Plato is credited with saying something to the effect, "Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a great battle." Then again, I think he's also the guy that wrote, "Rinse. Shampoo. Repeat." So what does he know?
Nonetheless, there's a truth there, in the former I mean.
Angie and I have been on the hunt lately for the 'perfect' bookshelves. We have a ton of books packed away here and there and a large, lonely, spare wall that needs filling. We've been looking everywhere. We may have found them, however. Two nice, wide, wooden and fairly plain bookshelves from IKEA. They fit our taste well. I suspect we'll go ahead and get them today.
We've gone to great lengths to make our small but comfortable bungalow here in Burbank as cozy and artificially distressed as possible. We both very much like the 'lived in' look. My ideal of a perfect living space was long ago influenced by Salinger's description of the Glass Family apartment in his books 'Franny and Zooey' and 'Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenter.' Neither Angie or I like anything remotely sleek or modern looking. We like heavy stuff, leather and wood, earth colors, rooms curtained and filled with character. Permanent feeling things. Lamps giving off faint light with old, khaki shades. Our front room is filled with the feeling of age and pragmatism. If we could've found a wooden computer, we probably would have gotten it. Our sklylit extra room off the dining room is a study in wicker and aged, tan leather. So, these floor to ceiling bookshelves are going to be a welcome addition.
We were in the midst of discussing all of this decor yesterday, planning and visualizing, when I received stunning news from a dear friend about some health issues in his family that will change his life forever. After our relatively brief conversation, I tried to get back to work, sitting at my computer shaping and editing and rewriting a new piece I've been commissioned to write, Angie occasionally chiming in with a new idea for our re fittings. But it was all just clattering noise in the background. My mind was three thousand miles and twenty three years away.
Sometimes I find myself looking at photographs of people and idly wondering about their state of mind, their short-lived naivety in the frozen moment captured. I'm re-reading some of Truman Capote's work, a white hot talent that burned for only a decade or so and then ceased to function. Capote could have been the greatest writer of his generation, I think. It was all there. Blazing intelligence, an unsullied and spotless memory, and most important, an ability to put a sentence together that could awe the reader. He wrote the best sentences in the business. Only Fitzgerald came close. His short novel, 'Other Voices, Other Rooms,' written when he was nineteen, is so good in places it's sort of divine. And then with 'In Cold Blood' he let us see the whole parade, the size and magnitude of his talent. In it there are a number of photographs of 'The Clutter Family,' the victims of a brutal and senseless murder in the late fifties in the state of Kansas about which the book was written. There, captured for posterity, are pictures of the family; Christmas morning, relaxing in the back yard, standing on the porch, eating dinner, making faces for the camera in grade school. And we, the recipients of a later understanding, peek at them, feeling a twinge of guilt, turning the page a little too soon because we've been given a providential glance into their future, doomed and tossed and brutalized.
I don't know why bad things happen to good people. I wish I did. But sometimes, in the quick superficiality of my life, laughing at a stupid moment on television, eating a fussed over meal, watering my carefully planned garden, staring at the white, thoughtless computer monitor, willing myself to dream, I am anchored with sadness. 'Everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.'
Twenty three years ago, three thousand miles away, in the chaos of New York City, when the great plague of the century was snuffing friends and acquaintances faster than I could make them, I was too blinded by the vapidity of youth to spend too much time in mourning. Instead I soldiered on with the help of a handful of friends so pure as to be family, crashing through our lives, day to day, working, laughing so hard at times as to be immobile, convinced that those times would last forever and we would always be the same people in the still photographs I now have in a yellowed envelope in a shoebox in my closet.
The passing of the years brings a lot of small adventures, good and bad, sometimes caught in a picture, more often in our memories. The hellish knowledge as I wonder over the poor Clutter Family in Capote's nightmarish novel, the pictures of my own friends, now decades old, as I sit untroubled in my carefully planned, artificially distressed living room, wishing I could reach through the static images on the Polaroid paper in front of me and warn them. Raise the alarm. Give them a sign, yes, even give myself a sign in the same photos, that rough waters are ahead. Implore them to take roads less traveled. Make us all aware, caught in an open-mouthed guffaw on film, of the monstrosities ahead.
I'd shout into the sepia photos, 'People die, friends die, they get sick, fate happens, plans unravel, paths get lost and weeded over in the middle of the wood, we get lost, we get old, we have to plan for it, right now, stop laughing, take cover.' Utter nonsense, of course. Because the other thing the passing of the years bring is an understanding and acceptance of just how fleeting it all is. And how perfectly impossible it is to make it all stop and unfold as we want.
I turned fifty this year. Certainly not old by any stretch of the imagination, not in this day and age, anyway. And the idea of being wiser or more prepared for life is, if possible, even a sillier notion than it was when I was twenty five. No, the best I can do these days it seems, is to enjoy the small favors of picking a new book case or relishing the comfort hard work brings. And go to bed at night and hold my wife close and listen to her breathe.
It's probably best to be kind to people, strangers, old friends, new friends, trifling and chance meetings with nameless people passed quickly as we get older. There is, almost certainly, a canyon of grief or regret or unfulfillment within them all, somewhere, unseen, maybe in their old photographs in their shoe boxes in their closets and in their memories. They, too, have a thousand pent up shouts of warning to the people in their faded instamatic images.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Gettysburg
Back in the day, oh, say, the last ten years or so I lived in NYC, I shuffled around to a dozen or so regional theatres on the east coast, a few of them in Virginia, most notably Mill Mountain Theatre, Wayside Theatre and TheatreVirginia in Richmond. I think I did about 15 plays at Mill Mountain, in Roanoke, alone. Some good, some not so good, but it remained my favorite place to work, mostly because of it's location. Roanoke is within visiting distance to a number of Civil War battlefields and on our dark days I could drive to one and spend the day there. Richmond, too. And Wayside was right outside D.C.
It was during this time I first visited both Harper's Ferry and Gettysburg. While Harper's Ferry was fought over several times during the war, it's real importance was John Brown. The town itself is virtually impervious to attack because of the lay of the land around it. But it was here where the war really started in the hearts and minds of the country.
Gettysburg, of course, is a different animal altogether. It is the site of the greatest battle in the history of the western hemisphere. What's more a battle that neither side wanted, at least not there. What started as an accidental skirmish quickly escalated to the Big One, the one that Lee had been pursuing but had no intention of fighting on that ground. The one he was cornered into fighting, expending his last ounce of courage.
His nemesis was George Meade, who had been in charge of the Union Army all of three hours when it broke out. Meade was the sixth in a list of sub par generals Lincoln had appointed to lead the awesome Army of the Potomac. Grant was still down south seiging Vicksburg at the time and hadn't yet captured Lincoln's confidence. In Meade's defense, he fought Gettysburg admirably well, mostly because of the strong leadership of his subordinates. However, he did finally miss a massive opportunity by not following Lee into the mountains after the battle and finishing him off. Grant most certainly would have.
And then there was Robert E. Lee, undefeated for all intents and purposes, coming into the battle. He had continually broken the number one rule of warfare over the past couple of years, which was to never divide your forces. Lee did it repeatedly and successfully. As a tactician he was unstoppable. Head and shoulders above every other field officer in the war, including Grant. And what most people forget about Gettysburg is that upon starting the battle, Lee committed to ending it all...not the battle, but the war. He knew it was his only chance. He knew another battlefield victory wasn't important in the long run, he had to utterly destroy the Army of the Potomac once and for all. Lee was not in it to chalk up another mark in the win column, he was in it to force a final solution. After two long years of war he was finally on the offensive and deep in Union territory. If he could crush Meade at Gettysburg there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to keep him from taking Washington.
I have visited Gettysburg four or five times. It is, in my opinion, truly 'hallowed ground.' One can feel it. I have walked the battlefield from one end to the other, covered every foot of it, carrying my maps and binoculars. And although there were several grand moments of history there, moments when the battle could have swung another way, it essentially came down to two in particular: Little Round Top and Pickett's Charge.
Joshua Chamberlain just may have single-handedly changed the course of history. His ragged and exhausted band of Maine regulars on Little Round Top came within minutes of being overcome and losing it all. But in a maneuver quite literally at the last second, a text book response to being overrun that had nearly no chance to succeed, changed it all. A full-out, hand-to-hand, fixed bayonet charge down a hill through a dense forest into overwhelmingly superior forces. Over the years, he has been lauded for such a surprise charge. The truth of course is that he had no choice: he was out of ammunition. And he knew he was on the farthest left flank of the Union Army. Had he given ground, Robert E. Lee would almost certainly have rolled up the Army of the Potomac and finished the entire thing on the second day of the three day battle. Instead it turned out to be one of the most unexpected and courageous decisions in the history of warfare in the western hemisphere.
The other moment that changed everything was Lee's almost incomprehensible order to charge the center of the Union forces on the final day of battle, led by George Pickett's 12,000 fresh confederate troops. It's easy now to second guess Lee's blundering decision, but at the time, as I said, he was not thinking of winning a battle, he was dreaming of winning the war. As nearly everyone knows now, at least anyone with a rudimentary grasp of history, the charge was the single most disastrous incident in the entire war. In fact, so much so, that it could be reasonably said the entire war was lost that day on that ground. As many as 20,000 casualties in less than an hour. As close to a slaughter as one can imagine. And ordered by, arguably, the finest general this side of the world ever produced. It was beyond folly, it was, in hindsight, Providential.
In any event, I walked that mile or so of open field several times over several visits, spending many hours in that killing field of 1863. It is overwhelming. The carnage that took place in that field is unimaginable.
I am, of course, a huge history buff, the Civil War in particular, and there are two places in this country that have brought me to tears while there. One is the field on which the doomed Confederate Army charged across at Gettysburg on July 3, 1863. The other is the bed in which Lincoln died in the rickety boarding house across the street from Ford's Theatre (a stage on which, incidentally, I have played several times). The first time I visited that room, I was so shocked to learn that the brown spots on the plastic covered sheets were actually LINCOLN'S BLOOD I had to sit down and catch my breath. Never before had history leaped up at me like that. Up until that moment (I think I was in my early twenties) it had all been an exercise in academia for me. Those splashes of blood all over the bed, brown with age but still unmistakably there, from Abraham Lincoln's gushing head wound in April of 1865, brought history to me, for the first time in my life, tangibly and awkwardly. The truth is, I couldn't quite get my mind around it for a long while.
Later, as I grew older, other places have evoked similar reactions from me; Auschwitz, Wounded Knee, Ground Zero at the World Trade Center, to name a few. But the death field of Gettysburg and the little room across from Ford's Theatre were the first.
I suppose, thinking about it, each of these places have touched me so deeply because they all bring to mind the hereto for unthought of thought 'there but for the grace of God go I.' Up until the moment I stepped onto that field at Gettysburg, the horror of it all was still black and white, a tag-on sentence in a dry history book; 'Led by General George Pickett, the Confederates were beaten back.' Or, 'Lincoln was carried across the street and died the next morning at 7:21 from the wound.'
The books all neglected to mention the fear. They skipped over the pain. And the blood. So very much blood.
See you tomorrow.
It was during this time I first visited both Harper's Ferry and Gettysburg. While Harper's Ferry was fought over several times during the war, it's real importance was John Brown. The town itself is virtually impervious to attack because of the lay of the land around it. But it was here where the war really started in the hearts and minds of the country.
Gettysburg, of course, is a different animal altogether. It is the site of the greatest battle in the history of the western hemisphere. What's more a battle that neither side wanted, at least not there. What started as an accidental skirmish quickly escalated to the Big One, the one that Lee had been pursuing but had no intention of fighting on that ground. The one he was cornered into fighting, expending his last ounce of courage.
His nemesis was George Meade, who had been in charge of the Union Army all of three hours when it broke out. Meade was the sixth in a list of sub par generals Lincoln had appointed to lead the awesome Army of the Potomac. Grant was still down south seiging Vicksburg at the time and hadn't yet captured Lincoln's confidence. In Meade's defense, he fought Gettysburg admirably well, mostly because of the strong leadership of his subordinates. However, he did finally miss a massive opportunity by not following Lee into the mountains after the battle and finishing him off. Grant most certainly would have.
And then there was Robert E. Lee, undefeated for all intents and purposes, coming into the battle. He had continually broken the number one rule of warfare over the past couple of years, which was to never divide your forces. Lee did it repeatedly and successfully. As a tactician he was unstoppable. Head and shoulders above every other field officer in the war, including Grant. And what most people forget about Gettysburg is that upon starting the battle, Lee committed to ending it all...not the battle, but the war. He knew it was his only chance. He knew another battlefield victory wasn't important in the long run, he had to utterly destroy the Army of the Potomac once and for all. Lee was not in it to chalk up another mark in the win column, he was in it to force a final solution. After two long years of war he was finally on the offensive and deep in Union territory. If he could crush Meade at Gettysburg there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to keep him from taking Washington.
I have visited Gettysburg four or five times. It is, in my opinion, truly 'hallowed ground.' One can feel it. I have walked the battlefield from one end to the other, covered every foot of it, carrying my maps and binoculars. And although there were several grand moments of history there, moments when the battle could have swung another way, it essentially came down to two in particular: Little Round Top and Pickett's Charge.
Joshua Chamberlain just may have single-handedly changed the course of history. His ragged and exhausted band of Maine regulars on Little Round Top came within minutes of being overcome and losing it all. But in a maneuver quite literally at the last second, a text book response to being overrun that had nearly no chance to succeed, changed it all. A full-out, hand-to-hand, fixed bayonet charge down a hill through a dense forest into overwhelmingly superior forces. Over the years, he has been lauded for such a surprise charge. The truth of course is that he had no choice: he was out of ammunition. And he knew he was on the farthest left flank of the Union Army. Had he given ground, Robert E. Lee would almost certainly have rolled up the Army of the Potomac and finished the entire thing on the second day of the three day battle. Instead it turned out to be one of the most unexpected and courageous decisions in the history of warfare in the western hemisphere.
The other moment that changed everything was Lee's almost incomprehensible order to charge the center of the Union forces on the final day of battle, led by George Pickett's 12,000 fresh confederate troops. It's easy now to second guess Lee's blundering decision, but at the time, as I said, he was not thinking of winning a battle, he was dreaming of winning the war. As nearly everyone knows now, at least anyone with a rudimentary grasp of history, the charge was the single most disastrous incident in the entire war. In fact, so much so, that it could be reasonably said the entire war was lost that day on that ground. As many as 20,000 casualties in less than an hour. As close to a slaughter as one can imagine. And ordered by, arguably, the finest general this side of the world ever produced. It was beyond folly, it was, in hindsight, Providential.
In any event, I walked that mile or so of open field several times over several visits, spending many hours in that killing field of 1863. It is overwhelming. The carnage that took place in that field is unimaginable.
I am, of course, a huge history buff, the Civil War in particular, and there are two places in this country that have brought me to tears while there. One is the field on which the doomed Confederate Army charged across at Gettysburg on July 3, 1863. The other is the bed in which Lincoln died in the rickety boarding house across the street from Ford's Theatre (a stage on which, incidentally, I have played several times). The first time I visited that room, I was so shocked to learn that the brown spots on the plastic covered sheets were actually LINCOLN'S BLOOD I had to sit down and catch my breath. Never before had history leaped up at me like that. Up until that moment (I think I was in my early twenties) it had all been an exercise in academia for me. Those splashes of blood all over the bed, brown with age but still unmistakably there, from Abraham Lincoln's gushing head wound in April of 1865, brought history to me, for the first time in my life, tangibly and awkwardly. The truth is, I couldn't quite get my mind around it for a long while.
Later, as I grew older, other places have evoked similar reactions from me; Auschwitz, Wounded Knee, Ground Zero at the World Trade Center, to name a few. But the death field of Gettysburg and the little room across from Ford's Theatre were the first.
I suppose, thinking about it, each of these places have touched me so deeply because they all bring to mind the hereto for unthought of thought 'there but for the grace of God go I.' Up until the moment I stepped onto that field at Gettysburg, the horror of it all was still black and white, a tag-on sentence in a dry history book; 'Led by General George Pickett, the Confederates were beaten back.' Or, 'Lincoln was carried across the street and died the next morning at 7:21 from the wound.'
The books all neglected to mention the fear. They skipped over the pain. And the blood. So very much blood.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Interlopers by Gary Lennon. A World Premiere.
So I'm in the misdst of rehearsals for this new play called 'The Interlopers' by Gary Lennon at Bootleg Theatre in Los Angeles. We open it on June 17 and run it through July in a limited engagement. There are a number of fascinating aspects to this new play, not the least of which is the gender-bending plot and theme of the piece. But the thing that has me excited about it at the moment is that it is such a clear and shining example of Mike Nichol's sometimes disputed claim that directing is 90% casting. I simply cannot imagine a play more perfectly cast and, frankly, it's been quite awhile since I've been involved in one that IS so perfectly cast.
So often in this business, whether it be New York, Chicago or Small Town, USA, the casting process is something one finally 'settles' for, rather than achieves. I have always agreed vehemently with Mr. Nichols regarding casting. Now, sometimes, to be sure, the casting process sort of falls together almost by accident. And when that happens the chances for a stellar piece of theatre is almost insured. But what happens more often is that directors and producers end up with the least objectionable actor in the role or roles. Now this is certainly no one's fault, I mean everyone wants a show to be perfect, but it's the price of doing business in show-biz. Sometimes the actors, in the final analysis, just don't fit.
But the difference between the right person for the role and the 'almost right' person for the role is palpable. It was one of the things that struck me in rehearsal the other day. In addition, our director, Jim Fall, is enormously collaborative. That may seem a small thing, but indeed it is not. Jim, too, seems to realize he's cast it spot on and consequently appears to delight in letting the actors run full out. It's a far cry from a director I was working with this time last year who liked to actually give actors words on which to 'gesture.' Good Lord. The difference, of course, is a confident director and a director trying to appear confident.
In any event, it's terribly exciting and I look forward to seeing it all come together. My involvement up to now has been somewhat piece-meal.
In other news, my two writing projects are chugging along nicely. One, what I call my 'German Film,' is waiting for one of the producers to fly into LA in a couple of weeks so that we might meet face to face and start nipping and tucking at the script and the other, the 'secret project,' is finally starting to resemble a play. Still a ton of work to do on both, I'm sure, but neither is towering over me anymore. They both seem to be within human grasp.
But back to this 'perfect casting' theory. It happens fairly seldom, oddly enough. In fact, the last time I can remember it happening to me was the second time I did 'A Few Good Men.' I was doing 'Jessop,' the Nicholson role in the film, and either by accident or through precise choices, we ended up with a cast so perfectly suited for their individual roles, it bordered on the eerie. This was a large regional theatre (what's known as LORT A in the business) and there was a goodly amount of money riding on the project. In this day and age of economic woes, a cast the size of 'A Few Good Men' is somewhat rare. That being the case, we had very little room for error. The sad truth is, regional theatres really can't afford to produce noble failures anymore. Every show has to be a hit. Especially a show with some 15 or 20 roles in it like 'A Few Good Men.' It's simply too expensive to fuck up.
So on this windy Memorial day, I couldn't be more optimistic about things. If, Gentle Reader, you find yourself in or near LA in June and July, I recommend seeing this new play...The Interlopers, by Gary Lennon, Directed by Jim Fall, The Bootleg Theatre, through July 23.
See you tomorrow.
So often in this business, whether it be New York, Chicago or Small Town, USA, the casting process is something one finally 'settles' for, rather than achieves. I have always agreed vehemently with Mr. Nichols regarding casting. Now, sometimes, to be sure, the casting process sort of falls together almost by accident. And when that happens the chances for a stellar piece of theatre is almost insured. But what happens more often is that directors and producers end up with the least objectionable actor in the role or roles. Now this is certainly no one's fault, I mean everyone wants a show to be perfect, but it's the price of doing business in show-biz. Sometimes the actors, in the final analysis, just don't fit.
But the difference between the right person for the role and the 'almost right' person for the role is palpable. It was one of the things that struck me in rehearsal the other day. In addition, our director, Jim Fall, is enormously collaborative. That may seem a small thing, but indeed it is not. Jim, too, seems to realize he's cast it spot on and consequently appears to delight in letting the actors run full out. It's a far cry from a director I was working with this time last year who liked to actually give actors words on which to 'gesture.' Good Lord. The difference, of course, is a confident director and a director trying to appear confident.
In any event, it's terribly exciting and I look forward to seeing it all come together. My involvement up to now has been somewhat piece-meal.
In other news, my two writing projects are chugging along nicely. One, what I call my 'German Film,' is waiting for one of the producers to fly into LA in a couple of weeks so that we might meet face to face and start nipping and tucking at the script and the other, the 'secret project,' is finally starting to resemble a play. Still a ton of work to do on both, I'm sure, but neither is towering over me anymore. They both seem to be within human grasp.
But back to this 'perfect casting' theory. It happens fairly seldom, oddly enough. In fact, the last time I can remember it happening to me was the second time I did 'A Few Good Men.' I was doing 'Jessop,' the Nicholson role in the film, and either by accident or through precise choices, we ended up with a cast so perfectly suited for their individual roles, it bordered on the eerie. This was a large regional theatre (what's known as LORT A in the business) and there was a goodly amount of money riding on the project. In this day and age of economic woes, a cast the size of 'A Few Good Men' is somewhat rare. That being the case, we had very little room for error. The sad truth is, regional theatres really can't afford to produce noble failures anymore. Every show has to be a hit. Especially a show with some 15 or 20 roles in it like 'A Few Good Men.' It's simply too expensive to fuck up.
So on this windy Memorial day, I couldn't be more optimistic about things. If, Gentle Reader, you find yourself in or near LA in June and July, I recommend seeing this new play...The Interlopers, by Gary Lennon, Directed by Jim Fall, The Bootleg Theatre, through July 23.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Memorial Day
This weekend is the annual time of year we ostensibly pay respect to our armed services, our men and women in uniform over the years. It's a just holiday, as far as I'm concerned. Memorial Day is the least, I feel, we can do to say thank you to the sometimes extraordinary sacrifices made by our military branch.
I myself was never in the military. I was too far too young for Vietnam and even though I remember registering for the draft when I turned 18, it had long ceased to be actualized. It was more of a formality by then.
No, I was one of those guys who grew up in a time of no major military action on the part of this country, Grenada aside. And that was more of a global joke than anything else. To this day I'm not entirely certain what that little piece of armed flexing was about.
However, having said that, I do remember being chased around a bit when I was pursuing an English Degree at M.U. For whatever reason, the Navy was under the misguided impression I might be useful in the 'Navy Intelligence' branch of the service and I recieved several telephone calls, letter, etc. to that end. And in fact once, incredulously, and I swear this is true, two Navy recruitment guys actually followed me into a Pizza Hut once to talk to me about enlistment. It was a short conversation but they made it clear they'd had their eye on me and quickly outlined a life of high adventure as a Navy Intelligence Ensign with my choice of exotic, worldwide ports in which to be stationed. The truth is I sincerely thought about it for about five minutes before discarding the idea. In hindsight, and purely hypothetically, it might not have been a bad idea. It would have been a good 25 years or so of military service without actual combat, not counting the elder Bush's truncated invasion of Iraq in the early nineties.
But in all honesty, even taking into account the lack of military engagement, I think it would have been disasterous. For one thing I have a lifetime distaste for anything even remotely resembling an authority figure. And I'm guessing that's probably not a good thing in the military.
In additon I think I may have turned out to be a coward. Of course, it's difficult to predict, but I specifically remember two incidents over the years in which I asked myself in all honesty if I could have participated. The first was when I read the book 'Black Hawk Down.' I just don't think I could have done what those doomed rangers did. I suspect I might have simply curled up in a fetal position and hid. Maybe not, courage under fire is an odd thing. The other was the first twenty minutes of the film 'Saving Private Ryan.' Watching those guys wade ashore, taking fire, many not making it more than a few steps, and more, KNOWING they weren't going to make it more than a few steps, well, again, I'm just not sure I could have done that.
I remember one of the recruitment guys telling me, 'as an officer in Navy Intelligence you'll never see actual combat, son.' Well, be that as it may, I still don't think I would have made a very good Navy guy. Although, I must admit, I've always liked boats.
In addition, to my knowledge, the Navy doesn't have a very good drama department. Annapolis is not terribly noted for their liberal arts program. So that may have been a problem.
Also, I really don't see how I could have contributed. It's not as though I had a firm grasp of language skills or was bilingual or anything of that sort. And I certainly had no recognizable skills in Black Ops (although I might have been good at spreading nasty rumors about this or that world leader). No, I just don't think I had the 'right stuff.'
My dad was a Sargeant Major in the army, the reserves eventually. But as far as I could tell that was simply an outlet to drink. To him, it seemed to me, being in the reserves only meant he had more people to slam down cheap bourbon with. His weekends wargaming with the local national guard usually meant a weekend at the VFW drinking PBR and shots of Jim Beam with other likeminded drinkers. And although there may be something to be said for that, it really wasn't high on my bucket list.
Also, as I got older and began to make informed decisions about my thoughts toward Vietnam, realizing what a shameful national experience that was, I'm not sure I would have been appreciated in Navy Intelligence, which seemed a classic oxymoron to me finally.
Nonetheless, I celebrate and tip my hat to the armed services this Memorial Day weekend. The concept of duty to one's country first, foremost and above everything else, is heroic, certainly. I'm just not sure I personally, ever had the cojones to believe so resolutely in it. I feel in kinship with a character in one of Lanford Wilson's plays in which he says, "I don't think he loved our country. I think he loved our countryside."
I had two high school buddies, weekend drinking partners, that ended up joining The Coast Guard after graduation. They both quit within a year because, well, in their words, it was 'too hard.' I probably would have been the same kind of soldier. 'Um, excuse me, I think maybe this has all been a mistake, sir. I've come to believe this whole soldier thing is, well, too hard.'
However, in my defense, I later became a waiter in a chain restaurant in New York City and was pretty good at that. We didn't have to salute anyone but otherwise it was pretty close to being an expendable bag of human bones and innards and we, too, were treated as mindless cattle. On the other hand, we got to keep our tips.
Okay.
So, Angie and I are heading out to be with friends on beautiful Manhattan Beach today. We'll have a great BBQ rib dinner, some stimulating conversation and maybe sing some showtunes by the fire pit. The Navy brochures I used to get as an undergrad hardly ever showed people doing that.
See you tomorrow.
I myself was never in the military. I was too far too young for Vietnam and even though I remember registering for the draft when I turned 18, it had long ceased to be actualized. It was more of a formality by then.
No, I was one of those guys who grew up in a time of no major military action on the part of this country, Grenada aside. And that was more of a global joke than anything else. To this day I'm not entirely certain what that little piece of armed flexing was about.
However, having said that, I do remember being chased around a bit when I was pursuing an English Degree at M.U. For whatever reason, the Navy was under the misguided impression I might be useful in the 'Navy Intelligence' branch of the service and I recieved several telephone calls, letter, etc. to that end. And in fact once, incredulously, and I swear this is true, two Navy recruitment guys actually followed me into a Pizza Hut once to talk to me about enlistment. It was a short conversation but they made it clear they'd had their eye on me and quickly outlined a life of high adventure as a Navy Intelligence Ensign with my choice of exotic, worldwide ports in which to be stationed. The truth is I sincerely thought about it for about five minutes before discarding the idea. In hindsight, and purely hypothetically, it might not have been a bad idea. It would have been a good 25 years or so of military service without actual combat, not counting the elder Bush's truncated invasion of Iraq in the early nineties.
But in all honesty, even taking into account the lack of military engagement, I think it would have been disasterous. For one thing I have a lifetime distaste for anything even remotely resembling an authority figure. And I'm guessing that's probably not a good thing in the military.
In additon I think I may have turned out to be a coward. Of course, it's difficult to predict, but I specifically remember two incidents over the years in which I asked myself in all honesty if I could have participated. The first was when I read the book 'Black Hawk Down.' I just don't think I could have done what those doomed rangers did. I suspect I might have simply curled up in a fetal position and hid. Maybe not, courage under fire is an odd thing. The other was the first twenty minutes of the film 'Saving Private Ryan.' Watching those guys wade ashore, taking fire, many not making it more than a few steps, and more, KNOWING they weren't going to make it more than a few steps, well, again, I'm just not sure I could have done that.
I remember one of the recruitment guys telling me, 'as an officer in Navy Intelligence you'll never see actual combat, son.' Well, be that as it may, I still don't think I would have made a very good Navy guy. Although, I must admit, I've always liked boats.
In addition, to my knowledge, the Navy doesn't have a very good drama department. Annapolis is not terribly noted for their liberal arts program. So that may have been a problem.
Also, I really don't see how I could have contributed. It's not as though I had a firm grasp of language skills or was bilingual or anything of that sort. And I certainly had no recognizable skills in Black Ops (although I might have been good at spreading nasty rumors about this or that world leader). No, I just don't think I had the 'right stuff.'
My dad was a Sargeant Major in the army, the reserves eventually. But as far as I could tell that was simply an outlet to drink. To him, it seemed to me, being in the reserves only meant he had more people to slam down cheap bourbon with. His weekends wargaming with the local national guard usually meant a weekend at the VFW drinking PBR and shots of Jim Beam with other likeminded drinkers. And although there may be something to be said for that, it really wasn't high on my bucket list.
Also, as I got older and began to make informed decisions about my thoughts toward Vietnam, realizing what a shameful national experience that was, I'm not sure I would have been appreciated in Navy Intelligence, which seemed a classic oxymoron to me finally.
Nonetheless, I celebrate and tip my hat to the armed services this Memorial Day weekend. The concept of duty to one's country first, foremost and above everything else, is heroic, certainly. I'm just not sure I personally, ever had the cojones to believe so resolutely in it. I feel in kinship with a character in one of Lanford Wilson's plays in which he says, "I don't think he loved our country. I think he loved our countryside."
I had two high school buddies, weekend drinking partners, that ended up joining The Coast Guard after graduation. They both quit within a year because, well, in their words, it was 'too hard.' I probably would have been the same kind of soldier. 'Um, excuse me, I think maybe this has all been a mistake, sir. I've come to believe this whole soldier thing is, well, too hard.'
However, in my defense, I later became a waiter in a chain restaurant in New York City and was pretty good at that. We didn't have to salute anyone but otherwise it was pretty close to being an expendable bag of human bones and innards and we, too, were treated as mindless cattle. On the other hand, we got to keep our tips.
Okay.
So, Angie and I are heading out to be with friends on beautiful Manhattan Beach today. We'll have a great BBQ rib dinner, some stimulating conversation and maybe sing some showtunes by the fire pit. The Navy brochures I used to get as an undergrad hardly ever showed people doing that.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Conceptually Challenged. Again.
There comes a moment when I'm involved in a new project, a writing project, in which I inevitably say to myself, 'I no longer have any idea what I'm writing about.' This happened yesterday. I've been here before so it didn't necessarily come as a shock or surprise. I simply couldn't remember what my original passion stemmed from. And what's more, all the money in the world is not going to change it. At this point I do the only thing I can which is to stop everything, turn off the old Microsoft Word and pretend I never started in the first place. The usual pattern is that after a few days, slowly it starts to trickle back into my easily burdened brain why I'm doing it, and more importantly, what I'm doing.
After a bit, sometimes a few days, sometimes a few weeks, I suddenly remember the personal importance of the project and I bring it up on the screen again. Often, I've discovered, at this point it appears someone else entirely has written what's on the screen. So I approach it as a new thing altogether and thus begin to 'fix' it.
I have to go back to the original question for myself, which is, 'Why would anyone find this remotely interesting?' I think it's a fair question for a playwright or screenplay writer to ask. 'What, exactly, about this would make someone pay hard-earned money, sit in an uncomfortable chair in the dark for a couple of hours and be absorbed by the story unfolding before them?'
If I can answer that question sufficiently to myself, I can get back on track.
It happens all the time in film, probably less so in the theatre, but I'm just guessing. Someone has a terrific idea, say, 'suppose a guy died and then suddenly awakened from his grave 100 years later?' And then after a whirlwind writing period complete with U turns and dead-ends and tons of comments from friends and colleagues, suddenly the guy finds he has written a story about a guy who goes to heaven and is sent back to earth to do some final good deed. And then, he thinks, 'wait, this movie has been made. It's called 'Heaven Can Wait.' Or 'A Guy Named Joe.'
In any event, it's a fine line between being original and being shocking. I prefer original.
The problem is, of course, sometimes it simply doesn't come. The work gets jammed up somewhere between the brain and the fingers, I guess. Nought to do but wait it out. It's either that or just write 'Redrum' about 1000 times.
On the acting front, the auditions have been coming fast and furious. Some look promising, others not so much. As I've said before, it's a numbers game. Doesn't have a whole lot to do with 'how good you are.' It's all about 'do you look like what they're looking for?' And, of course, there's no way in hell to know that so taking rejection in this business personally is a waste of time and energy. Best to just move on.
Since I seem to be 'conceptually challenged' on the writing front, I'll turn my attentions today to the acting front. I have a big, honkin' monologue in the new play I'm doing (The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, Directed by Jim Fall, Bootleg Theatre, Los Angeles, June and July) so I might as well get that under my belt before the next rehearsal. Thankfully, memorization doesn't require a lot of abstract thinking on my part, it's more along the lines of assembly work, so I think I'll just concentrate on that today. As my wife can verify, I'm not the world's greatest multi-tasker so one project at a time.
I have been more than a little distracted by the savage tornadoes that ripped through Joplin, MO. I did my undergraduate work about fifty miles from there. I'm very familiar with the town and the area. The damage and careless loss of lives have left me dumbstruck. I am feebly hoping it isn't a harbinger of things to come. I don't pretend to know the myriad details regarding global warming, but I do know what happened in the midwest was savagely abnormal. And of course, I have been profoundly moved by the compassion, courage and heroism that has come from that little town over the past few days. It seems ordinary people are always just a heartbeat away from being extraordinary people.
The puppies are staring at me now, trying to perform a canine version of the Vulcan Mind Meld. Time to take them for a walk. They're a very passive/aggressive pair of dogs so not to give in and give them what they want is futile. The guilt becomes unbearable.
See you tomorrow.
After a bit, sometimes a few days, sometimes a few weeks, I suddenly remember the personal importance of the project and I bring it up on the screen again. Often, I've discovered, at this point it appears someone else entirely has written what's on the screen. So I approach it as a new thing altogether and thus begin to 'fix' it.
I have to go back to the original question for myself, which is, 'Why would anyone find this remotely interesting?' I think it's a fair question for a playwright or screenplay writer to ask. 'What, exactly, about this would make someone pay hard-earned money, sit in an uncomfortable chair in the dark for a couple of hours and be absorbed by the story unfolding before them?'
If I can answer that question sufficiently to myself, I can get back on track.
It happens all the time in film, probably less so in the theatre, but I'm just guessing. Someone has a terrific idea, say, 'suppose a guy died and then suddenly awakened from his grave 100 years later?' And then after a whirlwind writing period complete with U turns and dead-ends and tons of comments from friends and colleagues, suddenly the guy finds he has written a story about a guy who goes to heaven and is sent back to earth to do some final good deed. And then, he thinks, 'wait, this movie has been made. It's called 'Heaven Can Wait.' Or 'A Guy Named Joe.'
In any event, it's a fine line between being original and being shocking. I prefer original.
The problem is, of course, sometimes it simply doesn't come. The work gets jammed up somewhere between the brain and the fingers, I guess. Nought to do but wait it out. It's either that or just write 'Redrum' about 1000 times.
On the acting front, the auditions have been coming fast and furious. Some look promising, others not so much. As I've said before, it's a numbers game. Doesn't have a whole lot to do with 'how good you are.' It's all about 'do you look like what they're looking for?' And, of course, there's no way in hell to know that so taking rejection in this business personally is a waste of time and energy. Best to just move on.
Since I seem to be 'conceptually challenged' on the writing front, I'll turn my attentions today to the acting front. I have a big, honkin' monologue in the new play I'm doing (The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, Directed by Jim Fall, Bootleg Theatre, Los Angeles, June and July) so I might as well get that under my belt before the next rehearsal. Thankfully, memorization doesn't require a lot of abstract thinking on my part, it's more along the lines of assembly work, so I think I'll just concentrate on that today. As my wife can verify, I'm not the world's greatest multi-tasker so one project at a time.
I have been more than a little distracted by the savage tornadoes that ripped through Joplin, MO. I did my undergraduate work about fifty miles from there. I'm very familiar with the town and the area. The damage and careless loss of lives have left me dumbstruck. I am feebly hoping it isn't a harbinger of things to come. I don't pretend to know the myriad details regarding global warming, but I do know what happened in the midwest was savagely abnormal. And of course, I have been profoundly moved by the compassion, courage and heroism that has come from that little town over the past few days. It seems ordinary people are always just a heartbeat away from being extraordinary people.
The puppies are staring at me now, trying to perform a canine version of the Vulcan Mind Meld. Time to take them for a walk. They're a very passive/aggressive pair of dogs so not to give in and give them what they want is futile. The guilt becomes unbearable.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Callback.
Had a callback for a feature yesterday that went reasonably well. One can never second guess these things as I've learned over the years. Sometimes the worst readings can turn into jobs and vice versa.
But this particular callback was at a place here in LA that I loathe. I won't mention any names, but there are a lot of places to audition in LA and this one is one of the more common ones. Every time I go there for a read it just sucks the energy out of me. There are a dozen or so rooms in this place with a large communal area out front. So actors for all the different projects, some wildly disparate, are all sitting together waiting to be called into their respective rooms. Well known actors from film and television are sitting beside five year old girls with their stage mothers. It's a little surreal.
So yesterday I walk in, find my project on the huge board on the wall as one enters, sign in and take a seat. A couple of chairs down, in loud and attention seeking voices, I hear the following conversation from two early twenty-something surfer/waiter/actor type guys:
First Guy: Dude, so, you got a process, you know, like, a process that you work?
Second Guy: Dude, I just do what works, you know? Just put it all out there, Dog.
First Guy: Yeah, cool. I'm doin' a lot of Strasberg stuff these days, you know, really getting deep inside the character. You know, Stanislavsky, that German dude or whatever.
Second Guy: Yeah, I did that once. Dude, that's gnarly stuff.
First Guy: It's so rad. I, like, don't even know who I am anymore I get so deep into character. I'm like, okay, I'm so somebody else right now.
Second Guy: Yeah, me, too. But see, dude, I do it without all the books, you know? I'm just naturally into it. I go there, man, and, whoa, 'Look Out!' People don't even know who I am when I go there.
First Guy: Oh, man, dude, me, too. Dude, I'm so far in character I'm like, 'Who Am I?'
Second Guy: Yeah, that's what it's all about. Gotta go deep, dude. Gotta go real deep.
At this point I embarrassed myself with a bucket of vomitous spew which I projectile wretched all over the walls and floor.
Anyway.
I'm getting too judgemental in my old age, I think. Live and let live, all that. I'm a little worried I might start yelling out our bedroom window soon, screaming at the neighborhood kids to 'get off my lawn!'
So the callback read went well. For this one, the actual director was there and he was very specific about what he wanted and asked me to do it three or four different ways. I like that. And I did the best I could. We'll see.
I have absolutely no name when it comes to film, really. Consequently I don't drag an ego in there with me. Hell, I'm lucky to be there in the first place.
Today is all about taking yet another swipe at a big writing project I've been hired to do. The needs for this project are very specific, indeed, and it's a new ballgame for me. My stuff over the past few decades has all been semi-autobiographical for the most part; personal writing, if you will. So this is altogether new for me. It requires a great deal of research and interviews and the like. Very exciting in an academic sort of way. And the project is starting to shape up into something fairly cool, I think. In any event, the producers, the money guys, are convinced I'm the one to write this, so I'm giving it my all.
I have so much respect for the playwrights of the portable typewriter era because of this new project. Today, because of the miracle of computer software, one can cut, paste, rewrite, slice out, add, delete, copy, quote and rearrange to one's heart's content. I was thinking yesterday about how, back in the day, one had to spend countless hours doing that. Hours, hell, months are saved because of it today.
So, coffee in hand, a little Miles Davis on the headphones, thinking cap (or in my case, 'thinking thimble') on, hands poised aggressively over the keyboard, discerning face assembled...off we go.
See you tomorrow.
But this particular callback was at a place here in LA that I loathe. I won't mention any names, but there are a lot of places to audition in LA and this one is one of the more common ones. Every time I go there for a read it just sucks the energy out of me. There are a dozen or so rooms in this place with a large communal area out front. So actors for all the different projects, some wildly disparate, are all sitting together waiting to be called into their respective rooms. Well known actors from film and television are sitting beside five year old girls with their stage mothers. It's a little surreal.
So yesterday I walk in, find my project on the huge board on the wall as one enters, sign in and take a seat. A couple of chairs down, in loud and attention seeking voices, I hear the following conversation from two early twenty-something surfer/waiter/actor type guys:
First Guy: Dude, so, you got a process, you know, like, a process that you work?
Second Guy: Dude, I just do what works, you know? Just put it all out there, Dog.
First Guy: Yeah, cool. I'm doin' a lot of Strasberg stuff these days, you know, really getting deep inside the character. You know, Stanislavsky, that German dude or whatever.
Second Guy: Yeah, I did that once. Dude, that's gnarly stuff.
First Guy: It's so rad. I, like, don't even know who I am anymore I get so deep into character. I'm like, okay, I'm so somebody else right now.
Second Guy: Yeah, me, too. But see, dude, I do it without all the books, you know? I'm just naturally into it. I go there, man, and, whoa, 'Look Out!' People don't even know who I am when I go there.
First Guy: Oh, man, dude, me, too. Dude, I'm so far in character I'm like, 'Who Am I?'
Second Guy: Yeah, that's what it's all about. Gotta go deep, dude. Gotta go real deep.
At this point I embarrassed myself with a bucket of vomitous spew which I projectile wretched all over the walls and floor.
Anyway.
I'm getting too judgemental in my old age, I think. Live and let live, all that. I'm a little worried I might start yelling out our bedroom window soon, screaming at the neighborhood kids to 'get off my lawn!'
So the callback read went well. For this one, the actual director was there and he was very specific about what he wanted and asked me to do it three or four different ways. I like that. And I did the best I could. We'll see.
I have absolutely no name when it comes to film, really. Consequently I don't drag an ego in there with me. Hell, I'm lucky to be there in the first place.
Today is all about taking yet another swipe at a big writing project I've been hired to do. The needs for this project are very specific, indeed, and it's a new ballgame for me. My stuff over the past few decades has all been semi-autobiographical for the most part; personal writing, if you will. So this is altogether new for me. It requires a great deal of research and interviews and the like. Very exciting in an academic sort of way. And the project is starting to shape up into something fairly cool, I think. In any event, the producers, the money guys, are convinced I'm the one to write this, so I'm giving it my all.
I have so much respect for the playwrights of the portable typewriter era because of this new project. Today, because of the miracle of computer software, one can cut, paste, rewrite, slice out, add, delete, copy, quote and rearrange to one's heart's content. I was thinking yesterday about how, back in the day, one had to spend countless hours doing that. Hours, hell, months are saved because of it today.
So, coffee in hand, a little Miles Davis on the headphones, thinking cap (or in my case, 'thinking thimble') on, hands poised aggressively over the keyboard, discerning face assembled...off we go.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
East of Eden and The King's Speech.
Amidst the whirlwind writing sessions as I keep two big projects juggling in the air at the same time, on my down time I caught a couple of films over the past few days. The first was one I hadn't seen in about twenty five years or so, East of Eden with James Dean and Raymond Massey. And the other was the winner of this year's acadademy award, The King's Speech.
The 1950's, I think it safe to say, was a revolutionary decade in the history of the cinema in terms of actors and acting. With the possible exceptions of Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn, our finest American actors were introduced in that ten year span; Brando, Dean, Clift, a few others. Although, in retrospect, I'm not so sure about Dean.
Brando was once asked what he thought of Dean once the younger man had risen to fame and he replied, "He's using my last year's talent." And after watching East of Eden, I'm not so sure he wasn't on to something. Dean is great in the smaller moments, natural and quirky, but his big scenes, his emotionally expansive scenes, are, to me anyway, almost unwatchable. Unlike Brando and Clift, his idols, he doesn't seem to have any sense of the camera when he's in all-out 'acting' mode. It comes across as too much. He seems to be trying to ring the 'acting bell.' Now, to be fair, Elia Kazan, the director of the piece, might be responsible for this because otherwise Dean is fascinating. He has an uncanny knack for finding the slightly off kilter approach to a scene. But there are moments in the film where, if one closes one's eyes and simply listens, he sounds exactly like Brando, inflections and all. And knowing Dean's fascination with the older actor (Brando was six years his senior) it makes sense. Regardless, in the final analysis, his work becomes terribly dated once he gets to the big scenes in the film. I have to confess, I was disappointed because I remembered the movie being so powerful.
In the other film, which we watched last night, The King's Speech, I found myself admiring the pretty pictures on the screen rather than following the thin plot. Colin Firth won the Best Actor nod for it, but the movie clearly belongs to Geoffrey Rush. The whole endeavor sort of loses steam when Rush is not onscreen. I read a review last year on it and remember the catty critic, I forget which one, writing, "The cast of Harry Potter performs The King's Speech." He was more on the mark than I anticipated. Every good British character actor around is thrown into the mix with this one, including my very favorite, Derek Jacobi.
Nonetheless, the film is exceptionally well directed and I most certainly stayed with it all the way through. And the period stuff - England circa 1932 to 1939 - is utterly fascinating. Rush is, as I said, particularly good as the renegade speech teacher.
In other news, back to the drawing board with the writing projects today. I've entered the period with both pieces that I usually find tedious, the actual rewriting part. Strangely, in the case of these projects, that's not true, however. I'm just as energized now as I was when I started. Most of the time, when I'm working on a larger canvas, I get the whole thing on paper and then let it sit for a few weeks, sometimes a few months, and then come back at it with an unsullied eye. Well, I simply don't have the time for that with these. So I'm charging forward and throwing ink on the paper whether I want to or not. Figuratively speaking, of course.
In much the same way when I was younger I was enthralled with the way various actors approached their work, these days I'm equally interested in the way various writers approached theirs. For example, O'Neill despised rewriting. Once he had it on the page, he was satisfied, for the most part, hence his unfortunate habit of repeating himself thoughout a long play. Sam Shepard was the same way. Didn't much care for rewriting. Later, of course, once Shepard had matured, he rewrote constantly, but not at first. Tennessee Williams, on the other hand, agonized over the rewriting process and I think his work bears that out. I've always thought he was the far superior writer to O'Neill. Arthur Miller, too, rewrote ad nauseum until he was satisfied. I just happen to think his subject matters, with the exception of Salesman, were often rather boring in the long run. Miller was more interested in changing the world and advancing his politics than he was in telling a good story. In any event, I'm actually having fun with these rewrites, shaping and molding on a deadline.
Angie and I finally broke down and bought a tester for my blood sugar yesterday. My nutritionist had advised against it saying, "You will become a slave to it." Be that as it may, it has been fluctuating wildly over the past few months and at my last visit to the doctor, she expressed deep concern. So we bought one. Problem is, it takes two or three 'pokes' to draw blood from my finger. Maybe I have freakishly thick finger skin, I don't know. Whatever the reason, it's annoying to have to keep pricking the finger over and over to get a drop of blood for the meter. And naturally I yelp and wail during the entire process, mostly for Angie's benefit.
My diet, for obvious reasons, has become incredibly restricted these days and Angie has been pouring over diabetes books to find new and interesting ways to cook. She's finding them, too. Make no mistake, I'm unbelievably lucky to have someone cooking for me with such great imagination in the kitchen. She is, quite simply, the best chef I've ever seen or met. She's fearless in the kitchen. And with my 'silent killer' hanging over me, this is no small thing. Fortunately for me, I think she, for the most part, enjoys it and sees it as a challenge. Her culinary gifts are, quite possibly, saving my life. and to that I say, huzzah.
Another early morning at the keyboard. Another day of battle between the white, clean page and myself. I relish it. Indeed, I do.
See you tomorrow.
The 1950's, I think it safe to say, was a revolutionary decade in the history of the cinema in terms of actors and acting. With the possible exceptions of Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn, our finest American actors were introduced in that ten year span; Brando, Dean, Clift, a few others. Although, in retrospect, I'm not so sure about Dean.
Brando was once asked what he thought of Dean once the younger man had risen to fame and he replied, "He's using my last year's talent." And after watching East of Eden, I'm not so sure he wasn't on to something. Dean is great in the smaller moments, natural and quirky, but his big scenes, his emotionally expansive scenes, are, to me anyway, almost unwatchable. Unlike Brando and Clift, his idols, he doesn't seem to have any sense of the camera when he's in all-out 'acting' mode. It comes across as too much. He seems to be trying to ring the 'acting bell.' Now, to be fair, Elia Kazan, the director of the piece, might be responsible for this because otherwise Dean is fascinating. He has an uncanny knack for finding the slightly off kilter approach to a scene. But there are moments in the film where, if one closes one's eyes and simply listens, he sounds exactly like Brando, inflections and all. And knowing Dean's fascination with the older actor (Brando was six years his senior) it makes sense. Regardless, in the final analysis, his work becomes terribly dated once he gets to the big scenes in the film. I have to confess, I was disappointed because I remembered the movie being so powerful.
In the other film, which we watched last night, The King's Speech, I found myself admiring the pretty pictures on the screen rather than following the thin plot. Colin Firth won the Best Actor nod for it, but the movie clearly belongs to Geoffrey Rush. The whole endeavor sort of loses steam when Rush is not onscreen. I read a review last year on it and remember the catty critic, I forget which one, writing, "The cast of Harry Potter performs The King's Speech." He was more on the mark than I anticipated. Every good British character actor around is thrown into the mix with this one, including my very favorite, Derek Jacobi.
Nonetheless, the film is exceptionally well directed and I most certainly stayed with it all the way through. And the period stuff - England circa 1932 to 1939 - is utterly fascinating. Rush is, as I said, particularly good as the renegade speech teacher.
In other news, back to the drawing board with the writing projects today. I've entered the period with both pieces that I usually find tedious, the actual rewriting part. Strangely, in the case of these projects, that's not true, however. I'm just as energized now as I was when I started. Most of the time, when I'm working on a larger canvas, I get the whole thing on paper and then let it sit for a few weeks, sometimes a few months, and then come back at it with an unsullied eye. Well, I simply don't have the time for that with these. So I'm charging forward and throwing ink on the paper whether I want to or not. Figuratively speaking, of course.
In much the same way when I was younger I was enthralled with the way various actors approached their work, these days I'm equally interested in the way various writers approached theirs. For example, O'Neill despised rewriting. Once he had it on the page, he was satisfied, for the most part, hence his unfortunate habit of repeating himself thoughout a long play. Sam Shepard was the same way. Didn't much care for rewriting. Later, of course, once Shepard had matured, he rewrote constantly, but not at first. Tennessee Williams, on the other hand, agonized over the rewriting process and I think his work bears that out. I've always thought he was the far superior writer to O'Neill. Arthur Miller, too, rewrote ad nauseum until he was satisfied. I just happen to think his subject matters, with the exception of Salesman, were often rather boring in the long run. Miller was more interested in changing the world and advancing his politics than he was in telling a good story. In any event, I'm actually having fun with these rewrites, shaping and molding on a deadline.
Angie and I finally broke down and bought a tester for my blood sugar yesterday. My nutritionist had advised against it saying, "You will become a slave to it." Be that as it may, it has been fluctuating wildly over the past few months and at my last visit to the doctor, she expressed deep concern. So we bought one. Problem is, it takes two or three 'pokes' to draw blood from my finger. Maybe I have freakishly thick finger skin, I don't know. Whatever the reason, it's annoying to have to keep pricking the finger over and over to get a drop of blood for the meter. And naturally I yelp and wail during the entire process, mostly for Angie's benefit.
My diet, for obvious reasons, has become incredibly restricted these days and Angie has been pouring over diabetes books to find new and interesting ways to cook. She's finding them, too. Make no mistake, I'm unbelievably lucky to have someone cooking for me with such great imagination in the kitchen. She is, quite simply, the best chef I've ever seen or met. She's fearless in the kitchen. And with my 'silent killer' hanging over me, this is no small thing. Fortunately for me, I think she, for the most part, enjoys it and sees it as a challenge. Her culinary gifts are, quite possibly, saving my life. and to that I say, huzzah.
Another early morning at the keyboard. Another day of battle between the white, clean page and myself. I relish it. Indeed, I do.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The Rapture...silly but ultimately mean-spirited.
My time in Los Angeles has finally reached the point where I need to keep a calendar. That's a cool thing. In Chicago, before I moved here, I actually had a person responsible (working for me at Naked Face Studios) whose sole job it was to keep my various projects juggling in the air for me: mostly teaching, but also writing and acting and directing gigs. Of course, when I moved to the City of Angels, that was, um, not necessary, to put it mildly. I knew very few people and was lucky to have one gig happening, much less several on different artistic fronts.
Well, now it is.
I spend my days alternating my time between two writing projects, one for a German producer and a new film and the other a stage production with infinite possibilities. The former is nearly done and the latter falls under the category of 'top secret.' Not for long, though. Soon, we'll be workshopping it and, I suspect, dealing with a great deal of publicity. But we'll see.
Also in rehearsal, as an actor, for 'The Interlopers,' Gary Lennon's cutting edge new play about the world of transgender love. That's going just swimmingly and I suspect, again, it will get a lot of ink once it's available to the public.
And finally, much to my great satisfaction, I've finally tied up my representation on all three performance fronts: theatre, commercials and film and tv. It took me awhile to find the right fit for all three, but I think I finally have.
On another note, I was watching a bit of a documentary last night about 'the rapture.' It's supposed to happen today, according to a whole gaggle of blithering idiots that have completely missed the point of Christianity. You know the ones, the ones that think religion is based on good and bad, that it's about the meek and faithful getting their just dues in the end and that anyone remotely considered unfaithful will be left behind to wallow in their arrogance. The very notion is maddeningly smug.
The whole idea has been met with a great deal of derision from the local and national press, as well it should be. It's the part of Christianity that galls me: the part that dwells on 'revenge.' Yes, it's funny. Yes, it's ludicrous. Yes, it's even embarrassing. But above all it's mean. Biblical literalists, mean-spirited to the last, masking their 'faith' in false humility, living an entire spiritual life in the very bowels of a passive-aggressive mentality. It sickens me. An unspoken lifestyle that reeks of a B movie theme...'Ooooh, you're gonna get yours.' Jesus, whatever he may mean to anyone individually, was very specific about this: change yourself and the world will follow. It's a lesson easily preached but infinitely difficult to implement. And, as Salinger says in Franny and Zooey, the one thing about Jesus, regardless of one's belief in his diety, was this...he was incredibly smart. Too smart to base a life's teachings on the philosophy of revenge.
Okay, got that out.
In any event, Angie and I finally shelled out for a new computer, seeing as how I was suddenly involved in a bunch of writing gigs. It's a bit of Nirvana for me. I love it and my work has quite literally doubled in speed because of it. I'm staring at the huge, new LED monitor right this very minute, in fact.
Another good day in SoCal. They're all good days, really. Life is good.
See you tomorrow.
Well, now it is.
I spend my days alternating my time between two writing projects, one for a German producer and a new film and the other a stage production with infinite possibilities. The former is nearly done and the latter falls under the category of 'top secret.' Not for long, though. Soon, we'll be workshopping it and, I suspect, dealing with a great deal of publicity. But we'll see.
Also in rehearsal, as an actor, for 'The Interlopers,' Gary Lennon's cutting edge new play about the world of transgender love. That's going just swimmingly and I suspect, again, it will get a lot of ink once it's available to the public.
And finally, much to my great satisfaction, I've finally tied up my representation on all three performance fronts: theatre, commercials and film and tv. It took me awhile to find the right fit for all three, but I think I finally have.
On another note, I was watching a bit of a documentary last night about 'the rapture.' It's supposed to happen today, according to a whole gaggle of blithering idiots that have completely missed the point of Christianity. You know the ones, the ones that think religion is based on good and bad, that it's about the meek and faithful getting their just dues in the end and that anyone remotely considered unfaithful will be left behind to wallow in their arrogance. The very notion is maddeningly smug.
The whole idea has been met with a great deal of derision from the local and national press, as well it should be. It's the part of Christianity that galls me: the part that dwells on 'revenge.' Yes, it's funny. Yes, it's ludicrous. Yes, it's even embarrassing. But above all it's mean. Biblical literalists, mean-spirited to the last, masking their 'faith' in false humility, living an entire spiritual life in the very bowels of a passive-aggressive mentality. It sickens me. An unspoken lifestyle that reeks of a B movie theme...'Ooooh, you're gonna get yours.' Jesus, whatever he may mean to anyone individually, was very specific about this: change yourself and the world will follow. It's a lesson easily preached but infinitely difficult to implement. And, as Salinger says in Franny and Zooey, the one thing about Jesus, regardless of one's belief in his diety, was this...he was incredibly smart. Too smart to base a life's teachings on the philosophy of revenge.
Okay, got that out.
In any event, Angie and I finally shelled out for a new computer, seeing as how I was suddenly involved in a bunch of writing gigs. It's a bit of Nirvana for me. I love it and my work has quite literally doubled in speed because of it. I'm staring at the huge, new LED monitor right this very minute, in fact.
Another good day in SoCal. They're all good days, really. Life is good.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Hepburn.
Turner Classic Movies, or TCM, recently had a wonderful three-part, three-hour interview from 1973 with Katherine Hepburn and Dick Cavett in Hepburn's very first television appearance. It was utterly fascinating. And not just because it was Hepburn, although the old gal is pretty damn fascinating all by herself. But because it's a 'test' interview. That is to say, Cavett had been desperately trying to land this coup and had been calling Hepburn incessantly, calling in favors from a myriad of famous friends, wooing her, essentially. Finally, after many months, she agreed to come in and do a 'test' interview, just to see if she was at all comfortable doing something like this. She schlepps in to the studio (it was done in NY) wearing what appears to be her gardening clothes, sandals, old khakis, a turtleneck, her hair amiss. Cavett, the old sly dog, tells the camera guy to turn his camera on and not tell her. Hepburn didn't notice. What happens is remarkable; an interview with Katherine Hepburn sans audience, being stunningly candid.
About halfway through the interview, Hepburn decides she's having fun and leans over to Cavett and says, "Oh, goddamnit, let's just do it. Turn on the camera." Of course, the camera has been on the entire time. At that point, she stops cursing so much (Hepburn cursed like a sailor) but is still magnetic and always surprising.
Word of the event spreads like wildfire and by the end of the three hours what had been an empty studio is now filled with people who have rushed over to see it from all over the building.
Personally, I've always been fascinated with 'old time' Hollywood. And Cavett has always made it no secret that he was, too. Later that same year he also managed to get Brando to sit down in his first ever television interview. He says the only other he tried to get on camera was Cary Grant, but it never happened. (I recall the famous telegraph that Jack Parr sent to Grant when they were trying to set up an interview a few years before that never quite panned out: "How Old Cary Grant," it said. Grant sent one back that said, "Old Cary Grant just fine. How you?")
Anyway, with Hepburn it becomes clear just how much she absolutely adored Spencer Tracy (remember, he had only died a few years earlier). Not only as the love of her life but as an actor. Of course, she wasn't alone in that respect. Every actor worth his salt genuflected to Tracy's astonishing ability to be honest on screen. Even Brando, who for the most part had no respect for the old time movie acting tradition, was in awe of Tracy saying, "He doesn't seem to be capable of not telling the truth."
Hepburn talks fondly of working with John Huston and Humphrey Bogart on 'African Queen,' "They were both drunks, of course." On Garbo: "The camera loved her like no one else, before or since." On Brando, "He is not limited as an actor, a brilliant actor. Limited, perhaps, as a person, but not as an actor." On Bette Davis, "I liked her. A wonderful actress." On Olivier, "Completely different approach from myself. Brilliant in his own way." On the difference between acting for the camera and acting on stage, "No difference whatsoever. It all comes down to concentration."
She is tremendously charming when she wants, exhibiting that odd mixture of supreme confidence and yankee dediation to hard work. She says of Tracy at one point, "He was better than I was, it's as simple as that." She drops little tidbits of history here and there saying at one point about 'Gone With the Wind,' "They sent the script to me first. But I knew I was never really in the running for it." About her inability to handle her own finances, "I sent my father all my money and he kept me on an allowance until his death in 1962."
Hepburn has always been considered our greatest film actress (with the possible exception of Streep now) and seems to be keenly aware of her own stature within the acting community. She's enormously competitive saying at one point, "I have, on occasion, taken a part simply to keep someone I didn't like from being offered the role."
And through it all her complete disdain for the public perception of her 'fame' becomes clear. She has no use for it. One gets the idea she'd rather play a few games of tennis ("I was never very good at it.") than suffer through a conversation about movies. On Brando's refusing to accept the Oscar ("Bullshit.") which was still a hot topic in 1973. On her own Oscar statues, "I never bothered to pick them up."
The interesting thing to note is that she still had a magnificent career in front of her. At the time of the interview she had already been in the business for some 41 years and she was just getting started. She had several great film roles in front of her at that point ('On Golden Pond,' Glass Menagerie,' 'A Little Romance,' 'Long Day's Journey Into Night').
Cavett is clearly in awe of her the entire time although he doesn't become a sycophant about it. His questions are on the money. The great thing about Cavett is he always had a knack for asking what other people might ask. He's clearly a fan and Hepburn's undisguised self-confidence amuses him no end.
'Twas a wonderful way to spend a lazy Sunday night. Katherine Hepburn is an icon. Not a 'made up' icon, but the real deal. And now, even after all these years, her work holds up. She wasn't a passing fancy. She was good. She was very good at what she did.
See you tomorrow.
About halfway through the interview, Hepburn decides she's having fun and leans over to Cavett and says, "Oh, goddamnit, let's just do it. Turn on the camera." Of course, the camera has been on the entire time. At that point, she stops cursing so much (Hepburn cursed like a sailor) but is still magnetic and always surprising.
Word of the event spreads like wildfire and by the end of the three hours what had been an empty studio is now filled with people who have rushed over to see it from all over the building.
Personally, I've always been fascinated with 'old time' Hollywood. And Cavett has always made it no secret that he was, too. Later that same year he also managed to get Brando to sit down in his first ever television interview. He says the only other he tried to get on camera was Cary Grant, but it never happened. (I recall the famous telegraph that Jack Parr sent to Grant when they were trying to set up an interview a few years before that never quite panned out: "How Old Cary Grant," it said. Grant sent one back that said, "Old Cary Grant just fine. How you?")
Anyway, with Hepburn it becomes clear just how much she absolutely adored Spencer Tracy (remember, he had only died a few years earlier). Not only as the love of her life but as an actor. Of course, she wasn't alone in that respect. Every actor worth his salt genuflected to Tracy's astonishing ability to be honest on screen. Even Brando, who for the most part had no respect for the old time movie acting tradition, was in awe of Tracy saying, "He doesn't seem to be capable of not telling the truth."
Hepburn talks fondly of working with John Huston and Humphrey Bogart on 'African Queen,' "They were both drunks, of course." On Garbo: "The camera loved her like no one else, before or since." On Brando, "He is not limited as an actor, a brilliant actor. Limited, perhaps, as a person, but not as an actor." On Bette Davis, "I liked her. A wonderful actress." On Olivier, "Completely different approach from myself. Brilliant in his own way." On the difference between acting for the camera and acting on stage, "No difference whatsoever. It all comes down to concentration."
She is tremendously charming when she wants, exhibiting that odd mixture of supreme confidence and yankee dediation to hard work. She says of Tracy at one point, "He was better than I was, it's as simple as that." She drops little tidbits of history here and there saying at one point about 'Gone With the Wind,' "They sent the script to me first. But I knew I was never really in the running for it." About her inability to handle her own finances, "I sent my father all my money and he kept me on an allowance until his death in 1962."
Hepburn has always been considered our greatest film actress (with the possible exception of Streep now) and seems to be keenly aware of her own stature within the acting community. She's enormously competitive saying at one point, "I have, on occasion, taken a part simply to keep someone I didn't like from being offered the role."
And through it all her complete disdain for the public perception of her 'fame' becomes clear. She has no use for it. One gets the idea she'd rather play a few games of tennis ("I was never very good at it.") than suffer through a conversation about movies. On Brando's refusing to accept the Oscar ("Bullshit.") which was still a hot topic in 1973. On her own Oscar statues, "I never bothered to pick them up."
The interesting thing to note is that she still had a magnificent career in front of her. At the time of the interview she had already been in the business for some 41 years and she was just getting started. She had several great film roles in front of her at that point ('On Golden Pond,' Glass Menagerie,' 'A Little Romance,' 'Long Day's Journey Into Night').
Cavett is clearly in awe of her the entire time although he doesn't become a sycophant about it. His questions are on the money. The great thing about Cavett is he always had a knack for asking what other people might ask. He's clearly a fan and Hepburn's undisguised self-confidence amuses him no end.
'Twas a wonderful way to spend a lazy Sunday night. Katherine Hepburn is an icon. Not a 'made up' icon, but the real deal. And now, even after all these years, her work holds up. She wasn't a passing fancy. She was good. She was very good at what she did.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
127 Hours. The Movie That Wouldn't End.
In the 'better late than never' category, I watched '127 Hours' last night. To say I was underwhelmed would be putting it mildly.
As nearly everyone knows the film is based on a true story of a man rock climbing in a deserted area in Colorado, meets an unfortunate series of, um, rock climbing events and ends up in a shallow ravine with his arm under a rock. After, well, 127 hours or so, he cuts the offending arm off with a rusty nail and sashays away. Well, okay, perhaps not 'sashay' but he does get away and back to safety and civilization. And in the process learns, I think, that everybody needs the love and support of other people. Or maybe he learns to always leave a note as to where he's going, even if it's to the store to buy some yams. Or maybe he learns to never leave his Swiss Army Knife at home. Or maybe he learns to buy American. I'm not sure what he learns but he apparently learns something.
First of all, unlike the real story of this guy (I watched him on Dateline one night), I couldn't have cared less. There is absolutely no exposition or 'backstory' for this guy. We don't don't know who he is, what he's about, what his loves and fears are, we don't know squat about him. He just ups and runs off on a bike one day and falls in a ditch. And then spends the rest of the movie halucinating about a life we know nothing about. Finally, he gets all sassy and cuts his arm off.
I am not now nor have I ever been terribly impressed with James Franco as an actor. For me, he's always been sort of the 'poster boy' for generation X. There's a detachment to his work, emotionally, that I find appalling in the intimate confines of film making. You could turn this film into a drinking game. Every time Franco changes expressions everyone has to take a drink. I'm guessing the entire room would be stone cold sober by the end of the movie.
And I'd be curious to know what executive watched this film and said to himself, "You know, after seeing this, I'm thinking James Franco is a perfect choice to host the Oscars."
Yes, there is some drama, in a wincing sort of way, when he finally gets around to sawing his appendage off. And, like The Alamo, this comes as no surprise when he does finally get around to it. We're all waiting for the 'cut off the arm' moment. In fact, we're all waiting forever, it seems like. And then, when he does cut the damned thing off, instead of feeling the rush of catharsis, instead we look at our wristwatches and calculate the time to the credits rolling. We think, "Well, okay, the arm is gone. Now they've got no choice but to end this thing." But, no. After he leaves the arm back at the ranch, he staggers around in the badlands for another half hour or so looking for an ambulance.
Danny Boyle has directed the whole fiasco like an MTV video, clearly not trusting the attention span of his audience. And then, shockingly, tries to add a moral lesson at movie's end.
Aside from his 'Naked Lunch' style flashbacks and his chance meeting with two Rubenesque female hikers early in the film, it's essentially a one-man show. But it's kind of like watching your accountant in a one-man show. Franco is a dismal choice for the role. Physically, he's the right age, the right stature, whatever, but his performance lies somewhere between David Duchovny in his most emotionally bereft X Files period and a badly scripted Olive Garden commercial in which a gaggle of thirty-somethings sit around a table and laugh for no apparent reason as salad and bread is being passed around.
The whole device of using the camcorder to record his thoughts and water-deprived ravings is interesting for about a minute and a half but it's been done to death starting as far back as Beckett's 'Krapp's Last Tape.' The good thing, I suppose, is the driving club music throughout. It has a good beat and is easy to dance to, is what I kept thinking.
I also noticed (my wife, Angie, and my buddy John were watching it with me) that once Boyle gets to the only dramatic moment of the film, the actual amputation of the arm, everyone turns away anyway. It's kind of like stepping out to smoke a cigarette the moment before Oprah finally asks, "So, tell me, why did you decide to drown all 36 of your wife's inlaws?"
Eventually, as I said, he gets out of the ditch and wanders off armless. It's at this point that I learned losing your arm also makes you deaf because he can't hear anybody for the rest of the movie. See, this is why I love going to the cinema, to learn things like this.
The movie, staying true to its MTV genesis, begins and ends with a sixties, Don Knotts in 'The Love God,' split screen motif with a kind of blinking computer font over it all. This made me feel very hip for watching it. Sort of as if I were in on a happenin' new webisode.
This film was one of ten Academy Award nominees for Best Picture. And Franco was nominated for Best Actor. This made me idly wonder why 'Saved By the Bell' never got an Emmy nomination.
On a wholly different note, Angie and I are off to purchase a new computer today. The one I'm writing on now, the circa' 1954 model complete with dilithium crystals to run it, is about to be retired. I wrote some good scripts on this thing but finally had to look into getting a new one when it started calling me 'Dave.'
See you tomorrow.
As nearly everyone knows the film is based on a true story of a man rock climbing in a deserted area in Colorado, meets an unfortunate series of, um, rock climbing events and ends up in a shallow ravine with his arm under a rock. After, well, 127 hours or so, he cuts the offending arm off with a rusty nail and sashays away. Well, okay, perhaps not 'sashay' but he does get away and back to safety and civilization. And in the process learns, I think, that everybody needs the love and support of other people. Or maybe he learns to always leave a note as to where he's going, even if it's to the store to buy some yams. Or maybe he learns to never leave his Swiss Army Knife at home. Or maybe he learns to buy American. I'm not sure what he learns but he apparently learns something.
First of all, unlike the real story of this guy (I watched him on Dateline one night), I couldn't have cared less. There is absolutely no exposition or 'backstory' for this guy. We don't don't know who he is, what he's about, what his loves and fears are, we don't know squat about him. He just ups and runs off on a bike one day and falls in a ditch. And then spends the rest of the movie halucinating about a life we know nothing about. Finally, he gets all sassy and cuts his arm off.
I am not now nor have I ever been terribly impressed with James Franco as an actor. For me, he's always been sort of the 'poster boy' for generation X. There's a detachment to his work, emotionally, that I find appalling in the intimate confines of film making. You could turn this film into a drinking game. Every time Franco changes expressions everyone has to take a drink. I'm guessing the entire room would be stone cold sober by the end of the movie.
And I'd be curious to know what executive watched this film and said to himself, "You know, after seeing this, I'm thinking James Franco is a perfect choice to host the Oscars."
Yes, there is some drama, in a wincing sort of way, when he finally gets around to sawing his appendage off. And, like The Alamo, this comes as no surprise when he does finally get around to it. We're all waiting for the 'cut off the arm' moment. In fact, we're all waiting forever, it seems like. And then, when he does cut the damned thing off, instead of feeling the rush of catharsis, instead we look at our wristwatches and calculate the time to the credits rolling. We think, "Well, okay, the arm is gone. Now they've got no choice but to end this thing." But, no. After he leaves the arm back at the ranch, he staggers around in the badlands for another half hour or so looking for an ambulance.
Danny Boyle has directed the whole fiasco like an MTV video, clearly not trusting the attention span of his audience. And then, shockingly, tries to add a moral lesson at movie's end.
Aside from his 'Naked Lunch' style flashbacks and his chance meeting with two Rubenesque female hikers early in the film, it's essentially a one-man show. But it's kind of like watching your accountant in a one-man show. Franco is a dismal choice for the role. Physically, he's the right age, the right stature, whatever, but his performance lies somewhere between David Duchovny in his most emotionally bereft X Files period and a badly scripted Olive Garden commercial in which a gaggle of thirty-somethings sit around a table and laugh for no apparent reason as salad and bread is being passed around.
The whole device of using the camcorder to record his thoughts and water-deprived ravings is interesting for about a minute and a half but it's been done to death starting as far back as Beckett's 'Krapp's Last Tape.' The good thing, I suppose, is the driving club music throughout. It has a good beat and is easy to dance to, is what I kept thinking.
I also noticed (my wife, Angie, and my buddy John were watching it with me) that once Boyle gets to the only dramatic moment of the film, the actual amputation of the arm, everyone turns away anyway. It's kind of like stepping out to smoke a cigarette the moment before Oprah finally asks, "So, tell me, why did you decide to drown all 36 of your wife's inlaws?"
Eventually, as I said, he gets out of the ditch and wanders off armless. It's at this point that I learned losing your arm also makes you deaf because he can't hear anybody for the rest of the movie. See, this is why I love going to the cinema, to learn things like this.
The movie, staying true to its MTV genesis, begins and ends with a sixties, Don Knotts in 'The Love God,' split screen motif with a kind of blinking computer font over it all. This made me feel very hip for watching it. Sort of as if I were in on a happenin' new webisode.
This film was one of ten Academy Award nominees for Best Picture. And Franco was nominated for Best Actor. This made me idly wonder why 'Saved By the Bell' never got an Emmy nomination.
On a wholly different note, Angie and I are off to purchase a new computer today. The one I'm writing on now, the circa' 1954 model complete with dilithium crystals to run it, is about to be retired. I wrote some good scripts on this thing but finally had to look into getting a new one when it started calling me 'Dave.'
See you tomorrow.
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