My Brother

 

 

Wednesday was the first day in 15,498 days where the sun rose and my brother, Jason Magrane, wasn’t around to see it. He passed away on Tuesday November 10, 2020 at 12:42 pm at Portsmouth Regional Hospital in Portsmouth, NH surrounded by his mother, father and me.

 

That last sentence is the type of “just the facts” information that I would throw down when I was a reporter writing obituaries. It’s not very personal and it doesn’t give much of a picture of who the deceased was, it was more of a record that this person existed for a time and then departed the world.

 

Like you, I’ve experienced death before, but the passing of Jason has hit me hard. He was much more than a range of dates, he was a father, a son, a husband, a friend, an employee, a boss, but most importantly to me, he was a brother. As I’m writing this blog post on November 12, I can only think of the future and the past. Jay is going to be laid to rest two days from right now but three years ago to the day, I gave the best man’s speech at Jason’s wedding. Below is a portion of what I wrote, this was supposed to be a toast to Jason’s nuptials, never did I envision it becoming part of a eulogy:  

 

“According to Magrane lore, when my mother came home and told me that she was going to have another baby and it was going to be a boy, I was inconsolable. I wanted a sister and the thought of having a brother muscling in on my territory and sharing my toys was too much.

 

Despite my best wishes, Jay never turned into a girl, so I was stuck with a brother for my childhood. And it turned out to be pretty awesome. Growing up, Jay and I were pretty much alone at any extended family gathering—and we used to see our family a lot. I would think about friends who had dozens of cousins and how they’d talk about hanging out with them at family gatherings and it sounded pretty great.

 

But with Jay and I growing up together, we had to be each other’s best friends. Whether it was at my grandmother’s house or Aunty Rita’s or at Cousin Kathy’s in New York, it was just him and me. That meant he and I would play He-Man and GI Joe, read comics, or draw or play Wiffle Ball. It was always Jay and By or By and Jay. With us being together that much, it could have gone a few different ways, but we became close.

 

A few years later, as I got into high school and had my own group of friends; I began to notice that my friends—all of them—took a liking to Jay. Was I happy about this turn of events? No, I was not. It used to drive me crazy that my friends always invited Jay to come with us whenever we did something, whether it was hoops or pond hockey, Indian ball or football, Jay was always a part of the crew. And not only that, but my friends genuinely liked him and respected him.

 

It wasn’t until a few years later that it dawned on me: some of my friends had younger siblings and they were never invited to do stuff with us. Jay was included because he was funny and smart, athletic and loyal; he was included because he was one of us.”

 

It’s funny, when you grow up with a brother, you’re inundated with a lot of media about how close brothers have to be: from Wally and the Beav to Greg, Peter and Bobby to Willis and Arnold, all of those brothers were the best of friends.

 

But real life isn’t like that. Life isn’t scripted, each person doesn’t know exactly what the other person is always thinking and problems aren’t solved in 30 minutes (minus time for commercials). The idea that two people could be complete and total best friends forever and ever and ever without any disagreements is a silly, unrealistic myth.  

 

As we grew into adulthood, Jay and I were close-ish. We were both independent men who had their own life and their own life’s philosophies. Mine was a bit more conservative in regard to risk and rewards. Jay was the opposite. Jay lived his life the way he wanted to live his life, which I found admirable and a little concerning, but that wasn’t how my brain worked. Jay could talk to literally anyone—he had no fear in that department, made everyone feel comfortable—which is an awkward endeavor was for his older brother, was fun, constantly laughing and wondering when the next good time was going to happen.

 

As we grew up we worked through our differences and over the last few years, we began to get closer. While we didn’t agree on everything, I could at least understand why Jay was doing what he was doing. And I think he could see things from my point of view too. Even though we were closer, Jay still wouldn’t (or couldn’t) tell me what was bothering him when asked. And it wasn’t just me, Jay didn’t want to burden anyone with what he considered his “trivial problems”.

 

“By, you have a family, focus on them,” he’d always say. But what I don’t think that Jay got was that even though I have a wife and two children, Jay was my family and I did want to focus on him. But his carefree persona or his pride or whatever he felt at the time wouldn’t allow him to tell me what was really going on. Would I have helped him? Would Jay be here today? I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a question that I’ll have to live with.

 

The thing is, Jason was 42-years-old and you could ask him what’s wrong, I could ask him what’s wrong, Bo Jackson could ask him what’s wrong and Jay wasn’t obliged to give us an answer. Jay’s stubbornness knew no bounds. He was the Michael Jordan of stubborn. Things were easier when we were kids and if I wanted to really know what his problem was, I could jump on him (I always weighed more than him), sit on his chest, put my knees on his biceps and tickle him until he told me his deal. I wish I thought of doing that a few months ago, but that approach seems sort of weird now that I think about.

 

You’re never going to get a straight answer out of tickle torturing someone and just because you ask someone to do something, doesn’t mean that they’re going to do it. For example, Jay went into the hospital last Monday and that prognosis looked grim even back then. While I was putting away that evening’s dishes, I decided to try and honor my brother by playing the Grateful Dead Pandora station. The Dead were Jay’s favorite band (he saw them at the old Boston Garden in 1994) and he was always trying to get me to listen to them. Aside from a few albums and a couple of singles, the Dead and jam bands never appealed to me. But last Monday night, I was going to listen to the Dead in honor of my brother.

 

I made it three minutes. I’m sorry Jay, and I know that you understand, but I just couldn’t do it.

 

Alas.

 

There’s a lot of things that suck about my brother’s untimely passing, but I think that the biggest one is that he and I are never going to get the chance to be as close as we were when we were kids and that truly makes me sad. I was looking forward to the day when Jay and I take our kids to a Sox game. Or he could ask me for the millionth time why I don’t like Bill Simmons anymore. Or when we could have a moment and remember long-passed relatives who seem to exist in the fogs of our minds. Or he could recommend a podcast to me. Or when a tragedy happens and I need someone beside my wife to talk to, so that I can get through the latest malady without losing my mind.

 

All of that has been taken from me and it makes me very sad.

 

Earlier this morning I was thinking about a random memory of Jay and me. It had to be during the spring of 1990 and I was in my room probably obsessing over my baseball cards or reading a magazine while listening to Public Enemy’s newest tape “Fear of a Black Planet”. There’s a song on that album called “Welcome to the Terrordome” and if you know anything about PE—and especially that album—you know that it’s a wall of sound. It’s literally a pastiche of samples and cuts laid upon one another to make new beats.

 

At 1:47 into the song there is a horn that wails unsettingly loud and shrill. That day in 1990, I thought it was my brother calling, “Byyyyyyyyron!” from downstairs. And it wasn’t just that day, for like the first 10 or 15 times I listened to that song, hear that sound, amble over to my stereo, shut off my tape and yell, “WHAT DO YOU WANT JAY?” And he’d always say that he never called me, I’d press play and grumble to myself about Jay being a pain in the ass.

 

Today I listened to that song and in particular that shrill horn and it made me smile and cry. Jay may be gone, but he’ll never be forgotten.

The Economy Is So Bad That …

The title of this issue is dreadful, luckily, the story more than makes up for it. The only place that Champions five could take place is the 1970s. Why? Because the supervillain, Rampage, is about a businessman who is getting screwed over by the crushing economy.

Stuart Clarke is a (apparently very) poor man’s Tony Stark. His company had an offer to be purchased, but Clarke wouldn’t sell out. His competition (actually, Tony Stark* himself) decided that they’d get in on what he’s doing. He came up with a light-weight exoskeleton that cops would wear so that they don’t get hurt on the job. Since Stark has more government connections than Clarke, he quickly made a crap ton of money and Clarke owes a lot of people a lot of money.

* Why didn’t he just find and fight Iron Man?

This sends him into a rage and he starts robbing FDIC-insured banks because he thinks that since they’re insured, the little guy won’t get screwed. Which, I mean, c’mon, even in the 70s people were cynical? realistic? less naïve enough? to know that the government isn’t just going to cover the bill without passing the check to John Q. Public. For a smart guy, Rampage is really dumb.

While this is going on, Warren Worthington III (aka the Angel) is in the office of his family’s accountant with Bobby Drake (aka Ice Man). For some dumb reason, they’re in their superhero uniforms, but that doesn’t matter much because the Angel just found out that he’s incredibly rich. I guess he always knew that he was loaded, but it was his parents’ cash, so it wasn’t a big deal but now he got it all.

Ice Man comments that Angel now his more money than God, which I guess means that this Angel got an incredible promotion. Wocka, wocka. Anyway, Angel says that he’s going to use his money to fund the Champions and make them a real team and hires the guy who was Hercules and Black Widow’s lecture agent, Richard Fenster, as the Business Manager of Champions, Inc.

It’s a good thing he was walking around the UCLA campus talking out loud to himself about how unlucky he was to get fired. The two mutants just happened to overhear him, picked him up (literally) and offered him a job on the spot. This is exactly how I got my second job. Weird coincidence.

While Ice Man and Angel are acting like adults and spending money, Hercules, Black Widow and Ivan are hanging around the UCLA football field. Despite not understanding football, Hercules is practicing with the “team” and he’s kicking their ass. I put team in quotes because the UCLA football team is wearing red pants, a white shirt with black numbers and a red helmet. Not to get all Paul Lukas here, but that’s more of USC colors than the Bruins’ blue and gold.

(UCLA is on the left)

Maybe the USC team is pulling a Greg Brady and is fucking with their rival. If so, consider yourselves Jerry Rogers-ed*, Trojans.

* This is such an ancient reference, that it actually happened a few years after the original Trojan War.

 

(Look at Jerry Mackin' on Marcia! That cad!)

(Caught in the act!)

(I wanted an excuse to post this picture. It rules.) 

WWIII calls a meeting of the Champions and lays it all out on the table, the Champions are going to be “Storefront Superheroes”. Of course, Hercules is confused by this too: “I care not for the thy desire to place the Lion of Olympus at the command of mere mortals.” Fucking Hercules, first you don’t understand football, now this. All the Angel was saying is that if a person needs help with extraordinary circumstances, they can call on the Champions*.  

* Basically they’re Heroes for Hire without the tiaras and slippers, though as long as Angel is around, each team both still have the groovy chest-baring shirts. I wonder if Power Man or Iron Fist sued for copyright infringement? They should have. BTW, tiara or not Luke Cage looks so much tougher than the Angel and his dopey ass. 

Bobby is on his way to the meeting (“Thanks for starting it without me guys, seriously!”) and sees Rampage robbing the FDIC insured bank. He springs into action and gets knocked through a plate-glass window. He’s about to receive Rampage’s final death blow when the Champions come out of nowhere.

Angel says it’s because the restaurant they were eating at didn’t have Muzak, but pump in news broadcasts. Which isn’t a thing. Like ever. Do you realize how annoying that would be to sit down, relax and eat some salmon and some Paul Harvey jackass prattling on about Watergate, gas lines and Jimmy Carter? No one would eat there. Ever.

The Champions fight Rampage and the battle goes back and forth. It looks like the Champions are going to win this battle but all of a sudden this happens:

And can you blame Rampage? Who wouldn't want to jam a fist into the Angel's skull? BTW, metaphor alert! Here's the down-and-out Rampage about to get revenge on the obscenely rich Angel. If you're a regular joe buying this comic in 1976, who are you supposed to identify with? The guy who was so far down on his luck that he was pushed beyond his breaking point to take matters into his own hands or the pretty boy who just had a crap load of money dumped into his lap for doing absolutely nothing? 

And there's more: Angel versus Rampage! Angel has blonde hair, Rampage has black hair! One lone man versus four powerhouses! Who's the good guy and who's the bad guy here?

It makes you think! Or not. 

BTW, Angel seems to get himself into a lot of these situations. 

What a dummy. 

A couple of things about this issue:

•   This was a really good issue. The plotting was fast, there wasn’t as much exposition, the action was there and there were some funny down time moments. Honestly, it was probably the best issue of the run so far.
•  There wasn’t a lot of bickering, Angel toned down the dickishness, Ice Man was starting to have an existential crisis and Hercules was cool. Black Widow still sorta hangs out without a defined roll (her assistant Ivan is more fleshed out).
•   Finally, the Champions are given a reason to exist! It’s not the best reason in the world but an altruistic super hero team is not bad. And everyone buys in, so there’s some sort of overarching factor that keeps this group together.
• You’ll notice that I didn’t mention Ghost Rider at all. He wasn’t in this issue and I wonder if that’s why it was a good one. Maybe old Ghost Rider is the weak link?
•    Rampage looks cool, he’s not cool; but he looks cool. He’s a two-bit anti-Iron Man.
•    The cover for this issue was a miss. It wasn’t that great, but next issue looks awesome.

All-in-all, I give this four out of five Angels!

Four Angels? I'm shocked too, guys.

56.Gilligan's Island / Brady Bunch

This entry isn't just about the two shows, but also about their creator: Sherwood Schwartz.

While reading a bit about him on his Wikipedia page, I found that it was interesting that Schwartz and Red Skelton hated each other. So much so that while Schwartz was a writer on Skelton's show (which did very well in the ratings), Schwartz had it written in his contract that he never had to see the star of the show face-to-face.

That's a pretty ballsy move.

It's also pretty ballsy to walk into a head of a network and claim that the idea for your new show was an allegory as to show how seven people (the seven continents) can live and work together on one island (the Earth) in peace. After the head buys the idea, Schwartz gave them “Gilligan's Island”.

Here's the thing about these two shows that will always be linked because of a lot of different reasons, but the main reason is that Schwartz created them both. And he did it in a way that was appealing to adults, but also to kids. What GI or BB, each episode was essentially the same: during the first five minutes a trivial problem (though monumental in the eyes of the protagonist) is discovered. During the next ten minutes, the main character either mopes about said problem or attempts to fix it, which results in the problem becoming even larger. During the last 15 minutes, the rest of the cast is brought in on the problem, solves it and they all live happily ever after.

The one monkey wrench in this comparison between the two shows is that “The Brady Bunch” didn't have the deus ex machina that is Gilligan. In order for the castaways to continue their show, Gilligan had to screw up every episode so that they're still stuck on the island.

This repetition of theme and plot made the shows lovable to children and teens alike. It has been proven that babies enjoy and need repetition: from white noise sounds soothing them to sleep to endlessly enjoying the same shows hour after hour. As one grows up, the familiar becomes boring, yet there is still a desire for the familiar—even if the show is “new”. I believe that Schwartz was aware of this and became the backbone of both shows.

And while he never had any more hit shows (“It's About Time” sounded terrible), that's ok because he gave the world two generational touchstones and two theme songs that most people under 60 know better than the national anthem.

Everyone knows that Gilligan is going to blow it in the end or that Mike and Carol Brady are somehow going to save the day; this is precisely why we watch. Even for thirty minutes, all is right in the world.

A few nights ago, I was watching an episode of “The Monkees” (more on them in a subsequent entry) and it occurred to me that there were a few jokes that went over my head when I was a kid—in this particular episode, Mickey was looking for a Marshal Dillon and tried to make a phone call for him. The person on the other line only had a Bob Dylan who couldn't help you, but would write a song about your troubles. That was funny to me now, but I know that I had no idea what a Marshal Dillon was or a Bob Dylan and why anyone would get them confused.

The BB and GI do not have a higher level of comedy (and that's comparing them to “the Monkees”), what you see was what you got. Bobby wasn't an archtype for Che Guerva and Mrs. Howell wasn't the personification of greed and stupidity. There is something refreshing about this one dimensionality and if I catch these shows on television today it takes me to when I was a kid. Back then I enjoyed watching a show because it was my favorite show, not because it made a social statement. And make no mistake, the kids who grew up on this stuff; whether they're black, white, yellow, or green didn't care either, they were able to identify with the characters because their struggles are universal.

Who hasn't been picked on, whacked on the head with a sailor cap, formed a song and dance troupe to compete on television for their parents' anniversary present, stole a rival school's mascot, met your favorite band and got them to perform a private concert just for you (a plot that happened on both shows-Davy Jones on BB and the Beatlesque Mosquitoes on GI). This is the reason why my grandchildren will probably be watching these shows, long after every cast member is long dead.

On a personal note, both programs bring back a ton of memories for me: watching “Gilligan's Island” on Sundays at 11:30 am at my aunt's house after we went to church and had a big breakfast meant that I was about to be shipped outside because football or baseball was about to be put on (I was too young to understand either game). And when 5:00 rolled around, I know that I could watch the Bradys and then eat dinner before it was time to do homework or go to bed. BTW, both shows were on Channel 56 in Boston.

Like I said earlier, every one wants to go back to a simpler time. It's hard-wired in our brains—just like these shows.