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.