Letters Unsent

I've started a million letters that I never finished, let alone sent. The thoughts of firing off a missive or drooling fan letter are fueled by some unknown emotional urge or rush of creative juices that quickly dissipates. There are questions I want to ask my heroes. Things I must know. So, I start these letters and abandon every single one of them. After beginning each of these letters, I'm reminded of two episodes which made me reticent to ask stupid questions of famous people.

On The Road, Again

Several college journalists, faculty, media types, and various people who had no business being there - ie, me - were invited to spend an informal hour or so talking with Charles Kuralt about the media. After his short speech about ethics, the future of tv journalism and logging more road time than Metallica's guitar techs, he asked for questions. The first question came from a journalism senior who was ready to graduate. She asked, sincerely, "Where do you get your ideas?" A visible wince swept across the room and my friend, Scott, muttered a barely audible, "JEEEE-zus." Mr. Kuralt graciously spoke at length about the thought process and the philosophy of ideas before moving on. That wasn't quite what our college newspaper friend had hoped for because she probed further with no luck. Apparently, she was expecting a shorter, more concrete answer like "the faeries in the cargo hold of my Winnabago" or "Marmaduke." There were no further questions.

At The Crossroads

The other event happened at Keeneland race track in Lexington, Kentucky nearly 7 years ago. My friend, Wyn, and I were sharing an elevator with Jim McKay of ABC Sports on the way to the press box. Jim was wearing one of those baby shit yellow ABC Sports sportjackets. I've coveted those things ever since I first experienced the Saturday and Sunday afternoon "thrill of victory" as a small child. We were standing there in silence when I suddenly turned to Jim and said, "Where can I get me one of them jackets?" He replied, "You have to devote your life to ABC." I felt like I'd just met the devil at the crossroads and he wanted to buy my soul. Fortunately, satan needed change for a $20 and I was tapped out. So, I said, "Look, I'm not really ready for any sort of long term commitment right now." The elevator door opened and I exited feeling the agony of defeat.

When I start these letters, that never get sent, (I assure you my hard drive is full of them) I have a good idea. Something I want to get off my chest. When I go back to reread them, I get self conscious, and as I told Jim MacKay in the elevator that day, "Look, I'm not really ready for any sort of long term commitment right now." Letters are forever.

write to jack@smug.com