As we pulled toward our motel, imagine my delight in seeing the Enchanted Forest across the street from our motel. There is a shopping plaza with a Safeway at the entry to the Forest -- I suppose that's what makes it so Enchanted -- and on top of the sign for the plaza is a giant, grinning, scepter-wielding sea king.
After we unloaded our bags, we sprinted across the street to get the lowdown on the Forest, but unfortunately it was closed. I'm not sure if it's closed permanently or just closed for the season, but sheesh! You'd figure they could have SOMEONE there to greet visiting Homicide conventioneers, wouldn't ya?
I was anxious to hop in the car and head for Fell's Point so I could see the Homicide set, but the Snow Princess was dragging her feet. "C'mon c'mon c'mon c'mon!" I pleaded. "I want to get downtown so we can find our way around over the next few days," I lied.
Look, when you arrive in Mecca, you don't head to the nearest sports bar -- you go straight to the Great Mosque and take a lap around the holy shrine of the Kaaba.
We headed into Baltimore on Route 40 and within 10 minutes had our first encounter with the Baltimore police. I was in the left lane meandering along when a police cruiser pulled in front of me, strobes firing and horn blaring. And a second squad car pulled in behind me, but his lights were quiet.
I thought, "Well, this might be an interesting way to meet Sgt. Steve Lehmann. I'll just call him from my cell." But I thought better of it and pulled over so the second car could follow the first around the corner.
We finally arrived downtown and parked in a garage -- $12.00 for five hours!. We could see Camden Yards from our spot, so we wandered that way. From there, I spotted the Bromo Tower three blocks away, so I grabbed Steph's hand and trudged up the street.
On the way there, we almost had a second opportunity to meet Sgt. Steve in our first hour in Baltimore. A street light turned green, and we headed across the street. Apparently, there is Maryland traffic law that says pedestrians have the right of way EXCEPT when the driver's auto costs more than the pedestrian's annual salary. After a near miss (near hit?), I was momentarily stunned, but determined to march to the Tower come hell or Miata.
We got to the Tower, upon which a large sign is posted that says, "No Public Access." Rats! I took far too many pictures -- my first Baltimore Homicide landmark! -- and stomped back toward Camden Yards.
After avoiding a speeding mass transit train at the ballpark, we walked the three or four blocks to the Inner Harbor, which is this great open place along the harbor just a few blocks from the main downtown business district. Steph was pleading with me at this point, "Can we go on a dinner cruise? Can we ride a boat? Can we?"
I said no. "The weather's gonna be nice all week. We can do that tomorrow." Of course, it rained the next three days.
At this point, I was hell-bent to make it to the Homicide set. Stephanie wanted to check out prices for a dinner cruise, but I had one thing on my mind. "No. Let's go."
We walked over to the Baltimore Area Visitors Bureau, where I fully expected to see a sign that said "Welcome Homicide Fans!" Instead, we saw brochure after brochure on harbor rides, harbor dinners, harbor walks, harbor tours, harbor festivals, famous people found floating in the harbor. Nothing about Homicide.
I marched up to a scowling 90-year-old lady to ask for directions to the set (The cheerful 88-year-old man was busy sending another tourist to Fort McHenry by way of Pittsburgh). "How far is it to the police station on the TV show Homicide?"
"Oh, God." She turned to the 88-year-old man. "Frank, the Homicide people. They have that big, ugly, red building off Broadway, don't they."
"Yeah, yeah," Frank mumbled. It was way past Frank's nap time.
"OK. It's around the harbor on Broadway. Just follow the red bricks around the harbor and it will take you right there."
I was getting excited. "How far is it?"
"Not far. Only four or five blocks."
"All right!" I yelled at Steph. "It's just five blocks away!"
"That's nice," she replied. "Can we ask about dinner..."
"No. Let's go."
Steph was getting a little cheesed at this point. "I want to go on a dinner cruise. I want to have a NICE vacation!"
I bridled my enthusiasm for a moment. "All right, all right. Go ask about a dinner cruise."
She asked some woman with a boat about the cruises, but it looked like we weren't gonna make it that night. I mentally pumped my fist. "Well, as long as we're down here, let's wander over to the Homicide police headquarters. It's only four blocks away."
Steph agreed, and we set off. We walked along the red bricks until there were no more red bricks to be had. I checked a pocket street map and saw "Broadway" a few blocks ahead, so we went that way.
We walked for 20 minutes, a total of twelve blocks or so to Broadway. No Homicide building was in view.
Steph was getting cranky. "Are you sure we're going the right way?"
"Yes." I snapped. "The woman said Broadway. We're on friggin' Broadway."
"But what if..."
"Shut up. Let's go."
But which way to turn? Left, toward traffic, or right, toward the water? Hmmm. I vaguely remembered some body of water in the "Sniper" episode when Bayliss aimed a gun out the squad window in frustration over the Sniper case. I pointed to our right. "It's that way."
"Are you sure?"
"Damn right. Let's GO!" I pulled Steph's arm halfway out the socket.
After another three blocks avoiding panhandlers -- "Hey, man, how you DOIN'!" -- we came to a fork in the road. I looked right down Thames Street and saw little happening. I was discouraged. I figured there HAD to be street peddlers with Homicide t-shirts, badges and water pistols hawking their wares on the streets. Where the hell were they?
And then I looked left up Thames. There it was.
"Erp!" I gurgled.
"Is that it?" Steph replied.
"Yup." I yanked Steph's arm the other half way out of its socket.
A couple things strike you when see the building for the first time. One is, there really is that cobblestone road running in front, and it is a terror on cars traveling more than 10 miles an hour. The other is that it is HUGE.
Apparently, it never was a police station of any kind. It used to be a recreation pier, and you can see the fenced-in rec yard extending behind the building where we see the detectives go for some fresh air and a private chat. There is a massive tunnel that runs down the length of the building through its center, and several cars are parked just inside with more behind a security checkpoint and wire fence.
The fictional Baltimore police headquarters is on its own pier, surrounded on three sides by water. The waves lap up against a concrete barrier, separated from the sidewalk by a few feet of rock and a chain link fence. For a moment, I thought I might swim around the back for a better look. "Maybe tomorrow," I thought, and I continued around the front of the building.
I walked reverently to the front door, located on the left side of the hulking structure. Over the door the words "Baltimore City Police" are stenciled in blue.
I started to get goose bumps.
Then it was time for the big test. Should I try the door to see if it's locked? What if it's open? Should I go in? Then what? Where's the box? Will I end up IN the box?
I didn't care. I set these questions aside and tried the door anyway.
It was locked.
From the steps I peeked through the door to see a little bit of the Homicide set. A small lobby held a couple of newspaper machines on the left and a directory map showing the location of the fictional police station's departments was on the wall to the right. In the middle is a lengthy stairway that ascends ever upward -- the stairway we see the detectives walking up and down in just about every episode. At the top of the stairs you can see some doors and a blue banner with white lettering which was partially obscured, but I think it said "Investigative Division."
I fully expected Richard Belzer to come strolling down the street, see us peering in the door, and say, "Hey, you want to see what it looks like from the INSIDE, Sparky?" But after he didn't come by, even after we loitered in front of the place for half an hour, so I figured it was time to move on.
Steph and I ventured across the street to The Waterfront, the bar "owned" by Bayliss, Lewis and Munch. At this point, I was afraid to walk in. It's one thing to stand on the street and admire a set from afar, or even to look through a window at the inside, but now I would be entering one of the Homicide locations. I felt like I was walking on hallowed ground.
The place was empty. Sure, it's a Tuesday afternoon, but why SHOULDN'T this place be packed? I imagined Homicide fans from around the world who failed to break into the police station would surely visit The Waterfront as their second stop. Nope. It was just a bartender and a waitress standing at the end of the bar chatting.
I took a deep breath and looked around. One of the first things that strikes you is the bar is a lot smaller than it looks on television. A lot darker too. There is no jukebox, there is no pool table in the back dining room, nor is there a light that hangs over the pool table. The picture that hangs over the cash register with the three mustachioed cops? Nope. The only visible signs that connect this working bar to the show are three photos: one of Barry Levinson with the owner of the bar, a signed movie still of Kathy Bates, and a cast photo.
All in all, a very ordinary looking bar. The only evidence that any filming takes place here whatsoever is the matrix of light supports -- aluminum piping similar to what you'd see holding up a chain-link fence -- that hangs just below the ceiling. Apparently it's a bother to take these supports down and put them back up every time they film there, so they leave them there. The supports extend to the floor in the bar's dining area, and they are strapped to vertical wooden beams with thin rope that you can see if you look carefully at certain scenes shot in the bar. Some sections of pipe were covered with stray strips of black tape, apparently to disguise the supports during filming.
There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask the bartender. "Have you met any of the cast members?" "Is Andre Braugher a tall man or a short man?" "Does Kyle Secor pour drinks here in his spare time?" But I decided to keep quiet. I'm a fan and everything, but I didn't want to seem like an obsessed fan. And besides, that kind of information might make me FEEL like an insider on the show, but I know that I will never really be a TRUE insider. So Steph and I sat reverently at the bar, drinking a J.W. Dundee's Honey Brown Lager and sharing a Reuben sandwich. We took pictures of each other next to the ornate beer taps while the waitress stared at us suspiciously, and then we trudged the two or three miles back to our car.
Back at the Forest Motel, I collapsed in the bed, dreaming of the convention now only two days away.
And then it was time to resume our own private Homicide convention.
Tuesday evening, I had called Sgt Steve Lehmann of the Homicide Bureau in the Baltimore City Police Department, and he agreed to give Steph and me a tour of the REAL homicide bureau. We were ecstatic about an opportunity to see how things work in a real police department, and to see how things differ from the dramatic version we see on television.
After walking up and down Fayette Street for 15 minutes, we finally found an entrance in the parking garage, which was noticeably devoid of white Chevy Cavaliers. The woman at the security station buzzed upstairs, and three minutes later a gentleman who just HAD to be a Homicide detective sergeant came down the runway.
I grinned. This was the first of my "imaginary friends" that I would meet in person.
It's one thing to sit on a computer for hours and hours, sending messages at the speed of light to hundreds of personal computers thousands of miles away. It's quite another to meet the flesh and bone human being that belongs to an e-mail signature.
Of course, Sgt Steve looked nothing like I had imagined, but after having met him, it's hard for me to remember what I THOUGHT he would look like. Sgt. Steve is a tall guy, about six foot or so, balding a little on top with graying brown hair. He wears wire-rim glasses and sports a graying mustache. I suppose you could say he looks like a thinner, younger Wilford Brimley. Sgt. Steve was dressed in a modest blue suit, and he was genuinely happy to see us. It was like meeting an uncle you haven't seen in many years.
We rode expectantly up the elevator to the sixth floor, where Sgt. Steve gave us a tour of the real homicide offices. It isn't the high-ceilinged room that you see on the show -- it looks like any other office space with dropped ceilings and celotex ceiling tiles. A narrow walkway bordered on both sides by a glass wall led into the room from the doorway -- this being the famous "fishbowl" where suspects and witnesses are left to stew under the watchful eyes of the detectives.
"You wanna see the board?" Steve asked.
"Sure!" I tried not to scream.
We walked gleefully into a coffee room behind Sgt. Steve, looking like first-grades following their teacher into the zoo. And there it was. The Board. "A haiku of color and vengeance" as the fictional Lt. Al Giardello once called it. It was just a bulletin board covered with acetate held in place by thumbtacks. The board was split, with each shift lieutenant and his sergeants occupying a half. Under each lieutenant's name are the names of three detective sergeants. It is below the sergeants' names where you'll find the names of each of Baltimore's homicide victims for the current year.
Names are listed in red and black, just like on the show, except that sometimes you'd find the same number to the left of two or three victims' names. Sgt. Steve explained that when multiple homicides take place as part of the same incident, the victims share a case number. And to the right of each name you'll find the initials of the primary and secondary investigators.
Below the listing of each sergeant's current year's cases were the names of two or three people written in black. These were cases from previous years that had been solved in the current year (unlike on the show, where the previous year's unsolved cases are listed in red). Open warrants are listed in the center of the board, as are cases cleared by the cold case squad. These are cases that were originally assigned to a homicide detective who is no longer in Homicide, and which were solved in the current year by special division of detectives who investigate old cases.
"You want a picture of it?" Sgt. Steve asked.
"Uh. Sure." I muttered. Sgt. Steve handed me an 8 by 10 color glossy of 1995's final accounting of Baltimore city homicides.
And then it hit me. When you see The Board on "Homicide," it represents story lines, one-time actors who have come on the show, made their impression, and then passed into TV's great beyond. The names on the fictional Board are merely stories we've enjoyed, a record of the weekly amusement park ride we find ourselves taking every Friday.
The names on this real Board? These are real people, people with families. Fathers, wives, sons and daughters. Friends who will never again join their pals for a game of basketball. Daughters who will never again wear a brightly colored dress at Easter. Voices that will never speak again. Lives unfulfilled, calling for justice. The Board, initially a fan's fascination, became a very powerful symbol of man's inhumanity to his fellow man, something that the layman can't fully comprehend just by watching the 11 o'clock news.
I had to get away from The Board. I could hear the voices of its ghosts calling out to me.
"Let's see The Box," I offered.
The Box is actually one of three boxes, small rooms no larger than 8' by 8'. In each was a simple metal table with two or three white plastic chairs clustered around it. There is no one-way glass, no hidden microphones, no secret cameras. The only way to watch is through a glass window in the door, and the only way to listen is to be in the room itself.
Sgt. Steve showed us the rest of the Homicide department. Detectives were clustered in groups of five or ten in several rooms spread throughout the sixth floor. When David Simon wrote the book "Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets," there were about 30 homicide detectives, but the department had expanded to a current total of 48, and the floor was bursting at the seams with detectives.
"That's the one thing the show got right," Sgt. Steve said. "I wish we could just knock down all these walls. That way I could talk to someone without calling them on these crappy phones or walking through three rooms to find the guy -- who's not even at his desk anymore."
Cop shows are my favorites, and I asked Sgt. Steve how much real-life detectives are like Homicide's Frank Pembleton or NYPD Blue's Andy Sipowicz, screaming at suspects and witnesses, threatening to pound them within an inch of their lives, slamming doors and the like.
"We never touch anybody," he said, smiling. And while he said that a few detectives swear that screaming can be effective, Sgt. Steve prefers another approach.
" I tell them this." Sgt. Steve explained. "'We know you did it. We know it. You don't need to waste your time telling us you didn't do it, because we KNOW you did. The only question we have is -- why did you do it? The way we figure it, either you're a heartless scumbag, or you must have had a good reason. He probably came at ya, didn't he? It was self- defense, wasn't it?'"
Sgt. Steve took us down to the garage, where we climbed into a Dodge Shadow (where in heaven's name are the white Cavaliers?) He then took us on a quick tour of "the Baltimore they don't show you in the tour guides."
We drove past the empty lot where the Fish Man's store used to stand. The entire block had been razed, and all that remained was a garbage-strewn park where high grass grew. We cruised past avanaugh's, the bar frequented by Terry McLarney and the other detectives featured in the book. "I think it's became a lesbian bar," Sgt. Steve reported. "A bunch of old Irish cops started rolling in their graves when that happened."
We cruised along the beat that Sgt. Steve used to walk on patrol, past the B&O Railroad Museum, Johns Hopkins Hospital, the Office of the Medical Examiner, the hotel where Bolander, Felton and Howard were shot, the hotel where Pratt was gunned down, the site of the projects where Meldrick once lived, through Little Italy, Locust Point, Washington Square and the Western District. All the while, Sgt. Steve was answering our questions and telling us stories about old cases and old places.
My favorite was when Sgt. Steve was in Narcotics. At that time, beepers and cellular phones weren't nearly as prevalent as they are today, so informants would call Sgt. Steve's home to leave information. One day he came home and got a message from his daughter -- who couldn't have been more than eight or ten years old at the time -- which brings new meaning to the term "bringing your work home with you":
"Tell daddy that Poopy says hit Stinky's door now, he's up!"
I kept glancing at Sgt. Steve's suit jacket, but I couldn't tell if he was "packin' heat." Finally, I broke down and asked him.
"Bob," he replied. "If I could figure out a way to wear this thing when I go swimming, I'd NEVER take it off."
After three hours, we had finally worn Sgt. Steve down. "I don't know what else to show ya. It's pretty much more of the same thing -- more shops, more row houses." We thanked him profusely and politely asked him to drop us off at our car.
"Hey," he said, "if you're looking for a place to go to dinner, stop over in Little Italy. Great food, and it doesn't cost much."
Steph and I were worn out from having walked through the Aquarium and from the excitement of riding with Sgt. Steve. I must not have looked very sincere when I said, "Yeah, yeah. We'll have to go there."
Sgt. Steve dropped us off at the parking garage, and we took the elevator to our car.
"You want to go to Little Italy for dinner?" Steph asked.
"All I really want to do is grab a sandwich and collapse on the bed." I mumbled.
"OK."
Two nights later, when we saw Sgt. Steve again at the Convention, he confronted us. "You guys didn't go to Little Italy for dinner, did ya?"
"No, sir." I answered, staring at the floor tiles.
"You went straight back to your motel room, didn't ya?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry sir. We were whipped."
Sgt. Steve is one helluva detective.
It was there we met the famous John Landbeck, Big Daddy of alt.tv.homicide.
This introduction brought me to revelation Number Two -- not only are people's appearances a lot different from what you'd expect, but so are their ages.
John is 28, the same age as I. But when you read his posts, you picture this older gentleman, perhaps a 40ish father of teenagers who is watching all us naughty children, chiding us for being rude and gently prodding us to be kinder, more thoughtful and forgiving.
Then again, John has four kids. I suppose that will make you a more mature person in a hurry.
I had exchanged e-mails with John in advance of the Convention, and we had expressed worries about having nothing better to talk about than Homicide. He envisioned the bunch of us sitting in a room, staring in silence at each other with someone occasionally popping up with something like, "So, do you like Frank Pembleton better with or without the hair?"
What we found in the two hours we chatted is that there is one thing besides the television show that we have in common, and that is an interest in many aspects of life. You see it in the postings to alt.tv.homicide, and I found it in every Homicide fan I talked to in Baltimore. We are interested in stuff. Philosophy, movies, politics, food, sports, authors, medicine, history, psychology, fine wines, science fiction, whatever. I'd like to think that it is this that separates us from the similarly avid fans of "Friends" or "Seinfeld." Sure, we love "Homicide," and we'll sit there for hours debating whether John Munch shot Pratt, but we love a lot of other things about life and can spend hours talking about those things too.
We took our leave of John -- we needed to rest our vocal chords for a few hours so we'd be ready for the formal Convention -- and we drove south toward Fell's Point. We arrived an hour and a half early, so we decided to walk a little around the Harbor and then have dinner at Jimmy's. This was another one of those places that the Homicide characters frequent, and I figured we should do something authentically Homicidal to warm up for the evening's festivities. We sat at the very same table where Bayliss, Pembleton and Russert talked about originals at the end of the second "Sniper" episode, and I ate my first crabcake -- it looked a little like the fried potato patties my Mom used to make from leftover mashed potatoes. Crabcakes have a very distinctive taste, and it is best sampled in small quantities. By the time I had crabcakes for the third day in a row on Saturday, I was pretty much sick of them and won't crave another for, oh, about a year.
The clocked inched closer to the formal start of the Convention, and my stomach began to turn. First, I wondered whether anyone would really show up, or if I'd be stuck chatting up the bartender all night. "Tell me again about the time Melissa Leo mixed Long Island Iced Teas for the crew!"
But I was more afraid about meeting people in person. It is one thing to sign on a computer once a day or once a week, exchanging ideas and chiding one another for poor spelling. You can insulate yourself from these people as much as you want. If you don't feel like saying anything, you can always stand in the shadows and lurk. And if you don't feel like chatting with anyone, you can pretend you didn't see the newsgroup message or the e-mail in your mailbox.
When you meet people in person, though, the dynamic of your relationship changes. Now you're not just anonymous strangers exchanging messages in thin air. Now you have a face to attach to a name and an e-mail address. You've shared a meal or a beer, and you have a responsibility to make more of an effort to sustain and nurture that relationship.
I'm afraid to make new friends. My best friend Eric moved 500 miles away to go to school last fall. We used to get together for lunches in the park, or to shoot baskets after work. We've been through break-ups with girlfriends, job changes, countless games of softball and basketball, deaths in the family and many other events that define who I am as a person. Eric is the closest thing I'll ever have to a brother, and there's a good possibility that he and I will never live in the same town again.
I don't want to make new friends, because I don't want anyone else to replace Eric. That was my biggest fear as I walked into The Waterfront at 7 p.m.
We strolled up to the bar and I stood next to a college student dressed in black sipping a beer and smoking a cigarette. After a couple minutes, the bartender stopped talking back to the television set and noticed someone new standing there.
"Yeah?" he barked.
"I'm here for the..." I locked up. It's not really a convention, it's not a party. What is it? "I'm here for the Homicide gathering."
"What?"
Now I was starting to stammer. "Homicide. I'm meeting a bunch of, um, friends here. We like, er, we're fans of the TV show. TV show, Homicide."
The bartender frowned. "If you guys are meeting here, I don't know anything about it."
"Well, we didn't make reservations or anything, we're just meeting here. Has anyone else come in, looking for a group of people, said anything about it? Or something?"
The barkeep, apparently banking on a slow night in the bar, scowled. "I haven't seen anybody."
It looked like I was going to be the only one swimming in the harbor looking for Crosetti after all. "I'll just , um, I'll wait over here."
"Yeah. Whatever."
The college guy took a long draw of his beer and swung around on his stool. "Hi. I'm Jason. Jason Lempka." He extended his hand.
"Jason Lempka!" I tried not to yell as I clutched his hand. Apparently Jason had similar trouble trying to explain to the bartender why he was there. That, or he was going to linger unannounced, waiting to see if there was anyone here worth introducing himself to.
We exchanged greetings, he introduced me to Rich Hambor, a newsgroup lurker standing with him at the bar, and I ordered a beer. "I'm just waiting for some soup," Jason explained.
"OK. I'll get us a table."
Jason and Rich stayed at the bar, sipping their beers and smoking cigarettes, while Steph and I waited at a table -- the same table the Homicide and Law & Order casts shared in the crossover episode "For God and Country."
Five minutes passed and Steph leaned over. "Are they going to come over here?"
"Yes, they will."
"What are they waiting for?"
"Jason is getting soup."
"Soup? What takes so long for soup?"
"Dunno. Maybe they catch the crabs fresh from the harbor for soup."
Another ten minutes went by. Jason finally got his soup, and he and Rich joined us at the table. Quickly, others began to join us. For the record, there was myself and Stephanie, Jason, Rich, Cathy Brady, Carol Sudor, Brad Humphries and his wife Jane, and Janet Little. Not a bad turnout for a drizzling Thursday night -- the same night as the season finales of "Friends," "Seinfeld" and "ER" on NBC.
It's hard for me to tell you what we talked about for two hours. Like the earlier conversation with John Landbeck, we talked about everything. School, jobs, kids, homes, adventures, experiences. Everyone was friendly and talkative, but that shouldn't be a surprise. You wouldn't go to all that effort to meet a group of total strangers and then be surly and rude to them.
You could, however, dump half a beer on one of these stranger's purses, which is what I did to Cathy Brady's pocketbook. Luckily, the shoulder strap acted as a bit of a dam -- otherwise, the convention might have had its first real-life homicide.
At one point, Rich saw a group of people sitting at a table across the room. He wandered over and asked them if they were here for the Homicide gathering.
"Oh no," the woman answered. She and her group quickly got up to leave. "Are you the Internet people?" she asked Rich.
"Yes we are."
"Here." She handed him a stack of eight-by-ten black & white publicity photos of the cast and then made a beeline for the door.
Rich brought the photos over to our table and handed them out. He explained his encounter with this mystery woman and her friends who must in some way be connected to the show. "I guess we're a lot more frightening than we think we are," I commented.
"Speak for yourself," Cathy said.
We chatted until nine o'clock until someone said, "Hey, if we go over to the Daily Grind, we can talk to Andre Braugher online." Andre was answering questions on America Online, the Microsoft Network and on NBC's World Wide Web site. We couldn't in all conscience consider our gathering a bona fide entertainment convention without an appearance by an actor on the show, so we all jumped up en masse and headed for the door.
Jason practically sprinted down the street and arrived at the computer station first. He just marched in, plopped himself down at the computer and started typing away.
"Hey, hey!" the woman at the coffee bar barked at him. "You can use the computer, but we gotta have a deposit." Oh yeah, money. Sorry.
We spent a few minutes debating what question we should ask. I suggested we ask Andre the following:
"We're here in Baltimore for a Convention to meet other fans of Homicide and to watch the season finale. Some of us are coming from as far away as Buffalo, NY, Toledo, OH and Sacramento, CA."
"Do you think we're losers?"
Cooler heads -- and people with more self-respect -- prevailed, and we asked the following:
a.t.h Convention:
Andre: Was that really Melissa Leo Playing a double role in the episode named "The Wedding"?
Andre_Braugher: Yes it was.
Our favorite NBC promo editor, Bug, was moderating the discussion and told Andre Braugher that a group of Homicide fans were meeting in Baltimore. He asked Andre to give us a virtual wave, and Andre complied. While it was a bit of a thrill to have Andre acknowledge us, it's not nearly as exciting as it would have been to take turns having Andre yell at us in The Box
Our brush with greatness went like this:
Host NBCshows: Mr. B, I participate in a discussion on the internet newsgroup "alt.tv.homicide." Even as we type here, a group of these maniacs are assembled in The Waterfront bar in Baltimore to meet and greet each other. I bet they'd be stoked if you'd give them a virtual wave....
Andre_Braugher: Hello!
Andre_Braugher: (waving to camera)
As we gathered around the computer screen, watching dozens of 13-year-old boys asking for dates from other 13-year-old boys posing at 14-year-old bisexual girls -- and yeah, the occasional question about Homicide -- another thought came to mind.
I took a long gaze at all of us staring at the monitor, a group of strangers huddled close together in a tight circle laughing, chatting and watching the conversation unfolding on the screen before us. We have another thing in common, besides a genuine interest in all aspects of life.
We all REALLY love computers.
And I think we all realized something else. The computer truly is a magical machine to make fast friends of people from all walks of life who have never met.
Who says we don't have social lives?
It was a good day for napping -- overcast, misty, temperatures in the 60s most of the afternoon. We would need all our energy for the night ahead.
We arrived at Hull Street Blues in Locust Point at about 7 o'clock. I had stopped there a few days before, and they agreed to give us a back room in the bar with a television set and several tables. I was afraid they might think us freaks and decide to rescind their offer, but when we arrived on Friday the room was as they said it would be, with the added bonus of a table set up with hors d'oeuvres.
I figured people would come straggling in, and perhaps some of the friends we had made the night before would decide that this whole event was just too cute and stay home. To our surprise, there were already five people waiting for us when we arrived a few minutes before seven, and some of the people who had joined us at The Waterfront summoned the courage to come back for a second night of festivities.
For the record, the attendees were:
Stephanie and I, Jason Lempka, Cathy Brady, Carol Sudor, Brad Humphries and his wife Jane, Eva Whitley and her husband, sci-fi author Jack Chalker, three friends of the Whitleys/Chalkers, John Landbeck and his wife Jennilynn, Kit Hubert and her SO Ryan from Toledo, OH, Paul Kelley and the enigmatic "Meg, not Paul," and Beth Kingsley. And three special guests appeared later in the evening -- Sgt. Steve Lehmann, Terry McLarney and Tom Pellegrini. Yes, the McLarney and Pellegrini featured in David Simon's book.
Again, we spent most of the evening chatting about any number of subjects. I spent the first half hour talking with Jack Chalker, trying not to get jealous. Jack's daily schedule goes something like this:
3:00 p.m. -- Wake up.
3:30 p.m. -- Eat "breakfast," take care of business with Eastern seaboard publishers
5:00 p.m. -- Spend time with kids
6:00 p.m. -- Lunch / Dinner with family
7:00 p.m. -- Take care of business with West Coast publishers, spend time with Eva and the kids
9:00 p.m. or so -- Start writing
7:00 a.m. -- Head to bed
I was sort of stunned after Jack told me all this. I was listening to him tell me this schedule, and I had one thought going through my mind the entire time:
"You are living MY LIFE!"
I, too, am a night owl by nature, and always find that I'm a LOT more productive at 11:00 at night than I am at nine in the morning. I decided right then and there that I have one mission in life, and it is this -- I will do everything in my power to earn a living as a writer, so that I can live the life to which Jack Chalker has inspired me.
Most of the evening I spent poking my head looking out the front door for three special guests. The first was a mystery person who was driving in that day from Toledo, Ohio to join us at the convention before heading off down the East Coast for other business. The problem was, I was looking for someone to walk in and say they had driven in from Toledo, instead of checking the stack of e-mails in my bag to find the actual NAME of the person who drove in from Ohio.
I didn't realize until Saturday night that the couple driving in from the Buckeye State DID make it. It was Kit Hubert and Ryan, who spent the evening grinning wildly and feeding Terry McLarney Miller Lites.
The second person I was searching for was Scott Lewis. Scott was going to make me feel a lot better about myself, since he was flying in from Sacramento, California to join us at the Convention. Stephanie and I had an excuse to be in Baltimore -- we were there on vacation and to attend the wedding of her college roommate. Scott, however, was making a special trip to join us, and since he would be traveling the furthest distance, I could always say "Hey, maybe I came down here from Buffalo for this, but look at this guy! He flew in today from CAL-I-FORN-EYE-AYE!"
Scott, alas, never appeared, or at least he never identified himself. Guess that makes me the biggest Homicidal Maniac of them all. Or I at least tied with Kit.
The third person I was waiting for was a secret to everyone else. I work for a public relations firm in Buffalo and had kept my co-workers updated on the plans for our convention and my ever increasing excitement at meeting my "imaginary friends." When I told them there would be 20 or so people at our party on Friday night, they thought as all good public relations people do.
"Why don't you call the TV station down there and tell them what you've got cookin'."
I debated whether I should call anyone about our gathering. I didn't want to make it seem like all I cared about was getting my face on television. That, and I was afraid that the TV people would look at us as some kind of neo-trekkies, asking for us to take turns lying in a chalk outline or mimicking our favorite characters.
My PR instincts took over, though, and on Wednesday I called WBAL-TV, the NBC affiliate in Baltimore. The assignment editor called me back at the hotel late Thursday night and said they would send someone out. No one appeared as 10 o'clock was drawing near, so I figured the TV crews were busy with some real news and had forgotten about us.
Nine o'clock came and went, and the countdown began to the season finale. Jason Lempka started getting nervous, pacing back and forth. The Hull Street Blues softball team came in the door and started making a LOT of noise. We would have asked them to pipe down, that we were having a convention and getting ready for a big event, but they had metal softball bats and would have beat us to a bloody pulp.
The show came on at ten, and the owner of Hull Street Blues turned on the surround sound speakers in our special room. It wasn't nearly as loud as I would have liked, and the softball team was becoming exponentially louder as the show progressed. I missed entire lines that could not be attributed to faffamem, and I resigned myself to watching the show as soon as we got home to Buffalo just so I could catch all the nuances.
There's not a lot to say about the time during the show. Our room was silent, paying rapt attention to the television set like a group of art house moviegoers. We laughed at the right spots, and some people laughed at what must have been the right spots -- I couldn't tell 'cause it was hard to hear.
And then Frank Pembleton went down with the stroke.
I had taken great care not to watch any of the television previews in the days leading up to the season finale. And since I didn't have access to my Internet account, I was oblivious to the spoilers that had been posted there too. So it came as a complete shock when Frank -- Frank of all people! -- collapsed in a jiggling lump in The Box. I watched as they put him in the ambulance and the screen faded to black.
It was then I started breathing again.
A very bright light flicked on behind me. The TV guys! He was decidedly un-Brodie-like, panning the room as we chatted and watched the screen. I tried to act like I was paying rapt attention to the video screen, figuring that might give me a better chance at making the newscast. A "Sisters" promo was on, though, and I must not have looked interested enough because I ended up on the cutting room floor.
With the camera on, Cathy Brady said, "C'mon, Bob. You were supposed to stand up during the commercials and give us a review of the show so far."
I thought for a moment, turned to the camera and said, "I thought 'Law & Order' was going to be the show with the cheesy coma story line!" Everyone groaned. Well, what did they expect on such short notice?
The show ended a few minutes later, and people began to filter out. I took a few pictures and talked with some people I hadn't chatted with yet, and at 11:30 WBAL ran a brief, 20-second report on our Convention, calling it a "Cliffhanger Party."
Ugh. Now our Convention had been downgraded to a party.
I never really got an opportunity to spend any time with McLarney and Pellegrini. The two legends of David Simon's book had come in just before the show started, and there was a crowd of people (Brad, Jane, Kit, Ryan, Jason, Carol) feeding them beers most of the night.
The one thing that struck me about McLarney was that he is a pretty quiet guy. I had always envisioned in my mind's eye this gregarious practical joker who was the kind of guy who'd dance and wear a lampshade on his head, but Terry was quite the opposite. He stood at one side of the room, contentedly sipping his beer and telling these hilarious stories in deadpan. The highlight was hearing him recount David Simon's pat-down of a suspect that appears in the epilogue of The Book.
As for Pellegrini? I didn't hear him say much at all. He just stood there and grinned wildly, drinking Brad Humphries' beer.
Steph and I were quickly getting tired, and we packed up our stuff to leave. I thanked Sgt. Steve again for his kindness, and he issued me a warning.
"If you ever come back to town, you'd better call me. I'll know if you've been here, and if you didn't call me I'll hunt you down." After he pegged us for not going to Little Italy after our tour on Wednesday, I have no doubt in my mind that he could.
We shuffled out the door and headed to our car. It was a long ride back to Ellicott City, and I was sad. I had met a couple dozen wonderful people, fellow fans of my favorite television program, and no one could even remotely say they were freakish. Sure, we probably spend a little too much time on the computer, and maybe we're just a little TOO fascinated by this particular television program. But we're good people, smart people, lively people, friendly people interested in each other and the diversity of each other's life experiences.
I think that's what makes us different from any other newsgroup on the Internet. That's what makes it a joy to share political beliefs, humorous anecdotes and friendly barbs.
We may be computer geeks, and many of us may never meet again. But technology has enabled us to create a true community in alt.tv.homicide, filled with vibrant personalities and people who care. I like you. You're good people. Why do you have to live so far away?
If "Homicide: Life on the Street" ever goes off the air, I'm going to be lost. To preserve our virtual Garden of Eden, we had better make plans now for another place to meet should that sad day ever come.
We have an extra bedroom at our apartment. You can move in next week.
Bob Chase
aka BobTard@aol.com
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