Robin Williams Got Me Laid

Almost.

I met the man three times in my life, twice on the streets in San Francisco and once while on the set of Patch Adams. Each time he had something to give me, and each time I didn't realize it until later.

The second time we met, and I use "met" loosely, there was nothing especially memorable about the situation, other than the fact that it was a "hey - that guy's famous!" moment. I literally ran into him as I was running around San Francisco with my friends; I'd got separated from my group and being the twitchy twenty something that I was, I started jogging around looking for them. I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going, just kind of running about, checking in stores and restaurants that they might have ducked into. I wasn't overly concerned about finding them for some reason - we were going to meet later on for a bite to eat, then head to Nickie's BBQ for some 70's funk wall-to-wall grinding.

This was in the days before cell phones (or at least before anyone but the rich folk had em), and I was looking for some change to call my answering machine, just to check if anyone had left a message. I'd poked my head into a little deli, only to get the standard answer "no change without purchase." I backpeddled out the door, right into some random dude on the street. I apologized profusely, letting him know that I knew I was an idiot.

"Not a problem. Everyone is sometimes. And sometimes idiots can be geniuses. I have a quarter, go ahead and take it," said the gentleman I was coming to realize was Robin Williams. I thanked him, offering him a dollar for his quarter (again, I was an idiot at the time)(and my wife thinks I still am). He laughed at that, tossed me a quarter, and we were both on our way.

I don't really remember beyond that. Being two decades removed, one thursday night at Nickies blurs into every thursday night at Nickies. I mostly remember the hot, sweat writhing of the crowd, the over capacity bodega heat and deep bass of 70s funk being spun by the dj. This was not the moment that Mr. Williams helped me close any deals.

The third time? It was on the set of Patch Adams. I was an extra, a face in the crowd in a med school lecture hall. It was being filmed at UC Berkeley, and I was teaching elementary school at the time. I'd heard that there was an open casting call for extras, so I called in sick, hoping to be chosen. I was, as were about a hundred others.

We had to show up early - I seem to recall it being six in the morning when I was ushered into a room that held about six metric tons of polyester pantsuits, bell bottom jeans and shirts with butterfly collars. I was given my wardrobe, then told to go sit and wait with the others. At this point, cell phones were coming into their own, but only as phones. The whole smart aspect of them was light years off. I worked on trying to write, grade some papers and get a little bit of reading in. It was boring as hell, but at least I wasn't at work. Plus, we got free food.

An eternity later, some of us were shown into one of UCB's lecture halls. It was a stand in for a school in Virginia, and we were supposed to be first year med students, in an intro lecture. We were told where to sit, then listened to an actor go through a speech a number of times ("First: do no harm…"). There was some filming being done, but mostly blocking and crowd shots.

Around ten, the director quieted us down. "As you all may have heard, there was a certain event that transpired last night, one that had delayed Robin a tiny bit. He'll be here soon, but I think he's still recovering from his Academy Award win for best supporting actor!" There were cheers then, and lots of applause. When Robin showed up on set, we roared - we had an Oscar winner among us!

As soon as he walked in the room everyone shut up. It wasn't a slow dissipation of sound, a lulling murmur - it was immediate silence. Robin walked in. He smiled. Then he held up his statuette. We went crazy.

Robin was on the rest of the shoot. He started his banter, his famous monologuing, and didn't stop. He sat in the row behind me, just over my shoulder. None of us could keep a straight face - it was a private comedy show, and we were loving it. We eventually managed to get through the scene, then went our merry ways. We, the extras and the crew, we'd been given a gift that day, a gift that, to this day, I am thankful for. I remember the laughter. Not the improvised content, content that would be all over the web today, but the actual laughter. I remember the physical pain in my sides from laughing too hard. I remember my lungs constricting to the point that I thought I would pass out. I remember the tears of mirth that could have filled a kiddie pool.

I remember Robin's smile. His exhausted, proud smile. He seemed… happy. Content for a moment.

But it was the first time I met him that I remember best of all.

It was 1988 and summertime had just begun to draw its lazy hand across the calendar. I'd just graduated from high school, sort of. I would be off on an adventure in north Africa soon, thanks to an exchange program known as AFS. The program had also brought a bevy of high school exchange students on a four or five day stop in Albany, a little hamlet across the bay from the City, an offshoot of Berkeley. I don't remember how many students there were, it might have been twenty, it could have been sixty.

What I do remember is that my hormones were kicking into overdrive. There were girls. Girls of all shapes and colors. Girls with accents. Girls with smiles. Girls that were giving me whiplash.

When I was that age, females were beyond "mysterious." They were all… goddesses. They were all objects to be worshiped, things to be put on pedestals.

Did I mention that I was an idiot?

Eventually I would figure out that women are just people, and my best friends would all wind up being women. But that was later. At that moment in time, my 1988 self was a goofy doofus that had only been able to stammer at my female peers. I was determined to change that. The busload of foreign exchange students allowed me to break out of my shell, try on a different personality for people who'd never met me before.

I wound up befriending a group of German kids, including a seventeen year old with a pixie cut who I'll call Giselle. She was hilarious, wry and smart as hell; add those things to her tiny soccer player body and little elven smile and you have a recipe for a brain implosion on my part.

Somehow I managed to hold my own. I even managed to charm her a little (it helped that she had a dorky sense of humor like me). The first couple of days we drifted closer, doing the whole innocently holding-hands thing, the arm-punch thing, the her-head-on-my-shoulder thing. The usual youthful dance of innocence. I was impressing myself… then I let my idiocy shine.

I had no idea what I was doing; I just wanted to impress her. Apparently that included lying. I don't remember what it was about, exactly, possibly that I knew every band that ever did anything, maybe that Clint Eastwood was my uncle, maybe that I saved the life of a baby by taking on a biker gang - some shit like that. And it was shit, complete and utter shit of the bull.

And she called me on it.

I was embarrassed - utterly mortified. I took off, just bailed, while she and the other two in our little cadre laughed their asses off. I checked out, not able to bear myself, wishing that I could crawl out of my own skin. Giselle eventually came to find me, coaxing me back into the group as we were off on a tour of the City. I tried to get back into the hand-holdy interactions, but she was done with that.

I was crushed.

It was hours later, and we were all back to joking around, having fun. One of the German guys was asked directions by some other tourists, and he obliged. He neglected to tell them that he'd never been to San Francisco before as they traipsed off in the opposite direction of their destination. I rolled my eyes and took off after them, fully intending to set them on the right path. I got sidetracked, however, when I noticed a certain celebrity heading our way.

My idiot brain decided to jump in. "Hey, guys, it's Robin Williams! He was my neighbor when I was a kid!"

I mean what the hell?!? I didn't even know that was going to come out of my mouth before it did, and now I was stuck.

Giselle was the first to respond. She said that I should introduce them. The others thought that this was a good idea.

"Um, well, he's heading in the opposite direction than we need to go, and, uh, well, he's probably busy, and, um, we should let him have his privacy, and, um, well he probably won't remember me. It was a long time ago…" None of these excuses rang true. I'd no choice. It was either fess up or put up.

"MR. WILLIAMS!" I yelled "ROBIN!" i jogged towards him. He stopped and looked at me. I don't know if the look was here-we-go-again or hey-a-fan-that's-nice or I-am-going-to-kill-the-next-person-who-bothers-me. It didn't matter. I was already too deep in it.

"Hey there! I, uh, don't know if you remember me, but I told my friends," I cast a quick glance at Giselle to see her beaming at me, "I told them about how we used to be neighbors. I doubt you remember, it was a long time ago." Another glance at Giselle. "My name's Jason?" I asked

Robin had it figured out. His look changed completely, his smile fat and eyes laughing. He chuckled as he shook his head. "Oh, Jason! How are ya, kiddo? Haven't seen you since you were, well, it's been a while. How's your mom doing? She still have that bursitis? And whatever happened to that cat, the one that kept eating my flowers and crapping on my porch?"

I'm not sure if those were the exact words, but it was there. He was playing along - he was the living embodiment of improv. Always said yes.

It went on like that for a couple more minutes, his riffing getting crazier and funnier by the second. The Germans were in stitches. Giselle was cracking up.

"Well, kids, it's been nice meeting you. Let me have Jason for a second, then you can go."

He took me aside, talking softly, out of earshot. "Listen kid. It's great to perform, but you don't have to. Not to get friends. Just be yourself. They'll like you just fine." He looked back at Giselle, then at me. "She'll like you just fine."

And he was off.

As my small group walked off in the opposite direction, I was acutely aware of Giselle's hand nestled firmly in mine. It burned like the heat of a billion suns, but it was a good heat. A dry heat. We spent the day running around the city, watching the street performers at Fisherman's Wharf, eating street food and overdosing on chocolate. It was glorious.

That evening it was the farewell party. Giselle and I found a nice quiet room to say goodbye to each other in.

And here's where I tell you that I stretched the truth in the title a wee bit. Things did get physical between us - her lips were soft and earlobes delicious. I may have even grazed her breast with my hand, but nothing more than that. We spent the night cuddling and talking and enjoying each other's company.

They left at ten the next morning, and we did like all summer teenage flings do - we promised to write, to keep in touch. We did once. Twice, but then… life moved on.

If I know anything, I know this: if Robin Williams had not played along, I would not have found the courage to be myself, and I wouldn't have had that night with Giselle.

Mr. Williams touched my life three times. Each time, he gave me gifts that I can never repay, but I can, perhaps pass them along.

Laugh until it hurts.

Be yourself. They'll like you just fine.

And sometimes, idiots are geniuses.

Nanu-Nanu, Robin, Nanu-Nanu.

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Flicker

Now Playing: Thoughts & girlfriends & encounters
Topic: Wonder Years - College


Simple raindrops cool quietly in the chillblack air. Once upon a time there lived a moon whose silver beauty outshone even the brightest of stars, Sol. She wandered the aisles of the Earth, living, laughing, breathing. Flowers bloomed in her footsteps while birds sang of her voice. Her slippings and slidings billowed like clouds through the lives of those more common. Those lives she touched, a mild, electric touch, were forever changed. Transformed. The goddess’ womanly shape was the shape of Spring, and the seasons were envious. Desolate souls grew into fruitful planes of knowledge, emotions. Love bloomed from the red butterfly of her heart.

Oceans roar quietly amongst the grey blue stones by the Cliffside. Gently, the seaweed spoke of her lifebringing eyes, and the pelicans soared. Grace embodied was her corporeal form, soul, body, emotion, thought. She tripped wistfully, unknowingly through the lives of the unsuspecting. I wish to love her with my heart’s soul.

“I will be yours when I am yours,” these words she spoke to me, and my heart swelled. My pores issue forth strawberry flavored kisses.

My brief – too brief – encounter with her has been the most important event of my life so far. My completeness is full. My mind is waiting.




I found this, and even though it has no date or any other indicator, I know about the time and place, and the exact person about whom I wrote this. It may be cheesy and corny, but woah, my feelings for her were intense. It was a flicker in time, a moment of pure flame. It didn't last long, but the emotions burned hot. There was lust, and love, and something... else. I don't really know what. earthwulf

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Letter to the editor - Feb 1991, San Jose Mercury News

Now Playing: Letters
Topic: Wonder Years - College


[earthwulf]
UCSC PO BOX []
Santa Cruz, CA 95064-1011
(408) 423-xxxx

Letters to the editor
San Jose Mercury News
750 Ridder Park Drive
San Jose, CA 95109

RE: “Protests attract…” By Michael Dorgan

Whether or not there is a massive crowd at any given peace protest, there always seems to be an anti-protest slant to any coverage of these events. Point in fact: “protests attract smaller crowds: S.F. Rally draws only 2,500; numbers dwindle elsewhere, too” by one Mr. Michael Dorgan. I would like any person who wishes to try to call together “only 2,500” within less than twenty-four hours.

Mr. Dorgan says that this march was “spirited but peaceful”. The underlying tone of this surprise points to his obvious conclusion that it is difficult to have a spirited and peaceful demonstration. The few incidences of violence have usually been at the fringe of the protests, and not by those necessarily associated with the peace movement. I noticed that the editor of this page also chose to support the anti-protest stance of this article through the pictures chosen: a woman with a shirt on that proclaims “In your face”, while the only banner legible has one legible word: “Enema”. The second picture is one of marchers and myself casually sauntering along, with the caption “Follow the Leader”. Peace activism is not a game. Other pictures Jose Luis Villegas took will show the emotion present in our march.

The quoted marcher indicates that “people are really depressed.” Of course they are – we are involved in War. The quote also talks about people losing hope about changing minds, that it’s being done “for ourselves”. That is the main reason for demonstrating. We’ve learned that Government does not pay attention (except negative) to the voice of the protestors, nor does the general populace. The protests are about bringing together a community: for emotional support, for creating a forum in which people can speak and be heard, for the simple fact it tells people that they are not alone with their feelings.

This Mr. Dorgan was not at UCSC to report what went on, although Mr. Villegas was. Mr. Dorgan give a strong build-up with “all the ingredients for protest” a sunny day… and an emotional cause”, then talks about the “meandering afternoon protest.” First, it was cold and the fog was rolling in about the time of the march. Next, we had a set agenda as to where the march was to go to, it was not “meandering”, nor was it a Sunday picnic. As I was the organizer, I was surprised that I was not asked any questions except for my name. Ths was not a planned event; in fact a phone tree had begun just hours before, and there were quite a number of students who were not home in time to get the message.

Then the articlegoes on to say that “many peace activists denty that their movement has weakened”, there are no quotes from any organizers in order to state our position. This is not information, this is generalization. This was coupled with a statement about how a t-shirt shop that once sold peace shirts is now advertising Pro-American t-shirts. This is a double shot: one is that protestors are decidedly un-American, and the second is that t-shirt sales are where the major political movements come from. If this were true, then Metallica would control the U.S. government. Not only that, I resent being labeled un-American and un-patriotic, for that says that I care very little for the lives of my fellow human beings.

I am tired of the peace movement being treated as an uninformed, disorganized, frivolous game, the whim of a few people with nothing better to do. It is not, nor is it dead, by any matter or means. You do not interview us to get our opinions or actions, and I challenge you to do so. I am not necessarily attacking the reporter, for I know what it is like to have editors occasionally alter the meaning of a story. I invite Mr. Dorgan, any reporter, to come interview those of us involved with the peace movent at UCSC. It may prove enlightening.


[earthwulf]
UCSC Student
Member of Santa Cruz Students for
Social responsibility
2-26-91





Man, I really needed – hell, need – an editor. The idea is there, but the execution, well, not the best. I did like the t-shirt/Metallica zinger, though. “I would like any person who wishes to try to call together “only 2,500” within less than twenty-four hours” Pre-intarweb & common cell phone usage. This was back during the first Bush invasion of Iraq. Little did I know about the disaster that Bush 1’s idiot son would lead us into, looming a decade into the future. At leas Bush jr did something right: if he did do ever single thing wrong, there’s no way our nation would have even entertained the notion of Obama, probably not even of Hillary Clinton. So, um, thanks for that. earthwulf

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Leathers McRose

Now Playing: Fiction
Topic: um. 90's?

Leathers McRose spent an occasional moment of each passing period we all affectionately call “days” in contemplation of her name.

It wasn’t her fault that she’d acquired such a misnomer, it was the fault of a father who knew his last name would just disappear if his daughter ever got married and of a mother who’d never seen what a newborn child looked like. Such was the way of a pseudo ex hippie yuppified post neo classicist set of unmarried parents as were those of Leathers.

On the day of her birth, Brad “Moonbeam” McDowser asked to his live –in significant other, Sigirid Rose, if she knew of the legal ramifications of giving the child a last name not consistant with those of her parents.

“Can she sue us later?”

When Siggie saw her daughter for the first time, she too had a comment.

“Moonie, doesn’t she look like one of those bold new wrinkled leather purses from Paris’ new line?”

And so it was that Leathers McRose entered into this world as yet another product of an unabashed legal system coupled with the Holy Fashion Statement.



I...I have no idea. Um... it's... well... no clue. Not the hint of an inkling of an possible hit as to when I wrote this or what I was thinking. I think maybe I came up with a name I liked and ran with it... I only know that it's in my handwriting. earthwulf

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MATISSE: The Cut Outs

Now Playing: Essay for history class
Topic: Wonder Years - College




WRITING 1 [earthwulf]
1-11-90 MARS GREENING

MATISSE: The Cut Outs

“Is that a dog on the ceiling?”

This was my roommate, deep in the throes of slumber, asking what to him was probably a logical question.

“What has been your experience as a writer?”

This was my writing prof, wide awake and abounding with energy, asking to her what was probably a logical question.

There you have two seemingly unrelated incidents, yet, when put together they tend to have a blatantly obvious connection, and it’s not that you can lead a gift horse to water, but you can’t look it in the mouth. At least I don’t think it is.

I would venture to guess that the connection is that when dealing with anything, a lot depends on perspective. Where you see a tree, I am going to see a rock. Who’s to say who is correct? And on that note, I’ll launch right into my not-quite doctoral dissertation on My Experience As A Writer, or, Why The Earth Is Round But The Stars Are Flat.

It began when I was young. As a child, I was surprised and delighted to learn that certain things had the ability to leave makrs on certain other things. Even more exciting – once I got past the stage where lipstick on the face (or wall, or cat) was the highest form of written thought I could express – was the fact that “Hey! I can make shapes like they have in the books Mom Reads to me! And I can read them!” Shakespeare had nothin’ on this 4 year old. I was ready to go, and the cat could come out of hiding.

Turned out, it wasn’t as easy as all that. Turned out that I had the desire, but let’s just say that my vocabulary wouldn’t have filled the Oxford English Dictionary. So it was off to school I went.

You know, I think they try to keep kids from thinking that writing is fun. Hell, they start us off with pencils the size of tree trunks, erasers made out of granite, and paper that tears if you even look at it the wrong way. Somehow I managed to get past that stage, and I wasn’t ready to stop.

I went through junior high; that’s when it happened. Sitting down and writing was no longer fun. It became work. With a capital “W”. I was still good at it, but I no longer enjoyed it. What is that thing called the “five-paragraph-essay”; what are the monstrosities of having to write about another person’s work in an abhorred creature known as the “book-report”?!?

If this was the way writers had to do it, I wanted no part of it. I started reading the first and last chapters of assigned books, then writing the reports the night before. As for history papers – what are encyclopedias and thesauruses (thesauri?) made for? I felt that if I wasn’t allowed to use my imagination, well, I’d do it anyway. In a 350 page book, after reading only two chapters (plus the jacked description, of course), you had to use imagination to get an “A”. At least that made it somewhat more exciting.

Then in 10th grade, something happened. My English teacher happened.

“Bullshit,” she said. “That’s what this is. Granted, it’s some of the best I’ve seen, but bullshit by any other name still smells just as sweet. Or sour. Rewrite it, and do a good job.”

After the initial shock of hearing a teacher – a 57 year old teacher at that – use such language, I realizes that she meant it. I was in a journalism class; in journalism, you can’t afford to play around with bovine fecal matter.

And so I began again. This time, to my surprise, it was fun. Still, it was work, something I detested and tried to avoid at all costs. I would’ve rather been playing volleyball, reading, spelunking, or in an underwater paperweight throwing contest than to have been caught working. I guess you could say that my work ethic left something to be desired.

This was going to be a serious problem. I still had the rest of the year with this woman, this creature of ill-conceived editorial thought (at least from my bullshitting point of view), with no way of getting out. I had to find a way of escaping this ‘work” thing, while still getting an “A”.

I had a plan.

I began writing in my free time. Not a lot at first, but enough to make it easier. The more I wrote, the more I had to write. It was a disease of sorts, one which I was using to my advantage. Was I pulling the wool over her eyes, or what? She didn’t suspect a thing: she actually thought I was working hard and not b.s.ing, when, in truth, I was just having fun.

Chalk it up to being in high school, but the irony didn’t hit me untila year later.



What actually separates the written word from reality? Where does the truth stop and fiction begin? I’ve never been too sure, so when I write, I write to mix the two if absolutely necessary.

I was finding that I had no real experience from which to draw upon. It was clear that a past life of mine wasn’t going to suddenly jump into my consciousness giving me an extra pi-are-squared number of years to my life. Imagination was back in.

“[Wulf], [Earth Wulf]. Agent 003.5, not-quite-licensed-to-kill-but-still-able-to-insult-really-well, at your service. Drink? Yes, a Dr Pepper, stirred, not shaken.”

“Oklahoma [Wulf] and the temple of the hare Krishnas”

“Super[wulf]! Able to… well, we haven’t quite got it figured out yet, but he’s able to do something. We think.”

There was something lacking in my concepts, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.They were original ideas, until they were stolen from me. Shocked, I tell you! I was shocked when I walked into theaters and saw my concepts on the big screen. I had o recourse, except to bury my outrage and keep writing.

I managed to get through high school with no major scars on my psyche, which is a miracle in today’s world. Then the strangest thing happened after graduation.

Tunisia.

“What is that,” an acquaintance of mine asked, “and is it contagious?”

What it is is the northernmost country in Africa, between Libya and Algeria (the boot of Italy points towards it). A few answers to much asked questions: no, I did not meet Nelson Mandela. It’s nowhere near South Africa. No, all of the cities are not nomadic, moving every month. As far s I know, no actual cities are. And no, they don’t cut off your hands if you are caught stealing (imagine what they’d do to flashers)

A year of my life was spent in this incredible country, giving me the beginnings of what I lacked in high school: esperience.

I lived with an Arabic speaking family in a third world country; I spent a weekend with a nomadic Berber family in the Sahara desert; I picked dates in an oasis; I tooka shower in a waterfall. I used the toiled with no paper, or toilet, for that matter. I did one hell of a lot.

Tunisia opened my eyes to the world. What had once been a two-dimensional, flat world found only in black and white became three dimensional Technicolor. Names of places actually meant something, and I made friends from countries I can’t even pronounce.

I also became aware that experience isn’t always something exciting or exotic. I had been fooling myself in high school, envying characters in books and movies, wanting their lifestyles, their adventures. Tunisia made me realize that living is experience. You may think “Yeah, sure, we all know that,” but od you actually realize it? Most people don’t, I think.

Look, a time when I was six and burned my knee on a go-cart exhaust pipe was experience. Going to work 9-to-5 five days a week is experience. Getting in bed is experience. I couldn’t see that before my trip, couldn’t see that in the 9-to-5 job, something different happens every day – every second – and the problem for me was being able to grasp that, twist it into words, then setting it down on paper. I had the problem of thinking that life is boring, and when life is boring, you can’t get excited, and when you can’t get excited life is boring, and…

Something else happened that I found strange. I stopped writing. I had written in Tunisia – in a journal, letters, short-stories, whatever – yet, when I got back, I stopped. No reason, no thoughts. I just stopped. Period.

I found myself looking at things more closely, trying to examine daily life in detail. I started thinking a lot, about life, the universe, and everything, about why 42, about whether or not amoebas really do slide shows. I thought too much, spending the entire summer in contemplation (and in work).

Hamlet who?



UCSC hit me fast & furious, the old saying about not being ready for it (or rather it not being ready for me) about living one day at a time and that quarter was the longest day of my life and how did Just and I become Grand Central Station parties oh and school of course then lust came along to compensate for true love and before that skinny dipping in the Pacific one march night and living with more living

It was hectic, and it was worth it. My writing, though, slipped back into bullshit-mode since I was being dragged kicking and screaming through the core course, as well as an ungodly number of science courses. You see, I had this idea of becoming a geneticist when I got here, splicing genes and playing God, then something happened. No, I wasn’t brought to my senses by a swift boot to the head, nor did they cure my insanity. They told me to write.. In a standardized format. A scientific five paragraph essay. No questions asked, no differentiation, do not pass Go, go directly to Jail.

It became notfun and verywork. I found that if you know big words and a little science, you can bullshit rather well. That wasn’t what I wanted.

So I went to France.

Or, rather, UCSC kicked me out of the country, and I no place else to go, not to mention the pack of Tunisian nomads on my tail for taking one of their women. But that is, as they say, another tale for another day.







Notes: Obviously, a paper for Mars Greening's writing class. a) Moving cities? Burning Man, anyone? Black Rock City… well, I guess that’s more of a yearly temporary one… b) To be fair, Tunisia is a developing country with many western amenities. Nothing like countries I’ve lived in since. Also, the Tunisian family I lived with spoke French, too. c) the “Core Courses” at UCSC are (or maybe were) a part of each separate college at UCSC, each one focusing on something different, designed to introduce incoming college students to the rigors of college writing & reading. d) my son is 5 & ¾ and has wanted to be a geneticist since he was 4 and learned that was the only way to bring back dinosaurs. I don’t have the heart to tell him how boring I found the science courses.- earthwulf

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