Category: Story Time with Tom Starita

Because who doesn’t love a good story?

The Time I Met Michael Jackson

Did I ever tell you about the time I met Michael Jackson? It’s incredible isn’t it? After all this time I can still surprise you. You have heard so many of my stories over the years and yet my chance encounter with the musical pop icon somehow never entered into the conversation.

I’ll never forget that day, an extremely warm Tuesday afternoon back in July of 2000. We as a nation had all experienced and overcame the hardship that was Y2K. Millions of hardworking Americans had only one goal that New Year’s Eve, survive the end of the world and then riot. Maybe even do some pillaging and looting with their neighbors. Alas, there were no blackouts, no chaos and no riots that day or any day after. Things kept going on just as they had and we were forced to continue purchasing the goods and services we needed with our own money.

It was a tough year.

The reason why I specifically remember meeting Michael Jackson on a Tuesday was because on Tuesdays I always went jogging, and I hate to jog. At first I tried jogging on Mondays but that was brutal. Mondays were tough back then because I should have found a job, or at least started looking for one. We, the next generation of slackers and the unemployed, had moved out of our college dreams and into the harsh dilapidated apartment that is the real world. The days of spending a random Thursday afternoon walking the Staten Island Mall were coming to an end. You couldn’t call your friends up and drive to Great Adventure on a Wednesday morning without feeling like a deadbeat. Our legs were getting fitted for the shackles that would be chained to the radiator that was the 9 to 5. All we had left were the weekends and that brief time became a symbolic reminder of the freedom we all possessed on an every day basis a short time ago. Now we had to deal with the hat trick of horrors; the pressure of finding a job, bills and college debt.

Anyway, I had decided a couple of weeks earlier to jog every Tuesday down at Gateway Park on Hylan Boulevard. I had learned a long time ago that my body was not designed by the good Lord above to jog more than one day a week, so I took that singular opportunity to push my mortal frame to the limit. Every Tuesday, I would leave my house on Cortelyou Avenue, drive the fifteen minutes to the park and then spend twenty minutes looking for a good parking spot.

I am well aware that the simple act of parking is no great feat. Millions do so everyday, in various parking lots, driveways and shady back alleys all over the world. However, there is a certain art to parking, especially when doing so inside a popular and well-frequented state park.

For some, the obvious answer is to either find a spot at the front of the park or a spot all the way at the end of the park. The problem with that strategy is two-fold. First, no matter what you planned on doing that day, whether it was jogging, Frisbee, fishing or creepily gawking at the girls on rollerblades, you had to walk thousands of miles to get to the right spot. Then, once the activity is finished, you had to walk the many miles back to your car.

To me this made no sense.

I was already going to use my maximum amount of allotted steps for that day in the leisurely pursuit of jogging. To waste those precious foot movements strolling would only complicate the activity. Therefore, I would drive to the middle of Gateway Park, by the marina and perform that famous ritual known as the “Are You Getting Out Dance?”
The Dance is an art handed down from generation to generation. The slow crawl as your car paces a possible candidate. The awkward eye contacts as you try to reassure them that you aren’t a kidnapper. The involuntary hand gestures and stammering as you ask,

“Are you getting out?”

Followed by either the sad shake of a head or a smile and a gesture to a vague point in the distance twenty miles down the road. The ritual was completed as you drove in the general direction they pointed and hoped you guessed right, or else someone else would steal your precious spot and then it was back to the beginning and another twenty minutes of lost time.

Eventually, my car would find a new temporary home and I could accomplish the task I had come there to do. On my first day I learned there were two types of joggers in this world — the Casual Jogger and the Staten Island Jogger. The Casual Jogger, of which I belonged, was an idiot savant of sorts. We didn’t plan ahead and wear comfortable clothing. Instead, our members frequently wore some type of t-shirt with a name brand on the front and a pair of jeans. There was no foresight as to how we would deal with the inevitable sweating problem. We would simply fling the sweat from our foreheads and eyes, sometimes splashing children or inadvertently killing a goose. Our sneakers weren’t designed for the pounding of the pavement. In fact, some of our lesser members even wore dress shoes.

For the record, my Reebok sneakers worked just fine. They might have needed some duct tape for stability, but if I’ve learned anything it’s that duct tape makes a fashion statement.

Conversely, you have the Staten Island Jogger.

The Staten Island Jogger is a unique subspecies all to itself. First, they spend hundreds of dollars on expensive track uniforms, designed for maximum jogability. Yes, not only is that a word, but if played correctly you can effectively end any Scrabble game by throwing down those letters. Their headbands are made from actual snakes killed inside Gateway Park. To maintain high quality, the snakes are caught from behind and suffocated using petite handkerchiefs. Next, they are fastened around the forehead with a little help from old friend double-sided tape. You can adjust the tightness by shoving more of the snake’s body inside its mouth, preventing any semblance of sweat from reaching your precious eyes.

At the time there were no iPods, so the Staten Island Jogger would fasten their portable cd player to their belt using a complicated knotting method invented by Polynesian sailors looking to cross the Pacific. On these compact discs were the classics, Heart, Pat Benatar, Stevie Nicks. Apparently, Staten Island scientists had determined that female vocalists increased your heart rate and gave you the ultimate runner’s high. After all, who can deny not going that extra mile when listening to Stevie Nicks belting out the chorus of, “Edge of Seventeen?”

If you ever encounter the Staten Island Jogger, my first tip would be to always project confidence. Above all else, show no fear. The Staten Island Jogger can be aggressive with those they feel they can push around and intimidate. If startled, they have been known to throw an unpadded elbow directly into your nasal cavity and call it a day. They are also not afraid to run you over if you don’t concede the path. If you do ever get run over by a Staten Island Jogger do not expect them to apologize or offer their hand in an act of contrition. Certainly don’t expect them to slow down or even look back. They’re like the wind, and we all know you can’t catch the wind, baby. If you ever have a conversation with them be sure to keep it brief. Their time is more important than yours, the common folk. And for God’s sake, whatever you do make sure you thank them at the end of your chat for wasting their precious time.

The last piece of advice I can offer is to never correct them. I cannot stress this enough. Whatever they say is Gospel, just take it to the bank and cash it. To even insinuate that their thoughts, beliefs or general opinions may be flawed in any way shape or form is nothing short of a death wish. My late Uncle Dennis (he has a problem with punctuality) once corrected a Staten Island Jogger regarding the time of day. The police found his body three days later in the Marina. It was not a pretty sight.

So there I was, jogging on a Tuesday afternoon in July. I can vividly recall how hot the day was. You could fry an eye egg on a grill, serve it with some green peppers, cheddar cheese and a side of whole-wheat toast and then hope for a twenty-percent tip. The sweat wouldn’t stop pouring down my face, due to the lack of a dead snake around my forehead. My jeans stuck to my saturated thighs and I cursed myself for squatting 380 the other day at the gym.
I was jogging that day down the path helpfully created by the Parks Department of New York City when I noticed something in the Marina reflecting off the water. I moved over to the railing to get a closer look while at the same time continuing to jog in place. After all, the key to this whole jogging thing is to keep an elevated heart rate. I’m no doctor but I do know that if you suddenly stop jogging after twenty minutes your body can flood your aortic cavity with enough lactic acid to cause a ventricle or an aorta to shut down. This can lead to multiple scenarios, none of which are pleasant.

The first is a heart attack.

The second is a stroke.

And the third is diabetes.

Like I said, knowing this I continued to jog in place while I looked out into the marina to see what it was that was causing the reflection.

Despite my close proximity, I was still unsuccessful in determining what the object was. A thought came to mind to climb over the railing and lean in even closer. Then, I remembered that would cause me to stop jogging and could lead, in the best-case scenario, to diabetes so I immediately cast it from my mind. A second thought was to take a picture with my iPhone and see if I could increase the magnification. Then I remembered it was July of 2000 and all I had was a six-pound brick with a large antenna. Finally, I decided to ask the next person who came down the path. Perhaps their eyesight was more advanced and could solve the mystery.

So I waited.

And waited…

And waited some more…

Finally, four minutes later a rather attractive Staten Island Jogger in her late thirties came down the path. Knowing what I know about the Staten Island Jogger I called out to her fifty feet before she reached me. The last thing I wanted to do was to startle her and get my nose broken. With a shout I said, “Excuse me, can you tell me what that is?” and I pointed out to the reflecting object.

The woman kept her pace, came over to where I was and took a quick glance.

“Oh I know what that is. That’s Michael Jackson.”

For a split second I went to correct her before common sense kicked in. You never correct a Staten Island Jogger. Instead I thanked her for wasting her precious time and she went back to the path. And that is the story of the time I met Michael Jackson.

The True Story of The Lorax

On a rainy Tuesday afternoon I laid across my expensive and recently paid off leather couch desperately seeking some sort of diversion. I searched the thousands of movies available to me across a bevy of devices and found The Lorax. Throughout the film, I noticed details that seemed to reference deeper meanings. If nothing else I am a wannabe detective so I took my pursuit of the truth to the hallowed halls of Google, where strange enough, nothing could be found on Seuss esotericism.

While on line waiting for my car to get washed, an older gentleman overheard me talking about my Seuss frustration on my phone and offered up a tip — our local library had plenty of old moth infested books that could possibly possess some answers. Joy filled my heart and I felt the need to thank the man to which he insisted none was needed. Finally, he permitted a doff of my hat and I was on my way to the hallowed halls of the Great Kills Library.

Unfortunately, they were closed.

The next morning I returned and after hours of perusing various microfilms and filthy relics, I came upon an article written by James Cortelyou who purported to know the true origins of The Lorax. The headline screamed, “THE LORAX AND THE FRENCH REVOLUTION” and as I scanned down, all I saw was one big brown stain. Of course the rest of the article was illegible, due to a careless patron spilling coffee over the document.

Blast!

Ninety-nine percent of the time that’s the end of the story. Ninety-nine percent of the time whatever truth there is left to find is consigned to the garbage bin of history.

Thankfully, I am part of the one percent. A sentence, which when taken out of context will condemn me to countless hate mail from confused hippies.

With a recipe that is two-thirds ingenuity, a quarter high-speed Internet connection and three-eighths free long distance phone call thanks to Verizon, I managed to track down James Cortelyou at his house deep in the brass fields of Tecumseh, Oklahoma. At first he was hesitant to speak, most likely due to the intimidating Seuss agents residing all across the continental United States. Eventually, due to my easygoing nature and his need to unburden his heavy soul he opened up and told me the true story behind The Lorax.

Our tale begins in the year 1793, in the quaint French countryside of Fougères, located on the outskirts of le Mont St-Michel. Fougères is famous for having one of the only three belfries in Brittany, a former feudal state that existed for a time in France. For years, peace ruled the land until the winds of change came roaring in the form of The French Revolution. With the monarchy facing opposition from all sides and people thirsting for freedom it was the perfect storm for creativity and fresh ideas.

Enter Pierre de la Crème Glacée Parapluie, or simply Pete Parapluie to his friends. Pete was a simple glassmaker, one of dozens located in a town famous for its glass-making industry. The problem was Pete wasn’t especially fond of glass making. Every day, he would come home with little cuts all over his fingers from the fine nature of the glass. If that was the only hassle, historians are pretty sure Pete could have handled it.

The problem began with the upper crust of French society that came to buy pieces from Pete’s shop. They would come in their fancy clothes and powdered faces, shooting off their sneering glances and condescending attitudes. Pete did his best to fake smile and to tolerate them. After all, it was nearly impossible to find a French aristocrat at that time that didn’t sneer and condescend with a powdered face and fancy clothes. The crux of the problem was how the aristocrats came with their cats.

Not just a cat, Many cats.

Multiple cats.

Lots of cats.

Une multitude de chats.

Pete hated cats.

These cats would come and use his place as their own personal litter box. What was formerly a clean work shop turned into a disgusting toilet. Long after the aristocrats and their cats would leave, Pete would find nastiness in his shoes, in his glass machinery, even in his ears. This drove Pete crazy. Did you ever find shit in your ears? Not dirt, but actual shit.

It is not a pleasant feeling.

Enough was enough.

On the morning of January 20, 1793, he marched down to The Church of Saint Sulpice and demanded the attention of the townspeople. Quickly, a mob gathered, (as was the norm at the time) to listen to Pete’s words. There he gave a speech widely regarded as the most important in French history and the reason why King Louis XVI was executed the very next day. Before we get to those words, let me extend my apologies to those who speak French. Some of the meaning gets lost in translation.

My fellow countrymen!

I am tired! I am tired of making glass for these horrible rich people who think they are better than we are. I am tired of seeing their smug faces and having to hold my tongue as they talk down to me. But most of all I am tired of their cats!

To hell with their cats!

To hell with those useless animals that believe by virtue of their birth that they own dominion over all that they see. To hell with their belief that they can go to the bathroom wherever they want. I am tired of their shit, both literal and metaphorical. WE are tired of their shit. I know there isn’t a man alive here in our proud town that enjoys finding cat shit in their ears. I know there isn’t a woman alive in this town who enjoys having to ruin their brooms sweeping up all the cat shit. I say it’s time we give them back all the shit they have given us!

It is time to rise up!

It is time to cast off these bonds of servitude and force the rich to acknowledge whom truly runs this beautiful land we call France!

It is time to fuck shit up!

There was more but the rest of the speech is lost to the annals of history. Apparently after that last line the crowd went into frenzy and began to chant,

“A l’enfer avec les Royals et a l’enfer avecs leurs chats!”

Translated into English,

“To hell with the Royals and to hell with their cats!”

This sentiment raged across the countryside as hoards of angry French citizens attacked those they believe persecuted them. They wanted freedom, they wanted equality, and they wanted to be rid of those annoying cats. Thus, whenever French nobility was attacked, they would end the assault by placing all their cats into a sack and throwing them into a river.

In casting off their symbolic shackles, they cast off the cats.

The most impressionable of all were the French children, who watched this all go down. Psychologists later came to the conclusion that to deal with the horrors all around them, the French children created a game, that later became the impetus of the game “Freeze Tag,” complete with a song. The game would begin with all the children gathered together. Quickly, two children would be singled out. One would be “The Royalty” and one would be “The Cat.” The rest of the children would denigrate into a mob and chase “The Royalty” and “The Cat” all over. When they finally tagged “The Royalty” that child was forced to stand still and watch as the children then focused their attention on finding “The Cat.” Once “The Cat” was found, the children would carry “The Cat” and throw them into “The River” which was normally substituted with a mound of garbage. Once “The Cat” was thrown into “The River” the children would sing,

Nous sommes les enfants assez & petit

Nous jeter le cat dans la rivière

La Révolution vivent plus longtemps que le cat

C’est dans la rivière jeter

Le cat jeter

Le cat jeter

Le cat dans la rivière jeter

Le cat jeter

Le cat jeter

Et a l’enfer avec lui

Translated into English,

We are children pretty & small

We throw the cat in the river

The Revolution shall live longer than the cat

That’s in the river

Throw the cat

Throw the cat

Throw the cat

In the river

Throw the cat

Throw the cat

Throw the cat

And to hell with him!

Perhaps you’re wondering how this ties into The Lorax?

In the late 1960s, Theodor Seuss Geisel was traveling the French countryside with his second wife, Audrey Stone Dimond when they decided to check out the famous castle in Fougères, built in the year 1000. On the road to the castle he came across a plaque for Pierre de la Crème Glacée Parapluie. Seeing how Theodor couldn’t read or speak French, he asked a fellow traveler to translate the words on the plaque. Those words were the famous speech Pete made at the Church. Seuss was now intrigued at learning the rest of the story and by the time he arrived home in California, Seuss decided to Americanize the story and make it suitable for children.

Thus, The Lorax.

So the next time you read The Lorax to your children or watch the movie on Netflix, try to find the symbolic meaning behind The Lorax creature, representing the French peasants and the Once-Ler representing the French Royalty. Think of those simple French people. Think of all those French people who had to suffer with finding cat shit in their ears. Think of how cat shit led to the French Revolution, forever changing the way people lived and were governed. Think of how, without the cat shit, there would be no French Revolution and consequently no United States of America.

The next time you are frustrated with American politics remember we are a country founded on the principles of cat shit and throwing cats into the river…

Throw the cat

Throw the cat

Throw the cat

And to hell with him!

Story Time with Tom Starita

Short and sweet…

Welcome to Goppygots 3.0, the reincarnation of the dream I once woke up from. Whether it’s standing in front of a classroom full of teenagers, the dinner table or the random dude standing in line at Bed Bath & Beyond listening in on a conversation with my girlfriend, I love to tell stories. Goppygots 3.0 is going to be just that, “Story Time with Tom Starita.” Some are going to be funny, others weird and maybe even verging into the slightly dramatic territory. I said this is going to be short and sweet so………………….

My friends and family are sometimes amazed at the amount and level of absurdity that pours out of my fingers. “How do I do it?” They wonder with one part amazement and two parts discomfort. At some point someone will ask the inevitable question that anyone who has ever written anything gets asked,

“Where do you get your ideas from?”

For years I put off their question, either mumbling a reply or saying I didn’t know. Today though, I think it’s time to reveal my secret. In doing so I will be ostracized from the writer’s community and forced to spend the rest of my remaining days sharpening pencils that will never sharpen and charging laptops that will never charge. Despite my impending doom I feel that this knowledge shouldn’t be hoarded like the Holy Grail. It should be accessible to everyone. My pain will be your pleasure and I am fine with that.

You ever wonder why coffee shops are full of seemingly unemployed people typing away on their laptops for hours while the small coffee they bought hours ago remains seemingly untouched on their table?

That’s because all writers obtain their ideas from coffee shops.

Like everything else in life, there is a certain protocol about receiving these glorious ideas. You just can’t go up to the counter and demand the equivalent of “War and Peace” be handed to you along with a blueberry muffin. No sir, that would be a serious faux pas. Allow me to bestow upon you, my faithful reader the rules of engagement.

First off, pick a good spot. Me personally, I like to sit at, Beans and Leaves. (unpaid plug) Upon arrival, you must let three people pass you on the line. The excuse you give is irrelevant — you’re not ready yet, you’re waiting for someone, you don’t speak English. Whatever it is just come up with something and let three people pass you. After the third person passes you step up to the barista and say in a low voice exactly what you want. For example, if you want to write a short story with a happy ending you would say,

“Short cup, light and sweet.”

Perhaps you’re writing a comedy.

“Medium cup, strawberry raisin.”

However, if you wish your novel to be full of meaning with vast amounts of hidden subtext you would say,

“Large cup, extra caramel.”

You get the idea?

Whatever you say, the barista will take the proper sized cup and ask you for your name. At that point you must say, “Edgar Allen Poe.” I don’t know why you have to give his name. Some people believe it was Poe who figured out the connection between creativity and caffeine. Others point to the fact that he died in a tragic coffee bean accident. Whatever the case, his is the name you give.

From there you wait.

Find an unoccupied table or chair and sit. Make yourself comfortable. After all, you just spent two dollars and eighteen cents for the privilege of sitting there as long as you fancy. Take out your laptop or archaic pen and notebook and open them to a fresh page. For the next three minutes, visualize the words you wish to appear. This is very important. You have to think of something very specific. It could be the opening paragraph, your actual ending or a random piece of dialogue. Once you have those words in your head, preferably at least twenty five to be safe, you must stand up and walk over to the barista. When they see you coming they won’t say, “Edgar Allen Poe,” because you already said that and the creative process is never redundant. Instead, they will make the sound a raven makes. Unfortunately, most baristas these days don’t know what sound a raven makes and will either make a generic bird noise or pretend they’re Ray Lewis. Regardless of the noise they make, pay the disinterested person behind the counter, extend your hand and take from them an empty cup.

Some writers like to carry the ruse a little further by going over to the station with sugar, cream, straws and napkins and will grab the necessary accruements. I prefer to get to the point and immediately return to where I was sitting.

Take the cup and pretend you are dumping the contents onto your laptop or notebook. Make sure you get everything out. You don’t want to leave something important inside like the ending or the name of your main character. Tap the bottom of the cup several times, give it a little shake and once you are absolutely confident the cup is empty only then can you turn it right side up and place it on the upper ride side of the table.

This is the point where the magic happens.

Close your eyes and concentrate on the one person you cannot live without. It could be your spouse, person you’re dating, a parent or sibling. Hell, it could even be the cute blonde currently sitting at the other table who asked you for a napkin. The point is concentrate on someone you have strong feelings about. Then, take three quick deep breaths and whisper as faintly as possible,

“This is so weird.”

When you open your eyes, your notebook or computer will be full of exotic characters that seem to appear in some semblance of order. The reason why it doesn’t appear in a real language is because the magic doesn’t know what language you speak and the more you think about it, the more reasonable a thought that becomes. If you are using a computer, the solution is easy — highlight the entire document and change the language to English. If you are using a notebook the conversion is slightly more difficult. You need to dip your pen in the empty coffee cup still sitting on your table and as gently as possible lightly shade over the paper, making sure to barely graze the surface. You don’t want to scribble over the exotic characters and lose their meaning forever.

After a minute or so of shading, you will slowly start being able to make out certain letters and words. A couple more minutes later the entire text will appear.

Eureka!

Maybe you’re wondering, why if this entire process only takes a couple of minutes, then why do some people spend hour upon hour inside these coffee shops, looking like they’re hard at work?

Two reasons:

The first is image and if Andre Agassi taught us anything, it’s that image is everything. Writers want you to think that writing is the hardest thing on Earth. If you knew it took a couple of minutes to write an entire book then every Tom, Dick and Harry would write their own books and the market would be saturated with tales of vampire zombie S&M young adult romance novels.

No one wants to live in that world.

The second and much more important reason why writers spend hours inside coffee shops is to check their emails.

That LinkedIn invite from your old high school boyfriend waits for no one.

Before you go rushing out to your local coffee shop, please heed one last piece of advice. It might even be the most important one of all. But Tom, I can hear you think because I’m a telepath. You gave me all the steps. What else is left?

Ahh, simple wannabe writer, only the most important one of all:

You must dispose of the coffee cup. If you leave the coffee cup on the table, you are inviting a stranger to sample the same idea you have and then it’s a legal hassle of who had the idea first? This is why there are so many similar stories out there today; people don’t throw out their trash. Only after your coffee cup is properly disposed of can you move on and feel safe and secure.

There you have it. The secret is out. I already feel the angry stares of writers wherever I go. I am now a target. Honor my memory and use these powers wisely. I wonder though, did not the writing gods give me these words? Will I be damned, expelled from our collective Narnia and forced to spend eternity writing articles for Buzzfeed? But how can I be punished for revealing Truth?

Perhaps the answer is simple; maybe I just drink too much coffee.

Why The Beatles are the Most Overrated Band in the History of Music

Today I decided to go bold, to right a wrong, to correct a horrible belief that has pervaded the hearts and minds of people for the past fifty years. The Beatles are the most overrated band in the history of music.

Yeah, I said it.
Continue reading “Why The Beatles are the Most Overrated Band in the History of Music”

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