Flash in the Pan

The phrase, "flash in the pan," according to Wikipedia, comes from the days of flintlock firearms, where the main charge was intended to be fired by a small charge of gunpowder in the priming pan. If the resultant fire did not pass through the touch-hole and ignite the main charge, the momentary coruscation produced noise and smoke, but no substantial effect, and was termed a “flash in the pan.”

Ironically, the word 'coruscation' has the double meaning of a gleam or flash of light, as well as a sudden or striking display of brilliance or wit.

The term has come to refer to any ineffectual, short, spasmodic effort which dies in the attempt, as in, "He was named best new writer of 1958, but his career was a flash in the pan."

I have been a flash in the pan. Or rather, my life has been one flash in the pan after another, starting from my earliest days.

Based on my 3rd grade standardized tests and written classwork, I was double promoted, and skipped 4th grade, moving straight into 5th. My 3rd grade teacher, who had a personal grudge against me, tried to stop the double promotion, stating that I was too emotionally immature. Mutual animosity aside, she was probably right.

I suddenly found myself among kids I did not know, who were a year and a half or older than I was. I was a small, shy kid with physical and emotional scars anyway, and quickly became the target of relentless bullying.

I hated going to school. Every day was a fresh punishment, for a crime I did not understand. My grades suffered and I graduated from grammar school without distinction.

The only thing I learned was extreme introversion. I lived in my own world of thoughts and fantasies. And psychoses and neuroses.

I moved on to a large Chicago public high school when I was 13. The bullying intensified, and I was repeatedly beaten up by my 15 year old classmates. I didn't stand a chance.

It was decided that I should attend a religious academy in a far northern suburb, and at ten weeks into the semester, I was no longer living at home. Coming from a big city public school background put me at a distinct disadvantage scholastically compared to the other students. Again my grades languished and I began to get in trouble for things 13 year old boys do, but which were not tolerated there.

It was determined that I "might do better elsewhere," and my sophomore year found me back in public school. As recalled in a previous blog, a major pot dealer in school took me under his wing, and I immediately found new friends who readily accepted me into their circle. The bullying stopped.

I began to open up, let my hair grow long, and learned how to acquit myself handily when the cause arose. I joined the AV club because it was fun and got me out of study hall, and petitioned the school to start a J.R.R. Tolkien Society, becoming its first president.

I was allowed to give a presentation about the club before an assembly of junior and senior English classes, and almost got suspended for comparing pipeweed to marijuana.

By my senior year, I had placed so far beyond the English curriculum, that the school instituted a pilot program placing five of us in a specialized writing class.

I mention these things because one of my major regrets in life stemmed from my senior yearbook. For some reason, either calling in sick or cutting class, I was not in school when they passed around a sheet requesting each student to fill in what school affiliations and honors they would like printed underneath their photos in the yearbook. When I returned to school, no one called this to my attention. I didn't realize I had missed this until it was too late.

In addition to serving as president of The Tolkien Society, I was also a member of the honor society, the chess club, the AV club, a library volunteer, and a participant in the self-study program. But when the yearbook came out, and even the biggest slackers in the class had things written under their pictures, the space under my photo was glaringly, embarrassingly, unjustly, everlastingly blank. Even though I still have a copy, I have not opened that yearbook in forty years.

College introduced me to a whole new world. I discovered that I was an amateur when it came to drugs. Cutting edge to me was rolling my Mexican green leaf in flavored papers, but my dorm mates were smoking something called Colombian, and not the leaves of the plant, but the buds! Colombian, Colombian Gold, Maui Waui from Hawaii, seedless sinsemilla from LA, and when we did smoke Mexican, it was fat, juicy buds from Oaxaca. Plus, they were smoking these amazing, plastic and ceramic water pipes called bongs.

The cultural opportunities were astounding: dropping acid with my friends and going to see Fantasia at the Egyptian Theater (where we also saw Journey before they became a pop band); plays, including one about a young, gay man's first time in prison, which affected me deeply; performances, such as a Chinese opera, poetry readings, art exhibits; on-campus concerts where we would camp out for tickets, and enjoy such bands as Frank Zappa, the Grateful Dead, Ravi Shankar, and Jethro Tull; and impromptu road trips where all we needed were a couple of joints and our thumbs.

When I maintained that classes just got in the way of my education, it was not far from the truth. I devoted very little time to studying, rarely turned in homework assignments, and was more often than not, AWOL from class.

A few college war stories...

What saved my ass were my test scores and my term papers. I have always tested well. Multiple choice tests were child's play for me because if I didn't know the answer outright, I used my powers of deductive reasoning to discern the answer. Essay tests were my bread and butter. Operating on the principal that if you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit, once again, if I didn't know the answer, I would use my writing skills to make it appear as if I did.

Case in point. I needed to take a science elective, and a very close friend of mine, named Bob, was an anthropology major. We both signed up for an intro class, but Bob knew I had no intention of putting any effort into the course. The class was lecture style and grades were based on two tests, a multiple choice mid-term and an essay final. The tests were monitored by a student teacher who frequently left the hall for extended periods.

The one stipulation being that I accompany him to all the classes, Bob let me copy his answers. Even without paying any attention to the lectures, nor reading the textbook, I was able to do quite nicely on the multiple choice test, and during the essay final, when the aide left the room, I would read what Bob had written, but of course, putting it into my own words. Bob was very angry, and I made myself scarce, when I received a higher grade than he did on the exam.

One day, another one of my dorm mates, Joe, a fabulous artist, came into my room and said he needed me to write a paper for him. He offered me an ounce of smoke, several hits of acid, two albums of my choice, and a pair of tickets to an as yet unnamed concert.

I said, "Joe, you know what? I don't want any of that stuff. I want "Careful With That Axe, Eugene"."

"Careful With That Axe, Eugene" was a pencil sketch of a rural scene, with a man in the foreground wielding an axe over his right shoulder. The look of insane rage on the face captured perfectly the mood of the Pink Floyd song from which the title was taken. It was universally acknowledged as Joe's best piece, and was coveted by everyone who knew him. He had been offered good money for it, but refused to part with it.

He stood there for a long moment, a succession of conflicting emotions crossing his face. Finally he said in a barely controlled voice, "You don't get nothing else...!"

I refrained from pointing out the double negative because we both knew I had him over a barrel. I wrote him a brilliant paper on the artist, MC Escher, and he turned in that same paper to every class he took for the next four years.

I was dating a girl named Wendy. One evening we were fooling around, I mean screwing around, I mean messing around...you know what I mean...in her dorm room. All of a sudden she said, "Hey, I need help with some homework. I have a paper that's due tomorrow."

I don't know whether her timing was coincidental or strategic, but I soon found myself with a pen in my hand and a notebook in front of me. Wanting to get back to hanging out together, I mean...you know what I mean...as quickly as possible, I dashed off an essay that was a little lighter in scope than my usual effort.

She handed it in, but the teacher took one look at it and told her, "I know you had help with this. I'd rather see your own work."

She went back to the dorm and copied out, word for word, an article from the Reader's Digest. THAT, the teacher accepted - and gave her a C.

My wife's favorite college story of mine was the time that I was coming down off a three day acid binge. I had an assignment due the next morning for an expository writing class. I wrote an insightful, focused, well-thought-out paper, and handed it in knowing that I had nailed it. When I got the paper back the following week, written across the top in red marker, were the words, "Well written as always, but has nothing to do with the theme."

My junior year, I took an American Literature course with a young professor. He quickly recognized my talent from my term papers and asked if I did any fiction writing. I showed him a few pieces and after reading them, he said he wanted to see my entire portfolio. He also taught a graduate level course in Am Lit and suggested I take it. He talked about developing some of my writing for publication.

The next semester, along with my undergrad courses, I signed up for the grad level Am Lit course, which was approved. A little over half way through the semester (I had purchased all the required books, taken all the tests up to that point, attended all the classes, and turned in my mid-term paper), I received a letter from the university addressed "Dear Student." The letter went on to say that as an undergraduate student, I was ineligible to take a graduate level class.

My father (a young, practicing attorney), my professor, and I met with the dean of the English Department. Astonishingly, his initial stance was that since the undergraduate American Literature course I took with the professor covered such writers as Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald, and that the graduate level course included the same authors, that it would essentially just be a repeat of the same material.

When my father, and my very taken aback professor, pointed out that the depth of analysis in the grad level class went far beyond the scope of study in the undergrad class, the dean quickly prevaricated, and hid behind his fallback position that policy was policy and they couldn't bend the rules for an individual student.

The next day, with less than a year till graduation, I dropped out of college.

A business associate of my father was the general manager of a local newspaper and they were looking for an operations manager. I interviewed with the GM, a guy named Sal, who was the role model for every character in the first three Godfather movies.

These were the early days of the Reagan revolution, cocaine, new wave, Gordon Gekko, and the Bear's 46 defense.

So at 24 years of age I was suddenly a high profile executive of a well-respected community publication. I played the part of the young turk to the hilt. I power-lunched with judges, politicians, community leaders, and business people of all stripes. I wrote columns and press releases, handled marketing promos for the paper, and created house-ads (the page layouts advertising the paper itself).

In fact, one time, I had a couple of friends at my apartment. We were getting high and I was talking about what I did at the paper. I mentioned that I wrote the paper's wedding column (because I worked with a major wedding consultant, a wonderful woman, who couldn't write her own name without an editor). One of my friends blurted out, "Holy shit! My mother cuts that out every week and puts it on our refrigerator for my sister."

I was in charge of all special projects for the paper, and Circus Vargas, the last traveling circus under canvas in America was performing in our area. Their marketing rep and I met and he gave me some glossies and raw copy, and I edited the material into a wonderful series of ads and promotions that ran in the paper. The circus bigwigs were so impressed that the rep set up another meeting to thank me for the good work, and to offer me a job. I was young and unattached at the time, and I seriously considered it. So that was the time I almost ran away with the circus.

With all the wind being pumped up my skirt, mostly by myself, I thought I could make more money, and a bigger name for myself, by striking out on my own.

From working with the wedding consultant on her column and wedding shows, I saw a big opportunity for promoting a more professional, higher end production.

I wound up producing three shows, one at the beautiful Carlisle Ballroom in Oak Brook, one at Cress Creek Country Club in Naperville, and one at the very exclusive Spiaggia on North Michigan Avenue. All these venues were several cuts above the backroom restaurant banquet facilities that generally hosted the wedding shows.

My shows featured an Excalibur limousine inside the halls instead of out front, whimsical ice sculptures, expansive floral displays with decorated arches and canopies, a "boudoir" portraitist, live music, dancers from the Fred Astaire Dance Studio, and numerous other creative wedding vendors. Caterers passed out samples and bakeries featured fairyland confections.

Professional models displayed very expensive wedding gowns by fashion designer Jon Bradley of Chicago, but instead of parading up and down a raised runway, the models mingled with the guests and personally answered questions. I was decked out in the latest fashions, provided by my formalware vendor. One of the featured door prizes was a bicycle built for two. A photographer caught all the excitement on film.

The shows were far beyond anything else being done at the time. My fiance registered the brides as they entered the venues, and to her great satisfaction, watched as the brides', mothers', and bridesmaids' jaws dropped in amazement when they took in what we had put together. 

I had to stop doing the shows however, because they were so expensive and difficult to produce. By the time the last show was over, I owed thousands of dollars in advertising and related expenses. Since I had no assets, the debts were written off.

A pattern was forming that would be repeated for the rest of my life.

For the next several years I lived with my fiance and assumed the role of househusband before it became fashionable, but my housekeeping, cooking, and parenting skills were antithetical to the "Mr. Mom" stereotype. My hero was a self-proclaimed lifestyle guru named Martha Stewart.

Once both our boys were in school, I felt the itch to find a new creative outlet. Personal computers were just coming on the market and after seeing some demonstrations of graphic arts software, I immediately grasped the potential inherent in desktop publishing.

Due to a bizarre confluence of cosmic circumstances, we were living in Woodridge, a bastion of right-wing, Republican reactionaries in southeast DuPage County. In order to promote my fledgling advertising services (business cards, brochures, flyers, sales presentations, and other full-color marketing materials for small businesses), I joined the local Chamber of Commerce.

As is always the case when I stick my toe in the public pond, I make waves (or muddy the waters, depending on how you look at it). One of the "benefits" to new members was the opportunity to set up a promotional table at a Chamber luncheon to meet and greet the other members and acquaint them with your business. We happened to join the Chamber in October, and our skirted table burst with vibrant fall and Halloween themed materials.

I was immediately approached by the Chairman of the Board of Directors who asked if I was interested in serving as the Chamber's media liaison (mainly working with the local newspapers), and by the President of the Chamber who asked if I could implement an Ambassador's Club, working with new members and community outreach programs.

I eagerly accepted the new assignments, and when elections for the Board of Directors came up in November, several members suggested that I run. There were three candidates running for two seats, and two of the candidates were well-liked incumbents. Having been a member for so short a time, I didn't think I had much of a chance.

The election was held at the November luncheon, and after the votes were tallied, the President stood up and announced that there was a tie between two of the candidates and there would be a runoff...but there was one outright winner, Stephen Dunn. There were gasps and applause, and the people we were seated with offered hearty congratulations. My fiance was beaming.

The Village government had a strong presence in the Chamber, and shortly after the election, I received an invitation to meet with the Mayor, who himself had been recently reelected. When we sat down in his office, I congratulated him on his victory (even though he ran unopposed), but he said he had heard what happened at the Chamber luncheon and I was the one to be congratulated.

He went on to explain that as Mayor, he received hundreds of requests for help on all manner of issues. He said that there was no way his office could respond to all of them, but occasionally there were certain situations that he felt warranted special attention, but were outside the scope of his office.

He said he had two specific items in mind. The first was to help establish a Jaycees (Junior Chamber of Commerce) chapter for the Village that some other young people were trying to get off the ground. The second was to enlist the Jaycees' help in organizing a fundraiser for a seriously ill child in the community. I agreed to look into these matters on his behalf.

For better or worse, when I say I'm going to do something, I do it. And I do not rely on half measures. I threw myself whole-heartedly into all of these things, but immediately found myself embroiled in personality conflicts and petty turf wars.

Everybody thinks they're King Shit or Queen Shit of their own little turd mountains, and they won't give up a stinking spoonful of it without a fight that leaves all parties smeared and befouled.

On top of that, my earliest report cards habitually said, "Does not do well in groups," and, "Does not play well with others."

As well as taking on a managerial role in the newly chartered Woodridge Jaycees, I also published the chapter's monthly newsletter. The February 1994 issue was themed for the  Lillehammer, Norway Winter Olympics, and the cover featured a dramatic, full-color, full-page clipart image of a ski jumper in mid-flight.

The newsletter was submitted to the Illinois Jaycees review board and at the annual convention, won the award for Best Newsletter of 1994 for the State! Several other chapter members were nominated for various projects and received embossed certificates that were theirs to keep.

The award for Best Newsletter was a beautifully engraved wooden plaque, but it was presented to the chapter, and I was left with nothing to show for my effort. The Jaycees is a community service organization, and I was not in it for fame and self-aggrandizement, but I don't think I'm different than anyone else who appreciates showing off trophies, plaques and other testaments of personal achievement.

A long-standing goal of mine was to establish a chess club in the community, and the Jaycees afforded me the chance to do so. We met at a very convivial restaurant and sports bar once a month. The club was open to all ages, and from beginners to masters (or at least those who considered themselves such). The opportunity to meet and play and enjoy a cold draft and a pizza was very welcome, but animosity arose when I submitted a receipt for an ad in the local paper announcing the club.

The Jaycees president felt that I should pay out of pocket since it was my project. I explained to her that I was earning very little money with my advertising business and that I was paying for paper and very expensive printer ink cartridges for the newsletter.

My last act in the Jaycees was to design the chapter t-shirt, and was told that the finished product was stunning. I never received my shirt (although I had paid for it), or even saw one because I left the club before they were distributed.

Being a charter member (I still have my pin) of an organization that does charitable work is something I have always been proud of, but I was being taken advantage of, and that was simply not fair to my family. There is truth to the saying that charity begins at home.

In regard to the Chamber, I fought tooth and nail to promote the organization and individual members. I was successful in placing press releases and news articles in local publications, and increasing the Chamber's visibility. The chamber saw an unprecedented rate of growth due to my activities through the Ambassador Club. I established a student intern program in conjunction with the Woodridge Board of Education.

I was regularly called upon at Chamber functions, to give a report on my promotional projects. I have always cleaned up nicely, and my Chamber friends said that in my pinstriped suits, silk ties, and Florsheim shoes that I looked like a million bucks.

At one such luncheon, I was seated next to the mayor, and on his other side was the Lt. Governor of Illinois. The mayor introduced us and said to the Lt. Governor, "If you want to get anything done in Woodridge, Steve is the guy to go to."

As always, my fiance was by my side, and was there to witness yet another feather in my cap.

At the time, the Chamber had over $10,000 in its coffers, but when I proposed that $500 be allocated for a scholarship to go with the student intern program, the Board, which consisted of bankers and Village officials, tried to ram through a proposal that the money be put into a Certificate of Deposit. I vehemently objected to tying up the money for years in order to earn a few percent interest, but was voted down.

In addition to everything else I was involved in, at my own time and expense, the Village Manager and the Chairman of the Chamber Board asked me if I could take a look at the Woodridge Community Directory that was being readied for publication. The newspaper that was printing the Directory was having trouble with the electronic files submitted by the Chamber.

When my fiance and I opened the directories, the problem was immediately clear. We had to go line by line and strip away layer upon layer of contradictory code to get the files in order. The Village was also supposed to provide photography for the Directory, but had not done so, so I went out with my 35mm camera and shot several rolls of color and black and white film.

To make matters worse, the person from the Village that was supposed to be in charge of getting the Directory done became very defensive when I told her that the files were in such bad shape and that no artwork had been submitted. The Directory could not be printed until the Village signed off on it, and she refused to do so out of spite as the deadline drew nearer.

When I brought my concerns to the Chamber president, I was met with further resistance because she was one of the bank branch managers that I had butted heads with over the CD fiasco. I set up a meeting with her, and my fiance and I were kept waiting for over an hour. The receptionist was openly apologetic and kept asking if there was anything she could get us, and when the Chamber president finally came out of her office, she said, "That's how we do things here."

I attempted to make these issues known to the membership at large, but encountered indifference and even hostility. I resigned from the Board and the Chamber, which quickly sunk back into the anonymity it so richly deserved.

The handful of people who supported me, suggested that I explore the possibility of creating an alternative business group, and even of running for mayor. But I had neither the time, the resources, nor the inclination to pursue these matters.

In fact, my fiance and I and our two sons moved from Woodridge on the far eastern edge of DuPage County to Naperville on the far western edge. Naperville was decidedly more upscale and had (what we thought were) better schools. Shortly after moving, my fiance became my wife in a civil ceremony on a beautiful Friday afternoon, six days before Halloween.

Naperville was also much closer to my fiance's job at the U.S. headquarters of Bernina International, a Swiss manufacturer of high-end sewing machines.

In actuality, these machines were computerized sewing systems for serious home sewers, quilters, and clothing designers. Their top of the line, state of the art products sold in the $15,000 - $20,000 range and connected to the internet using Microsoft Windows.

Bernina was looking for an Assistant Marketing Director. The head of HR set up a time when I could meet with all the department managers at once. After a lengthy but lively interview, I was offered the job on the spot.

The job was deadly dull. My first task every morning was to wait for the dot matrix printer to spit out a ream of raw data, which I had to assimilate into a daily sales report. Then I would open up tubs of mail for proper distribution. I entered warranty information into spreadsheets, updated customer databases, and copied and collated thousands of pages for marketing snail mailings.

The president would frequently stop by my desk. I would talk about opening new markets and he would talk about getting existing customers to upgrade. One day he casually mentioned that the company was about to release a new embroidery software package and I would have to answer phone calls and emails from customers and dealers.

I arranged with the customer service manager to get a copy of the software to load on my computer, a reasonable and prudent request, I thought. When I did not hear back from her after a few days, I sent her a brief email, and a short time later, she came by my desk and told me that the president and the marketing director, nominally my boss with whom I shared a deep and healthy hate, had kiboshed my request, stating that I didn't need to know how the software worked to answer questions about it.

This should have triggered giant red flags and warned me of the colossal clusterfuck that was about to engulf me.

Bernina owned a subsidiary that programmed the embroidery software and was theoretically poised to field responses to the bug-riddled and extremely user unfriendly program. But in addition to the problematic software itself, there were also several layers of security to prevent the sharing and copying of the software.

People were spending hours unsuccessfully attempting to unlock their newly purchased design programs that retailed at just under $500 a pop. And answering questions about the security features was my responsibility.

Even people who were able to open the software found that every time they left the program and came back in, they had to start the entire process from scratch, and the security codes they had been provided no longer worked. The phone calls that began as a trickle became a torrent. Each morning I would find my voicemail full to capacity and my email inundated with hundreds of requests and demands for help. Customers were threatening to sue and dealers were egging them on.

Management couldn't have cared less. Bernina had a long history of treating the dealers, who were independent owners of sewing centers and respected business people in their communities, like subservient children. The corporate attitude being that these businesses had to carry Bernina products to stay competitive. And official policy was to treat customers as irrelevant and that they were to be completely disregarded.

The software had hit the market in September to cash in on the upcoming Christmas season, and my small cubicle became a help-desk and then a battle bunker. I found myself in some unusual situations, and took advantage of whatever humor I could find.

Our receptionist was a sweet, young woman who was as besieged as I was. It was she who bore the brunt of my practical jokes. One day I got a call from a nun who sewed as a hobby and was having trouble with the new software. I gave her a lengthy set of instructions and told her to call me back. I went out to the reception area to tell the receptionist that I was expecting a call from a Sister Anne.

Suddenly an idea popped into my head and I said, "I'm expecting a very important call from Sister Anne. She's the Pope's personal seamstress and she'll be calling from the Vatican. They use our machines to embroider crosses on the Pope's vestments."

Her eyes got big and in a reverential tone she assured me that she'd let me know as soon as the call came in. Sure enough, a short time later, the receptionist buzzed me and said the Vatican was on line two. Sister Anne let me know that the software was up and running. She thanked me and said she'd pray for me. To this day, our receptionist tells her kids and grandkids about the time she took a call from the Holy See.

Another time I was talking on the phone to one of our district managers. She asked me how I was faring up and I told her I was getting messages by phone, fax, email, snail mail, even homing pigeons. She said, "Oh, what did you do with the bird?"

Without missing a beat, I said, "I ate it!"

She burst out laughing, but the phone suddenly went silent. I could tell it was an open line and waited a few minutes, but eventually I hung up and went back to work. When I next talked to her, she told me that she was laughing so hard she almost peed her pants and had to run to the bathroom.

Christmas Eve was a day which will live in infamy. I was accosted at every turn by people who needed to get their software working in time for Christmas gift-giving. I was being paged over the intercom so often that my coworkers complained about the constant distraction. As the afternoon wore on, the calls became more frantic. Finally, the receptionist came to my desk in person and said, "I'm sorry Steve, but you have calls waiting on every line in the office."

I said, "How many lines do we have?"

She answered, "Fifty-three."

I wished her a Merry Christmas, left the office, and never came back.

This was actually a very low point in my life. I was drinking heavily due to the stress of the job, and unbeknownst at the time, I was self-medicating for undiagnosed bipolar disorder. My wife and I were fighting bitterly. Our older son had ADHD and we were virtually forced by the school administration to put him on Ritalin, which got him through the school day but left him a basket case at home, and our younger son was getting into more and more serious trouble with the law. However, these stories are more rightly part of their own blog, which I am calling, "Rock Bottom."

I mention it here because my next job was with Binny's Beverage Depot in Naperville. As a frequent patron, I knew the store and the staff well, and they were always looking for cashiers and stockpersons. The idea of working in a liquor store seemed to be a natural fit. I went in early one morning (I wanted to get it over with so I could get back home and start drinking) and filled out an application.

The Operations Manager came out to talk to me, and then asked me if I could wait for a few minutes. He came back out and ushered me into the General Manager's office, and the three of us talked for quite a while. As we were wrapping up, the GM made a phone call and then asked me if I had some time, the corporate VP of Operations was on his way to the store and wanted to meet me.

I really wanted to get home and pound back some shots of whisky, and I couldn't imagine that everyone who applied for an entry-level job had to interview with someone from the corporate office, but I said, sure, I could stick around. It took almost forty-five minutes for him to get to the store and we talked for another forty-five. We said our good-byes, and they said they'd be in touch.

This was on a Friday morning. By the end of lunch hour I had a good buzz going. I never expected to hear back so quickly, but at five-o'clock, the store Ops called to say that they wanted to hire me as the Assistant Manager of the brand new Gourmet Grocery department. I readily accepted, and he said they'd like me to start on Monday.

The Gourmet Grocery Manager was an attractive, French-Canadian woman, in her early 50's, named Josette. We hit it off instantly, and she became one of the closest friends I've ever had, and still have. She saw me through a bout of cancer, two rounds of rehab (one which didn't stick and one which did), and watched helplessly as a neurological disease robbed me of my ability to walk.

We built the Gourmet Grocery together from the ground up. It was us against the world, or at least against corporate. What I learned from her could not be taught in any class, but the company did pay for me to take a course in safe food handling in preparation for obtaining my State Food Manager's License.

The pride and joy of the Gourmet Grocery was a twelve-foot long, floor to ceiling, open-air cheese case. Picture three shelves full of sharp, aged, English and artisanal domestic cheddar; half rounds of golden, nutty, Swiss Emmentaler; luscious, decadent, triple-cream Bries from France; pungent, cave-ripened blues; smooth, tangy goat's milk cheeses; and eighty pound wheels of lemony, toothsome, Parmigiano-Reggiano.

I loved that job. I got to sample and work with foods from all over the world and introduce customers to all the amazing agricultural products that we brought in.

Through the strength of our personalities and knowledge, Josette and I developed a large and devoted clientele. Our first holiday season exceeded all projections, culminating in one of the busiest Christmas Eve's the store had ever experienced. Josette and I worked feverishly, but the joy and fun exuded by us and the customers that thronged the cheese counter were palpable.

We cut to order, never prepackaging the cheeses, and although we tried to be as precise as possible, weighing the cheeses was not an exact science. But for whatever reason, the stars were aligned, and as customers asked for a third of a pound of this, a quarter of a pound of that, I was hitting right on the mark with each slice.

Very soon, loud cheers and laughter permeated the store, drawing even more people to see what the hoopla was all about. Each time I placed another piece of cheese on the scale, it was like a hot shooter rolling the dice at a Las Vegas craps table.

I consistently received glowing job reviews and steady raises, and I remember thinking that that job would be mine for as long as I wanted it. I could not have foreseen that a devastating illness would make that decision for me.

As this part of the story is recounted in more detail elsewhere, I will just say briefly that when symptoms first appeared, mainly falling without warning and extreme fatigue in my legs, doctor after doctor and test after test failed to reveal a cause. Eventually, an MRI showed an abnormality in my spinal cord. I underwent emergency surgery which almost killed me, and after several months of inpatient and outpatient rehab, I was able to return to work part-time.

I never fully recovered, and despite the surgery, I continued to get worse. Not only did Binny's hold my job, but the store managers and my fellow employees did everything they could to relieve me of physical responsibilities wherever possible. Unfortunately the pain became unbearable. Just standing was excruciating.

Finally, one morning I got ready for work and went downstairs. I sat in my chair in the front room and that was as far as I ever got. When my wife came down a short while later to leave for work herself, I looked at her and said, "I can't."

Although I worked there for several years, and this blog is called "Flash in the Pan," one day I was there, and the next day I was gone, without even having the chance to say goodbye to the people and job I loved.

I was grieving. I was not grieving the loss of a life, I was grieving the loss of my life, or at least a lifestyle that I had worked hard for almost fifty years to attain. I was depressed, angry, suicidal. My family suggested that I join some online support groups for people suffering the same disease. Even there I was a flash in the pan.

It quickly became apparent that these groups were dominated by a small clique who monopolized the conversation and were only interested in stroking each other's egos and wallowing in their invitation-only pity parties.

I actually found more solace and support on a Facebook page called Big Butts. I don't remember how or why I came across it, but for me, it was an oasis in the desert. I scrolled through the page, clicking 'like' on all the pictures, and adding my very personal comments with reckless abandon.

I was brand new to Facebook at the time, and had no idea that when you commented on a post from another page, it showed up in the news feeds of all your friends and family. It was my daughter-in-law who tipped me off, and in a state of panic and profound embarrassment, I 'unliked' all the photos and deleted my comments, but the cat was already out of the bag.

I had two options. I could hide myself away in the remotest backwoods shack I could find, or I could face it head on. I had just started writing a blog, and recounted the story in an open and humorous manner. I sent a copy of the article to Big Butts and they loved it. They wrote up a funny intro and then published the piece on their site. It remains the single most popular blog I've posted to date with over 750 page views.

In fact, they liked the piece so much, and got so many positive responses from their readers, that they asked me to be an admin for the page. The photos I liked posting most were the selfies sent in by women who wanted to share their bounty, and by boyfriends and husbands who wanted to show off their honeys.

We did not receive enough of these to keep the page active and lively, and a common practice was to share pictures posted on the dozens of other like-minded fan pages on Facebook, usually of professional models. We strictly adhered to Facebook policy and all the photos depicted the ladies in g-strings and similar attire. We were very careful to promote and maintain a respectful atmosphere on the page, and in addition to photographs, I started posting memes and articles that I felt would be of interest to our followers.

While it may not be everyone's cup of tea, these pages are harmless fun. In regard to the argument that these type of pages demean women, perpetuate stereotypes, and facilitate oppression, all I will say is that the parties involved are consenting adults.

All the ladies in my life - my wife, sisters, mom, daughter-in-law, Facebook friends, sisters-in-law, co-workers - can attest to my deep and abiding love and respect for women, and that they have no advocate more outspoken than me in support of equal rights, legally and culturally.

Once again, my approach worked and the page was experiencing rapid growth. I firmly believe that we had the best page of its kind of Facebook. The founders of the page sent me a message, thanking me for the good work, and allowing them to pursue new projects, knowing that Big Butts was in good hands, so to speak. In a case of foreshadowing, or perhaps jinxing myself, I replied, "I'm having a blast as an admin. Plus I haven't gotten the page shut down - yet!"

So you can imagine my horror when the following message showed up in my email and on my personal Facebook page:

Notice of Facebook Feature Restrictions for Big Butts:  

Your Page Big Butts has been unpublished for violating Facebook's Terms. If you think your Page was unpublished in error, you can appeal the decision. If your appeal is denied, your Page will be deleted permanently.

I went to the page, and sure enough, it had been taken down. When I logged back onto Facebook, the following message appeared in the center of my screen, and I had to check a box that said I had read the notice before I could access my Facebook page.

Hello,

Your Page "Big Butts" has been removed for violating our Terms of Use. A Facebook Page is a distinct presence used solely for business or promotional purposes. Among other things, Pages that are hateful, threatening or obscene are not allowed. We also take down Pages that attack an individual or group or that are set up by an unauthorized individual. If your Page was removed for any of the above reasons, it will not be reinstated. Continued misuse of Facebook's features could result in the permanent loss of your account.

The Facebook Team

Unfortunately, in this day and age, any busybody, has the power to prohibit tens of thousands of people from exercising their right to the "pursuit of happiness" and free speech. Entities such as Comcast, Mediacom, Facebook, and Youtube, wield their delete button like a sledgehammer, and there is no recourse when the blow falls. There is no right to face your accuser, no right to be judged by your peers, no appeal process.

I am selective in who I am friends with on Facebook, and I would hate to think that any of them would say, "It serves him right." There is a bigger issue here. Censorship is a very slippery slope. So, okay, they removed this one site. Meanwhile, other sites that are much cruder in their editorial stance, go merrily on. The censorship and surveillance proponents have achieved a small victory. In a war of attrition that's all it takes.

I always said that if my local library started a writer's group, I would support it. So about a month ago, when I saw a small item in the local paper about a writer's workshop that met at my library on Monday afternoons from 3:30-6:00, I decided to check it out.

As most of you know, getting me ready to leave the house is a time-consuming and physically demanding effort. And after two and a half hours in my wheelchair, I am in significant pain. Nevertheless, I was very enthusiastic about hearing what other writers in the community were doing, and getting feedback on my own work.

Once I got myself situated in the library meeting hall, I quickly discovered that this was not so much a group as a class. An older woman who had a few pieces published in some regional publications, thought this qualified her to "teach" a writing course.

We locked horns immediately, and I proceeded under the premise that this was a group and not a class. The other attendees preferred my interpretation of what we were all doing there, and in the weeks that followed, the meetings became more of a roundtable discussion about each other's work, and less of a teacher/student format.

By unspoken consent, the group recognizes her as the moderator, and by dint of my writing, we now have mutual respect for each other and are becoming friends. She openly defers to me when certain questions come up.

My biggest fear is that for one reason or another I will drop out of the group, or that she will want to stop leading the meetings, and the group will fade away.

As for the blog itself, I believe it to be my greatest achievement. At this moment there are 380 posts. It contains humor pieces, political pieces, news analysis, stories about science and technology, animal stories, holiday essays, movie and book reviews, stories about growing up in the 60's and 70's, fiction, poems - and all the pent up frustration, anger, and creativity inside me.

In my own humble and unbiased opinion, I have the best written, most insightful, most humorously presented blog in the world. It makes me look forward to waking up in the morning. It makes my pain - physical, emotional and spiritual - bearable.

The blog has been a source of controversy and even contention. Many people ask me if I'm going to write my memoirs. I tell them that I am.

Every second of every day since I became paralyzed, my soul has screamed out, “WHY?” Why me? Why now? What could I ever possibly have done to deserve this? What could I ever possibly have NOT done to deserve this? I may be searching for answers where there are none. But I have to believe that if there is a reason, maybe it can be found in this tiny bit of cyberspace.

The thing is, amazing as it seems, I have only had the blog for less than a year. I started it in June of 2013. Originally it was a challenge by my son to chronicle the political events that were occurring around us and seemed to be propelling us inexorably towards world tyranny and the enslavement and depopulation of humanity.

After a hundred different blogs, it became apparent that none of it was making a difference - not to my friends, not to the world. I have been unable to break through and reach a wider audience. Then I consoled myself by saying that I was not writing for the current generation, but for posterity (for posterior is more like it). I told myself that this was a living legacy to my grandchildren, a record of the thoughts, life, and times of their grandfather.

But who am I kidding? By the time any of this may be of interest to them, who knows what kind of a world, if any, they will be living in. At the least, they will be busy with their own families, careers, relationships, leisure activities, and the tribulations of their own reality.

On top of that, my grandchildren and I do not really know each other. I only see them a couple of times a year, and those are at large family gatherings. Also, for the last several months, I have stopped writing about politics, focusing more on my own remembrances and personal experiences. My son has reacted very negatively to this new focus. He has made it clear that he feels it is "disrespectful" to my wife and "embarrassing" to him to reveal my innermost thoughts for all the world to see.

I now have to wonder if future generations will even know that these writings exist, or if they will be just another flash in the pan.