Visions Of Terry Funk

Yesterday, I had a business lunch with some colleagues. We met with two investment bankers and their group’s communications director at a nice restaurant in the World Financial Center not far from our office.

The lunch went well. We chatted amicably, the conversation was pleasant and the food was fine. I asked a few questions that were in keeping with the flow of conversation and everyone left in as pleasant a mood as possible.

But for some reason, while I was dutifully making eye contact and nodding my head and trying to concentrate on the things our lunch guests were telling us about the state of today’s financial markets, I couldn’t help but think about Terry Funk.

Terry Funk is not a journalist or investment banker, but a professional wrestler. You might know him better from some of his movie appearances. I first became acquainted with his work as a pre-pubescent wrestling fan watching the WWF on Saturday afternoon television. Terry Funk was also an early champion and big help to the original, independent, ECW, which made me love wrestling again.

He is more than 60 years old and has retired from pro wrestling several times. Although he has been wrestling since the 1960s, he is considered one of the originators of “hardcore” wrestling, and has left a trail of broken tables, dented chairs and bloody barbed wire in his wake.

So while the people on the other side of the table were explaining the industry verticals of their firm’s unique investment banking platform, all I could think about was Terry Funk battling the Sandman and Big Stevie Cool in a three-way dance, only to face Raven; Or Terry Funk battling Sabu in a barbed wire match. Then my thoughts drifted to how Terry Funk could crash through one of the nicely set tables at the restaurant, whether the dining area had a high enough ceiling to do a proper ladder fall, or what Terry Funk was doing at that exact moment.

I’m not exactly sure why my thoughts drifted to Terry Funk, but I have some ideas. Maybe it’s because Terry Funk represents a great artistic ideal. He has given his all to a part of show business that has chewed up and spit out more famous superstars, he has the respect of his peers and die-hard wrestling fans everywhere, and has done some great work doing what he loves.

Perhaps my brain was telling me to do as Terry Funk would do. Not kick my coworkers and the investment bankers in the face, put them in a sleeper hold or poke them with a branding iron. Follow my dreams, dedicate myself to doing what I love and let the chips fall where they may.

Late last week the company I worked for announced that everyone in the company whose pay had not been cut already was getting a pay cut. The pay cut goes into effect this week. At the rate things are going, I may get a chance to follow some of my crazy dreams.

But I won’t wait around for that. I’ll try to follow my dreams anyway, go down life’s road with the idea to go for it, try for things and not lead the conventional life. Maybe I’ll fail, maybe I’ll succeed. Maybe I’ll get to meet Terry Funk.

City Of Strange Encounters

This past Tuesday evening, I wound up using a branch of my gym that is in midtown, near Carnegie Hall. It was about 8:30 at night when I left the gym and started walking to the A train.

I had crossed Broadway on 57^th Street and was continuing west when I noticed an older woman stopped and began walking alongside me. I thought nothing of it at first, I figured she happened to discover she was heading the wrong way and was simply anonymously going about her life like me and 8 million other people. Then she spoke to me.

“Excuse me,” she said in a very pleasant voice. “You remind me of someone who used to work around here.”

I remained pleasant in return, and told her that I was not the person she thought I was. I have never worked in the midtown area.

“You remind me of someone that used to work around here.”

“No, it’s not me. Sorry.”

“Are you Irish? Of Irish-American decent?”

I am, but didn’t respond to the question because I don’t want to discuss all things Irish with strange women on the street.

She continued, “I live very close by, if you care to come over.”

“No thank you,” I said. She stopped and turned away as I continued walking to the subway.

Was I just propositioned by an elderly prostitute? I thought to myself as I stoically walked away. This woman was old enough to be my grandmother. She was neatly dressed; this was no bag lady or escaped mental patient. Maybe with our aging population and downturned economy, the elderly are selling their bodies to pay for what Medicare doesn’t cover. Maybe she was an eccentric million-heiress who wanted to bed a younger man, and if I had followed her home and done the deed she would have sent me on my way with millions in untraceable cash.

My real thoughts on this strange invitation ranged from religious fanatic to crazed lunatic to just sad lonely old person. She may be all three, but she was most certainly lonely and old. Unfortunately, the person who does accept this elderly woman’s invitation for a visit will probably not be a benign hurried commuter.

Loneliness is a big part of life, even in a city teeming with millions of people. The woman is one I’ll probably never see or hear from again. I will likely never know her name or who she was or when and how she dies. I only hope she finds the help she needs if she’s mentally ill or some companionship if she isn’t.

One Year On

Spring is a time when one feels like celebrating life. Things are in bloom, the weather is getting warmer; it’s the traditional season of rebirth and renewal. There is some point every year around this time when a warmer breeze of air carries the hint of encroaching pollen, and you can say to yourself with confidence that spring is here and feel happy.

But a year ago this month, two people I knew passed away, and it casts a gloom over this normally cheerful season. It has been a year since the world lost Russell Lewis and Elizabeth Quilliam. Neither one was a blood relation, but I lost two members of a larger extended family.

Russell Lewis passed away first. He was the father of Melissa Lewis, a good friend and ex-girlfriend. I visited him regularly for the several years I dated his daughter Melissa and even a few times since. He was from area of Pennsylvania outside of Scranton and lived in the area most of his life, except for a few years when he served in the U.S. Navy.

What I remember about him most, besides his being very quiet, was his enormous generosity. He was always there to help his children and grandchildren. He even gave a car he had to his ex-wife when hers broke down. I know no one else in the world who has given a car to an ex-wife without a court order. He shared a small home in a trailer park with his brother. He grew tomatoes in a small garden outside his home, and his daughter took great pleasure in eating the small cherry tomatoes straight off of the vine.

I would often go with Melissa to meet him at a nearby bar: either the East Bay Tavern in Lake Winola or Sidelines in Factoryville. Almost inevitably, he and Melissa would begin to play pool. Not being any good at playing pool, I would instead call their pool games the way a sportscaster would, using my bottle of beer as a microphone. While I think Mr. Lewis won the plurality of their games, they were pretty evenly matched, but no matter. I would call the game in Mr. Lewis’ favor no matter who was winning. He liked that and got a chuckle out of it, which only encouraged my one continuously bad running joke for at least two more years.

Often when Melissa and I would part ways with him, he would tell me, “Take care of her.”

Mr. Lewis’s death was sudden and unexpected. He was diabetic and had a sudden drop in blood sugar that resulted in a stroke. I’ve been back to the Scranton, Pennsylvania area a few times since his death, and I still have a nice time, but my trips there will always be incomplete without visiting Mr. Lewis and watching him play pool with Melissa.

Melissa will never eat a tomato, play pool, or look at a bottle of Coors Light the same way again. For the first time in 16 years, Melissa didn’t return to Pennsylvania last year for her camping trip to the World’s End State Park in Pennsylvania for the Eastern Delaware Nations Pow-wow. It was Father’s Day weekend, and she didn’t want to be in Pennsylvania for that. She always made sure to visit her father that weekend.

There are some things I won’t ever look at or think about the same way again: pool games, cigarette smoke, baseball caps with ‘NAVY’ written on it. He was the only person whose second-hand smoke I enjoyed. He smoked cherry-flavored swisher sweet cigarettes. That sweet smell will always make me think of Mr. Lewis.

Three weeks after Mr. Lewis passed, Mrs. Q died. Mrs. Q was Elizabeth Quilliam, better known as Betsy, was my friend Steve Quilliam’s mother. The Quilliam house in Madison, Connecticut was the central headquarters and meeting place of my group of friends in high school. It’s where we gathered for New Year’s Eve, July 4 and any other holiday. There was never a question about where we would meet up or hold a party; we would always meet at Mrs. Q’s.

Like Russell Lewis, Mrs. Q was selfless, and spent her time helping others. She was a second mother to a lot of us, a great friend and parental figure who gave great comfort to anyone and everyone she spoke to. I count myself among her many secondary children, who got a lot of encouragement, help and sound advice from her. When friends were having a tough time at home or in some cases had lost their homes, Mrs. Q took them in. I have lost track of the friends of mine who were able to move into her basement when things got tough for them, just as I have lost track of the times I found comfort in talking to her when it was difficult speaking with my own parents.

At her funeral, one of my high school friends got up and spoke. “I count myself among the many second children of Mrs. Q’s and found life at her home better than at my own,” he said. “Though I’d ask those of you who know my parents not to tell them that.” He was speaking for a lot of us. “Of all the times I was over at Mrs. Q’s, I can’t ever remember a time she was doing something for herself.” 

Once, around Christmas time, Mrs. Q decided to treat her friends to some Christmas caroling. She gathered those of us that were available at her house, put us in her van, and brought us around to people’s homes to sing Christmas carols. Everyone was glad to see us, and it is one of my fondest Christmas memories. Mrs. Q’s van had a headlight that was out, and while we were driving home, she was pulled over by a police officer. “Oh, hey Betsy,” said the cop as he approached her window, “I didn’t know that was you.” Mrs. Q at that time worked for the town and was in charge of finances, so her signature was on every police officer’s paycheck. They chatted for a while, and she had us sing a Christmas carol for the officer before he let us go, without a ticket of course.

Every time I met or saw Mrs. Q, even when she was suffering from the rapid advancement of ALS (aka Lou Gehrig’s disease) that would eventually take her life, her focus was never on herself. She was always asking about others. The last time I saw her, she was no longer able to walk or talk, but she used a keyboard to ask me about how I was doing, whether I was still living near the The Cloisters, how I had met my new girlfriend at the time.

After Mrs. Q’s funeral, friends and family gathered again at Mrs. Q’s house. We ate and drank a lot and had as good a time as possible, but Mrs. Q’s house just isn’t the same without Mrs. Q.

Neither Mr. Lewis nor Mrs. Q got to enjoy a retirement that was well overdue. Each sacrificed for their children and grandchildren. Mrs. Q retired to help take care of her granddaughter shortly before she was diagnosed with ALS. Mr. Lewis was planning to retire within a year of his death. They were each robbed of a retirement they richly deserved.

Both Russell Lewis and Elizabeth Quilliam lived modestly, and their public monuments may not reach beyond their grave markers. But by the measures of the lives they lived and the love and loss they left behind, Mr. Lewis and Mrs. Q are two of the most successful people I have ever known. I miss them very much. 

Taxes And Teabags

This past Wednesday was April 15, the deadline in the U.S. for filing one’ taxes. This year I expect to get money back from both the state and federal governments, which is a nice change of pace from the past few years, when the tax authorities of both the state and federal governments seized my tax returns (without due process of course).

This year, April 15 was marked with “Tea Party” protests around the country, to protest the high rate of taxation, excessive deficit spending by the government, and other tax-related ills. I did not take part in any of the “Tea Party” protests. They seemed a co-opted coalition of libertarians and mainstream conservative Republicans that are right to oppose the Obama administration but don’t have a unified platform to be effective.

Despite what many of my conservative friends and fellow libertarians believe, Obama is no socialist. You don’t get over $800 million in campaign contributions (without federal matching funds) if you’re a socialist. More outrageous than any of his spendthrift economic policies—which are really only slightly more left-leaning versions of the previous administration’s policies and at least grounded in plausible economic theory—is his forgive-and-forget outlook on the crimes of the Bush White House. Yesterday, Obama ruled out prosecuting Bush administration officials involved in approving the torture of suspected terrorists. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss…

But what these protests did achieve was greater recognition of the term “Tea bagging.” Tax protesters brandished tea bags and even planned to sling tea bags in the direction of the White House. Of course the tea party theme is a reference to the Boston Tea Party, a great patriotic act of protest in pre-Revolutionary America. But tea bagging—the practice of lowering one’s scrotum on an unsuspecting victim—is now more widely known. For that, I am very thankful.