Harlan Ellison Repost

Harlan Ellison died last year. I wrote this at the time. I'm reposting it with minor edits, for no reasons that I can explain.

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 Harlan who?

 Despite habitually referring to him as my Uncle Harlan, we were not related, nor acquainted beyond a couple of passing remarks relayed between us a a very long time ago. Harlan Ellison was a writer. A writer of fantastic stories, of which you ought to be aware.

 There's a Star Trek script, "The City on the Edge of Forever", with which some of you may be familiar. And a better script that existed before his story was adapted- with clean hands and composure- by the creatives responsible for Star Trek. Better? Yes. The aired episode was great- widely seen as the best of the original series. The original script was better.  It had more depth, it had more character, and it had a better ending.  It did not bear the marks of having been made to fit.

 There is also one of the most harrowing AI stories- written long before the damned machines were even possible- called "I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream", and a great many golden age of TV episodes- such as "Demon With A Glass Hand" and "Soldier" for The Outer Limits- the latter apparently swiped as a basis for "The Terminator"- and "Paladin of The Lost Hour" for the Twilight Zone.

 And on and on, frankly. Ellison wrote a lot of stuff. Stories, novels, criticism, elegant musings and raging condemnation. All of it readable and admirable and better than anything most writers produce.

 By far. 

 Better than what you're reading now.

 He is one of my creative influences.  Hence the Uncle designation.

 Harlan helped me understand the importance of wonder. Sometimes an angry wonder, sometimes a gobsmacked wonder, sometimes a laugh because otherwise you will detonate wonder.  He also helped me a great deal with developing my sense of worth as a writer and a creative.

 He will be eulogized. A lot. He will be called a genius and a giant and all sorts of things. And he will be talked about in terms of pranks and anger and bad behavior.

 Well. Yes.  Yes indeedy. Harlan did not suffer fools. Harlan did not censor his behavior. At least, not in the sense that you and I might do so. His actions and reactions have
become legends in the creative community. I believe it was DC Fontana who spoke about places where the grass would no longer grow, in terms of the consequences of angering Harlan.

 But it is important to remember that he was more than those stories.

 He was his stories. And they are all over the place, in the best possible way. His interests were wide, and as far as I can tell, he wrote to all of them.

 On the day of his passing. as a way of dealing with my substantial grief, I urge you this upon you.

 Read Ellison. He's in your library. He's on Amazon. He's in your bookstore, if you are lucky enough to have one. Read him. Watch his episodes. Whether you're a long time fan or someone wondering what the fuck I'm fussing about.

 Read Ellison. You owe it to yourself.

 Because, in the end, stories are important. And he created some of the best you will ever read.

He was one of us. He was one of me. Anthony Bourdain.

In the early 1980's, I discovered three things about myself in rapid succession:

• I had no interest in the traditional middle class straight line life- high school, college, career, family. 
• I liked to work, and I liked to learn.
• I had no marketable skills whatsoever.

This sort of realization either sends you hurtling into pop psychology and Zig Ziglar- desperate to hump yourself up onto at least the first rung of the salmon ladder of success- or... it frees you to explore... other options.

To say that I explored is an understatement. I went into the demimonde with rod and gun, throwing myself at experience and sensation like it paid my rent.

And, at some point, I got a job as a burger cook. Good job? No. I swept, I hosed off filters and mats. That mess you made in the bathroom after one too many? Yeah. That long scrape along the side of your car is my thank you. But that led to other jobs, and others, and before I really understood what happened to me- I was a professional cook.

Many, many years later- shifted into another career, thinking back over my life, I made two other discoveries. One, about myself- the anger management issue I spent years dealing with? That was actually a reaction. My real issue? Depression.  Two? Bourdain.

Bourdain became my avatar. He went through a similar process- early on- and struggled with similar issues. I felt a kinship and a pride in his accomplishments, and in how he managed his own problems with candor and clarity.  He, like me, like many of us, was a fuck up who _managed_. He had successes, he had failures- all public- and throughout, his reactions were relateable  and charming. He's in the middle of three things and you pester him- you get the pointy end of the stick. You get him in a calm moment, you get poetry and rough philosophy.

He was also the best imaginable antidote to the celebrity chef bullshit that still dominates the upper end of the industry. Professional cooking, for the vast majority, is a horrible job. Whether or not you love it, like it, or simply have no other options, horrible. Awful hours, awful working conditions.

And every time you see some celebritard chef, in spotless whites or in a perfectly coordinated "worker" outfit of chambray and pressed jeans wandering through a delightful herb garden, or farmer's market... picking just the right ingredients for that night's special? You should snicker. You should sneer. Because it's so rarely like that as to approach never. It's a fiction. The same people who sold you the idea that a director is the author of a movie sold you the idea of the celebrity chef. Because it's easier to sell than the truth. Which is that your food is likely being cooked by some just over minimum wage college student or struggling drug addict, who's kept their job because of a robot like ability to turn out exactly what he or she has been told, exactly the same way, with speed, regardless.

Most chefs are the generals of the kitchen brigade. They don't cook much, day to day- they set up what is to be cooked and impress it upon their staffs to carry out. They don't wander through the kitchen checking things out- they send their sous chefs and other lieutenants to sniff around and report.  You generally only see the chef in his or her office, surrounded by paper work and ashtrays, sweating out a party order menu and cracking their third beer of the hour. They don't go over to the market to sniff out the best berries for the coulis. They have it trucked in and train their staff to evaluate it.

Bourdain was not that kind of chef.  He was a working cook for a lot of his career- the guy in charge of the kitchen, but one who worked with his crew.  He loved the rock and roll aspect of the industry, and he loved the food- from the greasiest, gristly-est bits to the daintiest pillow wrapped, fog scented delicacy. He was quick to point out the bullshit of the celebrity chef, the nonsense of it, and often quite sharp in dealing with those who claimed such status.

I cannot overstate my affection for that, and for him.

I do not understand why my depression exists. I have not gone into therapy for it, I have not been evaluated or medicated for it. I have managed it, for many years, by, well, knowing it was there and never, ever turning my back on it. I have achieved a balance with it, and most days- I get along fine.  And on the darker days? The awareness of it helps avoid the lurking drama of it.  I have good days, bad days, like anyone else. But when the chasm yawns- when the bad day feels like The Worst Day Ever, and for no verifiable reason? I have the awareness. I know what is going on. That it is not The Worst Day Ever, but just my depression. So I shift my focus, shift my attention and keep moving. 

Not everyone manages this, at least, not for as long as I have. And, like everyone who does- I am keenly aware of how easily it could become unmanageable.  As I said- you cannot ever turn your back on it. You cannot ever relax.  And even so- it's a constant struggle that you could easily lose.

As Bourdain appears to have done. As Kate Spade appears to have done, and as a long list of admirable people appear to have done.

It is important to understand that this is not weakness. This is not a character flaw. This is the result of an illness, to which someone succumbed. Some people manage, some people beat it, others. very sadly, fall. It is also important to remember that help is available, and to reach out. There is no shame in needing help with any illness. No stigma, save from the reactions of fools and shitheels.

I will remember Anthony Bourdain, fondly, for the rest of my life. As will many others. He made me laugh, made me think, helped a lot of people- just in general- and that's not a bad note to go out on.

We never met, but he was my friend, and he was part of my extended family.

And so it goes.