March 3: "Teenager," Johnny Carson, Poetry

Billy Collins remembers what it's like to be a . . . 

Teenager

by:  Billy Collins

Even a branch on an evergreen

may take an unexpected turn

up, down, or sideways

and grow substantial

in some weird direction.

Yes, being a teenager isn't easy.  You're not quite a kid anymore, but you're also not an adult.  You're in this limbo where everyone is trying to tell you what you should do, who you should be.  I started college when I was 17 years old.  I didn't know shit.  

On my first day at the university, I lost my car for about an hour.  Couldn't remember where I parked.  I desperately wanted to be a writer, but my mother convinced me to major in computer science instead.  "There's a future in computers," she said.  And she was right.  However, my evergreen branch grew in a substantially weird direction--English, grad school, poetry.

I think most adults forget the kinds of pressures teenagers face.  Somehow, when you hit senior year in high school, you're supposed to have it all figured out--education, job, career.  It was actually a little paralyzing for me.  I spent many a sleepless night watching Johnny Carson and reading The Catcher in the Rye.  

As the father of teenagers, I've tried to give my kids guidance based on my own struggles as a young adult.  I'm happy to report that neither of my offspring want to be poets.  My daughter is now a year or so away from medical school, and my 15-year-old son is talking about cyber security.  I don't see many sonnets in either of their futures.  And that's okay.  Like any parent, I just want my kids to be happy, no matter what.

Do I regret the weird direction my life took?  Absolutely not.  I will never make a six-figure salary.  Nor do I anticipate a day when I won't have to worry about car payments or mortgage payments or income taxes.  There's a chance I will never see a cent of the money I've paid into Social Security.  (By the way, that's my money.  Not the government's.  If Social Security is done away with, I expect a VERY LARGE check from the U. S. Treasury for all the money they owe me.  But that's the subject of another blog post.)

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I want my kids to chase their dreams, no matter what.  I'm the son of a plumber, and I became a poet.  

What do the children of saints become?  

Saint Marty can't wait to find out.

May 22: Cracking Jokes, Terror, Interview

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then.  The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones.

Scrooge, confronted by the ghost of his dead business partner, is terrified.  Instead of pissing his nightshirt and fainting, which would have been my reaction in the given situation, Scrooge uses another defense mechanism:  sarcasm and humor.  He makes fun of Jacob Marley's ghost, even taunts him.  Of course, Jacob doesn't take very kindly to Scrooge's barbs, and he soon has Scrooge cowering in his chair.

I'm very much like Scrooge when I find myself in uncomfortable places.  I use humor to deflect my anxiety.  The more nervous I am, the funnier I try to be.  Thank goodness, I am blessed with the ability to think pretty quickly on my feet.  I use this talent in the classroom, in social situations, in more formal events (like poetry readings or panel discussions), and in interviews.  If I start making fun of myself, I'm nervous.

I have to do a podcast interview this afternoon.  The interview is to promote the 2012 U. P. Book Tour, of which I'm a part.  I'm supposed to talk about the Book Tour and myself, and, I guess, attract/entice people to come to the events I'm appearing at.  In the process, I'm also supposed to be witty and charming.  It's kind of a tall order.  Needless to say, I'm a little nervous about the whole prospect.

The only bright side is that the person doing the interview is someone I know (the brother of a old friend of mine).  That makes the process a little less nerve-wracking.  That's not to say I won't be a stuttering mess, but at least I'll be stuttering mess with someone I know.

I'm currently dosing myself with caramel-infused brownie, which does absolutely nothing for my jitters except provide a pleasant, sugar-coated caffeine buzz.  I contemplating eating two or three more of them.  If I do that, I'll either sound like a coke-addict during the interview, or I'll slip into a diabetic coma and miss the entire thing.

Saint Marty needs to find his inner-Johnny Carson today.

Heeeeeere's Saint Marty!