There's a part of me, a larger part than I'd care to admit, that was born about about 75 years too late. I'm speakng professionally, here. And I'll tell you why. I'm deep into my first original screenplay. Which for me, really, is rather surprising. For quite some time now I've thought screenplays were not my medium. Mostly because the writing of screenplays bored me. And I'm not good with bored.
For years I've been the 'horse and carriage' in an industry that only monitors the Indy 500. That is to say, I've always felt writing a play was far more interesting than writing a screenplay. Some years back I had a long conversation with a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright who has now devoted nearly all his time to writing for the screen. He said something to me that depressed me no end. He said, "For a brief, very brief, time it was possible to make a living, a good living, only writing plays. Neil Simon, George Kauffman, Edward Albee, Harold Pinter, a few others, maybe, are nearly the only ones who've done it. It's not possible today." This from a guy (I won't drop names) who has won every major award the stage can possibly give to someone who writes for that venue. He went on to say (we were having a long lunch in Chicago) it is, of course, the most satisfying forum in which to write, but it is insane to think one will ever make a few bucks from it. Prestige, yes. Money, no.
In the 1930's film was not taken seriously by 'real' actors and directors and writers. At first, it was nothing more than a lark. And then, as time progressed, it became a way to make some serious cash, but was still considered sort of cheap. In the late thirties a few films came along to challenge that, most notably 'Citizen Kane.' But still, the majority of stage people, that is to say, London and New York artists, didn't give it much credence. And anyway, most serious efforts from Hollywood were still adapted stage plays at that point. And sadly, most looked like it.
But that was nearly eight decades ago and things have changed a mite.
One of the myriad differences between writing for the stage and screen is that the screenwriter has very little influence over what finally appears on the screen. In the theatre, the playwright is king, the source of all that is good, the worshipped; he is the one recieving the genuflects. On the screen, it is the director. And being an acknowledged control freak, this doesn't bode well for me.
And in addition, everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, in LA is writing, has written, or is about to write the next great screenplay. Ninety year old Armenian women have screenplays ready to go at the drop of a hat. It's a shame. And one only has to do a little research to find that the screenplay written sometimes has little to no resemblance to what actually appears in the final product, after all the 'director's additions,' actor improvs and dreaded editing room chopping and slicing.
There is much truth to the old line, "Did you hear about the starlet that was so dumb she slept with the screenwriter?"
Having said all that, I've nearly completed my first original screenplay.
The effort has its genesis from two things. One, the idea can't be done on the stage and two, this very same playwright, the one with more awards than Edith Head and Walt Disney combined, told me to swallow my pride and write something that more than a thousand people would see. As we sat there having lunch and drinking coffee late into the day, he said, "You're singing in the shower, Clif. And it's beautiful singing but nobody gives a fuck." From under the table in my fetal position I replied shamefully, "Okay."
So I toddled off to the library. The public library is, all by itself, the greatest untapped education on the planet. I picked up dozens of screenplays, dozens of 'how to' books, 'Screenwriting for Dummies,' that sort of thing. I drank them in. I devoured them. And I still know about the same as when I started. I should've known better, I guess. Writing for the screen, it turns out, is the same as anything else; everyone has an opinion and 99 percent of those opinions are bullhockey.
So, after all the research, I just did what I thought was best.
I'll finish it soon, or I should say, I'll get to a point that I'm tired of writing it. The aforementioned George Kauffman has a wonderful quote on playwriting and it applies to writing for the screen, too. "A play is never finished, only abandoned." True dat.
When I first sat down and started shaping the piece, the new screenplay, that is, I was concerned about the film lingo, the WAY to say something between dialogue, i.e. all the pans and long shots and medium shots and over the shoulder shots and close ups and dolly shots, etc. But I had a telling chat a while back with a fairly successful screenwriter out here and he told me, "It used to be important to use all the right words and phrases, but now it's not really that big of a deal. The important thing is to accurately describe the action that occurs in the prose BETWEEN the written dialogue." In other words, see exactly what the camera would see and describe it in precise detail. "Most screenplays are read by idiots," he said, "And you have to make them see EVERYTHING."
Makes sense. Besides, as I looked at a lot of on-the-paper movies, things like 'Casablanca' and 'Magnolia,' I kept forgetting what the various initials and buzz words meant and had to keep going back to my other library book with the screenplay 'glossary' in it.
So I'm writing a screenplay. I've become the enemy. I've given in to peer pressure. I'm discarding my eighty year old writing ethics and venturing into something new. I've decided, like the actors, directors, writers and producers from the 1930s that maybe, just maybe, this whole 'moving picture' thing is here to stay. Might as well jump on board.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: This and That.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: This and That.: "Just a few random thoughts this morning to get the old fingers loosened up and some oil in the gears of the mind. I spend an unhealthy amou..."
This and That.
Just a few random thoughts this morning to get the old fingers loosened up and some oil in the gears of the mind.
I spend an unhealthy amount of time day dreaming about winning the lottery, especially since I never actually play the lottery. Last night, before leaving for the show I heard on the news that the 'Mega' something was up to 66 million dollars after taxes. That is to say, one gets a check for 66 million dollars. Naturally, the first thing that came to mind was waiting patiently in the teller line at the bank, strolling up when it was my turn, handing over the 66 million dollar check and saying, "I'd like this in mostly twenties, please, with a few fives and ones. Oh, and some change for the laundry."
My second thought was about cars. I don't want to be ostentatious but at the same time I'd like a really good car. Two cars, in fact. After some research I've decided Ange and I would, of course, get two new cars. For her a 750i BMW 4-door. It's a cool car. And for me either a Toyota Scout or a Mercedes SUV, the boxy kind that costs approximately a gillion dollars.
Next, a new house. Here is where my wife and I vary in our thoughts. I want something high in the Hollywood Hills with a great view and a swimming pool. She wants something close to The Equestrian Center with a barn so we can have the horses in the backyard. I don't care about horses. I'd just as soon buy the horses their own house so we could live high in the Hollywood Hills with a great view and a swimming pool.
Interesting show last night. Another full house. It was a good show. One of our best, if I had to say. And yet, it was an abnormally quiet audience. In fact, we had to start the applause ourselves during the curtain call. If not, I suspect we'd still be standing on stage in total silence this morning. My old buddy, Joe Hulser, came to see it last night and was suitably impressed, I think. He called it 'a beast' of a play. It most certainly is. We started working on this thing in October, five months ago. I've been doing this play almost as long as I've been married. I still love the material and think it's some of the most original and powerful stuff I've ever seen or done, but it's time to move on. We have two more weeks of it following this weekend and, well, it's just time. All of the key players, myself included, have other projects waiting. Last night, after the show, Joe and I stood in the parking lot chatting a bit. He asked me what the general reaction to the piece has been. I said, "Either they're overwhelmed and sort of shocked by what they've just seen or they can't wait to put some physical distance between the theatre and themselves." Case in point: last night during the call I looked out and saw one man sitting in the front row, barely clapping, clearly bewildered by what he'd just seen. Immediately behind him was a young woman wildly enthusiastic, shaking her head in gleeful disbelief as she applauded vigourously. There you have it.
Joe, who I've known for some thirty years - in fact, he directed me in a Sam Shepard play in undergraduate school - is a very astute guy when it comes to theatre. He completely 'got' what an incredibly difficult piece it is. I'm not sure how much he actually 'enjoyed' it, but he certainly appreciated the work. That's about all one can ask for, I suppose.
I'm delighted to report I'm continuing, unhampered, with my strict diet. Health is the word of the day. I've completely eliminated all bread and potatoes. For people like me, diabetics, that is, all bread and potatoes are sugar. My body immediately turns it into sugar, I mean. Too bad. I really love bread and potatoes.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. Listening to Springsteen this morning as he gently implores someone, "If I should fall behind, wait for me." Yes.
See you tomorrow.
I spend an unhealthy amount of time day dreaming about winning the lottery, especially since I never actually play the lottery. Last night, before leaving for the show I heard on the news that the 'Mega' something was up to 66 million dollars after taxes. That is to say, one gets a check for 66 million dollars. Naturally, the first thing that came to mind was waiting patiently in the teller line at the bank, strolling up when it was my turn, handing over the 66 million dollar check and saying, "I'd like this in mostly twenties, please, with a few fives and ones. Oh, and some change for the laundry."
My second thought was about cars. I don't want to be ostentatious but at the same time I'd like a really good car. Two cars, in fact. After some research I've decided Ange and I would, of course, get two new cars. For her a 750i BMW 4-door. It's a cool car. And for me either a Toyota Scout or a Mercedes SUV, the boxy kind that costs approximately a gillion dollars.
Next, a new house. Here is where my wife and I vary in our thoughts. I want something high in the Hollywood Hills with a great view and a swimming pool. She wants something close to The Equestrian Center with a barn so we can have the horses in the backyard. I don't care about horses. I'd just as soon buy the horses their own house so we could live high in the Hollywood Hills with a great view and a swimming pool.
Interesting show last night. Another full house. It was a good show. One of our best, if I had to say. And yet, it was an abnormally quiet audience. In fact, we had to start the applause ourselves during the curtain call. If not, I suspect we'd still be standing on stage in total silence this morning. My old buddy, Joe Hulser, came to see it last night and was suitably impressed, I think. He called it 'a beast' of a play. It most certainly is. We started working on this thing in October, five months ago. I've been doing this play almost as long as I've been married. I still love the material and think it's some of the most original and powerful stuff I've ever seen or done, but it's time to move on. We have two more weeks of it following this weekend and, well, it's just time. All of the key players, myself included, have other projects waiting. Last night, after the show, Joe and I stood in the parking lot chatting a bit. He asked me what the general reaction to the piece has been. I said, "Either they're overwhelmed and sort of shocked by what they've just seen or they can't wait to put some physical distance between the theatre and themselves." Case in point: last night during the call I looked out and saw one man sitting in the front row, barely clapping, clearly bewildered by what he'd just seen. Immediately behind him was a young woman wildly enthusiastic, shaking her head in gleeful disbelief as she applauded vigourously. There you have it.
Joe, who I've known for some thirty years - in fact, he directed me in a Sam Shepard play in undergraduate school - is a very astute guy when it comes to theatre. He completely 'got' what an incredibly difficult piece it is. I'm not sure how much he actually 'enjoyed' it, but he certainly appreciated the work. That's about all one can ask for, I suppose.
I'm delighted to report I'm continuing, unhampered, with my strict diet. Health is the word of the day. I've completely eliminated all bread and potatoes. For people like me, diabetics, that is, all bread and potatoes are sugar. My body immediately turns it into sugar, I mean. Too bad. I really love bread and potatoes.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. Listening to Springsteen this morning as he gently implores someone, "If I should fall behind, wait for me." Yes.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Social Network
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Social Network: "I finally got around to seeing 'The Social Network' a few nights ago, which is weird because, as a writer myself, I happen to think Aaron So..."
The Social Network
I finally got around to seeing 'The Social Network' a few nights ago, which is weird because, as a writer myself, I happen to think Aaron Sorkin is just about the best dialogue guy around. Maybe the best, in fact. I sincerely believe 'The West Wing' to be the finest television show in the history of network television.
'The Social Network' is a mean-spirited movie with a singularly unnatractive protagonist in the person of Mark Zuckerberg, the founder of Facebook. Jesse Eisenberg plays Zuckerberg and is really quite good. (So far, this review is sounding a bit like some of the reviews I used to get in college: "Bob Jones was good. Mary Smith was also good. Lots of the actors were good.") Eisenberg had a formidable task in front of him, getting very little help from Sorkin's script, in that he had to try and find at least a little humanity in the Machiavellian Zuckerberg as written.
Although he manages to find all that is there. The entire idea that Zuckerberg created Facebook to get back at a girl that unceremoniously dumped him while on a date is implausible at best, but Sorkin being Sorkin almost makes it work.
Director David Fincher makes the film look and sound like an Oliver Stone picture at times. That's not necessarily a compliment, although to be sure Stone has made a few very good films. The film is generally devoid of any kind of manipulative emotion. Personally, I don't mind a good dash of manipulative emotion in film. One of the reasons I happen to be a Spielberg fan.
I had a buddy of mine over the other night for dinner, John Bader. John is one of the few people who's opinion I nearly always respect when it comes to film, television and stage. When I asked him about 'The Social Network,' John said, quite succinctly, "I didn't care for it" and left it at that. I thought it a curiously snippy answer coming from John who can be terribly effusive about his opinions at times.
Once I saw the film I realized why. John, like a lot of us old codgers, has become in his middle years an incurable optimist. 'The Social Network' is one of the least optimistic movies I've seen for quite awhile.
I won't bother you, Gentle Reader, with the old 'inverted triangle' style of writing usually employed when scribbling criticism because nearly everyone has already seen the film and I don't really need to rehash the plot. Suffice to say it's about the creation of Facebook and the trials and tribulations therein.
This movie has all the ingredients of a really hotsy-totsy film: great writing, sharp direction, clear characterization, an unmistakable plot arc, a great score and a fascinating subject. And I couldn't have cared less.
Although Sorkin has written some really fine scripts in the film world (A Few Good Men, The American President) I think his real genius lies in a longer venue. The film lacks nuance. It lacks a sense of truly knowing who these people are. Film, most films I should say, rely on a clear cut definition of good and evil. We like to root for people, for things, for teams. Now, this is not always the case. Scorcese has made a career out of doing the exact opposite. But generally speaking, film relies on the same equation melodrama relies on: bad guys bothering good guys and then getting their come-uppance. It's a formula as old as drama itself.
Justin Timberlake is probably the best thing on the screen in terms of capturing a real person. I've known dozens of people like Timberlakes's Sean Parker in the film; bigshots with about a buck fifty in their pocket. His performance is dead on. And bless his heart, Parker came out of the whole thing with about 7 percent of Facebook in his pocket. By my calculations that would amount to something along the lines of 340 million dollars to date. Not too shabby for a guy who didn't invest a penny.
I'm a big fan of minimalist scoring and 'The Social Network' is a fine example of it. Trent Rezner and Atticus Ross have written a haunting, slight score for the film. It's one of the best things about it, actually.
Like all of Sorkin's work, this piece could easily be a play for the stage. The stage is where Sorkin found his chops and his best work is riddled with precise dialogue and perfectly situated 'beginning, middle and end' scenework. He is a master at the 'martini line,' that is to say the final line in a scene that serves as the exclamation point. Regardless of one's overall feeling for the film, Sorkin's writing is, as always, nearly beyond reproach. He's just so damn good at what he does.
Unfortunately, I just didn't much care this time. A long, winding, detailed story about how billionaires screwed people out of money is not my idea of a satisfying evening. Especially when the people depicted as the ones who actually got screwed are as greedy, uncaring and morally vapid as the ones doing the screwing.
In the final analysis it's a film about bad people doing bad things and getting away with it. My reaction to the film probably says a lot about where I am in my life right now, but I don't care. You could line every character up against a wall and shoot BBs at them and I still wouldn't care. I don't like these people. I didn't care what happened to these people. And, in the last and most telling judgement, these people bored me.
'The Social Network,' two apathetic thumbs down.
See you tomorrow.
'The Social Network' is a mean-spirited movie with a singularly unnatractive protagonist in the person of Mark Zuckerberg, the founder of Facebook. Jesse Eisenberg plays Zuckerberg and is really quite good. (So far, this review is sounding a bit like some of the reviews I used to get in college: "Bob Jones was good. Mary Smith was also good. Lots of the actors were good.") Eisenberg had a formidable task in front of him, getting very little help from Sorkin's script, in that he had to try and find at least a little humanity in the Machiavellian Zuckerberg as written.
Although he manages to find all that is there. The entire idea that Zuckerberg created Facebook to get back at a girl that unceremoniously dumped him while on a date is implausible at best, but Sorkin being Sorkin almost makes it work.
Director David Fincher makes the film look and sound like an Oliver Stone picture at times. That's not necessarily a compliment, although to be sure Stone has made a few very good films. The film is generally devoid of any kind of manipulative emotion. Personally, I don't mind a good dash of manipulative emotion in film. One of the reasons I happen to be a Spielberg fan.
I had a buddy of mine over the other night for dinner, John Bader. John is one of the few people who's opinion I nearly always respect when it comes to film, television and stage. When I asked him about 'The Social Network,' John said, quite succinctly, "I didn't care for it" and left it at that. I thought it a curiously snippy answer coming from John who can be terribly effusive about his opinions at times.
Once I saw the film I realized why. John, like a lot of us old codgers, has become in his middle years an incurable optimist. 'The Social Network' is one of the least optimistic movies I've seen for quite awhile.
I won't bother you, Gentle Reader, with the old 'inverted triangle' style of writing usually employed when scribbling criticism because nearly everyone has already seen the film and I don't really need to rehash the plot. Suffice to say it's about the creation of Facebook and the trials and tribulations therein.
This movie has all the ingredients of a really hotsy-totsy film: great writing, sharp direction, clear characterization, an unmistakable plot arc, a great score and a fascinating subject. And I couldn't have cared less.
Although Sorkin has written some really fine scripts in the film world (A Few Good Men, The American President) I think his real genius lies in a longer venue. The film lacks nuance. It lacks a sense of truly knowing who these people are. Film, most films I should say, rely on a clear cut definition of good and evil. We like to root for people, for things, for teams. Now, this is not always the case. Scorcese has made a career out of doing the exact opposite. But generally speaking, film relies on the same equation melodrama relies on: bad guys bothering good guys and then getting their come-uppance. It's a formula as old as drama itself.
Justin Timberlake is probably the best thing on the screen in terms of capturing a real person. I've known dozens of people like Timberlakes's Sean Parker in the film; bigshots with about a buck fifty in their pocket. His performance is dead on. And bless his heart, Parker came out of the whole thing with about 7 percent of Facebook in his pocket. By my calculations that would amount to something along the lines of 340 million dollars to date. Not too shabby for a guy who didn't invest a penny.
I'm a big fan of minimalist scoring and 'The Social Network' is a fine example of it. Trent Rezner and Atticus Ross have written a haunting, slight score for the film. It's one of the best things about it, actually.
Like all of Sorkin's work, this piece could easily be a play for the stage. The stage is where Sorkin found his chops and his best work is riddled with precise dialogue and perfectly situated 'beginning, middle and end' scenework. He is a master at the 'martini line,' that is to say the final line in a scene that serves as the exclamation point. Regardless of one's overall feeling for the film, Sorkin's writing is, as always, nearly beyond reproach. He's just so damn good at what he does.
Unfortunately, I just didn't much care this time. A long, winding, detailed story about how billionaires screwed people out of money is not my idea of a satisfying evening. Especially when the people depicted as the ones who actually got screwed are as greedy, uncaring and morally vapid as the ones doing the screwing.
In the final analysis it's a film about bad people doing bad things and getting away with it. My reaction to the film probably says a lot about where I am in my life right now, but I don't care. You could line every character up against a wall and shoot BBs at them and I still wouldn't care. I don't like these people. I didn't care what happened to these people. And, in the last and most telling judgement, these people bored me.
'The Social Network,' two apathetic thumbs down.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: American Idol
Last Tango in Los Angeles: American Idol: "I have to watch American Idol. I mean, I HAVE to watch it. Angie adores the show and will brook no argument. If it comes on, it's on our ..."
Last Tango in Los Angeles: American Idol
Last Tango in Los Angeles: American Idol: "I have to watch American Idol. I mean, I HAVE to watch it. Angie adores the show and will brook no argument. If it comes on, it's on our ..."
American Idol
I have to watch American Idol. I mean, I HAVE to watch it. Angie adores the show and will brook no argument. If it comes on, it's on our television. Period.
I pretend to find it distracting. But the truth is, I sort of like it. I can see the television from my office, sitting at my desk, and spend a lot of time craning my neck and peeping at it while it's on.
In it's own way, it's impressive, I guess. But it is a constant reminder that I'm gettting older. None of these folks seem to 'sing' so much as they seem to be 'caterwauling.' Now, don't get me wrong, I don't even pretend to be trained singer. I'm really not. I can sometimes carry a tune if a revolver is pointed at my temple, but that's about it. But like most people, I know what I like. And I don't care for caterwauling. There's a cat in our barnyard-influenced neighborhood that supplies all the caterwauling I need. Incidentally, his name is Isaac and he's the most insolent cat I've ever met. He fears no dog. He chews dogs up and spits 'em out. He sleeps on our car's roof at night in the driveway. Isaac is a 'cat's cat.' He's a legend among other cats. He's the Fonzie of cats.
But I digress. The problem with these American Idol kids is their inability, it appears, to simply sing a damn song, no frills, no James Brown-esque screams, no smoke and mirrors. But that's not the way it's done today, apparently, and that's why I don't let these American Idol kids play in my yard. I'm the metaphoric old man that comes out on the porch and chases them off.
There's one kid, the one with the scarf hanging out his ass like a beaver tail, who steps on the stage and screams non-stop for the next two mintues, or however long it is they get to show their wares. This kid makes me fightin' mad.
And you know, it's appalling. Not the kids so much, but my reaction to them. I'm reminded of the response my Dad always had when he heard me playing my Springsteen albums back in the late seventies. My bedroom was on the second floor of my childhood home and he'd stand at the bottom of the stairs and scream up, "Turn that shit down!" And then he'd wander off, mumbling under his breath, "Can't understand a word that damned hippie is singin'." Once I was playing Aretha Franklin and he called her a 'yelping negress.' Good Lord.
I am uncomfortably close to having that same reaction during American Idol. One of them will start singing a song, something that sounds vaguely familiar, I'll stop what I'm doing and listen intently. "What IS that?" I think to myself. "I know I've heard that somewhere." Finally, unable to stand it one more second, I call out to Angie, "What the hell is that song?" Invariably, she'll say something like, "Happy Birthday." Or, "The National Anthem." And I sit at my desk and mumble, "Can't understand a damned word that hippie is singing."
I'd like them to simply calm the f**k down and sing the damn song. That should be one of the competitions. The night they all are forced to sit in a chair, not move, and sing the melody as written. One misstep, one moment of veering off into a slight caterwaul, and they get points deducted. Maybe even give them all the same song, say, "Theme from Ice Castles." Maybe something by The Carpenters. Maybe "Weekend in New England." Maybe "Muskrat Lovin'."
I think there's a moment, a clear, distinct line in the middle of our lives, that is the actual moment we enter middle age. And that is the moment we stop seeking out new music. We're totally content with the music we know. The moment we're not really interested in hearing the new 'Radiohead' song, or the new 'Coldplay' song or whatever. We'd just as soon put on Elvis Costello and listen to a song that meant something to us twenty years ago. Oh, maybe we'd like the song if we gave it a chance, but it's just too much effort. We no longer have the strength or fortitude to listen to ten songs in order to find one that moves us.
I remember some years back, quite some years back, in fact, when I stood at the door to the now defunct Camelot Music in New York and waited for them to open so I could purchase the latest 'Smiths' album. I would never dream of doing something so asinine today. I wouldn't stand outside and wait if a store were giving out free money today. Unless, of course, it was A LOT of money. No, those days of intellectual experimentation are long gone for me.
Honest to god, it's pathetic. I have a long drive ahead of me every night to get over to Sepulvada Avenue where I do the play in which I'm currently acting. Most of the time I listen to music on the way, CDs I have in the car. Here's what I have in my car right at this very moment: Springsteen (The Promise - brilliant), Sinatra's Greatest Hits, George Jones' Greatest Hits, Tom Waits' Heart Attack and Vine, The Soundtrack to "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" (lots of great jazz tunes on that one), and (I apologize right out front for this one) Andy Williams Christmas Album. I just haven't gotten around to taking that one out, yet.
The point is, nothing new. Nothing remotely new, in fact. And I'm perfectly happy with that. I'm comforted, actually. I NEED to hear my old music to remind me who I was, how I got here. I NEED to hear Sinatra swing, "I've got the world on a string, sittin' on a rainbow...' I NEED to hear Springsteen chant, "Barefoot girl sittin' on the hood of a Dodge, drinkin' warm beer in the soft, summer rain..." I NEED to hear George Jones cry in his whiskey, "He stopped loving her today, they placed a wreath upon his door..." I need to remember that I, too, once appreciated new things, new ideas, new stuff in my life. I need to remember I was not always so stuffy and isolated. I need to remember that I, too, was once young and idealistic.
I'm not sure exactly when I crossed that invisible line into middle age. But to be honest, I'd like to step back across it sometimes and not be so damned set in my ways. I'd like to go back to that moment, sitting at a kitchen table in David Brady's apartment with a few other friends drinking Little Kings, waiting breathlessly while David cued up the song 'Drive All Night' on Springsteen's The River. David saying, "You gotta fucking hear this! It'll fucking change your life, man!" And then raising my head and stare at the ceiling while Bruce let loose a primal scream so perfect and honest as to make my eyes water. Listen once again, for the first time, to the soul-scraping lyrics, "I'd drive all night just to buy you some shoes...baby, baby, baby..." Back to that moment when anything, anything at all, was possible.
See you tomorrow.
I pretend to find it distracting. But the truth is, I sort of like it. I can see the television from my office, sitting at my desk, and spend a lot of time craning my neck and peeping at it while it's on.
In it's own way, it's impressive, I guess. But it is a constant reminder that I'm gettting older. None of these folks seem to 'sing' so much as they seem to be 'caterwauling.' Now, don't get me wrong, I don't even pretend to be trained singer. I'm really not. I can sometimes carry a tune if a revolver is pointed at my temple, but that's about it. But like most people, I know what I like. And I don't care for caterwauling. There's a cat in our barnyard-influenced neighborhood that supplies all the caterwauling I need. Incidentally, his name is Isaac and he's the most insolent cat I've ever met. He fears no dog. He chews dogs up and spits 'em out. He sleeps on our car's roof at night in the driveway. Isaac is a 'cat's cat.' He's a legend among other cats. He's the Fonzie of cats.
But I digress. The problem with these American Idol kids is their inability, it appears, to simply sing a damn song, no frills, no James Brown-esque screams, no smoke and mirrors. But that's not the way it's done today, apparently, and that's why I don't let these American Idol kids play in my yard. I'm the metaphoric old man that comes out on the porch and chases them off.
There's one kid, the one with the scarf hanging out his ass like a beaver tail, who steps on the stage and screams non-stop for the next two mintues, or however long it is they get to show their wares. This kid makes me fightin' mad.
And you know, it's appalling. Not the kids so much, but my reaction to them. I'm reminded of the response my Dad always had when he heard me playing my Springsteen albums back in the late seventies. My bedroom was on the second floor of my childhood home and he'd stand at the bottom of the stairs and scream up, "Turn that shit down!" And then he'd wander off, mumbling under his breath, "Can't understand a word that damned hippie is singin'." Once I was playing Aretha Franklin and he called her a 'yelping negress.' Good Lord.
I am uncomfortably close to having that same reaction during American Idol. One of them will start singing a song, something that sounds vaguely familiar, I'll stop what I'm doing and listen intently. "What IS that?" I think to myself. "I know I've heard that somewhere." Finally, unable to stand it one more second, I call out to Angie, "What the hell is that song?" Invariably, she'll say something like, "Happy Birthday." Or, "The National Anthem." And I sit at my desk and mumble, "Can't understand a damned word that hippie is singing."
I'd like them to simply calm the f**k down and sing the damn song. That should be one of the competitions. The night they all are forced to sit in a chair, not move, and sing the melody as written. One misstep, one moment of veering off into a slight caterwaul, and they get points deducted. Maybe even give them all the same song, say, "Theme from Ice Castles." Maybe something by The Carpenters. Maybe "Weekend in New England." Maybe "Muskrat Lovin'."
I think there's a moment, a clear, distinct line in the middle of our lives, that is the actual moment we enter middle age. And that is the moment we stop seeking out new music. We're totally content with the music we know. The moment we're not really interested in hearing the new 'Radiohead' song, or the new 'Coldplay' song or whatever. We'd just as soon put on Elvis Costello and listen to a song that meant something to us twenty years ago. Oh, maybe we'd like the song if we gave it a chance, but it's just too much effort. We no longer have the strength or fortitude to listen to ten songs in order to find one that moves us.
I remember some years back, quite some years back, in fact, when I stood at the door to the now defunct Camelot Music in New York and waited for them to open so I could purchase the latest 'Smiths' album. I would never dream of doing something so asinine today. I wouldn't stand outside and wait if a store were giving out free money today. Unless, of course, it was A LOT of money. No, those days of intellectual experimentation are long gone for me.
Honest to god, it's pathetic. I have a long drive ahead of me every night to get over to Sepulvada Avenue where I do the play in which I'm currently acting. Most of the time I listen to music on the way, CDs I have in the car. Here's what I have in my car right at this very moment: Springsteen (The Promise - brilliant), Sinatra's Greatest Hits, George Jones' Greatest Hits, Tom Waits' Heart Attack and Vine, The Soundtrack to "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" (lots of great jazz tunes on that one), and (I apologize right out front for this one) Andy Williams Christmas Album. I just haven't gotten around to taking that one out, yet.
The point is, nothing new. Nothing remotely new, in fact. And I'm perfectly happy with that. I'm comforted, actually. I NEED to hear my old music to remind me who I was, how I got here. I NEED to hear Sinatra swing, "I've got the world on a string, sittin' on a rainbow...' I NEED to hear Springsteen chant, "Barefoot girl sittin' on the hood of a Dodge, drinkin' warm beer in the soft, summer rain..." I NEED to hear George Jones cry in his whiskey, "He stopped loving her today, they placed a wreath upon his door..." I need to remember that I, too, once appreciated new things, new ideas, new stuff in my life. I need to remember I was not always so stuffy and isolated. I need to remember that I, too, was once young and idealistic.
I'm not sure exactly when I crossed that invisible line into middle age. But to be honest, I'd like to step back across it sometimes and not be so damned set in my ways. I'd like to go back to that moment, sitting at a kitchen table in David Brady's apartment with a few other friends drinking Little Kings, waiting breathlessly while David cued up the song 'Drive All Night' on Springsteen's The River. David saying, "You gotta fucking hear this! It'll fucking change your life, man!" And then raising my head and stare at the ceiling while Bruce let loose a primal scream so perfect and honest as to make my eyes water. Listen once again, for the first time, to the soul-scraping lyrics, "I'd drive all night just to buy you some shoes...baby, baby, baby..." Back to that moment when anything, anything at all, was possible.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The New Post 50 Clif.
After my culinary blow-out a couple nights ago at 'Islands' (my favorite burger joint here in LA) I decided the time had come to acknowledge my tiger blood and Adonis DNA and get back on the health wagon. So my wife and I made a trip to the heretofor mythical 'Trader Joe's' and gathered up a ton of healthy food. Everything from no-sugar, no-flour, no-taste peanut butter paste (questionably called peanut butter in the first place) to vegetable juice made from baby yak droppings to high fiber cereal which is essentially just a bowl of grass and gravel. No matter. I'm ready for it. I'm psyched up.
In addition I'm on a mission to lose the weight I gained for Adding Machine (although if you ask Angie she'll tell you I gained the weight despite Adding Machine). In my mind, I was suffering for my art. Regardless, I'm about twenty-some pounds heavier than I was four months ago. The madness has got to stop.
Here's an uncomfortable truth about aging: We get uglier. At least I do. So I've decided to embark on an anti-ugly campaign. And the first step is to get down to my fighting weight.
So the kitchen is filled with ridiculously healthy food right now. For my big 5.0. dinner last night we ate massive, Flinstonian steaks and some vegetables (courtesy of my friend, Paul). I washed it down with vegetable juice, vitamins and a can of whup-ass.
Next, as I said, comes the work-out regime. I'm starting with heavier cigarettes. Five pounders.
We usually take long walks during the day, ostensibly for the dogs, but also because it's my only form of exercise. This is coming to an end. From now on, I take the long walks while carrying a lot of change in my pocket. Up to three dollars worth at first and then later, about $7.30. All in quarters.
As you can see, I'm not taking this lightly.
As for the actual 'ugly' part, that's going to take a little more thought and care. For one thing, I'm buying more hats. A nice hat can take five or six years off you, I think, especially if it's a ball cap turned backwards. This can get tricky. Some hats don't help at all. For example a top hat doesn't really help unless you happen to be an emo hanging out all day at Venice Beach on a tall tricycle.
Also, I'm going to start wearing t-shirts that are one size too small. I'm told this will emphasize my biceps. I have some, in fact, that fit the bill but they've got the AARP logo on them. I think a simple strip of duct tape might be just the ticket.
I also need to work on my carriage. I say, my carriage. That's the way one moves, the way one walks. Mostly I walk with a sort of hunched, shuffling gait. It's because I'm fifty years old and standing up straight makes my back hurt.
And keep the head up, high and imposing, never looking down. This is a good thing to keep in mind while walking. Mostly I look down, constantly on the lookout for anything that might make me trip and dislocate a hip. Youth is all about confidence, I'm told.
The youthful walk should be somewhere between John Wayne and a pigeon-toed computer mope. This suggests masculinity without ostentation.
I've also purchased some 'wrinkle free' lotion that will allegedly smooth out all my face crinkles. This product is endorsed by Joe Pesci. I'll apply it daily until the only discernable feature left on my face is my eyebrows.
And finally, I've started an online course learning to talk in a hipper, more stupid friendly vernacular. I now call my wife 'Money' and any close friend, 'Dog' or 'Dawg.' Never 'Cat.' Cat is out. Dog is in. I refer to Angie sometimes as my 'Baby Mama.' I only do this around people who don't know us, though, otherwise it's just confusing.
I've also purchased some new jeans with enormous waist sizes and constantly keep one hand tucked inside them and plainly cupped around my genitals. This is actually more difficult than it sounds because if I don't stay concentrated it just looks like my Uncle Ernie after Thanksgiving.
So the new, improved, hipper, slimmer, sassy Clif is in the works. I've hung a massive poster of Justin Beiber in the bathroom. I'm using it as a prototype. I'm thinking by June, July at the latest, it will be nearly impossible to tell us apart.
In the next few weeks I'll start changing my musical tastes, too. I'm throwing out all my early Springsteen, all my Sinatra, all my Tom Waits and Joni Mitchell, and replacing it with, well, I don't know who. Maybe the 'Best of American Idol.' But that may be a bit too utilitarian. Maybe Will Smith's daughter. She's got some poignant stuff out, I'm told. Or maybe some rap. I've been far too cloistered when it comes to rap. Maybe I'll go out and buy some M and M. I hear he's good.
So I'm very excited about all these changes. Goodbye to ugly, fat, insufferable Clif and hello to slim, pretty, vacant Clif. Fifty is the new twelve, after all.
And to prove to the world that I'm serious about this new lifestyle, I intentionally lost a game of Trivial Pursuit last night. Smart is simply not hip. It was not easy. But I needed to. Besides, the guy who won needed it more than I. The last time he'd won a game, any game, was a drunken game of 'Clue' nearly forty years ago. And he beat two infants and a restaurant manager, so there was no real sense of victory. Frankly, it made me feel good about myself to let him win.
See you tomorrow.
In addition I'm on a mission to lose the weight I gained for Adding Machine (although if you ask Angie she'll tell you I gained the weight despite Adding Machine). In my mind, I was suffering for my art. Regardless, I'm about twenty-some pounds heavier than I was four months ago. The madness has got to stop.
Here's an uncomfortable truth about aging: We get uglier. At least I do. So I've decided to embark on an anti-ugly campaign. And the first step is to get down to my fighting weight.
So the kitchen is filled with ridiculously healthy food right now. For my big 5.0. dinner last night we ate massive, Flinstonian steaks and some vegetables (courtesy of my friend, Paul). I washed it down with vegetable juice, vitamins and a can of whup-ass.
Next, as I said, comes the work-out regime. I'm starting with heavier cigarettes. Five pounders.
We usually take long walks during the day, ostensibly for the dogs, but also because it's my only form of exercise. This is coming to an end. From now on, I take the long walks while carrying a lot of change in my pocket. Up to three dollars worth at first and then later, about $7.30. All in quarters.
As you can see, I'm not taking this lightly.
As for the actual 'ugly' part, that's going to take a little more thought and care. For one thing, I'm buying more hats. A nice hat can take five or six years off you, I think, especially if it's a ball cap turned backwards. This can get tricky. Some hats don't help at all. For example a top hat doesn't really help unless you happen to be an emo hanging out all day at Venice Beach on a tall tricycle.
Also, I'm going to start wearing t-shirts that are one size too small. I'm told this will emphasize my biceps. I have some, in fact, that fit the bill but they've got the AARP logo on them. I think a simple strip of duct tape might be just the ticket.
I also need to work on my carriage. I say, my carriage. That's the way one moves, the way one walks. Mostly I walk with a sort of hunched, shuffling gait. It's because I'm fifty years old and standing up straight makes my back hurt.
And keep the head up, high and imposing, never looking down. This is a good thing to keep in mind while walking. Mostly I look down, constantly on the lookout for anything that might make me trip and dislocate a hip. Youth is all about confidence, I'm told.
The youthful walk should be somewhere between John Wayne and a pigeon-toed computer mope. This suggests masculinity without ostentation.
I've also purchased some 'wrinkle free' lotion that will allegedly smooth out all my face crinkles. This product is endorsed by Joe Pesci. I'll apply it daily until the only discernable feature left on my face is my eyebrows.
And finally, I've started an online course learning to talk in a hipper, more stupid friendly vernacular. I now call my wife 'Money' and any close friend, 'Dog' or 'Dawg.' Never 'Cat.' Cat is out. Dog is in. I refer to Angie sometimes as my 'Baby Mama.' I only do this around people who don't know us, though, otherwise it's just confusing.
I've also purchased some new jeans with enormous waist sizes and constantly keep one hand tucked inside them and plainly cupped around my genitals. This is actually more difficult than it sounds because if I don't stay concentrated it just looks like my Uncle Ernie after Thanksgiving.
So the new, improved, hipper, slimmer, sassy Clif is in the works. I've hung a massive poster of Justin Beiber in the bathroom. I'm using it as a prototype. I'm thinking by June, July at the latest, it will be nearly impossible to tell us apart.
In the next few weeks I'll start changing my musical tastes, too. I'm throwing out all my early Springsteen, all my Sinatra, all my Tom Waits and Joni Mitchell, and replacing it with, well, I don't know who. Maybe the 'Best of American Idol.' But that may be a bit too utilitarian. Maybe Will Smith's daughter. She's got some poignant stuff out, I'm told. Or maybe some rap. I've been far too cloistered when it comes to rap. Maybe I'll go out and buy some M and M. I hear he's good.
So I'm very excited about all these changes. Goodbye to ugly, fat, insufferable Clif and hello to slim, pretty, vacant Clif. Fifty is the new twelve, after all.
And to prove to the world that I'm serious about this new lifestyle, I intentionally lost a game of Trivial Pursuit last night. Smart is simply not hip. It was not easy. But I needed to. Besides, the guy who won needed it more than I. The last time he'd won a game, any game, was a drunken game of 'Clue' nearly forty years ago. And he beat two infants and a restaurant manager, so there was no real sense of victory. Frankly, it made me feel good about myself to let him win.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
I Got Steaks.
Yesterday a young man came to our door and said, "Want some steaks?" I said, "Pardon me?" He said, "Got some steaks here. Want some?" It took me a second to process. Then I said, "Um, no, thanks, we've already got steaks." Which was true, we did have some steaks. He rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah, right, you've got some steaks." And then he turned sharply and walked away.
It wasn't a very good pitch. In fact, I'm not altogether sure he wasn't referring to 'stakes' as in 'a stake to kill a vampire with.'
Either way, he just wasn't a very good salesman.
I'm not a very good salesman, either, so I could identify.
I turn fifty today and all week I've been trying to figure out what I wanted to do to commemorate the day. At first, Angie and I were going to go over to this hoity-toity Italian place in Pasadena, get dressed up in our sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes and really do it up right. But I decided I didn't wanna do that.
Last night in a pre-birthday celebration we had dinner at a place called 'Islands,' which specialized in burgers. It was fun and I like the place. I'm a burger fan.
The whole thing was dampened a bit because I'd seen my doctor again yesterday morning. She's still trying to figure out my various health issues regarding the 'silent killer,' diabetes, which has been a pain in my ass for the past six or seven months or whatever. The latest complication has been a recurring bout of dizziness. It's playing hell on my work in the play because I'm constantly concerned about dropping over like a ten-pin at any given moment. Consequently, my performance has become a bit delicate which is not the way I like to do the role. This role requires a 'bull in a china shop' approach.
So we're still deciding things.
I was thinking back last night on all the birthdays that have come before. Forty nine of them, to be precise.
And I was a little surprised to realize that frankly I couldn't remember what I'd done on most of them. A few, I could. Some had been quite joyous, I think. Mostly I remember them through photographs; me holding a cake at a theatre in Iowa, me holding a cake at a theatre in Virginia, me holding a cake at a theatre in Florida. Clearly, I'd been on the road for a lot of birthdays.
No one of note was born on my birthday, really. Frederic Chopin and I share the day...but that's nothing to write home about. That's sort of depressing. Although I wish Fred the best, of course.
My dogs, Franny and Zooey, don't seem to know or care that it's my birthday, which is painful because we always do something special on their birthdays.
There are other birthdays, other people, I mean, that I've celebrated more than my own. I used to get blind drunk on Marlon Brando's birthday. My buddy, Jim, and I used to celebrate Laurence Olivier's birthday. And I used to hoist a few on Shakespeare's birthday with a buddy of mine in New York.
Turning fifty is weird for me on a whole bunch of levels. One is, I don't deserve to turn fifty. And I don't mean that in any maudlin sense. It's just true. I honestly don't deserve to be fifty. A lifetime of placing myself squaringly in harm's way justifies that feeling. I have heard the proverbial bullet whiz past my ear so often that sometimes I feel like a circus act.
But that was then and this is now.
I have some writing to do. Work on the new piece. And the dogs need walking. As do I. And I have to put some oil in the car. And we need some more gas or oil or keroseen or urine or whatever it is we put in our grill to make it light up. So I'll go buy some of that. I have to finish writing a business plan for our new venture. I need to purchase a new 'kit' that checks my 'numbers' for this 'silent killer' crap. I don't want any presents because I have everything I want or need. Although, I wouldn't mind a new Play Station game. But it's not pressing.
And upon reflection, I realized this morning that I really do have all the 'steaks' I need. We, Angie and I, have a whole house full of steaks. I have so many damned steaks I couldn't eat them all if I had steak everyday for the rest of my life. My life, day in and day out, is a life of steaks.
I just couldn't make that guy yesterday understand that while he was at the door. He didn't seem to believe me. "Yeah, right, you've got some steaks," he said. Well, I do. I wanted to say, "As God is my witness, buddy, this house is all about steaks. Every single moment is overflowing with steaks." And that's just not too shabby.
See you tomorrow.
It wasn't a very good pitch. In fact, I'm not altogether sure he wasn't referring to 'stakes' as in 'a stake to kill a vampire with.'
Either way, he just wasn't a very good salesman.
I'm not a very good salesman, either, so I could identify.
I turn fifty today and all week I've been trying to figure out what I wanted to do to commemorate the day. At first, Angie and I were going to go over to this hoity-toity Italian place in Pasadena, get dressed up in our sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes and really do it up right. But I decided I didn't wanna do that.
Last night in a pre-birthday celebration we had dinner at a place called 'Islands,' which specialized in burgers. It was fun and I like the place. I'm a burger fan.
The whole thing was dampened a bit because I'd seen my doctor again yesterday morning. She's still trying to figure out my various health issues regarding the 'silent killer,' diabetes, which has been a pain in my ass for the past six or seven months or whatever. The latest complication has been a recurring bout of dizziness. It's playing hell on my work in the play because I'm constantly concerned about dropping over like a ten-pin at any given moment. Consequently, my performance has become a bit delicate which is not the way I like to do the role. This role requires a 'bull in a china shop' approach.
So we're still deciding things.
I was thinking back last night on all the birthdays that have come before. Forty nine of them, to be precise.
And I was a little surprised to realize that frankly I couldn't remember what I'd done on most of them. A few, I could. Some had been quite joyous, I think. Mostly I remember them through photographs; me holding a cake at a theatre in Iowa, me holding a cake at a theatre in Virginia, me holding a cake at a theatre in Florida. Clearly, I'd been on the road for a lot of birthdays.
No one of note was born on my birthday, really. Frederic Chopin and I share the day...but that's nothing to write home about. That's sort of depressing. Although I wish Fred the best, of course.
My dogs, Franny and Zooey, don't seem to know or care that it's my birthday, which is painful because we always do something special on their birthdays.
There are other birthdays, other people, I mean, that I've celebrated more than my own. I used to get blind drunk on Marlon Brando's birthday. My buddy, Jim, and I used to celebrate Laurence Olivier's birthday. And I used to hoist a few on Shakespeare's birthday with a buddy of mine in New York.
Turning fifty is weird for me on a whole bunch of levels. One is, I don't deserve to turn fifty. And I don't mean that in any maudlin sense. It's just true. I honestly don't deserve to be fifty. A lifetime of placing myself squaringly in harm's way justifies that feeling. I have heard the proverbial bullet whiz past my ear so often that sometimes I feel like a circus act.
But that was then and this is now.
I have some writing to do. Work on the new piece. And the dogs need walking. As do I. And I have to put some oil in the car. And we need some more gas or oil or keroseen or urine or whatever it is we put in our grill to make it light up. So I'll go buy some of that. I have to finish writing a business plan for our new venture. I need to purchase a new 'kit' that checks my 'numbers' for this 'silent killer' crap. I don't want any presents because I have everything I want or need. Although, I wouldn't mind a new Play Station game. But it's not pressing.
And upon reflection, I realized this morning that I really do have all the 'steaks' I need. We, Angie and I, have a whole house full of steaks. I have so many damned steaks I couldn't eat them all if I had steak everyday for the rest of my life. My life, day in and day out, is a life of steaks.
I just couldn't make that guy yesterday understand that while he was at the door. He didn't seem to believe me. "Yeah, right, you've got some steaks," he said. Well, I do. I wanted to say, "As God is my witness, buddy, this house is all about steaks. Every single moment is overflowing with steaks." And that's just not too shabby.
See you tomorrow.
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