadena for a few extra minutes and probably found better seats for ten bucks each. As for the game itself, well yes, we lost, but everyone I've talked to since said it was one of the best bowl games they had seen in recent years, and the Wildcat fans stood by their team right up to the very end. As opposed to the Trojan fans sitting behind us, who immediately turned on their team when we took the lead. Don had the right idea: he said when he rewatched the game on tape, he watched it up to that point and then turned it off. I think that's probably the best way to remember it. The high point after the game was trying to cram eight people into one Oldsmobile rental car (actually that was one high point, the other was finding the rental car in the parking lot, which was really a golf course). As we were wandering around aimlessly wondering where Smith had left the car (we walked, remember?) some smug USC fan called out "Have a nice trip home!" to which Smith replied "At least we can go home, you have to live in this hellhole."
The next day everyone left except myself and Wolsky. Adam had rented a car, so we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway a ways, came back and went to a dismal Lakers game that evening. On the flight back to Boston I made it as far as Dallas before they closed the entire northeast for the umpteenth time that winter due to the weekly blizzard, so I spent a lovely evening at the Dallas Airport Holiday Inn without my luggage, while Beth tried to dig her car out of the driveway so she could come pick me up the following day. All in all, I thought southern California was pretty nice, as did everyone else except Smith (a true New Yorker), but then again there were no earthquakes, fires, mudslides or riots during our visit. As fate would have it, eight months later I was back in Los Angeles, this time with Beth and Chloe along, to attend my first World Science Fiction Convention (aka Worldcon). As one of the local newscasters put it, "Ooh, sci-fi geeks!" Beth and Chloe entertained themselves at the hotel while I hung around the convention center in Anaheim and saw lots of sf writers I'd never seen before and attended the Hugo awards and avoided the people dressed up like their favorite Star Trek/Star Wars characters. After the convention was over, we spent a full day at the San Diego Zoo, drove to the top of Mount Palomar to see the observatory, went out to Joshua Tree National Park and visited our friend Robbie, who lives in nearby Palm Desert, and finished off with the mission at San Juan Capistrano. Chloe did quite well on the plane rides, but had a little trouble getting over her jetlag, which was making her get up at 4 am PDT ready to party. On the flight to LA we happened to have an hour or so layover in Denver. I had alerted Jeff ahead of time, and sure enough there he was waiting to greet us when we deplaned, almost exactly five years since we'd seen him last when he left the Boston area. Looking quite a bit thinner (downright svelte, in fact), sporting a non-removable baseball cap and a beard (also non-removable), Jeff had just opened up the first official offices of Polarsoft the week before. The company's four employees have more than enough work doing software consulting or something equally nebulous, but Jeff was able to see us to our connecting flight with plenty of time left over to chat. Didn't hear a peep from him through this entire football season, though, so we can only assume he's putting that MBA to good use and working on his first ulcer.
If there was anyone this fall who stood out head and shoulders above the rest in the communications field it was our own Anthony Lauro. Not only did I hang out with Tony at the Rose Bowl weekend (where he was disappointed that the 'Cats lost but more disappointed that he didn't get to see Ann-Margret), but in mid-March while we were spending the weekend with Nancy and Lee, he made the drive from Bridgewater with his wife, Linda, whom none of us had met previously. Not only did they bring wine for us and gifts for the kids, but they then sat through an entire Chinese dinner with two exceedingly noisy little girls at what had been a nice restaurant before we all arrived. Then they moved and told me in advance. And this fall hardly a Monday went by where I didn't hear from Tone with a rundown of the 'Cats performance the previous Saturday as we cruised to another Big Ten championship (so we have to share it, so what?). In fact, on New Year's Day we plan to be at the new Lauro estate in Southbury, CT to ring in the new year by watching the 'Cats kick some Tennessee butt on national TV.
I don't mean to diminish the Kevin's contribution this year, as they did put us up for the weekend while their house was in major upheaval. Lee had spent the last year renovating the kitchen, and while we were there in March the refrigerator was in the living room and all the other appliances were in the former dining room. By having a summer kitchen in the basement they were still able to cook a meal for us (they continue to be the only couple I know who think cooking is faster than ordering a pizza when you're in a hurry, but that's not to say they don't know something none of the rest of us do). By staying with them for the weekend, I got to go to Lunacon, the New York sf convention, and we got to see Kyra, the newest addition to the Kevin clan, who was just short of a year old when we were there and had already been on more continents than I have. She's darn cute, and much more agreeable than Chloe when it comes to being passed around from person to person. Beth agreed to babysit one evening while Nancy and Lee went to a show (I was at the convention), and by the time we all got back, Beth had given up her idea of a second career as a nanny (one kid is a handful, two kids are a planeload).
Another big excursion for us was this summer when we made the usual pilgrimage to Illinois. Feeling extremely brazen and naive, we drove the whole trip with an eight month old baby, and it actually went pretty well considering. The occasion was my Grandmother Bartlett's 85th birthday party (saw many longlost cousins), and we also attended my 15th high school reunion (saw classmates that are just as uninteresting now as they were 15 years ago). After a few days at Mom's new abode in Springfield, we drove up to Chicago and met up with the Rebstocks for the sub-pilgrimage to Carmens. Don and Heather had a baby girl, Amanda, in January, just days before or after (I don't remember what the order was) Eric and Ellen had a baby girl, Gina. Now stop and think about this for a minute: Everyone on this mailing list who has had children have all had girls: The Stonehills (twice), the Kevins, us, the Rebstocks and the Olsons. Coincidence? Or is the ghost of Frances Willard working on some insidious plan? Or does the government have a vested interest in preventing male heirs of Willard residents? Or have I been watching too many X-Files? Anyway, while we ate pizza, Beth and Heather discussed babies (of course) and Don and I discussed the Wildcats (also of course). Apparently even the spectre of impending fatherdom last fall could not keep Don off the topic of the Rose Bowl, much to Heather's dismay. A couple of nights later we met up with Doug & Jennifer to eat at Rezas and discuss architecture (since they don't have kids and aren't interested in college football). The low point of the evening came when the waiter plopped a steaming bowl of soup right in front of Chloe, who of course promptly stuck her hand in it and burned herself. And we didn't even get free dessert out of it. Chloe was fine, but Beth just in case had bandaged up her hand for a couple of days so that it looked like it had been severed at the wrist and surgically reattached. The Pollocks brought a picture of their new house in Riverside, already framed. Jennifer finally left BankOne, so the Bank-Musician's hotline is now officially defunct. Truly the end of an era.
Speaking of banks, I'm still at Bank of Boston, soon to be called BankBoston once we're done snarfing up BayBank. I have a laptop now so that if there's 20 feet of snow like last year I can telecommute instead of risking my life on the highway. Being a dad is fun, much easier than being a mom, and the (I hope) enclosed picture will show you how much Chloe has grown since last year. Beth's met a lot of new people in the area with similarly aged kids and has a couple of playgroups going to make up for the lack of siblings. Chloe's walking now, doesn't say any words but does speak in tongues quite a bit, and has a smile that lets her get away with anything. Don't want to get too "touchy-feely" on you, but I know it happens to other people occasionally too. A videotape showed up in my mailbox awhile back from the Stoneman, who suddenly got nostalgic when he saw the "Heavy Metal" movie had finally been released on video, and sent Jeff, Cris and I a copy. And when Tony called the house the first time this fall, it was because his notation of my phone number at work was off by a digit. He swore to Beth that that was the number that he had used to call me all last year, and Beth had trouble convincing him that I had never had that number. Tony was certain that even dialling the wrong number, he had gotten through to me anyway. "Wow," he said, "I guess it really was a magical time." With or without the Wildcats, I hope 1996 was magical for you too, and best Christmas wishes to everyone with hopes for a downright phantasmical New Year!