Michael D. Gaylord | Alright Already...

Look at Life - City of the air 1964

Tue, 11 Jun 2013 09:54:41 -0400

Look at Life - City of the air 1964:

An excellent “Look at life” video clip from The Rank Organisation dated May 1964 about air travel in England from Heathrow Airport featuring BOAC and BEA.

First In-Flight WiFi Experience

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 17:38:00 -0400

Got to remembering my first in-flight WiFi experience a few years back on American Airlines. I was so excited that I contacted the first friend I could find on terra firma. I exclaimed in the chat window, “Greetings from 38,000 feet!!” Then I paused for a moment as I recalled that this friend just happens to have a foot fetish. My next line was, “Sorry — didn’t mean to seduce ya.”

The 25 Most Devoted Fan Bases

Tue, 16 Oct 2012 13:30:11 -0400

The 25 Most Devoted Fan Bases:

Lucy, the King of Pop, Walking Dead, and Madonna nowhere to be found?

THE EXPANDING AIRPORT An animated film made in 1958 for...

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 16:03:00 -0500

THE EXPANDING AIRPORT

An animated film made in 1958 for Washington International Airport (now Dulles International), written, produced, and directed by those gods of mid-century design, Charles and Ray Eames. Prepared for the information of several architects under consideration, including Eero Saarinen, who ended up with the job.

Who Am I, What Am I, Where Am I? Reflections on a Year in Madrid

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 06:35:00 -0500

Last month was the one-year anniversary of closing my eyes and jumping. The date I arrived in Madrid and all it represents will probably haunt me for the rest of my days: the transformation of my transatlantic relationship to daily cohabitation, the fulfillment of a lifelong dream of trying life in Europe, the last severance check/no job/landing in a country with a 20% unemployment rate, barely-existent Spanish language skills, overwhelming guilt for putting my geriatric terrier through the ordeal, breaking the hearts of friends and family who consider the ocean far bigger than it seems to me.

I thought the one-year mark would grant me not only fluency in Spanish, but some sort of magical hindsight, lifting the clouds obscuring the horizon, a big exhale of reassurance. I assumed that Vanna would turn all the letters around and those larger-than-life rhetorical questions would suddenly be answered: Am I running away or running toward? Am I ballsy or an idiot? At what point does joy of discovery turn into failure? What does it mean to be an American? A New Yorker?

I’m afraid it’s just led to more questions.

Recently, during one of my many newfound moments of introspection, Lucy Ricardo popped into my head, as she so often does. It was the episode where she pretends to have a disease called the “gobloots,” and in her delirium she ponders “Who Am I, what am I, where am I?” Although my own Ricky (that would be Miguel) hasn’t pranked me by plugging in a green light bulb, nor am I playing jacks with a big bow in my hair and smoking with Ethel, Lucy’s question is real, and it resonates. It terrorizes. It energizes.

A year later, I still walk the streets of Madrid a zombified sponge — vulnerable, gullible, invisible. I’m a human white board, with every new experience a box on life’s redrawn flowchart.

While I can order tap water for the table and navigate the Metro, better than two-thirds of the words I hear on any given day I don’t understand. As for my love for lightning-fast repartee and inventing silly acronyms and groan-worthy puns on the fly, the little Glinda on my right shoulder admonishes me, “Be gone. Your powers are no good here.” Dropping an Endora quote at a cocktail party doesn’t work. I try retelling a joke Ed Asner once told me. Who the hell is Ed Asner?

My life of blessings and amazing experiences and stories of healing and miracles and overcoming can’t be shared in words… only in actions.

Not one to consult the rearview mirror with great frequency, it’s been a head-spinning year of exhilaration and humiliation, reigniting and reinvention, earthquake and heartbreak, preterit and pronoun, of “I can” and “I do.”

I not only said “I do” to Miguel this past year, I said it to myself. From this day forward.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the last year, and not always things of which I’m proud or comfortable. The time afforded for greater reflection is a gift and a curse of the better-balanced Spanish life (this has perhaps been the biggest adjustment of all). The ego-driven, do-it-yesterday, bleeding calendar way of life borne of 23 years in New York – the “I’m smarter/better/richer/faster/thinner/know-more-A-listers/suffer-more-than-you-do” mentality – just doesn’t play well here. Or maybe it is part of the Spanish character, but my broken Spanish protects me from understanding this. More tap water all around, please.

The uncertainty and isolation that can be read between the previous lines comes not from a place of self-pity. I made every choice and I have few regrets; things had to change, after all. I saw a Marianne Williamson tweet this morning (remember her?): “It’s like a cosmic loudspeaker is making an announcement now: ‘Curtain up in 5 minutes. Places, please!’ Where are you being told to stand?” I was told to stand about 3,500 miles to the East, where a haven of love, clarity, and renewal awaited.

Luckily there have been more ladders than chutes. And for the foreseeable future, my biggest fear won’t be realized: waking up one day and asking, “Is this all there is?”

Now THAT’S a brand promise.

Sat, 07 Jan 2012 15:52:26 -0500

Now THAT’S a brand promise.

Happy Fake Jan Day

Tue, 03 Jan 2012 00:32:00 -0500

A great deal has been written by far more capable and knowledgeable writers than me with respect to the indelible mark the Bradys have engraved in American pop culture. And though I revel in memories of Friday nights in our 1970s faux wood-paneled family room in my jammies at 8pm, bowl of popcorn in hand, I didn’t imagine I would have a whole lot to say about Fake Jan Day. That is, until last night.

(I’ve been trying to crystallize thoughts of much deeper importance to share on this blog, like the fact that I can’t yet speak the Spanish language in the past tense, or ruminations on the clown car that is the roster of Republican presidential candidates.)

Seth Rudetsky was playing in Provincetown, and I thought that would be a good value for my entertainment dollar. I was hoping he would deconstruct the 1968 Tony Awards performance of Turkey Lurkey Time – a YouTube favorite of mine – and was looking forward to Donna MacKechnie’s double neck snap and that infamous arm wind-up at the end by the cast. Alas, this was not to be, as I came to find out when I arrived at the Art House that it was Seth’s Big Fat 70s Show, the bulk of which was deconstructing The Brady Bunch Hour. Enter Fake Jan, so adeptly acted, danced, and sung by Geri Reischl.

I have to admit that while squarely within the era, The Brady Bunch Hour isn’t really in my zeitgeist, and my friend Peter K., who attended the show with me (and is almost exactly my age), agreed the same for himself. This realization made me feel less-than, as all my friends told me over the years that my job at TV Land was the perfect place for me. And here was a gaping hole in my classic TV expertise: this beyond tragic, train wreck of a polyester jumpsuit fest that gives camp a bad name and Cheez Whiz a run for its money was just a tiny blip on my radar.

At age 12 and a product of a three-network upbringing in a small town in Western New York, I’m not sure I had the artistic critical thinking ability to recognize just how “special” this show was. I imagine I sampled the show when it premiered, but as someone with a fierce loyalty and traditionalist streak, the show probably didn’t ring authentic to me, i.e. I didn’t want to imagine the Bradys anywhere but on the corner of Klump and Dilling in Studio City, mowing the Astroturf and dropping dimes in the payphone Mike installed in the family room. (Yes, I did use “Bradys” and “authentic” in the same sentence.)

Last night was 75 minutes of freeze-frame after freeze-frame and blistering commentary. Seth set up every scene — each more head scratching than the last — of half-drowning aquatic dancers, Susan Olsen’s lips moving but Maureen McCormick’s voice coming out of them, Robert Reed proving that white men really can’t dance, and the squirming-est of all, Florence Henderson signing Traces of Love in counterpoint to Barry Williams’ All By Myself as Greg contemplates leaving home to live on his own.

I got to thinking about how technology made this whole trip down Schadenfreude Avenue possible, and I thought of one of the most wonderful memories I have of my days at TV Land: an afternoon in 1998 at Sherwood Schwartz’s house. There I was with two co-workers, guests of the creator of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island in his lavish home in the Hollywood Hills. Now, Sherwood didn’t have much if anything to do withThe Brady Bunch Hour (other than perhaps to collect a check); Sid & Marty Krofft were the responsible parties for bringing The Brady Bunch Hour to fruition. But I distinctly remember Sherwood recounting with a bit of angst being a headliner at classic TV conventions in the 80s and 90s – well after the advent of VHS tapes – as hyper-fans ofGilligan’s Island scrutinized him about continuity errors, akin to “Why on episode seven did the Professor use this map with the lagoon on the left and the mountain on the right, and in episode eight, he used this map with the lagoon on the right and no mountain?” Sherwood said there was no such thing as a VCR in the mid-60s when the show was made, so shows of the era weren’t designed to be under the microscope like that. If they needed a map in the next episode, they drew another map. Net net, he imparted, “Get a life!” to the imaginary zealots in his living room.

I was lucky enough to score a rare interview with Jan #1, Eve Plumb, at the Television Critics Association twice-yearly dog-and-pony show in 2004 in Century City (I just may be inspired at some future point to dedicate an entire entry to the few minutes I spent with Eve). TV Land was celebrating 35 years of The Brady Bunch, and a chance to interview all six Brady kids was pretty exciting (I had already interviewed all but Eve several years prior, as well Florence Henderson). Of course I knew of The Brady Bunch Hour, but the assignment from a marketing and sponsorship perspective was to get as much dirt on the original Brady Bunch as possible before the cast was whisked off to talk to Entertainment Tonight or TV Guide. Had I really understood at the time just how, uh, electrifying the Hour was (I wish Love to Love You Bradys was available then — an awesome, photo-packed retrospective about the Hour co-authored by my pop culture partner-in-crime at TV Land, Lisa Sutton), my line of questioning may have been very different. Same holds true for time I spent interviewing the Krofft brothers a year or so earlier. And to have heard directly from Eve Plumb as to why she had the sense to bow out of her role as Jan Brady for this infamous sequel would have been pure gold. But that could have ended the interview right then and there. Interviewing Eve was very touch-and-go.

So here we were last evening, a few dozen guilty pleasure seekers chortling as Seth froze the screen and laser-pointed folly after folly. I’m not proud that I laughed as much as I did. I always believed that my time and efforts at TV Land embodied some altruism to the extent that there are personal and societal benefits to mirthful laughter, as opposed to nervous laughter provoked by the likes of Snookie, Simon Cowell, and Larry David. But sometimes you have to call ‘em like you see ‘em. The Brady Bunch Hour, well, deserves a little chiding.

And with one hour left in Eastern Standard Time, Happy Fake Jan Day, everyone.

Big Brother boundaries approacheth: "The Internet Gets Physical"

Sun, 18 Dec 2011 12:35:44 -0500

Big Brother boundaries approacheth: "The Internet Gets Physical":

Consumer-based Internet technologies are morphing into new uses in energy conservation, transportation, health care, traffic management and food distribution.

DealBook: Zynga's Tough Culture Risks a Talent Drain (This article is a couple weeks old but I just came across it again. Scathing, but not surprising).

Sun, 18 Dec 2011 12:33:20 -0500

DealBook: Zynga's Tough Culture Risks a Talent Drain (This article is a couple weeks old but I just came across it again. Scathing, but not surprising).:

A data-driven culture, which has been at the root of Zynga’s success, could become a serious liability, several former senior employees warn.

Who’s writing the signage in this place? Tarzan? (Madrid,...

Sat, 05 Nov 2011 21:17:09 -0400

Who’s writing the signage in this place? Tarzan? (Madrid, 06-Nov-11)

Milo: Reflections of Life, Love, Loyalty

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 10:47:00 -0400

Milo the Cairn Terrier – Pigeon Chaser of Park Slope, Elder Statesman of Washington Street, and Goodwill Ambassador of Calle de Leganitos – transitioned on June 24, 2011 with his two dads at his side. Milo had retired to Madrid, Spain the previous January.

While no one was certain of Milo’s age at the time of his passing, he was said to have been “six or seven” when adopted from the Cairn Terrier Rescue Society on February 22, 2004, which would translate to about 14 years; however, a recent estimate by his latest veterinarian approximated his age to be as old as 17.

Not much is known about Milo’s earlier years other than he was presented as a birthday gift to his first human, who subsequently gave Milo away when her three-year-old would not cease unkind behavior toward Milo. The rescue society said Milo hadn’t been to a veterinarian appointment in four years, and he was approximately 50% overweight at the time of adoption.

While Cairn terriers are known for their adaptability, Milo had a rather inauspicious start to his post-adoption life in Park Slope, Brooklyn as he transitioned from New Jersey exurb to an overstimulated, urban lifestyle. The abundance of scents on every square of sidewalk, the allure of discarded chicken bones on Flatbush Avenue, the structure of three walks per day, the presence of two cats, and lack of a backyard were part of his new existence. His constant fretting and frequent accidents in the home in the early months led to extensive testing for Kushing’s disease; bladder stones were later discovered and subsequently removed, which mitigated much of his anxiety. The remainder of a calmer deportment came with time and trust.

Milo practiced linguistics and the art of song. His language was highly melismatic, and also contained elements of Scooby Doo. He was frequently heard exclaiming his name — the word he heard more than any other – which would always be produced without the M (“I-lo!”) and without fail in the musical interval of a tritone (also known as “the devil’s interval”).

Milo was a lover, happily greeting every dog he encountered, shrieking in excitement after an introduction, which was often mistaken as fright. His affection for his favorite humans could barely be contained as well, and upon happy reunion he would shower the lucky recipient with song and his signature head butts. Light of heart and playful, Milo’s favorite game was “Roughest and Toughest,” where he would march along under a bed ruffle or dangling comforter, concealed except for a wagging tail, growling and exhorting the monsters to vanish from under the bed.

Holiday time could prove challenging for Milo as he aged, given the large number of people and two energetic and much younger four-legged cousins that would gather at his Uncle Rob’s. Not lacking in creativity, Milo would step under the Christmas tree, gather the tree skirt into nest, and snooze peacefully for hours.

While Milo was a lover, he was also a fighter to the core. His decline in health accelerated in the second half of 2010, but with each and every setback he rose to the challenge, magically resuscitating when boiled chicken or a Greenie — his favorite treat -– were placed at his nose. Standing on wobbly legs with wasting body and shortened breath, he spent his last days as ever the faithful companion. He never ceased giving and would have given more; over the years Milo had healed his dad’s heart, physically and spiritually, and proved that life and love continue in the face of divorce and the passing of his Grandpa Gaylord. Alas, another day living in pain was not deserved.

Milo’s walker in South Norwalk, Alli, wrote to Milo’s dads when she learned of his passing: “You gave him a wonderful life filled with a lot of love and companionship. That’s all these guys long for. Someone to follow, to love, and to be loyal to.” How different a world it would be if humanity could live the simple principles of joy, care, and love that animal companions teach with every sloppy kiss, purr, and head butt. No finer inspiration exists for a person to strive for higher spiritual ground than the gratitude of an adopted animal that transformed from a disregarded family pet into a member of the family.

The final hours are, for the most part, a wonderful memory. A more beautiful day in Madrid could not have been wished for as his dads took Milo to the park in front of the royal palace one last time, where under the tall trees Milo sat on the grass, enjoyed some Greenies, and sniffed the breeze for messages.

Sweetest dreams, Milo.

29 Ways to Stay Creative… not the least of which is...

Wed, 29 Jun 2011 06:53:00 -0400

29 Ways to Stay Creative… not the least of which is choosing a random number like “29.”

Watch Your Step

Wed, 15 Jun 2011 10:09:00 -0400

As my severance period was chugging along with a horizon full of possibilities before me, the universe was screaming at me to move to Europe. The green light was blinding: I was in a committed, long-distance relationship with a Madrileño, trying life in Europe had always been a dream, and most profound was the passing of my father (two days after my last day at MTV Networks). Dad always allowed us to pursue our dreams and would have never challenged my move to Europe, but in his declining state over the years it would have been worrisome for me not to be able to get to his side quickly, and even more so it would have disheartened him to have another of his four so far away. (The world was bigger for his generation. Dad, a WWII Army Air Corps vet and sole survivor of a B-17 crash, understandably had a fear of flying and never flew again after a flight in the late 60s when the pilot made a prideful and bittersweet announcement that it was going to be the last revenue flight for that aircraft – it would be going to the scrap heap after they landed in Buffalo. Even though Dad’s knowledge of global politics was unparalleled, he pretty much stayed in the northeast the rest of his life. As for me, I go to the airport and whether I’m boarding a flight to Buffalo, Los Angeles, or London is kind of irrelevant.)

I calculated it was necessary to pull the trigger on such an ambitious transition by late August. So many logistics needed consideration – estimates for moving furniture across the pond; what stays, what goes, what’s given away and to whom; the car; resigning the Norwalk River Rowing Association board; giving my landlord notice; moving many of my worldly goods to Cape Cod where I co-own a home (and where I spent my last two months in the US); goodbyes and goodbye parties. I was about to embark on a move to a different country to transition into a live-in relationship, with no job in sight and no fluency in the language. And what was I most worried – okay, obsessed – about?

Milo, my bestest friend. We don’t know how old Milo actually is; I adopted him over seven years ago. Arthritic since before he came into our lives, the Cairn Terrier Rescue Society said at that time he was “about six or seven.” The only thing we know is that he’s O-L-D! He has lost most of his eyesight and had some major health setbacks throughout the last summer and fall, which yielded preliminary diagnoses of possible liver cancer, anemia, internal bleeding, high protein and crystals in his urine. The vet in Provincetown and I decided that, given Milo’s age, we would move into “palliative” mode – no more tests, intrusions, and surgeries (Milo wouldn’t fare well under anesthesia).

I was frozen with fear about the two possible outcomes – losing Milo before my January move date, which I gave a better-than 50% chance, or putting this little guy who’s been with me through thick and thin through the trauma of a transatlantic flight and a new home. The severance countdown clock kept ticking, the move date drawing ever nearer. So, being the optimist and person of German descent that I am, lists were drawn up and plans were made to get Milo to the Old World.

I get a lot of questions about how to move a pet overseas, so before I go further with my narrative, I’ll address what needed to happen administratively: There is no quarantine required when moving a pet to continental Europe. (Yes, the UK has its infamous three-month quarantine, however now you can “pre-quarantine” a pet moving to the UK, i.e. the pet will need a monthly rabies shot and blood test with clean results over a six-month period.) The pet needs to 1) be examined by a USDA-certified vet, 2) be given a new rabies shot regardless of when the last one was administered, and 3) have a locator chip implanted under the skin. The form that the vet signs stating that all of this has been completed and the pet is in good health gets sent to the USDA (by the owner) and for a fee they stamp it and return it. Voila… a doggie passport. USDA Prime Grade-A Milo.

Ah, the airlines, their fees and rules. Of course, I wanted Milo to be able to fly in the cabin with me (150 Euros on Iberia), and I knew he could fit in the carrier (sort of), but the weight limit for in-cabin was eight kilos (17.6 pounds). Milo had been around 13.5 kilos (29-30 pounds) most of the time I’ve had him. I knew he had lost some weight as his health declined but knowing the airlines are enforcing their policies closer than ever to shore up revenue, I was looking at either fighting my way on board with him (Just look at him! He’ll never survive as checked luggage!) or checking him as cargo.

Vet #1 in Norwalk implored me not to check him as cargo. Tranquilizers are too dangerous for such an old dog, and we’ve all read horror stories of pets traveling in cargo. Vet #1’s boss, Vet #2 said, “The airlines have come under greater scrutiny and liability for their handling of pets in recent years, so they handle them with much greater care.” He said he preferred Milo didn’t ride in cargo, but if Milo had to, it wouldn’t be a death sentence. To help my little Samsonite tolerate the ride, Vet #2 gave me a small amount of Acepromazine, or as I call it, “Doggie Xanax.” We tried a little as I was moving out of Norwalk – just a quarter tablet – and it worked like a charm.

So the plan was hatched. I was going to depart for Madrid from Boston (an hour shorter flight than from New York) and run up a credit card to buy a business class ticket – first for Milo’s comfort and second to give me leverage to be a bitchy queen should they deny Milo boarding for being overweight. I would check in early and have a crate in the car in case they refused to accept him in-cabin and I needed to run him over to the freight house. (As it turned out, I bagged the crate idea as Milo’s health had declined further the month before I departed. I just didn’t think he’d survive it. He had also lost more weight and was less than a kilo away from the weight limit. I decided to chance it). My dear friend, Chuck – and I do mean dear – volunteered to accompany me (in business class!) to Madrid to help and lend moral support, which I needed badly. And two bitchy queens would be better than one if the señorita at check-in wasn’t cooperative.

The big day arrived. Milo was still alive; me – I wasn’t so sure. Another dear friend, Asil, came up to the Cape from New York to drive us to the airport and take care of my car. I decided to give Milo a quarter tablet of the good stuff once we exited the Cape when crossing the Sagamore Bridge. A piece of cheese and down the hatch. We arrived at Logan’s Terminal E about an hour later; I stuffed Milo into the Sherpa bag and approached the ticket counter as though my face was plastered on the Most Wanted list of every post office in the country. I kept Milo out of sight as Chuck and I kept the agent busy with all of the luggage we were checking (three pieces each included in a business class ticket). For better or worse I told the agent I had booked a cabin pet with Reservations and needed to pay the fee. My internal mantra of “Please don’t weigh him!” was so loud in my head I feared I risked shouting it out loud. Never once did she look at Milo; she charged me, I signed the form, and she bid us a nice flight. I could have had the Tasmanian Devil stuffed in that bag for all she cared. We were good to go!

Milo’s magic pill didn’t seem to be working. He wasn’t acting up or anything, but he was nervously alert being in an airport for his first time. Another piece of cheese, another quarter tablet. One last pee outside the terminal, a goodbye hug with Asil, and through Security we went. Next stop was the Business Class lounge, where they were super-cool to let Milo stay out of the bag (while most people were half in-the-bag with the open bar).

Time to board. The much-feared, overly-contemplated, gray-hair-inducing big moment was finally here. Milo would never see the US again; our new life together reached a point of no return. In that moment I couldn’t love anyone or anything more than this animal that was bound and determined to assure me that I would never be alone and that everything was going to be okay.

I stuffed Milo back in the bag; Chuck and I boarded later in the boarding process. I was trying to ignore the what-ifs that had gone through my mind to prepare myself for this crossing: visions of Milo whining through the night flight, fears of possible negative effects of cabin pressurization on his weak heart, and my ponderings of how they would handle a cadaver dog half-way over the Atlantic if worse came to worse. The Iberia flight crew couldn’t have been kinder or more relaxed about their four-legged charge. I placed Milo at my feet, unzipped the front hatch of his bag, and made a nest with his blanket. He stepped halfway out, snuggled, and pretty much snoozed the entire flight, except when he downed the pre-mixed dinner I brought along (luckily the TSA didn’t think it was a bomb made of kibble). Just to make sure Milo wouldn’t start freaking out and keep the muckity-mucks around us awake, another quarter tablet of Acepromazine was administered.

Upon arrival in Madrid after a red-eye flight – always a special feeling – it was time for Milo to go back in the bag, or so I assumed. Walking up the jetbridge I could feel him starting to fight the bag, and knowing that he was on a high dose of anti-anxiety meds, I wanted him and his ailing heart to calm down. Back out of the bag. Now, for anyone who has flown into Madrid’s Terminal 4 South, you’ll probably agree that it’s an absolutely exquisite structure – but it’s a good mile to Immigration from the gate. With my arms ready to fall off and Chuck weighed down by my carry-ons plus his own, we finally reached the checkpoint.

Chuck was waiting in line in front of me. The agent saw me with Milo and lit up, shouting out to me in Spanish, wanting to know his name. “Milo” I reply. “Oh! Meelo!” She then points to the agent in the next booth and said something along the lines of “Her ex-boyfriend’s name is Meelo!” Well, this ought to be easy, I think to myself. A smiling Immigration officer (how… un-American). I put the bag down on the beautiful marble floor and opened it to prepare Milo for getting stuffed back inside to make our way through Immigration and Customs. I set Milo down for a second, and thump! He collapsed, splaying on all fours on the slippery surface. Experience tells me what happens next when he collapses – a gift of the #2 variety. And sure enough, he doesn’t disappoint this time.

“Chuck, Milo shit all over the floor!” I exclaim. “Can you ask them for a bag or something?” thinking Chuck is better-suited for the task of speaking in Spanish with his more advanced level. Chuck tries to ask them for supplies as he approaches the podium, and our smiling agent is smiling no more. She thinks Chuck asked her to clean it up, and rattled something off between “Over my dead body!” and “Kiss my ass!” We’ll never be sure. They didn’t prepare us for this moment at Instituto Cervantes. So the poop is not going anywhere soon.

Now it’s my turn to go through. I would have held up the line even worse if I tried to get a half-passed-out terrier into a Sherpa bag, so I decided to carry him. But first, I look behind me in line to see an impeccably dressed gentleman, right out of the Brooks Brothers catalogue with cashmere overcoat, silk scarf, and a bazillion-dollar suit. He was with an equally model-esque woman. “Sir, watch your step” I warned. He was engrossed in conversation with Mrs. Brooks. “Sir, watch your step. WATCH YOUR STEP!”

SPLAT! That beautiful leather-soled wingtip stepped right into it.

I presented my passport, which got a quick stamp from Smiley-Surly, and Milo’s papers, which got not even a glance. I ducked around the podium to get the hell out of there. I needed to set Milo down once more to adjust everything, and wouldn’t you know – a command performance. “Chuck, he did it again!” We high-tailed it to baggage claim before anyone could give us grief, not the least of whom was the man behind me in line. I made sure subsequently I was at the other end of the baggage carousel from him.

Milo was basically a sack of potatoes the rest of the way to the new apartment. I was afraid to look in the bag, to be quite honest. I kept talking to him, hoping he could hear me, coaxing him to stay with it. Things could only get better from here.

Five and a half months later, here he is, snoozing at my feet. Retirement in Spain has been good for him. Maybe the sunshine on his tired old bones, the low humidity, and no more long car rides have helped. He has some bad days, but he has more good days than bad. He eats, he does his business, and even still plays a little game of “roughest and toughest” with me now and then.

I don’t know why or how Milo is still alive, but I’m not asking any questions. Every day we have together is a gift.

I Get By With A Little Help...

Thu, 17 Feb 2011 15:55:00 -0500

As kind of an addendum to my last post, “Sorry-Grateful,” I had an additional thought. I’m not going to dwell on regrets about what I did or didn’t do during severance, but if there is one thing I would have done differently, it would have been to make earlier use of the executive outplacement service paid for by my ex-employer. Whether HR didn’t explain it properly to me as The Package was being presented, or I was too pre-occupied trying to find my happy place after The News had been laid upon me to be able to comprehend much of anything, my assumptions about this service were way off base. I envisioned some person pouring over job listings with me and sending me on interviews, a service I might trigger later on if I really needed it. The writing had been on the wall for me for quite some time before It actually happened — I had twice already been to Europe for networking, meeting peers at the MTV Networks offices in London and Madrid as well as recruiters to whom I had been introduced. My networking dance card was quite full. I was headstrong, wanting full control, thinking I was just fine doing it “my way.” And besides, I assumed this outplacement firm couldn’t help me with my aspirations to go abroad.

That being said, I grew up in the “Clean Plate Club” generation, so far be it from me to be wasteful. With the clock ticking on my severance period, I finally picked up the phone and called The Firm. It turned out to be so much more than monster.com with a face. At orientation they provided a soft landing – plenty of encouragement, shoring up of the self-esteem, allowing everyone an opportunity let their hair down and talk (let’s face it – all of us attendees were at various stages on the Kübler-Ross scale). They offered help with developing and practicing an elevator pitch (two different lengths), sharpening interviewing skills (including the answer to that ever popular and least creative interview question, “What are your weaknesses?” to which I’d like to respond “Holding idiotic interviewers in contempt.”), videotaping a mock interview so one can see and eradicate bad habits, and private coaches and research services tailored to me as I contemplated becoming an expatriate digital media and entertainment consultant. They provided a virtual office, including a phone (I could fool prospective consulting clients into thinking I had a 212 number), WiFi, and one of those individual-serve, plunk-in-the-cartridge coffee machines (“boo” for the environment; “yay” I can have my French roast! Bonus!).

It’s been great working with my executive coach, Steven Yorra, with whom I was well matched: he’s a conservatory-trained musician and former high-level executive at an ad agency. My portfolio is being polished with his help and the résumé has been through a couple of iterations for specific interviews. Once Uncle Sumner stops footing the bill, I look forward to continuing my relationship with this coach as I start pounding the pavement on the Gran Vía, Trafalgar Square, Unter den Linden, Passeig de Gràcia, or wherever I see the Bat Signal shining in the sky.

I guess the moral of the story, if there is one, is that there’s strength in vulnerability. It’s okay to ask for assistance. You may be surprised at the helping hand that comes to your aid.

“SORRY-GRATEFUL” -- Sing a Song of Severance

Thu, 03 Feb 2011 10:51:00 -0500

Now that I’ve roped in all of you musical theater queens (and hopefully a few others), I’ll drop the bomb now and say that this isn’t an essay about Stephen Sondheim, the musical Company, or what a rough eight shows it must have been for Charles Kimbrough before the cast recording session (hearing “Sorry-Grateful” on the original cast album always makes me run for a glass of water and an inhaler).

Sondheim is the master of illustrating the not-so-sanitary, parallel joy and despair of the human condition. Busting the church-state boundary between laughing on the outside and crying on the inside with such frankness made audiences a bit uncomfortable in 1970. As my beloved is obsessed with the musical, and therefore it can be heard on the iPad multiple times weekly, it dawned on me that this paradoxical song title characterized my life during severance. Regretful-happy.

And over-thinking it, as I’m one to do, perhaps more than just the song title applies. The lyric’s conversation about the stasis and dreariness of relationships that we can’t seem to live without could represent my relationship with the very long-term job from which I was relieved (“Good things get better, bad get worse. Wait – I think I meant that in reverse”). I think every executive who has been married to her/his job at the same company for a long time daydreams at one time or another about severance, particularly when slogging through annual reviews or when direct reports fling sand at each other because it was their turn to ride the Big Wheel. My daydream, fueled by my wanderlust, included a promise to myself that if it should ever happen, the first stop after HR would be the airport.

Severance was as close as I ever came to recapturing the optimism and fearlessness I had as I graduated from college and left Hartford for New York City for graduate school (well, not totally fearless — the City was a different place in 1987). “Grateful” was that the world was once again my oyster; I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to resuscitate dreams, recalibrate my life, and “do it my way” (all on Uncle Sumner’s dime). “Sorry” was realizing that some dreams should stay dreams, and since it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to recalibrate my life, I had better not screw it up. Time has a whole new meaning now than it did when I was 22. Well, it had no meaning when I was 22.

I’m old enough now to know that the journey is the important part; the fun for me was going to come in the figuring-it-out. As severance was about to get under way, my Libra tendencies led me to bifurcate my emotions in two equal halves: the first half (grateful) where I would jump for joy at my new-found freedom (not the least of which was no longer riding Metro-North every day) and the second half (sorry) where I would be jobless and freaking out, hoping that my artificial heart valve really had a warranty longer than the half-life of Spam. The ratio of sorry-grateful on any given day was fluid, but admittedly as severance was winding down and my life went into upheaval with two moves in two months, sorry could get the better of me.

I was given lots of advice and encouragement from so many caring people during this period. Most commonly people said how fast the time would go, and there were some who launched into a therapy session as soon as the chips and salsa landed on the table to ensure my self-esteem wasn’t made redundant along with the job. Others had spasmodic empathetic responses, freaking out for me, exhorting me to get a job – any job – as soon as possible.

I made progress just about every day. Time was dedicated to connecting all of my professional dots (there are more than one realizes), crafting and rehearsing my narrative, and taking on some interviews. Just as importantly, I used a good chunk of the day to reflect, release, exhale, play. Severance was an unprecedented opportunity to do all of the things I had never tried but always wanted to do (driving through downtown Rye, NY – it always looked so charming from the train), make good on promises (“Yes, Aunt Margie! I’d love to come visit you in Ohio!”), or erase the nagging feelings of things I neglected doing for years (like writing that letter to Equifax to tell them I never had a credit card with Lane Bryant nor was never known as “Michael C. Gaylord”). It took awhile to not feel guilty about getting the car washed followed by playing a round of mini-golf at 2pm on a Tuesday or spending a week abroad without having to get vacation time approved. The penultimate gift of severance is regaining life balance that was lost after years in the corporate environment.

As the real story of the Sorry-Grateful lyric is about choosing the security of complacency and accepting its byproducts — wonder, doubt, yearning, regret – it likewise begs me to ponder my relationship with myself that kept me in the same place for so long. The ultimate gift of severance, I learned — thanks to the support of amazing people and spending a little quiet time to listen to the universe — is to actually discover, own, and believe the narrative of myself. “You’ll always be what you always were” isn’t an excuse for resignation, it’s a license to transform and a mandate to thrive.

Rip the Band Aid Off

Thu, 20 Jan 2011 09:58:00 -0500

January 20. A day for me that will live in infamy. Besides being the birthday of dear friend and former Manhattan roomie, Buck (happy birthday, Buck!), it was one year ago today that my weekly meeting with my boss would be more than discussing ”tee-ing things up” to “move the ball forward” in an “era of tough choices.” It was the day I was to be told that my almost 13-year career at MTV Networks was about to come to an end. With an unnerving, calm ease, el jefe gave very sound business reasons why this was coming to pass, how hard everyone fought so this day wouldn’t come, and that I was invited to stay on for the following six weeks; he then pointed me to HR who was waiting for me with “gobs of severance.” I’m not going to humor you as to what “gobs” means as I’m sure there’s a floor full of lawyers at Viacom who are just dying for me to divulge just a little… too… much.

Three more of my team shared the same fate, but as group head I was the first to know. I was given the choice of burying my head in the sand and licking my wounds, or taking the grim reaper suit off my boss’s hands and commencing the blood-letting the following morning. I chose the latter. This was my family and if anyone was going to deliver the news, it should be me. Brave you say? Well, somewhat valiant, I’ll grant you. But it was a hell of a lot easier to bear this particular bad news when I was in the same boat. I’ll spare the gory details of how that next day played out; actually it was anything but gory. The people on my team are the best in the business because they are first and foremost decent, reasonable human beings.

This was not my first time at the layoff rodeo. I started in the multimedia business in a NoHo loft at age 23 while completing my graduate studies at the Manhattan School of Music. I subsequently worked in two SoHo lofts, a TriBeCa loft, the on-paper world headquarters of AT&T at 32 Avenue of the Americas (featuring more leaky drop-ceilings and torn carpeting than the set of “Fame”), and all other sorts of pre-hipster/pre-brushed aluminum settings. Every company in my illustrious career had failed; I am fond of joking at cocktail parties that I killed them. Killing Viacom, as it turned out, wasn’t going to happen. At least just then.

Being the child of Depression parents, certain tableaus flashed before my eyes as I was being given the heave-ho. Scenes like hoboes appearing at the back door of my grandfather’s house, looking for work circa 1935. Or my mother and her incessant squawking as I enrolled in music school: “Get that teaching certificate!” I jumped at staying on the six weeks because delaying that last gray-on-gray paystub would save me from selling apples on the corner of 42^ndand 9^th just a little while longer.

I shared the news of my impending departure with those comrades closest to me (tears were shed in some cases) and my boss told the management team of the network. As for the news spreading to the rank and file, it was hard to tell when and how far the news had traveled, and this was starting to breed a little paranoia in me. Were junior folk squirming at the coffee machine because they knew but didn’t know what to say? Maybe they didn’t know but noticed I had put on a few extra pounds. Or worse yet, they knew AND noticed I was adding a new chin. A few brave souls came right out with it –- even at the next urinal — and voiced their regrets (no aspersions or euphemisms intended).

All sorts of lame duck-ness ensued in those six weeks as I witnessed the dismantling/handing over/parceling out of my legacy. I still needed to give my thumbs-up to that project plan, and yes, I still approved germane portions of press releases. But suddenly, people weren’t sure and were almost afraid to ask.

My open-door policy gave gentle license to my peers and superiors as one by one they came to pay their respects. I phrase it that way because that’s how it started to feel; I seriously had considered placing a Shiva box in front of my desk (the reason why this good Presbyterian knows about Shiva boxes is a topic for another meandering blog post at some future point. Riveting, I assure you.) This corpse, however, was talking back, postulating (when asked “what’s next for you?”) a first-ever drive across the US, a move to Europe, becoming the next Magnolia baker, or attaining peak fitness as a mega-rower on the mighty Norwalk River.

So, my advice is to rip the Band Aid off. The extra time I was afforded to exit was an incredibly kind and generous offer, more than ample to ensure a smooth transition (two weeks would have been just the ticket to take care of final business, not the least of which was packing up my Susan Olsen autograph, Mr. T Chia Pet, and mint, still-in-the-box Flying Nun doll). In the scheme of things, as you’re dreading the ultimate moment when the severance teat runs dry, six weeks isn’t a lot of time. Trust me – you’re going to be alright. Say your thank yous and goodbyes, leave quickly with your head held high and your integrity intact, and start those dreams as soon as you can. And, by the way, greetings from my new apartment in Madrid.

Alright already...

Thu, 20 Jan 2011 08:03:00 -0500

Okay, executive coaches and headhunters… I got the message and am starting a blog; soon my portfolio will be available for online perusing, too.

The last thing the world needs is another digital media/marketing/entertainment expert to tell us that interactive TV is finally here or that Apple doesn’t play well with others. I recently finished Micorserfs by Douglas Coupland (yes, only 15 years late) and a line toward the end of the book stuck with me: “The people who really do know what’s going on are the people who aren’t posing as visionaries.” Nothing against visionaries — perhaps I’m a chromosome shy of being one myself — but I’ll put my ?? years of experience (I was told not to say how many it really is) in the multimedia and entertainment sphere together with my innate curiosity to continue to create great digital entertainment — fostering edifying relationships with a whole lot of humor along the way.

So, I’m letting the my muse drive for a little while. He’s the one on my left shoulder with the pitchfork. Moving right along…