Brando

Marlon Brando and Rod Steiger in 'On the Waterfront.'



At the risk of sounding impossibly boring, Angie and I have been watching old movies lately. I've seen them, most of them anyway, and Angie has not. So it's fun to watch her enjoy them for the first time. Last night I watched her watch 'Topper' with Cary Grant and Constance Bennett for the first time. Grant was so, so far ahead of his time.

A couple years ago I discovered Angie hadn't seen many Brando films. Like most people, she knew other actors idolized his work but didn't really know why. So I decided to show her some films and give her a running commentary. Sounds terrifically pompous on my part but actually it was kinda fun. She'd seen 'The Godfather,' of course and probably a few others. I think she'd seen 'Streetcar' some years back, too. But she hadn't seen 'On the Waterfront' or 'Last Tango in Paris' or a few others I highly recommended. For the record, I still believe Brando's performance in 'Last Tango' is the finest I've ever seen on film.

So the Netflixing began. We watched 'Waterfront,' 'Viva, Zapata,' 'Sayanara,' 'The Young Lions,' 'One Eyed Jacks,' 'Mutiny on the Bounty,' 'Reflections in a Golden Eye,' 'Last Tango,' 'Missouri Breaks,' and finally 'The Island of Dr. Moreau,' and all the while I kept a running narrative going, trying (sometimes vainly) to describe to the non-actor why actors find his work the yardstick by which they measure their own. Angie's pretty darn sharp and she 'got' what I was saying very quickly. I figured if we were gonna get married it might be sort of important to show her what I was passionate about, and vice versa.

Anyway, as I said, she 'got' it. We watched the taxi scene in 'Waterfront' over and over. I told her I'd seen the scene done by maybe 100 actors over the years in classes. No one even comes close to the power of the Brando/Steiger scene. And why? Brando's eyes. It took me years to figure it out. Why was this scene so incredibly moving? The dialogue is good but not extraordinary. Steiger is certainly very good, but not amazing. It's shot well by Kazan with close, gobo stipes on their faces, the brilliant, jazzy Leonard Bernstein score comes in at exactly the right moment, but that's not it either. What is it? And then one day I was reading an interview with Sir John Gielgud. Sir John was talking about how he offered Brando the role of Hamlet on stage after working with him in the film version of Julius Caesar. Brando, of course, turned him down. But Gielgud went on to say something extraordinary about the famous taxi scene in 'Waterfront.' He said it was the only time in film, or anywhere else for that matter, he'd ever seen an actor call upon an "involuntary physical body function at will." That's the quote. He was talking about Brando's eyes as they seemingly involuntarily flitted back and forth as he admonished Steiger for his disloyalty. I went back and looked at the scene again. Yes. He's exactly right. That's what makes the scene pop. Those eyes, beyond realism and way, way into the realm of absolute naturalism, skittering from side to side like a panicked animal. It's a piece of genius from the young Brando and he probably didn't even know he was doing it. As usual, his instincts took over and his work towered above the actual scene. I've only seen two other film actors aside from Brando for whom I can say that, Merryl Streep and Daniel Day Lewis.

So after 'Waterfront' I escorted Angie through his other films. She particularly liked his work in 'Sayanara,' a middling film but another wonderful Brando performance. Brando, by all accounts, was a very competitive actor when he was younger. In 'Sayanara' he is opposite the super naturalistic James Garner. Brando actually achieves a more 'aw, shucks' persona than Garner. In fact, if you go back and look at that film, Garner, amazingly, looks kind of wooden next to Brando. Angie found his 'Sayanara' performance very endearing.

When we got to 'Last Tango in Paris' a few weeks later, I told her how this was the first time in my life I realized someone was a better actor than I was. Now, don't judge. I was very young (a sophomore in college, in fact) and I was watching 'Tango' for the very first time. When I saw the casket scene (Brando's monologue over his dead wife) I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "I can't do that." Like most young actors, I was arrogant and truly believed I was all that and a bag of chips. Ah, youth. Wasted on the young. It never occured to me there was someone out there who could do things I couldn't do (later in life I had the same reaction to Olivier in 'Richard III' and Meryl Streep in 'Sophie's Choice'). But there it was in front of me: Brando was going so deep that it really ceased to be acting at all, but rather pure behavior. George C. Scott, no slouch himself, got it right when he said of Brando's 'Tango' performance, "He has gone beyond acting and into impressionism."

My wife 'got' it. Over the years I've discovered something constant; actors that understand the subtle genius of Brando's work are, generally speaking, very good actors themselves. Actors who don't absorb the brilliance of his work are, for the most part, not.

The last film in this peculiar canon was 'Missouri Breaks.' Certainly not a very good movie, but yet another fearless performance from Brando. Eccentric, but fearless. Bruce Dern, in his autobiography, tells of a letter he wrote to his friend, Jack Nicholson, after seeing the film. "It was like watching the best actor on the planet take on the second best actor on the planet. I'm sorry, Jack, but you got your ass kicked." In fact Nicholson himself went on to say in one of those Playboy Twenty Questions segments, "When Brando dies every other actor in the world moves up a notch."

I was in southwest Florida with a company called Florida Rep doing a play called 'Lost in Yonkers' the day Brando died. I was very sad. He was the most influental actor in my life with my old friend and teacher, Michael Moriarty, a close second. He may have had massive and inexplicable character flaws as a human being (like all of us), but the work itself was giant. Upon his death his old, old friend, Karl Malden, said of him, "It was as though he had an angel trapped inside him and he spent his entire life trying to push it out." Perfect.

See you tomorrow.

Prostate Commercials, Headshots, Christmas movies and Night of the Iguana

The Headshot

I shot a commercial yesterday for a new medication supplement for prostate problems. A pill that apparently helps one, um, well, I don't know what it does, exactly, but the pill is apparently 'anti-prostate problem.' So I was hired to give one of those 'I'm not an actor' testimonials to the camera. Well, of course, I AM an actor but had fun pretending to be just a normal, addle-minded non-actor. Truth is, it was the easiest paycheck I've ever gotten here in LA. And as an added attraction, it's an 'in-house' industrial for the advertisers, so it won't even be shown on television with me extolling the virtues of my prostate-comfy butt. I can't name the medication because I signed an aggreement that I wouldn't talk about it, As though the major prostate medication drug companies out there regularly follow my blog.

Angie and I, in an extended fit of middle-aged Christmas cheer, are recording lots of Christmas movies, you know, the normal staples, 'It's a Wonderful Life,' 'Holiday Inn,' 'White Christmas,' etc. But my favorite Christmas movie doesn't appear to be anywhere on cable this year - 'The Homecoming,' which was the pilot for the television series 'The Waltons.' I love that movie. I love the writing, the sparse interaction, the defiant, depression-era characters. Remember, this was before 'The Waltons' morphed into something so sickly sweet as to cause diabetes. This was 70s television at its best. Good actors, good script, great photography. And Richard Thomas was born to play John-boy.

And in still other news, it's time for new headshots. Actors get slightly insane when it comes to headshots. I've known actors to get a sheet of pictures and pour over them for months before making a selection. They show them to everyone: the mailman, the next door neighbor, the third cousin, asking opinions ad nauseum. I understand this. I think it's because the headshot is the ONLY THING an actor controls about his career. The sad truth is, of course, the headshot isn't really that important. Yes, it needs to look like the actor, and yes, it needs to be of some quality, and yes, it should include some striking elements ('the eyes, show them something in the eyes' the so-called experts always say). And all of that is true. But the headshot doesn't do the acting for you. If you're not very good in the first place the greatest headshot in the world is not going to help (unless, of course, you're up for a role in one of the 'Twilight' films). I have a buddy of mine, a very successful actor and acting teacher out here, who always tells his students that the very first thing they should do is get super expensive headshots, upwards of a thousand dollars. He says it is the absolute most important thing in this business. Although I understand his viewpoint, I think it's horseshit. I say, get a good, solid headshot, don't break the bank doing it, make sure it looks like you, and go with it.

It's odd, but every major 'acting' city (NYC, Chicago, LA) seems to have a different style of headshot that is preferred. In Chicago, for example, one would ONLY get what is called a three-quarter shot. That is to say, a photograph that shows three-quarters of your body. I guess this is because lots of fat people in Chicago tried to get seen by just showing their face and when they got to the audition the producers were shocked at how fat they were. So they began demanding a 'three quarter' shot to weed out the fatties. I don't know. Just guessing there. In NYC, when I was there at least, it was a black and white face shot, very close, and then photo shopped within an inch of your life. It was not unusual to see a headshot for a 60 year old man with every single wrinkle taken out so that he looked like a dummy in a window at JC Penny. I never understood this but it was the rage in those days. I'm sure it's changed now. And here in LA, they want color shots, preferrably not 'posed' as in a studio with a solid color screen behind you. No, most of the shots I see are pseudo 'candid' shots of people, close up, color shots of their face, caught unawares in, say, a boxing ring or strolling along the train tracks or standing nonchalantly in front of a barbed wire, chain link fence with animal pelts hanging in the background. This, apparently, really 'catches' the actor and his essence.

I'm always reminded of John Malkovich's headshot outside Steppenwolf in Chicago. That theatre has all of the company members in a big display box right outside the main stage. Anyway, John's shot is of him with his hands over his face as though he were saying, 'Don't, please, don't look at me.' And yes, it is his actual headshot. I suppose if you're John Malkovich it's not important that people actually see who you are in your headshot. I asked him about it once. He laughed. I suspect John feels the same way about headshots as I do: a necessary evil, but certainly nothing lose sleep over.

On the flip side, I have a buddy out here in LA, older guy, character actor, does almost exclusively 'villain' roles. His headshot is the worst I've ever seen. It's an old (circa 1990) black and white shot of him scowling into the camera with an ill-fitting black and white suit on. And he works CONSTANTLY.

My wife and I agree (as an agent for many, many years Angie has a sort of sixth sense about this stuff) that my current shots probably exclude me from a lot of roles. I look too old in them. My hair (what's left of it) is prematurely white. Not grey. White. And although I'm a robust fifty (is that an oxymoron?) my pics indicate I could easily play sixty five. I find this disconcerting. Not to mention misguided. Consequently, what happens a lot for me is I'm always the youngest guy in the room by about fifteen years when I'm called in to read.

So, it's headshot time. I have a couple of photographers in mind. I only wish I had all the headshots through the years of me. Headshots, I've discovered, are a good barometer of what the actor thinks he OUGHT to look like rather than what he DOES look like. I know some of mine, through the decades, are just out and out stupid now.

Attached to the back of the headshot is, of course, the resume. This is where the business I'm in really gets surreal. This deserves an entire blog to itself but I'll mention one I saw a few years ago that made me chortle. I was doing a gig at a theatre in Virginia and the AD and I are old buds. I was in his office at the theatre one day and his secretary brought in a two-foot high stack of pics and resumes. I asked him if I could look through them. He said, sure, and I began going through them. It's kind of cruel but I think I hurt my gut laughing so hard that day. One in particular sticks in my mind. A lot of young actors, for whatever reason, feel compelled to put something called 'AGE RANGE' on their resumes. Ostensibly it is the age of the characters they could conceivably play. Well, this was a picture of a young man, very eager, smiling pleasantly, nice looking, and right under his name on the back on the resume it said 'AGE RANGE: 17 - 95.' Now, a couple years earlier I had done a play called 'Night of the Iguana' in New York and I knew there was a character in that play by Tennesse Williams named Nonno who is 96 years old. I could just imagine this young man getting called in to read for the part. He stomps into the audition room, red-faced with rage. He glares at the producers and says, 'Did you even LOOK at my resume!? Hm? Give it a single glance!? Because if you HAD you would have noticed that I can play 95! NOT 96! 95! I can play up to 95! Why would you even call me IN to read for 96!?' And he stomps out.

Anyway.

Heading down to San Diego in a couple of days to do the Christmas thing with the family. We're taking Franny and Zooey with us. Should be fun.

See you tomorrow.

Christmas Shopping, Christmas Trees and Christmas Plays

Thanksgiving Dinner at the Lipps household in Manhattan Beach

Oh, what a difference a month makes. Or three weeks. Or two weeks, four days. Whatever.

The point is, lots of cool things goin' down, G.

My German producer was in LA for a while and we attacked the screenplay relentlessly for a few weeks. He's back in Germany now. At the end of our whirlwind mauling of the script we decided to invite a few crackerjack actors (RD Call, Larry Cedar, Tara Lynn Orr, Micky Shiloah, Paul Elia, Joe Hulser, Trevor Peterson) over to my place and sit around the living room and just read the derned thing out loud. The afternoon went off without a hitch and accomplished precisely what we'd hoped: at the end we knew pretty much what worked, what sounded good, what snapped and popped and what sucked. And more than I'd like to admit did, in fact, suck. But that's a good thing. Best to see this stuff now.

The important thing is that by the end of the reading we both knew we had something very workable, something that, with the right handling and in the hands of a sassy director, could possibly morph into something extraordinary.

In other news, Christmas approaches and my wife and I have been on a holy shopping quest. I'm a terrible shopper. Normally not an indecisive man, I suddenly become Bob Newhart when confronted with a shopping decision. Yesterday Angie and I wandered over to the Sherman Oaks Mall (one of the nicer ones around) and I found myself walking back and forth to two different stores trying to decide between two gifts for her. Several times I visited each store. I'm sure they thought I was casing the joints. But I finally made a choice and bought my wife's Christmas present. At one point I was overwhelmed with a slight panic attack and nearly bought her something really generic just to get it over with (I seriously considered a huge painting of a horse, something we already have, and some cool Pottery Barn coffee cups - a gift that really says 'I Love You' - at one point). But in the end I found something she'll probably like and the flop sweats ceased.

My in-laws, Dr. and Mrs. Lewis, were in town for a couple of days and we took them out to a new restaurant (well, new to us) called OFF VINE and then to the perrennially delightful 'Bob's Holiday Office Party.' The restaurant, while certainly cozy and romantic, turned out to have average food at best and a waiter who gathered our orders and then apparently took a sabbatical in Eastern Europe. We didn't see him for about a month. And when he did come back he announced he was leaving and hinted it might be best to tip him now rather than later. Nonetheless, it is an awfully nice place, but the food, once it finally arrived, left a great deal to be desired. It's always a bad sign when the plates are too hot to touch without rubber gloves because they've been sitting under warming lights for so long.

And then we took them over to the Hudson Theatre to see the play. We were a tad concerned about this. Bob's Holiday Office Party is an equal opportunity offending play. I wrote a long blog about it when we took it in last year. No one escapes unscathed in this piece. Angie and I love it. Just when you think they can't possibly be more offensive, they are. So we worried a bit that Rex and Rosemary (Angie's mom and stepdad), proud Republicans that they are, might be a bit shocked. We needn't have. They loved it and guffawed (literally) all the way through it. In fact, the next day, Rex told me, "I'm so glad you didn't drag us to that 'Streetcar Named Desire' play. I've seen that damn thing a dozen times.'

It took us a little while to get into the swing of the Christmas season this year but we finally got the tree up and decorated. We did it in shifts this year so as not to get burnt out too soon, I suppose. First the tree stand sat there for a few days and then the tree itself, unadorned, stood in the corner incongruously and then finally we put the lights and ornaments on it.

The in-laws (Rex and Rosemary) have rented a big condo in San Diego this year and the whole Lewis/Peabody/Morts clan is meeting there for a traditional Christmas. Which I personally love having grown up in a family that considered Christmas an opportunity to buy each other Jim Beam and cartons of Lucky Strikes. The holidays always culminated in a joyously festive fist fight.

Angie and I are taking a 'suite' nearby so we can travel with the dogs and we're looking forward to seeing the whole gaggle of relatives in one spot for a change.

In any event, the Christmas spirit is finally upon us. The writing is going well, the film I've been shaping for about eight months is now a tangible entity, a thing that's actually going to happen, and the foreseeable future is rife with possibilities. Life is good.

See you tomorrow.

Thanksgiving

Chuck Spencer, Kay Johnson, Virginia Cooke, John Bader and myself, Thanksgiving, 1984, Old Creamery Theater. 'The Fantastiks' tour.

Our Thanksgiving plans are always the same - very traditional - we wander over to Manhattan Beach every year to our dear friend's Mark and Tammy Lipps. Tammy owns and operates an exclusive, high-end, boutique catering company. Needless to say her Thanksgiving spreads are sort of extraordinary. They live in a picturesque two-story cottage a couple blocks from the ocean and have a back deck/porch area that back in my college days would be described as 'party real estate.' It's a magazine home, frankly.

In any event, we have an amazing dinner with friends, some we don't see often and some we talk to constantly, and afterwards we play a spirited game of 'Celebrity.' At least we have the last two Thanksgivings.

We like this tradition. We look forward to it. Not only because it's relaxing and fun and terrific eats, but because we genuinely enjoy ourselves. Tammy and Mark are wonderful hosts.

I've had some doozies over the years, Thanksgivings. Many alone in Chicago, many on the road giving thanks with a bunch of actors (see above), some in New York (there was a great Irish pub that opened 'only for regulars' on 35th street - called BREWS - on Thanksgiving...wonderful food, lots of beer, all free - those days are long gone - but I hit that spot a few times).

For awhile in Chicago I volunteered every year in a shelter and dished up food for the homeless on Thanksgiving but I finally realized how hypocritical this was of me...yeah, I helped hand out with one meal. Where was I the other 1,094 meals in the year? Besides, there were always dozens of other liberal-minded, bone-deep guilty, middle class schmucks like me vying for the same mashed potato scooping job. I suppose it never occurred to any of us to come back the next day, Friday, when they didn't have enough people in the shelter for the mashed potato scooping job.

Even in this economy (good Lord I'm sounding more and more like my parents every day) I have much to be thankful for. And not just the obvious things: my wife, my dogs, my comfortable and perfect home, my friends (I don't make friends easily so I only have a few 'close' friends - but they're VERY close because of that), my lifestyle, the fact that I get to make a living doing what I love, my health (I can be thankful for this even with the diabetes - because it's being treated - I do not suffer because of it - I am in a constant state of irritation, but suffer? No.), my wife's health (arguable some days, he says smiling, smiling), my adopted family on my wife's side, all good, honest and sincere people...these things, these items to be thankful for are self-evident.

There is an old saying, "Religion is for people afraid to go to Hell. Spirituality is for people who've already been there." I find that old chestnut useful on Thanksgiving. And apropos. For those of us, a larger group across this country on this singularly American holiday than might be imagined probably, that have spent suffocatingly lonely Thanksgivings in the past, for whatever reason, self-imposed or not, well, the physical reality of a home and hearth-warming, traditional, sincere Thanksgiving is bliss. Absolute bliss.

My wife is putting together an exotic salad of some sort...I'm not exactly sure what it is but it involves kale and pine nuts and a 'ginger sauce.' Anything involving kale and pine nuts is usually something I pass straight to the next guy on my right when at table. And I prefer the 'Mary Ann sauce' to the 'Ginger sauce.' But I'm sure it will be really good despite my protestations. She rarely, if ever, makes anything I'm not sort of dazzled by.

And finally we're coming up on nearly a week without smoking. It's not getting easier for me. I still think of smoking roughly 23 out of every 24 hours. Maybe this whole 'cold turkey' approach was ill-advised. I don't know. What I do know is I don't think this is supposed to be this hard, I mean it's been a week and I'm still right...on...the...edge. Quitting drinking was a piece of cake compared to this mini-nightmare.

Happy Thanksgiving. Be thankful if you can. If you can't, have a cigarette for me.

See you tomorrow.

From the East to the West...again.

Chad Coe and myself in rehearsal for FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST, North Hollywood, CA, 2010.

Day five. Still not smoking. Unless you count the smoke coming from my ears.

I wish I had a DVD of 'The Insider' right about now. Or maybe 'Thank You For Not Smoking.' Or even the old Bob Newhart film, 'Cold Turkey.' But I think 'The Insider' would be best. I'm at the point now, five days into it, where I need to work up some old fashioned, righteous, pissed off, unapologetic rage. And 'The Insider' would probably do that for me.

Today is my wife's birthday. I'm thinking I'll take her to a hookah bar and buy her shots.

Actually, a highly regarded Los Angeles Theatre Company - ECHO Theatre Company - is reading my play, From the East to the West, out loud tonight over in West Hollywood somewhere. Angie and I will head over that way and take a listen and probably grab a birthday bite to eat. It's a casual thing, mostly so the various company members can read it out loud and get a feeling for it...possibly do it as part of their season next year - that would be the best case scenario.

That play has a long and varied history. Although I've had a few requests to do it as a full production, the venues haven't suited me thus far and I've always turned the offers down. Echo, however, has the talent and clout to do it right, I think. The play was originally written as a follow up piece for a company in Chicago called Actor's Workshop. They had just finished one of two long runs of my play, Praying Small, and wanted another one by me because the critics were being very sweet on me at the time and the theatre needed exposure. For whatever reason, and frankly I don't remember, it never got produced. So it got a reading over at Steppenwolf across town and they loved it. It was being considered for their main stage and a copy of it had been shipped off to Gary Sinise - they thought he might be a perfect 'Harry' in it. And he would have. But again, for whatever reason, it never came to pass. Shortly after that I moved to Los Angeles. Within a few weeks of being here, a friend working with Pasadena Playhouse wanted to read it for their 'Hot Box' series with an eye toward main stage production. It was around this point that my friend, the wonderful veteran actor, John Schuck, became attached to the project as 'Harry.' Again, he would have been superlative in the role. In fact, we had a private reading here at my house with John reading 'Harry.' He was extraordinary. A few weeks later, Pasadena Playhouse went belly up and closed their doors.

Next I tried to get a full production with a small company I was working with at the time in North Hollywood. But the Artistic Director there, a guy with a long and distinguished background as a musical theatre chorus member, didn't care for it and put the kabosh on the production. But not before we had a chance to mount it for three days with an amazing young cast. I took the role of 'Harry' myself. The production was a 'benefit' production for the theatre. We rehearsed it for three weeks, gave a blistering performance - one I'm very proud of - sold out all three nights and raised a buttload of money for this lttle company in NoHo. The AD, who never actually SAW the production (he was on a Caribbean cruise at the time), later said he didn't like it ("It's too dense. Too much in it.") and he wouldn't be producing it ("It would be a great disservice to you to let anyone see this play.").

So. A long and serpentined history. At one point I was thinking Powers Boothe might be a good 'Harry.' He told me he wanted to work onstage again and Steppenwolf was still hot on the project and the idea of putting the legendary Boothe together with the legendary Steppenwolf seemed like a good one. Alas, Powers wandered off to Bulgaria, of all places, for a few months shortly after that conversation to make 'The Hatfields and McCoys,' a min-series with Kevin Costner and Robert Duvall.

Then I did a play with the great character actor RD Call. RD and I became pretty close during the run of the show ('The Interlopers') and finally I just gave him a copy of the script and asked if he'd be interested in playing 'Harry' at some point. A couple days later RD called me and said he loved the script and he wanted to play 'Harry' anywhere, anytime. So, tonight, RD Call is reading 'Harry' for me. RD is a powerful actor, tremendous authority onstage, and perfect for the role. I'm very lucky to have him involved.

So, it's been a journey with this piece. Incidentally, my old buddy from Steppenwolf, Pulitzer-winner Tracy Letts, emailed me the exact same day the Artistic Director, the ex-chorus boy, at that little company in NoHo told me 'it would be a great disservice to you to let anyone see this play,' writing, '...this is the best thing I've read in several years, Clif...' There's no accounting for taste, I suppose.

From the East to the West is a very personal piece of writing for me, far more autobiographical than Praying Small, although no one ever believes that. Praying Small poured out of me as I wrote it. I couldn't get the words on the page fast enough. It was as though the piece was already written and I was simply transcribing. But From the East to the West was labored over. It was like a birthing. Every sentence was painful to get out. It took me a month to write Praying Small. It took me nineteen years to write From the East to the West.

So...reading the little skit out loud tonight. They might like it, they might not. Whatever happens, I'm glad someone is taking an interest in the piece again. It's a good piece of work, I think, and one I'm proud of.

See you tomorrow.

Non-Smoking Lies and Liars

I have been in a bad mood for 72 hours now. It's the smoking thing. It's kind of like those 1950s warning films about marijuana, you know the ones, where the young college-aged kids go bonkers after one puff. They become all wild-eyed and violent, their hair sort of stands up and circles immediately appear under their eyes after that first good toke. Well, that's what's happened to me. Only it's the result of NOT taking that puff, NOT taking that first good toke.

When I first started on this venture, this "noble" (non-smoking propaganda in the great spirit of Josef Goebbels) struggle to quit smoking, I told myself I'd quit like The Greatest Generation (fucking idiot Tom Brokaw and his stupid fucking titles and his dumb fucking speech impediment) and just do it cold turkey, not even mention it, just stop, simply move on with my life without cigarettes, suffer quietly, keep my mild discomfort to myself. Well, that lasted about a half hour. I mention The Greatest Generation because the older folks that I knew growing up, Brokaw's fabled generation of people too dumb to complain and therefor somehow considered quietly determined ('They won the war, the big one, double-u double-u 2! Now hand me that sharp stick to poke in my own eye.'), always say things like, "Well, I just stopped." Or, "One day I just said 'that's enough!'"

Morons.

As you can see, 72 hours into my nicotine-fee journey, I'm a bit unforgiving. My wife is also quitting. I'm not sure how wise this is, the two of us quitting at the same time. For one thing, everything she says irritates me. "Honey, are you getting hungry? Want some lunch?" "Do NOT ask me when I want lunch! If it's alright with you, I'll LET YOU KNOW when lunch enters my mind! Is this so hard to grasp?!"

Yes. So you see, I'm not myself these days. And my wife, experiencing the same ugly withdrawal symptoms, is not herself either. Last night we had an argument over cake. I don't even remember what it was about, frankly. I just know cake was somehow at the bottom of it.

Of course, everyone I talk to, people who've done it before me, say, 'It gets easier. Don't worry, Clif, every day it gets a little easier.' They're lying bastards. It doesn't. It's not. They are lying, smug, evil, masochistic little turds, these ex-smoking superior shit-for-brains. It's like a little secret club ('Hey, guess what I just told Clif? I told him it gets easier...told him to hang in there...yeah, yeah, hehehehehe, I know...yeah, he bought it. He thinks it will...hehehehe') that ex-smokers have to join. Well, I'm saying it publicly right now, right here...I will NEVER tell someone it gets easier...it does not. It never will. Stopping smoking is the single hardest, ugliest, most unrewarding thing you will ever attempt, and frankly, it may not be worth it in the long run. THAT'S what I'll say to people.

I'll go on to say, 'Look at all the really smart and cool people who smoked - Dorothy Parker, Ernest Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, FDR, Churchill, Joe DiMaggio, Frank Sinatra, Mae West, Crazy Horse. You know who HATED smoking? The one guy who couldn't tolerate it? Hitler. That's who. Hitler was one of those big, fat, intolerant, oh-dear-second-hand-smoke-near-my-little-fat-gruesome-slobbering-kids housewives that always complain when someone lights up near them. The shameless, chubby, hopelessly ugly hussies who actually ask people who live NEXT DOOR to them to stop smoking for fear their shockingly ugly and retarded kids might breath a whiff of it. (I saw this last night on the news) Anyway...HITLER was the first whining non-smoker in history. Hitler...that's the non-smokers big advocate. The non-smoking poster child. Hitler. Einstein smoked. Hitler did not. Coincidence? John Lennon smoked. Jim Jones did not.' That's what I'll say.

So as I enter day three (actually day four since I ran out of tobacco a day early and in effect stopped smoking the night BEFORE I said I would) I'm not pleased with all the lies, the deceptions, the misinformation, the false truths that have been shoveled, like so much manure, onto my non-smoking lap. Negative attitude, you say? Oh, yes. Yes, you go right on saying that. Non-smokers, I'm finding, are a lot like The Tea Party Movement. They're unyeilding. They don't want 'dialogue' with smokers, they want to destroy them, wipe them out, extinguish them. The smokers are to non-smokers what Socialists are to the Tea Party; a threat to civilization itself.

Again, day three of this horror has put me in a mood to over-exaggerate. I'm sorry. I can't help it. I had hoped the constant reminder of the money I was saving would help my mood. It does not. At this point in the process every penny spent on cigarettes seems like a great investment. In fact, it seems a small, almost laughable, pittance to pay for the peace of mind it insures.

But I remain resolved. I type this blog smokeless. I grit my teeth and continue to suffer. I continue to hate everyone and everything around me. I live in a state of complete hopelessness. You see, I always saw smoking as a privilege, a reward, an extra bonus for simply being human. And if I find out some day that the whole 'smoking is bad for you' campaign is some made up political thing, I'm taking people out. I mean it. I'm taking some people out.

Eighty one hours.

See you tomorrow.

The End of an Era

Ground Zero swells before me. 'Ground Zero' is what I'm calling the day I quit smoking. My wife and I have decided to take the plunge. It's time. Smoking is and always has been an absolute indefensible habit. The problem is I really, really, really, really like to smoke.

I started smoking, like most actors, for a role. I had to smoke onstage. And back in those days I fancied myself quite the method actor. So I'm doing this show in a semi-professional summer stock gig called 'Tent Theatre' in southern Missouri. The show was '1940's Radio Hour' and I had been cast as a guy named 'Johnny Cantone.' The character was based on a young Sinatra and called for me to chain-smoke throughout the two hour show, even during the crooning ballads I sang. It was June of 1983. I've been smoking 28 years.

I'd actually dabbled a bit in smoking a couple years earlier. I was 'Black Bart the train robber' at Silver Dollar City in Branson, MO, in 1981 and between robbing trains (it was an elaborate, scripted 20 minute show each time) we sat in 'the train shack,' as it was called, and waited for the next train. There were five or six of us, all 'Black Barts,' all dressed in black with our black hats and pearl-handled six-shooters, all taking our turn robbing the train. This is a blog all by itself, actually, the silliness of that summer, but suffice to say this is when I first tried to be a smoker. I couldn't do it. I hated smoking. All of the other 'Black Barts' smoked cigarettes, so I thought I'd give it a shot. I bought a couple packs of a brand I'm fairly certain no longer exists, a menthol cigarette called 'Arctic Lights.' They were like smoking a Christmas tree.

Incidentally, I nearly got punched in the face once as Black Bart the Train Robber. The script we used left plenty of room to improvise and one of the lines I often trotted out while I was ostensibly robbing people was 'You sure don't sweat much for a fat girl!' I don't know, it seemed funny at the time and always got a big laugh from the customer/victims on the train. But one day (I don't know what I was thinking) I said it to a Muslim woman complete with veil and black robes and her Taliban husband jumped up and took a swing at me. Fortunately my cat-like reflexes got me out of the way, but we (me and Black Bart's 'gang') cut the script short and jumped off the train before he could fly a plane into me.

Anyway.

Like most smokers I've quit a thousand times. My longest stint was about nine months. I was living in New York then and there was a Chinese Restaurant on 46th street in mid-town a bunch of my friends and I would frequent. Mostly because they had ass-kicking but awful saki and also gave dirty fortune cookies to the regulars. And I mean really dirty, nasty fortune cookies. I won't even repeat the ones I remember. Very scatalogical fortune cookies. We loved it.

So we were all sitting around our usual big round table, about ten of us, and I had launched into a long, boring story of some sort (much like this one, I suspect) and the guy sitting next to me (I forget who) had a pack of Marlboro Reds sitting on the table in front of him - my brand. And (this is how strong the addiction is) without even thinking about it (remember, I had been off cigs for nine months) reached down in the middle of my long, boring story and lit up. I smoked half the cigarette before I remembered I had quit. Amazing. The next day I had two. And then three. And inside of a week I was a pack-a-day guy again.

One of the things that helped me quit before was a box of straws. Yes, straws. Plastic straws. I buy a big industrial sized box of straws and everytime I had the urge I pulled one out and chewed on it. Not very attractive but it seems to do the trick. So today I'm off to buy some straws. Talk about your oral fixations.

This whole paradigm shift happened when Angie added up the money we spent on our nasty, little habit. She estimates we spend, together, about $3,700 a year on cigarettes. I recently had a friend, Stephanie, who quit after decades of smoking. She used the same approach, daily reminding herself of the amount of money she was saving by not smoking. She would even post the amounts on Facebook. It got me to thinking.

I need new headshots, I need to join a gym. Just two of the things the $3,700 will facilitate. So my plan of attack is to use this as my impetus. I'm going to post the amounts of money I'm saving every few days on the cork board in my office. I think that might be good for me to glance at every now and then. Plus Angie says she wants fancy underwear. That's what she said - 'fancy underwear.' We also want a new Mercedes station wagon but we'd have to give up eating, drinking and paying rent for that.

I have several friends that smoke a cigarette 'every now and then.' I don't get these people. For me that's like saying 'I only take a lungful of air every now and then.' They're freaks.

Although I have very few, if any, 'regrets' in my life (yes, I'd do things different given the chance, but 'regrets?' That's the road to suicide as far as I'm concerned.)taking a drag of that first cigarette back in 1981 is one.

Incidentally, when I first learned to smoke, during '1940's Radio Hour' in 1983, I bought myself a carton of cigs and a six-pack of beer and I drove out to an old country road outside of Springfield, MO, and I taught myself how to do it. I quite literally 'taught' myself. I didn't want to appear to be a non-smoker onstage, serious young actor that I was. You know, holding the cigarette delicately at the end of two outstretched fingers, taking shallow drags, looking uncomfortable holding it, etc. No, I wanted to come across as a lifetime smoker. In my youthful arrogance my plan, of course, was to quit as soon as the play was over. Needless to say, that didn't happen.

Cigarettes, the ones I bought, were $1.35 the year I started smoking. Today I spend $6.00 a pack (American Spirits - Natural). And that's cheap. In Chicago they're inching towards $10.00 a pack. It's now illegal to smoke in public in both Burbank and Glendale. I abhor this law, but I suppose for non-smokers it's deeply satisfying. Currently under consideration is a new law that would make it illegal to smoke in your car in these two cities. True dat. The only place left to smoke legally would be in the privacy of your own home. Of course, I often flaunt the laws and step outside of restaurants all the time and light up. Not because I need a cigarette so much but rather to say 'fuck you' to the stupid, government- invasion-of-privacy laws. I have a strong Republican streak in me when it comes to that.

In any event, tomorrow is the day. I'm finishing my last can of smokes (I buy a large can of American Spirit - $35.00 - and roll my own with this nifty little roller I bought) and Angie is finishing up her last pack (she smokes the 'American Spirits - Ultra Light). We're terrified.

We have an 'e-cigarette' for emergencies. We've decided to keep that plugged up and ready to use for the first difficult week. My mother-in-law, Rosemary, a very vocal anti-smoker, says she'll buy all the nicarette we can chew if we ever decide to quit. We may take her up on it. I also want 'the patch.' But unless it becomes just too terrible, I probably won't go with that. It'll be cold turkey. My old acting teacher and friend, Michael Moriarty, once told me when he quit he kept a pack of cigarettes by his side all the time and whenever he had the urge to light up he would pick up the pack and say to it, "Who's stronger? You or me?" That always seemed a bit masochistic to me, though. I'd eventually just say, "Oh, okay. You are." And light up.

And finally, I'm hoping to rid myself of the perpetual smugness of other smokers who have successfully quit. My good buddy, John, quit 12 years ago. He reminds me of this approximately once every five minutes.

My wife once quit for a long, long time. She did it through hypnosis. Alas, when she started spending time with me, she started back up. That always makes me feel kind of bad, too. Another buddy of mine did it through weekly acupuncture. Personally, I'd like to take some sedatives that knock me out for about three months and then wake up smoke-free. With my luck I'd miss out on a big audition if I did that, though.

And then, of course, there's the diabetes. That's a whole other cup of danger. Everytime I see my doctor the first thing she asks is, "So how's the smoking coming?" The last time I saw her I said, "Great! I'm down to 28 a day!" She scowled at me.

I remember those Yul Brennar PSA spots when I was a kid. They were creepy as shit. He would appear on the television, filling up the whole screen with his shaved head and Eastern European smirk, and say, "By the time you're watching this, I'll be dead. I smoked four packs of cigarettes a day..." First of all, I never believed him. Four packs? When did he have the time? Because 'The King and I' was two hours long, so the math just didn't add up.

I've had three cigarettes while writing this blog today. Good God, I'm going to miss them.

See you tomorrow.

Another day, another Russian Accent

I've added a few reels to the site. They're to the right of this text. I recently found a new program, free download, which enables me to make reels, etc. The only problem is they have to be posted on YouTube and then downloaded onto the blogger site. Oh, there's probably a way to do it without putting them on YouTube first, but I'm pretty much a slobbering idiot when it comes to this stuff so I can't quite figure that part out.

But the point is, I have so much fun doing it. I feel like I'm on the bridge of the Enterprise trying to save earth from certain destruction when I start messing with computer-related stuff.

So, okay, I go about a week without a single audition. Nada, nothing, zip, zero. And then of course I get a call from the home office and have two virtually at the same time. We do a little shuffling, call the casting directors, and get things lined up.

The first was a film, an 'ultra low budget' thingee. Something about 'Russian mobsters.' Okay. So I slip on my Russian accent and travel to Hollywood for that one. It ended up being in a warehouse - the audition, that is. They were running behind, about a half hour or so, and in comes this guy that apparently had been there earlier but had to leave for some reason. He comes in and tells the monitor that he'd like to go in next. My eyebrows raised. Next? But he left. He gave up his spot. I looked around and everyone had an eyebrow raised. And this guy refused to take no for an answer. "In all my years in this business I've never heard of such a thing," he whined, "You're just going to have to march in there and tell them John Doe is here." And, much to my chagrin, she did. She disappeared into the room and came out and said, okay, you can go in next. Personally, I had another audition to get to, so I wasn't too keen on all this. But, sure enough, he ambled in next.

The reason they were behind is because they were taking a long time with every actor in the room. About ten minutes each, in fact - an inordinantly long time to stay in the room. Well, I don't know what happened in there, but this guy comes out about thirty seconds later and stomps out of the warehouse, mumbling obscenities under his breath.

Times like that I want to just grab people and say, "Alright, listen, here's how life works: you wait your turn. Simple as that. All areas of life, that's what you do. You wait your turn. Generally speaking, people who never learned to wait their turn are either working on Wall Street or in jail." But I didn't say that to him. I thought it.

After the 'Russian Mobster' gig I quickly drove over to one of the studios (doing the whole security check thing at the gate) for a co-starring read on a major network drama. Much nicer scenario, I must say. A bunch of veteran LA actors all sitting peacefully in a waiting room, being nice to one another, one lady was actually knitting. The role was for a priest and one guy had the whole Jesuit priest get up on complete with turned around collar. I, sagely, simply wore a black shirt buttoned up. Not that it mattered, because I'm fairly certain I didn't get it. For one thing I was the youngest guy in the room by about twenty years. For another, I was so harried by the narrow time window to do both gigs, I think I might have done the Jesuit priest with a slight Russian accent.

Later this month the acclaimed LA theatre company, Echo Theatre, will be doing a reading of my play, From the East to the West. In fact, it falls on Angie's birthday, so we're looking forward to that. And my old Alma Mater, Redtwist Theatre Company in Chicago, wants to re-mount Praying Small next season. The AD asked for the DVD of the production we did here in LA. So I sent that off and will see what we will see. That play opened the theatre back in 2004 and ended up running about six months. The following season, 2005, Redtwist (back then it was called 'Actors Workshop') mounted the show again for another four or five months. Suffice to say both productions were critical and commercial successes.

And yet another rewrite on 'the German screenplay.' I'm meeting with the producer again today to brainstorm a bit. He also wants to pick Angie's brain a bit about the whole thing - Angie has seen dozens of films through from start to finish back in the day and has a singular knowledge about, quite literally, what to do next. He's a first time producer and, although the money is sort of in place, the particulars are not.

Los Angeles is in the midst of an uncharacteristic cold snap. I like it. It's very rare one gets the chance to wear sweaters in LA. And I like wearing sweaters. Plus we get to crank up our fireplace every night. I like fireplaces. There's something very comforting about a fireplace roaring in the den with my wife and two dogs nearby. My wife is the fire starting expert in the family. I tried to do it alone last night and after an hour or so of staring at cold logs had to hand over the reigns to Angie. A few minutes later the fire was crackling and leaping. I should never have quit after the Webelows. Sigh.

See you tomorrow.

Barking at Lighted Windows

An actual fire in our actual fireplace last night, November 5, 2011.

Angie and I decided to test drive our fireplace last night after a year or so of not using it. And it was glorious. We purposely hadn't been using it because the last time we gave it a whirl the whole house filled with smoke and we ran screaming and rolling into the front yard, ducking and covering. So we decided we needed a chimney sweep. I thought chimney sweeps were extinct. But one day shortly thereafter we pulled into our driveway and a tall, gangly guy in a sooty top hat was leaving our neighbor's house. We stared in fascination. He was really wearing a top hat. His van was parked out front and it said "Chimney Sweep" on the side. We looked at each other quickly and then yelled over and caught him. The guy actually looked a little like a young Dick Van Dyke. We got his card and promised we'd be calling soon.

As it turns out we didn't need a chimney sweep. We just needed to open our flu. Or floo. However it's spelled. In France it's probably 'fleiu.'

Yesterday (and today, I think) the day was an out and out rarity in SoCal; it was cold. So as we followed our usual dinner extravaganza plans (we make a big deal over dinner in this house), we decided to give the old fireplace another shot. Only problem was we didn't have any wood. I suggested we burn our ugly patio furniture (which Angie calls 'antique' but I just call 'pathetic') but was quickly vetoed. So we drove over to our local Von's to get some firewood. They were out. Instead we had to look at manufactured 'slow burning' logs ("Up to Three Hours!"). But just as we were about to purchase one, a guy came out with a new shipment of good and true (I was feeling very Hemingway-esque at the prospect of a fire) firewood, which of course we bought immediately.

The fireplace, once we'd discovered the whole 'floo' thing, worked perfectly and was soon 'roaring' in the hearth. We finished our elaborate, nightly dinner perparations and all was right in the world.

There's something about a fireplace with a good, crackling fire that calms and restores. Growing up I never had a fireplace. My parents, thinking God knows what, purchased one of those small, fake, ridiculous, plastic fireplaces and had it installed in my childhood home. It was a huge source of embarrassment. It had some sort of wheel that spun with a red gel over a light in the back and made a kind of humming sound. The wood was a plastic mold and looked nothing like real wood. As an added benefit it put out 'electric heat.' Not much, a trickle of heat at most, but heat. Thankfully they put it in a small, back room in the house so unless you really looked for it, it was mostly out of sight and, thankfully, out of mind.

When I was living in Columbia, MO, I had a black, pot-bellied, wood-burning stove in the middle of my apartment. I liked that stove. Ostensibly one could cook on it, but I never did. I just stole wood from my neighbors and fired it up now and then and drank scotch and smoked a pipe in front of it.

But until now, I've never lived in a house (not counting the myriad places I lived while working as an actor up and down the East Coast) that had a fireplace.

So we got the fire cranked up and we sat down for dinner (thin burgers, grilled, on toasted ciabatta bread with turkey bacon and aged cheddar with thin cut potato fries). After, we sat on our new couch and the puppies leapt up and while my wife read a new cook book I'd just bought for her, watched television until it was time to go to bed. Norman Rockwell would have felt right at home.

I have lived a, shall we say, less than domestic lifestyle for the past three decades, occasionally on the edge of glory, occasionally on the edge of ruin. The deeply satisfying and tranquil scene in front of our newly roaring fireplace was as foreign to me as closing up a bar at 4am on the South Side of Chicago would be to an Ammish minister. And having closed a lot of bars at 4am on the South Side of Chicago, I speak from experience.

This whole 'rocking chair on the front porch' lifestyle gets into the marrow of my bones. It makes me reflective and docile. It allows any regret and resentfulness to seep out of me. It soothes a lifetime of unwarranted rage of perceived slights and over reactions and brings new meaning to living well being the best revenge. It takes the bark out of me.

And I like that. I like not being angry at some silly little thing in the past. And I'm just terrible at letting things go. Always have been. Part of a whole catalogue of character flaws. My wife has, through example, taught me many things but perhaps the most important is this new mindset. And last night as we sat in front of our snapping, popping fireplace it seemed to all come together in my mind.

All my life I've had a fascination with the lights in other people's houses. Driving down the highway in the middle of the night seeing the warm and inviting glow from a small house in the middle of nowhere, wondering how someone could have purposefully chosen to live such a life filled with mundanity, quiet, unassuming and peaceful. And the other part of me, the part sick with fatigue of driving too fast and gripping the wheel too hard and listening to the radio too loud, burned with envy over their chosen life, their calm and happy life, their foresight in choosing that life, that countenance.

I wrote a play years ago which was rather successful in an upstate New York regional theater about this very subject. It was called 'Barking at Lighted Windows.' When I was a kid our next door neighbors had a wonderful, patient and very smart dog named 'John.' And John and I would sit for hours outside, after it got dark, just the two of us, hidden in the bushes, staring and fantasizing about a big, old, crumbling house a few streets away. I thought it was haunted. We called it, the neighborhood kids, for no apparent reason, 'The Hockaday House.' I never saw anyone come in or out of the house. Of course I was young, maybe ten or eleven, and couldn't stay out too long, but I would covertly observe the house, hiding in the tall weeds in the vacant lot next to it, and try and catch a glimpse of any sort of paranormal activity. And as the night came, the lights in the big house would pop on in several rooms, first the downstairs and then the upstairs and then all over the house. I could see shadows moving behind the thin curtains. And as each light came on in succession, John would bark. Just once, as though surprised.

And one night a lady stepped out on the porch with two white mugs in her hands. She looked directly at John and I and called out to the dark, "Would you care for some hot chocolate?" The jig was up. I slowly stood up and walked over to the porch, the operation aborted. She gave me the hot chocolate. We stood in silence for a while and then I said, "I thought this house was haunted. I never see anyone come in or out." She said, "Oh, no. Not haunted. But I'm on disability and my husband is very sick these days." We drank our hot chocolate in the darkness of that mid-summer Missouri night quietly and then I gave her back the empty mug and went home, John at my heels. And that night lay in bed while listening to the alcohol-fueled, noisy disfunction playing out in my own home downstairs, I thought of that big house and that lady that gave me hot chocolate. I never again hid outside and spied on that big house. And John never again barked at the lights as they came on, one by one.

See you tomorrow.

The Adjustment Bureau and The Lincoln Lawyer

Last night I took a look at 'The Adjustment Bureau' with Matt Damon. Matt's getting a little chubby. He's getting that third-season-Star-Trek-James-T-Kirk look - you know, when Shatner can clearly be seen wearing a girdle under his Star Fleet blouse. Damon is getting that soft look, sort of pudgy. Not your leading man profile at all. His partner in crime, Ben Affleck, whom I saw a while back in 'The Town,' is aging much better, although granted, Damon is the better actor. I guess after staying in tip-top shape for the Bourne films has left him a little apathetic.

Anyway, this is a film that has a lot of promise for the first twenty minutes or so. Maybe longer. It's not bad at all for a bit, chugging along, laying out the exposition smartly, giving us great insights into Damon's politician character. He's about to lose a big Senate election and is alone in a bathroom when he accidently meets a whacky, clever and tender-hearted English chick. They meet cute (she has, inexplicably, crashed a wedding party and is hiding from security in a bathroom stall - a weak MaGuffin if I ever saw one), fall in love, and then he doesn't see her again for three years, although he tries to find her by googling her first name. I could have told him that wouldn't work.

Apparently, in the movie, there are 'case workers' who wear Sinatra-type hats that control the fate of the world. This is where the movie jumps the shark. Just let me say that again, it's so preposterous - apparently there are 'case workers' who wear Sinatra-type hats that control the fate of the world. Okay, that's better. So, some call them 'angels.' But they only have their powers, which include opening just about any door and stepping into another part of NYC (where the film takes place) WHILE they're wearing their hats. Without their Rat Pack hats, they're powerless. It is the way 'The Chairman' (God) keeps them from having too much power. Okeedokee, then.

I'm sorry, I have to write that one again, too. Without their Rat Pack hats, they're powerless.

The movie was written and directed and produced by George Nolfi, who evidently got the idea from a short story somewhere. Movies don't happen overnight. They take years. Especially big budget movies like this one. Nolfi must have given his life, for several years, to this idea about biblical 'case workers' who only have supernatural powers while wearing a gangsta' hat. Which, upon thinking about it, sort of takes on an 'Ed Wood' quality of absurdity and probably wouldn't be a bad premise in a Will Ferrell flick.

So the premise is this: the two are not supposed to meet. It's not part of 'the plan' (fate) outlined by 'the chairman' (God). In fact, if they DO meet and fall in love their respective lives will not unfold as 'The Chairman' wants, which is to say, Matt will not become President of the United States and the English chick will not become 'the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world.' I'm not making that last part up. 'The most famous experimental modern dancer in the world.' Which, to my way of thinking, is tantamount to being 'the most famous ceramic ashtray maker in the world.' Whatever. In any case, she won't be 'the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world' if she ends up with Damon. The best she'll do is 'teach modern dance to six year olds.' Which is meant to be a sad fate, but sort of made me do a double take at the screen. Anyway, the plan will be disrupted. And Damon won't be President because - wait for it - they COMPLETE one another. They won't need all this silly ambition.

Old Terrence Stamp, whom I've always liked, is the bad guy in this, the bad 'case worker.' He's out to give Damon a 'reset' (lobotomy) if they can't get these two love birds apart. The climax of the movie occurs during a long and physical chase through Manhattan. Now, Terrence Stamp, being approximately 85, can barely walk much less chase. But nonetheless it's a rousing chase, mostly because one of the good guy 'case workers' has lent Damon his Sinatra hat that allows the two lovers to enter doors in Harlem and end up at The Chrysler Building. Yep, that's what happened. He loaned his Sinatra hat to Damon for a little while.

Well, all's well that ends well, thank goodness. The Chairman decides to rewrite 'the plan' in the interest of love. And really, who can blame Him? It's clear the way these two playfully slap and punch one another throughout the movie that they're deeply in love.

YEARS of his life, this George Nolfi guy, dedicated to getting this film made.

Now don't get me wrong. Francis Coppola dedicated years of his life to get Apocalypse Now made. It's a life changing picture. A landmark film. A turning point in the way film was made. It was worth every second of those years Coppola waited and planned and begged and scraped and cajoled the studios into letting him make it. It's a masterpiece.

But this? The Adjustment Bureau? Didn't Nolfi know maybe he was off track when he wrote the line, 'Without our hats we're powerless!' Or when he wrote the line, 'Without you she becomes the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world!' Or maybe even the line uttered by one of the angels, 'This is above my paygrade. I'm gonna kick it upstairs to the home office.' Didn't he see the red lights going off?

The plot of this movie relies a lot on cell phones. It is my opinion that cell phones are the bane of the dramatist's existence. First of all, they quickly become silly in the world of film. Example, look at movies made only ten years ago. Everyone is carrying around cell phones that look like WWII walkie-talkies. But more importantly, the dramatist depends on lack of communication and inability to reach out for plot twists. And you can use the old chestnut of 'I've lost my signal' only so many times. No, it's best to not use or show cell phones in a screenplay. Otherwise two things happen, 1) the script is quickly an anachronism and B) the plot and action thrusts are severely handicapped. No, cell phones have really hampered good dramatic writing for the screen and stage, in my opinion.

My wife and I also watched 'The Lincoln Lawyer' the other night. I liked that one a lot more than 'The Adjustment Bureau,' mostly because it was basically a remake of 'Shaft.' Except the cool black guy was a cool white guy. Unfortunately, I can't write a lot about it because we watched it about a week ago and frankly I've forgotten everything about it except the fact that William H. Macy gets killed at one point. And I only remember that because my wife used to be really good friends with William H. Macy and she reminded me of that when he got killed. Otherwise, I can't seem to remember much about it. It didn't bore me, I know that. In fact, I think that was the tag line: "The Lincoln Lawyer - it won't bore you!"

As you can see, I'm in search of a good movie to watch. If you have any suggestions - recent movies preferrably - leave a message. If it's more than ten years old, I've probably seen it.

See you tomorrow.

'Inception' and '2012'

I watched 'Inception' last night. I have no idea what it was about. But I watched it all, damnit. For one thing, I just don't think I'm as smart as I used to be. Twenty years ago I think I might have loved this movie. Maybe even have understood it. Something about 'going deep' and 'the third layer of a dream' and 'feeling the push' and needing an architect, a chemist and a, oh, I don't know what else. All I kept thinking was, "You know, Leo DiCaprio is starting to look a lot like Van Heflin as he gets older." And, oddly, his dead wife (spoiler alert) had an Eastern European accent for some reason. And Tom Berenger turned up. I thought he was dead. I think Andy Warhol might have directed this film, although I can't say for sure. And the vertically challenged girl who had a small role on a West Wing episode was in it, too. She seemed to speak louder than the others. And...well, that's about it. I think it ended well for everyone. Not sure about that, either. Michael Caine was in it for about 12 seconds. And then not. That kid from '3rd Rock from the Sun' was in it being all serious and shit. I had tried to watch this film once about three months ago but after thirty minutes switched to 'Murder, She Wrote.' I think it takes place at some point in the future but I clearly saw an AMC Gremlin at one point. Oh, and that creepy kid from 'Witness' with Harrison Ford was in it, all grown up. He apparently gets drunk a lot with DiCaprio according to TMZ, so that explains that. And that Japanese fella from one of those two Japanese movies that Clint Eastwood directed, he's in it, too. He grimaces a great deal in it. I think he's a bad guy that becomes a good guy or something. Anyway, I refused to turn it off once I'd started it. My wife walked through the room at one point and said, "What's this?" I just shook my head and wept.

In any event, the movie cost about a hundred and eighty billion dollars to make. Which only made me weep harder.

The special effects were kind of cool, although I never knew why they were happening except to know they were all happening in someone's dream. Which sort of takes the wind out of special effects for me. It's not really happening so who cares? And everytime something really big happened with the special effects the movie cuts to someone waking up from the dream all startled and shit, looking off and squinting, like they do when they go to a commercial break on 'Young and the Restless.' Most of the movie is in slow-motion so when they cut to regular speed, it's like, "Oh. The dream must be over." These guys all have slow-motion dreams, I guess.

DiCaprio is a good actor. I don't think we even know how good Leo is yet. He's been extraordinary in the past. Watch some of his unheralded work in 'Blood Diamond.' One critic called it a "Brando inspired performance..." I can see why. It's a hugely intelligent performance complete with a Brando-esque South African, dead-on accent.

One thing I noticed about DiCaprio is, even though he's aging and is now, oh, I don't know, probably mid-thirties, he still walks like a kid. Odd thing to notice, I know. But he does. He sort of throws his legs out before him when he walks, willy-nilly. As though he's still an adolescent and doesn't realize how tall he's gotten.

Actually, in point of fact,'Inception' cost approximately 200 million dollars to make. That's right, 200 million dollars. And I just kept thinking (during the slow-motion segments, which was about two thirds of the movie) that 200 really good films could have been made instead. Of course, that's not how the universe works, but I couldn't help thinking it.

I sort of liked Danny Glover in the opening segments as the President of the United...wait. Oh, yeah, that was '2012.' Another movie I desperately tried to get through recently. It was also made for about 200 million dollars. True. So, that's 400 really good movies the planet could have had instead of these two sleepers. Or, if you're not a movie buff and don't care about that sort of thing, 400 million dollars that could have fed starving children in Alabama (I'm sure there are some down there).

I always seem to catch '2012' on one of the cable channels (we now have U-Verse and about 1,000 channels) and never see the beginning of it. I always seem to tune in right about the time The Vatican gets wiped out. Coincidence? I think not.

This is another movie that kind of looks promising for a bit and then all of a sudden we're in the middle of The Poseidon Adventure (Shelly Winters: "Oh, Manny, in the water I feel...THIN!"). The difference between '2012' and 'Inception' is the acting. 'Inception' has some good acting, although you have no idea what they're up to, and '2012' is just appalling. At one point in '2012,' thousands of Chinese workers are going to be left behind to be destroyed by a giant tidal wave while the principals in the movie make their getaway in a huge Noah's Ark kind of thing. Oliver Platt, probably the best thing in it, says to the young, black scientist and his simpering lady love, 'If you want to give your tickets to a couple of Chinese workers, be my guest!' Moments before the two young lovers are practically apoplectic at the idea of leaving all the Chinese workers behind to die. But when Oliver Platt says this, they sort of look at each other and smile and raise their eyebrows in a way that says, "Well, he's got a point, the old rascal."

Four hundred good, small, smart, insightful, new, thought-provoking films that could have been made instead of these two shameful behemoths.

Whatever. But I'm telling you, DiCaprio is starting to look A LOT like Van Heflin.

See you tomorrow.

The Tall Weeds

Yesterday, in the midst of my bi-monthly doctor's appointment to regulate, observe and hopefully manipulate my Type II Diabetes, I was told I now have Type I Diabetes - which is the older, crueler step-sister of Type II Diabetes.

I also had a fleeting glimpse into my own mortality which, all things being equal, I could have done without.

I have a buddy, in years past very close, but like all buddies eventually, now far away and emotionally remote, who used to say about stuff like this, 'you're in the tall weeds now.' He's right. I felt the weeds were very tall for a while yesterday. So tall, in fact, I couldn't quite get my mind around them for a bit.

Type I Diabetes means I have to take four shots a day for the rest of my life, all in my stomach. I was given a little pamphlet when I left, with stick figures and cartoon characters representing sugar and insulin and various cells and abstract hyperglycemia drawings. The figures drawn to represent the cells hungry for sugar are particularly cute. One has the hard-working insulin, smiling of course, feeding the grateful cell as it shepherds the sugar through the bloodstream. It's comforting to know there's a whole Electric Company segment taking place inside me on a daily basis, teaching the kids the alphabet and overseeing my blood sugar.

A couple weeks ago I had a battery of blood tests run over at Cedar's Sinai, a hoity-toity hospital facility here in Southern California. Although I can't say I was particularly surprised, one of the conclusions apparently indicated my pancreas was no longer producing any insulin. "It happens," my doctor said. "Sometimes when you're older (that would be me, 'older') the pancreas gives one last push, one last surge and then gives out." So that's what mine did. Like Anthony Quinn in Requiem for a Heavyweight, the old pancreas gave it one last shot, one last fight, with everything on the table, and then gave out.

"How do you feel about insulin?" she asked. "Well, I voted for it in '96 but felt it didn't live up to it's campaign promises," I joked appropos of nothing, just trying to be Reagan-esque about it all ("Honey, I forgot to duck.") She smiled and said I would have to go to 'the pens.' The pens are the syringes. They're called 'insulin pens.'

While Angie and I waited for what seemed like hours and in fact WAS hours, I kept picturing the 'insulin pens' in my head. After a while they took on a diabolical shape in my mind. Finally, a very petite and earnest young lady called us in and showed us how to inject myself. I almost wrote 'inject ourself.' And that's because during the wait I think Angie was more upset about the whole ordeal than I was. She kept saying 'this is a GOOD thing, this will mean you won't feel so bad all the time.' But I'm observant if nothing else, and I could hear the faint strains of the whistle as we both quietly padded by the graveyard. So the earnest and petite RN showed me how to stick needles in my stomach. How to carefully acquire three or five cc's of insulin and then, at a 45 degree angle, push a needle into my stomach. This is where the fleeting glimpse-of-mortality-thing took place.

Fitting that this entire episode happened on Halloween, because it certainly had a grotesque quality to it.

I remember some years ago in Chicago, a friend had a bunch of us over for a Super Bowl party. The beer and sodas were in the fridge, of course, and as I entered his house, he said as much. "Just help yourself," he said, "beer and whatever else you want is in the fridge." So I wandered into the kitchen and grabbed myself a Dr. Pepper. And I noticed as I grabbed my soda that there on the inside shelf of the fridge, next to the ketchup and soy sauce were vials of clear liquid, small ones, with little rubber tops, scientific-looking, slightly dangerous - insulin bottles. They seemed to say something ominous, just sitting there out of place among the Dijon mustard and half-empty jar of dill pickles. They seemed to carry an importance not altogether welcome in that atmosphere of football and corn chips. They seemed to say, "Even today, right in the middle of all this laughing and joviality and witty friendship, I'm here to remind you that you're broken."

I learned long ago that self-pity has a shelf life. That way there be dragons. So I allowed myself a half hour or so, as we were driving home from the doctor, and then put it aside. One image the doctor left me with was particularly on my mind. She said, "If you're out at a restaurant, just excuse yourself right before you eat, preferably once the food is actually in front of you, and slip off to the bathroom and give yourself an injection." For some reason this image made this whole Type I Diabetes thing real for me. The tall weeds were suddenly very tangible.

So last night, once the last trickle of trick or treaters had left, Angie prepared my shot. I injected it myself. It didn't hurt, really. I took a handful of my stomach, pinched it between my fingers and slid the needle into it. Fortunately I've become a huge, fat pig the last few years and it wasn't difficult to grab hold. It was the fourth shot of the day, ostensibly, the last one, with 10 cc's of insulin, 'to be given at bedtime.' I did it standing alone in the kitchen, quickly, not thinking about it, just following the directions of the earnest, petite girl nurse. And I thought to myself, I have to do this four times a day for the rest of my life. Which meant absolutely nothing to me. Kind of like a prisoner's first day in jail, "Well, I'm here for the rest of my life." What does that even mean?

Angie tells me of a lady she knew back in Missouri when she was younger - someone named Sharon - who, after a troubled time with Diabetes, lost her legs and finally died. She's mentioned this a few times, actually. Well, I have my legs, they're just fine, thank you very much, and they don't seem particularly concerned with my Diabetes. They don't act up in any why whatsoever and they most certainly don't seem to be in any danger of being 'cut off.' I listen to this story, depressing as it is, and I think, 'well, maybe my diabetes is a less violent strain, a type not quite so malignant.' Of course, that's just hooey, it's all the same strain.

It's going to take a while to incorporate this whole sticking-myself-with-a-needle thing into my lifestyle. A whole different set of rules are on the table now. And I despise rules, always have. So it'll take some concessions on my part, obviously. And I'm fond of my legs. I often use them for walking. So I'll figure it out. I'll make it work. And as I reached into the fridge to grab our cannister of Trader Joe's coffee this morning I noticed the two vials of clear liquid, sitting there, unassuming, next to the hot sauce and the mayonaise, silently reminding me that something just got rotten in Denmark. And the weeds in my own kitchen were too high to see over.

See you tomorrow.

Halloween, Green Screens and Coyotes

Halloween is tomorrow night as everyone knows. We don't do a lot when it comes to Halloween, although Angie does have a giant, plastic pumpkin out front indicating we at least acknowledge its existence. We still have yet to buy candy for the gaggle of trick-or-treaters we'll undoubtedly get. I suggested to my wife a few days ago that we should get something out of the ordinary for Halloween - to give to the kids, I mean. And, no, I didn't mean anything clever or anti-candy. I meant COOLER candy AND a little something extra, a little something off the beaten path. Something they wouldn't normally get. The grocery stores are full of standard candy; bags and bags of your normal, everyday candy - Snickers, Hershey's, M & M's, what have you.

Last year I was completely caught off guard by the singleness of purpose our trick-or-treaters exhibited. I quickly became intimidated by the voraciousness of their approach, their hungry eyes and baleful, pleading voices. Instead of jumping into the psuedo-holiday spirit, I felt like I was being fleeced. My feelings were justified when, toward the end of the evening, we had a few adults dressed up in simple masks come to the door demanding candy. They looked to be in their mid-thirties. But, hey, times are tough so I let it go.

But this year I want to get something out of the ordinary for the little buggers. Yes, some candy of some sort, but something useful as well. I'm thinking reading glasses. There is a 99 cent store not far from us that has reading glasses for a buck. All different types, of course; 1.25, 1.5, 1.75, etc. We usually get around a hundred kids, if last year was any yardstick. I'm thinking maybe we go ahead and get some candy to throw in there, some little bags of tiny Butterfingers, perhaps, but we also throw in a pair of reading glasses. Angie hasn't signed off on it yet, but I think she's considering it. Anything to shut me up for a while.

Last night I wrested control of the TV clicker for a bit. While my wife made an amazing dinner of Mexican stuff, I watched Battle: Los Angeles. And I loved it. I suspected I'd turn it off after a bit, disappointed with Hollywood as usual, but I didn't. Decent script, good work from a handful of unknowns, and wisely, a director who steered clear of almost any sort of dialogue and just put a bunch of explosions on screen. It was sort of a Black Hawk Down meets Aliens. Plus I like the fact that one of the newspaper headlines in the movie said, "BURBANK UNDER ATTACK!" Which, with the exception of the headline, "GEORGE W. BUSH EMBRACES HINDUISM!" may be the most incongruous headline I've ever seen.

I also got a call to come audition for a new film yesterday. Well, not a call exactly, but an invitation. But here's the thing - it's a 'green call.' I'd never heard of this before, but Angie had. It's where I get the script and set up and shoot the scene myself and then send it to NYC or wherever and the producers watch it. It's a terrible idea and one, apparently, we're seeing more and more of. Eventually, all actors will be required to have a camera, studio, mixing board and green screen in their own homes. Hell, I can barely afford a computer. I decided not to play ball. I won't be auditioning for this film.

All three of my scripts currently on the table have entered the land that time forgot. That is to say, they are all on some producer/director laptop somewhere waiting to be read, reread, or optioned. This could take anywhere from 12 to 30 years. In the meantime, I'm making Raman Noodles and the California Lottery MegaMillions a lot of money.

When it comes to getting a film made, Hollywood works in dog years.

So, in an odd reaction, I spend a great deal of time these days being angry about the response to Occupy Wall Street movements around the globe. I gnash my teeth a lot. I subject Angie to long, passionate diatribes about the end of justice as we know it. I fantasize about being an all-powerful Deity with the ability to smash Citibank with one clenched, metaphorical, cloud-like fist. And I post as many pro-OWS stories as I can find on Facebook. Sad, I know. But I'm waiting to hear about these damn scripts and I can't help myself.

Speaking of dog years, I also find myself taking extraordinary enjoyment from our two dogs, Franny and Zooey. Angie and I live on the cusp of Griffith Park and the Los Angeles Equestrian Center. We are literally yards away from a myriad of trails and hiking jaunts leading up into the mountains. Yesterday, while taking a long walking excursion with Franny and Zooey, we happened across a rogue coyote, just sashaying around by himself in the middle of the day. Our dogs are small and perfect mid-morning snacks for a coyote. Thankfully, I saw him from a distance and called F and Z back into our protective circle before he spotted them. And then spent the rest of the day, being bored and powerless about the script development, fantasizing about an epic battle between myself and this ghoulish coyote, a hand-to-hand, or hand-to-paw, titanic struggle as I fended him off, protecting my dogs from an unstoppable, giant canine. In my fantasy I win, but come away bloodied and wounded but with a lifelong gratitude from our puppies. And every so often, during this fantasy, I check my cell phone to see if any of the three producers might have called.

My wife is not entirely comfortable with me when I'm between gigs. I think she finds me to be a little unreasonable. For one thing I don't live in the real world. She notices that I can't seem to stay interested in anything for too long, about 9 seconds or so. And I routinely promise her ridiculous things, like a brand new car or a trip to London. And then I check my cell again. She much prefers it, I think, when my mind is occupied.

Now, this reading glasses idea. I really am convinced it could work.

See you tomorrow.

Becoming Paul

A couple days ago I was sent in for a one-liner on a major network television show. Just one line. The character even had a name: Paul. I was sent to an office in Hollywood (when I say 'sent' I mean my management set up the reading and I sashayed over for it) and upon arriving sat with ten or fifteen other men of a certain age and waited to go in and be captured on camera saying the one line. So I did. I waited and after six or seven of the other guys my name was called and in I went. Even carried my script with the one line meticulously yellowed out, so I could see it better. Highlighted so I wouldn't confuse it with another line on the page.

But before I could go in and interpret the line, infuse it with all the subtext and facial expression it so richly deserved, I had to sit and wait my turn. Apparently the line could be read by a vast ethnic quiltwork of characters. The producers were opening it up to a whole spectrum of race and age types. As I walked up the short flight of stairs to the waiting room, I noticed black, white, Asian, Latino and a guy in a wheelchair. Which made sense, because the line certainly didn't indicate one had to run or jump while saying it.

Actually, it was two lines. The first part was very short. "Um, excuse me." That was the first part. The second part demanded a little more exploration, sense-memory work, substition, varying shades of intensity. The second part was, "Is anyone else here concerned with his lack of experience?" This part of the line was obviously the chunk that would separate the men from the boys. It was the part of the line where the rubber met the road. This was the part where my thirty-some years of training would pay off. I was undaunted. I can see where a lesser talent might be intimidated by this part of the line. I was not.

Others in the room, probably not as far along as I was as an actor and not yet comfortable with their craft, wrestled with it right up to the last moment, their lips moving silently, saying the tricky line over and over, getting it JUST right in their heads, building a backstory for the character, Paul, who utters the line, finding a nuance perhaps unthought of by anyone else in the room, putting themselves THERE, in the moment, making the line their own, OWNING the line, really. One man next to me in a chair, said the line over and over to himself the better part of fifteen minutes. Occasionally he would glance back at the script he held tightly in his hands, just to make sure he didn't stray with the tense, or God forbid, add anything to the tightly constructed piece of writing. When his name was called, just before mine, he sprang to his feet and practically jogged into the room. He was ready. The line was so firmly embedded within him, it was as though he'd written it his own damn self. He was like a sleek, powerful racehorse pushing at the gate, eager to run, run like the wind, and say that line with the conviction of a Brando or a Streep or an Olivier. The line didn't stand a chance in his mouth. I've seen this type of confidence in a waiting room before. In New York once, I auditioned for the part of Iago in Othello. It came down to three of us...it was for a major Shakespearean producer. I didn't get it. But the guy that did had the same confidence as this guy. He WAS Iago. He attacked Iago like a Tazmanian Devil. Iago was a mere hurdle to be jumped for this guy. He wanted it more than me, I guess. He became Iago. But I was younger then, and not quite so prepared for the awesome talent one has to contend with in this business. And the same was true for this guy. Paul was his. In his mind, he already WAS Paul. And that open-ended second part of the line, the part open to a dozen or more interpretations, the complicated part of the line, "Is anyone else concerned with his lack of experience?" was meat in his hands. Just bloody, uncooked, seasoned MEAT ready to be cooked in his hands, his brain, his creative soul.

There was another guy there, too. He was a little smug for my taste. He wasn't reading for Paul. No, he was reading for "The Guy at the Basketball Game." Huh? Why was he there with us 'Pauls?' And frankly, after a bit, he explained to no one in particular that he didn't particularly care to be lumped with the assorted 'Pauls' in the room. Clearly, he felt he was a little higher on the food chain as 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' than we 'Pauls' were. We all glanced about, a little wary now, we Pauls, not quite certain where this guy stood in the hierarchy of things. Not Paul? And not WANTING to be Paul? What was going on?

After a bit the casting associate came out. I'll call her Susan, although that was, in fact, her actual name. Susan was about 12 or so. So 'Susan' comes out and tells us a little about 'Paul.' Turns out, according to the breakdown Susan got, 'Paul' is maybe a college professor, maybe a tweed jacket kind of guy, an intellectual of sorts. I glanced around the room. A few crestfallen faces. I could see their pain. They owned tweed jackets, they had outfits that indicated an 'intellectual' Paul, but instead they had worn 'business' jackets. I could see the five stages of grief wash over them. Clearly some agents were getting some speed-dialed calls immediately after the reading. "Bob Jones, please. What? No I will NOT hold! I just walked out of this audition for 'Paul!' Yeah, over here in Hollywood. I'm wearing a suit. A plain, gray suit. Neutral tie. And guess what the casting lady just told me? Okay, I'll tell you. She said Paul was 'A College Professor!' Maybe. She said, "MAYBE Paul is a college professor." And I'm sitting there, I'M SITTING THERE, in a business suit! You tell Bob, I HAVE a tweed jacket. I HAVE a bow tie. I COULD HAVE combed my hair to indicate a COLLEGE PROFESSOR. I have fake glasses. Horn-rimmed! HORN-RIMMED, COLLEGE PROFESSOR GLASSES! But tell Bob it's too late now. Too late, I say! I read the goddamned line looking like a BUSINESS GUY! What? No, I can't hold. Just give him the message, okay?"

Anyway.

The guy waiting to read for 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' soon revealed why he was disdainful of the Pauls in the room. As Susan finished her quick speal about who Paul 'maybe' was, he quickly said to her, before she could exit into the room with the camera, "Uh, excuse me. I'm not here for 'Paul.' (I swear he smirked) My agent said she called you and you said I could come in and read early for 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' because I have another audition later. 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' has three lines so I'll probably be taking a little more of your time than the 'Pauls'"

Ah! There it was. He was there to say THREE lines. Not just the measly one and half that we Pauls had. You could smell the superiority on him. His arrogance permeated the room of Pauls. Some of us, the less confident Pauls, visibly shrank in their seats. They were in the presence of someone who had THREE lines. I, of course, was unfazed. Even though, and I'm only saying this because it's true, I WAS a little intimidated by 'The Guy at the Basketball Game.' He, in some earlier secret meeting of the casting associate and the casting director and the producers, had been chosen as someone who deserved THREE lines instead of the ONE AND A HALF that Paul had. And he had just spit out all that information IN FRONT OF US right into the room there. The information laid there on the threadbare carpet like a sizzling piece of star power. I can see how a less confident actor would blanche at such an admission. And even though I suddenly felt a little awe-struck at the additional two lines The Guy at the Basketball Game had, I tried to stay focused. I fantasized, just a little, about what his lines might be, The Guy at the Basketball Game. But I MADE myself snap out of it.

Eventually, Susan called my name. She came out, glanced at the sign-in sheet and said, deceptively casually, 'Okay, uh, Clifford?'

I got up and followed her, not too closely, not too eagerly, just a simple, medium distance follow. My face revealed nothing. I specifically didn't glance in the direction of The Guy at the Basketball Game. Now was not the time to suffer a crises of confidence. Just stay focused, go in, be peppy but not inferior, strong but not overbearing, eye on the prize, eye of the tiger. Plus I had an ace up my sleeve. I had on my 'college professor' glasses. Entirely by coincidence! Not thought out, just something I decided to wear at the last second! Oh, ho, a delicious moment. I had beaten the odds, fate had intervened. I, through no deliberate action of my own, had DRESSED SORT OF LIKE A COLLEGE PROFESSOR!

When Susan had mentioned that 'maybe' Paul was a college professor I don't think I'm imagining anything when I say there were SEVERAL clandestine glances my way. "He's wearing something that might be construed as a 'college professor,' the faces said. What information did HIS agent get that mine didn't? Is he pre-cast? Is he the 'Paul' they wanted all along?' No, I don't think I'm making any of that up. I could see it in their eyes. Even The Guy at the Basketball Game looked at me with a little new-found respect.

I don't usually boast in this blog but this one time, I'm gonna let it out...I ATTACKED Paul. I SLAM DUNKED Paul. I would put my Paul up there with any fucking Paul ever done, anywhere, anytime. I mean that, too. I'm not just blowing smoke. I fucking NAILED Paul!

When I finished (Susan: "I don't think I need to see any more." I swear by all that's holy, that's what she said: "I DON'T THINK I NEED TO SEE ANY MORE!" Huh? Huh?) I strolled from the room, not too smugly, but with a nearly imperceptable smile on my face, strolled past the 'business dressed' Pauls, past The Guy at the Basketball Game, past the smell of fear and defeat infesting the room, past all the 'wannabe' Pauls and swaggered, not overtly, just a HINT of a swagger, and down the short set of stairs and into the welcoming, cleansing, heat of Southern California. It was done. As Luke, the physician, said when our Lord Jesus Christ took his last breath, "It is finished." And it was. It was. Paul was mine.

There are days I really hate this fuckin' town.

See you tomorrow.

Occupy Wall Street and the Futile Insurrection.

There is a quote I rather like, and I'm paraphrasing, "Never doubt that a small, passionate band of men can change the world. Do you know why? Because it is the only thing that ever has."

I was thinking of that last night as I was surfing the web and getting all the reports of the arrests and tear gas and alleged police brutality in Oakland and San Francisco and Phoenix in response to the Occupy Wall Street movement. Almost at the same time I watched a story on NBC news about the high price in overtime being paid to police officers in the major cities because of the uprisings. And, the police union declared they would sue any individual who injured an officer while being attacked by the police in these gatherings. Which, even in it's ironic grotesquery, amused me. Apparently the overtime costs in NYC alone are closing in on 3 million dollars.

So as my wife and I watched a bit of television last night at the end of a long day, my mind kept wandering. I kept trying to put myself in the shoes of the police, the city administrators and mayors, the local governments opposed to the demonstrations. And asking myself, "Why is this particular movement, unorganized and shoddy at times as it is, garnering so much malevolent resistance?" And I began thinking on the phrase used to describe the NAZI's following the holocaust: the banality of evil. The cops are not to blame in the clearer, bigger picture, really. They are, as tedious and worthless as it sounds, simply following orders. Of course, as history has proven time and again, it is a defense that doesn't hold water. Nonetheless, it works at the time. Until later, in 20/20 hindsight, it is condemned. However, always too late for the average Joe who's had his head bashed in.

So those of us, the fabled 99%, well, what are we to do in the meantime? And with whom, exactly, should we be angry?

Often times the criminal spends his jail time being angry with the cop that arrested him rather than the judge who condemned him. It's a pedestrian anger, an ill-conceived anger, a sophomoric response. And yet, sometimes it is the only tangible anger possible.

Declaring war on cops is not the answer, as satisfying as that approach might be. Occupy Wall Street must engage the larger issue. The people and institutions the cops represent. The cops are only the drones. The queen ant is congress. Bought and paid for, Democrats and Republicans alike. There is but one weapon left, and frankly, it was always the only weapon, really: one vote, one man. Although the OWS movement is quite noble on a grass-roots level, it is ultimately inconsequential. It is a no-win situation, good for stirring the water but in the final analysis, moot. There must be an electoral revolution. One man, one vote. Oust Ceaser. Vote Louis 14 out of the palace. Overturn Tojo's Diet. Strip the fascists of their power legally. And demand the one thing, in the end, that will resolve the current horror: regulate Wall Street and end political lobbying once and for all. Clean house.

When the Nixon tapes were released in the late eighties, there was one segment, largely overlooked, that scared the bejesus out of me. The conversation in late July, 1974, between Nixon and Halderman in the Oval Office when Tricky Dick asked what steps needed to be taken to MILITARILY hold onto power. Awesome. Nixon wanted to know, as Commander-in-Chief, if the United States military would follow his direct order to seize absolute power in Washington, DC, and disband both congress and the courts as an emergency measure. Simply astounding. The idea was discarded in the end of course, but the thing is, NIXON CONSIDERED IT.

Of course, perhaps even scarier than the idea of a bought and paid for congress, is the idea of a bought and paid for fifth column, a national press taking orders from the almighty dollar, an entire system of free press being manipulated by a nation in the throes of a plutocracy. This is called propoganda. And it is the single most terrifying result a democracy can face. Once the press is corrupted, a nation is stricken with an incurable disease because information, not money, is the final step to absolute power. Once information is taken away, all resistance is, indeed, futile.

Like the peasants before the Bastille, the Occupy Wall Street movement doesn't stand a tinker's damn of a chance. But also, like the peasants before the Bastille, the inhabitants of the structure are eyeing them ever-so-warily. Politicians across the country, from mayors to representatives to senators to the president himself are, late at night, when no one is watching, when the rubber meets the road, actually pondering the unthinkable: money or votes. Because money has always insured votes. Always. And now, unspeakably, that particular philosophy is under scrutiny. What if...what if money, in this case, does NOT insure votes? Which way do I step off the fence? What if, heaven help me, I have to make a choice? What if one man, one vote actually WORKS this time?

No, cops are not the target. Although I personally believe in Machiavelli's concept of power corrupting, they should not be the target. The target should be November, 2012. The weapon that must be picked up, the rusted sword lying on the ground, unused for decades, maybe more, is the Constitution of the United States. It hovers over the bought politicians and the unsavory, greed-stricken, cowering bankers, traders and regulators and lobbyists like a hot sun threatening to burn Orpheus to the ground. One man, one vote. November, 2012. Therein lies salvation. Not in the day to day, senseless struggle over inches at the political Maginot and Seigfried lines. November, 2012.

There is a phrase often used in boxing gyms around the world: kill the body and the head will die. It is not meant to be metaphorical. But I can't think of anything quite as apt at the moment.

November, 2012.

See you tomorrow.