A Marty Party

I’m thinking I should finally grow up and start calling myself Martin and insisting that others do the same. I’ve recently come to the conclusion that “Marty” is a slacker name, and if I ever want to make something of myself, “Marty” has got to go.

“Marty” is too casual. You can’t take a Marty seriously. There’s no dignity in “Marty.”

In the movies, the only interesting Marty I can think of is Marty McFly. Typically, “Marty” is a name you choose for the loser, lackey guy. “Hey Marty, go get me a ham sandwich.” It has the same ring as a “Joey” or a “Mookie.” If they ever want to go anywhere in life, they grow up and become Joseph, and I don’t know, Mookeph, I guess.

I just looked it up. Four Nobel Prize winners have been named “Martin.” Zero Martys. But I’ll bet if I could get my hand on the official Howard Stern Fan Club mailing list, I’d find dozens of Martys. (And a few zealous diehards named “Bukkake.”)

Among the Nobel Prize winners is, of course, Martin Luther King Jr. He was always Martin, never Marty. I believe that had he been a Marty, he never would have had a dream of consequence. It would have been, “I have a dream…that one day, I will learn to play the ukulele.” I just don’t think a Marty Luther King Jr. would have been thinking that big.

People named Marty can be a needy, dismal lot. I hate to call them out, but I’ve now received three MySpace “friend requests” from guys named Marty. Apparently, there’s a sad little Marty club. And they’re actually planning a sad little get together in San Antonio in 2008, a Marty Day. The organizer envisions a few hundred Martys walking from bar to bar with “Hello, my name is Marty” nametags. What a hoot, huh?

I, on the other hand, envision a few dozen bartenders along the Riverwalk coming to the conclusion that Martys are total losers.

I don’t want to be discouraging, but geez, why would I fly all the way to Texas to spend a weekend with people who have nothing in common except perhaps that we all endured that horrible rhyme as a child? “Marty Farty had a party. All the farts were there. Tutti-Frutti let a beauty, and they all went out for air.”

Maybe that’s why we’re so wretched. We were traumatized by that infernal song, and we’re still clawing for a kernel of self-worth.

Hey Marty, you let me know when Scorcese signs up, and then I’ll book my flight. Oh, wait! There is something I have in common with Scorcese and Sheen: all three of us think you Marty club guys are bunch of douchbags.

To dissociate myself, I may start going by Martin, but I’ll still let my inner circle call me Marty, like Scorcese and Sheen do. And that’s still an “if.” I’ve got to think some more about this. If I’m going to continue my comedy pursuits, I’m not sure I want to be “taken seriously” anyway.

Etna High School Reunion

Here I am at my high school reunion last week.I really did have a great time, but at times, that expression summed up how I felt. Of course, everyone feels a little strange about going to their high school reunion. Will I recognize everyone? Have I accomplished anything since then? Am I going to get gay bashed?

When I moved to Etna when I was in third grade, I was an outsider, a flatlander, a city slicker. After 10 years in the town, I ultimately felt at home. But now, 20 years later, I realize only about a quarter of my life was spent there. I am again an outsider, a flatlander and a city slicker. Oh, and a homo. That too.

But many in that photo are in the same boat--not fitting in anymore, that is (not the homo part). Many of us moved out and into the big city. Kathi's now in Dallas. Jeff's in Alameda. Suzanne is in San Francisco. Jarrod's in Austin. Frankie's in Brooklyn, for Pete's sake. Others still live in the valley or close to it, which meant that collectively, we were again a group of insiders and outsiders.

Conversations focused on life in the city versus in the country. I'm sure my classmate, Jon, has as hard a time understanding why I'd choose to live among all this Bay Area traffic as I have understanding how he can live in the same house he grew up in.

I trip to realize that some of my classmates now have grown children. To see people who used to chuck spit wads on the ceiling in geometry class express paternal instincts is just kooky. I recognized a few of the kids before I recognized my classmates. To me, Bryan's boy looks more like Bryan than Bryan.

I let it spill that I've been doing stand-up comedy, so the organizers cajoled me into doing a little comedy set after dinner. I managed to find a few minutes worth of clean material, but it still managed to be very gay material.

In an area that looks a lot like the fields where Matthew Shepherd was murdered, this could have been scary. A gay comedy show in Etna is as out of place as a strip show at the Vatican. But, I had to take Kathy Griffin's advice--never refuse a gig. Though I'm sure she'd have refused this one had she been asked.

I'm sure I made a few people squirm, but for the most part, the Etna crowd seemed OK with it--better than some of the open mike crowds here in the Bay Area, actually. I even poked fun at country music. A few guys surprised me with compliments. "Nice jokes, Marty!" I wasn't expecting a lot of hugs and kisses from these guys, but I do want to believe that ultimately, the guys I played dodge ball with are generally good people who I don't need to fear. Yes, a couple of chairs were thrown and a beer bottle smashed, but none of that was directed at me.

This is a class that chose Bon Jovi's "Never Say Goodbye" as class song, barely beating out the Beastie Boys "You've Got to Fight for your Right to Party." Some of us in the class were rowdy--some of us still are, even after most of our rowdy friends have rowdied on down. I used to think my classmates' obsession with drunkenness was a result of the prohibition on underage drinking and that they'd all grow out of it. But, apparently, getting drunk is still quite enjoyable for many of my classmates.

At the end of the weekend, I left with a pocket full of email addresses, some rekindled memories and a feeling that I can and should make an effort to keep my childhood friendships alive. Never say goodbye.