Joe Posner's "Cup of Joe"
Pour yourself a cup of joe and pull up a chair.
by Joe Posner
Welcome to the first edition of "Cup of Joe." After 1,000 published articles, reviews and stories, I've decided to take a shot at a weekly column. Starting with this column, expect a new "Cup of Joe" every Monday morning by 9 a.m., pst.
I didn't always want to be a writer. In childhood, I wanted to be, at one time or another, a paleontologist, archaeologist, and an astronaut. Then my cousin Barbara introduced me to Rod Serling.
Now, I didn't actually meet Rod, although my Dad knew him, but that story is for another time. While visiting mom's sister and her family in Chicago, one summer, cousin Barbara handed me a somewhat dog-eared Bantam paperback.
On the cover was Rod, at a typewriter, smoking, with a cup of coffee nearby. It was a paperback of short stories Serling had adapted from his popular "Twilight Zone" series. Because of bogus grades, my TV viewing had been severely limited; I had never seen a "Zone."
I thanked her and quickly read the stories. The stories, unfolding on the TV screen in my mind, catapulted me from my placid, Mid-west existence into amazing alternate worlds.
When I finished the book, I gazed at the cover. Filled with excitement, awe and wonder, I decided then and there, that I wanted to be like the man on the book cover.
Well, all these years later and I'm a professional writer who loves coffee; I don't smoke. Two out of three ain't bad.
Have a great week!
joeposner@earthlink.net
by Joe Posner
Welcome back!
Did I ever tell you the time I encountered Britain's Prince Charles? Go and get your favorite cup of rocket juice, I'll wait.
Back? Good. The year was 1977. Mayor Tom Bradley was the mayor of Los Angeles. I was a freelance writer with no paid assignments to my name. I was stuck somewhere between wanna be and is. I was unemployed, living in Michigan with an old college buddy as we collaborated on the great American screenplay.
By spring, the screenplay was done as so was the friendship. I had worn out my welcome despite my best efforts. A long distance job offer, as Junior Administrative Assistant to LA's mayor Bradley, offered me escape from Pontiac Michigan.
Part of the job involved reading citizen letters sent to the Mayor and drafting the Mayor's possible responses, which he then had to sign off on.
When there was a BLANK day, in honor of someone, and it occurred on the West Side of LA, I had a hand in the proclamation. I also sometimes read the proclamations, in the mayor's absence, at gala dinners at organizations like Lion's Club International.
One day, as I attempted to read my way through an ever increasing stack of citizen mail, word came down for all of us to go the underground parking garage. England's Prince Charles was about to arrive, and we were to be in attendance.
Twenty minutes or so later, all us City workers were assembled in the cavernous garage on either side of a VERY long red carpet. The crowd murmured in anticipation.
Then Prince Charles appeared. He was rather tall and extremely well tailored. I was close, 10-15 feet away max. Security was light. Now I'm sure it's much heavier than it seemed at the time. As the Prince passed, I got a good if brief look at him. He looked befuddled, vague, lost. Mad's magazine icon Alfred E. Newman came immediately came to mind.
Too soon, I was back up in my semiprivate office in the Pointy Building(City Hall),engaged in a staring contest with a stack of mail Just your average day in Metropolis.
See you next week!
joeposner@earthlink.net
by Joe Posner
Welcome back!
Did I ever tell you the circumstances behind my family's move from Ohio to California? Take a swig of YOUR cup of Joe, friend, and read on.
The year was 1963. John F. Kennedy was President. Man was in space. Hula hoops were popular.
My father was prominent in a Cincinnati community organization. We lived in a two story home right out of "Leave it to Beaver."
Every few years, former associates of my father, in Los Angeles, would try to lure him west with a tempting job offer. He always turned them down.
Then November 22, 1963 arrived. I was in front of my 7th grade science class explaining my dinosaur diorama, when the word came in over the intercom: the President had been shot in Dallas, Texas.
My father, a staunch democrat, took Kennedy's death as some kind of sign. Dad accepted the most recent LA job offer.
Within weeks, it seemed, Mayflower packed our stuff and we were off to LA. On the way, we stopped off in Dallas. A HUGE mound of flowers rested at the base of the Dallas Book Depository.
Then it was on to Los Angeles, California, and our new life.
Have a great week!
joeposner@earthlink.net
by Joe Posner
Welcome back!
Did I ever tell you about my old buddy who disappeared? Take a drink of wakefulness and read on, friend.
The year was 1972. Richard Nixon was president. Bell-bottoms were cool. George Peppard was solving mysteries as "Banacek" on TV.
I was in my senior year in college. Little did I know that death loomed on the horizon.
When I went home for Christmas vacation, I intended to look my old buddy Rick Carter up. Rick was a year older and light years wiser than me. In high school, blessed with all-American good looks, he had excelled at academics and track and field. Rumor had it he did pretty well with the ladies as well.
I hero worshiped Rick in a way I never have anyone since. He was everything I wasn't.
Well, time got away from me and I didn't drop by to see Rick until Christmas Eve. Rick wasn't there and his people were a bit ... tense.
Rick had left for a kayak journey up the coast from Palos Verdes to Malibu and was overdue by hours. Someone, a bit nervously said, "I'm sure Rick will come walking in the door any moment." He never did.
The next day, some old track friends got a boat and went looking for him, with no results.
Shortly after that, a psychic was hired in a desperate attempt to find Rick. She said he was on some rocks near the shore, bleeding, but hearing beautiful music.
The track buddies got her to describe the location and went searching for Rick. In a location similar to the one the psychic described, they encountered a badly injured seal that had smashed into some jagged rocks a short distance from shore.
No trace of Rick or his kayak were ever found. We all went on with our lives, but I was never the same.
I thinks about Rick sometimes. The tide that night was flowing towards Mexico. Maybe he had some reason, some secret to run away from. We all have secrets.
His favorite books were "Tarzan" novels. Maybe he has escaped into the Mexican jungle and lived off the land. He was young, strong and resourceful enough.
Some days, when I'm feeling really up, I can almost believe that Rick made it to Mexico, instead of dying alone in cold, cruel water off the California coast.
Almost ...
Have a great week!
joeposner@earthlink.net