Why I (Still) Write

I once wrote for money. I wrote for the high. I wrote for ego, for a shot at the great big wheel of fame. I wrote because that meant I got to tell the lawyers and salesmen of my acquaintance that I was a writer. I wrote because people who are smarter than me told me I was pretty good at it. I wrote to get out of real work. (Since rewriting is real work, sometimes I wrote to get out of rewriting.) 

Editor, smiling

I wrote for an editor’s smile. I wrote because people would say “I read what you wrote.” I wrote because sometimes people would say “I wish I was a writer.” I wrote because words matter. Because they’re there, and their spelling and correct usage was important. 

I wrote because it got my unpretty face on television. I wrote for television because I got more money for fewer words, my handsome children got educated, and my beautiful wife and family had shelter and food provided by a husband who wrote. 

I wrote when my hand got farther from the outrider horses of the merry-go-round and I could no longer reach the brass ring dispenser. I wrote when I felt my limitations were permanent, my future finite, my most dream-worthy goals unreachable. I wrote when I felt the slippage. I wrote as a pitcher might continue to pitch when a late-in-life sinker arrived in time to replace his heat. (For me, that was Google, the answer to a lazy-researcher’s prayer.) 

And now I still write when there is no money to be made, there is no need to write, there is that big number next to my name that declares to the world that I need toil no more. I write now that the easy chair is an entitlement, the pressure is off, the race is mostly run, the readers moved on, the fresh streams of talent in place. 

I write now because…because…because…because ... dammit... I still love to write.

(This was originally written for the blog, http://jacklimpert.com.  Jack, 40 years editor of  The Washingtonian Magazine--that's him above, smiling--gave me my first big break as a writer and deserves much of the credit for my success. He was kind enough to add these words.) 

"John Corcoran got published by the Washingtonian because he could write funny—about one in 100 writers, sometimes it seemed like one in 1,000, could consistently write funny. He then got paid well by television stations in Washington, Boston, and Los Angeles because they also thought he had that gift. I think he wrote because he loved to make people smile."

An Open Letter to Mike Huckabee

Dear Mr. Huckabee:

Recently on Fox “News” (of all places) you said: “It sounds crass, but frankly the best way to stop a bad person with a gun is to have a good person with a weapon that is equal or superior to the one that he’s using.”

I know you’ve received criticism from so-called Liberals for this comment made so soon after the recent tragedy in South Carolina. Well, this is one “Liberal” who is not ashamed to congratulate you for stating the obvious: Superior firepower is critical during a gunfight.  I would think this especially so in a House of Worship, where heavy wooden pews and alcoves can provide cover for assailants.

This criticism is just a knee-jerk reaction by people without visualizing an outcome in a real-world scenario. Please allow me to provide a scenario of what might have happened had the Congregation at that small black church been armed to the teeth.

The action starts when the bad guy enters, weapon drawn.  Joe Bob Stutlerwell looks up from the Field and Stream hidden inside his hymnal, draws his Glock and starts firing away at the intruder. His seventh shot wings the culprit. The first nailed a retired nun, the second caught the Bippler infant right in the Dr. Denton’s.  Shots number three through five finished off the Gambelli Triplets and bullet number seven got the attention of Rufus Bodling-Klumpf, who had his favorite Uzi under his duster.

In a blistering display of questionable marksmanship, Rufus then wiped out most of the Children's Choir before the first note of "Bringing in the Sheaves." No self-respecting minister can stand by for that, so the Very Reverend "Dead-Eye" Mickleswurth raced to his 20 MM gun tower (pulpit right, underneath the cross), swung those twin bad boys around and let loose a fusillade of deadly fire into the Congregation.

By the time all was toted up, the toll was 53 dead and 17 wounded, including Dylann Roof, who spent the rest of the gunfight hunkered safely under a pew and who is expected to make a full recovery.

So Huzzah! Mike Huckabee, for your clear-headed thinking that isn't at all beholden to your desire tor NRA campaign support. I suspect it is more likely due to a hitherto undiscovered recessive Gene in your unforked family tree.

Sincerely,

John Corcoran Jr.

All I want for Christmas is No More Stuff

I don’t want any Stuff for Christmas.

Three reasons:

(1) I have enough stuff already.

(2) Beneath my gruff exterior of cynicism, sarcasm and asshattery are more layers of cynicism, sarcasm and asshattery. But beneath those layers beats the heart of a sentimental softie.

(3) I owe a favor to someone who returned a beloved pet when I was a kid. (Details below)

So, please don’t send me any Stuff for Christmas. Or Chanukah or Kwanza or Festivus, or just because you like the cut of my jib.

I am not anti-Capitalist.  I’m not saying, “don’t spend money.” I respect people who make and sell Stuff. But I want my loved ones to use my Stuff money for a better purpose.

I’m not being a martyr here—I have accumulated more Stuff than I’ll ever need. I have an overflow of Stuff. Some of my Stuff is sentimental treasure. But I haven’t seen the sentimental treasure since the cows came home because it’s buried underneath the other Stuff.  (Please don’t give me any cows, either.)

My Stuff isn’t spread all over the house and I’m not a hoarder like the ones you see on TV. To borrow from the late George Carlin’s brilliant comedy routine, I have ”a place for my Stuff.”

Most people put Stuff in the basement/cellar where it grows mildew and must be tossed.  I live in Southern California. Southern Californians don’t do mildew. It was traded long ago for several Kardashians and a future draft pick.

Southern California also doesn’t have basements.  So Southern Californians put their Stuff in the garage and park their cars in the driveway.

Without mildew to cull the herd, Southern Californian Stuff never gets tossed. When Stuff overflows, you are forced to get a house with a bigger garage.

Grandkids Exempt

My wife and I will continue to buy Stuff for loved ones, of course—the Grandkids particularly. Just none for me, thanks. 

This brings us to Reason (3), the favor I owe to the guy who got my dog back to me. He’s been dead for a long time but he’s still a saint. Make that a Saint—name’s Jude.

When I was a kid I was told St. Jude’s specialty was “Lost Causes.”  When I was twelve, the dog I loved was lost for days. I prayed for his help and just like that, St. Jude did his magic thing and my dog came home.

Now “St. Jude” is better known as the name of a great hospital. Whether you or I believe in St Jude the Saint is irrelevant here, because we’re talking about “St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital .” There they treat, ease the pain of, and nurture children suffering from the ravages of Cancer and other life-threatening diseases. Families are never billed for anything. To do that, St. Jude’s needs money. Lots and lots of money.  They need money a lot more than I need Stuff. 

Anyone can contribute, of course, with or without giving up your Stuff.  May I suggest you go to: www.st.jude.org  to find out how, or just send a check to “St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, PO Box 50 Memphis, TN 38101-9929”

Torture: Good for What Ails You?

The National Torture Association, one of the United States’ most powerful and effective lobbying organizations, is launching a public relations campaign to change public perception of torture and inhumane treatment of prisoners.

“For too many years, torture has had a negative connotation,” a source not authorized to speak on behalf of torture or torture related industries, told us.

“That’s why we think a campaign to educate the public about the beneficial aspects of torture is overdue. We believe it is time for people to think of torture in a more positive light.”

The source indicated it was a mistake for the NTA or other pro-torture groups to merely counter critics by justifying torture as a “necessary evil.”

“Why think of it as evil at all? In far too many instances, people mistake procedures that are beneficial as torture.

“Rather than sit on the sidelines, we will answer our critics. Take water-boarding.  People don’t appreciate what it really is—a health treatment to irrigate the sinuses and clear breathing passages.

“It is similar to what one might receive at an upscale Spa.  We have dermatologists who say it is also a scale removal procedure used for treating Psoriasis.”

When contacted by this reporter, the NTA said torture is a topic that could use a little lighter attitude.

“What’s a little liquid up the honker?” joked NTA Chairman and CEO Louis “Lou” Cretia-McEvil. “I irrigate my nasal passages when I get stuffed up and look how healthy I am,” Cretia-McEvil said, hocking up a snotball the size of a Buick.

Some media and advertising experts say pro-torture is a risky course for the NTA to take.

“It’s almost impossible to make torture seem like fun,” said Dr. Allan Privee, holder of the prestigeous Dick Cheney Iron Maiden Chair of Malevolent Behavior at the University of Kansas at Tennessee.  “Research has shown that nothing can convince the public that tearing out a prisoner’s fingernails is a ‘cuticle repair technique,’” adding, “I like pie. Doesn’t everyone just love pie?”

A number of new slogans are being tested by focus groups and one will be selected as a new motto by the NTA, the source says.

The finalists:

“Torture: More fun than a barrel of piranha and a bloody foot!”  

“Torture: Are You Man Enough to Take It?”  

“Torture—What’s the Big Fuss?”

A spokesman for the senior senator from Arizona declined comment on the torture issue but someone sounding a lot like John McCain picked up an extension and said  “What campaign contributions? And don’t call me Shirley!” and then hung up.

Portions of this report were written while being water-boarded.

Bolo Nuns, Thunder Bombers, Plus an Ornery One-Eared 'Gator

          There was no other sound quite like it. First I heard a thunderous deep bass rumble, soon joined by a high-pitched, banshee howl. The thunder shook me, and the howl had me plugging my ears. It came from the biggest thing I had ever seen in the air.

I was a ten-year old kid. The first time I heard and saw what was producing that noise; it scared the hell out of me. After that, each time it reappeared I stopped, watched and listened—as kids tend to do. 

My father was a career Air Force officer. I was brought up mostly on a series of Air Force Bases. They were filled with many wondrous, deadly and unusual sights and sounds.

Fourth of July weekend seems an appropriate time to drop the shield of adult cynicism and take a quick wallow in the nostalgia of childhood.  Oh, hell, I’m of Irish descent. We Irish would dominate the Nostalgic Wallow at the Masochist Olympics. 

 Except for the occasional duck and cover drill, kids like me were pretty much kept protected from the-things-that-worried-adults back then. I’ll leave the bad stuff to historians for now. But for a ten-year-old service brat like me, it was a time more in tune with Norman Rockwell than the Hard Rock Café.

Just one base visited on this particular wallow, or we might be here until fall. Let’s go with Eglin AFB, near Fort Walton Beach in the Florida panhandle, about midway between Pensacola and Panama City.

Currently Ft. Walton Beach and environs are a bustling tourist destination. Back in my day it wasn’t just sleepy, it was positively narcoleptic. Watching Spanish Moss and Cape Jasmine were the only nightlife and endless miles of white silver sand were not yet covered with cheek-by-jowl condos and hotels.

Dr. Pepper was my drink of choice when I got to choose. It was only available in six-ounce non-returnable glass containers with “10-2-4” printed on the side. *

It was in Ft. Walton Beach, at the Seagull restaurant, where this Brooklyn born kid discovered Hush Puppies—the food not the shoe. At the base swimming hole I chased Stingrays—the sea creature not the sports car. When you swam at the place called Ben's Lake, you watched out for Ol' One Ear, the irritable alligator who (it was rumored) feasted on small dogs and bad children.

I’d only been there a few days when I saw a “Peacemaker” take off. There was no irony to the plane’s name back then—its job was to keep the Cold War from warming up. The Convair B-36 was the biggest bomber the US ever built. It took six pusher-prop piston engines mounted on the back of its wings and four whistling jets below them to get a fully loaded one airborne. Hence the racket. It was nicknamed the “Aluminum Overcast” and could fly to Russia and back, we were told. It never did. But the sound it made was cooler and scarier than anything I’ve ever heard this side of a Lamborghini.

I remember the sudden thump-THUMP! of sonic booms as F-86 Sabre Jets dove thru the sound barrier.  Soon, F-100 Super Sabres would do that in level flight. They tested the new stuff at Eglin.

I remember rushing out and putting our rotating lawn sprinkler on top of the car the moment I saw a low-flying C-47 strafing neighborhood mosquitoes with DDT. The spray killed bugs, ruined car paint, and did Lord knows what to the human body. Who knew back then?

Shark Weak

I remember the exciting news that a new Gulfarium was ready to open in Ft. Walton Beach. This was followed by the bad news that the opening would be delayed while they drained the main tank of shark viscera. Someone had the bright idea of putting porpoises in with sharks. Porpoises kill Sharks. Who knew back then?   

There was a Hurricane party. The women and kids had to fend for themselves since Papa pilots were ordered to fly the valuable airplanes off the base and out of danger. The Moms gathered together in the living room lessening the chance of injuries from flying glass by thoughtfully emptying bottles of gin, one Martini at time.

Meanwhile us kids were conducting experiments to see how well scraps of paper dipped in melted wax would burn.  Not very well, as it turned out.  The Hurricane decided to go elsewhere before we solved the wax problem.

I remember the smell of my Dad’s leather binocular case as I sat in the announcer's booth with him, watching the Eglin Eagles battle Pensacola Navy. Dad volunteered to be stadium announcer and I helped him identify the players. Military teams were very good then. Former Bear end and coach Jim Dooley played for Eglin and other NFL talent found service ball was one way to meet your military obligation.

We swam at the Officer’s Beach Club on the Gulf.  This was well before “Jaws.”  If a lifeguard yelled “Shark!, “ folks would amble or mosey out of the water.  If he warned of Portuguese Man of War sightings, people skedaddled at high speed.  People used words like “skedaddle” back then.

Sleep? Don’t Sweat It

There was no air-conditioning. I remember the rattling of the oscillating fan at night. It rattled better than it moved air. Some nights you just slept in your sweat.

Most Sundays, after Mass, Mom and Dad stopped by the base Officer’s Club for a couple of drinks and some socializing.  Kids weren’t allowed in the bar, of course, so I was deposited on the porch reading room.  There I downed a procession of Dr. Peppers and read magazines.  It may be why I became a writer. Writers are allowed in bars.

I remember the absolute authority of the Sisters at St. Mary's elementary school in Ft. Walton Beach. The nuns had those big, 15 Decade Rosaries wrapped around them, and used the weighted crucifixes as a Bolo. They could pick off a feasting fly or sleeping student at 25 yards. They never had to.

Sure, the old Halo effect has set in and all but wiped out the bad memories, but back then, growing up on an Air Force Base wasn't such a bad life for a kid at all.

*The 10-2-4 was a not-so-subtle suggestion that you down three Dr. Pepper’s a day—at ten AM, and again at two and four in the afternoon.

Phone Call to a Friend

Yesterday I made a phone call that I did not want to make. I was afraid to make, actually. Afraid I would screw it up.

I tried to talk myself out of it, in fact. But as a man of some conscience, that was not an option. The call was not about me, it was about the person I was calling. And it was important to him. And I dared not postpone it.

So I called him that morning and a relative answered and said he was temporarily unavailable. The person who took the call stepped away from him and explained she would call me back after some things had been taken care of that needed taking care of. She brought me up to date. She prepared me. She said she would be in touch in a half hour or so.

In the time between the initial call and the return, I thought about the person I was calling. I tried to remember details of the good times we had spent together long ago, but many of those memories had faded. I had moved from the city where we both lived almost 30 years earlier and I had not seen him more than once or twice in person since. We had talked on the phone a few times, kept in touch through the social media, exchanged funny emails and gossip every so often. He’d run through another wife or two in the interim and I honestly could not remember how many times he’d married and divorced.

Inevitably, I came back to the idea of what might have happened had I not left the city where each spring my friend and I and many others worked together for about six fun-filled weeks. We literally helped put on a show for charity. He acted. I wrote. We all laughed. Had I stayed, I am certain we would have remained in touch, stayed friends, seen each other more often, laughed again many times.  

It was more than an hour and a half later when the return call came.  The person I’d spoken with earlier handed the phone over to my friend.

My friend was in bed, she reminded me.

My friend was heavily drugged, he might be difficult to understand, she reminded me.

My friend is dying.

He has terminal Pancreatic Cancer. He had just been sent home for the end game. His family had gathered.

Then he said “Hi, John” in a surprisingly strong voice. And it was my turn to talk.

So, what do you say to a dying man, Mr. Glib? I'm pretty good at carrying conversations, but frankly, death and dying is a lousy topic for chit-chat. It wasn’t like I was the bearer of tidings. He already knew he was dying. He knew I knew he was dying.  

He was weak, I could tell. I did not know how long he would have the energy to speak. Ordinary conversational topics like “How’s the weather?” sports, or gossip were not worth getting into. I doubt he cared about the deteriorating situation in Iraq, whether or not Hilary will run, or the Central American coffee rust crisis.

I asked him if he was getting enough of the good drugs. He said he was. We spoke of mutual friends and good times together ostensibly “working” for our charity shows but knowing full well we’d had entirely too much fun to think of it as sacrifice. His voice grew a little weaker and strained and at one point he had a violent coughing spell.  But trooper that he is, he fought it down, and continued.

Soon we reached the point when we had to say “Goodbye.” Not goodbye to the conversation at hand, but goodbye forever.

I didn’t know how to say it. I needn’t have worried. My friend did. He said it with words that do not pass easily between men who are not relatives or in love with each other. 

My friend said: “I love you.”

I said the same thing back to him. And I promised to call again soon which we both knew was probably an unnecessary promise. We said our goodbyes, I asked the woman who was taking his calls to call me if “anything happened.”  And then I hung up and it was over.

I fervently hope I said all the right things to my friend I’ll never see again, and probably never speak with again. I was careful not try to delude him—he would see through that. As an actor he knew a false line immediately. A Paul Simon lyric occurred to me:

“No I would not give you false hope

On this strange and mournful day…”

I had feared making the call and now I felt better because my friend enjoyed it and the sound of his voice confirmed to me, someone who does not make friends easily, that I had chosen well in his case. 

I looked up the email I had gotten from him telling me that he had just been diagnosed with this fatal illness. In typical fashion, the subject line was “Not with a bang but a very loud Fart”  and the news that his doctor had promised him “two more years.” Then I checked the date on the email. It had been sent six weeks ago.

And then I went on with my day.

ASK CORK: Trump-Praagh to marry?

ASK CORK 

"We Scour the 'net so you can sleep in, you lazy bastard"

QUESTION: I keep hearing a shocking rumor that professional celebrity Donald Trump and psychic James van Praagh are getting married now that gay marriage is legal in New York.--N. Finke

ASK CORK ANSWERS:  While today is April Fool's Day, this rumor has been circulating for some time now. After a thorough investigation by my crack-fueled staff, I can report it is absolutely false. And, as a bonus, I will tell you how the rumor started. 

Van Praagh is a well known psychic whose most recent prediction--that 2013 would end on December 31--proved right on the money. Trump, despite his reputation as a blowhard, is as straight as the nose in your eye. 

The rumor started last month when Praagh's clip-on mustache and that living toupee epoxied to The Donald's dome briefly dated. They went out a few times but realized romance was not in the future. According to the publicist for Trump's hair, they remain "good friends" but want to focus on their careers for the time being.