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.

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.

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.

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.

My First Celebrity.

Today is Oscar day, usually a fun day for people in my business regardless where they are, but especially serious in Los Angeles. Last year Angie and I had a whole gaggle of people over with ballots and prizes and trivia questions and homemade chili. This year we're not doing any of that. Just the two of us and a quiet night at home after I finish the matinee of Adding Machine.

For one thing, I've hardly seen any of the nominees. We've officially turned into a Netflix/cable kinda household. A clear sign of aging. We did see 'Winter's Bone' because we had a close friend in it. And we saw 'True Grit' because I love westerns. But, I blush to confess, that's about it, really.

The times, they are a-changin'. There were many years in which I'd never dream of not seeing one of the nominees.

Like most actors, when I was very young, I practiced my Oscar speech late at night while drifting off to sleep. I was always very magnanimous. "It's such an honor to even be nominated with Jack Nicholson, Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino and Jay Silverheels." Or whatever.

A few years back a good buddy of mine actually attended the Oscars, live and in person. Had a reserved seat, the whole thing. I was very impressed. He told me he peed in the urinal next to Denzel Washington. I was doubly impressed.

Coming face to face with a certain kind of celebrity is an interesting thing. When I first moved to NY a gillion years ago, I often encountered celebrity. At first it was always sort of world rocking. Eventually, of course, it became rather old hat. In New York there's an unwritten law, of sorts, that says you can't bother celebs. Not like Chicago or LA. In Chicago people swoon and faint and carry on like toddlers around a birthday clown. I guess that's because Chicago is, deep down, just a big, midwestern small town. In LA it appears to be no big deal but because it's such a spread out place, the celebrity sightings are not nearly as common as one might think. Although it certainly happens. But in NY I ran across so many recognizable names and faces and the rule of thumb was, 'don't bother them.'

As I got older it became not such a big deal. I worked with high profile people onstage myself. I drank beer with people I'd seen on the afternoon 'bowling for dollars' movie as a kid. The entire idea of 'celebrity' lost it's luster for me.

But there are still a few that captured my attention. People that got my blood up even after many jaded years in this business. One was running across the late Paul Newman after a play one night. Another time was during a brief visit to LA many years ago and accidentally bumping into a vry old Ray Bolger. Still another was flagging the same cab during a drizzly afternoon as Woody Allen. And still another was a spur-of-the-moment conversation with Rex Harrison a few months before he died. Celebrity, in general, doesn't really do much for me these days, but there are those still that make me feel like a kid again. And finally, there was a life-changing chance meeting with Muhammad Ali in a diner on 36th and Third in the city.

My first encounter with celebrity was at the age of ten in Missouri. When I was a boy I was completely fascinated with professional wrestling. I all but held my breath until Saturday nights when 'Wrestling at the Chase' or 'All-Star Wrestling' came on tv. Even today I can remember the wrestlers in startling detail: Dory Funk, Jr., Handsome Harley Race, Jack Briscoe, Dick the Bruiser, Black Jack Lanza, Baron Von Rashke, Rufus R. Jones, Hans Schmidt, Terry Funk, Johnny Valentine, Nature Boy Roger Kirby ('Nature Boy?'). This was long before professional wrestlers were the chiseled, monstrous, massively huge specimens they are today. No, these were mostly middle-aged tubby guys in speedos.

In any event, the local Optimists Club (a club I could would never be allowed to join today, no doubt) brought in a wrestling event at the VFW hall. I took along some notebook paper and a black crayon in the hopes of getting an autograph.

One of the wrestlers featured that night was a guy who went by the name 'Lord Alfred Hayes.' He was a British Lord that had, inexplicably, decided to become a professional wrestler. At least, that was his backstory. So after 'Lord Alfred Hayes' finished pinning his rival for the night, he left the ring and disappeared into the temporary dressing rooms. And for some reason decided a bit later to come out and watch the rest of the program. He was standing in the back in his street clothes directly behind me. Up to that point I'd been unsuccessful in getting an autograph from any of the wrestlers. But suddenly I turned around and there, towering over me, was 'Lord Alfred Hayes.'

I had recently heard on the news that the hockey player, Bobby Orr, had purchased a ranch in Montana. So, at the age of ten, I assumed that's what famous people did, they purchased ranches in Montana. When I turned around and realized 'Lord Alfred Hayes' was standing right beside me, close enough to touch, I was speechless. I thrust my paper and crayon at him. Wordlessly he took it and scribbled something that looked like 'Libby Alfling Habs' (I still have the autograph). Then, remembering the hockey player on the news, I blurted out, "How is your ranch in Montana?"

Lord Alfred Hayes paused a moment to be sure he'd heard me right. Finally, he drew himself up, stared sternly at me (he was a 'bad guy' in the ring) and said, "I don't have a ranch. I have a castle." He prounounced the word 'castle' especially British. And, much like years later when my friend peed next to Denzel Washington, I was very, very impressed.

The funny thing is, today, quickly approaching fifty, having been onstage with scads of celebs, hung out with them, drank with them, laughed with the newsworthy, argued with the recognizable, eaten dinner with the noteworthy, I think I'd still get tongue-tied if I ever came across 'Lord Alfred Hayes' again. Your first celebrity is a powerful thing.

See you tomorrow.

A Night Out.

My wife and I decided to try out the Thai restaurant up the street from us last night for dinner. I love having dinner with my wife in a restaurant. We giggle a lot. Bless her heart, for some strange reason she still finds me amusing on occasion. And vice versa.

For the life of me, I don't know how this place stays open. I've never seen a single soul in there. Years ago, in NY, I was between acting gigs and decided to get a job waiting tables again for awhile. Back then it was relatively easy to find a job waiting tables. These days, I'm told, getting a job waiting tables is almost as tough as it is to get a job on a network series. Anyway, so I wander into this place in Chelsea one day and drop off a resume. This must've been around 1989 or so.

The place was owned by two women, lovers as it turned out, and one was the manager and one was the chef. They specialized in free-range food. The restaurant was called 'The Restaurant with No Name.' That was the actual name of the place. They hired me on the spot and asked if I could begin that night. I was delighted. So I show up for work a few hours later and they put me immediately 'on the floor.' I stood there all night. No one came in to eat. The next night, same thing. The third night, same thing. Just me and the two hopeful lesbians. It got to be sort of embarrassing. Someone would wander by, pause briefly to glance at the menu on the door, we'd all stand up and brush our clothes, attentive faces frozen in tight smiles, the would-be customer would look in and see us, far too eager, nearly ready to run out and physically drag him into the place, he'd get a little frightened and slowly wander off. We'd glance uncomfortably at each other, sit back down and watch the clock. Finally, after the third night on the job I told them I couldn't come back. I said, as nicely as possible, they might consider changing the name to 'The Restaurant with No Customers.'

Anyway, that's sort of how this Thai place is on the corner. Angie and sat there, alone in the place, eating our Phad Toe Fung or whatever, while they all sort of stared at us and rushed over to fill our water after every sip. Once they were a little late on that part and I suggested we lower the tip.

But that's not the point. The point is, I love being alone with my wife. I don't have many close friends. This, I'd like to think anyway, is by design. I'm simply one of those people that has never really allowed myself to be too accessible. Angie knows this about me and frequently comments on it. She, of course, is just the opposite. She has a whole gaggle of close friends. Her demeanor is open and caring and if you're her friend, chances are you're her friend for life. Me, I'm more like Dick Nixon at a picnic. Uncomfortable with small talk and too severe for idle chit chat. I wasn't always that way. But it's the way I choose to live today.

I have two close friends in Los Angeles. And I'd do anything for them. Both, not surprisingly, have been friends for many years. They both knew me when I was not so guarded, not so distant, not so insular. And they both stood beside me when terrible things were happening in my life.

At the moment I'm doing this little skit out at The Odyssey Theatre called 'The Adding Machine.' Often times I have someone I know in the audience and am compelled to go out front to the lobby and say hello after a performance. I rarely do this sort of thing, not because I'm a snob or arrogant or anything else, but because it makes me intensely uncomfortable. I don't take compliments well, like a lot of actors I know, and the whole backslapping, 'loved your work,' kinda thing just makes me squirm. Not to mention the whole backslapping, 'hated your work' kinda thing. The other cast members are always giving me amused grief about it. In fact, a few weeks ago I actually went out front for a moment after the show and the house manager rushed over to me and asked urgently if I was alright.

So anyway, there we are, my wife and I, sitting alone in this Thai place, making each other smile and grimace and titter, a little chilly 'cause it's cold in LA these days, and I look around and think to myself, 'this is it. This is my life. This is the moment I've cultivated for fifty years.' And I was perfectly content with it.

I thnk most of that contentment has to do with a buried sense of gratitude. I don't express it enough, at least not out loud. I'm writing a new piece these days, working title 'The Promise,' although I'm sure that will eventually change, and there's a pivotal monologue in the second act as one of the characters tries to express how difficult it is to climb out of his own hole of self-exile from the world. Sounds a little high-falutin' but it makes perfect sense in the context of the play, I hope. Anyway, I can't seem to find the exact words to use in the monologue. The words that might make the speech universal. I've been thinking about it a lot over the past few weeks. I didn't have a solution. Sometimes when I get snagged on a moment like this in my writing I just have to let it percolate for a little while until I see or hear something that opens the flood gates. Last night at that empty Thai place was one of those moments.

It occurred to me that being alone was not always the result, the settlement, the sad ending, but rather a choice, a solution. I'd been approaching the speech from the wrong direction. It's not a rant but a testimony. Not an inevitability, but a decision. I've been thinking about it all night and woke early this morning, around five a.m., and finally decided to write it that way.

We, my wife and I, live in the 'Rancho Distict' of Burbank/Glendale. That is to say, the area near the Equestrian Center where nearly everyone in the neighborhood has horses in their backyard, us included. It's sort of like living in Green Acres right smack dab in the middle of Los Angeles. Our neighbor has a rooster. He begins his morning keening (the rooster, not the neighbor) around this time everyday. Aside from the distant train whistles I used to hear laying in bed as a boy in my hometown in Missouri a couple of centuries ago, it may be the most mournful sound I've ever heard. It sounds so terribly alone to me. So isolated. But when the rooster is approached, he quickly runs away and becomes sullen and watchful and silent. I feel very much at home living next to that rooster.

See you tomorrow.

Sheen, Lohan and Arquette.

You know, there's been an inordinate amount of interest and commentary on addiction as of late, Charlie Sheen, Lindsay Lohan, and yesterday on Oprah, David Arquette. I am filled with personal thoughts about all of this, of course, but I hesitate to throw my opinion into the mix.

Some years back I did something I said I'd never, ever do: I went back to school. But not to get my Ph.D. or anything like that. I decided to go back and get my C.A.D.C. For those not familiar with that, it stands for Certified Alcohol and Drug Counselor.

I even dropped out of the theatre world for a few years in order to do something noble, something 'hands on,' something that might help people and not just this silly little 'pretend' business I had been in all my life. I was very serious and very committed. I thought I could possibly change the world in some small way. I was an idiot.

This subject is so deep, so full of pitfalls, so complicated, so full of misunderstanding it is, frankly, nearly impossible to weigh in with anything in the least bit helpful. So I won't try. Besides, after a few years I threw up my hands in disgust and walked away from drug and alcohol counseling. The primary reason is the simple fact that it is just overflowing with hypocrisy. And, like Holden Caulfield, it is the one thing above all others that brings out the devil in me.

My wife likes these shows on television about interventions and rehabilitations and these so-called experts yammering on about how to 'beat addiction.' I occasionally watch them with her. The difference is I watch with a jaded and cynical eye and she watches with her usual optimistic and hopeful eye.

Alcoholics Anonymous is, in my opinion, at its very core, the most altruistic social movement of the twentieth century. It has saved countless lives. It is an organization, on paper anyway, absolutely free of selfish motives. Unfortunately, it is run by human beings. And because of that, it regularly falls morally short of its ideals.

Charlie Sheen recently called AA 'brainwashing.' Gasps of offense were heard around the world. But you know what? He's right. That's exactly what AA is. It has never pretended to be anything else. It is brainwashing in the same sense Christianity is brainwashing, or capitalism, or socialism, or any other code of living that requires a single paradigm shift in one's thinking. Ultimately, and I'm sure this will upset many who have built their lives around it, it is a band-aid for the disease of addiction, at best. In addition, it not only encourages, it demands a completely new and often uncomfortable way of looking at life. And that, Gentle Reader, is no small potato, it's huge, it's massive, it's the difference between life and death for many.

The problem is, unless one is ready to live this new life every single moment for the rest of eternity it is doomed to failure.

Now don't misunderstand, I've known men and women to achieve sobriety and maintain it for thirty, forty, fifty years and more. They are people who've thrown off their 'demons' and have accepted and embraced this new way of thinking, this new way of living. They have somehow managed to build a bridge over that impossibly deep canyon called 'faith.' But not without cost. Not without struggle. A phrase in the 'program' as it is called by insiders, is 'one day at a time.' In other words, it's impossible to visualize a lifetime of sobriety. But it is possible to not take a drink or do a drug for twenty-four hours. Sometimes, in fact, in the beginning, it's 'one hour at a time,' or 'one minute at a time.' For those not afflicted with this most misunderstood disease, this is incomprehensible.

I've written an entire play about it, in fact. Praying Small. A very successful play, in the final analysis. Written when I was not so sullied by the human element of AA. But the play, at best, only scratches the surface.

Here's the thing about addiction: there is no known cure. Sobriety is contingent on one's 'daily maintenance, physically and spiritually.' And again, that ain't no small thing.

Okay, I've sort of wandered away from my point. I digress. The point is, I suppose, that Lohan and Sheen live in a reality that cannot be easily judged. And, not to drop names, but way, way back in my NY days I hoisted a few with Charlie. Our paths crossed often in a class we were both taking. Obviously, we didn't stay in touch and I'd be surprised if he even remembered who I am now.

This addiction business is an indescribably depressing subject. The recidivism rate is off the charts. And those not afflicted are always astounded by this. But why shouldn't it be? There is no cure. It's not now, nor has it ever been, a question of 'just say no.' That's as ludicrous as just saying no to cancer. Nancy Reagan, as well-intentioned as I'm sure she was, set back twelve-step programs decades with that little catch-phrase.

And then there was that jaw-dropping interview with David Arquette yesterday on Oprah. Angie and I got into a gentle disagreement over that. I was, frankly, appalled. Here this guy is, TWO WEEKS out of rehab, and he goes on national television to say he 'now has the tools' to cope with this disease. Good Lord, that's tantamount to someone going on national television and announcing they've discovered the path to world peace in the past week. Now, believe me, I understand the zealousness of the recently converted. But years in the business of recovery as a counselor has taught me how ludicrous that is.

I suspect Mr. Arquette had ulterior motives. Probably trying to get his wife back. Nothing wrong with that. Just terribly misguided. And this whole 'ulterior motives' thing is exactly why the success rate of AA has been estimated at somewhere around five percent. Yes. Ninety-five percent, or thereabouts, of the people who turn to AA for help eventually drink or do drugs again. It's a statistic AA is not especially proud of. But five percent is better than no percent.

My own personal journey has been littered with mistakes, bad decisions, rage, anger, shame, resentment, relapse and remorse. I have no answers, not a single one. I'd like to make that clear.

I have friends in 'the program' who get awfully stringent about it after awhile. Especially the 'old timers' as they're called. The brainwashing has been successful and they are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is only one way to get and stay sober: AA and the Big Book (the 'how to' manual written mostly by one of the founders, Bill Wilson). And one certainly can't argue with success; it worked for them. And I don't necessarily think they're wrong, I just think their lack of imagination is wrong.

Old time AAers are the most inflexible people I know. They've discarded the chains of addiction and replaced them with a very unattractive sense of piety. It's my way or the highway with them. And for someone with a day, maybe a week, of sobriety, that is the very last thing in the world they want to hear. They somehow manage to turn AA into an organization of exclusion. In some ways it's unforgivable. They have, in another phrase bandied about in the rooms of AA, 'forgotten where they come from.' They, over the years, begin to mistake time for rank. They become authority figures in their own minds. And the last thing a newly recovering addict wants to find while reaching out for help is a self-deluded drill sergeant who considers them a private.

Here's the sad thing about addiction: some die. Some die. A sentence in the Big Book explains the focus of AA is 'attraction, not promotion.' In other words, a newly sober person sees someone who is apparently living a meaningful and happy life and says to him or herself, "I want that. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that." It's a great theory. But it only works if they see someone who actually is living a meaningful and happy life. And thirty years of physically not taking a drink does not mean that. In my experience some of the unhappiest people I know are people with a butt load of sobriety. And, by the same token, a few of the happiest people I know are people with a butt load of sobriety. The point is time sober does not, by any stretch of the imagination, equal rank. Most of the time it means they've simply gone an awfully long time without a hangover.

One of the most dangerous things in the world is to give an addict, any addict, a title. You can bet the farm they'll eventually abuse their authority (see our ex President). A buddy of mine was once actually booed at a meeting when he said out loud, 'Sobriety corrupts and absolute sobriety corrupts absolutely.' I thought he was dead on and applauded.

In any event, I, like so many others, have an encyclopedia of advice for Lindsay and Charlie. But AA, with the possible exception of death itself, is the most personal journey one can ever hope to take. My advice is based upon my experience on that journey. And it's probably all wrong. It's probably just another pile of bullshit. It's probably about as helpful as tits on a bull.

Alas, I'm most likely nearly alone in this thinking.

Robert Downey, Jr. was recently on the television program, The View. The redheaded broad, can't remember her name, asked him what he would say to Charlie Sheen if he had a chance to talk to him. Now remember, Downey, sadly, had to deal with his addiction demons in an all too public manner. Against all odds, he's pushed through and, by all accounts, is living a relatively content life now. He smiled tightly and replied, "I'd say to him what I'd say to him." Good for you, Robert Downey, Jr. Good for you.

See you tomorrow.