2005 Christmas Letter

Travel back in TV time with me. Past Seinfeld. Beyond all the large hair. Before the New Coke debacle. It's Susan Powter, there goes a Rubik's Cube. Look, its Bruce Jenner. We are slowing down now… just three channels. Mike Douglas, bad reception… the Handshake in Space . Large hair, again.

We have arrived in front of the Zenith Console. 1970-something. My vinyl floored family room, Saturday morning, its raining. The "You Can Roll a Rollo to a Friend" commercial with the oversized caramel filled homosexual candies rubbing against each other has just concluded. Another commercial comes on: The hipster 70s guy with the Afro is roller-dancing down the sidewalk; he is so into his funky groove that he doesn't see a fellow 70s hipster guy approaching with the boom-box perched on his shoulder. Did I mention the roller-dancer was spooning store brand peanut butter straight from the jar? Oh, and boom-box guy is gratuitously eyeballing this enormous chocolate bar. Inevitably a wacky collision ensues and the two Einsteins discover the joy of peanut butter and chocolate- together. If only there was a more convenient, less painful, way to enjoy this new taste sensation. Aha! But there is-- The Reese's Peanut Butter Cup is born and marketed to the pre-adolescent masses.

I loved this commercial and what it represented and waited for years to see this scene recreated in real life. Maybe I would even be a part of it-- boom-box guy perhaps? It epitomized being a teenager to me: Freedom, discovery, disco, large hair, and tasty new candy. As a boy I would sit on the front step, waiting for deliverance, watching chip trucks rumble past from the mill, always vigilant for the peanut-butter-eater/chocolate-eater-collision. Where are you Afro man?

But, alas, the closest I ever came was Brian Vanderzanden, a distant cousin, riding his 10-speed Rampar past; no hands, no shirt, drinking a 2-liter bottle of Coke and eating a brick of semi-sweet baking chocolate. If only some punk would have come the other way spooning from a jar of Western Family…
Childhood dreams aside, this summer I had the opportunity to dredge through my past (for real) on the occasion of my high school reunion. Twenty years condensed into the blink of an eye. I became a momentary interloper into the collective unconscious of Banks, Oregon.

The picked over salmon at the side of the buffet table looked liked something you might see flopping around in the rocky shallows of the Wilson River after the spawn. Just some bones held together by a few sordid hunks of flesh. The salad tray next to it was expertly gleaned of all carrots, broccoli and other safe vegetables, just a perfect wedge of expertly interlocked cauliflower and a few sad cherry tomatoes remained. It was comforting to know that as a group the Class of 1985 never fully supported celery sticks as a legitimate snack item. The buffet table will be my friend.

I see someone headed toward me that I don’t recognize, but know I should. She looks familiar, but in a Female Prison Movie kind of way, not a pleasant high school chum kind of way. She is swaggering straight at me, is she upset? Could she be packing a shank? I freeze-up, unable to relocate or even look away. The warden should have warned me about this.

Unidentifiable Woman: “Well I’ll be damned! Joe Vahandershanden!”

Joe: “I don’t think I… Who are… I can’t….” (stammering)

UW: “Bulllshhhhit! You know me… Bullschit..”

JV: (frightened now) “No… Really…. Twenty years…” (nervous chuckle)

UW: (glaring pause) “Julie Schhmmith”

JV: (blank stare, I am still searching my memory banks)

JS: (another pause, concentrates) “Jewl.. Eeee… Smith.”

JV: “Good to see you… Julie…” (eyes dart to floor, drink table, buffet, bathroom; still no idea who she is)

JS: “Can I ashk you a pershsonal queshhhtion?”

JV: (nervous laugh; she appears like she could really hurt me)

JS: “Joe Vahanhandershanden….”

JV: (blank stare; frightened; I think she’s onto me)

JS: “Joe Vahander.. vanssshanden….”

JV: “Oh look, salmon!” (departs quickly)

Every 15 minutes or so this awkward and potentially dangerous conversation is repeated, only a bit more slurred. Each time I suddenly develop a tremendous appetite for spoiled salmon and celery.

That was the essence of my high school reunion. Among other profundities, I learned that there is really no good response to the question “Iowa?” Other than, “Yes, Iowa.”

Yes, Iowa. I am pleased to report that all is well here this Christmas— fantastic, in fact. Nina and Peter are full of wonder and brilliance and Ann Marie continues to amaze us all. Merry Christmas to you all, wishing you a happy and healthy 2006.