Saturday, June 4, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Wig
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Wig: "We have a thrift store near us, a good one, not the usual dirty, dusty, chaotic type affair that one usually associates with thrift stores...."
The Wig
We have a thrift store near us, a good one, not the usual dirty, dusty, chaotic type affair that one usually associates with thrift stores. It's very clean and extremely well organized with a massive selection of used clothing and knick-knacks and kitchen ware and books, etc. We really like it. We pop over there every now and then to see what they have and yesterday we were rewarded with several fun and interesting items. Now, as nice as it is, it is not our all-time favorite thrift store. No, that title belongs to one over in NoHo, just a few miles from us, called 'It's a Wrap.' That thrift store is our favorite. Because 'It's a Wrap' has a contract or agreement of some sort with all of the studios in Hollywood and gets their hand me downs. Amazing clothing to be had there for a song and a dance.
But this other one, the one we dropped into yesterday, is much larger and has a much more pedestrian selection of goods. And on Fridays, the usual inexpensive prices are an additional half off.
The first thing I found there yesterday were some brand new, 18 ounce training gloves. Boxing gloves. They're like new and I hung them up in the office. They also have a huge selection of hard back books, all for a buck, and I picked up ten or twelve. Angie was off in the kitchen ware area picking up some stuff. That's when I came across the wig.
It's a short, grey/white wig perfectly matching my hair, or what's left of it anyway. It was all tangled and messy but I put it on and walked over to Angie. She was aghast. So for three bucks we bought it. Turns out it's a 'Tony of Beverly Hills' wig, which online goes for about 200 bucks. She combs it all up and puts it on and, presto-change-o, we were astounded. Now, obviously, it looks like I'm wearing a wig. But that wasn't the point. It gave me a real idea of what I might have looked like had I not been cursed with male pattern baldness.
Frankly, I really never gave a lot of thought about going bald. It never concerned me too much. I think, in retrospect, I would rather have NOT gone bald, but I never took the time to fret over it. My concerns about going bald were entirely professional, not vanity related. In fact, I remember the first time I really noticed it was an inevitability was about 1993 or so. I was doing another Arthur in 'Camelot' up in Pennsylvania and the photographer was taking shots from the balcony of the theater. A few days later I got a look at his 'proof sheet,' and there, unmistakably, was the evidence of my early balding.
As the years went by, it slowly receded and finally left altogether. A little shocking, I suppose in hindsight, because I had always had a very full and thick head of hair. But, unlike a lot of people I know, it honestly didn't bother me too much.
Yesterday, however, putting it on after Angie combed it out, I was given a quick glimpse into the 'what if.' Kind of like Michael Landon in his 'Highway to Heaven' period.
I recently lost a gig, one I wanted rather badly in fact, because I looked older than I am. I alluded to it in an earlier blog. It was for the male understudy in 'God of Carnage' here in LA. I would have been understudying James Gandolfini and Jeff Daniels. It came down, after a couple of weeks, to me and another guy. They went with the other guy, obviously. Now, I wanted the gig not because I think it's such a great play, I don't. But it was a 'run of the production' contract and it would have been a couple of grand a week for doing pretty much nothing.
So my agent was informed that it was down to the two of us and we had to wait a whole weekend for the final decision. On Monday they called him and said, "Well, Clif is clearly the better actor but the director thinks he looks a little old to play the roles." I found this particularly disappointing because both Gandolfini and Daniels are older than I am, I think.
Now, as it turns it out, it was a good thing that I didn't land the gig because something else came along that I otherwise wouldn't have been available for had I done it. Nonetheless, I was a tad crestfallen.
Now that the show is closed I can write about it in this blog. I did a little checking and found out the understudy never went on for either actor. Ah, well.
But back to this wig business. I would never wear one in real life. I've always held the toupee in mild disdain. William Shatner and Burt Reynolds always come to mind. Who, exactly, does one expect to fool? And for what reason? It is the very height of vanity. Charlton Heston was legendary for never taking his wig off and swearing right to the end that he wasn't wearing one.
There are others, Connery, Malkovich, Patrick Stewart, who aren't the least bit concerned with showing their baldness in public but occasionally don a wig for a part. And then there is Nick Cage, who's rugs are becoming downright distracting.
I have, over the years, become quite comfortable with my loss of hair. I recently did a gig, Adding Machine at The Odyssey Theatre, that required me to grow it long on the sides...my hope was that I could get it long enough for a really bad 'comb over.' But I didn't have enough time to get it long enough.
I suppose, if I had my druthers, I would just as soon not have gone bald. Especially after putting the wig on yesterday. I once read somewhere that the gene for baldness comes from the mother's father. Well, that can't be true because my grandfather on my mother's side had a thick head of hair at the time of his death when he was in his late seventies. So, I don't know. Again, I've never given it a lot of thought.
I wore the wig around for awhile yesterday, long enough in fact that Angie finally said, "I don't like that gleam in your eye. You are NOT going to wear that thing in public." And that was the end of that. The truth is I was playing with the idea of wearing it out to dinner or something to see if I could get away with it.
I remember an interview on Letterman years ago. The guest was Bruce Willis, also famously bald. Letterman asked him about it. Willis said, "You just gotta be cool with who you are, man. That's all."
I liked that.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The List
Angie and I have decided we need new friends. Not because there is anything at all wrong with our old ones; in fact we love our old friends, absolutely love them. No, it's because it seems all our old friends are having babies. And babies, for the most part, put a real crimp in social functions. Babies are the bane of our social existence. For one thing they're not old enough to drink. For another they're horrible conversationalists. And finally, they go to bed entirely too early.
I have never felt very comfortable in the presence of babies. I think somewhere along the way I lost my 'baby gene.' I tend to see them as short human beings that can't walk very far without aid and this is a mistake. I don't like to hold them or carry them around. Now don't get me wrong, I perfectly understand the practical application of having babies. They come in handy down the road. It's necessary to be patient with them now so that in twenty years or so they can do the normal things that most humans do, up to and including being wildly ungrateful and generally disappointing.
Also, I'm apt to think babies in general are just sort of arrogant. They have a sense of entitlement to them I simply find inexcusable. And I've also noticed they never apologize. This irks me.
And then of course there's all the unnecessary noise. They seem altogether incapable of using their 'inside voice.' And frankly I don't see the logic in that. It's incredibly uncivilized, not to mention out and out rude at times.
They interrupt. Sometimes in the middle of a sentence or an amusing anecdote. They just burst into a wail with no thought of courtesy or decorum whatsoever. And then, as though nothing at all untoward has happened, they just stop and smile innocently. I think this is an indication of a devious mind.
I've searched for a wooden sign or doormat or something saying, "Babies Not Welcome Here" to put next to our front door but I can't find one. I did find one that said, "Actors Not Welcome Here," however. I almost bought it with the idea that I would scratch out 'Actors' and write 'Babies.' Angie stopped me at the last second.
So, long story short, we're in the process of finding new friends. We have a list of criteria, too. In fact, whenever I come across someone that might possibly be eligible for 'new friend' status, I pull it out and start checking things off:
1) Are you a Democrat? (This is a deal breaker most of the time, I'm afraid. If they answer 'no' I'm fairly certain there will be trouble down the line. Also this one question eliminates a bunch of others such as 'Is your IQ over 110?' Or, 'Do you consider yourself empathetic?' Or, 'If we were on a crashing plane with one parachute, would you use it yourself or give it to me?' Now, Angie and I do have a few Republican friends but, in our defense, they're usually Republicans that other Republicans don't really care for.)
2) Do you have a pick up truck or access to one? (This can sometimes be overlooked if the answer is 'no,' but a 'yes' goes a long ways toward friend inclusion.)
3) Do you or your spouse own and wear a lot of sports team apparel? (This is almost 100 percent effective in weeding out idiots.)
4) Do you have a book, any book, on your nightstand? (Nooks and Kindles are acceptable here.)
5) Are you particularly good at something? ('Organizing a room' or 'Taking care of babies' are not acceptable answers.)
6) Do you tend to look at social events as an excuse to dance? (This, too, can quickly sort out the undesirables.)
7) Would you describe the score to 'Summer of '42' as 'haunting and beautiful?' (No brainer here.)
8) If you were on a desert island with one TV that only showed two channels, one a continual loop of 'West Wing' reruns and the other non-stop viewings of 'Dancing with the Stars, ' which would you choose? (Again, this goes right to the heart of things.)
9) Do you listen to other people and then respond or do you wait for them to stop talking and then state your own opinion? (This is very close to #1, actually.)
10) If the ghost of George Gershwin entered your house, sat at the piano and started playing, would you sit and listen appreciatively or call the police? (This is actually more telling than it would appear on the surface.)
So there you have it. The truth is I think people should be flattered to even get so far as to be ASKED the questions on the list. Many don't. Oh, and there is a number 11, but that one is obvious: Do you now or have you any plans in the immediate future to have babies? But that one goes without saying, of course.
In any event, Angie and I have put an ad on Craigslist for these new friends. No response yet, but we're hopeful.
See you tomorrow.
I have never felt very comfortable in the presence of babies. I think somewhere along the way I lost my 'baby gene.' I tend to see them as short human beings that can't walk very far without aid and this is a mistake. I don't like to hold them or carry them around. Now don't get me wrong, I perfectly understand the practical application of having babies. They come in handy down the road. It's necessary to be patient with them now so that in twenty years or so they can do the normal things that most humans do, up to and including being wildly ungrateful and generally disappointing.
Also, I'm apt to think babies in general are just sort of arrogant. They have a sense of entitlement to them I simply find inexcusable. And I've also noticed they never apologize. This irks me.
And then of course there's all the unnecessary noise. They seem altogether incapable of using their 'inside voice.' And frankly I don't see the logic in that. It's incredibly uncivilized, not to mention out and out rude at times.
They interrupt. Sometimes in the middle of a sentence or an amusing anecdote. They just burst into a wail with no thought of courtesy or decorum whatsoever. And then, as though nothing at all untoward has happened, they just stop and smile innocently. I think this is an indication of a devious mind.
I've searched for a wooden sign or doormat or something saying, "Babies Not Welcome Here" to put next to our front door but I can't find one. I did find one that said, "Actors Not Welcome Here," however. I almost bought it with the idea that I would scratch out 'Actors' and write 'Babies.' Angie stopped me at the last second.
So, long story short, we're in the process of finding new friends. We have a list of criteria, too. In fact, whenever I come across someone that might possibly be eligible for 'new friend' status, I pull it out and start checking things off:
1) Are you a Democrat? (This is a deal breaker most of the time, I'm afraid. If they answer 'no' I'm fairly certain there will be trouble down the line. Also this one question eliminates a bunch of others such as 'Is your IQ over 110?' Or, 'Do you consider yourself empathetic?' Or, 'If we were on a crashing plane with one parachute, would you use it yourself or give it to me?' Now, Angie and I do have a few Republican friends but, in our defense, they're usually Republicans that other Republicans don't really care for.)
2) Do you have a pick up truck or access to one? (This can sometimes be overlooked if the answer is 'no,' but a 'yes' goes a long ways toward friend inclusion.)
3) Do you or your spouse own and wear a lot of sports team apparel? (This is almost 100 percent effective in weeding out idiots.)
4) Do you have a book, any book, on your nightstand? (Nooks and Kindles are acceptable here.)
5) Are you particularly good at something? ('Organizing a room' or 'Taking care of babies' are not acceptable answers.)
6) Do you tend to look at social events as an excuse to dance? (This, too, can quickly sort out the undesirables.)
7) Would you describe the score to 'Summer of '42' as 'haunting and beautiful?' (No brainer here.)
8) If you were on a desert island with one TV that only showed two channels, one a continual loop of 'West Wing' reruns and the other non-stop viewings of 'Dancing with the Stars, ' which would you choose? (Again, this goes right to the heart of things.)
9) Do you listen to other people and then respond or do you wait for them to stop talking and then state your own opinion? (This is very close to #1, actually.)
10) If the ghost of George Gershwin entered your house, sat at the piano and started playing, would you sit and listen appreciatively or call the police? (This is actually more telling than it would appear on the surface.)
So there you have it. The truth is I think people should be flattered to even get so far as to be ASKED the questions on the list. Many don't. Oh, and there is a number 11, but that one is obvious: Do you now or have you any plans in the immediate future to have babies? But that one goes without saying, of course.
In any event, Angie and I have put an ad on Craigslist for these new friends. No response yet, but we're hopeful.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
That Way There Be Dragons
Once again I find myself up and toiling at my blank screen, unable to sleep until I've incorporated my latest ideas into this new project I've been commissioned to write. I used to view my insomnia as something to be alarmed about, but over time I've come to realize it's simply the price of doing business. Until I've gotten down on paper (figuratively) the new things that have come to me during the night, I really can't sleep. And oddly, that's perfectly alright. First, because I've discovered I'm a morning person by nature, astonishing as that may be. And second, I prefer writing without distraction and four a.m. is certainly a time without distraction. I like to warm up by blogging a bit, getting the fingers loosened up, taking the brain around the track a few times, wrapping my mind around the new ideas.
In addition, I seem to be at my least cynical early in the morning. As the day wears on and things begin to crowd in on me, reading about the latest Republican shenanigans, seeing what natural disaster occurred overnight, checking my emails from producers about my previous day's work, I begin to lose sight of why I do what I do.
Also, the piece I'm working on now has at its very center a large and all-encompassing theme of injustice. Consequently, it is important to approach it fresh every day. I'm the type of guy that gets all righteous about injustice in even its smallest incarnations. An ex-sponsor of mine used to always tell me things that make us bitter and accusatory about other people are usually the same things we abhor in ourselves. He may have been on to something. Although, like most people who have been sober for many years, there was always just a smidgen of smugness in his pronouncements that irritated me no end. He was part of that loutish group of ex-drunks that think the simple act of not drinking for years at a time entitles them to a civic medal of some sort. I've never felt that way about it. In fact, quite the opposite. I've always been of the mind that not drinking for a long period of time is probably a lot closer to normal and pedestrian rather than super-human and parade-worthy. Lots of ex-drunks get very agitated at this line of thought. "But, but, but...we DON'T DRINK! We are SPECIAL!" Uh, no. No, we're not. We're righting a wrong, not inventing the wheel. We're correcting a character flaw, not instigating a virgin birth.
Anyway...
Speaking of over-indulgence, I had a rehearsal yesterday for this new piece in which I'm involved, The Interlopers, written by Gary Lennon and directed by Jim Fall (plugging, plugging) and after we finished I was standing outside the rehearsal hall waiting for my wife to pick me up (we're a one car family these days) and a young guy, maybe 30 or 35, staggered by me, clearly three sheets to the wind. It was about 3:00 in the afternoon. As he got close to me, he abruptly stopped and glanced up at me. He'd been sort of reeling from one side of the walkway to another. He was well-dressed, clearly not homeless, or if so, not for very long. He'd had a shave and haircut recently, and he didn't appear to be too dirty or dusty from his travels. But he was obviously very drunk and his eyes weren't quite focusing. So he looks up and says, "What?" Not belligerently or aggressively, but more like an actual question. I hesitated a second and said, "That way there be dragons." He appeared to think about that for a second, shook his head a bit, and kept going.
I thought about that guy for a long time yesterday, off and on.
This Saturday night my wife has organized a sort of old home week at a local restaurant. Lots of old college chums that have all moved out to the city of angels for one reason or another. This sort of thing always makes me feel a bit ambivalent. On one hand, it's always nice to see old acquaintances. On the other, I always feel a little like that guy on the sidewalk. "What?"
I suppose it's a question of self-worth. Recently I had a meeting with a big-money-producer-type-guy that was interested in having me do some writing for him. As I was preparing for the meeting, I gathered together all sorts of reviews and critical evidence of my past successes, awards, nominations, hard copy notices, that sort of thing. Angie saw me doing this. Eventually, she said, 'You know, you don't have to do that. You don't have to prove anything to anybody. He wouldn't be asking for this meeting if he didn't know your work." As is my usual pattern I had to mull that over for a few days before I could answer her. Like that wayward young drunk on the street yesterday I was preparing myself mentally to ask that inevitable question, "What?" The thing is, the question is no longer necessary.
As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, recently I've become sort of obsessed with the career trajectory and writings of Truman Capote. For some reason I'm utterly fascinated with his journey from wunderkind to sad, old parody. I read a chapter of his prose in something like 'In Cold Blood' and then I read a chapter from George Plimpton's oral biography about him. And I try and understand how such a staggering talent could have deteriorated into what he became in the end. And then I realize he must have spent at least a decade figuratively staggering from sidewalk to sidewalk, encountering people along the way, and asking each and every one of them, "What?"
Now, Capote was certainly not the first, nor will he be the last, great talent to implode under the pressure of his genius. Faulkner, Hemingway, Poe, Inge, Williams, Dorothy Parker, the list is frightfully long. Sometimes it seems addiction and writing are two sides of a coin. Clinically, there probably isn't any evidence to confirm this, but statistically there most certainly is.
Great actors are in the same boat, sometimes. I very clearly remember reading a passage from Richard Burton's journals, published after his death, in which he writes, and I'm paraphrasing, "I was a far, far better actor at 25 than I am at 50. No one knew who I was at 25 and I could observe people all day long without interruption. It is the actor's most valuable tool. I no longer have that tool at my disposal." There is also an interesting sentence in Brando's autobiography, Songs My Mother Taught Me, along the same lines. "I used to become other people when I was young, now I pretend to be other people."
That way there be dragons.
See you tomorrow.
In addition, I seem to be at my least cynical early in the morning. As the day wears on and things begin to crowd in on me, reading about the latest Republican shenanigans, seeing what natural disaster occurred overnight, checking my emails from producers about my previous day's work, I begin to lose sight of why I do what I do.
Also, the piece I'm working on now has at its very center a large and all-encompassing theme of injustice. Consequently, it is important to approach it fresh every day. I'm the type of guy that gets all righteous about injustice in even its smallest incarnations. An ex-sponsor of mine used to always tell me things that make us bitter and accusatory about other people are usually the same things we abhor in ourselves. He may have been on to something. Although, like most people who have been sober for many years, there was always just a smidgen of smugness in his pronouncements that irritated me no end. He was part of that loutish group of ex-drunks that think the simple act of not drinking for years at a time entitles them to a civic medal of some sort. I've never felt that way about it. In fact, quite the opposite. I've always been of the mind that not drinking for a long period of time is probably a lot closer to normal and pedestrian rather than super-human and parade-worthy. Lots of ex-drunks get very agitated at this line of thought. "But, but, but...we DON'T DRINK! We are SPECIAL!" Uh, no. No, we're not. We're righting a wrong, not inventing the wheel. We're correcting a character flaw, not instigating a virgin birth.
Anyway...
Speaking of over-indulgence, I had a rehearsal yesterday for this new piece in which I'm involved, The Interlopers, written by Gary Lennon and directed by Jim Fall (plugging, plugging) and after we finished I was standing outside the rehearsal hall waiting for my wife to pick me up (we're a one car family these days) and a young guy, maybe 30 or 35, staggered by me, clearly three sheets to the wind. It was about 3:00 in the afternoon. As he got close to me, he abruptly stopped and glanced up at me. He'd been sort of reeling from one side of the walkway to another. He was well-dressed, clearly not homeless, or if so, not for very long. He'd had a shave and haircut recently, and he didn't appear to be too dirty or dusty from his travels. But he was obviously very drunk and his eyes weren't quite focusing. So he looks up and says, "What?" Not belligerently or aggressively, but more like an actual question. I hesitated a second and said, "That way there be dragons." He appeared to think about that for a second, shook his head a bit, and kept going.
I thought about that guy for a long time yesterday, off and on.
This Saturday night my wife has organized a sort of old home week at a local restaurant. Lots of old college chums that have all moved out to the city of angels for one reason or another. This sort of thing always makes me feel a bit ambivalent. On one hand, it's always nice to see old acquaintances. On the other, I always feel a little like that guy on the sidewalk. "What?"
I suppose it's a question of self-worth. Recently I had a meeting with a big-money-producer-type-guy that was interested in having me do some writing for him. As I was preparing for the meeting, I gathered together all sorts of reviews and critical evidence of my past successes, awards, nominations, hard copy notices, that sort of thing. Angie saw me doing this. Eventually, she said, 'You know, you don't have to do that. You don't have to prove anything to anybody. He wouldn't be asking for this meeting if he didn't know your work." As is my usual pattern I had to mull that over for a few days before I could answer her. Like that wayward young drunk on the street yesterday I was preparing myself mentally to ask that inevitable question, "What?" The thing is, the question is no longer necessary.
As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, recently I've become sort of obsessed with the career trajectory and writings of Truman Capote. For some reason I'm utterly fascinated with his journey from wunderkind to sad, old parody. I read a chapter of his prose in something like 'In Cold Blood' and then I read a chapter from George Plimpton's oral biography about him. And I try and understand how such a staggering talent could have deteriorated into what he became in the end. And then I realize he must have spent at least a decade figuratively staggering from sidewalk to sidewalk, encountering people along the way, and asking each and every one of them, "What?"
Now, Capote was certainly not the first, nor will he be the last, great talent to implode under the pressure of his genius. Faulkner, Hemingway, Poe, Inge, Williams, Dorothy Parker, the list is frightfully long. Sometimes it seems addiction and writing are two sides of a coin. Clinically, there probably isn't any evidence to confirm this, but statistically there most certainly is.
Great actors are in the same boat, sometimes. I very clearly remember reading a passage from Richard Burton's journals, published after his death, in which he writes, and I'm paraphrasing, "I was a far, far better actor at 25 than I am at 50. No one knew who I was at 25 and I could observe people all day long without interruption. It is the actor's most valuable tool. I no longer have that tool at my disposal." There is also an interesting sentence in Brando's autobiography, Songs My Mother Taught Me, along the same lines. "I used to become other people when I was young, now I pretend to be other people."
That way there be dragons.
See you tomorrow.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: New Bookshelves in an Old House.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: New Bookshelves in an Old House.: "Plato is credited with saying something to the effect, 'Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.' Then again, I think he..."
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
New Bookshelves in an Old House.
Plato is credited with saying something to the effect, "Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a great battle." Then again, I think he's also the guy that wrote, "Rinse. Shampoo. Repeat." So what does he know?
Nonetheless, there's a truth there, in the former I mean.
Angie and I have been on the hunt lately for the 'perfect' bookshelves. We have a ton of books packed away here and there and a large, lonely, spare wall that needs filling. We've been looking everywhere. We may have found them, however. Two nice, wide, wooden and fairly plain bookshelves from IKEA. They fit our taste well. I suspect we'll go ahead and get them today.
We've gone to great lengths to make our small but comfortable bungalow here in Burbank as cozy and artificially distressed as possible. We both very much like the 'lived in' look. My ideal of a perfect living space was long ago influenced by Salinger's description of the Glass Family apartment in his books 'Franny and Zooey' and 'Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenter.' Neither Angie or I like anything remotely sleek or modern looking. We like heavy stuff, leather and wood, earth colors, rooms curtained and filled with character. Permanent feeling things. Lamps giving off faint light with old, khaki shades. Our front room is filled with the feeling of age and pragmatism. If we could've found a wooden computer, we probably would have gotten it. Our sklylit extra room off the dining room is a study in wicker and aged, tan leather. So, these floor to ceiling bookshelves are going to be a welcome addition.
We were in the midst of discussing all of this decor yesterday, planning and visualizing, when I received stunning news from a dear friend about some health issues in his family that will change his life forever. After our relatively brief conversation, I tried to get back to work, sitting at my computer shaping and editing and rewriting a new piece I've been commissioned to write, Angie occasionally chiming in with a new idea for our re fittings. But it was all just clattering noise in the background. My mind was three thousand miles and twenty three years away.
Sometimes I find myself looking at photographs of people and idly wondering about their state of mind, their short-lived naivety in the frozen moment captured. I'm re-reading some of Truman Capote's work, a white hot talent that burned for only a decade or so and then ceased to function. Capote could have been the greatest writer of his generation, I think. It was all there. Blazing intelligence, an unsullied and spotless memory, and most important, an ability to put a sentence together that could awe the reader. He wrote the best sentences in the business. Only Fitzgerald came close. His short novel, 'Other Voices, Other Rooms,' written when he was nineteen, is so good in places it's sort of divine. And then with 'In Cold Blood' he let us see the whole parade, the size and magnitude of his talent. In it there are a number of photographs of 'The Clutter Family,' the victims of a brutal and senseless murder in the late fifties in the state of Kansas about which the book was written. There, captured for posterity, are pictures of the family; Christmas morning, relaxing in the back yard, standing on the porch, eating dinner, making faces for the camera in grade school. And we, the recipients of a later understanding, peek at them, feeling a twinge of guilt, turning the page a little too soon because we've been given a providential glance into their future, doomed and tossed and brutalized.
I don't know why bad things happen to good people. I wish I did. But sometimes, in the quick superficiality of my life, laughing at a stupid moment on television, eating a fussed over meal, watering my carefully planned garden, staring at the white, thoughtless computer monitor, willing myself to dream, I am anchored with sadness. 'Everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.'
Twenty three years ago, three thousand miles away, in the chaos of New York City, when the great plague of the century was snuffing friends and acquaintances faster than I could make them, I was too blinded by the vapidity of youth to spend too much time in mourning. Instead I soldiered on with the help of a handful of friends so pure as to be family, crashing through our lives, day to day, working, laughing so hard at times as to be immobile, convinced that those times would last forever and we would always be the same people in the still photographs I now have in a yellowed envelope in a shoebox in my closet.
The passing of the years brings a lot of small adventures, good and bad, sometimes caught in a picture, more often in our memories. The hellish knowledge as I wonder over the poor Clutter Family in Capote's nightmarish novel, the pictures of my own friends, now decades old, as I sit untroubled in my carefully planned, artificially distressed living room, wishing I could reach through the static images on the Polaroid paper in front of me and warn them. Raise the alarm. Give them a sign, yes, even give myself a sign in the same photos, that rough waters are ahead. Implore them to take roads less traveled. Make us all aware, caught in an open-mouthed guffaw on film, of the monstrosities ahead.
I'd shout into the sepia photos, 'People die, friends die, they get sick, fate happens, plans unravel, paths get lost and weeded over in the middle of the wood, we get lost, we get old, we have to plan for it, right now, stop laughing, take cover.' Utter nonsense, of course. Because the other thing the passing of the years bring is an understanding and acceptance of just how fleeting it all is. And how perfectly impossible it is to make it all stop and unfold as we want.
I turned fifty this year. Certainly not old by any stretch of the imagination, not in this day and age, anyway. And the idea of being wiser or more prepared for life is, if possible, even a sillier notion than it was when I was twenty five. No, the best I can do these days it seems, is to enjoy the small favors of picking a new book case or relishing the comfort hard work brings. And go to bed at night and hold my wife close and listen to her breathe.
It's probably best to be kind to people, strangers, old friends, new friends, trifling and chance meetings with nameless people passed quickly as we get older. There is, almost certainly, a canyon of grief or regret or unfulfillment within them all, somewhere, unseen, maybe in their old photographs in their shoe boxes in their closets and in their memories. They, too, have a thousand pent up shouts of warning to the people in their faded instamatic images.
See you tomorrow.
Nonetheless, there's a truth there, in the former I mean.
Angie and I have been on the hunt lately for the 'perfect' bookshelves. We have a ton of books packed away here and there and a large, lonely, spare wall that needs filling. We've been looking everywhere. We may have found them, however. Two nice, wide, wooden and fairly plain bookshelves from IKEA. They fit our taste well. I suspect we'll go ahead and get them today.
We've gone to great lengths to make our small but comfortable bungalow here in Burbank as cozy and artificially distressed as possible. We both very much like the 'lived in' look. My ideal of a perfect living space was long ago influenced by Salinger's description of the Glass Family apartment in his books 'Franny and Zooey' and 'Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenter.' Neither Angie or I like anything remotely sleek or modern looking. We like heavy stuff, leather and wood, earth colors, rooms curtained and filled with character. Permanent feeling things. Lamps giving off faint light with old, khaki shades. Our front room is filled with the feeling of age and pragmatism. If we could've found a wooden computer, we probably would have gotten it. Our sklylit extra room off the dining room is a study in wicker and aged, tan leather. So, these floor to ceiling bookshelves are going to be a welcome addition.
We were in the midst of discussing all of this decor yesterday, planning and visualizing, when I received stunning news from a dear friend about some health issues in his family that will change his life forever. After our relatively brief conversation, I tried to get back to work, sitting at my computer shaping and editing and rewriting a new piece I've been commissioned to write, Angie occasionally chiming in with a new idea for our re fittings. But it was all just clattering noise in the background. My mind was three thousand miles and twenty three years away.
Sometimes I find myself looking at photographs of people and idly wondering about their state of mind, their short-lived naivety in the frozen moment captured. I'm re-reading some of Truman Capote's work, a white hot talent that burned for only a decade or so and then ceased to function. Capote could have been the greatest writer of his generation, I think. It was all there. Blazing intelligence, an unsullied and spotless memory, and most important, an ability to put a sentence together that could awe the reader. He wrote the best sentences in the business. Only Fitzgerald came close. His short novel, 'Other Voices, Other Rooms,' written when he was nineteen, is so good in places it's sort of divine. And then with 'In Cold Blood' he let us see the whole parade, the size and magnitude of his talent. In it there are a number of photographs of 'The Clutter Family,' the victims of a brutal and senseless murder in the late fifties in the state of Kansas about which the book was written. There, captured for posterity, are pictures of the family; Christmas morning, relaxing in the back yard, standing on the porch, eating dinner, making faces for the camera in grade school. And we, the recipients of a later understanding, peek at them, feeling a twinge of guilt, turning the page a little too soon because we've been given a providential glance into their future, doomed and tossed and brutalized.
I don't know why bad things happen to good people. I wish I did. But sometimes, in the quick superficiality of my life, laughing at a stupid moment on television, eating a fussed over meal, watering my carefully planned garden, staring at the white, thoughtless computer monitor, willing myself to dream, I am anchored with sadness. 'Everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.'
Twenty three years ago, three thousand miles away, in the chaos of New York City, when the great plague of the century was snuffing friends and acquaintances faster than I could make them, I was too blinded by the vapidity of youth to spend too much time in mourning. Instead I soldiered on with the help of a handful of friends so pure as to be family, crashing through our lives, day to day, working, laughing so hard at times as to be immobile, convinced that those times would last forever and we would always be the same people in the still photographs I now have in a yellowed envelope in a shoebox in my closet.
The passing of the years brings a lot of small adventures, good and bad, sometimes caught in a picture, more often in our memories. The hellish knowledge as I wonder over the poor Clutter Family in Capote's nightmarish novel, the pictures of my own friends, now decades old, as I sit untroubled in my carefully planned, artificially distressed living room, wishing I could reach through the static images on the Polaroid paper in front of me and warn them. Raise the alarm. Give them a sign, yes, even give myself a sign in the same photos, that rough waters are ahead. Implore them to take roads less traveled. Make us all aware, caught in an open-mouthed guffaw on film, of the monstrosities ahead.
I'd shout into the sepia photos, 'People die, friends die, they get sick, fate happens, plans unravel, paths get lost and weeded over in the middle of the wood, we get lost, we get old, we have to plan for it, right now, stop laughing, take cover.' Utter nonsense, of course. Because the other thing the passing of the years bring is an understanding and acceptance of just how fleeting it all is. And how perfectly impossible it is to make it all stop and unfold as we want.
I turned fifty this year. Certainly not old by any stretch of the imagination, not in this day and age, anyway. And the idea of being wiser or more prepared for life is, if possible, even a sillier notion than it was when I was twenty five. No, the best I can do these days it seems, is to enjoy the small favors of picking a new book case or relishing the comfort hard work brings. And go to bed at night and hold my wife close and listen to her breathe.
It's probably best to be kind to people, strangers, old friends, new friends, trifling and chance meetings with nameless people passed quickly as we get older. There is, almost certainly, a canyon of grief or regret or unfulfillment within them all, somewhere, unseen, maybe in their old photographs in their shoe boxes in their closets and in their memories. They, too, have a thousand pent up shouts of warning to the people in their faded instamatic images.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Gettysburg
Back in the day, oh, say, the last ten years or so I lived in NYC, I shuffled around to a dozen or so regional theatres on the east coast, a few of them in Virginia, most notably Mill Mountain Theatre, Wayside Theatre and TheatreVirginia in Richmond. I think I did about 15 plays at Mill Mountain, in Roanoke, alone. Some good, some not so good, but it remained my favorite place to work, mostly because of it's location. Roanoke is within visiting distance to a number of Civil War battlefields and on our dark days I could drive to one and spend the day there. Richmond, too. And Wayside was right outside D.C.
It was during this time I first visited both Harper's Ferry and Gettysburg. While Harper's Ferry was fought over several times during the war, it's real importance was John Brown. The town itself is virtually impervious to attack because of the lay of the land around it. But it was here where the war really started in the hearts and minds of the country.
Gettysburg, of course, is a different animal altogether. It is the site of the greatest battle in the history of the western hemisphere. What's more a battle that neither side wanted, at least not there. What started as an accidental skirmish quickly escalated to the Big One, the one that Lee had been pursuing but had no intention of fighting on that ground. The one he was cornered into fighting, expending his last ounce of courage.
His nemesis was George Meade, who had been in charge of the Union Army all of three hours when it broke out. Meade was the sixth in a list of sub par generals Lincoln had appointed to lead the awesome Army of the Potomac. Grant was still down south seiging Vicksburg at the time and hadn't yet captured Lincoln's confidence. In Meade's defense, he fought Gettysburg admirably well, mostly because of the strong leadership of his subordinates. However, he did finally miss a massive opportunity by not following Lee into the mountains after the battle and finishing him off. Grant most certainly would have.
And then there was Robert E. Lee, undefeated for all intents and purposes, coming into the battle. He had continually broken the number one rule of warfare over the past couple of years, which was to never divide your forces. Lee did it repeatedly and successfully. As a tactician he was unstoppable. Head and shoulders above every other field officer in the war, including Grant. And what most people forget about Gettysburg is that upon starting the battle, Lee committed to ending it all...not the battle, but the war. He knew it was his only chance. He knew another battlefield victory wasn't important in the long run, he had to utterly destroy the Army of the Potomac once and for all. Lee was not in it to chalk up another mark in the win column, he was in it to force a final solution. After two long years of war he was finally on the offensive and deep in Union territory. If he could crush Meade at Gettysburg there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to keep him from taking Washington.
I have visited Gettysburg four or five times. It is, in my opinion, truly 'hallowed ground.' One can feel it. I have walked the battlefield from one end to the other, covered every foot of it, carrying my maps and binoculars. And although there were several grand moments of history there, moments when the battle could have swung another way, it essentially came down to two in particular: Little Round Top and Pickett's Charge.
Joshua Chamberlain just may have single-handedly changed the course of history. His ragged and exhausted band of Maine regulars on Little Round Top came within minutes of being overcome and losing it all. But in a maneuver quite literally at the last second, a text book response to being overrun that had nearly no chance to succeed, changed it all. A full-out, hand-to-hand, fixed bayonet charge down a hill through a dense forest into overwhelmingly superior forces. Over the years, he has been lauded for such a surprise charge. The truth of course is that he had no choice: he was out of ammunition. And he knew he was on the farthest left flank of the Union Army. Had he given ground, Robert E. Lee would almost certainly have rolled up the Army of the Potomac and finished the entire thing on the second day of the three day battle. Instead it turned out to be one of the most unexpected and courageous decisions in the history of warfare in the western hemisphere.
The other moment that changed everything was Lee's almost incomprehensible order to charge the center of the Union forces on the final day of battle, led by George Pickett's 12,000 fresh confederate troops. It's easy now to second guess Lee's blundering decision, but at the time, as I said, he was not thinking of winning a battle, he was dreaming of winning the war. As nearly everyone knows now, at least anyone with a rudimentary grasp of history, the charge was the single most disastrous incident in the entire war. In fact, so much so, that it could be reasonably said the entire war was lost that day on that ground. As many as 20,000 casualties in less than an hour. As close to a slaughter as one can imagine. And ordered by, arguably, the finest general this side of the world ever produced. It was beyond folly, it was, in hindsight, Providential.
In any event, I walked that mile or so of open field several times over several visits, spending many hours in that killing field of 1863. It is overwhelming. The carnage that took place in that field is unimaginable.
I am, of course, a huge history buff, the Civil War in particular, and there are two places in this country that have brought me to tears while there. One is the field on which the doomed Confederate Army charged across at Gettysburg on July 3, 1863. The other is the bed in which Lincoln died in the rickety boarding house across the street from Ford's Theatre (a stage on which, incidentally, I have played several times). The first time I visited that room, I was so shocked to learn that the brown spots on the plastic covered sheets were actually LINCOLN'S BLOOD I had to sit down and catch my breath. Never before had history leaped up at me like that. Up until that moment (I think I was in my early twenties) it had all been an exercise in academia for me. Those splashes of blood all over the bed, brown with age but still unmistakably there, from Abraham Lincoln's gushing head wound in April of 1865, brought history to me, for the first time in my life, tangibly and awkwardly. The truth is, I couldn't quite get my mind around it for a long while.
Later, as I grew older, other places have evoked similar reactions from me; Auschwitz, Wounded Knee, Ground Zero at the World Trade Center, to name a few. But the death field of Gettysburg and the little room across from Ford's Theatre were the first.
I suppose, thinking about it, each of these places have touched me so deeply because they all bring to mind the hereto for unthought of thought 'there but for the grace of God go I.' Up until the moment I stepped onto that field at Gettysburg, the horror of it all was still black and white, a tag-on sentence in a dry history book; 'Led by General George Pickett, the Confederates were beaten back.' Or, 'Lincoln was carried across the street and died the next morning at 7:21 from the wound.'
The books all neglected to mention the fear. They skipped over the pain. And the blood. So very much blood.
See you tomorrow.
It was during this time I first visited both Harper's Ferry and Gettysburg. While Harper's Ferry was fought over several times during the war, it's real importance was John Brown. The town itself is virtually impervious to attack because of the lay of the land around it. But it was here where the war really started in the hearts and minds of the country.
Gettysburg, of course, is a different animal altogether. It is the site of the greatest battle in the history of the western hemisphere. What's more a battle that neither side wanted, at least not there. What started as an accidental skirmish quickly escalated to the Big One, the one that Lee had been pursuing but had no intention of fighting on that ground. The one he was cornered into fighting, expending his last ounce of courage.
His nemesis was George Meade, who had been in charge of the Union Army all of three hours when it broke out. Meade was the sixth in a list of sub par generals Lincoln had appointed to lead the awesome Army of the Potomac. Grant was still down south seiging Vicksburg at the time and hadn't yet captured Lincoln's confidence. In Meade's defense, he fought Gettysburg admirably well, mostly because of the strong leadership of his subordinates. However, he did finally miss a massive opportunity by not following Lee into the mountains after the battle and finishing him off. Grant most certainly would have.
And then there was Robert E. Lee, undefeated for all intents and purposes, coming into the battle. He had continually broken the number one rule of warfare over the past couple of years, which was to never divide your forces. Lee did it repeatedly and successfully. As a tactician he was unstoppable. Head and shoulders above every other field officer in the war, including Grant. And what most people forget about Gettysburg is that upon starting the battle, Lee committed to ending it all...not the battle, but the war. He knew it was his only chance. He knew another battlefield victory wasn't important in the long run, he had to utterly destroy the Army of the Potomac once and for all. Lee was not in it to chalk up another mark in the win column, he was in it to force a final solution. After two long years of war he was finally on the offensive and deep in Union territory. If he could crush Meade at Gettysburg there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to keep him from taking Washington.
I have visited Gettysburg four or five times. It is, in my opinion, truly 'hallowed ground.' One can feel it. I have walked the battlefield from one end to the other, covered every foot of it, carrying my maps and binoculars. And although there were several grand moments of history there, moments when the battle could have swung another way, it essentially came down to two in particular: Little Round Top and Pickett's Charge.
Joshua Chamberlain just may have single-handedly changed the course of history. His ragged and exhausted band of Maine regulars on Little Round Top came within minutes of being overcome and losing it all. But in a maneuver quite literally at the last second, a text book response to being overrun that had nearly no chance to succeed, changed it all. A full-out, hand-to-hand, fixed bayonet charge down a hill through a dense forest into overwhelmingly superior forces. Over the years, he has been lauded for such a surprise charge. The truth of course is that he had no choice: he was out of ammunition. And he knew he was on the farthest left flank of the Union Army. Had he given ground, Robert E. Lee would almost certainly have rolled up the Army of the Potomac and finished the entire thing on the second day of the three day battle. Instead it turned out to be one of the most unexpected and courageous decisions in the history of warfare in the western hemisphere.
The other moment that changed everything was Lee's almost incomprehensible order to charge the center of the Union forces on the final day of battle, led by George Pickett's 12,000 fresh confederate troops. It's easy now to second guess Lee's blundering decision, but at the time, as I said, he was not thinking of winning a battle, he was dreaming of winning the war. As nearly everyone knows now, at least anyone with a rudimentary grasp of history, the charge was the single most disastrous incident in the entire war. In fact, so much so, that it could be reasonably said the entire war was lost that day on that ground. As many as 20,000 casualties in less than an hour. As close to a slaughter as one can imagine. And ordered by, arguably, the finest general this side of the world ever produced. It was beyond folly, it was, in hindsight, Providential.
In any event, I walked that mile or so of open field several times over several visits, spending many hours in that killing field of 1863. It is overwhelming. The carnage that took place in that field is unimaginable.
I am, of course, a huge history buff, the Civil War in particular, and there are two places in this country that have brought me to tears while there. One is the field on which the doomed Confederate Army charged across at Gettysburg on July 3, 1863. The other is the bed in which Lincoln died in the rickety boarding house across the street from Ford's Theatre (a stage on which, incidentally, I have played several times). The first time I visited that room, I was so shocked to learn that the brown spots on the plastic covered sheets were actually LINCOLN'S BLOOD I had to sit down and catch my breath. Never before had history leaped up at me like that. Up until that moment (I think I was in my early twenties) it had all been an exercise in academia for me. Those splashes of blood all over the bed, brown with age but still unmistakably there, from Abraham Lincoln's gushing head wound in April of 1865, brought history to me, for the first time in my life, tangibly and awkwardly. The truth is, I couldn't quite get my mind around it for a long while.
Later, as I grew older, other places have evoked similar reactions from me; Auschwitz, Wounded Knee, Ground Zero at the World Trade Center, to name a few. But the death field of Gettysburg and the little room across from Ford's Theatre were the first.
I suppose, thinking about it, each of these places have touched me so deeply because they all bring to mind the hereto for unthought of thought 'there but for the grace of God go I.' Up until the moment I stepped onto that field at Gettysburg, the horror of it all was still black and white, a tag-on sentence in a dry history book; 'Led by General George Pickett, the Confederates were beaten back.' Or, 'Lincoln was carried across the street and died the next morning at 7:21 from the wound.'
The books all neglected to mention the fear. They skipped over the pain. And the blood. So very much blood.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Interlopers by Gary Lennon. A World Premiere.
So I'm in the misdst of rehearsals for this new play called 'The Interlopers' by Gary Lennon at Bootleg Theatre in Los Angeles. We open it on June 17 and run it through July in a limited engagement. There are a number of fascinating aspects to this new play, not the least of which is the gender-bending plot and theme of the piece. But the thing that has me excited about it at the moment is that it is such a clear and shining example of Mike Nichol's sometimes disputed claim that directing is 90% casting. I simply cannot imagine a play more perfectly cast and, frankly, it's been quite awhile since I've been involved in one that IS so perfectly cast.
So often in this business, whether it be New York, Chicago or Small Town, USA, the casting process is something one finally 'settles' for, rather than achieves. I have always agreed vehemently with Mr. Nichols regarding casting. Now, sometimes, to be sure, the casting process sort of falls together almost by accident. And when that happens the chances for a stellar piece of theatre is almost insured. But what happens more often is that directors and producers end up with the least objectionable actor in the role or roles. Now this is certainly no one's fault, I mean everyone wants a show to be perfect, but it's the price of doing business in show-biz. Sometimes the actors, in the final analysis, just don't fit.
But the difference between the right person for the role and the 'almost right' person for the role is palpable. It was one of the things that struck me in rehearsal the other day. In addition, our director, Jim Fall, is enormously collaborative. That may seem a small thing, but indeed it is not. Jim, too, seems to realize he's cast it spot on and consequently appears to delight in letting the actors run full out. It's a far cry from a director I was working with this time last year who liked to actually give actors words on which to 'gesture.' Good Lord. The difference, of course, is a confident director and a director trying to appear confident.
In any event, it's terribly exciting and I look forward to seeing it all come together. My involvement up to now has been somewhat piece-meal.
In other news, my two writing projects are chugging along nicely. One, what I call my 'German Film,' is waiting for one of the producers to fly into LA in a couple of weeks so that we might meet face to face and start nipping and tucking at the script and the other, the 'secret project,' is finally starting to resemble a play. Still a ton of work to do on both, I'm sure, but neither is towering over me anymore. They both seem to be within human grasp.
But back to this 'perfect casting' theory. It happens fairly seldom, oddly enough. In fact, the last time I can remember it happening to me was the second time I did 'A Few Good Men.' I was doing 'Jessop,' the Nicholson role in the film, and either by accident or through precise choices, we ended up with a cast so perfectly suited for their individual roles, it bordered on the eerie. This was a large regional theatre (what's known as LORT A in the business) and there was a goodly amount of money riding on the project. In this day and age of economic woes, a cast the size of 'A Few Good Men' is somewhat rare. That being the case, we had very little room for error. The sad truth is, regional theatres really can't afford to produce noble failures anymore. Every show has to be a hit. Especially a show with some 15 or 20 roles in it like 'A Few Good Men.' It's simply too expensive to fuck up.
So on this windy Memorial day, I couldn't be more optimistic about things. If, Gentle Reader, you find yourself in or near LA in June and July, I recommend seeing this new play...The Interlopers, by Gary Lennon, Directed by Jim Fall, The Bootleg Theatre, through July 23.
See you tomorrow.
So often in this business, whether it be New York, Chicago or Small Town, USA, the casting process is something one finally 'settles' for, rather than achieves. I have always agreed vehemently with Mr. Nichols regarding casting. Now, sometimes, to be sure, the casting process sort of falls together almost by accident. And when that happens the chances for a stellar piece of theatre is almost insured. But what happens more often is that directors and producers end up with the least objectionable actor in the role or roles. Now this is certainly no one's fault, I mean everyone wants a show to be perfect, but it's the price of doing business in show-biz. Sometimes the actors, in the final analysis, just don't fit.
But the difference between the right person for the role and the 'almost right' person for the role is palpable. It was one of the things that struck me in rehearsal the other day. In addition, our director, Jim Fall, is enormously collaborative. That may seem a small thing, but indeed it is not. Jim, too, seems to realize he's cast it spot on and consequently appears to delight in letting the actors run full out. It's a far cry from a director I was working with this time last year who liked to actually give actors words on which to 'gesture.' Good Lord. The difference, of course, is a confident director and a director trying to appear confident.
In any event, it's terribly exciting and I look forward to seeing it all come together. My involvement up to now has been somewhat piece-meal.
In other news, my two writing projects are chugging along nicely. One, what I call my 'German Film,' is waiting for one of the producers to fly into LA in a couple of weeks so that we might meet face to face and start nipping and tucking at the script and the other, the 'secret project,' is finally starting to resemble a play. Still a ton of work to do on both, I'm sure, but neither is towering over me anymore. They both seem to be within human grasp.
But back to this 'perfect casting' theory. It happens fairly seldom, oddly enough. In fact, the last time I can remember it happening to me was the second time I did 'A Few Good Men.' I was doing 'Jessop,' the Nicholson role in the film, and either by accident or through precise choices, we ended up with a cast so perfectly suited for their individual roles, it bordered on the eerie. This was a large regional theatre (what's known as LORT A in the business) and there was a goodly amount of money riding on the project. In this day and age of economic woes, a cast the size of 'A Few Good Men' is somewhat rare. That being the case, we had very little room for error. The sad truth is, regional theatres really can't afford to produce noble failures anymore. Every show has to be a hit. Especially a show with some 15 or 20 roles in it like 'A Few Good Men.' It's simply too expensive to fuck up.
So on this windy Memorial day, I couldn't be more optimistic about things. If, Gentle Reader, you find yourself in or near LA in June and July, I recommend seeing this new play...The Interlopers, by Gary Lennon, Directed by Jim Fall, The Bootleg Theatre, through July 23.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Memorial Day
This weekend is the annual time of year we ostensibly pay respect to our armed services, our men and women in uniform over the years. It's a just holiday, as far as I'm concerned. Memorial Day is the least, I feel, we can do to say thank you to the sometimes extraordinary sacrifices made by our military branch.
I myself was never in the military. I was too far too young for Vietnam and even though I remember registering for the draft when I turned 18, it had long ceased to be actualized. It was more of a formality by then.
No, I was one of those guys who grew up in a time of no major military action on the part of this country, Grenada aside. And that was more of a global joke than anything else. To this day I'm not entirely certain what that little piece of armed flexing was about.
However, having said that, I do remember being chased around a bit when I was pursuing an English Degree at M.U. For whatever reason, the Navy was under the misguided impression I might be useful in the 'Navy Intelligence' branch of the service and I recieved several telephone calls, letter, etc. to that end. And in fact once, incredulously, and I swear this is true, two Navy recruitment guys actually followed me into a Pizza Hut once to talk to me about enlistment. It was a short conversation but they made it clear they'd had their eye on me and quickly outlined a life of high adventure as a Navy Intelligence Ensign with my choice of exotic, worldwide ports in which to be stationed. The truth is I sincerely thought about it for about five minutes before discarding the idea. In hindsight, and purely hypothetically, it might not have been a bad idea. It would have been a good 25 years or so of military service without actual combat, not counting the elder Bush's truncated invasion of Iraq in the early nineties.
But in all honesty, even taking into account the lack of military engagement, I think it would have been disasterous. For one thing I have a lifetime distaste for anything even remotely resembling an authority figure. And I'm guessing that's probably not a good thing in the military.
In additon I think I may have turned out to be a coward. Of course, it's difficult to predict, but I specifically remember two incidents over the years in which I asked myself in all honesty if I could have participated. The first was when I read the book 'Black Hawk Down.' I just don't think I could have done what those doomed rangers did. I suspect I might have simply curled up in a fetal position and hid. Maybe not, courage under fire is an odd thing. The other was the first twenty minutes of the film 'Saving Private Ryan.' Watching those guys wade ashore, taking fire, many not making it more than a few steps, and more, KNOWING they weren't going to make it more than a few steps, well, again, I'm just not sure I could have done that.
I remember one of the recruitment guys telling me, 'as an officer in Navy Intelligence you'll never see actual combat, son.' Well, be that as it may, I still don't think I would have made a very good Navy guy. Although, I must admit, I've always liked boats.
In addition, to my knowledge, the Navy doesn't have a very good drama department. Annapolis is not terribly noted for their liberal arts program. So that may have been a problem.
Also, I really don't see how I could have contributed. It's not as though I had a firm grasp of language skills or was bilingual or anything of that sort. And I certainly had no recognizable skills in Black Ops (although I might have been good at spreading nasty rumors about this or that world leader). No, I just don't think I had the 'right stuff.'
My dad was a Sargeant Major in the army, the reserves eventually. But as far as I could tell that was simply an outlet to drink. To him, it seemed to me, being in the reserves only meant he had more people to slam down cheap bourbon with. His weekends wargaming with the local national guard usually meant a weekend at the VFW drinking PBR and shots of Jim Beam with other likeminded drinkers. And although there may be something to be said for that, it really wasn't high on my bucket list.
Also, as I got older and began to make informed decisions about my thoughts toward Vietnam, realizing what a shameful national experience that was, I'm not sure I would have been appreciated in Navy Intelligence, which seemed a classic oxymoron to me finally.
Nonetheless, I celebrate and tip my hat to the armed services this Memorial Day weekend. The concept of duty to one's country first, foremost and above everything else, is heroic, certainly. I'm just not sure I personally, ever had the cojones to believe so resolutely in it. I feel in kinship with a character in one of Lanford Wilson's plays in which he says, "I don't think he loved our country. I think he loved our countryside."
I had two high school buddies, weekend drinking partners, that ended up joining The Coast Guard after graduation. They both quit within a year because, well, in their words, it was 'too hard.' I probably would have been the same kind of soldier. 'Um, excuse me, I think maybe this has all been a mistake, sir. I've come to believe this whole soldier thing is, well, too hard.'
However, in my defense, I later became a waiter in a chain restaurant in New York City and was pretty good at that. We didn't have to salute anyone but otherwise it was pretty close to being an expendable bag of human bones and innards and we, too, were treated as mindless cattle. On the other hand, we got to keep our tips.
Okay.
So, Angie and I are heading out to be with friends on beautiful Manhattan Beach today. We'll have a great BBQ rib dinner, some stimulating conversation and maybe sing some showtunes by the fire pit. The Navy brochures I used to get as an undergrad hardly ever showed people doing that.
See you tomorrow.
I myself was never in the military. I was too far too young for Vietnam and even though I remember registering for the draft when I turned 18, it had long ceased to be actualized. It was more of a formality by then.
No, I was one of those guys who grew up in a time of no major military action on the part of this country, Grenada aside. And that was more of a global joke than anything else. To this day I'm not entirely certain what that little piece of armed flexing was about.
However, having said that, I do remember being chased around a bit when I was pursuing an English Degree at M.U. For whatever reason, the Navy was under the misguided impression I might be useful in the 'Navy Intelligence' branch of the service and I recieved several telephone calls, letter, etc. to that end. And in fact once, incredulously, and I swear this is true, two Navy recruitment guys actually followed me into a Pizza Hut once to talk to me about enlistment. It was a short conversation but they made it clear they'd had their eye on me and quickly outlined a life of high adventure as a Navy Intelligence Ensign with my choice of exotic, worldwide ports in which to be stationed. The truth is I sincerely thought about it for about five minutes before discarding the idea. In hindsight, and purely hypothetically, it might not have been a bad idea. It would have been a good 25 years or so of military service without actual combat, not counting the elder Bush's truncated invasion of Iraq in the early nineties.
But in all honesty, even taking into account the lack of military engagement, I think it would have been disasterous. For one thing I have a lifetime distaste for anything even remotely resembling an authority figure. And I'm guessing that's probably not a good thing in the military.
In additon I think I may have turned out to be a coward. Of course, it's difficult to predict, but I specifically remember two incidents over the years in which I asked myself in all honesty if I could have participated. The first was when I read the book 'Black Hawk Down.' I just don't think I could have done what those doomed rangers did. I suspect I might have simply curled up in a fetal position and hid. Maybe not, courage under fire is an odd thing. The other was the first twenty minutes of the film 'Saving Private Ryan.' Watching those guys wade ashore, taking fire, many not making it more than a few steps, and more, KNOWING they weren't going to make it more than a few steps, well, again, I'm just not sure I could have done that.
I remember one of the recruitment guys telling me, 'as an officer in Navy Intelligence you'll never see actual combat, son.' Well, be that as it may, I still don't think I would have made a very good Navy guy. Although, I must admit, I've always liked boats.
In addition, to my knowledge, the Navy doesn't have a very good drama department. Annapolis is not terribly noted for their liberal arts program. So that may have been a problem.
Also, I really don't see how I could have contributed. It's not as though I had a firm grasp of language skills or was bilingual or anything of that sort. And I certainly had no recognizable skills in Black Ops (although I might have been good at spreading nasty rumors about this or that world leader). No, I just don't think I had the 'right stuff.'
My dad was a Sargeant Major in the army, the reserves eventually. But as far as I could tell that was simply an outlet to drink. To him, it seemed to me, being in the reserves only meant he had more people to slam down cheap bourbon with. His weekends wargaming with the local national guard usually meant a weekend at the VFW drinking PBR and shots of Jim Beam with other likeminded drinkers. And although there may be something to be said for that, it really wasn't high on my bucket list.
Also, as I got older and began to make informed decisions about my thoughts toward Vietnam, realizing what a shameful national experience that was, I'm not sure I would have been appreciated in Navy Intelligence, which seemed a classic oxymoron to me finally.
Nonetheless, I celebrate and tip my hat to the armed services this Memorial Day weekend. The concept of duty to one's country first, foremost and above everything else, is heroic, certainly. I'm just not sure I personally, ever had the cojones to believe so resolutely in it. I feel in kinship with a character in one of Lanford Wilson's plays in which he says, "I don't think he loved our country. I think he loved our countryside."
I had two high school buddies, weekend drinking partners, that ended up joining The Coast Guard after graduation. They both quit within a year because, well, in their words, it was 'too hard.' I probably would have been the same kind of soldier. 'Um, excuse me, I think maybe this has all been a mistake, sir. I've come to believe this whole soldier thing is, well, too hard.'
However, in my defense, I later became a waiter in a chain restaurant in New York City and was pretty good at that. We didn't have to salute anyone but otherwise it was pretty close to being an expendable bag of human bones and innards and we, too, were treated as mindless cattle. On the other hand, we got to keep our tips.
Okay.
So, Angie and I are heading out to be with friends on beautiful Manhattan Beach today. We'll have a great BBQ rib dinner, some stimulating conversation and maybe sing some showtunes by the fire pit. The Navy brochures I used to get as an undergrad hardly ever showed people doing that.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Conceptually Challenged. Again.
There comes a moment when I'm involved in a new project, a writing project, in which I inevitably say to myself, 'I no longer have any idea what I'm writing about.' This happened yesterday. I've been here before so it didn't necessarily come as a shock or surprise. I simply couldn't remember what my original passion stemmed from. And what's more, all the money in the world is not going to change it. At this point I do the only thing I can which is to stop everything, turn off the old Microsoft Word and pretend I never started in the first place. The usual pattern is that after a few days, slowly it starts to trickle back into my easily burdened brain why I'm doing it, and more importantly, what I'm doing.
After a bit, sometimes a few days, sometimes a few weeks, I suddenly remember the personal importance of the project and I bring it up on the screen again. Often, I've discovered, at this point it appears someone else entirely has written what's on the screen. So I approach it as a new thing altogether and thus begin to 'fix' it.
I have to go back to the original question for myself, which is, 'Why would anyone find this remotely interesting?' I think it's a fair question for a playwright or screenplay writer to ask. 'What, exactly, about this would make someone pay hard-earned money, sit in an uncomfortable chair in the dark for a couple of hours and be absorbed by the story unfolding before them?'
If I can answer that question sufficiently to myself, I can get back on track.
It happens all the time in film, probably less so in the theatre, but I'm just guessing. Someone has a terrific idea, say, 'suppose a guy died and then suddenly awakened from his grave 100 years later?' And then after a whirlwind writing period complete with U turns and dead-ends and tons of comments from friends and colleagues, suddenly the guy finds he has written a story about a guy who goes to heaven and is sent back to earth to do some final good deed. And then, he thinks, 'wait, this movie has been made. It's called 'Heaven Can Wait.' Or 'A Guy Named Joe.'
In any event, it's a fine line between being original and being shocking. I prefer original.
The problem is, of course, sometimes it simply doesn't come. The work gets jammed up somewhere between the brain and the fingers, I guess. Nought to do but wait it out. It's either that or just write 'Redrum' about 1000 times.
On the acting front, the auditions have been coming fast and furious. Some look promising, others not so much. As I've said before, it's a numbers game. Doesn't have a whole lot to do with 'how good you are.' It's all about 'do you look like what they're looking for?' And, of course, there's no way in hell to know that so taking rejection in this business personally is a waste of time and energy. Best to just move on.
Since I seem to be 'conceptually challenged' on the writing front, I'll turn my attentions today to the acting front. I have a big, honkin' monologue in the new play I'm doing (The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, Directed by Jim Fall, Bootleg Theatre, Los Angeles, June and July) so I might as well get that under my belt before the next rehearsal. Thankfully, memorization doesn't require a lot of abstract thinking on my part, it's more along the lines of assembly work, so I think I'll just concentrate on that today. As my wife can verify, I'm not the world's greatest multi-tasker so one project at a time.
I have been more than a little distracted by the savage tornadoes that ripped through Joplin, MO. I did my undergraduate work about fifty miles from there. I'm very familiar with the town and the area. The damage and careless loss of lives have left me dumbstruck. I am feebly hoping it isn't a harbinger of things to come. I don't pretend to know the myriad details regarding global warming, but I do know what happened in the midwest was savagely abnormal. And of course, I have been profoundly moved by the compassion, courage and heroism that has come from that little town over the past few days. It seems ordinary people are always just a heartbeat away from being extraordinary people.
The puppies are staring at me now, trying to perform a canine version of the Vulcan Mind Meld. Time to take them for a walk. They're a very passive/aggressive pair of dogs so not to give in and give them what they want is futile. The guilt becomes unbearable.
See you tomorrow.
After a bit, sometimes a few days, sometimes a few weeks, I suddenly remember the personal importance of the project and I bring it up on the screen again. Often, I've discovered, at this point it appears someone else entirely has written what's on the screen. So I approach it as a new thing altogether and thus begin to 'fix' it.
I have to go back to the original question for myself, which is, 'Why would anyone find this remotely interesting?' I think it's a fair question for a playwright or screenplay writer to ask. 'What, exactly, about this would make someone pay hard-earned money, sit in an uncomfortable chair in the dark for a couple of hours and be absorbed by the story unfolding before them?'
If I can answer that question sufficiently to myself, I can get back on track.
It happens all the time in film, probably less so in the theatre, but I'm just guessing. Someone has a terrific idea, say, 'suppose a guy died and then suddenly awakened from his grave 100 years later?' And then after a whirlwind writing period complete with U turns and dead-ends and tons of comments from friends and colleagues, suddenly the guy finds he has written a story about a guy who goes to heaven and is sent back to earth to do some final good deed. And then, he thinks, 'wait, this movie has been made. It's called 'Heaven Can Wait.' Or 'A Guy Named Joe.'
In any event, it's a fine line between being original and being shocking. I prefer original.
The problem is, of course, sometimes it simply doesn't come. The work gets jammed up somewhere between the brain and the fingers, I guess. Nought to do but wait it out. It's either that or just write 'Redrum' about 1000 times.
On the acting front, the auditions have been coming fast and furious. Some look promising, others not so much. As I've said before, it's a numbers game. Doesn't have a whole lot to do with 'how good you are.' It's all about 'do you look like what they're looking for?' And, of course, there's no way in hell to know that so taking rejection in this business personally is a waste of time and energy. Best to just move on.
Since I seem to be 'conceptually challenged' on the writing front, I'll turn my attentions today to the acting front. I have a big, honkin' monologue in the new play I'm doing (The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, Directed by Jim Fall, Bootleg Theatre, Los Angeles, June and July) so I might as well get that under my belt before the next rehearsal. Thankfully, memorization doesn't require a lot of abstract thinking on my part, it's more along the lines of assembly work, so I think I'll just concentrate on that today. As my wife can verify, I'm not the world's greatest multi-tasker so one project at a time.
I have been more than a little distracted by the savage tornadoes that ripped through Joplin, MO. I did my undergraduate work about fifty miles from there. I'm very familiar with the town and the area. The damage and careless loss of lives have left me dumbstruck. I am feebly hoping it isn't a harbinger of things to come. I don't pretend to know the myriad details regarding global warming, but I do know what happened in the midwest was savagely abnormal. And of course, I have been profoundly moved by the compassion, courage and heroism that has come from that little town over the past few days. It seems ordinary people are always just a heartbeat away from being extraordinary people.
The puppies are staring at me now, trying to perform a canine version of the Vulcan Mind Meld. Time to take them for a walk. They're a very passive/aggressive pair of dogs so not to give in and give them what they want is futile. The guilt becomes unbearable.
See you tomorrow.
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