The Texas Sized Donut

In March of 2003 my college paid for eleven members of the school newspaper to attend a journalism conference in Seattle, Washington. It was a four day conference that would lead right into the Sunday of Spring Break. I remember almost nothing about the conference itself, but I do remember having a great time in the city. During some of our sightseeing the Pike Place market I saw a chocolate frosted Texas Sized Donut. The same way a munchkin or donut hole fills the middle of a donut, this one was so big that a regular donut would fill the hole. I knew I had to have one.

After eating one of them with a friend or two, I thought that my mother would really get a kick out of this. I purchased another one and got it wrapped up in a to-go box. While preparing to fly back I was very concerned about the donut. During the entire six and a half hour flight from Seattle to Boston I sat with it on my lap, not trusting the overhead compartment during any turbulence.

We landed at 3:00 pm and split up into groups. My friend Laura and I were both heading towards South Station to catch the same train down the eastern seaboard, her to Philadelphia, and me to New Haven. This was the days before the ease of the Silver Line bus to the airport, so to get from Logan to South Station it meant riding the Airport shuttle to the blue line, switching at State Street to the Orange Line and then switching again at Downtown Crossing to the Red Line. To this day there is still no way to connect directly from Red to Blue, so needless to say, it was a complicated trek.

Laura and I entered the South Station concourse at 4:15. We had plenty of time to spare; our train did not depart until 5:25. As I put the donut down on a table my jubilation turned sour. I had been paying such close attention to the pastry and beating the clock that I completely lost track of my suitcase. I got separated from it somewhere along the journey and had no idea where. The logic of the situation began to inflate my mind – three different subway lines, not to mention the stations and the airport. I was about to start freaking out when my cell phone rang.

It was the head of security for the MBTA Blue Line. The good news was they had found my suitcase. The bad news was they were planning on blowing it up. Even while living over a year past the terrorism hyped days which followed 9/11, any abandoned suitcase on a busy means of public transportation would be viewed as a threat. Thankfully, the officials called my number, figuring that any true threat to America would not leave their real name and contact information on the luggage tag.

The man on the phone told me my suitcase was being held at Orient Heights, two stops past the airport. He said there was an office above the tracks and to find him there. Without thinking, I just ran for it. I left my backpack and donut with Laura and told her that I would be back in time. If I wasn't I told her to go ahead without me. There was very little thought put into that plan – what would she do with my things? Would she take them to Philadelphia with her or perhaps throw it out of the train when it stopped in New Haven?

I ran back to the red line, race back to the orange and again to the blue. Each second on the platform felt like 10 minutes. I kept fidgeting and checking my watch as if the trains would arrive faster based on my urgency. When each train pulled up I threw my arms in the air like I had thrown a touchdown. Each transfer made this seem more plausible, despite how quickly time was moving.

I arrived at Orient Heights at 4:46 and bounded up the stairs. The man in the office told me I was very fortunate to be getting the suitcase back and I nodded at a furious pace. There was a screen showing where all the blue line trains were and there was one pulling in to the station. He radioed the conductor and told him to wait for me as I franticly raced down the steps and on to the train.

My heart was beating and I was breathing heavy as I transferred at the same familiar locations one last time. Up and down stairs, taking a long hallway until I finally saw the headlights of my last Red Line train of the night. I made it back to South Station at 5:17, with 8 minutes to spare. I was sweaty and out of breath, but I had my suitcase in tow.

Three hours later I explained the harrowing tale to my mother and presented her with the prize. It was big enough to slice like a cake and we each had a piece. She said it tasted fine, which was code for “not worth the trouble.” Four years later I was back in Seattle with Lindy and we walked by the same bakery. This time I opted to pass on the donut after remembering all the trouble it caused me before.

A few thoughts about September 11th

This isn't really an anecdote, it's more of a continuous train of thoughts that I began writing and wanted to see where it went. It may or may not make sense.

The thing about anniversaries are that you they exist to remind you of the events that occurred on that day. For some reason people find the most comfort in the bigger anniversaries, the monumental ones, multiples of five or ten.

In two years it will be the 10th anniversary of September 11, 2001. There will be books and dedications of plaques, ceremonies and reminders of what happened that day. It will also probably trend highly among twitter users and Facebook status updates – and then the next day, it won’t. History’s greatest tragedies always felt much heavier when reading about them in school books. Stories about those events that were told for generations, not a Nicolas Cage movie. How will that day be taught to our children? Today is the 8th anniversary. Does it matter? Do people need a reminder to remember?

I remember waking up that morning for the first day of classes of my sophomore year. After taking a quick shower, I came out to the common area of our suite to find one of my roommates awake long before he usually rose. The television was on with live footage of the still standing first tower as it burned. The second plane hit in front of our eyes. I went to class and the teacher canceled it ten minutes after it had started. The class was called History of Ethics.

I remember it taking a while before I could get through to my sister who had just moved to Brooklyn, right across from the newly named “Ground Zero”. She told me she was okay, but there was soot raining down from the sky in her neighborhood.

I remember the media explosion. One newscaster said this event was our generations Pearl Harbor. The Westin Copley hotel was stormed by authorities on live television because the hijackers had stayed there the previous night.

I remember the rumors. More attacks coming. Boston was next. The rumors got so strong that girls who lived next door to us fled to New Hampshire for the weekend. A few of us walked down Boylston and the streets were eerily vacant. We nervously walked by the Prudential Center and Hancock Tower, Boston’s tallest buildings. Eventually the nerves subsided and people began getting back to their routines.

I remember things moving on. Everyone talked of revenge, but the idea was not really so cut and dry. In the meantime sports came back, as did late night comedy. There was an outrageous list of songs that were banned from the radio because of words like crash, fly, and airplane in their lyrics. Other songs profited, using lyrics about the events of that day to get country music fans fired up.

I remember Universal Studios having there was a park wide moment of silence commemorating the anniversary, but that stopped after five years.

I remember not even noticing much the last few years. I hope I don’t forget.

Tank Top Currency

For the first part of the summer of 2003 I interned with a movie promotions agency in Boston. We sent out passes and occasionally put on promotional events where we got rid of our mountains upon mountains of movie swag. During that summer, one of the hotly anticipated movies was Legally Blonde 2: Red White and Blonde. The office was littered with cases of tank tops, miniature nail files, fans and other relatively useless bright pink items.

The good news was that the movie came out July 2nd, just two weeks after the Boston Gay Pride Parade. In a genius move, myself and some of the other interns were dispatched to the Boston Gay Pride Parade to promote the movie. We would set up a small booth on the Commons and people stopped by to browse and grab things they wanted.

It was very hot, so many people weren't wearing even wearing shirts, nonetheless our shirts were going over very well. Everyone needed to have one. The good news was we had several dozen large boxes of them at our table. There was no way we would ever run out, I mean, how many people at a gay pride parade would want a Legally Blonde shirt?

As more and more people reached the Boston Common where we were stationed, the shirt stash began to dwindle and the demand for them became greater. It was like the end of It's a Wonderful Life, when the townspeople crowd the bank asking for their money. A few of us grabbed what we could and went out amongst the people, handing them out to anyone who wanted them. In short order, we were running down to the last of our supply.

A short overly tanned man without a shirt on asked for the shirt that I was wearing and the crowd cheered. Immediately I turned red, but still gave him the shirt. I think the fact that I was wearing a t-shirt that said "Hulk" underneath didn't do me any favors with that crowd.

Thankfully I had put one away for myself before the event, or I wouldn't have been able to take this lovely picture yesterday after coming across the shirt amongst my regular undershirts.

Beacon of Hope

My Accidental Rise up the College Newspaper Ladder


With zero journalism experience, halfway through my junior year I applied to be assistant Arts and Entertainment editor of Emerson's school paper, The Berkeley Beacon. Okay, I lied – I had some experience with the paper – I wrote a single semesters worth of terrible comic strips for the purpose of including secret coded notes to a girl I liked. It's hard to believe something equally intricate and nerdy didn’t work out. My newspaper career was over as quick as it had started. The attempt to reboot my journalistic self was due to the paper constantly getting free movie passes and the pretentiousness (and expense) of the film department. I figured as a film major it would be okay to lend my opinion to some movie reviews.

As I spent winter break staffing a USY convention in Orlando, major things were brewing at the newspaper office. It seems that the current Arts & Entertainment editor decided to transfer to a school closer to home, vacating her position. Nothing could have caught me more off guard than receiving a call I thought was about the assistant position and being offered section editor.

I accepted the position, ruffling a few feathers among the current staff, what with me not being a journalism student. Others were upset because they didn’t even know the position was open (neither did I). I switched one of my electives to be an introductory journalism course to learn the basics. Twenty-four eager freshmen and one out of place junior.

Once I got comfortable, I awarded myself a weekly column entitled "My Cleverly Titled Column," where I wrote about such important issues as television, what I wanted for my birthday and the state of professional wrestling. I went to a lot of press screenings, even those I had no intention of reviewing. There were meetings with celebrities in town promoting movies. I went to for personal reasons. Jack Black wished my sister happy birthday on the phone. Ridley Scott autographed a copy of Black Hawk Down for a friend. I was in a good place.

The semester flew by. Every Wednesday night we worked late hours in the office for the Thursday morning publication. The school paid for ten of us to attend a week long collegiate journalism convention in Seattle for spring break. I attended equal number of information sessions and press screenings. Most of the week focused on real news. The trip turned out to be more fun than learning, but when we came back to Boston it was back to work. By the time summer arrived, it was a much needed break from the weekly deadlines.

Three weeks before the summer ended I got a call from the new editor-in-chief. Both of the previous managing editors had graduated and the rest of the staff was all going to be sophomores or juniors. She offered me the position because I was going to be one of the only other seniors and I had come highly recommended from the previous editor. Now I was perfectly content to stay on and have another easy going semester watching movies and writing about anything I wanted. In the end, I took the position on the condition that I could still write for A&E when I wanted.

It was a lot more work, having to edit every article before it went for the final review with the chief. I wrote articles for news, editorial, sports, comics and lifestyle - basically every section that needed a fill in that week. When I moved to L.A. for my last semester, I wrote a few columns giving the west coast Emerson perspective, but eventually my involvement faded. A lot of my writing, including this blog is strongly influenced by the inexplicable year of my life where I accidentally became a journalist.

The State of Autograph Seeking

In the spirit of the recent DVD announcement, I thought I would share some experiences I had personally with each of the members of the mid-90's MTV comedy group, The State. My friend Jay gave me a copy of the groups book "State by State with the State," when we graduated college.

Late Late Show, Michael Ian Black's guest hosting - Various days in September 2006

• Michael Ian Black, Ken Marino, Kerry Kinney, Thomas Lennon

The idea of autographs first popped into my head during the Late Late Show host audition process. Craig Kilborn had abruptly left and the vacant job would be decided after a series of test runs. When I found out one of the auditioners was Michael Ian Black, I knew I had to try and get him to sign the book. He did well in his first try and got invited back for the final process, in which four candidates did an entire week of shows. Thomas Lennon and Kerry Kinney came in to bits on the show, acting as fake experts in their fields. I believe Lennon brought out a kitten, or a similar animal but would only identify it as a tiger, or something it clearly wasn't. Kerry Kinney told me how people in Reno wrote nasty letters to the Reno 911 offices, saying they were upset it wasn't actually filmed in their city. The people knew it wasn't because of the palm trees that appeared in many shots, and there were no such trees in real Reno.

Ken Marino was on the production guest list, but just to visit and hang out in the green room. He was very outgoing and excited to be there. There was an X-Box and Playstation 2 in the green room, but he was one of the only ones to ever play it, even challenging me to Tiger Woods golf. When he saw I was in possession of the book, he offered to sign it before I could even ask. Then he sat down and re-read it, saying "I haven't seen a copy of this in years." Michael Ian Black was very busy doing work for the show, but right at that moment he came into the green room and Ken showed him the book. Michael said "I suppose you want me to sign it too," while looking just as shocked as Ken to see an actual copy of the book.

I had only thought I would get Michael Ian Black this week, but with four members of the group, my new goal was to get all ten who helped write the book (the eleventh member, Tood Holoubek left the group before the book was made).

Reno 911! Miami Movie Premiere, Mann's Chinese Theater - February 15, 2007

• Joe Lo Truglio, Michael Patrick Jann, Robert Ben Garrant

Through a website that gave away tickets to advanced movie screenings, somehow I landed two tickets to the Hollywood Premiere of the Reno 911 movie. I thought it would be just another screening, but when the tickets printed out, they said Mann's Chinese Theater. After working in the promo screening business I knew people normally showed up early, and since this was special, I left work at 3:00 to get in line, State book in tow.

The line for the regular people was across the street from the theater, while the bigger names got to walk the red carpet. When they had all gone in, we were shuffled in through a security check point and then in a small side door. After that, we were on our own. Sure, our seats were assigned, but there were celebrities in the lobby, at the concession stands and in the theater. People were everywhere to the point where it probably deserves a separate blog entry, but as I was getting popcorn, I saw Joe Lo Truglio and Ken Marino walk in with their dates.

I didn't waste any time, walking right up to Lo Truglio and asking if he'd sign the book. He graciously did, but afterwards Ken Marino had a look on his face that said "what about me?" Sensing this, I opened to the front inside cover and said "Look, Ken, you already signed for me!" He noted this and said, "That's okay, I'll initial and date it to prove you met me again." In the midst of this, Michael Patrick Jann walked in, and while he was exchanging pleasantries with Lo Truglio and Marino I was able to get him to sign the book as well.

Right before the movie was to start, all of the Reno cast members were going to come in and do a speech. My seat was far enough back that I could see Robert Ben Garant waiting to walk in. I snuck by their security saying I had to go to the bathroom and handed him the book. This ambush led to one of the most regular notes any of the members wrote, "Nice to meet ya." Most of the others either just signed their name or wrote something funny, but catching Garant off guard may have startled him.

My autograph total now stood at seven. Three to go.

Wet Hot American Summer screening, NuArt Cinema - July 28, 2007

• David Wain

The night of my ex-roommates birthday I saw there was a Wet Hot American Summer midnight screening at the NuArt Cinema. It was taking place a week before the release of David Wain's new movie, The Ten, hit theaters. The web site for the theater advertised Wain would be appearing, along with other special guests, so we had to go.

While waiting in line with several friends, Ken Marino walked out of the theater with flyers for The Ten. He stopped and talked to everyone in line, telling them to go see the movie. Though we were not allowed to go in the theater yet, Lindy and I went into the lobby to "use the bathroom," where we saw Marino standing with David Wain and Peter Salett (guitar dude from the movie).

Lindy was very excited because David Wain is from Shaker Heights, Ohio, just like her. When we walked up to him, she mentioned that and the fact that his father did the voice over work for her fathers radio ads when he ran for judge. David Wain did not really know what to say to this, but clearly was not as excited as she was. Nonetheless, he signed the book, took a picture with us. Marino sort of remembered the book by this point, and decided to initial it a second time, bringing his total to three.

Right as we took the picture, Marino let out a huge, raspy laugh, causing Lindy to crack up.

Wain complimented my shirt, which said "Rodeph Sholom Day Camp." I never went to this camp. I got the shirt at a thrift store years ago and decided it would be good for the screening.

Eight down, two to go.

The State Reunion Show, UCB Theater Los Angeles, March 19, 2008

• Kevin Allison, Todd Holoubeck

By the time I heard about the State reunion show at UCB West, it was already sold out. Truth is, that theater is so small, there would be no way to get tickets unless you knew someone on the inside, especially for an event like this. I heard through the grapevine that there would be a small number of stand by tickets available. The two shows were at 8:00 and 10:00. I got to the line at 3:30 in the afternoon, and there were five people in front of me.

I met a girl named Sara and her friend while waiting in line. Sara had flown in from Chicago. They were huge fans and we had some good conversation while waiting for them to let people in. When the ticketed people began showing up for the 8:00 show, things looked grim. There was not room for a single person in the stand by line, so we would be outside in the rainy weather for another two hours. We did see several known comedians and "Weird Al" Yankovic go in to the show, which was pretty awesome.

When the crowd exited the first show, everyone loved it. The ticketed people for the second show began to go in. At that point, the stand by line went all the way around the corner. One guy tried to draw his own hand stamp on and got past the door man, causing the stand by line to go ballistic. All of us had seen him do this and knew he could be taking our seat away.

In the end, the first ten or fifteen people got in to the show, and it was great. The whole group, aside from Showalter and Black were there, but they sent in a video skit to play. Since we were in the later show, there was no rush to leave afterwards. We stayed in our seats and the cast began to hang out on stage drinking some beers. I casually walked up on to the stage and chatted with a few of the cast members before making a direct path to Kevin Allison. I told him about my quest and he said he would gladly sign. He had been especially difficult to get because he rarely leaves New York. Todd Holoubek even signed it, even though he had nothing to do with the book. Before I left, I went up to Ken Marino one last time. He initialed and dated the book for a third time.

Stella Live, Comedy Connection Boston, December 11, 2008

• Michael Showalter

This was it, the white whale. It had been 9 months since my last autograph and I was losing hope. Days and weeks before the show, random facebook photos had been popping up for other stops on the tour which showed the three guys signing autographs. I knew I had to bring the book.

At this point in the history of my book, everyone had signed one page, making it kind of cluttered. The page opposite it was completely blank, so I would tell Michael to sign there, rather than squeeze in somewhere else.

The minute the show ended, I jetted out to the autograph table and was the first one in line. People began to line up behind me as we waited for the guys to push through the crowd. They sat down and I walked right up to Showalter and said "You're the last one I need," and told him he could have the entire page. He drew a large picture on it and wrote "From Mike S."

So there it is, in all it's glory. My quest was complete, three years after it began. I would have never been able to do this without living in L.A. and having some of the jobs that I did out there. Maybe my new quest will be to get them all to autograph the DVD when it comes on July 14th.

Blue Plate Special

Prologue
I did not get on campus housing for my junior year of college, so I was forced to search for an apartment. During the initial process, I went to take a look at an apartment my friend Rami had with two guys soon to be moving out. My future roommate, in a show of confidence for all of the appliances, provided a demonstration that each of the oven burners worked. One by one he turned them on and off, explaining which knob corresponded to which burner along the way. What he forgot was that he was in the midst of a defrosting a package of chicken breast on top of the left rear burner, which briefly caught fire when the flame hit it. The plastic and Styrofoam packaging had a small dark burn mark, but the chicken remained in good condition. Despite this unknowing show of pyrotechnics, I still decided to move in.

A few months had passed and move in day was approaching. It was the end of August, and both Rami and I were returning from our second summers staffing USY on Wheels. Rami’s two previous roommates had already moved out, having found a new place, leaving behind various pieces of furniture and other messes. Two other guys we did not know, Ryan and Ian, were also moving in to the apartment, sharing the largest bedroom in order to save some money.

One of the bigger factors involved in my moving in was the way Rami partied. He was a champ. I had gone to one or two of his parties during the previous year and found them to be pretty wild. Lots of alcohol, loud music and tons of people crammed into a moderately sized apartment. Everyone who came through that door knew his name and they also knew just how good a time they were in for. It wasn’t long before the first party of our regime occurred; in fact, it was the first Saturday night in September.

Sometime during the post-party week, we noticed a smell. The kind of smell that isn't overbearing, but still, it doesn't exactly come off as fresh. Someone probably spilled a drink or some salsa that we missed during the traditional after-party clean up session. These sessions usually involved someone taking the Swiffer and creating one lane from room to room. The worst area was the dirt-black floored foyer known as “the dank,” gaining its namesake from everyone tracking in snow, dirt and mud on top of the spills of one thousand beer pong games. But I digress - back to the odor at hand.

It was hard to say what kind of smell, but it wasn’t terrible. Our initial solution was to open the two windows we had in the kitchen and let it be. Any stench would be taken care of by the cool autumn breeze and we’d be back to normal in no time.

It did not go away. Four men in the midst of achieving college degrees could not find the source. There were times we just walked around the kitchen, sniffing out different areas, hoping to pinpoint the location. In some areas it would get stronger, but others it would get weaker. No specific pattern could be made from tracking the smells, so again, the windows were left open. Full bottles of Fabreeze were dispatched in hopes of slaying the stinky giant, but it was to no avail. Had the bedrooms not been located on the complete opposite side of the apartment we probably would have had bigger problems dealing. It became something we lived with, trying to avoid being near the kitchen as much as possible.

A full three week after it first became barely noticeable, it was now hard to avoid. Rami contacted the realty company to complain about the mystery odor. The landlord told us that it was nothing to worry about. He explained that it was probably just a dead rat underneath the refrigerator or oven. To this day I disagree with the idea of a dead animal in our kitchen falling under the heading of “nothing to worry about".

It was now October. We were preparing for another party that weekend and we all decided that the smell could not be included on our guest list. The kitchen was a huge part of having any party - drinks, food, ice - we couldn't have everyone gagging anytime they ventured near that side of our apartment. It was time for a full overhaul. All cabinets were opened and dug through, drawers were opened and emptied, the fridge was taken apart and scrubbed. Still the smell lingered.

At our wits end, I said "What's the deal with the stack of newspapers on the counter?" The large stack of newspapers, magazines and mail resided next to the sink. Nobody knew why, but each of us had assumed they belonged to someone else and decided it wouldn't be right to throw them away. It had been there for as long as I could remember, possibly since I had moved in. I asked the other roommates and nobody had a problem with tossing it out. When I lifted the newspapers that had seemingly occupied the kitchen counter for an eternity. In that instant I had unleashed the full potency of the smell, multiplying the existing odor by at least 500 percent. What we found was a plastic Stop and Shop grocery bag with a receipt sticking out that had the name of one of the old tenants, dated July 17th. After retrieving and examining the receipt, we knew what we were dealing with: a package of chicken breasts. Had we not read the paper, there was no way anyone would be able to identify what was in that bag as anything that ever resembled chicken. It was the color of Superman’s hair – a regal looking black with streaks of blue at certain light. The bag was filled with a watery translucent liquid that had accumulated during its tenure on top of the kitchen counter.

Rami ended up drawing the short straw and had to get rid of it. He snapped on some heavy duty rubber kitchen gloves and held the bag an arms length away. The rest of us pulled our shirt collars up over our noses to open the door for him as he sprinted all the way out of the apartment to the dumpster, leaving a clear liquid trail along the path. We bombed the counter with Lysol, Windex, Comet and anything else we had, creating several dangerous chemical reactions. As bad as it was to breathe in kitchen chemicals that don't get along, nothing could have been worse than what was lingering on our counter for nearly three months.

Epilogue
I would like make sure everyone knows that the initial problem of leaving chicken out was not our fault. I'd also like to say that this was a turning point in our lives, that we all became much cleaner and more responsible around the house. We didn't. It would be nice to say that I never had to tell one of them his sandwich bread had blue spots on the side closest to me. Or that during a cleaning session later on in the year, one of the guys opened a severely outdated bucket of cheese balls, smelled it, and uttered the following words: “Cheese doesn’t go bad, does it?” It was a year full of great memories, stupid moments and a lot of fun - though a lot of it was lost in the flow of keg beer and punch from a giant red bucket.