There’s a scene in It’s a Wonderful Life when George Bailey, seen for the first time as an adult (Jimmy Stewart), arrives to pick up his suitcase to go off and see the world. He’s delighted to find that his old boss picked out the nicest one in the shop for him. George looks at the briefcase, says “My Old Boss” and whenever I hear that line, I think of the people I’ve worked for and with throughout my life, whether it was a corner stores in a small town, food vendors in concert venues or movie producers.
I began this piece about a month ago when I found out a former employer, Paula Weinstein, Hollywood producer and activist passed away. About a week later, one of my oldest and dearest friends in the entire world passed away, Kristian White, whom I’ve known since 1981. In between the two, Lou Gossett, Jr. – whom I never met, but long admired, also passed away.
My father passed away eight years ago last week and yesterday was his 78th birthday. It’s interesting to me that some people would say that yesterday “would have been” his birthday, as if someone’s death negates their birth. A birthday doesn’t cease because someone is no longer living. And the older I get, I can argue that just because someone is no longer living, doesn’t mean they’re not still alive in one way or another. Perhaps I’m splitting hairs, but I googled the definition of dead and it reads “no longer alive” and the definition of alive reads “living, not dead.” This seems awfully reductive to me.
I had a dream about Kris two nights ago. Kris loved baseball. Of course, my friend has been on my mind lately, but I dreamt of him in a glowing white “White Sox” uniform straight out of Field of Dreams. He was caught in a run down between second and third base at the old little league field where we grew up. The sun was shining brilliantly, a beautiful day. Kris beat the run down and got to third, there was an error that knocked the ball loose, and Kris took off and was called safe at home.
I had a dream about my friend who loved baseball, who just passed away, and he was dressed in glowing white and was safe at home. I’m not making this up and even if I was, I’ll freely admit that might be some of the laziest symbolism in the history of the written word. But I’m just dictating what happened. On some level I guess that dream came from me, but it felt like it came from somewhere else.
We cry when people pass away and wonder if we will ever see them again. I saw my friend last night. I hadn’t talked to Paula since her birthday in November, but I had a dream about her a few month’s before she passed away. When I worked for her I would often drop her off and pick her up from the hair salon. As mundane as it sounds, the dream I had was a bit more colorful, but that was the general gist of it. As bizarre as the dream was, she was generally fine and same as she ever was. The point here was that at the time of the dream, my old boss was probably the last thing on my mind, but like so many other folks I’ve come across on my half century earth, she turns up from time to time.
When Lou Gossett, Jr. died, I saw it as an opportunity to finally show my 12 year old son, who’s become quite the film buff, An Officer and A Gentleman. It’s now my 12 year old’s favorite movie. He loves it more than Star Wars or Marvel or anything Disney has cranked out ever. He now sings “Up Where We Belong” every time he takes a shower and, forgive the further digression, we recently started watching re-runs of The Wonder Years and he didn’t understand why I would cringe at the HULU cuts of the opening titles. They don’t have the rights Joe Cocker singing “With a Little help from My Friends”, so there’s someone covering it and it’s just not the same. It wasn’t until my boy heard “Up Where We Belong” that he began to grasp the full genius of Joe Cocker.
Joe Cocker passed away about ten years ago.
What is it they say? You die three times? When you breathe your last breath, when your family buries you and the last time someone says your name.
What about the ripples? Once upon a time Gene Simmons was pitching a reality show and swung by Paula’s office. He brought with him a box of KISS memorabilia. Her assistant at the time asked if I wanted the box of goodies as Paula had zero interest in it. A box filled with Kiss memorabilia from Gene Simmons himself. You know who would love something like that? My friend Kris. So over 20 years ago I sent him this box of KISS stuff and he was thrilled. Also, and no less important, I met my wife at Paula’s office. Paula deciding to continue to have a company after her husband, Mark Rosenberg passed away had to have been a tough decision. He died a few years before I started working there, which at the time seemed like so many more, because I was only in my 20s and when you’re in your 20s, six years seems like a really long time. I knew that loss was difficult for her when I worked for her, but with each passing year of my life, as I grew older, I came to realize that I had no idea in the world how difficult. Occasionally during that period, people spoke fondly of Mark and also of “Paula and Mark” – I never saw them together and never actually knew Mark, but I certainly felt like I did. And that office was where I met my wife, some of my closest friends, and also gave me the opportunity to meet some other people that are considered legends and “celebrities”.
As my father used to say, some of those people couldn’t carry Kris’s jock. Or my dad’s for that matter – at least in terms of character. Talent, wealth, prestige, all well and good. But my dad, Kris White. You had to know them to understand. I’ve talked about my dad in these pages, but I certainly haven’t done him justice. I’m certain I’ll discuss him again. And this entry isn’t meant to be a eulogy or tribute to Paula or Kris or Dad (or Lou Gossett, Jr. for that matter). Respectfully, all of them deserve better than this, but briefly, Kris lived to 50 and accomplished more in those 50 years than some do with 80. And I’ll freely admit that’s a little terrifying, because right now, I consider myself far closer in accomplishment to the jock-carrying challenged than to Kris, my dad, Paula and Lou Gosset, Jr. for that matter. And I say this by my own metrics in terms of what I still hope to achieve, but recognize that it’s getting late in the seventh inning.
Still I’m reminded of when I played little league. I couldn’t hit the side of a barn, but I was a decent base runner and because I was a lefty, for whatever reason it was harder for kids to pitch to me. Still, I desperately wanted to get an actual hit, so if I tried to, I usually struck out. Though as long as I didn’t swing, about nine times out of ten, I at least got on base. Again, I’m not making this up and it’s another piece of lazy symbolism I guess, but very early on, as long as I didn’t try too hard, I managed to say in the game.
I’m lucky. And grateful. Some amazing people have filled my life. I saw something recently about how sad it is that we say these nice things about people after they’re gone and they don’t get a chance to hear it. I’ve been fortunate, save for Lou Gossett, Jr. that I’ve been able to say certain things to people before they pass. I was able to chat with Kris before he passed away, I was able to tell him that I loved him. I was able to say the same to my dad, though I didn’t know it was the last time I’d be speaking to him, As morbid as it might be, I came to the awareness of at least that possibility quite some time before his passing, but, of course, I would have liked to have had more time.
We don’t live forever. At least I don’t think so. But I’ll say every single person that I’ve known and has died, I can hear their voice, see their face – Let me put it to you another way: There’s a slew living folks I know that are also not in the room with me at this moment. I don’t know if this is exactly Schrödinger’s Cat or Plato’s Cave or The Matrix or Jay’s Sleepy Mind, but what is it that Woody Allen said? “I’m not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” What ultimately bums me out is I don’t like the idea of being around when it happens to other people. I feel the spirit of others. I love and try to honor their memory. But damnit, if it doesn’t sting when this – thing, “death” – happens initially. But after some time, there’s that transition from living to memory. And what is memory? What is memory? What are dreams? I don’t have an answer. At least not tonight. I have an idea. And where do those come from? I would imagine a lot of this stuff and these people are in the same place. At least I hope so.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
C I P R I A N I 
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