Seuss

There’s this scene in “Second Time Around” (season 10, episode 18) of “Murphy Brown” where Michael McKean sings a version of “Me and Mrs. Jones” (only, “Me and Mrs. Brown”) to Murphy. It’s an earworm I hate because there is no prayer of finding the full version of that. The closest I can come to is a snippet from the series wrap party reel, which is one of my more prized possessions, and even that is maybe only 15 seconds.

Hi, my name is Seuss, and I am a confessed “Murphy Brown”-a-holic. Need proof?

That’s from my Sweet 16 photo shoot. The hat and sweatshirt were given to me by the PR person for “Murphy”, and the sheets splayed out in front of me next to my vintage (still have it) Apple PowerBook are copies of the newsletter for The Official (it really was) “Murphy Brown” Fan Club, of which I was president. I sucked at it, but whatever. It existed.

Yes, I have always, always been a geek. After all, there is no other way for accounting for my answer when my father asked me, just after my 14th birthday, what I wanted to do that summer. “I want to go see the set, Dad. I want to go to “Murphy Brown”.” I mean, really, what 14 year old does that? This girl, it seems.

And, lo and behold, through my father’s amazing powers of making things happen, it happened. I gawked as we pulled on to the Warner Bros. lot on August 15, 1991. When I realized the black car parked near the door to the sound stage was Candice Bergen’s, I memorized the license plate number because it was the best way to hold on to the memory since we weren’t allowed cameras. When we hit that moment of blindness from going from full California sun into the pitch black of the bowels behind the sets, I didn’t register who it was I ran smack into until my mother leaned down and said, “You DO realize who that was, don’t you?” and I knew for her to say that, I had nearly taken my absolute idol, Candice Bergen, OUT.

It was a closed set, as they were shooting the Season 4 premier, “Uh-Oh, Part 2.” The previous cliffhanger of a season finale was when Murphy held up that infamous blue stick to the camera, and all the talk of the summer it seemed was, “Is she really pregnant?” The speculation was wild and rampant: was she or wasn’t she, was it Jake’s or Jerry’s, and, biggest of all, would “Murphy Brown” pull a “Maude” – would she have an abortion? But my dad’s connections were apparently bigger than the closed set, and we somehow got there, both for Thursday’s rehearsal and Friday’s shooting.

I don’t think I hardly closed my mouth. There was too much to take in. I’d never been on a set before, and the moment I set foot on one, on that set, of all sets, I was hooked. Bobby Pastorelli was the first one I met. We shook hands, and I was still too stunned that I was shaking hands with Eldin to even think to be awkward. Pat Corley was wandering around. Grant Shaud and Faith Ford, who were both absolute sweethearts, came up and talked to us for a bit as we sat in the front row of the audience, the only people who weren’t in on every little detail that swirled around us. Ned Davis, the, at the time, I believe, First Assistant Director, took us under his watch and introduced us around. Charlie Kimbrough came up, an absolute polar opposite to the stiff Jim, and spoke softly and with such charm that I couldn’t help but love him. At some point, I know I stole a part of a cinnamon bun off of an abandoned plate. The cinnamon buns were the size of the plates, but I stole a little bit and got a little giddy later when I realized it had been Faith’s.

The morning went by in a haze as they rehearsed, the scenes earning smatterings of laughter from the crew, who had surely already heard them dozens of times, and the three of us. At that point in my life, I had adopted this absurd, insane take on my brother’s laugh that caused me to sound like a donkey when I really got going. In the middle of one particular scene, where Murphy tells her co-workers that she’s pregnant, I full out laughed for the first time. Everything stopped. Candice Bergen, my idol of idols, turned toward where we were sitting, not 20 yards away. “My GOD, what a laugh,” she said with a smile. Then everyone laughed, myself included. As lunch approached, someone, probably Ned, invited us to join them in the commissary. My father, in a move I shall never forgive, politely declined, but we were invited to return to the set after the break.

Leaving the set, I was heartbroken. Not just because my father had friggen turned down lunch with the cast and crew in the commissary, but because the one person I wanted to meet more than anything, I hadn’t actually MET. Sure, I’d nearly knocked her down. Sure, she’d called out my laugh. But I hadn’t been able to tell her how much I adored her, how much I adored her father, having grown up listening to old time radio shows like “Bergen and McCarthy.” We ate lunch at some restaurant in the Burbank area – I have NO idea how we found the place, but I know for a fact we were the only straight people there – then returned, having snuck by security on the way out without returning our car pass (which I still have).

When we were on the lot, I decided I would go up and tell the PR person who had handled us early on (who was not, I should mention, “Murphy”‘s PR person – she was out that day) that I had to meet Candice. I left Mom and Dad in the car and went up ready to fight for justice. I’m pretty sure what I did was make an ass of myself in the hallway, but I got nowhere. “Don’t worry, we’ll just go back to the set,” my dad said when I returned to the car post-tantrum and teary. We parked not far from the sound stage again, dodging the ubiquitous golf carts, and went back inside, a little better prepared for the damn-bright-day-light-to-pitch-black transition. Dad pulled Ned aside while Mom and reclaimed our seats at the railing of the audience.

A few minutes later, Ned walked up. “We’re on our way to pre-shoot a bit on another stage, so she doesn’t have much time.” Before I could register the meaning behind his words, wearing her infamous horrendous sage green sweatsuit, hair pulled back, not a lick of makeup, there stood Candice Bergen. And I…could not say a word. I don’t know how long I stared, jaw dropped, as my mother and father talked to her. “Wow, you came 3,000 miles just to meet ME?” she laughed, then turned to me and looked up into my face. “Susan,” she said, obviously trying to snap me out of it. “Susan. Susan. Susan.”

I did eventually speak. I have no idea what I told her, but I remember showing her a picture of one of my hamster, who I’d named Murphy after she tried to bite the male’s (Miles) foot off. She laughed at the story and took the picture, asked if she could keep it. Duh. When I asked for her autograph, I realized I’d left the call sheet the others had signed in the car. Quickly, someone provided another one, and she autographed it, “To Susan – Thanks for visiting. Next time bring your hamstera!”

There’s not much after that burned into my brain from that day. I don’t believe we stayed on set much longer, since there was quite a gap in the rehearsals for the shooting of the dream sequence I later learned would open the show. We did go back on Friday for the filming, which was by then the icing on the cake. I was in heaven, and my love for production was sealed.

Shortly after our return home, I would befriend the show’s editor, Tucker Wiard. Two years after that, we’d return to L.A., not to visit the set but the edit bay. I got to push a button, watch how the pieces all came together, follow a script as he cut. I was in love.

“Murphy”‘s last air date was the day after my 21st birthday, which was fitting, because I was allowed to toast with champagne (read: get drunk enough to deal with the sadness). No, it hadn’t been the same for the last couple of seasons, but it was my show, and it was the first show I truly mourned when it left the airwaves.

So now perhaps you can understand why today, when I belatedly learned that “Murphy Brown” is returning to the air on Encore Classic, I jumped around and danced and shrieked like a fool in my living room as I set the DVR. “Murphy Brown” was a classic in the minds of most, but to me? “Murphy Brown” sealed my fate. Because of that show, I fell in love with production, with the passion required by so many to create what we eventually see on our screens. I am beyond giddy that I have a chance to watch it all again. And maybe, just MAYBE, when they get to Season 4, Episode 1, “Uh Oh, Part 2,” I’ll pull Earl into the room, pause the recording in one specific place and say, “You wanna hear how mama used to laugh? Listen.” Because it’s there.

A friend of mine today shared an article, “The Heartbreak Kid”, on Facebook. It talks about shielding kids from sadness, like the clichéd story about a mom going out to find an identical goldfish so her kid doesn’t get sad about the old one dying. But for me, it goes so far beyond that.

One of the few things I pride myself on as a parent is my ability to talk to my child about the tough things, things some other parents are afraid to talk about, refuse to broach with their kids. I think an important precedent was set for my daughter by the way we handled my grandmother’s death shortly after her 4th birthday. We let her guide the way, answered her questions honestly (if not with a little softening), and, yes, she saw my grandmother in the casket…after she asked if she could. Touched her hand, even, then ran off and drew pictures to put in the casket with her. When she asked why we had to bury her, we simply explained that putting her “special box” in the ground was our way of telling God we were done saying goodbye, that He could come and take her to heaven to be with Him. “But how does He get her body out?” she asked. “He doesn’t,” I remember saying, “but He takes her spirit, all of her love and what makes her Nana, and gives her a healthy body in heaven.” “Does she look the same in heaven?” I laughed, “Probably younger. She’d want to look younger.” “Can we come out here tonight and wait and watch?” “No, baby, it happens faster than you or I could ever see.” And that was that.

The day of Newtown, I sat her down in her room and explained to her what had happened. A very sick man took a gun into a school and started shooting. I told her the teachers stood between him and the kids, that everybody did everything they could to protect the kids, but some kids still died. It was very sad and very tragic, and I knew it had to be scary. She admitted it was, but then she asked questions, and I answered as best I could. I did not promise her it would not happen at her school, but I reassured, with full conviction, that all of the adults at her school would do everything in their power to protect her.

We spent hours talking about September 11, about Kennedy’s assassination, about the Boston Marathon bombings. She asks, I answer, then I ask her questions to make sure she understands. I check in and ask her what I can do to help her feel safe if she says she doesn’t. I reassure when I can, but I don’t intentionally shield her from it.

So why am I so open with my (now 8 year-old) daughter? After Newtown, I remember a mother making a comment about how she wanted to protect her children’s innocence a little bit longer, so if we chose to talk to our kids about what had happened, please tell them not to talk to her kids about it. I look at it differently. It’s not about shielding my child as a means to protect her innocence to me. For me, it’s about being honest with her and reassuring her and showing her that she can ask me anything, anything, as a way to keep someone else from stealing her innocence. When I talk to my daughter about something scary, I’m controlling the story she hears. It’s the Rule of Firsts. If I tell her what’s going on, answer her questions about it, reassure her through it, make sure she understands what she needs to understand, she’s far less likely to be worried about it when some kid on the playground brings it up as a way to be mean and scare other kids. And if she hears that kid on the playground, she’s more likely to come back to me for clarification.

Life sucks. Unfair, sad, tragic things happen. Almost every day of our adult lives we are accosted with something that makes us question, if just for a moment, our faith in humanity or goodness. We’re faced with situations that scare the hell out of us, but we learn to put it in perspective and, hopefully, not let fear rule our lives. Maybe it’s because I was blessed with parents who were as honest with me as was appropriate, but I can’t imagine anything more frightening than hitting a certain age and realizing, oh my God, how naive am I?

I want my daughter to grow up knowing that bad things happen, that bad people exist, and that when she encounters either and is upset, she has a soft, honest place to fall. For me, my mother is my reality check a large part of the time. I want Earl to go through this life knowing with every fiber of her being that my sole purpose is to support her in every way. For me, support is built on trust, and trust is built first on honesty. And it seems to me that there is very little honesty in changing the channel when she’s already heard the headline, pretending something didn’t happen, or putting her in a position of feeling like, “Well, I know Mom won’t talk to me about it, so I’ll go ask Franny.”

Because Franny, inevitably, will be full of it.

Look at this face.

Awwww. It’s such a sweet face, no? Such a teddy bear. Such a lover bug. Such an idiot.

That’s Quinn. He is, on occasion, for a few brief moments at a time, in possession of A Brain Cell. What do I mean by that? He’s a bit of a dingbat, but he’s a total cuddlebug, so we forgive him. However, the times at which he is not in possession of said Brain Cell lead to some funny stories such as this short one fitting a late night post on a weekend night. (Read: I am too distracted to write anything that requires thought because there is football on the TV.)

Quinn likes to chase his tail, and when he chases his tail, because it’s running away from him as he’s running toward it, he barks.

A couple of weeks ago, Quinn was chasing his tail. Chase chase chase, bark bark bark.

“Quinn, stop that,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the barking. He stopped for a moment, looked at me, caught a glimpse of his wagging tail out of the corner of his eye, and went back at it. Chase chase chase, bark bark bark.

“Quinn! Quit!” He didn’t miss a beat. Chase chase chase, bark bark bark, chase chase chase, bark bark bark, chase bark chase bark chase bark.

By this time, the chasing and the barking was starting to gnaw on my last nerve. “QUINCY! STOP! Geez, dog.” He sped up. Chase chase chase, bark bark bark.

“Quinn, quit that or, you’re gonna make yourself sick!” I got up to physically stop him, but, still chasing his tail in a tight circle, he worked his way under the dining room table, staggering from dizziness, out of reach. Chase chase chase, bark bark bark.

I growled, he continued, until finally:

Chase chase chase, bark bark HORNK!.

Yes, my dog, who obviously that day was not in possession of A Brain Cell, chased his tail until he made himself vomit. Under the dining room table.

Of course, this is why we have two other dogs. Before I could get back from the kitchen with paper towels to clean up the mess, it was gone. Gross? Yes. But handy? Definitely.

If there were a reality show called “Digital Hoarders,” I would be the haggard face under the titles of every episode because I am destined to be their poster child. Except I totally wouldn’t because a TV crew in my home? I’ve been in houses where TV crews have taken over, and I’ll pass, thanks. Unless there’s a LOT of money or at least a free new whirlpool/LCD swimming pool of a bathtub involved, in which case, bring on the crew! I’ll even provide craft services!

The past few weeks, I’ve been coming to terms with the fact that a lot of the hard drives on which I have relied for years – drives that have my entire digital history on them – are, in some instances, beyond their life expectancy, so I’ve been going through and consolidating and moving and culling.

There’s one big danger (or bonus, depending on how you look at it) to being a digital hoarder: You love, nay ADORE, redundancies. I took 12,000 pictures of my child in the first year of her life. Not only are those pictures still in their own iPhoto library on a main computer, plus on a hard drive currently sitting at my feet, PLUS on another hard drive in a closet upstairs, PLUS on a hard drive in the safety deposit box at the bank, there’s yet ANOTHER backup on CD in the safety deposit box. Add all of those together, consider the fact that I wasn’t always careful and sometimes photos were imported or stored twice somehow, and you’re talking about SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND digital files. And that is just the first year! Of photos!

Fortunately (or un), I’m not quite as obsessive about photographing now as I was then, but I still take a good deal of pictures, either with my iPhone or one of my little Leicas or the big daddy Nikon or my indestructible little Pentax. But it’s not just pictures, either. The other day I brought all of my music into a fresh new copy of iTunes to go through and cull out duplicates and organize. I have nearly 40,000 songs in there – every CD I ever owned, probably half of my cassettes, stuff I’ve bought in digital format! Plus TV shows. Plus movies!

Oh, I have gone way beyond gigs and gigs of data. I’m at TBs and TBs of data. I’m at, “Hey, TechPapa, can you point me to a reliable little 6-10TB RAID stack?” and “Will someone please buy my awesome elliptical off of the neighborhood marketplace so I can afford a 6-10TB RAID stack?”

All of the media aside, is it even necessary to mention all of the documents I have? I have papers I wrote in high school on my old Mac Classic that I’ve salvaged from 3.5″ floppies. Remember the other day when I posted about my creative juices once flowed in the past? I have the novel I wrote way back then. Two full-length scripts for Murphy Brown I wrote (one went to a contest, the other I just wrote because that was what I did before I discovered fanfic). I have all of my fanfic. I have several high school projects and writings, most of my college papers, my complete (required) musings from a Leadership class I once did, and monologues I wrote for acting classes. There are essays and stories and poems and letters and…just…everything. People, I even have every blog post I have ever written.

Now, I know, looking at the scant archives here, on this blog on this domain (are the archives even accessible on this one? I have no clue – I’ve been blogging long enough I don’t even care, really), you wouldn’t think there would be much. But since I started blogging, I’ve been at Blogger and TypePad (back in the BETA days!), used Graymatter, Movable Type, WordPress, and ExpressionEngine on at least [counts on fingers] 9 different domains. I’ve gone through ye olde blogger identity crisis more than you could possibly imagine (which I’m sure is why I’ve never had more than 300 readers – today I’m happy with, I dunno, maybe a dozen on a good day. But I’m good with that.). And I still have every. single. post.

Need proof?

DATE: 2/7/2001 01:29:05 AM —– BODY: Oh, the things you can think…and post on the Internet! Welcome to my blog, where I can entertain myself whilst hopefully entertaining you in the process. Words of wisdom at the dawning of this newfound technology? May the truth be with you. Now, it’s bedtime. ——–

Nice little Star Wars/X-Files hat tip there, no? Once a geek, always a…

But did you notice that date? February of 2001. 1:30 in the morning (insanely fitting). That was the year I took a huge risk (so worth it) and was in The Vagina Monologues at UTK, the year I finally got a degree (even if they had to waive a P.E. class because a P.E. would have put me over 200 credit hours which is, apparently, A Bad Thing), and, of course, just 7 months later…. Those archives give me just the tiniest glimpse of how we all were, or how things were through my eyes, before 9/11. I have all of that. I can go back and see that change happen. It’s funny and amazing and sad and wonderful to be able to go back and look at where I was, where I went, what I became, where I am now.

Which is really why I’m such a digital hoarder. It’s not about amassing “the most” or having the biggest collection. It’s because it’s the History of ME. It’s all there, splayed out among my writings, my journals, my blogs. I’m trying to cull and consolidate. Consolidating is easy. That’s just killing the dupes, essentially. But culling? Man, that’s a tough one. How do I let go of a memory I had completely forgotten until I came across that file or that photo or that song? How do you get rid of the awesomeness that is my college poli-sci paper “Linguistic Lambada and the Freedom of Speech.”

Ideally, I’ll get down to one workable copy and two redundancies on two separate, different aged drives. But I still have a LONG way to go. 20 years of digital history is a lot to go through. And as a digital hoarder, that’s one helluva jampacked 20 years.