Private Ryan's Parts

October 5, 1998

As you have figured out by now, the real purpose of me writing all these stories is to help me sort out my feelings about Andrea, our divorce, who I am, and how I want to live my life. To make such tedious topics palatable, I have encased my anecdotes in humor. The humor has been based largely on my observations of New York City from December 5, 1997 to the present. I have tried to be as exact as possible in my description of events--particularly in terms of precise geographic locations (i.e. The northwest corner of 47th and Broadway.) I do this so that years from now, when I am old or dead, readers can get a true feel about what life in Manhattan was like in my time. And with the directions I've provided in this book, readers can visit the scenes of the crimes. And while bars and restaurants and hotels will have changed their identities many times over by the time my grandchildren read this, the northwest corner of 47th and Broadway should always be the northwest corner of 47th and Broadway.

So, having said all that, I want to talk today about Howard Stern, for he resonates everywhere in New York. Howard Stern's voice fills the empty spaces between the buildings in Manhattan. His voice floats through every cubicle, into every elevator, down every avenue. His voice swirls through every coffee shop and restaurant, spilling out into every alley and into every waiting white delivery van. Those vans carry Howard Stern's voice around every corner of this island, traversing Central Park and exiting through the bridges and tunnels to carry the message to the faithful on Long Island and in New Jersey.

Twenty years from now, the Flatiron Building will presumably still be standing. So will the Empire State Building and the twin towers of The World Trade Center. The northwest corner of 47th and Broadway will still be here. So to the Plaza Hotel. The physical part of New York, for the most part, will remain in tact. What will change are the people (and the billboards). For now, this is Howard Stern's time. If the buildings are the body of New York, he is the spirit. Yet unlike a real body, a city will host many spirits in its lifetime. At the time I am writing this, Howard Stern animates Manhattan from six to eleven every morning, Monday through Friday.

Businessmen, construction workers, cops, lawyers, doctors, entertainers all listen to Stern. On the silent morning bus to work, it's easy to tell who's listening to Howard on their headphones, as the spreading of grins and the widening of the eyes seem to be choreographed among them. Each time Stern makes a joke, these quiet riders react in unison. Most of the time, they are so wrapped up in listening to their headphones, that they are oblivious to the dozen other people on the bus listening to the same thing. But every once in a while, after Howard cracks some particularly witty line about the foibles of some celebrity, a listener might turn his head briefly and by chance catch the eye of another headphoned-fan. It's neat to see the two of them nod their heads and smile at each other in an unspoken gesture of fellowship, camaraderie, and adoration of The King of All Media.

The problem with listening to the Stern's true confessions each morning is that one loses a sense of what is appropriate conversation in the real world. I mean, I ride to work listening to truisms like:

"The key to any successful marketing campaign is lesbians, lesbians, lesbians."

"Black women love psychics."

"So your father molested you? Let me ask you, was he big?"

And then I have to sit in a sales meeting and listen to boring people talk about boring things.

Perhaps it is to break up the monotony of life that I find myself quoting Howard Stern more and more. I'm not making a conscious effort, it just happens.

When a girl tells me she's seeing someone new, my first response is "White guy?" When there is an uncomfortable prolonged silence, I'll blurt out, "Baba Booey." And when I see two women holding hands down in the West Village, I reflexively sound off with "Hey now!"

Sometimes New Yorkers carry the Essence of Stern with them outside of the City. A few weeks ago, I was down in D.C. visiting the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery. For some reason, that place has always been one of comfort to me. As the son of a military man and a military man myself for a while, Washington has always seemed like home and the Big Boneyard has always felt like a familiar backyard. While some folks visit the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier out of curiosity or patriotism, I like to watch the somber, silent patrol of the big men in Army blue uniforms because it reminds me of being a little kid when the whole world felt safe--safe because of men like those of The Old Guard protecting that big, white sarcophagus.

I stood near against the velvet rope restraining the crowd. For no particular reason, I turned to scan my fellow citizens who had showed up to watch the sacred changing of the guard. To my right rear I noticed three guys in Yankees caps. They were chubby, stubble-faced, and murmuring drunk. It was as if they'd come to see a ball game. Someone shushed them to be quiet.

I watched the handsome lean sergeant inspect his charge's weapon. The air was completely silent. Not even a bird chirped. A light orange haze rippled across the Washington skyline. A gentle breeze cooled my cheek quite suddenly, but even it did not disrupt the sobriety or the silence of the scene.

The younger soldier accepted his weapon back from his sergeant. The release of the bolt broke the catatonic quiet. But only for a moment. In less that a few heartbeats, the ghosts of the war dead resumed their silent concerto. The only noise was the pulse I could hear in my ears.

All was quiet.

I remembered the phrase "the last full measure of devotion." Arlington was truly a holy place. Sometimes, I forget that. Sometimes I forget what silence is like.

Silence.

"Baba Booey!"

The young soldier steeled his jaw. It was barely perceptible. But he steeled his jaw to be sure. Whether it was in anger or to suppress a laugh, I do not know.

Without turning around, I knew who the pranksters were.

Not for nothin', it takes a lot more than guys in blue uniforms walking back and forth in front of a big white box to impress a New Yorker.

Broadway Jim Jenkins

		Private Ryan's Parts
		October 5, 1998 As you have figured out by now, the real purpose of me writing all these stories is to help me sort out my feelings about Andrea, our divorce, who I am, and how I want to live my life. To make such tedious topics palatable, I have encased my anecdotes in humor. The humor has been based largely on my observations of New York City from December 5, 1997 to the present. I have tried to be as exact as possible in my description of events--particularly in terms of precise geographic locations (i.e. The northwest corner of 47th and Broadway.) I do this so that years from now, when I am old or dead, readers can get a true feel about what life in Manhattan was like in my time. And with the directions I've provided in this book, readers can visit the scenes of the crimes. And while bars and restaurants and hotels will have changed their identities many times over by the time my grandchildren read this, the northwest corner of 47th and Broadway should always be the northwest corner of 47th and Broadway. So, having said all that, I want to talk today about Howard Stern, for he resonates everywhere in New York. Howard Stern's voice fills the empty spaces between the buildings in Manhattan. His voice floats through every cubicle, into every elevator, down every avenue. His voice swirls through every coffee shop and restaurant, spilling out into every alley and into every waiting white delivery van. Those vans carry Howard Stern's voice around every corner of this island, traversing Central Park and exiting through the bridges and tunnels to carry the message to the faithful on Long Island and in New Jersey. Twenty years from now, the Flatiron Building will presumably still be standing. So will the Empire State Building and the twin towers of The World Trade Center. The northwest corner of 47th and Broadway will still be here. So to the Plaza Hotel. The physical part of New York, for the most part, will remain in tact. What will change are the people (and the billboards). For now, this is Howard Stern's time. If the buildings are the body of New York, he is the spirit. Yet unlike a real body, a city will host many spirits in its lifetime. At the time I am writing this, Howard Stern animates Manhattan from six to eleven every morning, Monday through Friday. Businessmen, construction workers, cops, lawyers, doctors, entertainers all listen to Stern. On the silent morning bus to work, it's easy to tell who's listening to Howard on their headphones, as the spreading of grins and the widening of the eyes seem to be choreographed among them. Each time Stern makes a joke, these quiet riders react in unison. Most of the time, they are so wrapped up in listening to their headphones, that they are oblivious to the dozen other people on the bus listening to the same thing. But every once in a while, after Howard cracks some particularly witty line about the foibles of some celebrity, a listener might turn his head briefly and by chance catch the eye of another headphoned-fan. It's neat to see the two of them nod their heads and smile at each other in an unspoken gesture of fellowship, camaraderie, and adoration of The King of All Media. The problem with listening to the Stern's true confessions each morning is that one loses a sense of what is appropriate conversation in the real world. I mean, I ride to work listening to truisms like: "The key to any successful marketing campaign is lesbians, lesbians, lesbians." "Black women love psychics." "So your father molested you? Let me ask you, was he big?" And then I have to sit in a sales meeting and listen to boring people talk about boring things. Perhaps it is to break up the monotony of life that I find myself quoting Howard Stern more and more. I'm not making a conscious effort, it just happens. When a girl tells me she's seeing someone new, my first response is "White guy?" When there is an uncomfortable prolonged silence, I'll blurt out, "Baba Booey." And when I see two women holding hands down in the West Village, I reflexively sound off with "Hey now!" Sometimes New Yorkers carry the Essence of Stern with them outside of the City. A few weeks ago, I was down in D.C. visiting the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery. For some reason, that place has always been one of comfort to me. As the son of a military man and a military man myself for a while, Washington has always seemed like home and the Big Boneyard has always felt like a familiar backyard. While some folks visit the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier out of curiosity or patriotism, I like to watch the somber, silent patrol of the big men in Army blue uniforms because it reminds me of being a little kid when the whole world felt safe--safe because of men like those of The Old Guard protecting that big, white sarcophagus. I stood near against the velvet rope restraining the crowd. For no particular reason, I turned to scan my fellow citizens who had showed up to watch the sacred changing of the guard. To my right rear I noticed three guys in Yankees caps. They were chubby, stubble-faced, and murmuring drunk. It was as if they'd come to see a ball game. Someone shushed them to be quiet. I watched the handsome lean sergeant inspect his charge's weapon. The air was completely silent. Not even a bird chirped. A light orange haze rippled across the Washington skyline. A gentle breeze cooled my cheek quite suddenly, but even it did not disrupt the sobriety or the silence of the scene. The younger soldier accepted his weapon back from his sergeant. The release of the bolt broke the catatonic quiet. But only for a moment. In less that a few heartbeats, the ghosts of the war dead resumed their silent concerto. The only noise was the pulse I could hear in my ears. All was quiet. All was quiet. I remembered the phrase "the last full measure of devotion." Arlington was truly a holy place. Sometimes, I forget that. Sometimes I forget what silence is like. Silence. Silence. "Baba Booey!" The young soldier steeled his jaw. It was barely perceptible. But he steeled his jaw to be sure. Whether it was in anger or to suppress a laugh, I do not know. Without turning around, I knew who the pranksters were. Not for nothin', it takes a lot more than guys in blue uniforms walking back and forth in front of a big white box to impress a New Yorker. Broadway Jim Jenkins