Mojo Gubbins

This is a story written for me as a late 70th Birthday gift by my younger son, Thomas. I’m both incredibly impressed and moved by this story and am proud to share it with you (with his blessing). It’s longer than my normal story, but well worth the read in my opinion. Please be sure to click through for the epilogue at the end.

Mojo Gubbins

My dad doesn’t really do gifts. Let me clarify. He has given many gifts to others, but isn’t the biggest fan of receiving them. My dad prefers stories. Real-life anecdotes, tales of the trade, notable memoirs, epic blockbusters, finely crafted indie films, historical accounts (particularly World War II for some reason), expert witness reports, original short stories, CNBC news coverage, articles, blogs, ebooks, audiobooks, and even the occasional fib or “creative liberty”. Rich Marin is a natural storyteller. A writer, a realist, a pragmatic problem solver with years of adventures and experiences to draw inspiration from. Especially considering he spent the first two decades of his life globetrotting. No matter what he does in this world, it somehow always turns into a captivating story of some kind – whether he is living them, retelling them, reviewing them, or sharing what he heard from others. An interaction with Rich Marin wouldn’t feel right without a little narrative.

As a child, my father and I shared an evening tradition in which we would write a story together right before bedtime. Rather, a new chapter in an ongoing saga titled Mojo Gubbins & Me. The book was essentially a weekly journal consisting of our best outings and adventures, from the point of view of my dad. He never invoked his name or relation to me beyond a close friend and curious observer. He was the Nick Carraway to my Jay Gatsby, I guess you could say. A modest guy with some midwest roots lured into the lavish world of his charming neighbor. Okay, that is definitely a big stretch. Did I mention we really like to poke fun at each other in this family? Well, my character was nicknamed “Mojo Gubbins”; a wide-eyed young boy who frequently wound up in silly situations. From deciding to bleach his hair blonde, to finding himself in the principal’s office on a weekly basis, to ravaging the landscaped backyard with an ATV or dirt bike. The kid had spunk. A touch of magic charm. Mojo.

Gubbins, on the other hand, was a term of endearment my father used to both lovingly and jokingly refer to me in my early childhood. Not quite kiddo or buddy but more of a goober or jibroni vibe. Or so I interpreted it, at least. For as long as I can remember, the most frequent monikers used by my dad have been “T” or “bud” – two very familiar labels I have carried with me throughout life. To this day, I am the guy who refers to most friends as ‘bud’. It’s become somewhat of a trademark. The apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree on that one. Somewhere around middle or high school, however, I was no longer a little gubbins. Over time, my affectionate pseudonym faded into the past.

Recently, for the first time in nearly three decades on this wonderfully nonsensical planet, I realized I had no clue what a “Gubbins” was, much less if it even existed. So, I quickly looked to Google for the answer:

Gubbins

noun, informal

1. an object of little or no value; stuff

2. a small device or gadget

Well, that can’t be right. Can it? Clearly, I’m not an inanimate object nor a small device, though I do have a passion for gadgets – as does my dad. Also, “little or no value”? Ouch, what a letdown. Dictionary did me dirty. Talk about feeling objectified.+ Onto the Thesaurus…

Gubbin

Synonyms: doodad, doohickey, gimmick, gismo, hootenanny, thingamabob, thingamajig, whatchamacallit, widget, stuff

You would think we’re getting somewhere with words this quirky, but no. The link to our fun little nickname was still not sitting right. So, after a great deal of reflection, I have decided to officially redefine the term Gubbins and you can’t stop me. It deserves better than being a classified as a doohickey of no value. Instead, how about this:

Gubbins

noun, informal

1. a companion, confidant, colleague

2. a real jabroni, but they’re your jabroni

3. a person or item you keep with you for life; a collectible

Yeah, that sounds about right. Much more fitting.

…Oh, you thought that was part of the story? Nope, that was just the preface. Keep up, bud.

In honor of my illustrious father, Rich, and the start of his eighth decade around the sun, I thought what could be better than a short story about him and an element of his legacy. One that he wouldn’t have to write himself. Like him, I am fairly vocal and charismatic in social settings, but often find that writing or creating alone is the best way of expressing myself and my thoughts candidly. It’s a subtle bond that we share and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Over the past five years of handwriting my ‘morning pages’, I have found therapeutic benefits as well as authentic creativity in the practice, and completed thirteen full journals as a result. Meanwhile, my dad has written thousands of daily short stories, published multiple books, and given countless testimonies in just the last few years. He truly loves the art of writing and takes a great deal of pride in his work. For good reason.

While Rich did not exactly pursue a career as an author, he always managed to find outlets for his creativity. This trait is something I have admired since a very young age, and strived to achieve in my own professional life no matter what form it took. So much so that I ended up chasing a career in creative production, blending storytelling with project management in a wide variety of industries and artistic mediums. Despite our differences, I am undeniably my father’s son, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t need riches, but I am grateful for Rich.

Mojo Gubbins and the Coney Island Car Wash

My family has a thing for stuff. We all collect in some way. For me, it’s a mix of hats, cameras, and artwork. For my brother, it’s WWE or 80s memorabilia. My sister has the works of Jim Henson and “Disney adulting” fully covered. My parents collect just about everything, but in very different ways. One is an absolute mess of a hoarder across the board, one is an excessive yet organized collector with a penchant for rocks, and one loves mermaids or anything cute in a nice shade of red. The only thing we ever collected collectively were experiences – most often in the form road trips or cars. No matter where we went in the world, near or far, foreign or domestic, country house or remote villa, there was always a road trip element to it. Maybe it was because they grew up in the golden age of the American family vacation. Road trips were a staple of the baby boomer generation —whether seat belts were installed or not— and they paved the way to such classic films as Vacation, Easy Rider, Road Trip, and Planes, Trains & Automobiles (to name a few). I grew up either watching these films ad nauseam or falling victim to real-world nausea from our constant drives near and far.

I should also mention that we Marins are generally bulky people with long legs, which has never been conducive to comfortable air, train, sea, or bus travel. Having a spacious car or two-wheeler to ourselves was always the preferred route. Just like the movies, our road trips encountered their fair share of shenanigans. From a rental van breaking down at a rest stop in rural Italy or getting wedged between two buildings in the town of Orvieto, to swallowing a full gobstopper in the flatlands of Nevada or colliding with a greyhound bus while merging into the Holland Tunnel during a citywide hurricane evacuation. There might have been a few bumps in the road, but it never deterred us from driving as the preferred method of transport. Even in New York City, debatably one of the worst place to own/operate a vehicle in this country, both of my parents always had their cars at the ready. For a bunch of lifelong New Yorkers, we weren’t exactly the biggest proponents of public city transportation.

My father, Rich, is the product of a childhood spent on the road. First Florida, then Costa Rica, Wisconsin, California, Maine, Italy, and good old Ithaca. I knew all the stories by heart before even learning how to read a book. Tall tales from a tall man. Since his adolescence, my dad has been riding motorbikes in some form or another – starting on the narrow streets of Rome in his teen years and spending much of his adulthood in pursuit of the finest winding roads the world has to offer. The bike life is his way of exploring, getting a healthy adrenaline rush, and finding peace in nature… except when it breaks down en route to the SAT exam. What’s more, some of his longest friendships are the product of a motorcycle group he co-founded and has been an active member of for decades. I would go so far as to say there is nothing my dad loves more than hitting the open road – particularly on a bike, but just as easily a car. Thus, I grew up with a passion for vehicles in all forms; two wheeled, four wheeled, remote-controlled, or propeller-ed. My first real email address was motomanmarin@gmail.com for christ’s sake.

Cars have been on the mind lately for a variety of reasons. A few months ago, before uprooting our life in New York and road-tripping straight to our new home in Colorado, I spent three full days driving around Denver in my childhood friend Liam’s beat-up 2014 Subaru Outback, as we toured 18 houses in preparation for the biggest move of my life. Interestingly enough, the first time Liam ever drove a car of any kind was my family’s 2007 taxicab yellow Toyota FJ Cruiser – which eventually became my first car throughout college. Even more interesting, he was driving it around a Cornell parking lot with my dad in the passenger seat providing direction, while I was a couple lots over getting into my first (and hopefully last) motorcycle accident. Like a real gubbins. Fast forward 12 years, we’re driving around the mile high city in search of a new home for me and my wife, in a car that Liam spent the last five years pushing to its physical limits across the wilderness of Colorado and surrounding states. A city boy turned mountain man, finding himself by way of similar (if not occasionally the same) roads that molded my father into the rider and person he is today.

One year prior to getting married, I took my first extensive solo road trip; up through Maine into Canada, then westward to re-enter the U.S. by way of Michigan, and loop down around the southeast states before traversing back north to NYC. It was an aggressive mission, but exactly what I needed. I felt independent, self-sufficient, explorative, and authentically creative without the need for any screens. 10 days, 4000 miles, 13 states, 5 national parks, 2 Canadian provinces/parks, 800 photos, 100 videos, 4 audiobooks, 1 guy, 1 drone, 1 camera, and a 2020 Subaru Crosstrek named Maurice. It was never part of the plan, but I chose to name the car after La Mauricie National Park, a hidden gem of natural beauty located a couple hours west of Quebec City. A serene forested area I stumbled upon while driving through rural Canada, unintentionally finding a moment of peace and quiet for the first time in what felt like years.

At the end of January 2024, I had to return my beloved Subaru because the lease was up, so I thought… why not give it a proper sendoff? Growing up, my dad would lease a different car every few years and whenever he picked up his new ride, the first thing we would do was drive out to Coney Island and get hot dogs from the original Nathan’s Famous. I guess it was the closest we could get to a road trip while staying within the bounds of NYC. That said, in honor of my final day with Maurice, I rigged up a couple cameras on both the inside andoutside of the car, then drove down the Belt Parkway to get my hot dog. Of course I ordered it with the sautéed onions …what am I, a heathen? Not only that, I got the car fully detailed for $20 at Coney Island Car Wash before returning it to Bay Ridge Subaru right up the road. They say you don’t need to bring it back clean, but it wouldn’t have felt right returning the guy with 3.5 years of torn up leaves scattered all over his floor mats. Maurice deserved better.

For context, this particular car was leased in the height of covid, just two months after moving in with my then girlfriend (now wife) and four months after the world had completely shut down. Six months after my dad and stepmom moved (escaped) to sunny San Diego full-time. For the first time in my quarter-life, I realized how trapped I felt in New York City. What I once considered home had become my own personal hell. This wasn’t really a new idea, necessarily, but one that became abundantly clear in the face of a global pandemic and citywide quarantine lockdown. Having a car in Brooklyn the last few years was a blessing and a curse. It brought out a sense of freedom some days and the worst of road rage on others. Side note: there is nothing more frustrating or sneakily torturous than circling the surrounding blocks of your own neighborhood for 30-40 minutes to no avail. Regardless, driving a car has proven to be beneficial in my career, dating back to summer jobs in college as a production assistant. Without fail, the first question they always asked was, “you got a valid driver’s license?” Well, after a decade of my stepmom, Kim, warning me of a future career in truck-driving if I kept cursing like one, I finally had my shot at the title. I’ve driven every size truck or van you can imagine. Nowadays, as a creative professional with my own video production company, having a car the last few years was an inevitable next stage of the evolution – producing shoots, lugging pelican cases full of camera equipment, and even ratchet-strapping a cinematographer with a $35k cinema camera to the open trunk in order to get an intense tracking shot for the chase scene of a short film I executive-produced. That trusty Crosstrek got me through it all.

This past January 30th also marked my dad, Rich’s, 70th birthday, and I couldn’t help but reflect considering the milestone. As a child, my dad was my biggest role model. This may sound odd, but he taught me everything I know about forward momentum. Not what you were expecting? Well, I think it explains a lot. I say that especially because I tend to relive my life through media, and the oldest video I have with my dad is of him teaching me how to walk. My tiny infant hand fully wrapped around his singular index finger. From walking, to biking, to ATVing, to motor-biking, to captaining a yellow submarine in car form, to making me the driven and resolute person I am today. I might deal with chronic anxiety and depression, but I always keeping chugging along nonetheless. I like to see the best in people and constantly strive toward self-improvement. The only grandfather I ever knew was Rich’s stepfather, Irving Jenkins, and he always had a signature response to anyone who asked how he was doing: “better and better.” A motto my dad has seemingly lived by, and I aspire to personify more and more. Well, that and carpe diem. Seize the day. Make your life extraordinary.

Rich is a cinephile, so I grew up watching every film under the sun, no matter what the viewer discretion rating. We spent most weekends either going to the movies or watching them at home – amidst other daily activities and road trips, of course. As a family, we collected and bonded through the stories jointly experienced on screen. VHS, DVDs, cable, satellite, streaming services, and all kinds of theaters around the country. I even had a portable dvd player that I brought on trips around the globe …and may or may not have lost a few cases full of discs along the way. Around the age of seven, I started watching Family Guy and still occasionally find comfort in the show’s antics. The show revolves around a dysfunctional family that speaks in predominantly late 20th century television references or elaborate cutaways, with various episodes titled “Road to [insert destination here]”; centered around another wacky adventure in their station wagon. Not that we ever had a station wagon, but at one point my dad looked just a liiitle bit like Peter Griffin. I am by no means the first to notice or point this out, I might add. Just picture him as a sober New Yorker rather than an alcoholic New Englander. And that is by no means a dig because, what most people don’t realize unless they’ve watched more than a few episodes, is that Peter is not simply one of the most ridiculous characters on TV, but also a comedic and cultural genius. No one has more historical knowledge, witty references, or worldly experience than him. He gets consumed by his own ambition a fair amount of the time and likes to poke fun at loved ones, but he is also the greatest source of laughter and comfort for his flock when they need him. A genuine family guy. Sounds like a crudely cartoonish version of my dad, if you ask me.

Rich often refers to himself as an absentee father, but I beg to differ. If anything, his father, Andre (my biological grandfather), more accurately fits that description …along with being a generally shitty and libido-driven human being. Needless to say, my dad has collected more surprise half-siblings than motorcycles at this point. Despite the early abandonment, “coco pelado” haircut mockery, and lack of obvious parental affection he received as a child, I think Ricardo turned out pretty great. As a professor, executive, writer, entrepreneur, father, husband (third time’s a charm), and most importantly, a decent man. In addition to collecting cool rocks and sculptures, my dad collects lifelong relationships and unforgettable experiences. Seven decades later, all those people and stories have amounted to a truly riveting, fulfilling life.

I’m reminded of one my favorite films, Big Fish; the story of a frustrated son trying to distinguish fact from fiction in the fantastical life of his father. Although I see myself as more of a Ewan McGregor type than a Billy Crudup, I sometimes find myself begrudgingly envious of my dad’s enthralling life: growing up overseas, running successful businesses, always having an exceedingly positive outlook, being able to buy a house before the age of 30, gaining expertise in various professions, securing enough financial stability to support not just one but multiple families, traveling to all corners of the planet, selflessly helping others, commanding any room with gusto, and recounting an endless stream of captivating anecdotes. Looking at the world today, it just doesn’t add up. I can’t seem to reconcile it. The cynic in me wonders if I will ever be able to attain a life of luxury and privilege like the one I grew up in, or the level of maturity and independence I’ve seen embodied by my father for as long as I can remember. Since childhood, my ultimate pipe dream has been to become a good dad. For years, particularly those surrounding my parents’ divorce, I thought this mission was in spite of my “absentee” father. In reality, though, I’ve come to understand that it was inspired by him. He might not be perfect, but who is? What matters most is that he did everything in his power to prove his own father wrong and do better than Andre ever could or would. In reality, Rich managed to excel at the most quintessential purpose of human existence: to improve upon the generation that came before. That alone is no small feat and I hope to follow in his footsteps someday, while also veering from the path to forge my own. At the end of the day, we are all shaped by the stories of our past, but “the biggest fish are often the ones swimming against the current” and “in the sea of life, it’s the self-belief that keeps us afloat.”

Collecting is not always tied to materialism. It’s also about recognizing who we are, where we came from, and the roads we took to find our way. Trials and triumphs. Meaningful keepsakes and reminders. Contrary to the rationale of our modern minimalist minds, maybe it’s okay to collect stuff along the journey. Maybe it doesn’t always need to be about leaving everything behind in order to move forward. Maybe there’s a reason for silly traditions like driving a car out to Coney Island for some hot dogs and a makeshift sense of adventure. Maybe it’s pure joy and fond childish memories that arise when rolling through the soapy bristles of a car wash. Maybe these collections are not merely stuff, but a bunch of gubbins that will stick with us for as long as we let them. We could all use a little mojo in our lives.

Click here for the epilogue