Here We Go and There We Went

Life Lessons, Reflections

Je suis Charlie
Recent events in Paris attacking freedom of creative expression remind me all too well of my own battle for freedom of expression and creativity. I was studying writing at the University of Tampa, and while my experience is benign compared to Paris, it is a lesson in the ongoing fight for creative expression.

At the first class we were informed that we should choose who we wanted as teammates because the main project required a team of four students to write a sitcom pilot. Our final assignment at end of the term would be a table read of the script in front of the professor and our classmates. (Should you ever have occasion to try such a creative exercise, I assure you that you’ll come away with a great respect and awe for writers who write such scripts on a weekly basis. And, after my experience in the class, the fact that they often do it in teams is incredible to me.)

I recall thinking that it was a good thing that I could be part of a team because I didn’t want to face such a daunting creative challenge alone. It was a thought I would come to realize demonstrated the utmost ignorance.

What began with friendship, even great affection, ended with visualizations of unspeakable, delightful horrors: As I looked across the table, I could clearly see in my fellow Spartan’s eyes what they were seeing as they looked at me, and my thought was, Right back attcha bitches. I saw my head exploding and the contemplation of ducking so as to avoid the splatter of flesh and blood and bone fragments hurling about the small conference room. And I reached the point of inability to look at any of the three “ladies” without my imagination seeing breasts exploding like over filled balloons, eyeballs popping out and flying around free of gravitational influence while fingers suddenly elongated and launched like rockets while chasing flying eyeballs around, spurting blood throughout the room like spent rocket fuel.

The girls, now with faces featuring large, hideous pinkish red holes where eyeballs once presided, were in my imagined reality, now reaching for their eyes with bloody, fingerless knops while their jaws melted as though figures in a wax museum engulfed in flames. Finally, during our group sessions, my mind would snap reluctantly back to listening to these prissy shits with their petty observations and complaints. In retrospect, I can see that the seeds for the growing animosity were planted on the first day we met as a team….And grew faster than maidenhair fern in Miracle Grow.

My own not so bright idea came when I heard that I must become part of a group. I decided immediately on a proactive approach. I reasoned that my powers of observation would allow me to choose which were the most studious and creative and go after them. Yeah, right.

Perhaps I was subconsciously thinking that, as the oldest student in the class, I would end up like the awkward child on the playground and get chosen last, if at all. Somewhere in the dark corners of my mind I could hear the professor: “Isn’t anyone going to choose poor Vernon?” Then comes the voice from somewhere in the back of the room, “Who wants the old fart?” Stinking thinking was sealing my fate.

My first choice was a girl I knew — an actor who also worked as a waitress at a restaurant I frequented. Surely she would bring the spark of an artist and creative energy with her. Her enthusiastic acceptance grew my confidence. The next two picks were largely via process of elimination. I crossed off students already taken, those that were talking while the professor was speaking and those texting under their desks. I left the class after my team was approved by the professor convinced that I had the best team and the creative energy would flow red-hot and study like lava. Yeah, right. The days of rocket fingers, flying eyeballs and melting flesh were just around the corner.

Our first group meeting began with expressed consternation about the agony of coming up with an idea for a sitcom pilot. My “partners” took their turns bemoaning the great pain and brain drain from idea hunting. Not a single idea from any of them. My naïve anticipation that I would have to compete for my own idea, was just one of my misconceptions about this soon to become torturous collaboration. I had, it seemed, picked a group too lazy to pick their own noses.

Apprehensive as I was to pitch to them, their failure to put forward any ideas bolstered my belief that my idea could rock and get us an “A” in the class. I had already pissed off some prim and proper students by using artistic nude photos as the focus of my ad campaign for the advertising writing class; it was an ad campaign for magazines. I knew there was a chance that my sitcom pitch would kick up some more dust. However, it was my turn, so I jumped in the pool not realizing there was no water to cushion the hard impact to come.

Actually, I had written “Here We Go” as a short story and, I reasoned that we could convert it to a sitcom script and fulfill our assignment. That was the easy part of the pitch. Now came the part that I knew could derail the train to a glorious script breathing life into my characters: George, Evie and Consuela.

The premise of my script idea assured that it would be a pilot for adult oriented cable T.V. Yes, I was willing to collaborate and compromise as part of a team. But I wanted to make sure everyone understood that the one compromise I would not make was the premise. That was my baby and I either wanted to follow through on it or go with something else. I emphasized the point in my pitch.

I explained my idea in detail: Evie and George are newlyweds but she is already five months pregnant on the wedding day. Apprehension and anxiety over impending fatherhood, coupled with his frustrating relationship with a strong-willed mother-in-law, Consuela, fosters hilarity in dialog and action. (I take a deep breath at this point in the pitch because here it comes…here we go.)

The concept derives from the T.V. show I Love Lucy. Lucille Ball and her husband, Desi Arness, were creative geniuses. However, they fought battles with the censor of the day over content. Silly things such as not allowing them to be in one bed together. In those days censors were powerful squashers of creativity.

As I was taught to do by writing professors, I posed a “what if” question. What if the censors were sent home? What if they weren’t allowed any authority? Of course, today this is reality: It’s called cable television with many shows leaving censorship in the dust. So I decided to write a story loosely based on “I Love Lucy” without censors. My short story was born.

I pointed out that, obviously, this concept would involve explicit material – sexual situations and offensive language.

“If you have any problem with that then let’s not do my script. I have no problem with going for something different; let’s hear your ideas. I just don’t want to get in this one and then have any problems with the premise and what it entails; this will be a sitcom for adult cable T.V. audiences. I do not want to change that.”

I was about 90% sure that they would respond to my little speech with a thumbs down and let’s move on with our search.

In retrospect, I should have known there was no way they would reject my pitch. Of course not; this was their chance to avoid doing the work of coming up with an idea. Something I would come to realize they didn’t have the chops to do even if they had the energy and work ethic. The vote was unanimous and work on “Here We Go” began.

We were several weeks along – much too far to turn back or change concept. I was doing almost all the writing with the actor chiming in with an occasional half scene or two. George, Evie and her sharp-tongued mom, Consuela, were alive and creating comical mayhem with censorship left behind. The scenes were delightfully rude, crude and worthy of cable T.V.

My teammates murmured to each other and occasionally offered up a corny line here and there for consideration. I was not expecting Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Lucy or Desi, but I was disappointed when the girls didn’t even seem to try. They apparently became bored with the whole process and decided they would turn our meetings into bad soap operas. But a soap needs a bad guy…I was the bad guy.

One particular meeting felt very different right from the beginning, and not in a good way. It was obvious that some sort of meeting had occurred without me (I suspect the actor initiated this mutiny of Spartans). They agreed that I was “going too far” with the adult nature of the script. They did not want to just modify the script but to take it decidedly in the direction of mainstream, primetime. Exactly what they knew from the start I did not want. Pearl Harbor had been bombed; war declared.

The group began to challenge me at every turn. At one meeting the actor presented a performance worthy of a bad night at community theater. She adopted the most sanctimonious tone. With all the self-righteousness she could muster, I was lectured about the need for standards in content and concept.

Fuck you, I thought as she droned on.

She spoke of her righteous standards as an actor:  She would never, for example, do a nude scene, she claimed.

Okay, so stay in your waitress job and do your overacting in some small, dingy, half- ass production of Music Man or some such shit.

Writer, Stephen King, points out that when one decides to write, that person leaves polite society behind. Of course he is referring to the genres of writing for adults. But writers who have been labeled as unfit for reading and had their work banned and burned (Yes, even right here in the good old USA that my dad fought for) is long and proud: Maya Angelou, Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut and so many others. And, for that matter, the list of great actors who have appeared in nude scenes as part of artistic expression is likewise long and distinguished.

Je suis Charlie.

The animosity was open and the body parts hurled around the room, and the wax figures melted before my eyes (I still had mine). I reminded the “genteel ladies” that they had agreed to the concept and content at our first meeting. Deaf ears fell off and flopped to the round, dark wood conference table like red fish leaping from the aquarium.

“There’s no need for a ‘fuck you’ in this scene.”

“Why are you using the word ‘penis’?”

“Okay, I replied, “Let’s change that to big, giant goddamn dick. How’s that?”

“Why did you decide the baby is a boy? You didn’t check with us first.”

“Well, I had a choice and decided that you’d no doubt like a dick. But allow me a rhetorical question: What the fuck difference does it make to this story? If you want a pocketbook there instead of a pecker, by all means slap it in there.”



Let us pause for a moment and take a look at part of the opening scene. Just to give you an idea of what this war was all about:








Okay, okay. I gottcha, girl, I




Put me down, George. You’re going

to drop me and this baby. Put me

down. Put us down, damn it.



It’s okay, I gottcha, I gottcha.



No you don’t. Put me down!





Okay, my lovely bride, here we are.

Home sweet home. Now, let’s start

consummating this here marriage!



Just put me down, I think we’ve

done all the consummating we’re

going to do until after this baby




Whoa! Come on honey, it’s our





No Jodas conmigo, tu bastardo


(Don’t screw with me, you horny



You know I don’t know what that




It means “Don’t screw with me, you

horny bastard.


It sounded better in Spanish.


I kept writing the way I planned. They made a few changes just to be doing something, and with a priority to bug me. I countered with more content sure to make Larry Flint flinch and provide more material for hot-tempered arguments. Might as well stir the pot and have some fun watching their hissy fits.

And then it was time: Our table read date arrived. Our nightmare war was almost over. As we took our seats at the long table in front of fellow students and the professor, the actor was reading Evie, and I reading George, so we sat down next to each other. To my right and sitting at the end of the table, was a Spanish-speaking student I had recruited with the professor’s permission to read Consuela. Another member of the team stood at a podium with the assignment to read description. The remaining team member was content to do what she had done all along…nothing.

The actor seized on a chance to take a jab before the adventure ended. We were well taught what a table read is. Readers are expected to put forth at least some acting qualities, but it is a read and nothing more. Yet, just before the reading began, she turned to me and with as frigid and indifferent a tone as she could muster said, “You know the scene where George and Evie kiss?”

“Yes, I wrote it.”

“We’re not going to really kiss. Do you understand?”

Tits exploded, eyes leaped out, fingers flew off.

Well, what about the scene where they have sex? Aren’t we going to jump on the table and go for it? You moron bitch from hell. I’d rather kiss a cottonmouth moccasin.

“Yes, I know.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.” The booming voiced professor said in his way to quite the class and bring us all to attention. He was well aware of the arguments between us and had stayed out of it other than to declare that there would be no censorship in his class. (The true God bless him forever.) I suspect he was secretly enjoying the conflict.

The actor had one last whack to take at me:

Just as I was about to begin the read, she suddenly stood up and announced to the class: “We want to apologize in advance for the vulgarity.” She resumed her seat with a dramatic flair and satisfaction that was more than I could bare. Ever mindful of the professor’s presence and desperately wanting an “A” I had strained to keep my wits and use restraint. But now I could not hold myself back. I stood quickly just as she was placing her butt back in the seat as if it were her broom stick.

“No we do not apologize for creativity. If you’re offended, too bad.”

The actor spoke with the authority of a stern parent: “Sit down and shut up.”

I looked directly into an impatient expression on the professor’s face and sat back down.

As soon as we began, everything changed. The actor read with the conviction and talent of a seasoned performer. Her voice rolled out over the mesmerized audience. Her clean articulation was complete with all the right pauses and groans in all the right places. I instantly knew that I needed to hyper focus on George’s antics and frustrations. I had to raise my game to match her. No question, she made me better.

I did the writing, but this girl brought those characters to life in front of the class. From the timing we displayed, the almost musical delivery between us, you would never guess the intense disdain that lurked below the surface. Our Consuela seemed likewise lifted: Her Spanish spiced with a tanginess that held our audience like a just caught fly ball.

When we were done, and the applause abated, I heard the voice of the professor say simply but firmly, “Good read.” The “A” for the assignment was solidified and I was on my way to graduation. I turned to our Consuela and profusely thanked her, waived to the teammate who read description with perfection. Caught in the moment, I then turned to the actor and said,

“Good job.”

“You too,” she said without looking at me.

We turned our backs to each other and walked away.

I’ve said all that to say this:

Never apologize for creativity.

Je suis Charlie



Notes on Suicide and Mental Illness

Life Lessons, Reflections, Suicide
My parents on their wedding day

My parents on their wedding day

On this day, January 20th, in 1959, my mother, at age 30, killed herself. She waited until her 13 year old daughter left for school and then took her 3 year old daughter to a neighbor. The neighbor readily agreed to watch little Kathy while her friend got some rest. No one would see Tina Kelly alive again.

My parents had divorced. Originally, Mom had taken me with her to one of her sister’s homes in Alabama. I was 2 but I can still recall the long train ride with its novel excitement and my mom’s distant look as she fed me a tuna ( or was it egg?) sandwich. A few months later she inexplicably brought me back to Florida and left me at the home of another one of her sisters. After a time my dad came and got me. As we drove to Lakeland where I would spend the rest of my childhood and most of my adult life, he explained to me that I would be living with him from now on.

I did see my mother again while she was still alive a couple of times. She had married again and was still distant but not unkind to me. I recall the sound of her voice, the cigarettes she chained smoked and the sight of the fire engine red lipstick that she wore as it rubbed off onto the cigarette filters. I can remember seeing her cry for no apparent reason and my on sadness that I couldn’t begin to understand.

That January morning she took time to write a note saying good-bye and apologizing. Towels were placed under doors and at the windows of the small bungalow on St. Petersburg, Florida’s Delmar Terrace. She put two pillows on the floor next to the gas range, turned on all the burners, put her head on the pillows and went to sleep. Her then husband was on a ship and she was not found until her daughter returned from school to find her mother dead on the floor.

Years later I begged my sister to tell me about that day. I thought I needed to know and that my sister needed to get it out. My sister, as it turns out, had developed a hatred for Mom and, for that matter, everyone else. She told me without emotion that, at the time, she had a pet bird. She came home, finding the place filled with gas and looked in one direction, seeing that her bird was dead and looking in the other direction, seeing her mom dead on the floor. My sister then looked down with distain at her mother and said, “You bitch, you killed my bird.”

In my 8 year old mind, it was some sort of holiday when I was allowed to miss school to go with my dad to my mother’s funeral. On the ride from Lakeland, he tried to prepare me: “Now you understand that your mom is going to look like she’s asleep. She’s not. She will not wake up so don’t try to wake her. Someday you’ll understand all this better.”

I was a small child, even for 8. As I walked up to the gray casket, I had to grab its edge and stand on my toes to see her. My dad tried to pick me up but I protested. It would be many years before I learned why her casket was completely open, exposing her entire body dressed in a pink or pale blue lacy nightgown that covered her all the way to her ankles. Her hair was meticulous, as was her makeup…complete with that fire engine red lipstick. Her toes were exposed showing carefully painted toenails to match the lipstick.

Why was her casket open that way instead of the usual “waist up” view? Many years later, as I recounted this event in my life to my then wife who is an RN, CEN who worked for many years as an ER nurse and pretty much saw and heard it all, she explained the likely reason for the scene to me.

She explained that when women commit suicide, it is common for them to take the time to make themselves up as if they were going to some social event. They want to be found in a state of beauty. This was probably truer in 1959 than today, but I don’t know.

So it is that someone had decided she should be exactly as she had wanted…everyone should see her as she was found on that hard kitchen floor, ready for her graceful exit.

My mother had a long history of mental problems: depression and probably bipolar, based on my dad’s description of her as often appearing as though she were two different people: cheerful and joking to rock bottom depression in a heartbeat. She was a devout Christian and had reached out to the minister of the Calvary Baptist Church in Clearwater, FL. that she often attended. The minister, according to Dad, in all his righteous glory, had instructed her to pray and seek forgiveness for her sins. That is all.

I don’t blame that misguided minister for my mom’s death. I just blame him for being a dumbass. Even then, as backwards as so many things were, there was professional help that could have helped her, if that person she reached out to had known how to respond to such a sick person. If someone needs help and you want to pray, go ahead and pray. In the meantime, get them some professional human help in this life right here, right now. The God you profess to believe in wants the professionals to provide the help they have been given the true God given ability to provide.

Her son was left behind with some of the same challenges she had. I have fought my own battles with depression and suicidal thoughts. But I have also sought and received some help along the way. One of the greatest ongoing problems in our society is mental illness and our collective failure to deal with it in a proactive way without stigma. Hopefully, that will be a next great frontier for us, as a society, to confront and conquer. It takes a village.

R.I.P. Ernestine Kelly. I know you did the best you could to make it through.

Testing the Power of Intention

Life, Life Lessons, Reflections
I put it to the test

I put it to the test

I was presented with the opportunity to move to a brand new apartment building for seniors that is twenty-two miles from where now live – a much better apartment and location. Of course, I knew I could not move now. Financial and other difficulties were too great at this time. However, I decided to go talk with them anyway. They told me that I had less than 30 days to move in or they would go to the next person on the list. I told them to keep it and walked out.


By the time I reached my car, I decided to test what is known as the “power of intention” as taught by Dr. Wayne Dyer.  I turned, looked at the building and said out loud, “I’m going to get that damn apartment.”  My move in day is next week.

I made a few important discoveries that I wish to share with you:

  • Sometimes if you declare that you’re going to test the forces of nature, they declare that they’ll test you back. An incredible number of obstacles were thrown at me to prevent my move. I kept thinking of that great song from the civil rights movement: “Ain’t  Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around”
  • The power of intention is spiritual. It reaches its greatest potential to help you when you connect with your spiritual reality through prayer/meditation
  • But suppose you’re not into the spiritual aspect. No worries: just meditate on connecting to the peaceful place — the joy inside you — and the forces of nature will rally around and embrace you and your intention. Try it
  • The power comes to your assistance as long as you’re on your correct path. If I had declared that I was going to be a linebacker for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, the same powers that helped me would have made my life miserable
  • The old saying is really true: God and nature reward action. I wanted the forces of nature to help me, so I had to realize that I am also a force of nature. I did not just pray and say that I was going to put it in God’s hands. I took action

The list does goes on, but I’ll stop there and hope that this information is helpful to you.




Clearly Now

Life, Life Lessons, Reflections
Photo I took of Dr. Dyer during taping of television show at CNN in Atlanta

Photo I took of Dr. Dyer during live television show at CNN in Atlanta

In honor of the book I’m reading by Dr. Wayne Dyer titled, I Can See Clearly Now, I’ve decided to write at least one essay on what I now see clearly about my life; it seems a good thing to do at age 63. In the book, Dr. Dyer, who has been popping up in my life for about 20 years now, nonchalantly states that he now has leukemia. So, I begin with a prayer and positive thoughts in his direction. And I acknowledge the influence he has on me. It is regretful to say that I have failed many times to follow his teaching, but I try. If I did not try, I know my life would be diminished.

Like most, I’ve experienced so many lows in my life because of a combination of illness and my own mistakes. But is it coincidence that Dr. Dyer has shown up so often at my low times? Recently, I hit yet another low and, what a surprise, I hear the title of his new book on one of his PBS specials. And, just by happenstance, it is the same title as one of my favorite songs. So, while visiting the library, I find his book listed in the system but there is a waiting list; of course there is.

After I got myself on that list, I knew it would take a very long time to get the book; it always takes a long time to get a new, popular book. But, for some reason, in very little time I find myself with it. I am grateful. As I read it, I discover it is, in part, about his contention that there are no coincidences. None.

While in Atlanta, I think it was 1998, I attend a live TV production at the CNN Center called, “Talkback Live.” The guest that day was Dr. Wayne Dyer. I was very happy for this coincidence because his book titled, Your Erroneous Zones had meant a great deal to me. On that day, I studied him. Not just while the camera was on him but especially when it wasn’t; such as during commercial breaks.

Now, understand that I have worked in broadcasting and watched many people having attacks of the nerves just before the microphone came on. When a camera was involved, it was often worse. I’m talking here about seasoned performers. Even while the mic or camera was on, some would find it difficult to articulate. The fact that I had this problem myself probably prevented me from getting better at it and helped cut my broadcast career short.

But Watching Dr. Dyer that day, I was amazed at his calmness. It was as if he were happily reclined on a beach. If you watch him on any of his lectures, you’ll see it too. Let me tell you it is not as easy as he makes it look to be in front of  an audience and be that calm, that serene. It proves to me, like nothing else could, that he practices what he preaches about achieving this level of confidence and ability to handle whatever is.

So, Dr. Dyer, I salute you and thanks for all I am learning from you. I don’t know much, but I know you were meant to be a part of my life. Thank you for fulfilling your destiny in a way that means so much to so many.

What I Can See Clearly Now

Photo of the place I spent so many Saturday and Sunday afternoons during  my childhood. And the site of one of the most shameful events I ever witnessed.

Photo of the historic Polk Theatre in Lakeland. A place I spent so many Saturday and Sunday afternoons during my childhood. And the site of one of the most shameful events I ever witnessed.

I can see clearly now that I had to grow up in a totally segregated, ultra-conservative, fundamentalist, fear and hate dominated Lakeland, FL. I had to see black citizens beaten outside the Polk Theatre, where I spent so many weekends as a child escaping my very undesirable childhood, just because they wanted to go in and see a movie.

I remember many wonderful things about Lakeland. Even struggling through a bad childhood did not keep me from enjoying many great, rewarding adventures in that town. And I salute the progress that Lakeland, like the rest of the South, has made.

I had to see black protesters thrown out of my uncle’s little restaurant, located on the same street and just a few miles north of the Polk Theatre, because they dared to enter and sit down for service. I had to live through never having the opportunity to get to know a black person my own age as I grew up, and hearing all the racist rhetoric super charged by the civil rights movement.

This was so important. It taught me what I needed to know to reach that time when I was 19 and had an epiphany. I began to realize that I needed to go on a lifelong journey of discovery to decide what believed and not what those around me believed; I realized I had never really bought into all the hateful crap.

I did not believe one race was better than the other, or that men were superior to women, or that gay folks are not entitled to equality, or that anyone goes to a mythical place called Hell. I did not know all that I believed (and I still don’t), but I knew I was going to become a reader and thinker and decide for myself.  Also, I knew I was going to begin by standing on commonsense, logic, reason and truth. So, that’s what I’ve done without one minute of regret or second thought.

I am so grateful that I overcame my own childhood racism induced by my environment. As an adult I have stood up and spoken out for the cause of equality for all people. Anyone would find more than my share of mistakes in my life, but believing in racist, sexist, nonsense as an adult has not been one of them.

I can see clearly now that this was important. I don’t know all the reasons it was so important, but I can tell you this: When I think of what I saw and, even at times participated in, and then how I changed, I sure am proud of me. My gratitude for all that the decision to be a progressive and to support equality has brought to my life is beyond measure.