This Time I Mean It

Getting Past What Holds You Back with Baby Boomer Weight Loss Expert Scott 'Q' Marcus

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She Attended Over 100 Funerals – And Found Life

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I am delivering a eulogy of a close friend this week.

I know it’s an honor; albeit one I’d prefer not to have. Instead of standing in front of a room commemorating the accomplishments and celebrating his life, I’d rather be talking with him over lunch at the Marina. Alas, ‘tis not a choice. We take what’s given.

According to statistics, the average 40-year-old will have attended ten funerals by that age.

Of course, it increases where – if you’re so fortunate to celebrate your 90th tour around the sun, you will attend no fewer than 50. I guess that makes me “lucky” in some fashion, since I can count those I’ve attended on one hand.

Although not backed by data that I could find, I assume most people attend memorials as a tribute to the one who passed, as a means to support the family, and/or as a ritual of closure. I highly doubt – with the exception of the two primary characters in the 1971 dark comedy, Harold and Maude – anyone attends because they enjoy it.

We do what we can to avoid them; very few of us have what it takes to continually be subjected to so many painful losses.

Until not too long ago, I would have said that none of us do.

That was prior to meeting a middle-aged foster mother from the South.

[Read more…]

The Gentle Giant has Fallen

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James Hoff didn’t give up without a fight on anything.

So, when he told me that he was accepting hospice care, I knew he had given it everything he had.

“Jim” (which is what everyone who knew him called him) moved on last Sunday to whatever is next for his powerful, loving, large, expressive Spirit. He was 68. He was as large in life as he was in build, referencing his colossal stature as “five feet 17 inches.”

James

photograph courtesy of Mike Jones

To call him a “close friend” does not do justice to our relationship.

Although having moved to Texas several years ago, he remained my mentor, buddy, confidant, and sometime political sparring partner. He was the big brother I never had.

With the exception of direct family, Jim’s loss hits more harshly than any of the others I’ve written about over the last 14 years. Although relieved that he has been released of the suffering of his final months, I am saddened beyond words over the void left in many lives. Today the sun shines, yet light fails to penetrate. [Read more…]

Walking a Minefield: Tribute to Friend

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It’s been said the difference between depression and grief is that the former seduces, while the latter attacks.

Whether it’s delivered by phone, direct conversation, email, or – ever more prevalent these days – via social media; the effects remain the same. Word blasts you in the solar plexus as a surprising sucker punch. A tsunami of shock flooding away whatever thoughts had been active the instant prior, blood rushes from your head, you stagger slightly, and then the awful reality of the moment clamps itself firmly on to your psyche, a rabid dog unwilling to let go.

Shake it as you might, the jaws of grief hold tightly; the only effective tools to pry loose its pincers are acceptance of this new horrific, hurting actuality; and patience, allowing time to apply — however slowly — its healing salve.

Looking back on the twisted road that to date has been my life’s journey, one of the main thoroughfares on which I’ve traveled has been my involvement in the media.

Starting as a college DJ at UCLA, I spent decades on the air and behind the scenes, eventually ending up as a media coordinator and consultant (among other jobs). There was an expression among “air personalities” back then: “You can tell the success of a disc jockey by the size of the trailer attached to his car.” Between the years of 1977 and the early eighties, I had no fewer than nine addresses. Tribes of nomads were we, wayfaring across this vast land, U-hauls in tow, pursuing larger audiences and higher wattage, mostly in pursuit of the Holy Grail of prime time on a clear-channel 50,000-watt blowtorch.

Some found it. Most took a detour — as did I, ending up on the Northcoast of California in 1983 to program an AM/FM combo. My original plan? Stay among the redwoods for a few years before moving to the bay area, intent on afternoon drive on KFRC. Should 35 be labeled as “a few years,” there’s still time. (Of course, KFRC has been gone since 2005 so there is that.)

Over the last 24 hours, I’ve heard distressing news about two of the tent posts of my life for these last three-plus decades.

One of my closest friends has been fighting cancer. Recently, he was told there was nothing left to do, “Go home and live your life as well as you can.” I fear that a future column will pay tribute to him.

Yet, today, I awoke to find out that Pete Meyer, morning personality on Power 96 in Eureka, passed away shockingly, suddenly, without foretoken.

It’s appropriate that as I write this, gray clouds suffocate our sky line, embracing the melancholy that this community now collectively bears.

If you don’t live among the towering titan trees and rocky coasts in Humboldt county, I’ll bet you know someone like Pete.

[Read more…]

Farewell To Someone I used to Know

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joan-and-me

The two of us circa 1981

Her mother set us up on our first date.

“My daughter just graduated. She’s really creative, very cute, and, well, you’re always joking about having nothing to do on the weekends — so, I thought…”

“Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” followed by chocolate pancakes at IHOP, was our first meeting.

Within months, we lived together – much to the chagrin of her parents. Before a year passed on the calendar, we were married; moving from Redding to Bakersfield. I worked as a nighttime DJ starting at 5:00 PM. Her job began at 7:00 AM. Arriving home at one AM, I’d wake her up so we could spend time together before going back to sleep. At six AM, she’d get me up so we could do the same, before I returned to bed. When you’re in your twenties, you can do it.

Two years later, she was pregnant and we relocated to the Northcoast. A couple years passed and our second son arrived.

People who have a baby because they think it will bring them closer together are horribly misguided. The added stress and cost of childrearing, plus the loss of half our income, chipped away at our fairy tale castle. Home ownership and long work hours accelerated the decay. Dragging myself home exhausted at day’s end was her long-awaited cue to relax, leaving me with household and child chores until I collapsed on the couch. There was no “us,” only “she” and “me.”

Drifting ever further apart, we became resentful and angry. Overeating was my method of handling it; she had her own vices. Our house became an armed camp. The marriage counselor eventually recommended divorce attorneys.

For awhile we co-parented; one week “on,” one week “off.” But while I dealt with my demons through therapy and weight reduction, she followed a different road, eventually severing contact with us and moving away.

Know that my intent is not to apply blame.

The cause of our breakup was not her fault nor was it mine; together we were a mis-matched blend; never meant to share a life. Apart, who knows what would have happened? That is also not to say that many good things didn’t come from our time together.

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My Favorite Toy

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My parents told me they gave him to me as a Christmas present in 1955, in Detroit, Michigan in a two-story flat on Dexter Avenue.

Puppy

I’ve seen the grainy 8MM movies, but of course, I don’t remember. After all, I was barely a year old, hardly old enough to know what was a “best friend,” let alone that he would be it.

At night, I’d hold him until I fell asleep; his very presence banishing monsters that lived under the bed and the shadow creatures in the closet. When wind against the windows caused the curtains to pulsate and the panes to howl a ghostly, eerie, wail, my little yellow buddy with the dark black eyes and furry body watched over me until the sandman cast his magic upon me. He shared my pillow, his yellow, foam, and fur body with plastic face peering over the blankets to protect me, long after I dozed.

I would drag him from Kevin’s to Joey’s to Victor’s during long vacations and hot muggy afternoons. He’d sit, floppy-necked, across from me on the kitchen table as I’d sip lemonade and draw with crayons. While I did homework, he rested, never complaining, near my pencil jar. And when no one was to be found and there was nothing to do but let my imagination take over, I covered him in aluminum foil, wrapped saran wrap around his head, suspended him from the ceiling light, and pretended he was an astronaut.

“Commander Puppy,” I said into my paper-cup microphone (adding the right amount of voice crackle to increase the realism), “This is Captain Scott. Over. Do you hear me? Over. Come in Commander. Over and out.”

Together, we spent hours; daylight until dark. January through December. Childhood through adolescence.

[Read more…]

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Scott "Q" Marcus 707 442 6243 scottq@scottqmarcus.com

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