I mentioned a couple days ago that I had a very long audition for The Odyssey Theatre, a critically-acclaimed and highly successful theater out here in LA, for a musical based on the Elmer Rice classic play, The Adding Machine. I hadn't read The Adding Machine since college, to be honest. I'd sort of even forgotten what it was about. The lead character of Zero (the role I'm up for) is a fifty year old, not-the-sharpest-knife-in-the-drawer, kind of guy who gets fired from his job after 25 years. In a moment of rage he kills his boss and is set to be executed. He discovers that none of it is 'real' and...well, I don't want to spoil the end. Anyway...
So it was a long audition, relatively speaking. And Sunday I go back in for another marathon session. They gave me a couple of the songs and the CD of the piece, so I could learn the difficult music a bit. Sunday I assume I'll be reading opposite some of the women under consideration as well as working with the Musical Director to see if I can handle this score.
This score.
Yesterday, after zipping around for a few more auditions, I finally got down to listening to it for the first time. I was in Chicago when the wonderful actor Joel Hatch was doing it and I remember it was getting a lot of press then and ended up winning a number of Jeff Awards. Subsequently it traveled to NY and made a big splash there as well. This production will be the West Coast Premiere.
This score.
Angie was futzing around in the kitchen preparing another astonishing dinner when I plugged in the headphones and started listening. I won't sugar coat it. This is the single most brilliant piece of music for the musical theatre since Sondheim was at the peak of his powers. It's sort of like if Stravinsky and William Finn had collaborated on a piece. It's absolutely overwhelming in its power and audacity. It reminds me a great deal of Sondheim's Assassins, one his most overlooked gems.
Within ten minutes of plugging in and listening I was hopelessly hooked. Completely involved. Just sort of staring off in the distance listening to this genius-level stuff. It's that good. I called Angie in and took the headphones out and had her listen to some of it. We were both just sort of standing in the middle of the room letting this incredible score wash over us. After a bit she turned to me and said, "You have to do this. This is the role of a lifetime." Angie has exquisite taste in theatre and I'm learning to listen to her instincts. She's right. It's one of, if not the, most powerful role I've run across in many, many years.
I've not been cast in the play yet, and frankly, I don't know if I will be. I have to learn the two songs I was given and show them what I have on Sunday. But I can say this, I haven't wanted a role so badly since...well, I can't remember since when.
The music is set perfectly within my range. There are a few high Fs and a G or two, but as an old friend of mine from New York used to say, a professional opera singer, "You don't have to live up there, just go visit now and then." The really interesting thing is that the character of Zero is not a great singer, doesn't have to be and clearly not expected to be. But he's surrounded by characters that DO sing beautifully. Consequently, when he sings there is a significant and purposeful difference. It is first and foremost an acting role. Nonetheless, notably, he sings throughout.
I don't believe in 'jinxing' a role by writing or talking about it. If I get this thing it will be because I worked hard for it. And I have every intention of doing that over the next few days.
I have a couple of other big stage auditions coming up today and again Monday. I will, of course, go to them and give it my best shot. But in the back of my head is this mammoth role and this extraordinary opportunity. One of the shows I'm reading for pays a hell of a lot more money. But roles like this come up very rarely and sometimes you have to go with your gut. Sometimes money is secondary. Not often, but sometimes.
I also trekked over to Hollywood yesterday for a PSA audition for an Alzheimer's television spot. Good Lord. What a circus that was. The producers didn't put the 'sign-up list' out until the last second and when they did it was pandemonium. Seventy year old ladies pushing and shoving and talking trash to each other trying to get their name on the list. Eighty year old men nearly coming to blows. I stepped back and watched all this and waited until the fuss blew over. It was astounding. Crazed, old actors and actresses turning into wildebeasts and elbowing each other just to get their name a little higher on 'the list.' Turns out the joke was on them, though. After about a half hour, the monitor came out and started calling us in based on the time that was previously set up. The 'list' had nothing to do with the order of the audition. I looked around. Lots of geriatric, shame-faced people. This is SUCH a weird business sometimes.
So spending the morning getting into my Tennessee Williams mode. That's the read I have today. Thinking of jonquils and magnolias and gothic guilt. Nobody did it like Tennessee.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Four Broadway World Nominations for FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST announced.
So last night I get home around 10:00 after a very long and arduous audition with The Odyssey Theater Company's The Adding Machine, a west-coast premiere of a new musical based on the classic Elmer Rice play, and I've gotten an email from a friend telling me my play, From the East to the West, has been nominated for four Broadway World, SoCal Awards: Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Ensemble and Best New Play.
http://broadwayworld.com/article/Voting_Opens_for_2010_Broadway_World_Southern_California_Awards_20101109
There's the link.
How it got nominated and by whom, I have no idea. But there you have it. Now, I have to admit, I've never heard of the Broadway World Awards, but I'm told by another friend that they're a fairly big deal. That the online zine is the largest in the world of professional theater on the web. Hm. Well, okay, then. I'm pleased, of course, just a little confused. It was a short run, and even though we filled the house for the entire engagement, I hardly expected anything from it. It was, however, enormously successful in terms of the positive feedback we and the play received. It took place this past Februrary and mostly it was done to convince the producing director of that theater to consider it for a full run. He didn't like the show, ultimately, however and I assumed that was that. He said, "It would be a grave disservice to you to let anyone see this." At the time I was a little dismayed by the comment for a couple of reasons. First, he'd never actually seen the production, but was repeating what a friend of his had told him and second, because the play was getting standing ovations and incredible feedback from people who HAD, in fact, seen it. Nonetheless, I moved on thinking that was that. I ended up submitting the play to another theater in Chicago and getting the go-ahead for a world premeire production there. And now this.
Needless to say, I'm delighted.
If one goes back and looks at the day to day blogs from that time, it's easy to see how excited I was at that time for the play. Tremendous cast: Nickella Moschetti, Chad Coe, J.R. Mangels, Alex Robert Holmes and Malcome Devine. All young actors that attacked the script and just blew it out of the water. Particularly fine work from Nickella, who just made the role hers.
In any event, the award, apparently, is sort of a 'People's Choice' type thing for the theater. So click on the link and cast your vote! The real honor, as I see it, is from the nomination itself.
I talked to my co-founder of theGathering Theatre Company last night about it, James Barbour, and we both agreed perhaps we should consider mounting From the East to the West in our first full season after these nominations. Not a bad idea.
The Odyssey Theater Company is one of the most highly respected theaters in LA. My agent submitting me for the lead role in their mounting of a new musical called The Adding Machine (yes, based on the Elmer Rice classic piece). So I went there last night and did a little singing and a monologue and they ended up keeping me there for about two hours reading different stuff in the script. They gave me a CD and some sheet music to learn so I can work with the musical director on Saturday. I certainly haven't been cast in the role yet (it's the lead) but things look good. So today, needless to say, is all about learning that music.
Today I'm up for a PSA spot on Alzheimer's. An extremely well-paying print ad type thingee. I told Angie if anyone has a shot at that, it's me. I look addled half the time anyway.
Tomorrow, a read for the Tennessee Williams play, A House Not Meant to Stand at The Fountain Theater. Another critically acclaimed venue here in LA. And again, the lead role of Cornelius in that play.
And as I mentioned before, Monday I'm up for The Norris Theater's production of Neil Simon's The Odd Couple. The role of Oscar Madison, a role perfectly suited to me that somehow has escaped me for many years. I love doing Simon's work.
So a fine day yesterday. And a few fine days ahead. Wish they could all be like this.
See you tomorrow.
http://broadwayworld.com/article/Voting_Opens_for_2010_Broadway_World_Southern_California_Awards_20101109
There's the link.
How it got nominated and by whom, I have no idea. But there you have it. Now, I have to admit, I've never heard of the Broadway World Awards, but I'm told by another friend that they're a fairly big deal. That the online zine is the largest in the world of professional theater on the web. Hm. Well, okay, then. I'm pleased, of course, just a little confused. It was a short run, and even though we filled the house for the entire engagement, I hardly expected anything from it. It was, however, enormously successful in terms of the positive feedback we and the play received. It took place this past Februrary and mostly it was done to convince the producing director of that theater to consider it for a full run. He didn't like the show, ultimately, however and I assumed that was that. He said, "It would be a grave disservice to you to let anyone see this." At the time I was a little dismayed by the comment for a couple of reasons. First, he'd never actually seen the production, but was repeating what a friend of his had told him and second, because the play was getting standing ovations and incredible feedback from people who HAD, in fact, seen it. Nonetheless, I moved on thinking that was that. I ended up submitting the play to another theater in Chicago and getting the go-ahead for a world premeire production there. And now this.
Needless to say, I'm delighted.
If one goes back and looks at the day to day blogs from that time, it's easy to see how excited I was at that time for the play. Tremendous cast: Nickella Moschetti, Chad Coe, J.R. Mangels, Alex Robert Holmes and Malcome Devine. All young actors that attacked the script and just blew it out of the water. Particularly fine work from Nickella, who just made the role hers.
In any event, the award, apparently, is sort of a 'People's Choice' type thing for the theater. So click on the link and cast your vote! The real honor, as I see it, is from the nomination itself.
I talked to my co-founder of theGathering Theatre Company last night about it, James Barbour, and we both agreed perhaps we should consider mounting From the East to the West in our first full season after these nominations. Not a bad idea.
The Odyssey Theater Company is one of the most highly respected theaters in LA. My agent submitting me for the lead role in their mounting of a new musical called The Adding Machine (yes, based on the Elmer Rice classic piece). So I went there last night and did a little singing and a monologue and they ended up keeping me there for about two hours reading different stuff in the script. They gave me a CD and some sheet music to learn so I can work with the musical director on Saturday. I certainly haven't been cast in the role yet (it's the lead) but things look good. So today, needless to say, is all about learning that music.
Today I'm up for a PSA spot on Alzheimer's. An extremely well-paying print ad type thingee. I told Angie if anyone has a shot at that, it's me. I look addled half the time anyway.
Tomorrow, a read for the Tennessee Williams play, A House Not Meant to Stand at The Fountain Theater. Another critically acclaimed venue here in LA. And again, the lead role of Cornelius in that play.
And as I mentioned before, Monday I'm up for The Norris Theater's production of Neil Simon's The Odd Couple. The role of Oscar Madison, a role perfectly suited to me that somehow has escaped me for many years. I love doing Simon's work.
So a fine day yesterday. And a few fine days ahead. Wish they could all be like this.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Another Pleasant Valley Tuesday.
My agent was in a flurry of activity yesterday. He set up 4 or 5 auditions in about six hours. Everytime I'd hang the phone up, he'd call back with another time-slot for me. . A rare and wonderful day, really. Wish they were all like that. Of course, the rest is up to me now. When it rains, it pours, as they say.
I had the opportunity, speaking of auditions, to sing a bit for the highly regarded Blank Theatre Company yesterday, too. Finally got to meet the driving force behind that group, Daniel Henning. Very nice guy. They're remounting a milestone play from the 30's, first done by the legendary Group Theatre, if I have my facts correct, called The Cradle Will Rock. Not sure I'm exactly right for anything in that show, but it was fun to sing for them in any event.
Sunday's staged reading of Bachelor's Graveyard was enthusiastically received, to put it mildly. My five wonderful actors, Rob Arbogast, Benjamin Burt, Adam Silver, Carmine Dibenedetto and Otniel Henig all came through with flying colors. In the middle of that play, there is a ten to fifteen minute monologue about Muhammad Ali that is sort of the centerpiece of that writing. Rob Arbogast tore into it with relish. Tremendously exciting work from Rob. The monologue builds to a fever pitch with jungle drums and vocal reaction from the other actors and just when the audience thinks it can't go any further, it does. Just stellar work all around. I was very, very pleased.
The comments and reactions following the evening were all satisfyingly positive. In the final analysis the entire night was a complete success. A small step for our fledgling company, theGathering. But an important one. Our first public exposure. Such a very, very long ways to go. So many possibilities ahead of us. But a great first step. We'll take a break, of sorts, through the end of the year and then rev back up to full speed in January with another reading of a new play of mine called The Promise. It's already cast and the very talented Larry Cedar will be directing. Same bat-time, same bat-channel, same bat-theater.
Today I'm doing another little bit of singing for another stage production coming up. A couple of contrasting songs and a monologue. I haven't had to do a monologue for auditons in many a moon. Sort of looking forward to it, actually.
It has gotten delightfully chilly in Los Angeles over the past few days. It won't stay that way long, but I'm enjoying the hell out of it while it lasts.
Next week I've been asked to come in for a reading of Oscar in The Odd Couple, a role that has somehow escaped me over the years. It's a decent Equity Contract in a theatre that's a little far away for my taste, but do-able. Neil Simon, a playwright that has been unfairly maligned over the years, mostly in academia, is one of my favorites. I've done four or five Simon plays over the years and always enjoy myself a great deal saying his words. It's funny, when actors talk about 'timing' and 'pacing' they're usually referring to people like Mamet or Sorkin. But Simon, in my opinion, is the king of that sort of thing. There's usually only one or two ways to say a Simon line, he doesn't leave a lot of room for error. His work, at its best, is a textbook example of timing and pacing. And he makes me laugh, most importantly. Even his dumb stuff, like FOOLS, a play I did a few years back, is out loud funny in spots. And I vividly remember reading his play, Rumors, some years ago and literally putting it down now and then as I convulsed in laughter. I'm a huge fan of Neil Simon.
I've done The Good Doctor, Plaza Suite, They're Playing Our Song, Lost in Yonkers (6 times) and Fools. I've probably left a couple out, in fact. But the upshot is, every single time I've had a really, really great time doing his stuff. And of course, there's a reason he's the most successful of all modern playwrights: he's funny. The audience eats him up. He's just funny. And The Odd Couple, arguably, may be his funniest.
Also up for Tennessee Williams' last play, A House Not Meant to Stand. I haven't read it yet. Somehow it's that rare Williams piece I never got around to reading. But even bad Williams is usually better than most other plays.
So about to start a whirlwind period of auditioning. When I first came to LA I sort of rolled my eyes, figuratively speaking, at having to do all this auditioning again. I had reached a place in NY and Chicago in my career where I didn't have to audition any more. Not the case here. Now, however, I'm beginning to enjoy it, strangely enough.
And finally, an amusing thing happened a couple days ago. My wife, Angie, has been a casting director in this town for over twenty years. Without going into too much detail, she has hobnobbed and become close friends with the likes of Anthony Hopkins, Richard Dreyfuss, Hal Holbrook and many, many others. Now, we're talking 'come over for dinner and hang out' type friends. Unlike myself, celebrity doesn't really give her even a moment's pause. Me, I'll always be a small-town guy from Missouri deep down and every time I see someone recognizable I always get a little thrill. Angie could care less about that stuff. So we're driving through West Hollywood a couple days ago and all of a sudden Angie nearly runs the car off the road. She yells in my ear, "OH MY GOD LOOK!" She's pointing at the sidewalk. I sit up quick and start looking around. I'm thinking maybe Obama is walking down the street. Maybe Jimmy Hoffa. Possibly O.J. has escaped and is running down the side of the road. Back story: Angie, inexplicably, is hooked on Dancing With The Stars. I hear it droning in the background every Monday and Tuesday as I work in my office, getting occasional updates on the performances of Jennifer Grey or Gary Coleman or Andy Griffith or Fatty Arbuckle or Mark Spitz or whoever happens to be dancing this season. So the car is veering from one side of the street to the other as she cranes her neck to see. It's Derek Hough from that show. Uneventfully traipsing down the street carrying a bag of yogurt. Me, I wouldn't know him if I were locked in a jail cell with him. Angie has been breathing heavily now for two days.
And there you have it. Los Angeles in a nutshell.
See you tomorrow.
I had the opportunity, speaking of auditions, to sing a bit for the highly regarded Blank Theatre Company yesterday, too. Finally got to meet the driving force behind that group, Daniel Henning. Very nice guy. They're remounting a milestone play from the 30's, first done by the legendary Group Theatre, if I have my facts correct, called The Cradle Will Rock. Not sure I'm exactly right for anything in that show, but it was fun to sing for them in any event.
Sunday's staged reading of Bachelor's Graveyard was enthusiastically received, to put it mildly. My five wonderful actors, Rob Arbogast, Benjamin Burt, Adam Silver, Carmine Dibenedetto and Otniel Henig all came through with flying colors. In the middle of that play, there is a ten to fifteen minute monologue about Muhammad Ali that is sort of the centerpiece of that writing. Rob Arbogast tore into it with relish. Tremendously exciting work from Rob. The monologue builds to a fever pitch with jungle drums and vocal reaction from the other actors and just when the audience thinks it can't go any further, it does. Just stellar work all around. I was very, very pleased.
The comments and reactions following the evening were all satisfyingly positive. In the final analysis the entire night was a complete success. A small step for our fledgling company, theGathering. But an important one. Our first public exposure. Such a very, very long ways to go. So many possibilities ahead of us. But a great first step. We'll take a break, of sorts, through the end of the year and then rev back up to full speed in January with another reading of a new play of mine called The Promise. It's already cast and the very talented Larry Cedar will be directing. Same bat-time, same bat-channel, same bat-theater.
Today I'm doing another little bit of singing for another stage production coming up. A couple of contrasting songs and a monologue. I haven't had to do a monologue for auditons in many a moon. Sort of looking forward to it, actually.
It has gotten delightfully chilly in Los Angeles over the past few days. It won't stay that way long, but I'm enjoying the hell out of it while it lasts.
Next week I've been asked to come in for a reading of Oscar in The Odd Couple, a role that has somehow escaped me over the years. It's a decent Equity Contract in a theatre that's a little far away for my taste, but do-able. Neil Simon, a playwright that has been unfairly maligned over the years, mostly in academia, is one of my favorites. I've done four or five Simon plays over the years and always enjoy myself a great deal saying his words. It's funny, when actors talk about 'timing' and 'pacing' they're usually referring to people like Mamet or Sorkin. But Simon, in my opinion, is the king of that sort of thing. There's usually only one or two ways to say a Simon line, he doesn't leave a lot of room for error. His work, at its best, is a textbook example of timing and pacing. And he makes me laugh, most importantly. Even his dumb stuff, like FOOLS, a play I did a few years back, is out loud funny in spots. And I vividly remember reading his play, Rumors, some years ago and literally putting it down now and then as I convulsed in laughter. I'm a huge fan of Neil Simon.
I've done The Good Doctor, Plaza Suite, They're Playing Our Song, Lost in Yonkers (6 times) and Fools. I've probably left a couple out, in fact. But the upshot is, every single time I've had a really, really great time doing his stuff. And of course, there's a reason he's the most successful of all modern playwrights: he's funny. The audience eats him up. He's just funny. And The Odd Couple, arguably, may be his funniest.
Also up for Tennessee Williams' last play, A House Not Meant to Stand. I haven't read it yet. Somehow it's that rare Williams piece I never got around to reading. But even bad Williams is usually better than most other plays.
So about to start a whirlwind period of auditioning. When I first came to LA I sort of rolled my eyes, figuratively speaking, at having to do all this auditioning again. I had reached a place in NY and Chicago in my career where I didn't have to audition any more. Not the case here. Now, however, I'm beginning to enjoy it, strangely enough.
And finally, an amusing thing happened a couple days ago. My wife, Angie, has been a casting director in this town for over twenty years. Without going into too much detail, she has hobnobbed and become close friends with the likes of Anthony Hopkins, Richard Dreyfuss, Hal Holbrook and many, many others. Now, we're talking 'come over for dinner and hang out' type friends. Unlike myself, celebrity doesn't really give her even a moment's pause. Me, I'll always be a small-town guy from Missouri deep down and every time I see someone recognizable I always get a little thrill. Angie could care less about that stuff. So we're driving through West Hollywood a couple days ago and all of a sudden Angie nearly runs the car off the road. She yells in my ear, "OH MY GOD LOOK!" She's pointing at the sidewalk. I sit up quick and start looking around. I'm thinking maybe Obama is walking down the street. Maybe Jimmy Hoffa. Possibly O.J. has escaped and is running down the side of the road. Back story: Angie, inexplicably, is hooked on Dancing With The Stars. I hear it droning in the background every Monday and Tuesday as I work in my office, getting occasional updates on the performances of Jennifer Grey or Gary Coleman or Andy Griffith or Fatty Arbuckle or Mark Spitz or whoever happens to be dancing this season. So the car is veering from one side of the street to the other as she cranes her neck to see. It's Derek Hough from that show. Uneventfully traipsing down the street carrying a bag of yogurt. Me, I wouldn't know him if I were locked in a jail cell with him. Angie has been breathing heavily now for two days.
And there you have it. Los Angeles in a nutshell.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Instincts, Electronic Cigarettes and Brando.
Friday I received my new 'e-cigarette' in the mail. It's a cumbersome thing, much larger and heavier than I expected, and I don't really like it, but it'll do in a pinch, I suppose. You know, I have some regrets in my life, some I could have avoided and some that probably would have taken place regardless, but starting smoking is very high on that list. It's an indefensible habit and one, God help me, I thoroughly enjoy. But it is an addiction and one that I can't seem to shake. So for the moment, anyway, the best I can do is try not to bother anyone else with it. Thus the 'e-cigarette.'
I know it sounds odd, but the truth is, I didn't take even a puff of a cigarette until I was 23 years old. I didn't like them. I didn't especially like the smell and I couldn't imagine ever enjoying it. I started, like most actors, for a show. I was doing a play, a musical actually, called 1940's Radio Hour, and my character was a Frank Sinatra clone who chain smoked incessantly. So in my youthful arrogance, I decided to learn to smoke, for stage purposes, and then figured I'd quit once the show was over. But, of course, that was not to be. I continued to smoke and here it is 26 years later and I'm still smoking.
Whadayagonnado?
So yesterday I had a read for a new film. The audition was over in Hollywood, of course, and by appointment only. I walked in, let the monitor know I was there, sat and looked around. Right across from me was a guy, clearly, up for the same role. I knew this for a couple of reasons. A) He had the same snippet from the script that I had and B) He looked like me. After a little while, one of the production assistants came out and called him in. I was sitting right beside the door so I could easily hear his audition.
As is my habit, I didn't dwell on the script once I got it. I'm a very good cold reader and I don't like planning out an audition. Some actors plan it out to the second ('breathe here, pause there, raise your voice on this word, stare menacingly here, etc.'). I hate that. I like to just see what happens and keep it honest.
Anyway, so the character I'm up for is a tightly wound, tense kind of guy, having a conversation with his priest in a waterfront bar. He's a blue-collar sort, recently widowed, keyed-up and quietly threatening. Says so in the script. He's telling the priest what a crock religion is while dangerously downing more shots and beer. Not a difficult scene, to my way of thinking. So the actor opposite me goes in. After a bit I hear the words from the script I'm holding. But instead of being 'quietly dangerous and tightly wound' I suddenly hear this guy shouting and playing it like he's in a 4,000 seat amphitheater. It's a small room. I'm thinking to myself, 'this has got to be the worst reading I've ever heard.' This guy is shouting everything. Like he's on the brink of madness. You could hear him in Van Nuys.
After a bit, he comes out, smiles warmly at me and starts to gather his things and leave. Obviously I'm next. But then the director himself comes out, young guy, wearing the obligatory Steven Speilberg 'I'm a director' ball cap, and stops the guy. They're standing right in front of me.
"That was a teriffic reading," Says the guy in the 'I'm a director' ball cap. "And I'd like to ask if you can come by Monday and read for our producers."
"Why, sure," Says the bad actor.
"Good," Says the ball cap guy. And exits back into the room.
The bad actor is blushing from the compliment and happily finishes packing his knap-sack and exits.
Leaving me to sit there and wonder what's wrong with the universe.
A little more time goes by and the monitor comes out and asks me to go in.
I go in and sit. The director has my resume and headshot in his hands and says, "Very impressive resume. Lot of New York stuff, I see here."
Thanks.
Whenever you're ready.
So I say my name and do the scene. I do it quietly and dangerously, letting my eyes and demeanor do most of the work. I have a slight Jersey waterfront dialect. I play it slightly wounded with an 'edge-of-violence' feeling. It's a good read. I've been doing this over thirty years and I know when I've nailed something and when I haven't. The audition ends, the director says he'll call either me or my agent about it. And that's that.
So on the drive back to the valley, I'm thinking to myself, "Have I lost my mind? Am I seriously deluded? Am I completely out of touch with what I think is good and what actually IS good?"
This is a weird business. It's useless to second guess ourselves in this business. Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you. Or something like that. A friend of mine immediately tears up his 'sides' the moment he leaves an audition as sort of a physical incarnation of 'letting the role go.' I think I"m going to start doing that. Not that this was a role I'd kill to do. It's not. It's a low budget thing, not very well written, transparent and probably will not be seen by too many people. Nonetheless.
In any event, the reading for Bachelor's Graveyard is tonight. We shall see what we shall see. I think I have a lot more faith in this project than my cohorts, but that's okay. Sometimes you just have to go with your instincts and trust them. I've done that for a good many years and it's served me well. I think I'll do it again today.
Speaking of instincts, I found, while flipping through the thousand channels we have, a showing of Marlon Brando's Mutiny on the Bounty last night. And all over again, just like everytime I see Brando's work, I'm impressed. Not at the film itself, it's not that good, but Brando. He plays the role foppish. An incredibly bold choice. The critics at the time crucified him for it. But in retrospect, what choice did he have? Gable had already stamped the role some 22 years previously with immeasurable testosterone. Brando wisely realized that was a fixed race and decided not to do it that way. The result is utterly fascinating. His Fletcher Christian is far and away the most interesting of the four versions done of the movie (the silent version, Gable and Mel Gibson being the other three). Consequently, due entirely to Brando's ambiguous portrayal, the moment when the actual mutiny takes place in the film is incredibly suspenseful. It's a brilliant piece of work that he took a lot of flack for at the time of the release. Looking back on it now, though, it's just head and shoulders above everything else in the film.
Up very early, as is the norm for me, and the clocks have fallen back an hour. An exciting and unpredictable day ahead of me. I'm going to show a new piece of writing today. And, as in the case of the audition yesterday, people will either 'get it' or they won't. And if they don't, well, Monday's just around the corner. And my lovely, smart, sexy, beautiful, sassy, sleeping wife thinks I'm all that and a bag of chips. Not much is more important to me than my writing, but that's one.
Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes it eats you.
See you tomorrow.
I know it sounds odd, but the truth is, I didn't take even a puff of a cigarette until I was 23 years old. I didn't like them. I didn't especially like the smell and I couldn't imagine ever enjoying it. I started, like most actors, for a show. I was doing a play, a musical actually, called 1940's Radio Hour, and my character was a Frank Sinatra clone who chain smoked incessantly. So in my youthful arrogance, I decided to learn to smoke, for stage purposes, and then figured I'd quit once the show was over. But, of course, that was not to be. I continued to smoke and here it is 26 years later and I'm still smoking.
Whadayagonnado?
So yesterday I had a read for a new film. The audition was over in Hollywood, of course, and by appointment only. I walked in, let the monitor know I was there, sat and looked around. Right across from me was a guy, clearly, up for the same role. I knew this for a couple of reasons. A) He had the same snippet from the script that I had and B) He looked like me. After a little while, one of the production assistants came out and called him in. I was sitting right beside the door so I could easily hear his audition.
As is my habit, I didn't dwell on the script once I got it. I'm a very good cold reader and I don't like planning out an audition. Some actors plan it out to the second ('breathe here, pause there, raise your voice on this word, stare menacingly here, etc.'). I hate that. I like to just see what happens and keep it honest.
Anyway, so the character I'm up for is a tightly wound, tense kind of guy, having a conversation with his priest in a waterfront bar. He's a blue-collar sort, recently widowed, keyed-up and quietly threatening. Says so in the script. He's telling the priest what a crock religion is while dangerously downing more shots and beer. Not a difficult scene, to my way of thinking. So the actor opposite me goes in. After a bit I hear the words from the script I'm holding. But instead of being 'quietly dangerous and tightly wound' I suddenly hear this guy shouting and playing it like he's in a 4,000 seat amphitheater. It's a small room. I'm thinking to myself, 'this has got to be the worst reading I've ever heard.' This guy is shouting everything. Like he's on the brink of madness. You could hear him in Van Nuys.
After a bit, he comes out, smiles warmly at me and starts to gather his things and leave. Obviously I'm next. But then the director himself comes out, young guy, wearing the obligatory Steven Speilberg 'I'm a director' ball cap, and stops the guy. They're standing right in front of me.
"That was a teriffic reading," Says the guy in the 'I'm a director' ball cap. "And I'd like to ask if you can come by Monday and read for our producers."
"Why, sure," Says the bad actor.
"Good," Says the ball cap guy. And exits back into the room.
The bad actor is blushing from the compliment and happily finishes packing his knap-sack and exits.
Leaving me to sit there and wonder what's wrong with the universe.
A little more time goes by and the monitor comes out and asks me to go in.
I go in and sit. The director has my resume and headshot in his hands and says, "Very impressive resume. Lot of New York stuff, I see here."
Thanks.
Whenever you're ready.
So I say my name and do the scene. I do it quietly and dangerously, letting my eyes and demeanor do most of the work. I have a slight Jersey waterfront dialect. I play it slightly wounded with an 'edge-of-violence' feeling. It's a good read. I've been doing this over thirty years and I know when I've nailed something and when I haven't. The audition ends, the director says he'll call either me or my agent about it. And that's that.
So on the drive back to the valley, I'm thinking to myself, "Have I lost my mind? Am I seriously deluded? Am I completely out of touch with what I think is good and what actually IS good?"
This is a weird business. It's useless to second guess ourselves in this business. Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you. Or something like that. A friend of mine immediately tears up his 'sides' the moment he leaves an audition as sort of a physical incarnation of 'letting the role go.' I think I"m going to start doing that. Not that this was a role I'd kill to do. It's not. It's a low budget thing, not very well written, transparent and probably will not be seen by too many people. Nonetheless.
In any event, the reading for Bachelor's Graveyard is tonight. We shall see what we shall see. I think I have a lot more faith in this project than my cohorts, but that's okay. Sometimes you just have to go with your instincts and trust them. I've done that for a good many years and it's served me well. I think I'll do it again today.
Speaking of instincts, I found, while flipping through the thousand channels we have, a showing of Marlon Brando's Mutiny on the Bounty last night. And all over again, just like everytime I see Brando's work, I'm impressed. Not at the film itself, it's not that good, but Brando. He plays the role foppish. An incredibly bold choice. The critics at the time crucified him for it. But in retrospect, what choice did he have? Gable had already stamped the role some 22 years previously with immeasurable testosterone. Brando wisely realized that was a fixed race and decided not to do it that way. The result is utterly fascinating. His Fletcher Christian is far and away the most interesting of the four versions done of the movie (the silent version, Gable and Mel Gibson being the other three). Consequently, due entirely to Brando's ambiguous portrayal, the moment when the actual mutiny takes place in the film is incredibly suspenseful. It's a brilliant piece of work that he took a lot of flack for at the time of the release. Looking back on it now, though, it's just head and shoulders above everything else in the film.
Up very early, as is the norm for me, and the clocks have fallen back an hour. An exciting and unpredictable day ahead of me. I'm going to show a new piece of writing today. And, as in the case of the audition yesterday, people will either 'get it' or they won't. And if they don't, well, Monday's just around the corner. And my lovely, smart, sexy, beautiful, sassy, sleeping wife thinks I'm all that and a bag of chips. Not much is more important to me than my writing, but that's one.
Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes it eats you.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
A Year...
I have officially been in Los Angeles for a year now. In the words of Augustus McRae from Lonesome Dove, "Quite a ride, Woodrow, quite a ride."
A couple of film reads today I'm up for. Nothing terribly important, but possibly some good stuff for the perpetually changing 'reel.'
Angie's birthday is coming up so I'm thinking of birthday presents. Topping the list are new clothes for me. Haven't quite figured out how to make those sound like a birthday present for Angie, but I'm working on it.
We've been hunting for a new couch (and a chair) recently and yesterday scanned IKEA in hopes of finding something suitable there. We actually did find a nice couch, but it wasn't 'perfect' so we passed. But more importantly we discovered there are hotdogs for only 50 cents inside IKEA at the, um, IKEA hot dog place. Go figure. Being a lifelong fan of hotdogs in general, I stored the knowledge away for another time.
I was momentarily enraged to read yesterday that the transit cop in Oakland received only two years (half of which he's already served) for murdering, on tape, in cold blood, the young black man in the train station. The young man was face down, cuffed, completely docile when the cop pulled his gun (mind you, this is all on tape) and shot him in the back. The young man died a few hours later. The cop claims he thought he was pulling his Tazer and accidentally pulled his gun instead. Why would anyone Tazer someone already cuffed and face down?
Michael Vick received more prison time for arranging dog fights.
I had a flashback to Chicago when I read of this. In that god-forsaken city cops routinely shoot black people and don't even see the inside of a courtroom for it. In fact, just before I left, a cop had just gotten a slap on the wrist for gunning down a 13 year old boy after he pulled a comb from his pocket. The cop, naturally, said he thought the comb was an AK-47 or some such nonsense. Today he is back on the force ostensibly shooting more black people. I'm constantly amazed that more people, white people, aren't as incensed about this that I am.
There is a racial divide in this country as wide and ominous as The Grand Canyon. Personally, I'm not sure it can ever be crossed. Maybe I'm a skeptic, but if you'd lived in Chicago as long as I did, you might feel the same way. Oakland, Chicago, Washington D.C., three cities where the divide has reached critical mass. It is a terrible and shameful blight on this nation's countenance. And every time a cop gets away with it, the canyon gets deeper and further across.
I, or you, or anyone can't hope to address all the incredible injustices in this country, but this one, renegade cops operating above the law, is one I've spent a few years lamenting. It's funny what a badge will do to people. Not all cops, of course, but too many that I've known, see it as giving them a moral right to resolve situations by killing people. Yes, this is a bit strong, but I've spent years watching it time and again in Chicago (twenty two times the national average in incidents of citizens being gunned down by officers of the law) and now this particular case in Oakland. It is, quite simply, unacceptable. Policeman must be held accountable for their actions. Otherwise, we need to abandon the pretense of 'serve and protect' and just outfit them all with brown shirts.
Anyway.
So I've been here a year. My, what a year can do. Marriage, new house, new career, union affiliation, new plays, new agents, reconnecting with old friends, new puppies...in a sense, it's still overwhelming. And nearly every single moment has been a kind of beatiful dream.
To quote a line in Bachelor's Graveyard (premiering this Sunday at 8:00pm in its first public showing), "Yes, sometimes, sometimes, everything works out okay."
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make some coffee for my wife.
See you tomorrow.
A couple of film reads today I'm up for. Nothing terribly important, but possibly some good stuff for the perpetually changing 'reel.'
Angie's birthday is coming up so I'm thinking of birthday presents. Topping the list are new clothes for me. Haven't quite figured out how to make those sound like a birthday present for Angie, but I'm working on it.
We've been hunting for a new couch (and a chair) recently and yesterday scanned IKEA in hopes of finding something suitable there. We actually did find a nice couch, but it wasn't 'perfect' so we passed. But more importantly we discovered there are hotdogs for only 50 cents inside IKEA at the, um, IKEA hot dog place. Go figure. Being a lifelong fan of hotdogs in general, I stored the knowledge away for another time.
I was momentarily enraged to read yesterday that the transit cop in Oakland received only two years (half of which he's already served) for murdering, on tape, in cold blood, the young black man in the train station. The young man was face down, cuffed, completely docile when the cop pulled his gun (mind you, this is all on tape) and shot him in the back. The young man died a few hours later. The cop claims he thought he was pulling his Tazer and accidentally pulled his gun instead. Why would anyone Tazer someone already cuffed and face down?
Michael Vick received more prison time for arranging dog fights.
I had a flashback to Chicago when I read of this. In that god-forsaken city cops routinely shoot black people and don't even see the inside of a courtroom for it. In fact, just before I left, a cop had just gotten a slap on the wrist for gunning down a 13 year old boy after he pulled a comb from his pocket. The cop, naturally, said he thought the comb was an AK-47 or some such nonsense. Today he is back on the force ostensibly shooting more black people. I'm constantly amazed that more people, white people, aren't as incensed about this that I am.
There is a racial divide in this country as wide and ominous as The Grand Canyon. Personally, I'm not sure it can ever be crossed. Maybe I'm a skeptic, but if you'd lived in Chicago as long as I did, you might feel the same way. Oakland, Chicago, Washington D.C., three cities where the divide has reached critical mass. It is a terrible and shameful blight on this nation's countenance. And every time a cop gets away with it, the canyon gets deeper and further across.
I, or you, or anyone can't hope to address all the incredible injustices in this country, but this one, renegade cops operating above the law, is one I've spent a few years lamenting. It's funny what a badge will do to people. Not all cops, of course, but too many that I've known, see it as giving them a moral right to resolve situations by killing people. Yes, this is a bit strong, but I've spent years watching it time and again in Chicago (twenty two times the national average in incidents of citizens being gunned down by officers of the law) and now this particular case in Oakland. It is, quite simply, unacceptable. Policeman must be held accountable for their actions. Otherwise, we need to abandon the pretense of 'serve and protect' and just outfit them all with brown shirts.
Anyway.
So I've been here a year. My, what a year can do. Marriage, new house, new career, union affiliation, new plays, new agents, reconnecting with old friends, new puppies...in a sense, it's still overwhelming. And nearly every single moment has been a kind of beatiful dream.
To quote a line in Bachelor's Graveyard (premiering this Sunday at 8:00pm in its first public showing), "Yes, sometimes, sometimes, everything works out okay."
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make some coffee for my wife.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Winter's Bone.
I watched a remarkable film last night, Winter's Bone. It stayed with me. I kept thinking about it, or to be more specific, about certain scenes, well after it was over.
The movie is about a young girl searching for her father, who may or may not be dead, for a variety of reasons to help save the family house. The father is tied up in the meth business (a big problem in southern Missouri, although I didn't know that before) and has been bailed from jail and has vanished. The storyline is simply that.
But it wasn't the story or the plot that kept me riveted. It was the ambience. It is beautifully shot. Or more to the point, it's accurately shot. I knew all of those people. A good friend watched it last night with Angie and I and said afterwards that although he admired the film he didn't find himself emotionally invested in it. I agree with that, to a point. Neither was I, really. But I also have never been emotionally invested in, say, Raging Bull or Apocalypse Now or Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf or Star Wars. Nonetheless, I count all of those movies in my top twenty favorites of all time. So, for me anyway, that's not a criteria for great film viewing. In fact, just the opposite. Scorcese, for example, steers clear of reaction shots for the most part. Look at King of Comedy. One of the reasons that film is so uncomfortable is because Scorcese doesn't let us blow off emotional steam by giving us reaction shots. We're left to feel uncomfortable with the subject matter rather than poke fun at it because he doesn't let us laugh with it. It's a joke without a punchline. In fact, a full two hours of jokes without punchlines. The same can be said of Winter's Bone.
Reaction shots are the bread and butter for films. They are the proverbial 'money shots.' Without them we are left to our own devices to interpret a scene or, even more specifically, a dramatic or comedic moment. That's one reason we don't see very many Shakespearean-type soliloquys in film. They give too much of the decision making process to the audience. It takes a very confident director indeed to make a movie without reaction shots. For instance, one of my favorite movies, Cinema Paradiso...try to imagine that incredibly powerful scene in the end without the reaction shot from the actor playing the estranged director in the small movie theatre watching the old movie clips. It is his reaction to the clips that is so powerful, not the clips themselves. TV learned this lesson early, thus the annoying and intrusive 'laugh track' on so many sitcoms.
Another problem my friend had with the movie is his inability to understand a lot of the regional dialect. It is dead on. I didn't have so much trouble with it because I grew up in that area. Angie, too, understood it, even more than I did. He kept asking Angie what was being said and she would clarify for him. I had the same problem with 'Sid and Nancy' when it came out. It was like watching a foreign film without subtitles for me.
But none of that is why I liked the movie so much. I liked the movie because it spoke to me personally on a geographic level. I knew that place, I knew those people, and I understood that feeling of being trapped in that landscape. Speaking of Scorsese, the same can be said of his 'Taxi Driver.' That is to say, a vision of New York City as a kind of Hell. Winter's Bone does the same thing for Missouri. It is a glimpse into that lifestyle and ambience as a picture of desolation itself.
Odd to say this, but I didn't really care about the plot or the plight of our protagonist in the film. I agreed with my friend on that point. And yet I was still riveted. The film is peopled with scary, uneducated, ignorant, violent characters. In other words, most of the people with whom I grew up. I knew these people and I lived with these people. Terrible people who's 'fight or flight' instinct easily wins out over reason and compassion. Desperate people who's hardscrabble life is relieved only by a daily intake of alcohol or, in the case of the movie, crystal meth. It was a frightening trip back to a place in my memory that is nothing short of a nightmare.
We rented the film not only because it has recieved a whole gaggle of critical commentary as of late but also because one of Angie's dearest friends, Beth Domann, has a small part in the movie. She's very good in it, as is every actor, really, the most memorable for me being John Hawkes in the role of 'Tear Drop,' the sociopathic brother of the deceased father. Mesmerizing work from Mr. Hawks. A part like that on film doesn't come along very often for actors and he attacks it with ferocity and intelligence. There is a scene, in fact, in the film in which that character scares the bejesus out of the local sheriff on a lonely, dark, country road. It is as tense and rewarding a scene as I have seen in a very long time on film.
The strung together pictures of that life in rural Missouri is soul-shaking. Inescapable, trapped, bleak pictures that stayed with me long after the movie rolled its credits. The director, Debra Granik, someone I've never heard of, is to be congratulated. Clearly, the budget of the film is minimal. Cleary, she's working with local actors in the Ozarks of Missouri. And clearly, she's created a world tantamount to Hades itself.
This is the best thing I've seen in 2010. If you haven't taken it in yet, I implore you to do so. But be prepared for an unrelenting starkness. This is not your father's Oldsmobile.
I can say from personal experience, there's nothing quite so depressing and hopeless as a winter evening in rural, southern Missouri. It can suck the life out of the most stalwart of spirits. And Ms. Granik has captured it perfectly. She has made a pearl from a sow's ear. Even the final moment of the piece, ostensibly there to convey at least a little hope for our protagonist, is strangely joyless and bitter.
This is a great piece of film making. It put me right there, right then, right in that moment. And I lay awake for a long time last night thinking about it. I can offer no higher praise.
See you tomorrow.
The movie is about a young girl searching for her father, who may or may not be dead, for a variety of reasons to help save the family house. The father is tied up in the meth business (a big problem in southern Missouri, although I didn't know that before) and has been bailed from jail and has vanished. The storyline is simply that.
But it wasn't the story or the plot that kept me riveted. It was the ambience. It is beautifully shot. Or more to the point, it's accurately shot. I knew all of those people. A good friend watched it last night with Angie and I and said afterwards that although he admired the film he didn't find himself emotionally invested in it. I agree with that, to a point. Neither was I, really. But I also have never been emotionally invested in, say, Raging Bull or Apocalypse Now or Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf or Star Wars. Nonetheless, I count all of those movies in my top twenty favorites of all time. So, for me anyway, that's not a criteria for great film viewing. In fact, just the opposite. Scorcese, for example, steers clear of reaction shots for the most part. Look at King of Comedy. One of the reasons that film is so uncomfortable is because Scorcese doesn't let us blow off emotional steam by giving us reaction shots. We're left to feel uncomfortable with the subject matter rather than poke fun at it because he doesn't let us laugh with it. It's a joke without a punchline. In fact, a full two hours of jokes without punchlines. The same can be said of Winter's Bone.
Reaction shots are the bread and butter for films. They are the proverbial 'money shots.' Without them we are left to our own devices to interpret a scene or, even more specifically, a dramatic or comedic moment. That's one reason we don't see very many Shakespearean-type soliloquys in film. They give too much of the decision making process to the audience. It takes a very confident director indeed to make a movie without reaction shots. For instance, one of my favorite movies, Cinema Paradiso...try to imagine that incredibly powerful scene in the end without the reaction shot from the actor playing the estranged director in the small movie theatre watching the old movie clips. It is his reaction to the clips that is so powerful, not the clips themselves. TV learned this lesson early, thus the annoying and intrusive 'laugh track' on so many sitcoms.
Another problem my friend had with the movie is his inability to understand a lot of the regional dialect. It is dead on. I didn't have so much trouble with it because I grew up in that area. Angie, too, understood it, even more than I did. He kept asking Angie what was being said and she would clarify for him. I had the same problem with 'Sid and Nancy' when it came out. It was like watching a foreign film without subtitles for me.
But none of that is why I liked the movie so much. I liked the movie because it spoke to me personally on a geographic level. I knew that place, I knew those people, and I understood that feeling of being trapped in that landscape. Speaking of Scorsese, the same can be said of his 'Taxi Driver.' That is to say, a vision of New York City as a kind of Hell. Winter's Bone does the same thing for Missouri. It is a glimpse into that lifestyle and ambience as a picture of desolation itself.
Odd to say this, but I didn't really care about the plot or the plight of our protagonist in the film. I agreed with my friend on that point. And yet I was still riveted. The film is peopled with scary, uneducated, ignorant, violent characters. In other words, most of the people with whom I grew up. I knew these people and I lived with these people. Terrible people who's 'fight or flight' instinct easily wins out over reason and compassion. Desperate people who's hardscrabble life is relieved only by a daily intake of alcohol or, in the case of the movie, crystal meth. It was a frightening trip back to a place in my memory that is nothing short of a nightmare.
We rented the film not only because it has recieved a whole gaggle of critical commentary as of late but also because one of Angie's dearest friends, Beth Domann, has a small part in the movie. She's very good in it, as is every actor, really, the most memorable for me being John Hawkes in the role of 'Tear Drop,' the sociopathic brother of the deceased father. Mesmerizing work from Mr. Hawks. A part like that on film doesn't come along very often for actors and he attacks it with ferocity and intelligence. There is a scene, in fact, in the film in which that character scares the bejesus out of the local sheriff on a lonely, dark, country road. It is as tense and rewarding a scene as I have seen in a very long time on film.
The strung together pictures of that life in rural Missouri is soul-shaking. Inescapable, trapped, bleak pictures that stayed with me long after the movie rolled its credits. The director, Debra Granik, someone I've never heard of, is to be congratulated. Clearly, the budget of the film is minimal. Cleary, she's working with local actors in the Ozarks of Missouri. And clearly, she's created a world tantamount to Hades itself.
This is the best thing I've seen in 2010. If you haven't taken it in yet, I implore you to do so. But be prepared for an unrelenting starkness. This is not your father's Oldsmobile.
I can say from personal experience, there's nothing quite so depressing and hopeless as a winter evening in rural, southern Missouri. It can suck the life out of the most stalwart of spirits. And Ms. Granik has captured it perfectly. She has made a pearl from a sow's ear. Even the final moment of the piece, ostensibly there to convey at least a little hope for our protagonist, is strangely joyless and bitter.
This is a great piece of film making. It put me right there, right then, right in that moment. And I lay awake for a long time last night thinking about it. I can offer no higher praise.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Hemingway, Mamet and Shadrach.
I've got an audition for a major feature film today. The working title, I'm told, is 'Fireflies.' Although no doubt that will change in production. The role is a wife-beating, trailer trash, uneducated ruffian. Good money, short shoot if I end up doing it. I like those kinds of shoots. Plus it's local, which means I won't have to fly to some god-forsaken place for location shots. I'll be able to come home at night and have dinner with Angie and the puppies instead of sitting alone in some dismal hotel diner in podunk, Louisiana or wherever.
But the big thing that's been occupying my mind as of late is Bachelor's Graveyard and the invited-audience-only reading we're doing of it this Sunday. One never knows for certain with things like this, but it has all the earmarks of being something really cool. I've got a great young cast, a script I like very much, a nice space to do it in, good lighting and sound and a hand-picked audience to show it to. I have high hopes.
This play is unique for several reasons. For one, it is probably the only script I've never felt the need or desire to go back and rewrite. Once I finished the sixth or seventh draft, I just put it down. I was done with it. I had said all I wanted to say. Very rare for me.
I have also found with this scipt that upon reading it, people either love it or hate it. There's very little indifference about this piece of writing. The guys doing it seem to love it. I'm glad. It could easily be dismissed as a piece of theatre entirely founded on scatalogical situations and language. It is not. But the opening scene, the first 12 or so pages, would seem to indicate that. I wanted to do that to take the viewer on what appeared to be one journey and then suddenly veer onto a road less travelled and take them on a far nobler and not readily apparent altruistic journey instead. A little high-falutin' there, but it's true. What starts as a bunch of 18 year old boys talking about getting laid suddenly finds itself in the midst of real discourse. Real intent. Real depth. Hopefully, anyway.
The play comes as close to actual allegory as I've ever been as a writer.
In four months I turn 50. Just writing that sentence gives me pause. I'll be a half a century old. It's almost inconceivable to me. No, ammend that. It IS inconceivable to me. There is no logical reason on God's Green Earth that I should be turning 50. I'm sure it's been done, but it's hard to imagine someone living a more reckless, hedonistic life as I have. I'll spare you the details. Suffice to say, I'm more surprised about it than anyone. And I've lost a lot of comrades-in-arms along the way. Friends that stood at my shoulder and advanced fearlessly into the line of fire as I did. And weren't so lucky.
Bachelor's Graveyard is about that. It's all about that. It's a testament to being in the fire with Shadrach, et al, and finally stepping out, curiously unscathed. It's a two hour discourse on the old joke, 'how do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans.' But it's also about hope and redemption. It's final message is about predestination, fate and blind faith. If there is a God, if He is indeed concerned about any of us personally, if He has anything to say about it, the play is then about that. It is a metaphysical tip of the hat to the possibility that now and then God says out loud, "Not so fast. I'm not done with you yet."
In a sense, I suppose, all of my writing is about that. It is the one great theme I return to time and again, willingly or not. A buddy of mine said to me the other day, "You know, every time I pick up a new book by John Irving, I can count on reading something about Austria or wrestling or bears or incest or hotels. And every time I see one of your plays I can count on seeing something about drinking too much, dysfunctional families, Muhammad Ali and Missouri." Frankly, I'd never thought of it like that. At the time I laughed. In retrospect I think he was being weirdly truthful.
It's not until I've finished a play that I take the time or effort to suss out the themes. I'm always reminded of the very rare interview Hemingway gave upon the release of The Old Man and the Sea. Hemingway, of course, was notoriously circumspect about the underlying 'meaning' of his writing, his novels. The invited reporters in the room kept asking him questions like, "Would you say this book is about the conflict of good and evil?" Or, "Is this your take on religion? Can the fish be the physical embodiment of your soul?" After a short bit of this, old Ernest had had quite enough. He finally blurted out, "It's a book about a guy who caught a fish and then couldn't keep it." He then walked out. Now don't get me wrong. Ernest Hemingway was no accidental writer. He knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe not when he started the book but certainly by the time he was in the middle of it. I completely understand that.
I'm reading David Mamet's new book out called simply "Theatre" these days. Mamet, like Hemingway, prefers to talk other stuff, not his writing, but about acting and directing and 'intentions' and the not-so-popular debunking of 'the method' rather than his actual process. He rarely talks about his writing or how he goes about doing it. But in this book he does, sort of unwillingly, talk about it. And in the final analysis it becomes clear that he has no idea how he does it. He sits down with a clean sheet of paper, a vague idea of what he'd like the play to be about, a few half-formed characters in mind, and a few months later he has something new and invented. And more often than not it has nothing to do with what he sat down to write in the first place. Again, I completely understand that.
So Bachelor's Graveyard is never far from the surface of my thoughts these days. It drives Angie a bit loopy. We were watching the biography channel last night (they had a full night of 'Star Trek' bios and my inner geek was gleeful at the prospect of seeing them all) and I turned to her in the midst of them and said something about the play. She said, "Don't you ever just relax and stop thinking?" No. No, I don't. If I get this little film gig today, I'll make a lot of money again. For acting, I mean. It happens occasionally, thank God. Gets the bills paid and puts some chicken gizzards on the table. But it's really incidental. I won't make a penny on the reading of this new play. Not a dime. But it's far more important to me than the other gig. And one of the reasons is because until this Sunday at 8:00pm, it didn't exist. And after 10:00pm this Sunday it will cease to exist. And for me, anyway, that's what it's all about.
See you tomorrow.
But the big thing that's been occupying my mind as of late is Bachelor's Graveyard and the invited-audience-only reading we're doing of it this Sunday. One never knows for certain with things like this, but it has all the earmarks of being something really cool. I've got a great young cast, a script I like very much, a nice space to do it in, good lighting and sound and a hand-picked audience to show it to. I have high hopes.
This play is unique for several reasons. For one, it is probably the only script I've never felt the need or desire to go back and rewrite. Once I finished the sixth or seventh draft, I just put it down. I was done with it. I had said all I wanted to say. Very rare for me.
I have also found with this scipt that upon reading it, people either love it or hate it. There's very little indifference about this piece of writing. The guys doing it seem to love it. I'm glad. It could easily be dismissed as a piece of theatre entirely founded on scatalogical situations and language. It is not. But the opening scene, the first 12 or so pages, would seem to indicate that. I wanted to do that to take the viewer on what appeared to be one journey and then suddenly veer onto a road less travelled and take them on a far nobler and not readily apparent altruistic journey instead. A little high-falutin' there, but it's true. What starts as a bunch of 18 year old boys talking about getting laid suddenly finds itself in the midst of real discourse. Real intent. Real depth. Hopefully, anyway.
The play comes as close to actual allegory as I've ever been as a writer.
In four months I turn 50. Just writing that sentence gives me pause. I'll be a half a century old. It's almost inconceivable to me. No, ammend that. It IS inconceivable to me. There is no logical reason on God's Green Earth that I should be turning 50. I'm sure it's been done, but it's hard to imagine someone living a more reckless, hedonistic life as I have. I'll spare you the details. Suffice to say, I'm more surprised about it than anyone. And I've lost a lot of comrades-in-arms along the way. Friends that stood at my shoulder and advanced fearlessly into the line of fire as I did. And weren't so lucky.
Bachelor's Graveyard is about that. It's all about that. It's a testament to being in the fire with Shadrach, et al, and finally stepping out, curiously unscathed. It's a two hour discourse on the old joke, 'how do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans.' But it's also about hope and redemption. It's final message is about predestination, fate and blind faith. If there is a God, if He is indeed concerned about any of us personally, if He has anything to say about it, the play is then about that. It is a metaphysical tip of the hat to the possibility that now and then God says out loud, "Not so fast. I'm not done with you yet."
In a sense, I suppose, all of my writing is about that. It is the one great theme I return to time and again, willingly or not. A buddy of mine said to me the other day, "You know, every time I pick up a new book by John Irving, I can count on reading something about Austria or wrestling or bears or incest or hotels. And every time I see one of your plays I can count on seeing something about drinking too much, dysfunctional families, Muhammad Ali and Missouri." Frankly, I'd never thought of it like that. At the time I laughed. In retrospect I think he was being weirdly truthful.
It's not until I've finished a play that I take the time or effort to suss out the themes. I'm always reminded of the very rare interview Hemingway gave upon the release of The Old Man and the Sea. Hemingway, of course, was notoriously circumspect about the underlying 'meaning' of his writing, his novels. The invited reporters in the room kept asking him questions like, "Would you say this book is about the conflict of good and evil?" Or, "Is this your take on religion? Can the fish be the physical embodiment of your soul?" After a short bit of this, old Ernest had had quite enough. He finally blurted out, "It's a book about a guy who caught a fish and then couldn't keep it." He then walked out. Now don't get me wrong. Ernest Hemingway was no accidental writer. He knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe not when he started the book but certainly by the time he was in the middle of it. I completely understand that.
I'm reading David Mamet's new book out called simply "Theatre" these days. Mamet, like Hemingway, prefers to talk other stuff, not his writing, but about acting and directing and 'intentions' and the not-so-popular debunking of 'the method' rather than his actual process. He rarely talks about his writing or how he goes about doing it. But in this book he does, sort of unwillingly, talk about it. And in the final analysis it becomes clear that he has no idea how he does it. He sits down with a clean sheet of paper, a vague idea of what he'd like the play to be about, a few half-formed characters in mind, and a few months later he has something new and invented. And more often than not it has nothing to do with what he sat down to write in the first place. Again, I completely understand that.
So Bachelor's Graveyard is never far from the surface of my thoughts these days. It drives Angie a bit loopy. We were watching the biography channel last night (they had a full night of 'Star Trek' bios and my inner geek was gleeful at the prospect of seeing them all) and I turned to her in the midst of them and said something about the play. She said, "Don't you ever just relax and stop thinking?" No. No, I don't. If I get this little film gig today, I'll make a lot of money again. For acting, I mean. It happens occasionally, thank God. Gets the bills paid and puts some chicken gizzards on the table. But it's really incidental. I won't make a penny on the reading of this new play. Not a dime. But it's far more important to me than the other gig. And one of the reasons is because until this Sunday at 8:00pm, it didn't exist. And after 10:00pm this Sunday it will cease to exist. And for me, anyway, that's what it's all about.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
So Be It.
The voters have spoken, collectively speaking. So be it.
Once again the political climate in this country has shifted. The president's magic wand, apparently, isn't working fast enough. Fortunately, I honestly don't think anything of significance will change in the next two years after last night's political pardigm shift. Unfortunately, the current administration now has little to no hope of making any strides in the next two years, either. It will simply become a reverse case of holding a finger in the dam.
The real battle for liberals and proponents of change now rests on 2012. Last night was a setback, to be sure, but change is rarely overnight. I think even more than the conflicting idealogues, the real concern for the evening should be in the hate and fear on both sides. The constitution has become an exceptionally well-built bridge with way too many people on it. Even the strongest foundations are tested.
In any event, this blog is not politically oriented. At least, I hope it's not, so I'll not linger. I can say that I'm personally disappointed. I can also say that I'm not personally surprised. I've often heard that socialism only works on paper. Well, there is a case in saying the same thing for unbridled capitalism. Marx warned of this (Karl, not Groucho). This nation has an altogether remarkable history of putting the right people in the right place at the right time. Over the past 234 years it has been almost uncanny in the way that has worked out. Providential, one might say. The electorate, although deeply flawed, is like an airplane spinning out of control. It was discovered in the early twentieth century, much to everyone's dismay, that if left alone, it will right itself, often times after the pilot has ejected with his parachute. And so has been the case of this nation. Just when everything seems to be spinning out of control, the country rights itself. It happened in 1783, it happened in 1814, it happened in 1865, it happened in 1900, it happened in 1917, it happened in 1933, it happened in 1941, it happened in 1960, it happened in 1980, and it happened in 2008. It will happen again.
See you tomorrow.
Once again the political climate in this country has shifted. The president's magic wand, apparently, isn't working fast enough. Fortunately, I honestly don't think anything of significance will change in the next two years after last night's political pardigm shift. Unfortunately, the current administration now has little to no hope of making any strides in the next two years, either. It will simply become a reverse case of holding a finger in the dam.
The real battle for liberals and proponents of change now rests on 2012. Last night was a setback, to be sure, but change is rarely overnight. I think even more than the conflicting idealogues, the real concern for the evening should be in the hate and fear on both sides. The constitution has become an exceptionally well-built bridge with way too many people on it. Even the strongest foundations are tested.
In any event, this blog is not politically oriented. At least, I hope it's not, so I'll not linger. I can say that I'm personally disappointed. I can also say that I'm not personally surprised. I've often heard that socialism only works on paper. Well, there is a case in saying the same thing for unbridled capitalism. Marx warned of this (Karl, not Groucho). This nation has an altogether remarkable history of putting the right people in the right place at the right time. Over the past 234 years it has been almost uncanny in the way that has worked out. Providential, one might say. The electorate, although deeply flawed, is like an airplane spinning out of control. It was discovered in the early twentieth century, much to everyone's dismay, that if left alone, it will right itself, often times after the pilot has ejected with his parachute. And so has been the case of this nation. Just when everything seems to be spinning out of control, the country rights itself. It happened in 1783, it happened in 1814, it happened in 1865, it happened in 1900, it happened in 1917, it happened in 1933, it happened in 1941, it happened in 1960, it happened in 1980, and it happened in 2008. It will happen again.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Election Day.
The first time I voted was thirty one years ago this week and I voted for Jimmy Carter in the presidential race. Four years later, for the first and only time, I voted Republican, making my mark next to the name of Ronald Reagan. I hadn't really formed any political ideology yet, and I was still voting for the 'person' rather than the ideas. I think that's probably a fairly common thing for young people to do. I don't regret voting for Reagan, although in retrospect I disagreed with nearly every sentence he ever uttered. Even today, I believe Ronald Reagan was a good man, just misguided. As I've gotten older and more informed I can't say that about very many Republicans. The entire party, the very platform itself, is motivated by unabashed greed and poorly disguised self-interest. Then again, as a buddy of mine once pointed out to me, that may very well be what our founding fathers had in mind when sculpting our constitution. The financially elite don't like to give that title up without a fight. And frankly, I completely understand that. Henry Kissinger once said something akin to this: if you're under 30 and a republican, you're probably a fool and if you're over 30 and a democrat you're probably a failure. Harsh, but not surprising.
I have never hidden the fact that I'm a far left, liberal democrat these days. And yet, as I get older, I find myself, deep in my unspoken beliefs, sometimes questioning that. I certainly have a few 'on the fence' thoughts about foreign policy. And my domestic social political beliefs have begun to waver from time to time. Only being honest here.
But at the end of the day my better angels kick in and I'm motiviated all over again by a clear sense of right and wrong. The problem is, of course, my leftist ideas are colored by the inescapable fact that often times they simply don't work. One only has to live in the city of Chicago for a few years to see this. Chicago is unquestionably the most corrupt city, politically speaking, in the United States of America. The city is, for all intents and purposes, under martial law. The police department there is as close to NAZI Germany as one can imagine. Three of the last four Illinois Governors are either in jail or going there. The city itself has been under the thumb of the arrogant and uncompromising Richard Daley for nearly three decades. I despise that city and its corruption.
Long ago I came to a decision about my political leanings and the impetus for my voting patterns. I simply can't vote for the individual anymore. It just doesn't make sense. And I can't control what any politician will actually do once he or she enters office. I can't hope to predict the real motives behind their ambitions to hold public office. It's simply not possible. Consequently, all I can do is vote for the ideas outlined in the platform of the party itself.
I have, over the years, become fascinated with the office of the presidency. I have read myriad books on the subject and will always search out programs about it on TV. I have become enamored with the Lincolns (the only certified 'genius' to ever hold that office, in my opinion), the Roosevelts, the Jeffersons (although I completely disagree with Jeffersonian theory) and the Clintons (oh, how I wish Bill could run again) that have held that office. Just listen to Bill Clinton give an interview today and if you're anything like me you'll wince at the unavoidable comparison with Bush and Obama.
So today, I exercise my right to vote for the issues and ideas in which I believe. Here in California it's gotten very ugly. Jerry Brown and Meg Whitman are in a cage match. Fiorina and Boxer are are both hurtling slings and arrows. It should be an interesting day. I know it's popular these days to call a race 'the lesser of two evils' but in California it really is true. I have absolutely no faith in Jerry Brown whatsoever and yet Meg Whitman seems to be the physical incarnation of evil itself. Fiorina is the poster child for greedy republican politics and yet Barbara Boxer is the very example of ineffectiveness. So what is one to do? Well, vote for the platform. That's all I can do. That's all any of us can do.
There is one thing I really like about California: my vote counts here. In Illinois it really didn't. The city of Chicago has voted overwhelmingly democratic for so long and in such numbers that my extra vote was redundant. Here it means something.
I'm very tempted today to do a write in vote. Next to every single name. Judge, congressman, governor, senator, dog catcher, it doesn't matter. I want to write the name - Jeb Bartlett.
See you tomorrow.
I have never hidden the fact that I'm a far left, liberal democrat these days. And yet, as I get older, I find myself, deep in my unspoken beliefs, sometimes questioning that. I certainly have a few 'on the fence' thoughts about foreign policy. And my domestic social political beliefs have begun to waver from time to time. Only being honest here.
But at the end of the day my better angels kick in and I'm motiviated all over again by a clear sense of right and wrong. The problem is, of course, my leftist ideas are colored by the inescapable fact that often times they simply don't work. One only has to live in the city of Chicago for a few years to see this. Chicago is unquestionably the most corrupt city, politically speaking, in the United States of America. The city is, for all intents and purposes, under martial law. The police department there is as close to NAZI Germany as one can imagine. Three of the last four Illinois Governors are either in jail or going there. The city itself has been under the thumb of the arrogant and uncompromising Richard Daley for nearly three decades. I despise that city and its corruption.
Long ago I came to a decision about my political leanings and the impetus for my voting patterns. I simply can't vote for the individual anymore. It just doesn't make sense. And I can't control what any politician will actually do once he or she enters office. I can't hope to predict the real motives behind their ambitions to hold public office. It's simply not possible. Consequently, all I can do is vote for the ideas outlined in the platform of the party itself.
I have, over the years, become fascinated with the office of the presidency. I have read myriad books on the subject and will always search out programs about it on TV. I have become enamored with the Lincolns (the only certified 'genius' to ever hold that office, in my opinion), the Roosevelts, the Jeffersons (although I completely disagree with Jeffersonian theory) and the Clintons (oh, how I wish Bill could run again) that have held that office. Just listen to Bill Clinton give an interview today and if you're anything like me you'll wince at the unavoidable comparison with Bush and Obama.
So today, I exercise my right to vote for the issues and ideas in which I believe. Here in California it's gotten very ugly. Jerry Brown and Meg Whitman are in a cage match. Fiorina and Boxer are are both hurtling slings and arrows. It should be an interesting day. I know it's popular these days to call a race 'the lesser of two evils' but in California it really is true. I have absolutely no faith in Jerry Brown whatsoever and yet Meg Whitman seems to be the physical incarnation of evil itself. Fiorina is the poster child for greedy republican politics and yet Barbara Boxer is the very example of ineffectiveness. So what is one to do? Well, vote for the platform. That's all I can do. That's all any of us can do.
There is one thing I really like about California: my vote counts here. In Illinois it really didn't. The city of Chicago has voted overwhelmingly democratic for so long and in such numbers that my extra vote was redundant. Here it means something.
I'm very tempted today to do a write in vote. Next to every single name. Judge, congressman, governor, senator, dog catcher, it doesn't matter. I want to write the name - Jeb Bartlett.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, November 1, 2010
My First Halloween.
My first Halloween in California is now over. And it was a weird one.
Angie and I stayed in and handed out candy to the throngs of neighborhood kids. Now, I know this is more than a little indicative of the kind of life I've led for decades, but this is the first time in my life I've ever done that. Hand out candy on Halloween, that is. After it got dark here, Angie busied herself in the kitchen cooking another astonishing dinner. She said, "I'm going to be in the kitchen cooking dinner, so you hand out candy while I'm in here." Sounded easy enough. Just hand out candy. No big deal.
Well, I choked. Well, not exactly choked, but I did it wrong. The last time I was involved in the 'candy' part of Halloween (as opposed to the nihilism part of Halloween) I was 10 years old and I held a big bag out and someone put a handful of candy in it. Then I went to the next house and repeated the ritual. So that's what I did as the 'hander-outer.' The door was open (it's California) and I heard a lot of munchkin-like voices yell, "Trick or Treat!" I went to the door, followed curiously by Franny and Zooey, reached into the bowl and handed out huge handfuls of candy to each kid there. They were not in normal clothing. Instead they had on what is called 'costumes.' This is the first thing I noticed. When I was growing up, my parents drank through Halloween. The idea of taking an hour or so to dress up the kids was out of the question. So I always just put some dark make-up under my eyes and went as a 'football player in normal clothes.' These kids had on actual costumes. At first I thought the cast from 'CATS' was at my door. Angie wandered in to the living room as I was handing out the last, heaping handful of candy. I was waving to them and saying in my best Ward Cleaver voice, "Happy Halloween! You guys look great!" I turned around. She had a disapproving look on her face. "What?" I said. "Now what?" She said. I didn't know what was wrong. I thought I'd done great. "What?" I said again. She pointed to the bowl. It was nearly empty. "You just gave out almost all the candy on the first group of kids." I looked at the bowl. She was right. I was horrified. I thought that's what I was supposed to do. "It's six o'clock and we have no candy left." Oh, dear. My mind raced furiously. "You're only supposed to give out one piece of candy to each of them." I thought the CATS cast members had looked a little overwhelmed. "One piece?" I asked, stunned. "Yes. One piece. Now we have no candy for the rest of them." What do we have in the house that I could use, I thought, beginning to panic. I had staples. A bunch of little boxes of staples we'd recently bought. Maybe if I threw them in quickly, sort of covering them up with my hand, they wouldn't know. What else? I had a huge box of 'teeth whiteners' in the bathroom. They came in individually wrapped pieces. The look a little like the mouth guards I used to wear when I boxed. I could throw those in there. I had a whole jar of milk bones in the kitchen for Franny and Zooey. Again, with a little slight of hand, I might be able to get away with that. Franny and Zooey, however, seemed to be reading my mind and were already looking at me accusingly. Damn. My first gaggle of kids on Halloween and I'd messed it all up. Finally, Angie, seeing how stricken I looked, put me out of my misery. She'd planned for just such a contingency and had bought some secret 'back up' bags of candy. She got them out of their top secret hiding place (she knew I'd eat it if I knew where it was) and poured the 'second string' candy into the bowl. It was definitely the Jr. Varsity candy, I could see. The off brand stuff. Instead of 'Snickers' it was 'Snuckers' and had, presumably, a lower grade of chocolate and less nuts in each one. I didn't care. The night had been salvaged by my forward thinking wife. I resigned on the spot. SHE would give out the candy for the rest of the night. I would act as security. Standing imposingly behind her. Talking into an imaginary microphone on my lapel. Looking around hawk-like for snipers. And that's how we did it for the rest of the night.
So the rest of the night went smoothly. Angie handing out the candy, complimenting the neighborhood kids on their outfits, me standing ominously behind her, silently daring anyone to get out of line.
Kids intimidate me. The littler the kid, the more intimidating. When they hold out their bags I see, in my mind's eye, an armed burglary of sorts. I give them everything. Just don't hurt me or my family, I think. It's just candy, I think. We can buy more. Nothing compared to our health.
Honestly, I don't know how actual adults do this stuff (as opposed to me, a guy pretending to be an adult). Things other people seem to know by instinct: handing out candy on Halloween, wrapping presents on Christmas, having people over for dinner and actually eating dinner, mowing the lawn or taking excess tomatoes from the garden to our next door neighbors, leaving a freshly-baked cup cake for the mailman, buying new lightbulbs for the house instead of just carrying around the one left that works. It's all advanced geometry to me.
But I love it. I love it with all my heart and soul. I love learning how to do it. And I have a very patient, smiling, amused teacher. And most importantly, Angie doesn't seem to mind teaching me.
See you tomorrow.
Angie and I stayed in and handed out candy to the throngs of neighborhood kids. Now, I know this is more than a little indicative of the kind of life I've led for decades, but this is the first time in my life I've ever done that. Hand out candy on Halloween, that is. After it got dark here, Angie busied herself in the kitchen cooking another astonishing dinner. She said, "I'm going to be in the kitchen cooking dinner, so you hand out candy while I'm in here." Sounded easy enough. Just hand out candy. No big deal.
Well, I choked. Well, not exactly choked, but I did it wrong. The last time I was involved in the 'candy' part of Halloween (as opposed to the nihilism part of Halloween) I was 10 years old and I held a big bag out and someone put a handful of candy in it. Then I went to the next house and repeated the ritual. So that's what I did as the 'hander-outer.' The door was open (it's California) and I heard a lot of munchkin-like voices yell, "Trick or Treat!" I went to the door, followed curiously by Franny and Zooey, reached into the bowl and handed out huge handfuls of candy to each kid there. They were not in normal clothing. Instead they had on what is called 'costumes.' This is the first thing I noticed. When I was growing up, my parents drank through Halloween. The idea of taking an hour or so to dress up the kids was out of the question. So I always just put some dark make-up under my eyes and went as a 'football player in normal clothes.' These kids had on actual costumes. At first I thought the cast from 'CATS' was at my door. Angie wandered in to the living room as I was handing out the last, heaping handful of candy. I was waving to them and saying in my best Ward Cleaver voice, "Happy Halloween! You guys look great!" I turned around. She had a disapproving look on her face. "What?" I said. "Now what?" She said. I didn't know what was wrong. I thought I'd done great. "What?" I said again. She pointed to the bowl. It was nearly empty. "You just gave out almost all the candy on the first group of kids." I looked at the bowl. She was right. I was horrified. I thought that's what I was supposed to do. "It's six o'clock and we have no candy left." Oh, dear. My mind raced furiously. "You're only supposed to give out one piece of candy to each of them." I thought the CATS cast members had looked a little overwhelmed. "One piece?" I asked, stunned. "Yes. One piece. Now we have no candy for the rest of them." What do we have in the house that I could use, I thought, beginning to panic. I had staples. A bunch of little boxes of staples we'd recently bought. Maybe if I threw them in quickly, sort of covering them up with my hand, they wouldn't know. What else? I had a huge box of 'teeth whiteners' in the bathroom. They came in individually wrapped pieces. The look a little like the mouth guards I used to wear when I boxed. I could throw those in there. I had a whole jar of milk bones in the kitchen for Franny and Zooey. Again, with a little slight of hand, I might be able to get away with that. Franny and Zooey, however, seemed to be reading my mind and were already looking at me accusingly. Damn. My first gaggle of kids on Halloween and I'd messed it all up. Finally, Angie, seeing how stricken I looked, put me out of my misery. She'd planned for just such a contingency and had bought some secret 'back up' bags of candy. She got them out of their top secret hiding place (she knew I'd eat it if I knew where it was) and poured the 'second string' candy into the bowl. It was definitely the Jr. Varsity candy, I could see. The off brand stuff. Instead of 'Snickers' it was 'Snuckers' and had, presumably, a lower grade of chocolate and less nuts in each one. I didn't care. The night had been salvaged by my forward thinking wife. I resigned on the spot. SHE would give out the candy for the rest of the night. I would act as security. Standing imposingly behind her. Talking into an imaginary microphone on my lapel. Looking around hawk-like for snipers. And that's how we did it for the rest of the night.
So the rest of the night went smoothly. Angie handing out the candy, complimenting the neighborhood kids on their outfits, me standing ominously behind her, silently daring anyone to get out of line.
Kids intimidate me. The littler the kid, the more intimidating. When they hold out their bags I see, in my mind's eye, an armed burglary of sorts. I give them everything. Just don't hurt me or my family, I think. It's just candy, I think. We can buy more. Nothing compared to our health.
Honestly, I don't know how actual adults do this stuff (as opposed to me, a guy pretending to be an adult). Things other people seem to know by instinct: handing out candy on Halloween, wrapping presents on Christmas, having people over for dinner and actually eating dinner, mowing the lawn or taking excess tomatoes from the garden to our next door neighbors, leaving a freshly-baked cup cake for the mailman, buying new lightbulbs for the house instead of just carrying around the one left that works. It's all advanced geometry to me.
But I love it. I love it with all my heart and soul. I love learning how to do it. And I have a very patient, smiling, amused teacher. And most importantly, Angie doesn't seem to mind teaching me.
See you tomorrow.
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