In a previous blog entry, I talked about a CNN anchor who gave me a call out of the blue. In order to protect his identity, I referred to him as “Vic Blackstar.” I didn’t come up with that name out of thin air. Someone else made it up years ago.

Back in the late eighties, in Columbus, Ohio, I met a roommate of friends of mine, a Columbus native named Vic Fishman. As you may have surmised by his surname, Vic was Jewish. He was hyper-aware of his Jewishness and brought it up in a comical way almost daily. “Play football? Jews don’t play football.” “I am a Jew and, as such, I have secret Jew powers.”

I remember vividly sitting in their living room one evening with Vic and my friend John. Another of our friends was downstairs arguing loudly with his girlfriend. These two were a complete disaster as a couple. They were the kind of couple that amplified each other’s worst qualities. As the fight became louder and more boisterous, those of us in the living room began to feel awkward. The television show we were watching had taken a back seat to the battle raging downstairs. Suddenly, we heard a massive crash and the screaming reached a crescendo. Up the stairs, the girlfriend screamed “VIC! VICTOR!” Our gazes snapped immediately to Vic. He sprung forward in his seat and looked at us with horror. “What? What? Did she say my name? Why is she calling my name?” he shouted at us. “I’m not going down there!” he sputtered. “Why me of all people? What the hell can I do?” On the list of people who should have been called to intervene, Vic was third, at best. Both John and myself had known the couple for years–much longer than Vic. We never found out why the girlfriend shouted for Vic. Fortunately, the fight was over soon after that. No injuries were reported and the whole ordeal was chalked up to two idiots in their early twenties bringing out the worst in each other.

One evening, we staggered home from “The Bars” after a night of drinking beer out of buckets. We decided to order a pizza and watch a movie. Vic and John got in a playful wrestling match over preferred pizza toppings. “Of course you want sausage!” Vic shouted with mock indignation. “You’re anti-Semitic! Have at you, you Irish Catholic swine!” he bellowed before tackling John. John managed to avoid the brunt of Vic’s advance and Vic ended up on the ground. He reached toward the air dramatically as if trying to conjure some mystical force. “My powers!” Vic exclaimed with a grimace. “Why are my powers not working? WHY?”

Vic had a massive collection of pornography–”bonemags,” as we called them back then. He majored in broadcast communications and brought us in to record a music video for one of his classes. We wrote a song just for that occasion. I don’t remember the title, but I remember one of the lines was “He’s got a stack of bonemags taller than me.” When we signed up for intramural wallyball (volleyball played on a racquetball court) one quarter, our team name was “The Swedish Bonemags.”

Victor loved pointing out other Jews, particularly in the entertainment business. Whenever we would watch a television show or movie, Vic would pore over the credits at the end and read all of the Jewish names aloud in an exaggerated high-pitched voice. “Joel Shapiro–Seth Abramowitz–Judith Feingold–Adam Katz–” and so on. I still think of this every time I see a Jewish name in the credits.

Most of our group of friends, myself included, were of nebulous religious backgrounds. We were, with the exception of John, the Irish Catholic, vaguely WASPish. For me, knowing someone who identified so strongly with a particular religion, as Vic did, was fascinating. I’d never known any Jews growing up. Vic was like a unicorn at the time. It wasn’t all jokes, though. One year, he invited us to his parents’ home for Passover dinner. We had a marvelous time. Our presence seemed to invigorate Vic. He proudly recited his Hebrew scripture and, along with his step-father, Shelly, who led the Seder, explained the symbolism of the dishes. (Note to anyone not familiar with Passover dinner: Be wary of the so-called “bitter herbs.” Zowie.) Shelly explained to us the empty chair at the table and even let us find the Afikomen. (We were the only “children” there.) I’ll always be thankful I was able to take part in the ritual.

Being a broadcast communications major, Vic was torn between working in front of the camera or behind it in production. He was an intern at one of the local news stations (he brought a cameraman to my apartment one summer to videotape my air conditioner!) and enjoyed working behind the scenes. Part of him wanted to be in the spotlight, however, and he often talked of how he would be an anchor of a local newscast. One thing he knew he would have to do was to change his name. It was quite common, Vic told us, for “talent” to change their names to something more TV-friendly. He decided to change his too-Jewish name of Victor Fishman to the more anchor-friendly “Vic Blackstar.”

I don’t know if Vic Blackstar ever made it on the air. I lost touch with Vic a few years after I met him. Back in my band days, though, I briefly flirted with the idea of using “Vic Blackstar” as my stage name. I’ll always remember both Vics. And, Vic, if you’re reading this, drop me a line.

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 23rd, 2008 at 2:26 pm and is filed under Nostalgia, Sharing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.