My Memories of Donald Moffat—R.I.P.

Donald Moffat, who played Commander Garry in John Carpenter's The Thing (1982), among many other noteworthy roles, has passed away at age 87. It strikes me as particularly sad since I had met him in person—quite unexpectedly—at a restaurant in Atlanta some years ago.

It was around 1990, and my (now ex-)wife Peg and my brother Phred were visiting Atlanta on one of our regular trips to Georgia. The three of us were having dinner at a sushi bar on the north side of Atlanta when a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman wandered in and sat down at the bar next to my brother, who was seated on the other side of my wife. I recognized the man immediately, and though I knew exactly who he was, my brain let out an exceptionally powerful fart, and his name simply would not come to me. I very subtly nudged Peg and said, "Look, that's an actor from The Thing. He's been in a bunch of stuff. He played President Johnson in The Right Stuff. I can't think of his name!" Peg looked at the man and shook her head. "I think you're right," she said. "But I don't know his name either."

My brother, who could sort of hear what we were talking about, shook his head and softly said, "No, it's not. You're full of it."

"But it is!" I insisted. "You know, he's in a bazillion movies—a character actor."

"No. Not him."

"Is too."

Finally, a little exasperated, Phred turned to the gentleman and said, "Excuse me, but my brother is convinced you're a familiar actor, but can't think of your name."

The man smiled and said, "Donald Moffat."

At the same volume and level of excitement as Charlie Brown responding to Lucy's diagnosis of Pantophobia, I hollered out, "THAT'S IT!"

My brother's face kind of fell, but all proved well. We sat and chatted with Donald Moffat for quite a while, finding him quite amiable and full of entertaining stories. He informed us he was in Atlanta filming a movie with "that blond kid—Ricky Schroder." (I later determined the movie must have been A Son's Promise, which I have never seen, though I suppose I should check it out someday.) We did discuss The Thing in some detail, as it was even then probably my favorite horror flick. I asked him if people often recognized him when he was out in public.

"All the time," he said, "but they think I'm their insurance man."

At that time—Deathrealm was in its heyday, so I was frequently going to conventions all over the country—I had met plenty of big-name authors, a number of movie stars, and a few other persons of note (when I lived in Chicago, I once literally ran into Tommy LaSorda—he was coming out a revolving door while I was going in. BOOM. At least he laughed about it), but more often than not it was at a con or someplace where you might expect to encounter such folks. I think this was the first time I'd met a "star" just having dinner, and, as you might expect, for the rest of that evening, I was floating on Cloud Nine.

I do still have a memento of that evening—a chopsticks wrapper that Mr. Moffat very kindly autographed, since, at the time, it was the only piece of paper I had on hand.

I have enjoyed Donald Moffat's performances in many films over the years, but to me, he will always stand out as Commander Garry in The Thing. R.I.P.

What Year Is This?

New Year's Eve/Day sure didn't quite turn out as we planned. Ms. Brugger and I had intended to head over to Winston-Salem last night to hang out with our friends Terry & Beth in their outdoor hot tub (in the nice 11°F chill), but they'd both come down ill this week, and getting together during the contagious stage just didn't seem prudent, especially since Ms. B. and I have suffered ugly illnesses of our own this past month. So after I enjoyed some frigid, early-evening geocaching at Greensboro's Revolution Mill, Ms. B. and I went to New Year's Eve dinner at one of our favorite Thai restaurants — Simply Thai in Elon — and then returned to her place, where we drank wine and watched the final episode of Stranger Things, followed by the double-feature of Mother and The Thing (2012). While hanging out in a hot tub with Terry & Beth would surely have been the most desirable option, our ever-so-mellow back-up plan proved nothing to sneeze at.

This morning, we slept late, drank serious coffee, had a delicious chicken sausage & egg scramble, and hung with cats. Then I returned home.

I must say, 2017 provided us with a generally fine holiday season, starting with Halloween and our trip to Gettysburg, which turned out to be one of the best things I've ever done. Thanksgiving and Christmas both proved mellow and memorable. In early December, Ms. B. and I had an excellent time at her folks' place in Midland, MI, but for those days we were down with the stomach flu. Being the eternal pessimist, though, every New Year's Day tends to find me feeling a little depressed, since it spells the end of my favorite annual holiday time.

That said, I feel little remorse leaving 2017 behind, as in so many respects it was a garbage year, with my Mom's long-term health problems overshadowing every aspect of my life, and 2018 — and likely many years beyond — promises no respite. I've never hated anything as much as I hate what has happened to her, and unfortunately, sometimes that hate spills over into my day-to-day life, which, of course, I hate. The perpetually widening political divide in our country has affected me in no small ways; it's no secret I fucking despise Donald Trump and the GOP. They're the epitome of human garbage, the lot of them, and for them the guillotine would be too kind. I suppose the less said about that, the better.

My work situation, while not so different in its day-to-day routine, is in many ways more stressful than it used to be, with a long, ugly daily commute, resulting in considerably more personal expense (and risk), and certain HR issues, including a piss-poor time-off policy, which are several steps backward from what we used to have under our local ownership. I hope to God I can retire before I'm dead, and the sooner the better. But I do not like this aging thing. Sure it's better than the alternative, but an alternative alternative would be most desirable.

Whatever its hardships, I'm sure 2018, as every year has, will offer plenty of joys and wonderful things to counter the stressors. I do hope so. Right now, I've got a couple of great writing projects happening, and it is time for me to get back to them.

May the road rise to meet your wheels.

My Bump Into The Thing

Writer Ben R. Williams, of The Martinsville Bulletin, from my old hometown, offers some of the best editorials around, on a host of subjects — everything from local events to entertainment to national and world politics. His recent article, "Defining Moments Look Different to Everyone," struck a nerve with me because it's about his meeting Wilford Brimley, his favorite actor in John Carpenter's The Thing, which is also his favorite horror movie. It just so happens that it's mine too — well, to be quite accurate, it's tied with Jacques Tourneur's Curse (Night) of the Demon; for me, both are required viewing just about every October, when I start pulling out more than the customary number of horror movies to watch.

My personal encounter might not as dramatic as Ben's (read his story, linked above), but it was so damned unexpected you can bet it left a lasting impression on me. It was around 1990, and my (now ex-)wife Peg and my brother Phred were visiting Atlanta on one of our regular trips to Georgia. The three of us were having dinner at a sushi bar on the north side of Atlanta when a tall, rather ordinary yet distinguished-looking gentleman wandered in and sat down at the bar next to my brother, who was seated on the other side of my wife. I recognized the man immediately, and though I knew exactly who he was, my brain let out an exceptionally powerful fart, and his name simply would not come to me. I very subtly nudged Peg and said, "Look, that's an actor from The Thing. He's been in a bunch of stuff. He played President Johnson in The Right Stuff. I can't think of his name!" Peg looked at the man and shook her head. "I think you're right," she said. "But I don't know his name either."

My brother, who could sort of hear what we were talking about, shook his head and softly said, "No, it's not. You're full of it."

"But it is!" I insisted. "You know, he's in a bazillion movies — a character actor."

"No. Not him."

"Is too."

Finally, a little exasperated, Phred turned to the gentleman and said, "Excuse me, but my brother is convinced you're a familiar actor, but can't think of your name."

The man smiled and said, "Donald Moffat."

At the same volume and level of excitement as Charlie Brown responding to Lucy's diagnosis of Pantophobia, I hollered out, "THAT'S IT!"

My brother's face kind of fell, but all proved well. We sat and chatted with Donald Moffat for quite a while, finding him quite amiable and full of entertaining stories. He informed us he was in Atlanta filming a movie with "that blond kid — Ricky Schroder." (I later determined the movie must have been A Son's Promise, which I have never seen, though I suppose I should check it out someday.) We did discuss The Thing in some detail, as it was even then probably my favorite horror flick. I asked him if people often recognized him when he was out in public.

"All the time," he said, "but they always think I'm their insurance man."

At that time — Deathrealm was in its heyday, so I was frequently going to conventions all over the country — I had met plenty of big-name authors, a number of movie stars, and a few other persons of note (when I lived in Chicago, I once literally ran into Tommy LaSorda — he was coming out a revolving door while I was going in. BOOM. At least he laughed about it), but more often than not it was at a con or someplace where you might expect to encounter such folks. I think this was the first time I'd met a "star" just having dinner, and, as you might expect, for the rest of that evening, I was floating on Cloud Nine.

I do still have a memento of that evening — a chopsticks wrapper that Mr. Moffat very kindly autographed, since, at the time, it was the only piece of paper I had on hand.