I've had the rare pleasure of knowing Brendan Greenberg ever since his birth some eight years ago, but it was only when I presented him with Alphonso, a large stuffed bullfrog that I had come across years ago in a small back-water shop in Nicaragua, that we began to truly transcend a generational gap of some sixty years. Our mutual and somewhat obsessive admiration for Alphonso and for frogs in general led to other shared enthusiasms. Brendan is a maniacal Red Sox and Detroit Pistons fan while I root for the Mets and the New Jersey Nets. Our sports connection grew more complex when I introduced Brendan to the roller coaster joys of gambling when we bet on this year's NBA Playoffs and Brendan lost the first bet of his life when the Pistons went down to the Cleveland Cavaliers. Not to be deterred, Brendan sucked it up and roared back like Jimmy the Greek with a dollar wager on the San Antonio Spurs, when he loudly won in four straight games.
Our shared interests took a dramatic and possibly ominous turn when Brendan's mother sent me PSYCHO SITTER, Brendan's first attempt at writing outside of the classroom. This gesture is more complicated than it might first seem as Brendan's father is not only an old friend of mine but one who also shares the dark agonies and humiliations that all too often accompany professional scribbling, a futile shadowy world that neither of us would particularly wish on anyone, let alone on Brendan, who, much like his father, demanded to be left alone in his room for two days while he was immersed in the intense throes of the creative process.
Fortunately his efforts left us all with a sense of stunned pride and even envy, not only by the gift of his spontaneous and unself-conscious language but by his insights on how to deal with the issues and complexities of an older generation far more stuck in their fun than he is.
Rudy Wurlitzer