7/29/23
Newsletter #411
The Crack of Dawn
In 1977 when we were 21 years old, me and my friends here in Detroit were a veritable Super-8 film factory. The films started off at 5-10 minutes, then slowly graduated upward until they were feature length films. By 1977 the films were getting more sophisticated and complex, and coming in at 30-45 minutes. Bruce and I were making The Final Round (Bruce was co-producing and co-starring; I wrote, co-produced, directed, and for the one and only time, starred) with the whole gang here in Detroit. Simultaneously, Sam Raimi, his brother Ivan, and Rob Tapert, were making The Happy Valley Kid in East Lansing where the three of them were attending Michigan State University. Me, Bruce and Scott Spiegel would drive up to MSU on weekends.
Of the many universities here in Michigan (I attended the University of Michigan and Eastern Michigan University), MSU is the largest, and back then was the biggest party school. MSU in 1977 was a gas. Magic Johnson was on the college basketball team. People partied like it was 1979. So, we shot Sam’s movie all day, then went to a film screening on campus that night. They were showing a couple of episodes of Star Trek (which was already ten years old and considered to be camp, nostalgic crap). It was Friday night, the auditorium was packed, many people were drinking beer, and the screening quickly devolved into screaming comments and insults, as well as beer cans and popcorn being hurled at the screen. Sitting in the front row was me, Bruce, Tom Sullivan (the FX guy), Ivan, Rob, Sam and Scott. It was mayhem, with beer cans and bags of popcorn sailing over our heads hitting the screen, and people talking or yelling. Having seen both episodes, I could care less. Anyway, one idiot kept screaming obscenities as loud as he could, and finally Bruce decked him. A bunch of the guy’s friends jumped on Bruce, then all of my friends joined in. Only Tom and I sat there, sadly shaking our heads. It was all over in a few minutes. The lights came on and the grappling stopped. Bruce was under the screen where a guy had been kicking him. I went over and helped him to his feet. The rest of our guys came over, then we all left the theater through the exit door next to the screen, and our departure brought on a big round of applause.
I don’t know exactly, but maybe six or eight years later we were all at a party, and I began to tell that story. I said, “We got into a silly fight at MSU during a screening.” Sam cut in correcting me, “We didn’t get into a fight. You sat in your seat.” I said, “Yes, I did.” Sam continued, “So don’t say that we got into a fight. You weren’t part of it. You’re a coward.”
I was aghast. Did he just say that? What the fuck? Well, it was the middle of a party and Sam just walked away. I stood there with my face flushed and my ears burning. I’m a coward? My first inclination was to just beat the shit out of him right there, and I have no doubt that I could have. Except that he was my buddy Ivan’s little brother and lived a block from me. I was honestly ready to just tap him on the shoulder and sucker-punch him . . . but I didn’t. No. Instead I would carry his horrid little accusation, “You’re a coward,” in the back of my mind for the next 30 years.
Briefly, I got into a bunch of fights before I was 20. I won all of them. I attribute this entirely to having taken both boxing and wrestling lessons. Fine, I’m Macho Man. I’m not. Most of my fights lasted for two minutes and ended with me getting my opponent into a headlock. This strategy worked a half-dozen times. However, once I turned 21, I didn’t get into any more physical fights. When I was a child, I spake as a child. Now that I’m a man, I’ve put away my childish things.
Still, deep in my psyche somewhere there was this little asshole Sam accusing me of being a coward. And from 25 to 55 I had no circumstance to actually find out. Of course, I’d been in thousands of yelling matches where tempers got hot, but no fights. And somewhere deep in my psyche I was slightly fearful that maybe Sam was right, although I had no evidence of that.
I got my first DUI in 2015, when I was 57 years old (I was 0.01 over limit, for whatever that’s worth). I got the hanging judge, Judge Kimberly Small (her election slogan was, “Think big, vote Small”), who lives a half a mile from me here, and she gave me the maximum, ten days on a first offense. I served my time at the Oakland County Jail, two miles up the road. Oddly, even though Oakland County is predominately white, the jail is filled with predominately black men. Think of that. And most inmates are under 35. I was put into what is called an “8-man cell,” except that it holds ten men. The cast was ever-changing because prisoners come and go, but basically it was 9 pissed-off young black men and me, who at nearly 60 at the time: balding, grey-haired, a white guy, who sort of looked like the judge who put them in there, in some way.
And so, five times in seven days (everybody gets three days off for good behavior), I was confronted face to face, nose to nose, with a completely freaked out – and often ripped – young black man with their hand balled into a fist ready to punch my lights out. I handled all five incidents the same way. Smiling, not shaking or even agitated, I said, “The first one is free. Go for it. Take your best shot. But remember, there’s a bored, itchy SWAT team out there waiting just for this. You don’t get a second shot; they will take you away to K-block with the crazy people.” And in all five confrontations, the guy backed down. It certainly wasn’t from fear of me, it was just plain old good sense.
However, all five times I returned to my bunk thinking, adrenalized and thinking, “Hey, Sam, fuck you! I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a coward.”
I’m not holding on to any old grudges. But you want to bet he forgot about making that comment five seconds after he made it, 40 years ago? I’m the poor schmuck who held on to it.
It’s raining like a motherfucker out there. Good. I have a bunch of Yucca plants in front of my house that are about to bloom the second time this summer. Drink the rain, then bloom again.
I don't know what you're referring to.
How come I missed that one ?! Well, that's interesting. It seems like Sam was tougher that I though he would be. He almost looked like an angel with his baby face. Never judge a book by its cover...