10/16/23
Newsletter #490
The Crack of Dawn
It took me a very long time to come to understand that a key part of writing was not writing. I’d spend months working on a project, then go through two, three, four drafts, then suddenly that was it. It was done, unless someone wanted to make it, which was very rarely the case. OK, now what do I write? Well, a new idea isn’t often available just when you need it. And then, for 50 years of my life, I’d go into a panic followed by a bout of depression. That I didn’t turn to alcohol much, much sooner I find surprising. But, of course, alcohol, for most of us, isn’t the answer; it’s the start of a new problem.
I haven’t mentioned this much because there hasn’t been a reason, but I keep a daily journal and have since 1975. That’s damn near 50 years of daily journal entries. I write them by hand in yellow pads I keep in a durable, brown leather notebook given to me by Bruce Campbell as a birthday gift about 25 years ago. Every time I fill a pad, I tear out the pages, staple the multi-page entries together, then file them. The entire thing is enormous, and presently takes up two entire file cabinets. It’s a hundred thousand pages, two hundred thousand pages, who knows? I never look back at it. However, for almost every day of my life I have an entry.
If I go back to important dates, like, for instance, say the day John Lennon was killed – December 8, 1980 – I don’t mention Lennon’s killing. I wasn’t keeping a journal when man first walked on the moon in 1969, but if I had been, I would have failed to mention it. Instead, it would have been about my sore toe, or whatever.
So oddly, I know the exact day I started drinking and the exact day that I stopped.
I began drinking in earnest Sunday, October 23, 2006. I stopped on January 3, 2020.
I had recently returned from Bulgaria where I directed Stan Lee’s Harpies, which had not been a satisfying experience. I look back now and can only think, “Why did I care? What did it matter to me? My job was to deliver a movie in 18 days, and I did. They weren’t bitching, what was my problem?”
My problem was that before I went to Bulgaria, I had broken up with my girlfriend, Lisa. When I returned, I found that she had been busy on several internet dating sights. She announced that she’d found the love of her life. His name was Leon, and he was a Russian automotive engineer who lived a half mile from her. Had I been thinking clearly, I’d have understood that she was having an early misunderstanding of internet dating — she was immediately in love, but after a few dates, Leon dumped her. Then, being the classy gal that she is, she stalked him for a few weeks, just sitting in her car in front of his house.
What I didn’t realize then was that I had another half of file drawer worth of journal entries to go with Lisa. In the next six years we would get back together, then break up twenty times. She ultimately did find herself a second husband (I was the boyfriend in between husbands) and he’s everything I’m not. Tall, stable, has a good job. He’s a nice guy. Much nicer than me.
But on Monday, October 23, 2006, I began drinking with intent. I had waited until I was 48 years old to really start drinking. Until then it was not only not an issue, I was considered the designated driver because I didn’t drink (I just smoked pot). That’s how Bruce remembers me – the guy who didn’t drink. When I did drink, I drank rum, which is a mistake. Rum is molasses; rum is sugar; rum is a headache. But I didn’t take drinking seriously and I didn’t know anything about it.
Then I was at the oddest horror convention somewhere I Kentucky; it’s like a dream/nightmare. We guests were picked up at the airport, then driven two hours to some small town. The convention was in an old motel. I was somehow teamed with Robert Z’dar, who was a strange figure. They gave us all bottles of whiskey in gift baskets, which was nice. Then my old buddy, Jeff Burr, appeared out of nowhere. He apparently lived somewhere in Georgia that very wasn’t far away. We sat at the outdoor bar of a live, working hotel that the convention had also taken over, that was next to the empty one. I asked Jeff if he drank whiskey and he said that he did, so I regifted him the bottle that was given to me. As I happily announced to Jeff that since my heart was broken, and I was an official maker of shit, it was my job to become a drunk. I thought it was funny. Jeff didn’t laugh, he sipped his whiskey and watched me drinking rum. He finally said, with his slight Georgia drawl, “If you’re going to drink seriously, you can’t drink rum.” I said, “Why not?” Jeff explained how it was made, that it was all sugar, and that it caused the worst headaches. I truly had no idea. I asked, “If I was going to ‘drink seriously,’ what would I drink?” Jeff said, “Vodka. Writers drink vodka.”
And so, I began drinking vodka. I began drinking like a drunk.
Meanwhile, recently, Jeff Burr stopped returning calls for the last four years ago. I would leave an annual, or a bi-annual message. No answer. Then he suddenly called me two weeks ago like we’d spoken the day before. And we had a terrific, two-hour conversation.
It turned out that Jeff was reading this newsletter. When I misspelled the production designer on Hercules, Mick Strawn’s name, which I spelled “Straun” (like James Clavell’s character), Jeff forwarded it to Mick, and we got back in touch. I hadn’t talked to him since 1994.
I came in two days ago and there was a text from Mick saying, “You probably already heard that Jeff Burr died. He was 60.” I thought he was my age, but he was younger. Apparently, he died in his sleep. I think it’s the way to go.
Goodbye Jeff. Thanks for the tip on vodka. You saved me a lot of headaches.
RIP Jeff ❤️