Shoplifting for Santa

An excerpt from my forthcoming book, "It Must Be Me":

I stopped believing in Santa at a young age - I believe it was the Christmas when I was four. I remember I'd been questioning the logistics of the whole delivery system, like lots of kids, and I was feeling some doubt. But then my sister made a comment one night when she walked in the door - she said she'd just seen a sleigh on a nearby rooftop as she was getting out of her car. Then she cupped her hand to her ear and looked around excitedly asking, "Are those sleighbells I hear?!"

My sister then suggested I look out the nearby window, which I almost gave me a head injury. I pulled back the curtain, but the only sight that met me was the blackness of the night sky. She was really trying to sell the story, though, and she said, "Ohh... we must have just missed him!" Our parents were in the room, and they chuckled at her comment. There was something in my sister's voice and expression then that got me thinking "something ain't quite right here." It was all just too convenient, and the conspiratorial tone ("Maybe you'll see him next year!") in the room sickened me. I decided right then and there that Santa was a sham, and I wasn't having any more of that particular myth.

I was forthright with my parents and told them that I didn't believe, but they must have felt some guilt because they tried to push Santa down my throat even harder. That Christmas I merely endured the concept of Santa, feeling somewhat more enlightened than my peers - how gullible they were. But it wasn't until a year later that I really made an issue out of it.

My father was the Electronics Department Manager of a regional department store, and it fell upon him to book their location's Santa every year. I overheard my mother saying to one of her friends that my father had prepped this year's Santa, telling him I was a non-believer. "Oh, so that's how it's gonna be?" I thought. Not really - I was only five. But now alerted to the situation that awaited me, I set about forming a plan.

On our way into the store, my parents were attempting to subtly manipulate my brain into being more receptive, telling me, "We know you don't believe in Santa, but you're going to meet him today, and since he knows everything, wouldn't he be upset to hear that a good little boy like you doesn't have any of the Christmas Spirit in him?" and other similar propaganda. I was strong and did not relent. I nodded, sure in the knowledge of what I was about to do.

As we entered the store, I noticed my father's co-workers and employees paying special attention to me - this is always more obvious to a child than adults allow themselves to believe. "So are you excited to meet Santa, Stevie?!" one giddy woman asked.

Oh yeah - bring him on. The line for Santa was long, so my parents let me walk through the toy section to kill some time. Big mistake. Since my father was a manager there, I was allowed to roam relatively freely. I knew what I had to do - I'd been pre-visualizing it for days. I selected some of the low-hanging blister packs of action figures. "Yes, these will do nicely," I thought. By and large, there were few security cameras, even in big department stores, during this time - so after a quick over-the-shoulder check, I ripped open four or five of the action figures, removed their heads with a quick plucking motion (I'd practiced) and stuffed the decapitated doll parts into my coat pocket. I sure was pretty devious little brat when I felt I'd been wronged.

With a cautious look, my parents brought through the line to see Santa. Within half an hour, I stood before, then sat on, "Santa" himself. Pity this poor man, hired to portray Santa for just a short span of time each year. He had a lot of patience - I'll give him that. But he was trying to take me on a trip that I just didn't want to be on. I didn't despise him - I despised what he stood for.

He did a bit of ho-hoing and got down to business:

"So, Stevie - I hear that you don't believe in me!" The condescension was oozing out of him.

"That's right, Santa," I replied, trying not to sound too snide.

"That's a real shame. Can I ask why you don't believe?" He was really laying it on thick.

"Well, is it true that you know if I've been good or bad?" I asked.

"Oh, yes - yes it is!"

"So - have I been a good boy or a bad boy?"

"I've been keeping my eye on you, Stevie, and I know that even though you don't believe in me, you've been a very good boy this year!"

The setup complete, I removed the action figure heads from my coat pocket and held them to his overly roughed cheeks.

"Then why did I just steal these?!" I asked nice and loud, for all to hear.

The proceedings came to a screeching halt. My father's employees suddenly had to be in another location of the store. Santa, as far as my brain can recall, did not respond verbally. He may have stammered a bit, but his rhetoric had been stifled. A red and green-clad worker ushered me off the platform.

My father was at a loss for words as well. My mother may have managed a shameful, "Oh, Stevie!" but there was no lecture as we made our way out of the store, moving through throngs of other parents actively shunning us. Nor was there any discussion on the drive home. Only years later did they discuss the event, and even then it was in hushed, halting tones. I have to say, I believe a lesson was learned that day, and I made sure it wasn't learned by me.

My Beloved Batman Shirt

Here's another piece I wrote for my friend Rob Kelly's blog Hey Kids, Comics!, which collects readers' fond memories of discovering comics. This story features me as a mop-topped five-year-old, remembering my favorite childhood shirt. It's not an Izod - that came much later, after my lengthy and shameful Garanimals period. We all have skeletons in our closets; mine just happened to be color-coordinated kiddie clothes.

My Beloved Batman Shirt

A Gift From Scotland

An excerpt from my forthcoming book, "It Must Be Me":

I have a sister and two brothers, all significantly older than me - seventeen to nineteen years. Yes, I was not created on purpose. Some call it an "accident"; I refer to it as "unintentional conception". It makes for some interesting familial situations.

Because of this, when I was a little kid, my siblings were all off doing adult things like drinking soda straight out of the bottle, wearing deodorant, and joining the armed forces. The younger of my brothers, Mike, did the latter and entered the U.S. Navy, who sent him off to Scotland.

No, he did not locate Nessie (though he did spend a day of his shore leave trying to her), nor did he develop a taste for haggis with a whiskey chaser (unless he kept it hidden). He did, however, purchase a child-size kilt and tam (a Scottish hat), which he sent home for me, his little brother. Mike probably thought it would be cute. Instead, it traumatized me for years.

I never wanted to wear the foreign clothing. I think my father protested as well, but mt mother explained that Mike had been nice enough to buy these things for me and to send the package across the planet, so the least we could do was to get some photos for him. So my parents and grandparents (who lived with us) trotted me out for an improvised photo shoot in our back yard. It became another opportunity for me to be exposed to public ridicule.

The problem was that a kilt looks a whole lot like a dress... oh wait – it IS a dress, except it comes from Scotland, where it is commonly worn by men. That's fine if you live in that particular country, but while I was old enough to know that the difference between a dress and a kilt was negligible at best, I had not quite reached the age of understanding about what a country is, or how social mores differ in other lands. That would be asking a bit much of a five year old.

It was no surprise to anyone that I started crying once I put on the exotic attire. My mother kept insisting, "Every boy in Scotland wears a kilt like you are, Stevie!". Maybe if she'd pulled out a globe or a Mercator Projection, that would have helped. A travel book with large illustrations may have even done the trick. But instead, I was struggling with the concept that my parents were trying to turn me into a girl, and simultaneously having a hard time grappling with the idea of different nations and their customs. The tears kept flowing.

The vultures got their precious photos, but that wasn't enough for them. For some reason, my mother wanted to parade me in front of the house – ostensibly for the amusement of the neighborhood. I was still sobbing, but she told me everyone would love my new outfit. Her words did not prove to be true.

The older people in the neighborhood said I looked adorable, and that calmed me down a bit. But then my "friends" – some older kids I looked up to – walked by. They were not especially receptive to my freshly imported clothing, especially the kilt, which to them was not very different from what they called it - my dress. They openly taunted me, asking "Who's the new girl?" while t pointing and making me cry even more. I quickly decided that I should probably stop looking up to these cretins.

After an interminable period of time, my parents brought me back inside the house. Unable to contain my indignation any longer, I yanked off the kilt and threw it on the floor. My father told my mother I'd never be wearing "that thing" again. I was happy, though the photos still survive. Years later, my brother heard the story from me, and apologized. If only he'd had better luck at Loch Ness... a package from Scotland containing Nessie (or at least a photo of her) would have made me so much happier.


The horrible evidence. If only they'd taken a closeup, you'd be able to see the tears.

Inspiration Source: Jon Gnagy Learn to Draw Kit

Yesterday, illustrator Mark Zingarelli posted a few photos and memories on Facebook about Jon Gnagy, and his famous (to me, anyway) "Learn to Draw Kit". Now, I'm one of those people who's saved as much as possible from childhood, but even though I was a proud owner of The Kit from a young age, I can't remember having it in my possession past my early twenties. I'd nearly forgotten it - or at least, I haven't thought about it in many years, and that's a shame because it really was a big part of my youthful desire to be an artist.

My grandfather gave me the Learn to Draw Kit sometime in the mid-70's, when I was around five or six. He was an artist (and a barber, and an amateur inventor), and as the only real-life artist I knew at that age, he was my idol. My grandparents lived with us, so there was rarely I day when I wouldn't run downstairs and beg my grandfather to draw and paint for me. Usually I'd succeed - I was a pretty cute kid, plus I threw a mean temper tantrum when I didn't get my way. Having been formally trained as an artist, I'm sure my grandfather wasn't enthralled at the prospect of recreating a certain Spider-Man image from one of my comics, for example - but, following the rule of grandparents spoiling their grandchildren, he gave in every time.

My memories of the actual kit (which contained drawing tools plus a lesson book) are a little vague, though the more I read and see about Jon Gnagy now, the more memories come flooding back. I do remember his lesson on drawing the core shapes (shown on the kit's box cover - cone, sphere, cube and cylinder) and how he claimed they were the foundation for all real-world objects, though I think I doubted this fact - or, at least, sought out exceptions ("What about The Blob, Jon, huh?! Didn't think of that one, did you?!")


The Jon Gnagy Learn to Draw Kit, in one of its many incarnations.

I don't think I actually gave much of a shot to the lessons themselves - I enjoyed reading the book and experimenting with the pencils, charcoals, erasers and blending stumps (what a term) on my own, but from what I recall I was too stubborn to go through Jon's step-by-step process to create a scene. I was probably too easily discouraged when my pieces didn't turn out exactly like the final results in the book. I remember the writing having a simple, straightforward style that I liked. Jon's targeted audience was broad - he wasn't aiming at artists, or even just people who'd considered being an artist. Jon seemed to be reaching out to people who simply believed, "I can't draw", giving them the opportunity to push themselves and to enjoy the activity of art.

And this open attitude comes across in all his television art lessons. You know, it probably said something about Jon having a TV show on the box, but I was oblivious to that fact until yesterday. Silly me. That's how his drawing kit became so popular - it was an offshoot of his successful show. Since the show began in the 50's (and was shot in black and white), I doubt it aired much when I was a kid in the 70's, but it's great to be able to check it out now. I can easily see the appeal - Jon's voice was not what I imagined; he was casual and yet authoritative. I should have expected as much, based on the stylish portrait of Jon that adorned the kit's cover:


Gnagy the badass.

Now that I have more perspective on the man, he seems like the Jack London of art teachers. I wish I could have watched Jon's show back when I was starting to draw - besides the benefit of the actual lessons, it would have been nice just to see and hear this guy who was a working artist. Hmmm... I wonder if that would have conflicted with my image of my grandfather - maybe I'd have invited Jon over and had them both battle on paper in an intense "draw-out". Or maybe they'd have just punched each other around a little.

Check out Jon's Seaport Village lesson.

And apparently the kits are still being produced - a full sixty years after their inception. What a testament to the man. Looks like it's time for me to take another trip down childhood memory lane via eBay. With that and the lessons on YouTube, I'll be set.

Breeding Pet Rocks for Fun and Humiliation

An excerpt from my book, "It Must Be Me", coming in Fall 2009.

My parents liked to mess with me, and in retrospect, I was asking for it. I was a know-it-all little kid in a lot of ways, yet I was still wide-eyed and trusting in others. I wanted to believe... in aliens and U.F.O.'s, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, ghosts, magic, and the other cool, fantastical stuff kids are into (except, of course, Santa - the one they WANTED me to buy into). And believe I did.

Thus, with the Pet Rock craze of the mid 1970's, my burgeoning critical thinking skills were on a collision course with my desire to accept the existence of something otherworldly.

For those who don't remember or don't know, the Pet Rock was a windfall for its inventor. Nothing more than a real stone of a certain variety, the novelty and its clever packaging earned its creator mucho dollars during this fad-crazed decade. The product's success was mostly attributable to its tongue-in-cheek instruction book, which gave you tips on how to teach your Pet Rock how to "Roll Over", "Play Dead", and even "Sit" - things all rocks were capable of with a little bit of help.

I begged and got my own Pet Rock and had all kinds of fun for the better part of a week, taking it through its paces with my father, who was enjoying (and laughing at) my fervor. And after its initial run, it quickly became a fixture on my dresser, along with other toys and items that fell victim to my too-short attention span.

Though it was completely unaware, my Pet Rock was about to receive what manufacturing companies call a "Mid-Life Kicker". My Uncle Eddie, while traveling around the world with the U.S. Navy, had somehow learned of my Pet Rock (maybe via telegram?), and decided that it was lonely, and should have a partner. So, he shipped a slightly larger, rounder rock to our house and enclosed a letter for me, telling me that it should be the "mate" for my Pet Rock. I really liked that idea - once he suggested this, it hit me just how lonely my Pet Rock must have been up until now. It needed another of its own kind. Shame.

But my mother and father one-upped me - they suggested I put this inanimate couple into the dark recesses of our hallway closet and leave them there overnight "to see what happens". Even that last phrase didn't alert me - hey, I was a little kid - so I took their advice. I'm sure my parents were cackling in the background that night, while I naively set up a cute little area for the rock couple on the floor, behind our winter boots. I put both rocks in place before bedtime, anxious to see what the morning would bring.

I'm not sure what I expected to find, but I awoke, and - still in my bleary-eyed state - walked across the hall in my little footie pajamas to check on my project. There they sat - the original Pet Rock and his new partner (I never thought to name her - let's call her "Louise"), exactly where I'd left them. However, the two were surrounded by seven little grayish pebbles, neatly encircling them like a litter of sedimentary puppies.

For once, I thought, "magic is real - and I have proof!" In reality, the only proof that morning was for my parents' theorem that I was willing to believe rocks could bear children. My mother, with my father's encouragement and approval, had planted the pebbles after I'd gone off to bed. I went buck wild, calling my closest three friends to tell them the incredible news. They accepted my story with a reasonable amount of skepticism, but the physical evidence combined with the fact that my parents were supporting my story won them over in the end.

My brain couldn't hold back a flood of images - reporters hounding me for interviews, famous scientists consulting with me on matters of great importance, potential toy endorsements. My mother told me years later how excited she and my father were to see my reaction that morning. I'm sure it was very entertaining from an adult point of view. From my own perspective, I was in the throes of ignorance's bliss.

Private humiliation did not quite satiate my parents, so they were forced to move on to public mockery by gently putting forth the idea that I should tell my first grade class about the big event. I was all for that idea, and brought the whole rock family into school in a delicately folded piece of felt inside a small chest. I couldn't wait to show these kids the wonders I'd been given. That was not smart to do.

I foolishly anticipated only support from the other First Graders, and was not at all prepared for their laughter, jibes, and a few quickly-concocted nicknames ("Rock Boy" was one). Kids can be cruel for sure, but they can also be pretty creative when there's a commonly agreed-upon target for their attacks. I made myself into that target. Fortunately, we moved that year, and my past as a charlatan did not follow me to our new location.

As the fog of youth lifted over the next year or two, the plates in my skull continued to solidify and it became slightly more clear to me each time I recalled the Pet Rock Incident that I'd been duped. Eventually I confronted my parents. Years later, they were still milking laughs out of their prank, and revealed to me they'd even prepped my teacher before I'd gone into school that fateful day. I asked my mother why she did it, but she wasn't able to give me any more substantial a reason than "We loved laughing at you, Stevie!" Hey, at least she was honest.

Fun With Costumes

I'm told I rarely went through a day between ages two and ten without wearing a costume at some point. From what I remember, this is totally true. My Mom often said that my neck had a permanent black ring around it from my Batman cape. I'm proud of that to this day.

I was angry for a long time after I saw the results of the Superman photo - I specifically told my Dad (a professional photographer) to crop the photo higher so you wouldn't see that I was standing on my bed - I thought the white wall could look convincingly like a bright sky. Not sure if I gave any thought to Raggedy Ann and Andy, the weird ceramic clown, and the Superman wall adhesive behind me. Photoshop didn't exist back then, but I probably thought they could be removed in the darkroom. Didn't happen.

I remember asking my Dad if this was "the" Bat Cave. The fact that we were inside of a zoo didn't clue me in, so he played along. I guess I never wondered why Bruce Wayne would have gone so out of his way to direct people to what should have been his secret lair. Maybe I thought it was a back entrance or something.

I also get a kick out of the pirate photo, because it's clear I didn't throw on the costume for the camera - I was in the middle of watching TV, and that just happened to be my garb for the day. Never mind that wearing an eye patch makes it difficult to catch your favorite crappy early 70's sitcom - that's what pirates wore, so that's what I wore. End of story. I don't know if they wore a little blue and yellow pin with their name ("Stevie", in my case) as part of their outfits, though. Most likely not.

Wearing costumes is fun.

Underwear on the Outside

An excerpt from what I will obnoxiously call my forthcoming book, "It Must Be Me":

Underoos were a popular fad when I was around eight or nine years old, which meant that I owned them. I loved fads. My proclivity for superhero-related products made me a prime candidate for Underoos, as they were essentially colored underwear with a big insignia on the chest, and maybe a printed version of the hero's belt at the top of the briefs. That's it. You didn't get gloves, boots, or a mask, as those items would be tough to conceal under one's outerwear.

Of course, Batman was always my favorite superhero, so I chose to honor the Dark Knight by clothing my my stick-like body in a watered-down version of his costume. Like many other kids at that time, wearing Underoos gave me the slightest taste of what it might be like to have a real secret identity as I sat in the comfort of my elementary school classroom - and all while enjoying the secure barrier that underwear provides between skin and clothing. Good stuff.

And it all remained good until my mother started suggesting that I wear my Batman Underoo top to school on the outside - as my actual shirt. She thought it would be "so cute". Now, there's no logical reason this should have been seen as a sensational act - it was a light gray cotton shirt with an iron-on of the yellow-and-black Batman symbol. As far as shirts go, that's not crazy. People wear clothes with superhero logos on them all the time these days. It's accepted, as it should have been back in 1979. However, that was not the case.

These were children we're talking about, and they're doubly dangerous while in packs. So despite my protests, my mother won out and on a gentle Spring morning, cool enough that I didn't need to wear an undershirt, my love for Batman took over and, with some trepidation, I wore the top portion of my Underoos to school.

It took about three minutes before my schoolmates attacked. We were standing in the auditorium, lining up before the school day officially began, when one little girl noticed my shirt. She immediately sniffed it out for what it was, pointed to me and shouted "He's wearing underwear!" I don't think she even knew my name. The other kids smelled blood in the water and rushed over to feed on my carcass.

In no way did I want to disrespect Batman, but the fear I'd denied was quickly becoming reality. I should have heeded my instincts. The kids were pulling at my shirt, stretching it out and crackling the logo at its edges. Their cackles filled the auditorium (much like the Golden Age Joker - ed.). I was defeated.

I had no choice but to finish out the day in the decimated Underoo, though a smock in Art Class did provide brief reprieve. When I got home my mother was excited - clearly she thought she'd helped me live out my dream as a would-be hero. "How did the other kids like your Batman shirt?!" she prodded.

I couldn't tell her that the only joy I had that day was when I finally jumped off the bus and managed to sprint home before a final pummeling occurred. "They liked it," I offered, with a modicum of forced smile on my lips. It was obvious that she was looking for more of a reaction, but that's all the fake delight I could summon. I hope Bruce Wayne would empathize with me, but from that point forward, the Underoos never saw the light of day again.

My Private Batman Meet-and-Greet

Batman and me, circa 1976

My friend Rob Kelly publishes more blogs than anyone I know - maybe more than anyone else ever. And they're all well-written, entertaining and very consistently updated. David Bowie may have been the Goblin King, but Rob is the Bloggin' King (nearly an anagram there)...

I've written three pieces for Hey Kids, Comics!, Rob's blog collecting fond memories of discovering comics, which he actively solicits reader-submitted pieces for (hint, hint). I'm sharing one of those pieces, in which I recall my first meeting with "The" Batman in 1976. Enjoy, and please peruse Rob's blog kingdom - there's something there for everyone.

My Private Batman Meet-and-Greet