Barry M. Grey's Blog
Posted by Barry M. Grey
Dear Jerry,
I’ve been thinking about writing this letter since last year when I read Dean and Me. I loved the book, and knew instantly how much I identified with you in it, for a particular reason.
Last week, my excuse for writing became a whole lot more urgent.
The way you wrote about Dean -- the nature of your relationship, the way he drew you (and many others) in yet kept you at a distance -- I recognized from my own experience.
For most of my life, I had my own Dean. Like yours, mine was the proverbial tall, dark, handsome. And charismatic, funny as hell, charming beyond all reason.
He was the big brother I never had. The effortlessly fun, funny guy I could never top. The guy I wanted to be.
Sound familiar?
I loved him so deeply that it was embarrassing. It wasn’t a gay thing. As you might say, it was a love thing.
He was My Own Private Dean.
But like Dean, Dominic marched to his own drummer. We grew up together in suburban
Our families became extremely tight. My family represented the Jews in the friendship – the Levitches, if you will, although our name back then was really Goldberg. And the Lonardos were of full-blooded Sicilian ancestry – the Crocettis of Cleveland, to complete the analogy.
We lived two blocks apart, and had frequent Sunday night dinners together – authentic Italian feasts Dominic’s mother built from scratch.
The ties went much deeper than dinners. My dad and Dom’s dad were pals. Kathy and my mom Gert were close. My sister’s first boyfriend was Dominic’s older brother. Later, she fell hopelessly, madly, insanely, stupidly in love with Dom’s first cousin, Angelo. It was a melodramatic, star-crossed relationship which my father put an end to for a number of reasons I won’t go into here.
We left
That summer, Dominic came to visit for a couple weeks. The next summer, I stayed with him in
I saw him occasionally after graduating high school. The friendship was intact, but we were growing apart. While this made me sad, I still thought of him as my best friend and thought we’d always be pals. (Pallies, as Dean would say.)
Dominic was busted on a questionable charge in 1976, and did 18 months in a youth detention center in
In the decades that followed, our contacts became more sporadic. He never responded to my birthday cards or notes. Wouldn’t return phone calls. He became a phantom. My own private phantom. I felt like an idiot, chasing a ghost who I hadn’t actually spent time with since visiting him in 1981 and then in 1992.
He claimed he was never the same after the 18 months in
It hurt like hell. Why didn’t he love me like I loved him? What was so fucking hard about keeping in touch? Would a phone call be too much to ask?
In recent years, I’d leave messages on his voicemail. Funny, every single time I’d call, I’d get the machine. I knew he was probably monitoring the calls. “Oh,” I imagined him thinking, “it’s Barry again. Fuck. Why won’t he leave me alone?”
In about 2002, I actually reached him by phone, and we talked about everything. It was a great conversation. I could have felt encouraged that our friendship was back on track. But I wasn’t naïve anymore – I’d been burned too many times to really believe he really wanted to keep in touch.
Sure enough, every subsequent time I tried reaching him, I struck out. My wife would say, “Why do you still care?”
I had no answer.
A couple years ago, I gave up trying, deciding enough was enough. I’d never try to reach Dominic again. It was just too much hurt, and clearly he didn’t care; at least, not enough to make an effort.
At 52, I moved on. Mazel-tov, right?
Then a few weeks ago, guess who contacted me via Facebook, asking to be my friend?
I couldn’t believe it.
I had known Dom was on Facebook, because people with FB accounts are instantly notified when their electronic pals have mutual friends. And several of my FB friends were pallies with Dom.
So Dom clearly had seen my name and little photo, and he approached me!
I didn’t rejoice – I was way too wary for that. (Who the hell knew how he felt?) But I knew, deep inside, that I would always love him, that the feelings developed in childhood wouldn’t go away, no matter how much I tried to shrug them off.
We exchanged a series of private messages on Facebook – filled with in-jokes only he and I understood. It was hilarious, warm -- everything I could ask for.
During this dance, I learned from mutual friends that the long estrangement wasn’t due to anything I’d done. It turns out Dominic held everyone at arm’s length. Flaked periodically with pretty much everybody in his life.
He’d disappear for long stretches. Just drop out of sight.
So after all these years, I finally knew the vanishing act was neither about me nor limited to me. It was just the way Dominic coped with a world in which he could never quite feel comfortable.
About two weeks ago, we exchanged phone numbers, and eventually, we connected.
It was a marathon conversation. We covered everything – careers, family, gossip, the works. He’d just returned from a long vacation to
Maybe, just maybe, it could be some kind of new beginning.
Last week, I was noodling around on Facebook when a mutual friend of ours opened an instant message to me with the phrase, “I have some horrible news for you…”
My heart stopped.
“It’s about Dominic,” she wrote.
What, I asked.
“He died.”
The words burned into my soul.
How could that be? I’d just spoken with him. Everything was fine. Sure, he was out of work and disenchanted with his latest money chase, the insurance business. But -- ?
I immediately called Dom’s brother John in
It was true.
His apartment manager had found Dominic sitting at his computer, looking serene. He’d died right there, in front of the screen. Probably had been noodling around on Facebook.
The cause of death remains unclear.
Everyone says I’m lucky to have reconnected with him. I am. I know that. But the emptiness doesn’t seem to go away. I find myself thinking things like, “I’m now living in a world without Dominic Lonardo.” That thought alone is almost too much to bear.
One reason it hurts so much:
My nine-year-old loves a little game we play called “Heart Attack!” I pretend to be stricken, clutch my chest and fall atop her, pinning her beneath me. She wriggles, trying to escape, but she’s just trapped. And she laughs hysterically.
I slowly begin to rise and she's relieved. But she knows what’s coming. She's nearly free when I clutch my chest again. “Relapse!” I gurgle, and fall top her again. The laughter returns.
Dominic invented that game when we were little. He was twice my size, so naturally I was the one pinned and helpless. I laughed uncontrollably, just like my daughter.
The other night, as I was reading her a bedtime story, I just lost it. It occurred to me she’d never get the chance to meet the inventor of our favorite game.
She silently put her arms around me. Held me for a long time, until I could stop sobbing. Who says autistic kids don’t have empathy?
I’m flying to
Jerry, I think I know how you feel.
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Posted by Barry M. Grey
His name was Steve Weinberg, and he drove a van with his business name and corporate 800 number splashed all over it.
I went out to curbside to greet him in the dark. He was supposed to show up between 7 and 8 p.m., and wouldn't you know it -- he pulled up at exactly 7:30.
We chatted quietly. He asked a few questions, with the kind of practiced amiability that suggested he'd been doing this kind of work for a long time.
But he was nice, and I wondered why I couldn't remember anything about him from his last visit about five years ago.
I showed him into the house. Re-introduced him to my wife and nine-year-old daughter. He met Donya the pit bull mix, who couldn't have been friendlier.
And amazingly, Tucker got up, wagged his tail and joined the welcome wagon. He'd spent virtually the entire day on the sofa, or on the bed, passive, shivering in pain and unable to eat or even swallow water.
But here he was, greeting our guest. He couldn't have known Steve was there specifically to see him.
For two hours before Steve's arrival, we'd fussed over Tucker. Petted him so lightly, worried too much pressure might heighten the pain from the tumors bulging from beneath his fur.
We led Tucker to a comforter on the floor. Steve prepared the injections -- one to knock him out, another to finish the job. He calmly reassured us Tucker would feel no pain at all.
Donya was dispatched to a hallway; she'd be disruptive if allowed to stay.
Our daughter sniffled out a goodbye. Told Tucker she always loved him. Her remarks were so simple, yet so elegant. She then joined Donya out of sight.
My wife and I stroked Tucker ever so gently, talking to him as the first needle went in. I lay on the floor, face to face with my handsome boy. I wanted my face to be the last thing he saw, and as his consciousness faded, I wanted him to hear, one last time, the words I've told him thousands of times.
"I love you, Tucker. You will be with me always. Soon, I hope you'll be with Augie. Tell him we miss him, too.
"I love you, Tucker.
"I love you."
And he was gone.
Posted by Barry M. Grey
Interviewing celebrities can be fun. Well, sometimes.
Oh, it's usually cordial. But remember that the friendly rapport, bonhomie and spirit of connection last as long as a feathery white dandelion in the summer breeze.
It doesn't really take much to reveal a celebrity's real face.
Jasmine Guy
Remember the Cosby Show spinoff A Different World?After it left the air in the mid-90s, Jasmine Guy -- who'd starred in the latter -- was still able to parlay her celebrity into occasional TV guest shots.
I needed to interview her about something or other -- who the hell remembers?
She refused a formal request for a sit-down; her publicist told my talent booker at E! that we could catch up with the wildly popular Miss Guy at some red carpet event.
Not an ideal arrangement, but we agreed anyway.
Meantime, another producer on an unrelated project asked if I could put a couple of questions to Miss Guy on her behalf. I said sure, no problem.
The Big Night arrived. Miss Guy's quintessentially arrogant publicist stuck her nose high in the air when I introduced myself. I hated that crap, but I was used to the bad behavior of these self-important gatekeepers.
I casually mentioned to her the innocuous, unrelated questions from the other producer.
This propelled the woman into an eye-bulging, fire-breathing, Deathstar-obliterating fit. How dare I "spring" this on her? Who did I think I was? What did I think I was trying to pull? Ad nauseum.
It was everything I could do not to roll my eyes and laugh out loud.
Just then, another functionary arrived with the illustrious Miss Guy Herself. The Star would not shake my hand. Nor make eye contact. No acknowledgement at all.
The publicist briefed her on the outrageous request for three additional, harmless, un-vetted questions on an unrelated subject.
Miss Guy's face was a mask of pure contempt. She still refused to acknowledge me, even though I stood inches from her and gazed directly into her rage-filled eyes.
The two women stood there weighing the whole awful situation, as if I didn't 'exist. Finally, the publicist spoke for her fabulously talented charge: "Your questions are fine. The others are out."
Michael Keaton
It's1998. I'm at the actor's ranch in Montana. My two-man freelance video crew is setting up for a lengthy interview. Keaton pulls me out of the house, onto an adjoining deck.
I reassure the anxious star I have are no shocker questions.
Then he reveals what's really on his mind:
Was I going to reveal his age?
I explained that early in the show, narration would state he was born in Pittsburgh in 1951. That sent Michael Keaton into full freakout mode.
Why, he asked with an edge in his voice, did I need to reveal the year?
Because, I said meekly -- concerned he'd pull the plug on the interview -- it's my job to tell someone's life story. How can I do that if I don't even mention a subject's year of birth? Besides, if I didn't, my supervisor surely would ask why such a salient fact wasn't in the script.
Steam rose from his collar. His eyes became cauldrons of blood. I envisioned him burying me in a remote patch of the ranch's lower 40.
I wondered why, other than pure unadulterated vanity, did he care?
After 10 minutes of thrust and parry, he finally explained he was up for a role he really wanted -- but if the producer learned his age (47 at the time), he'd lose any shot at the part.
To placate him and salvage the interview, I promised to ask my boss about dropping 1951 altogether.
The interview proceeded. But he was tight-lipped, high-strung, wary, vaguely hostile.
Once back in L.A., he called me personally to again lobby against 1951 -- which, for celebrities, is nearly unheard of. The guy just wouldn't quit.
That same week, I telephoned my Montana-based cameraman,. He said the minute I'd left Keaton's ranch, Michael heaved a big sigh of relief, remarked, "Okay, the schmuck is gone. Now we can relax," and invited the crew to hang out. Which they did.
Putz. I had done everything possible to put Keaton at ease, with the sole exception I couldn't promise to compromise my show by omitting a fundamental bit of information.
And in the show, the audience learned Michael Keaton was born in Pittsburgh. In 1951.
Actually, Keaton should be grateful to me. I've never mentioned to anyone that, up close, his hair plugs looked really obvious and kind of stupid.
David Crosby
While still at E!, I went to the Shrine Auditorium one morning to shoot a piece about preparations for that year's Grammy Awards.
We were grabbing all kinds of random shots. Sitting on steps outside the entrance were two people engaged in a warm, thoughtful conversation. I asked my cameraman to quietly get a grab shot of the two -- David Crosby and Bonnie Raitt.
Figured it'd be a nice image to include in the piece; they obviously were on a break between rehearsals.
Before I knew it, Crosby began ranting. I turned to find he was raging at me! We media types are all the same, he screeched. Had no respect for peoples' privacy, he bellowed. Who the f--- did we think we were?, he raged.
The only thing missing was white foam around his mouth.
I calmly explained we just wanted a shot of them together, that we meant no harm and weren't going to use any audio.
But Crosby had that Charles Manson look in his eyes. If witnesses hadn't been around, I'm convinced he would've tried to deck me. Unless, of course, he was packing heat...
Having previously interviewed Bonnie Raitt, I knew she was extremely insecure about her looks. I wondered if Crosby was being Sir Walter Raleigh -- protecting her against infidels who would put her un-made-up face and hair on TV.
I called off my shooter and tried to apologize. Crosby was having none of it, threatening to have us forcibly removed from the property.
Putz.
Posted by Barry M. Grey
Posted by Barry M. Grey
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