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The danger of living in a social media world is that you can respond to

news and trends in an instant. While being able to “like” a picture of a

newborn baby in real time is an example of technology and heart working

well together, this instant response is less helpful when something

serious goes down, like what happened at the Boston Marathon. If you

have anything to say, other than my heart goes out to the people and

victims of that great city, then you need to put your hand over the

microphone before you speak.

Sitting here and writing I am stymied. I was going to talk about putting

aside silly notions of team pride, and how as a Yankee fan I still have

affection for the Red Sox and the city they play in. I now feel that

sentiment is cliche and insipid. We were wounded as a nation on 9/11

and we were wounded as a nation on 4/15, all other conjecture should be

put aside. The people in law enforcement will or will not apprehend the

criminals who did this.

We need to put aside all the noise that clouds our minds. Every swath of

humanity is affected in these trying times. A bomb doesn’t care if you

root for the Yankees or Red Sox, or God forbid, any of the Philly teams.

And I don’t care what you think might have happened in the few hours

after, and after the media overload began. Take a walk, call your loved

ones, check in with all your Boston friends, but put aside your need to

call your shot.

I’m as self-involved as the next guy, probably more so, but my need for

attention can stand down in moments like these. More of us should take

this note. It’s not about you. I’m not even sure who it’s about, but it’s not

about me. And that’s as it should be. That’s the other fall-out of

generations of me-first and the instant age. Our need to be the constant

and tended-to center of our own worlds.

We have to be reminded that the cynic says human nature is bad. In New

York, after 9/11, I was turned away for 2 days before I could give blood

because so many had already given. Runners yesterday literally went the

extra mile to give blood when it was probably unhealthy to be drained.

That is not political, people care, and people respond. Maybe the thing to

do is say hello to a stranger and ask them if everything is ok, or to

implement a be nicer policy in our lives. Putting aside the need to be

right and attempt to be righteous.

The danger with being able to post this in an instant is that I don’t knowif the sentiment is well thought-out or if I sound like a jerk or a sap. I’m

not sure how air-tight my stance is, I don’t even know if I have a stance. I

don’t know if I’m begging for attention or trying to add to sensible

discourse. I have to put it aside or I have to shelve it. That’s the risk, so if

you have a larger platform you might err on the side of caution, and if

you’re at the grocery store and you want to mouth off you should

exercise that same caution. I hope I’ve been careful in this case, because

this is a time of healing. The yank the band-aid off analogy doesn’t work.

These are real wounds and caring is a verb. I’ll stop the preaching now,

and I’ll try to be nicer, putting aside my need to be well-liked.

Stand strong Boston.

I like tennis. I played tennis. I started late and had a couple of communal

lessons, but I was tall and liked to come to the net and got pretty good. I

also had no head for the game. When you hear someone tell you how

much of a mental game tennis is, you shouldn’t roll your eyes – they’re

right.

Tennis is not a game to play angry, which is the only way I knew how to

play it. I hit balls over the fence to get my rage out. I threw my racket and

cursed the Gods with every mishit. I had to run extra laps before every

practice, as a fine for every F-bomb, or racket bounce.

I didn’t continue to play because I started doing the plays at school. I’m

still performing, but haven’t picked up a racket in a long time.

Many years ago I needed a job in the late summer and got hired at the US

Open, or hired by the food vendors. I was going to bartend at a high-end

restaurant, but couldn’t make the orientation, so I was relegated to a

food stand that sold sandwiches, pretzels, and beer. I was pre-miserable

about it before it started.

My anticipated misery was well-founded. It was two weeks of sixteen

hour days, with a crew of crazy people, constant theft, and a crowd of

people dressed in tennis gear to watch people play tennis. People wear

jerseys to other sporting events, but to wear tennis gear to watch, is like

wearing cleats to Yankee Stadium. You’re not gonna get in the game.

There are, of course, some class issues when it comes to tennis. It is a

high class game, both to play it and to attend its premier events. I was

working with local kids from the rougher parts of Queens, some

concession stand lifers, and a lot of off-duty firefighters.

The tournament is a great event if you don’t spend it spraying water on

pretzels and dipping them in salt. The scope and size of it is something

to behold and the ultimate champion has to go through the brackets and

conquer one opponent after another. I want to go back as a fan.

In the middle of the event, having lost track of time and my desire to do a

good job, two women approached the counter and ordered sodas. I

noticed a necklace on one of the women, which had a pendant in the

shape of Nantucket Island, where I vacationed as a child. I mentioned her

necklace to which she replied, to her companion, “How did he … Oh,that’s right, some of them are working here for college.” I was already out

of college and should have been flattered that she thought I looked like a

current student, but I was offended that she couldn’t believe a soda jerk

at the Open would know Nantucket, or its geographic likeness. The way

she called us “some of them” also tuned my fork. “I used to go there as a

kid,” I said to the back of her head. OK we rented when we went to

Nantucket, and I hadn’t been since I was 13, but I had vivid memories,

and affection for the place. I was angry and tired and worrying about my

life.

Our concession stand was deteriorating with every day. People quit. New

people arrived. Our manager was fired for not being able to control the

shortfalls of the registers and the inventory. I was battling new managers.

Telling them that I brought limited competency, but certain work ethic. It

was miserable.

To many employees the last days of clean-up were voluntary. Managers

were almost begging people to come back the last day. I didn’t want to

go. I talked to my Dad and he said I should honor my commitment. I tried

to argue that only a dupe would show up, to be one of the understaffed,

to do all the work, for a group of rotten burned out management creeps.

I went. Because some of us show up and do what we signed up to do.

From 2012:

Grief can make you do crazy things, silly things. Grief feels like your

whole psyche is seizing, like an athlete dehydrating during a race. It can

also, in hindsight, make you see something in yourself that you might not

be too proud of.

My father passed away two years ago. And it took every day of those two

years for me to be able to type those words, say those words, and not

tear-up thinking those words. That’s the grieving process, or so I’m told.

Part of the process that I was most resistant to, was the idea that things

would get better. I didn’t want them to get better, I wanted to honor my

dad by being unable to smile and laugh and to miss him with every tick

of the clock.

During the two weeks of planning services and walking around my

hometown like a zombie, I had a melt-down with my family that I was

powerless to stop. If a transcript existed it would be hilarious. I was

having a reaction to the mention of a group of poets who might want to

share their words during my father’s viewing.

After retiring from the New York Times, my dad found it tough to adjust,

and was in some ways rescued by a local group of poets who met and

called themselves The Red Wheelbarrow, in honor of the famous doctor

poet William Carlos Williams, who lived and practiced in my hometown of

Rutherford, New Jersey. My dad became a leader in many ways and found

an up-tick of productivity in his writing when most people settle down.

He published poems in their annual release and published his own book

of poems, Zerilda’s Chair.

“You know, maybe they could say a few things.” my brother said.

“WHAT? NO FUCKIN’ WAY. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR SOMEBODY’S POEM

ABOUT THEIR GENITALS. THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS DON’T KNOW HOW TO

EDIT AND IT’LL TURN INTO A COFFEE HOUSE AT MY DAD’S WAKE. NO

FUCKING WAY.”

Or something to that affect. I was reeling and sad, I wanted to cast myself

as the person to bring the house to tears with my eulogy. Our local

catholic church would not allow lay people to speak and only scripture

could be read. I was angry that no one from the family would be able to

use their own words.The truth is, that, I, the professional public speaker, would not have been

able to compose myself, and it was really a moot point. But, the idea that

these poets would get the floor made me crazy. It was misplaced emotion

to say the least.

I’m not much of a poetry fan. I love Shakespeare and I like the quotes

people post from famous poets, but I don’t wrap myself in verse very

often. I liked my dad’s poetry, because it was free verse and sounded like

talking. I had never read anyone else’s poems in their anthologies. For

that I’m sorry.

I’m also sorry that I had ill will for a group of people who helped my

father find a place in the world after retirement. A group that still invites

my mother to their functions and treat her like a first lady of poetry, since

he’s been gone. I want to thank them all. I want to thank them for, in the

words of my brother, saving my father’s life, giving him a purpose, an

audience, and a community.

Long Live The Rutherford Wheelbarrow Poets. Thank you for being there

for my family, and thank you for your words. For what are we without our

words? We are silent, and poets don’t go out like that, they have

something to say and they leave behind their words to help us navigate

the rough waters of life. A lesson I am grateful to have learned.

Meet Carl De Gregorio

Carl De Gregorio is an actor, comedian, writer, and acting coach whose work is built on range, timing, and a genuine connection with audiences. From theater and off-Broadway performances to television, film, commercials, live comedy, and digital media, Carl brings a sharp point of view and a memorable presence to every project.

This site is a place to explore Carl’s latest appearances, media highlights, creative work, and professional background. Whether you are a fan, casting professional, event organizer, or fellow creative, you will find a clear look at the experience, personality, and versatility behind the work.

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