Untitled

This is the beginnings of something I am playing with:

The skiff dashed across coal black waters as the first stroke of light split the clouded morning horizon. The whine of the twenty horsepower Evinrude grew louder as it drew closer to the pass. The mangrove Islands came alive as a hundred birds unfolded themselves from their roosts, and turned to watch the four young boys approach in their weathered wood-planked craft. To the boys, who sat two by two on the boat’s bench seats, this was the best part of the day; the silver-grey world giving way to the purple and pinks of the sunrise, the engines vapors mixed with the cool salt air and the awakening of sea life both above and below  the water. They were only thirteen years old, but, like many boys living on the barrier islands of central Florida’s gulf coast in the early 1960’s, they were most comfortable being out on the water. One of the boys held the engines throttle arm with his right hand to steer. They all sat; leaning forward, arms tucked tight to their sides, eyes squinted, as they shielded themselves from the crisp, morning wetness. They swayed in unison as their boat negotiated the winding channel leading them between Bird Islands on the inside of Johns Pass. The skiff was running on plane, speeding along at full throttle, skipping across a small wake of a boat no longer in sight when it instantly banked and spun sharply to port. The stern slid powerfully and pushed a wave of water that rooster-tailed off the starboard rail. As the boat righted, and picked up speed, it looked to crash into the massive wall of mangroves directly in front of it. A dozen large seabirds sprang from their perches, frantically flapped their wings to take flight and two Great Blue Herons screaming AARRRAAHH, AARRRAAH! The boys never braced for impact, attempted to jump, nor uttered a sound…whoosh… they disappeared into the thick black tangle.

 The folks living on and around John’s Pass were of rough fisherman stock, Wallace McDuff was no exception. His face was well worn leather, his hands dried and cracked like a sun-baked day-old mullet. His lean six foot frame was taut with long sinewy muscle. He didn’t own a pair of shoes. If it wasn’t for his royal blue eyes he would appear unapproachable. People were drawn to those eyes, most often mistaking them for friendly but Duffy had no tolerance for strangers. He wasn’t a mean man just a very private one. He lived alone but the locals knew Annabel was his woman. His only friend was Blu, a six year-old hound mix who favorite hobbies were diving for crabs and procreation. Blu’s lecherous escapades were a continual topic of amusement for the folks in the Pass.    

By the nineteen sixties the fisherman were pushed out of the Pass by carnie styled merchants who were selling a false vision of the easy life living on the sea. By the time astronauts landed on the moon, the docks were used for charter boats and fleets of head boats sought after by the tourists buying their week of paradise. Grocers gave way to shell shops, bait and tackle shops became tourist traps selling stuffed baby alligator heads and cans of Florida sunshine. In the winter the parking spaces were filled with station wagons bearing a rainbow of license plates. Pasty skinned, oddly dressed plump people clumped about the streets with their fat sticky handed, brand new sailor cap wearing kids in tow. The renaissance of Mickey Mouse’s Florida was in full swing.

We Are Not Mad

We Are Not Mad

     Bill Gaines the publisher of Mad Magazine had a voodoo doll that he stuck pins into whenever an imitation of Mad Magazine was published. Gaines would tag the pin with the name of the magazine, and pull the pin out when the magazine failed. There were many imitations: Sick, Crazy, Panic, Nuts, Gag, and Cracked to name a few. When Gaines died in 1992 only one pin remained: Cracked Magazine’s. In 1952 comic book writer/illustrator Harvey Kurtzman and Gaines launched Mad Magazine. In 1958 some of the artists and writers who founded Mad split from the magazine and my  father Bob Sproul, who was publishing a number of magazines at the time, hired them and started Cracked. I was Cracked’s editor for most of the late 70’s and early 80’s. There is no argument that Mad was a revolutionary humor magazine during the 1960’s and early 70’s and Cracked a lower budget knock-off; but in the late 70’s Cracked redefined itself and attacked Mad’s domination of the industry. For the first time Mad began to copy Cracked, and Cracked set the pace in the business. Cracked never exceeded Mad’s circulation but we changed the marketplace; and as Mad sales shrunk Cracked sales soared. In the 70’s and 80’s Cracked Magazine did a better job than Mad adapting to a changing market, by targeting a younger audience, offering timelier product, and developing a sound circulation strategy.

    Developing a target audience is a critical component of successful publishing, and both Mad’s and Cracked’s would change and evolve over the decades. By parodying American culture Mad had developed an audience of teenagers, who were empowered by the hip, biting humor that poked fun at the establishment; and Cracked merely copied this formula. From the beat generation through the revolutionary days of the hippy culture, Mad embraced the counter-culture and became its irreverent voice. Cracked rode Mad’s shirt-tails and although profitable it failed to achieve Mad’s success. To separate itself from Mad, Cracked developed a less profane editorial policy. Where Mad’s editorial content would contain adult themes, Cracked banned references to sex, drugs or scatology (see attachment). While Mad continued to pursue an older more sophisticated market [sic], Cracked was appealing to the younger 8-12 year old. Although both Mad and Cracked were primarily a boys magazine, Cracked’s less raunchy, cleaned up style was beginning to attract a female audience. The parents of the preteen market did not object to their children bringing Cracked into the house and knew it was a safer alternative to Mad.  As the mid seventies rolled around National Lampoon, Saturday Night Live and the popularity of irreverent stand-up comedy (Bill Cosby, Richard Prior, George Carlin…) began to lure away Mad’s audience.

     Another important aspect of magazine publishing is putting a timely product out on the newsstand.  Both Mad and Cracked parodied hit movies and television shows inside its pages. Although both magazines often featured these parodies on the front cover Cracked was the first to do so exclusively. Mad would eventually follow suit and it became a contest of which magazine would have the hottest topic on the cover. This is where Cracked beat Mad out consistently. Cracked beat out Mad by five months with the movie Jaws, four months with King Kong, three months on the original Star Wars, and three months with E.T. It became a standing ritual in the Cracked magazine office to guess which outdated topic would be on Mad’s next cover. We developed contacts all over the movie and television industries to help us get our writers, artists, and photographers to view prescreening and publicity events. We often had the parodies written before the movies were even released.

    The final step in being a successful publication is developing a sound circulation strategy. Mad’s circulation began to peak in 1973 breaking the 2 million copies per issue milestone. At this time Cracked’s circulation was just crawling up to ½ million copies (4-1 sales ratio). At this time, my father took a huge gamble that could have bankrupted the business. We changed national distributors and gambled that we could go head to head with Mad on every newsstand. The investment to increase the printing and distribution this dramatically is huge. My father hired men throughout the United States to insure Cracked had priority newsstand positioning. He developed a strategy of slowly saturating markets with the Cracked brand, increasing Cracked’s issues to nine a year, when traditionally Mad and Cracked were eight. Additionally, he expanded our line of Associate Cracked Publications (Collector’s Editions, Annuals, Paperbacks etc…) until Cracked was publishing twenty three issues a year. By 1975 the sales gap between Mad and Cracked narrowed to 2-1 as Cracked’s regular sales broke one million and Mad’s dropped under 2 million.  In the 80’s Cracked fine tuned its circulation to allow for the greatest profitability and although both Mad and Cracked didn’t see the sales figures they saw in the 70’s only 240,000 copies separated the two in the winter of 1985.  

      My father sold the magazine in 1985, for a few reasons. First, crack cocaine was in the news during the time and “Cracked” had a new, less than desirable connotation. Even if it was a confused, unconscious decision for a parent not to buy crack (ed) for their kids, it was a realistic threat to the magazines future. Secondly, the entire magazine industry began to see a drop in profits as sales fell off and the cost of printing and distribution rose. Third, he had built a valuable, profitable business and although he could “see the writing on the wall” it sold immediately and he spent the rest of his life either hanging out at his beach cabana or being dragged around the world by my mother. Cracked had a great run during the mid 70’s and early 80’s and although we never surpassed Mad in sales we still did a better job targeting and satisfying our audience and developing a sound circulation strategy.

Not Running From Anything

 

6 Feb 2011

Not Running From Anything

     It springs from the scraggly bushes of Old Man Crump’s house on the otherwise well kept, tree-lined street of Harvard Avenue. It is, at once, a dog, a lion, a beast leaping over the sidewalk and into the street; it darts toward my three year old daughter who bends to pick a flower from our neighbor’s lawn. Instantly infused by adrenaline, I scream and move to save my baby from a certain horrible mauling. Damn, my legs won’t work--I can’t run--I’m moving in slow motion--no, not now--the beast pounces--I scream-- gasp and wake up. Oh crap, not again; heart pounding, covered in sweat, I take a drink of water and turn on the bedroom TV. As I settle down I close my eyes, shake my head and grunt. The reality is; I would not have reached her anyway. I literately, can’t run. I had both my hips replaced a few years ago and I have never run again.  Not that I ever was a Forest Gump type of runner anyway, and looking back at my misspent youth I probably ran away from more than I ran to. However, now I find myself in the unenviable position that if attacked; I have to deal with it. I am too crippled to run away, so I would have to stay and fight. I don’t want to fight anymore; I am just too damn old. I think about buying a gun but in the mean time I simply smile more often and to a larger number of people. My road rage personality is softening as I place my handicap placard on my rearview mirror. I don’t think I am turning into a coward; I hope my disability is merely helping me become a better, more tolerant person. It feels strange to now be considered the nicest guy in the neighborhood. I probably was in consideration anyway, because it can be a very scary here on Harvard Avenue.

Ignorance, Arrogance and Total Incompetence

6 March 2011

Ignorance, Arrogance and Total Incompetence

The ignorance, arrogance, and total incompetence of the political leaders in the United States is what makes me angry. My blood pressure soars as I write this-- I feel the familiar throbbing above my eyes as the passion of my convictions scream in my head. The ignorance leading to the war in Iraq, the futility of war in Afghanistan and the reality of our kids being killed for these misguided causes boils my blood. The arrogance to dismiss the existence of climate change and cave to corporate pressures should be grounds for impeachment for all politicians.  The total incompetence of our so-called leaders to allow the Banksters and Wall Street-Pirates get away with looting, raping and squandering our economy is reprehensible. It is fucking treasonous. How far do we have to fall before we get off our collective butts and demand somebody do SOMETHING! God, Sarah friggin’ Palin, Newt friggin’ Gingrich, have a chance to be President?! What can we expect from a country that voted more for American Idol than they did in the last election? Thank God for the invention of Xanex; then again--that’s Big Pharma. Don’t even get me started…   

Finding Bluto

Woodrow and I made good roommates. We both had an appreciation for the simple things: a cold beer, an edible meal, semi-intelligent conversation, a cold beer, a good book, a horny woman, cold beer, good smoke and of course a cold beer. We also both had recently regained our freedom after years of tortuous incarceration. Woodrow was just released from federal prison after serving five years for his part in a failed attempt to import one hundred thirty five thousand pounds of marijuana and I was granted a divorce from my first wife. These were happier times, and gave us due cause for celebration. We shared a one room apartment in a triplex on North Redington Beach whose walls were so thin I blew my nose one morning and they raised the Park Boulevard drawbridge. North Redington Beach was an elitist beach community where the million dollar homes were no match for condo-mania and all the quaint motels on the beachfront were torn down to makes way for the condo-dwellers who never quite came. Of course there was our half block slum-like turf that served only to keep the bar across the street in business. It is here Woodrow and I met we most of our neighbors. The two other apartments in our complex were rented out by a couple of the more colorful characters on the beach. Apartment two was occupied by Sandy, a sixty-something year-old alcoholic who spoke with a Scottish brogue. She was born in Wisconsin, was of German descent and had never set foot in Scotland but that had absolutely no effect on her brogue. Apartment three was rented by Old Bill, a retired Navy Chief, who hated wearing his false teeth. He always had a pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth and he couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. He had sailed all over the world, his thin saggy skin stained by indistinguishable tattoos. He told tales of exotic people, doing exotic things, in exotic places; and we decided some of them were probably true.There was a picture behind the bar of Old Bill as a sailor taken in 1951. He was bigger then, muscular, had the pipe in his mouth, a sailor cap on his head and looked exactly like Popeye the Sailor. You wouldn’t have recognized him if you didn’t know his eyes. He had that-I know shit that would kill a lesser man-amused squint seen only on old sailors, Martial Arts Masters and Catholic priests. You could tell he didn't like being old. He had little patience or tolerance for the know-it-all tourists and big mouth drunks. He wouldn’t argue or raise his voice he’d simply snarl a few curmudgeons’ riffs and mumble his way back home. We all knew he was very sick though we didn’t know what was wrong with him. He never let anyone drive him to the VA but he’d take the bus more and more frequently as time went on. He was a tough old man and just wanted to enjoy a beer and a good laugh with his friends. Woodrow and I were glad to be amongst them.

Woodrow and I went fishing offshore whenever we could. We could make a few hundred dollars in a day or two and even more if a card game broke out. One morning, after a two-day overnighter on a friend’s commercial boat, we returned home and decided to throw a fish-fry for our neighbors. As Woodrow and I carried the cooler from Rusty, his beater pick-up, a primordial rush slapped us and we froze in mid-stride--a gasp-- slow exhale--we lowered the cooler-- I turned to face Woody and we locked eyes knowing something bad had happened. We knew what it was too. Shaking my head I asked anyway; "Damn Woodrow, what's that smell?”

There is a difference between being questioned by police as a witness, from that of being questioned as a suspect, especially when they are investigating a murder.

To be continued--

The A&P Rebellion

The A&P Rebellion

     John Updike’s A&P (Updike 589-593) is a short story narrative rich in colorful description and testosterone-driven- coming-of-age-conflict. Sammy, the protagonist, is full of the wit and insight of a young man who finds himself both amused and challenged by the hypocrisy of early1960’s society. His actions at the climatic end of the story are stimulated by a youthful infatuation, and perhaps lust, for a half naked girl in a grocery store; but he does, at once, stand up against authority and plunge (somewhat reluctantly) into a world filled with fear and uncertainty. Updike’s use of metaphor mixed with copious amounts of social and sexual images; written in the casual language of a young man’s first person point of view, sets the tone, defines the characters, and develops a theme of anxious rebellion.

    The tone of this short story is set immediately as Sammy, starts the narration with-- “In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits” ( 589).The statement draws the audience in by sounding like the first line of a joke, followed by the image of near-naked girls walking into a store. The term “in nothing but bathing suits” sounds more sexually charged than if he merely stated: in walk these three girls in bathing suits. “In nothing but…” expresses nudity first, covered in only a bathing suit. This language develops a much more titillating, and amusing tone.

    The characters in the story develop as Sammy observes the actions of the girls and the reactions of everyone else in the store. He continues to define the girls by using the colloquialisms of a boy his age: “She was a chunky kid, with a good tan and a sweet broad soft-looking can” (589)… she walks “as if she was testing the floor with every step, putting a little deliberate extra action in it” (590). Sammy describes the other customers as “sheep”, “house-slaves in pin curlers” and “scared pigs in a chute” (590, 593). Throughout the story these metaphors and descriptions not only develop the characters he is describing, but develops his own character as well. We find Sammy to be an intelligent, observant, witty, libidinous young man with an emerging skeptical, perhaps sardonic, attitude toward authority and society.

     Sammy’s rebellion against authority, in what seems like a split decision to quit his job, is actually a theme that developed throughout the story.  Sammy shows discontent with his job by his lack of respect for the customers and his store manager (whom he describes as a “pretty dreary” (592) corporate stiff). He is not too happy about the rest of the world either. The story takes place in 1962 the year of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The stress of these times, as the U. S. faced off with Russia, was great as evidenced by Sammy’s retort about Stokesie thinking he will someday be manager: “maybe in 1990 when it’s called the Great Alexandrov and Petrooshki Tea Company” (591).  These are important clues to what Sammy will eventually do. The girls represent a way out for Sammy; an escape from the mundane lives of those that surround him. Sammy really doesn’t expect the girls to praise him, and carry him off for the courageous deed of standing up for their honor. Sammy is simply done, over it, fed up. He decides not to play it safe and accept the crappy life that stretches out before him. It is a rebellion. He makes a statement. He sticks with his commitment to the rebellion even though he knows it will take him down an anxious road.

     John Updike wrote the A&P using the voice of nineteen year-old Sammy, who is growing up with the anxiety of the unknown. As he observes the world around him, he questions the integrity and worth of the society he is being groomed for. When Sammy’s coming of age crisis hits him he deals with it by rebelling against authority. Updike uses metaphor, descriptive social/ sexual images and Sammy’s casual language in the first person perspective to set the tone, define the characters and develop the underlying theme of an anxious rebellion.