"Sports, politics and religion are the three passions of the badly educated." So wrote F. Scott Fitzgerald. Not sure I agree with that but I understand where he's coming from. I have, at various times in my life, been keenly passionate about one or all three. In this day and age, it's almost irresponsible to be indifferent to politics. As for sports, I've never been a "team" kinda guy. Never saw the sense in it. Tom Wolfe writes of the senselessness of rooting for team sports (professional, that is) in his wonderful book I Am Charlotte Simmons. And religion. Well, religion is one of those things where once it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, it's there forever. Personally, I had the great misfortune of working with The Salvation Army and enduring their nefarious right-wing, literalist policies for several years, so I'm still, all these years later, angry and bitter about that. Conservative Christian zealousness nauseates me.
I have never been coy about the fact that I'm a very liberal democrat. At the same time there are liberal policies encouraged and endorsed by our present administration that leave me cold. Socially, I'm far more conservative than I let on. I read once that any thinking man would be foolish to be a republican when he's young and even more foolish to be a democrat after he turns forty.
Welfare is one issue that irks me. Anyone who's lived in a large city and seen the myriad ways it has been abused over the years can identify with that. There are families on the south side of Chicago that are fourth and fifth generation welfare recipients. The children are taught from an early age not to get a job but how to finesse the welfare system over a lifetime. The mere thought of actually getting a job is unimaginable to them.
It's not an easy issue, this liberal versus conservative stuff. The choices of either come with heavy baggage. Liberalism, like many political platforms, is fair and morally defensable on paper, but in application rarely works entirely. On the other hand, conservative policies fail to take into account actual grass roots governmental responibilities. The truth is, our nation has become far too large and complex for any one train of thought to be completely unassailable. For example, Roosevelt's New Deal may have worked for the country as a whole and may have been the exact pill we needed to swallow in 1933, but today it is just another example of giving a village fish when it would be more prudent to teach them how to fish.
All of this was on my mind last night as Angie and I watched a fascinating film called Recount, about the 2000 election between Gore and Bush. It's an unapoligetically partisan movie outlining the evils of Bush's campaign and their legal shenanigans as they used the Supreme Court of The United States of America to quite literaly 'steal' the election. At one point Angie said as I muttered and cursed under my breath, "Well, it's true that every single hand recount in Florida never once had Gore ahead." I was astonished. I said, "They never ALLOWED a recount of all the votes, that's why!" In the end the Supreme Court ruled that the recount must be stopped immediately and then took several days to decide their verdict and finally said now there's not enough time to do the recount. Then they went on to say that this decision regarding election laws was only applicable to THIS ONE ELECTION. Never before in the history of that august body has such a disclaimer been made about a decision. And, as well all know, Gore won the popular vote but lost in the Electoral College due to Florida's refusal to do the recount. In the final analysis, it was just a huge cluster fuck.
In the film and arguably in real life, then Florida Secretary of State Katherine Harris comes out looking the biggest culprit, the most wanton evil-dooer, when all is said and done. Her depiction in the film borders on outright libel. Incredibly, she went on to become a U.S. Congresswoman from Florida, as mind-boggling as that is. Time and again she steadfastly refused to let the recounts continue, far exceeding her legal authority. Weeks of valuable time were lost due to her obstructions. But she is not entirely to blame. Joe Leiberman weighed in at one crucial point, undoubtedly looking to jockey for position for his own presidential run in 2004, to discontinue the voting. Blame can be placed on many a doorstep.
One has to wonder where our country would be today had Gore won the election. Would we be embroiled in Afghanistan today? Would we have sent ground troops to Iraq? Would the senseless killing of hundreds of thousands of innocent people in the Mideast have occurred? Would the economy be as fragile as it is today? I don't know. Maybe.
Ultimately, the biggest problem I and many others, republicans, too, had with George W. Bush was not so much his military decisions, but his clear lack of intellectual capacity to actually be President. One has only to watch any one of his many press conferences to realize he's simply a dumb guy. I do not write that with any satisfaction. It's only a fact. W. just isn't too smart. Never was. Yes, Bill Clinton certainly had his moral drawbacks as the leader of the free world. But he was also one of a handful of the smartest guys ever to sit in the oval office. It's useless to rehash his sexual peccadillos at this point in time, but I think it safe to say most of us could care less about his infidelities as a man as opposed to his blazingly intelligent decisions as a president.
I admit to some strong reservations about Barack Obama in the oval office. I was living in Chicago, his home base, when he was elected. There, as in many other cities in the country, the election became all about race. The race card was played insufferably. To his credit, then Senator Obama, tried desperately to downplay that aspect of the election, but the African-American population refused to let him do so. I can only attest to my observations in Chicago, but I honestly think had he lost to John McCain there would have been a massive and uncontrollable riot in that city. It would have made the Watts Riots look like a peaceful protest in comparison. I abhored that. I was ashamed of that city.
Churchill said something akin to the idea that democracy is the worst system of government on earth until one looked at the others. That was sort of how I felt in Chicago on the eve of the 2008 presidential election.
At the end of the day, I still count myself a liberal democrat. After a lot of anguished thought, I have come to the conclusion that as a voter I have no choice but to vote for the platform, not the man. I have no input as to how a man will actually govern once elected. I can only trust the platform. If I don't encourage and vote for my ideas I am essentially participating in a Miss Universe Pageant. My ideas are all I have. I am left no option but to vote for what I think is right, rather than what I think might occur. It is what the founding fathers wanted. To cast my vote for a man because he's tall or has a fine head of hair or because he's black or because he's handsome or because he's an eloquent speaker is utter foolishness. A recipe for disaster. But to vote for a man because he says he wants to do something I believe in, well, that's the ball game. That's the litmus test. That's the only thing I have to consider once I'm in the secrecy of the voting booth.
A little off mesage here today, as they say. But I was laying in bed for a long time last night thinking of this film. My parents were die-hard republicans. Angie's parents are die-hard republicans. Some of my closest friends are die-hard republicans. Sometimes, depending on the mood in which I"m caught, I am a die-hard republican. The problem is, for me anyway, is that I keep coming back to what is right and what is obviously wrong. That's why I adhere to this whole 'vote for the idea' thing. That's all I can do. That's all any of us can do. That's why this system of government is the worst in the world, until we look at all the others. That's why we live in the most fair unfair country on earth.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Stamping a Role.
I'm reading Karl Malden's autobiography, When Do I Start, right now. A great, no-nonsense piece of writing about what it was like in the forties and fifties in NY when he was struggling as an actor. Malden was in the epicenter of the whole Method movement in the city at that time. He hobnobbed with a generation of actors, writers, directors and designers that literally changed theatre in this country.
I always liked Malden as an actor. A very 'no frills' approach to his work. He did, of course, Streetcar Named Desire (which he says is the finest American play ever written) for two years on Broadway with Brando, Jessica Tandy and Kim Hunter. He also, a couple of years later, did the movie with Kazan and ended up nabbing an Oscar for it.
He writes a lot of really interesting things in his book, one of which is something I've often said throughout the years. He rhetorically asks why anyone would want to do the role of Stanley Kowalski after Brando did it. He says Brando stamped the role irrevocably and that anyone doing it afterwards would inevitably pale in comparison. I agree. There are a few, not many, roles like that in our American Theatrical Canon. That is one. Another I've always felt that way about is George in Sunday in the Park with George. Patinkin simply stamped it. Another is Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. It was not originally a play, but Peck becomes Atticus so completely in our collective mind's eye in the film, that it's difficult if not impossible to see someone else do it on stage. I did the play myself in Virginia some years ago and the actor, while very good, playing Atticus simply couldn't live up to that towering performance left by Peck.
I have a buddy of mine who says he can't watch Hamlet on stage anymore because he thinks Olivier stamped it for all time. I disagree with that. Shakespeare is too big to be stamped by a single actor, particularly Hamlet. There are just too many possibilities in the role. Richard III is another. Just too many ways to go with it.
Sometimes a film adaptation of something will ruin it for actors forever after. For me, not everyone mind you, but for me, The Producers is like that. Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder have so perfectly matched those two chacracters in my mind that it's difficult to see anyone else do it onstage. Although, I admit, Nathan Lane was extremely funny in the Broadway production.
If you've ever had a chance to see Bette Davis do Regina in The Little Foxes in the film adaptation of that very fine Lillian Hellman play, well, that's another example. She is just wonderful in the role. Tailor made. Hard to see another actress do it now.
I've talked to some old-timers that feel that way about Lee J. Cobb as Willy Loman in Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. I don't feel that way, however. Granted I never saw Cobb do it, of course, but I've seen some pretty amazing interpretations through the years, including but not limited to, Dustin Hoffman's version. I understand George C. Scott was amazing in the role a few decades ago at Circle in the Square in NYC. Would love to have seen that one. Most recently we had Brian Dennehy do it at both the Goodman in Chicago and then later on Broadway, winning the Tony. I thought it was an astounding performance. But Willy Loman is too big for one actor. It's like Hamlet in that sense. Just too many possibilities there.
But what I like mostly about Malden's book is that he struggled so very hard early in his career. From 1939 until about 1947 he, quite literally, was sometimes a starving artist. A play here, a small part there, some radio work now and then. He was right on the brink of extreme poverty and even homelessness for a long, long time. And then he landed Streetcar. Five years later he had an Oscar in his pocket.
Another perfect day in the City of Angels. I think I'll take a walk and look at the mountains.
See you tomorrow.
I always liked Malden as an actor. A very 'no frills' approach to his work. He did, of course, Streetcar Named Desire (which he says is the finest American play ever written) for two years on Broadway with Brando, Jessica Tandy and Kim Hunter. He also, a couple of years later, did the movie with Kazan and ended up nabbing an Oscar for it.
He writes a lot of really interesting things in his book, one of which is something I've often said throughout the years. He rhetorically asks why anyone would want to do the role of Stanley Kowalski after Brando did it. He says Brando stamped the role irrevocably and that anyone doing it afterwards would inevitably pale in comparison. I agree. There are a few, not many, roles like that in our American Theatrical Canon. That is one. Another I've always felt that way about is George in Sunday in the Park with George. Patinkin simply stamped it. Another is Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. It was not originally a play, but Peck becomes Atticus so completely in our collective mind's eye in the film, that it's difficult if not impossible to see someone else do it on stage. I did the play myself in Virginia some years ago and the actor, while very good, playing Atticus simply couldn't live up to that towering performance left by Peck.
I have a buddy of mine who says he can't watch Hamlet on stage anymore because he thinks Olivier stamped it for all time. I disagree with that. Shakespeare is too big to be stamped by a single actor, particularly Hamlet. There are just too many possibilities in the role. Richard III is another. Just too many ways to go with it.
Sometimes a film adaptation of something will ruin it for actors forever after. For me, not everyone mind you, but for me, The Producers is like that. Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder have so perfectly matched those two chacracters in my mind that it's difficult to see anyone else do it onstage. Although, I admit, Nathan Lane was extremely funny in the Broadway production.
If you've ever had a chance to see Bette Davis do Regina in The Little Foxes in the film adaptation of that very fine Lillian Hellman play, well, that's another example. She is just wonderful in the role. Tailor made. Hard to see another actress do it now.
I've talked to some old-timers that feel that way about Lee J. Cobb as Willy Loman in Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. I don't feel that way, however. Granted I never saw Cobb do it, of course, but I've seen some pretty amazing interpretations through the years, including but not limited to, Dustin Hoffman's version. I understand George C. Scott was amazing in the role a few decades ago at Circle in the Square in NYC. Would love to have seen that one. Most recently we had Brian Dennehy do it at both the Goodman in Chicago and then later on Broadway, winning the Tony. I thought it was an astounding performance. But Willy Loman is too big for one actor. It's like Hamlet in that sense. Just too many possibilities there.
But what I like mostly about Malden's book is that he struggled so very hard early in his career. From 1939 until about 1947 he, quite literally, was sometimes a starving artist. A play here, a small part there, some radio work now and then. He was right on the brink of extreme poverty and even homelessness for a long, long time. And then he landed Streetcar. Five years later he had an Oscar in his pocket.
Another perfect day in the City of Angels. I think I'll take a walk and look at the mountains.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Being of Use.
Discouraging news all around yesterday. Warbucks in Annie was pre-cast and Garbo Talks is looking for someone 'less masculine, more flamboyant.' And so it goes.
I was, while not exactly depressed about the news, a bit disgruntled by it. Rejection is part of the business and God knows it's not the first time I've wanted a gig I didn't get.
Talked to a close friend of mine out here about it briefly last night. He gave some sound advice. He happens to be an actor also and ran into John Travolta (yes, the John Travolta) one day. He said they were chatting one time a while back and John said, "You must be tearing things up out in LA." My friend said, "Actually, I'm not. I'm struggling." Travolta said, "Well, the thing is, in LA you have to find someone that 'gets' you." He said, "For me it was Mike Nichols. He 'got' me. After that things were a lot easier." Nice to hear, of course, but still not immediately helpful.
The last line of Patton, the extraordinary 1971 film with George C. Scott is, "All Glory is Fleeting." I often think of that line. And it's absolutely true, of course. I remember a conversation I had once with Michael Moriarty. It was the late eighties, before he started on Law and Order. He'd just returned from making a film called Pale Rider with Clint Eastwood, in fact. Michael was still teaching acting back then. I don't remember how we got on the subject but Michael said something along the lines of, "I was the flavor of the month for a time. Couldn't do anything wrong. Turning down projects left and right. If I had to do it again, I would have made some different choices. It's important to recognize when you're hot and then, well, carpe diem."
Andy Warhol's much quoted 'fifteen minutes of fame.'
Angie and I watched a remarkable little film called Little Miss Sunshine last night. We paused it in the middle to walk up to Baskin Robbins (it's right around the corner from us) to get some ice cream to assuage my bruised ego. I love the movie. So funny and dark. Ultimately the theme is about the importance of family when the chips are down. I'm happily estranged from the callous and selfish lifestyles of my own family but Angie's family is incredibly supportive. In fact, I had a conversation with Angie's mom, Rosemary, yesterday that served to underline that very fact. It couldn't have come at a better time.
In AA there is much talk of 'getting out of your head.' That is to say, when you're feeling blue or experiencing a moment or two of self-pity, do something for someone else. Do it with no expectations of being rewarded. Simply become entirely altruistic. It works one hundred percent of the time, I've found. So when I have setbacks like this, the first thing I think of is, "How can I help someone else, someone less fortunate than I am?" And that is precisely what this day is about.
Years ago I got sent to Toronto to film a pilot. I was signed with William Morris in those days in NY and it was a potientially huge 'break.' Nothing ever came of it and before I left Toronto to fly back to NYC, one of the producers said to me, "I don't think we have a snowball's chance in Hell of selling this thing. I just wanted you to know that so you wouldn't be waiting on pins and needles back in New York." So flying back, I was really depressed. Just awash in self-pity. I had tried so hard. And nothing was gonna happen with it. There was an older lady sitting next to me on the flight back. She would not shut up. Just yapped away like a wind-up doll the whole time. I tried to ignore her. I gave her exasperated glances. I sighed a lot. Nothing worked. She just kept blabbering about absolutely nothing. Whatever came to her addled mind. Finally, just before we landed, she said, "So why were you in Toronto?" Finally, a chance to talk about ME. I said, rather importantly, "Just shot a pilot. I'm an actor. Finished yesterday and now I'm just flying back to New York. What about you? Why were you in Toronto?" She said, "My husband was there on a business trip. He had a heart attack in his hotel room. His casket is in the belly of this plane. I'm bringing him home."
I was shell-shocked. I was humiliated. Deeply ashamed. We landed and I stayed with her to get her bags and then walked with her to the United offices to sit with her while she did all the paperwork. There was a van waiting for the body. It took awhile for the transition from the plane to the van. I stayed with her. I let her talk. I wanted to ride in the van with her back to Brooklyn where she lived and where she was taking the body. The van driver wouldn't let me, though. When we said goodby, about two hours after we landed, she tried to give me a five dollar bill for my troubles. The van drove away and I stood outside Laguardia for a long time, deep in thought.
Anyway, the point is, not getting a role in a play in Long Beach is not the end of the world.
I'm going to make some breakfast now and serve it to Angie in bed. I'm going to feed the puppies and take them for a walk when they're done. I'm going to call my friend, John, who just lost his mother and try to give him some solace. I'm going to go to a meeting later and seek out someone newly-sober and tell them it's going to be okay. I'm going to move everything around in the garage so we have room for Angie's daughter's things (she's moving and doesn't have room for it all). I'm going to be of use.
See you tomorrow.
I was, while not exactly depressed about the news, a bit disgruntled by it. Rejection is part of the business and God knows it's not the first time I've wanted a gig I didn't get.
Talked to a close friend of mine out here about it briefly last night. He gave some sound advice. He happens to be an actor also and ran into John Travolta (yes, the John Travolta) one day. He said they were chatting one time a while back and John said, "You must be tearing things up out in LA." My friend said, "Actually, I'm not. I'm struggling." Travolta said, "Well, the thing is, in LA you have to find someone that 'gets' you." He said, "For me it was Mike Nichols. He 'got' me. After that things were a lot easier." Nice to hear, of course, but still not immediately helpful.
The last line of Patton, the extraordinary 1971 film with George C. Scott is, "All Glory is Fleeting." I often think of that line. And it's absolutely true, of course. I remember a conversation I had once with Michael Moriarty. It was the late eighties, before he started on Law and Order. He'd just returned from making a film called Pale Rider with Clint Eastwood, in fact. Michael was still teaching acting back then. I don't remember how we got on the subject but Michael said something along the lines of, "I was the flavor of the month for a time. Couldn't do anything wrong. Turning down projects left and right. If I had to do it again, I would have made some different choices. It's important to recognize when you're hot and then, well, carpe diem."
Andy Warhol's much quoted 'fifteen minutes of fame.'
Angie and I watched a remarkable little film called Little Miss Sunshine last night. We paused it in the middle to walk up to Baskin Robbins (it's right around the corner from us) to get some ice cream to assuage my bruised ego. I love the movie. So funny and dark. Ultimately the theme is about the importance of family when the chips are down. I'm happily estranged from the callous and selfish lifestyles of my own family but Angie's family is incredibly supportive. In fact, I had a conversation with Angie's mom, Rosemary, yesterday that served to underline that very fact. It couldn't have come at a better time.
In AA there is much talk of 'getting out of your head.' That is to say, when you're feeling blue or experiencing a moment or two of self-pity, do something for someone else. Do it with no expectations of being rewarded. Simply become entirely altruistic. It works one hundred percent of the time, I've found. So when I have setbacks like this, the first thing I think of is, "How can I help someone else, someone less fortunate than I am?" And that is precisely what this day is about.
Years ago I got sent to Toronto to film a pilot. I was signed with William Morris in those days in NY and it was a potientially huge 'break.' Nothing ever came of it and before I left Toronto to fly back to NYC, one of the producers said to me, "I don't think we have a snowball's chance in Hell of selling this thing. I just wanted you to know that so you wouldn't be waiting on pins and needles back in New York." So flying back, I was really depressed. Just awash in self-pity. I had tried so hard. And nothing was gonna happen with it. There was an older lady sitting next to me on the flight back. She would not shut up. Just yapped away like a wind-up doll the whole time. I tried to ignore her. I gave her exasperated glances. I sighed a lot. Nothing worked. She just kept blabbering about absolutely nothing. Whatever came to her addled mind. Finally, just before we landed, she said, "So why were you in Toronto?" Finally, a chance to talk about ME. I said, rather importantly, "Just shot a pilot. I'm an actor. Finished yesterday and now I'm just flying back to New York. What about you? Why were you in Toronto?" She said, "My husband was there on a business trip. He had a heart attack in his hotel room. His casket is in the belly of this plane. I'm bringing him home."
I was shell-shocked. I was humiliated. Deeply ashamed. We landed and I stayed with her to get her bags and then walked with her to the United offices to sit with her while she did all the paperwork. There was a van waiting for the body. It took awhile for the transition from the plane to the van. I stayed with her. I let her talk. I wanted to ride in the van with her back to Brooklyn where she lived and where she was taking the body. The van driver wouldn't let me, though. When we said goodby, about two hours after we landed, she tried to give me a five dollar bill for my troubles. The van drove away and I stood outside Laguardia for a long time, deep in thought.
Anyway, the point is, not getting a role in a play in Long Beach is not the end of the world.
I'm going to make some breakfast now and serve it to Angie in bed. I'm going to feed the puppies and take them for a walk when they're done. I'm going to call my friend, John, who just lost his mother and try to give him some solace. I'm going to go to a meeting later and seek out someone newly-sober and tell them it's going to be okay. I'm going to move everything around in the garage so we have room for Angie's daughter's things (she's moving and doesn't have room for it all). I'm going to be of use.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Choreographers: Professionals? Or Evil Incarnate?
I just got back from two days in Long Beach. It was a working 'mini vacation,' really. Angie's daughter, Lauren, lives in Long Beach, so we simply comandeered her little studio apartment for a couple of days. She stayed with her boyfriend, Nate (an incredibly nice guy). Nate is the manager of a very festive restaraunt there called 'Panama Joe's,' so he treated us to a great dinner Monday night while Angie whooped and hollered for her beloved Kansas City Chiefs on Monday Night Football. The place is literally wall-to-wall flat screen TVs so everywhere you look is a sporting event. Nice joint, really. Very collegiate. Personally, I felt a bit old in that environment but it's a cool place. It's the kind of place where twenty five years ago I would have drank a lot of tequila and probably been a regular.
We were up there because I had two back-to-back auditions in Long Beach. The first was a call-back for the new musical, Garbo Talks. There were only three of us called back for the role. In fact, when we all entered (the three of us were called in together, which is sort of odd) the director said, rather importantly, "We've seen over two hundred actors for this role...it's down to you three." I felt a little like I was on American Idol. Anyway, I don't think I landed it. In turn we all sang the song we had been forwarded from the show, a very dramatic, overly so in fact, ballad about discovering and molding Greta Garbo. After that we did a quick dance routine and then finally read a couple of scenes from the script. The song went okay, I suppose, nothing dazzling on my part. The scenes from the script went fine and I think I can say I nailed that part of the call-back, but the dance...oy, the dance. I am not a dancer. In fact, I'm not really much of a 'mover,' as they say in the business. So clearly I missed the boat on that section of the audition. The other two guys were vastly superior to me in that area. I sang fine, choosing to try and make some dramatic sense of the song rather than just sing pretty notes. However the other two guys were real 'singer' types, in the classical sense of, say, Les Miz or Phantom. So if that's what they're looking for, which may very well be the case, I think it safe to say they both did a better job with it than I did. However, and this has been the case in my career for decades, I think I can resolutely say I acted circles around the competition. But again, is that what they're looking for? Probably not. I got the idea from the guys behind the table (producer, director, asst. director, musical director, choreographer, etc.) that they were looking for a real "VOICE." I am always a bit disgruntled by that mind-set, but it's a reality in this business and there's not a lot I can do about it. Personally, when I go to a musical and hear a bunch of VOICES on stage that can't act much, well, I'm left cold. Nonetheless...
The following day I had the first audition for Annie. Daddy Warbucks, of course. While I consider myself a fairly versatile actor, the role of Annie herself would be a stretch. Although I do have some ideas for it...
That went fine. Unless the role is precast, I suspect I'll at least be called back.
Right before we left Long Beach to return home, I got a call from the producer of a film that had seen me before and she asked if I could come straight to a read for it. A quick two day shoot for two grand. I love those kind of gigs. So we headed back to LA to get the sides for the read. As soon as we walked into our house she called back to say the director had hired a 'friend of his.' And that was that.
But back to this 'dance' versus 'move' business. 'Move' is a pleasant euphemism that choreographers love to bandy about. Every choreoghrapher I've ever met in my life (and that would be quite a few) always use this term. They all think they and they alone can turn a non-dancer into a dancer. It's utter bullshit and I have found myself feuding with many a choregrapher over it. For some reason they all think they can make someone a dancer even when the performer tells them, categorically, they do not dance. It's sort of like a musical director taking a tone deaf guy and arrogantly stating, "I, and I alone, can make him a singer."
I have never gotten along with choreographers because of this unreasonable conceit on their part. For some reason they think non-dancers are purposely dancing badly just to make them look bad. They get very self-rightous about it all. Once, years ago, a director friend of mine called me up and asked me to do the oldest brother in a musical called "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." He said, "It's primarily an acting role and I want a real actor in it. You won't have to do any dancing, we'll have the other brothers do that." So I said, okay, as long as you understand that I don't dance. "Fine," he said, "Just come by the audition and sing a bit for the musical director and the choreographer will have you do a little 'movement' just to get an idea of you."
So I show up and sing a bit and then go off with a bunch of dancers to learn the 'dance routine.' Well, great googleymoogley, this broad had us all doing Twyla Tharp Martha Graham and Najinsky all rolled into one. I tried for a bit and then sort of lost my temper (it's embarrassing for non-dancers to be put in a position like that, just as it would for non-singers if they were asked to 'just sing a few bars from Pagliacci for us.') Finally, I just stopped and said, "Alright, listen. Did you think I was lying? Did you think I was really a closet dancer, a brilliant hoofer, a guy that secretly dances around his apartment like a reincarnated Fred Astaire? Why would you think that?" She got very flustered and I, in a real tizzy by now, stormed out and walked into the other room and said to the director, "Don't you ever call me in and embarrass me like this. That's not 'moving.' That's professional level dancing. Thank you, but no thank you. I don't like starting a new gig like this. I don't trust you and I certainly don't trust her. Good luck." And I walked out.
He called later that day and apologized profusely. He said there had been a miscommunication with the choreographer, that I wasn't supposed to go with that bunch. I accepted his apology and said I still wasn't interested. A couple of years later I did another musical and this choreographer had been hired to do it, too. She pulled me aside on the first day and said she would not make me dance. A week later she was trying to make me dance. I don't trust choreographers. Never will.
So that's how I feel about 'moving' as opposed to 'dancing.' Choreographers just don't get it. After that Seven Brides debacle, I always made it very clear when I walked into the call-back, 'I DO NOT dance. Let me say this again so everyone is clear...I DO NOT DANCE." It has saved a lot of bruised egos. Choreographers alway hate me because of it. And often times once the rehearals start they begin to attempt to sneak some dancing in. I always just stand there and when they're done 'showing me the steps,' I simply say, 'No, I won't do that.' They really hate that.
Anyway, after having said all that, the Garbo Talks 'movement' routine really was just that. It was fairly easy and the choreographer didn't try to embarrass us, like most do. I still sucked at it, but at least it was simple. She really did, for once, actually give us some 'movement.' I appreciated that.
I have always been very sensitive to dancers that don't act or actors that don't sing when I'm directing a piece. Once a performer is embarrassed in rehearsal, the ball game is over. The director has lost trust. I have directed a few musicals over the years (it's not my forte, but I have done it) and I always keep a tight rein on the choreographer. Give these people and inch and they'll take a mile.
These days if I look out the kitchen window and see a stray choreographer on my lawn, I shoot them with a BB pistol.
Okay.
See you tomorrow.
We were up there because I had two back-to-back auditions in Long Beach. The first was a call-back for the new musical, Garbo Talks. There were only three of us called back for the role. In fact, when we all entered (the three of us were called in together, which is sort of odd) the director said, rather importantly, "We've seen over two hundred actors for this role...it's down to you three." I felt a little like I was on American Idol. Anyway, I don't think I landed it. In turn we all sang the song we had been forwarded from the show, a very dramatic, overly so in fact, ballad about discovering and molding Greta Garbo. After that we did a quick dance routine and then finally read a couple of scenes from the script. The song went okay, I suppose, nothing dazzling on my part. The scenes from the script went fine and I think I can say I nailed that part of the call-back, but the dance...oy, the dance. I am not a dancer. In fact, I'm not really much of a 'mover,' as they say in the business. So clearly I missed the boat on that section of the audition. The other two guys were vastly superior to me in that area. I sang fine, choosing to try and make some dramatic sense of the song rather than just sing pretty notes. However the other two guys were real 'singer' types, in the classical sense of, say, Les Miz or Phantom. So if that's what they're looking for, which may very well be the case, I think it safe to say they both did a better job with it than I did. However, and this has been the case in my career for decades, I think I can resolutely say I acted circles around the competition. But again, is that what they're looking for? Probably not. I got the idea from the guys behind the table (producer, director, asst. director, musical director, choreographer, etc.) that they were looking for a real "VOICE." I am always a bit disgruntled by that mind-set, but it's a reality in this business and there's not a lot I can do about it. Personally, when I go to a musical and hear a bunch of VOICES on stage that can't act much, well, I'm left cold. Nonetheless...
The following day I had the first audition for Annie. Daddy Warbucks, of course. While I consider myself a fairly versatile actor, the role of Annie herself would be a stretch. Although I do have some ideas for it...
That went fine. Unless the role is precast, I suspect I'll at least be called back.
Right before we left Long Beach to return home, I got a call from the producer of a film that had seen me before and she asked if I could come straight to a read for it. A quick two day shoot for two grand. I love those kind of gigs. So we headed back to LA to get the sides for the read. As soon as we walked into our house she called back to say the director had hired a 'friend of his.' And that was that.
But back to this 'dance' versus 'move' business. 'Move' is a pleasant euphemism that choreographers love to bandy about. Every choreoghrapher I've ever met in my life (and that would be quite a few) always use this term. They all think they and they alone can turn a non-dancer into a dancer. It's utter bullshit and I have found myself feuding with many a choregrapher over it. For some reason they all think they can make someone a dancer even when the performer tells them, categorically, they do not dance. It's sort of like a musical director taking a tone deaf guy and arrogantly stating, "I, and I alone, can make him a singer."
I have never gotten along with choreographers because of this unreasonable conceit on their part. For some reason they think non-dancers are purposely dancing badly just to make them look bad. They get very self-rightous about it all. Once, years ago, a director friend of mine called me up and asked me to do the oldest brother in a musical called "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." He said, "It's primarily an acting role and I want a real actor in it. You won't have to do any dancing, we'll have the other brothers do that." So I said, okay, as long as you understand that I don't dance. "Fine," he said, "Just come by the audition and sing a bit for the musical director and the choreographer will have you do a little 'movement' just to get an idea of you."
So I show up and sing a bit and then go off with a bunch of dancers to learn the 'dance routine.' Well, great googleymoogley, this broad had us all doing Twyla Tharp Martha Graham and Najinsky all rolled into one. I tried for a bit and then sort of lost my temper (it's embarrassing for non-dancers to be put in a position like that, just as it would for non-singers if they were asked to 'just sing a few bars from Pagliacci for us.') Finally, I just stopped and said, "Alright, listen. Did you think I was lying? Did you think I was really a closet dancer, a brilliant hoofer, a guy that secretly dances around his apartment like a reincarnated Fred Astaire? Why would you think that?" She got very flustered and I, in a real tizzy by now, stormed out and walked into the other room and said to the director, "Don't you ever call me in and embarrass me like this. That's not 'moving.' That's professional level dancing. Thank you, but no thank you. I don't like starting a new gig like this. I don't trust you and I certainly don't trust her. Good luck." And I walked out.
He called later that day and apologized profusely. He said there had been a miscommunication with the choreographer, that I wasn't supposed to go with that bunch. I accepted his apology and said I still wasn't interested. A couple of years later I did another musical and this choreographer had been hired to do it, too. She pulled me aside on the first day and said she would not make me dance. A week later she was trying to make me dance. I don't trust choreographers. Never will.
So that's how I feel about 'moving' as opposed to 'dancing.' Choreographers just don't get it. After that Seven Brides debacle, I always made it very clear when I walked into the call-back, 'I DO NOT dance. Let me say this again so everyone is clear...I DO NOT DANCE." It has saved a lot of bruised egos. Choreographers alway hate me because of it. And often times once the rehearals start they begin to attempt to sneak some dancing in. I always just stand there and when they're done 'showing me the steps,' I simply say, 'No, I won't do that.' They really hate that.
Anyway, after having said all that, the Garbo Talks 'movement' routine really was just that. It was fairly easy and the choreographer didn't try to embarrass us, like most do. I still sucked at it, but at least it was simple. She really did, for once, actually give us some 'movement.' I appreciated that.
I have always been very sensitive to dancers that don't act or actors that don't sing when I'm directing a piece. Once a performer is embarrassed in rehearsal, the ball game is over. The director has lost trust. I have directed a few musicals over the years (it's not my forte, but I have done it) and I always keep a tight rein on the choreographer. Give these people and inch and they'll take a mile.
These days if I look out the kitchen window and see a stray choreographer on my lawn, I shoot them with a BB pistol.
Okay.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The First Step.
A busy day in store today. I have to pull together the song for Garbo Talks. That call back is tomorrow and on Tuesday the one for ANNIE. Ángie and I are heading over to Long Beach to spend the night for the two back to back auditions. More on all that once it's done.
Well, we were finally attacked by a virus. First time it's happened to me. The computer simply shut down. We had to take it into have it "debugged." Pain in the ass.
I watched three separate specials on 9/11 yesterday and was horrified all over again. What a terrible, terrible day for this nation. As I watched the images unfold from nine years ago, I was struck with the same feeling of helplessness I had back then. Of all the mind-boggling images, the ones that effected me most profoundly are the ones that showed ''the jumpers". Those poor souls who's only option, apparently, was to leap to their deaths from the World Trade Center. Absolutely horrific. And most frustrating, these nine years later, is the fact that Bin Laden still remains free traveling from cave to cave in the anthill countryside of Afghanistan. I have always liked Colin Powell's assessment of the situation back then. While other politicians bandied about eupemisms such as "bring the perpetrators to justice," or "right this terrible wrong," Powell said on national TV, "make no mistake, we will find you and kill you."
Anyway.
I've contacted a number of very fine actors about a preliminary meeting regarding the new theater company and I've started putting together a comprehensive, step by step packet for that meeting. Nearly everyone has responded positively to the idea. Some haven't responded but I think that may be because of they're loyalty to other theater companies. Perfectly understandable.
I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a way to do this without relying on the "pay to act" blueprint. Talent will be the first and most important criteria to join this company, not money. Once the tax-exempt status can be established, there are myriad ways to raise seed money without getting it from struggling actors who have to choose between rent and food and dues. There's something inherently nefarious about that business plan.
In any event, we'll raise all of these issues at the preliminary meeting.
See you tomorrow.
Well, we were finally attacked by a virus. First time it's happened to me. The computer simply shut down. We had to take it into have it "debugged." Pain in the ass.
I watched three separate specials on 9/11 yesterday and was horrified all over again. What a terrible, terrible day for this nation. As I watched the images unfold from nine years ago, I was struck with the same feeling of helplessness I had back then. Of all the mind-boggling images, the ones that effected me most profoundly are the ones that showed ''the jumpers". Those poor souls who's only option, apparently, was to leap to their deaths from the World Trade Center. Absolutely horrific. And most frustrating, these nine years later, is the fact that Bin Laden still remains free traveling from cave to cave in the anthill countryside of Afghanistan. I have always liked Colin Powell's assessment of the situation back then. While other politicians bandied about eupemisms such as "bring the perpetrators to justice," or "right this terrible wrong," Powell said on national TV, "make no mistake, we will find you and kill you."
Anyway.
I've contacted a number of very fine actors about a preliminary meeting regarding the new theater company and I've started putting together a comprehensive, step by step packet for that meeting. Nearly everyone has responded positively to the idea. Some haven't responded but I think that may be because of they're loyalty to other theater companies. Perfectly understandable.
I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a way to do this without relying on the "pay to act" blueprint. Talent will be the first and most important criteria to join this company, not money. Once the tax-exempt status can be established, there are myriad ways to raise seed money without getting it from struggling actors who have to choose between rent and food and dues. There's something inherently nefarious about that business plan.
In any event, we'll raise all of these issues at the preliminary meeting.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, September 10, 2010
A New Company...So Many Possibilities.
Yesterday I erroneously wrote that The Blank Theatre in Los Angeles was started by the very fine actor, Noah Wiley. I was politely corrected by the Producing Artistic Director and Founder, Daniel Henning in a comment about the blog (see yesterday's comment section). That's what I get for not taking the time to check my facts and simply writing what others have told me. The Blank Theatre, oddly, is always referred to as 'Noah Wiley's Blank Theatre' in conversation. I don't know why that is, now that I've done some research. I suppose it's because that's where Noah Wiley first began working in this city way back when he was 18 or so. The truth is Daniel Henning started the enterprise and still guides the company all these many years later. I do, however, know this much...in theatre circles out here in LA, when the finest and most courageous small companies are discussed, there are nearly always three that make the conversation: Open Fist, Pacific Resident and The Blank Theatre. My apologies to Mr. Henning and his remarkable and durable operation.
A friend of mine told me yesterday that back in the day, very early in Steppenwolf's history, it was often referred to as 'Gary Sinise's Steppenwolf Theater." Makes sense, I suppose. Gary and Terry and Jeff started it. Gary was probably the most visible back then in the theatre community. I don't know. It's been a long while since I've seen or talked to Gary Sinise. Next time we cross paths I'll ask him. The last time we crossed paths was on the opening night of something or other and mostly we argued politics. Gary's rather conservative, to say the least.
I sent The Blank Theatre a DVD of the benefit performance of From the East to the West some months back. Also sent the working script. Yesterday, while doing a bit of organizing around the office, I came across some DVD copies of the play and watched it again. I'm still happy with that hurried production even though time and distance have given me a new viewpoint on some of it. I will definitely be going back to do some rewrites in the second act. I'd like, at some point, to mount it with the original actors attached to it: the wonderful John Schuck as Harry, Jim Barbour as Cory, John Bader as Stevie and Nickella Moschetti as Eileen. John Schuck has been battling an eye injury for months now and should soon be back in the saddle and ready to work on it again. That's good because John is picture perfect for the role. He gave an amazing reading in the role last December. Barbour is perfect for the lead role of Cory and also one of my closest friends. He's coming up on concert season, but tells me he's ready and willing to tackle it. And of course the wonderful actor, John Bader, is still my choice for the hapless Stevie in that play. Nickella played the role of Eileen in the benefit performance and impressed me more than I thought possible. She very well may be the only actor I've ever directed who managed to get through an entire rehearsal period without a single note from me. She was so spot-on, I didn't want to mess with whatever process she was going through. She gave a sterling performance in that short-lived production. She and her husband Jed are hard at work these days on an upcoming production of their original musical, Sick People in Love.
But writing yesterday about starting a theater company and reading Reggie Nelson's book and getting the comment from Mr. Henning have once again stirred the fire within me to get something going. Jimmy Barbour is always telling me to 'make our own work.' Jim does this all the time with his concert venues. He may be right. Of course, Jim has a much bigger name than I do in the theater world what with his long and varied experience on the Broadway stage. But I think he's on to something. We should make our own work. What's more, I now know and am familiar with about a dozen actors here in LA that I'd love to have come on board as original ensemble members of the company. Actors like Brad Greenquist, whom I've known since about 1990 from NYC. John Bader, Rob Arbogast, Bonnie Cahoon, Melanie Eubank, Brad Blaisdell, Nickella Moschetti, Joe Hulser, Tara Lynn Orr, Ryan Keffner, JR Mangels, Chad Coe, Jay Willick, Michael Catlin, Tanya Lane, Teal Sherer, Bob Morrissey, Mary Evans, Clarrisa Park, Theo Marshall and Malcom Devine. A great core group should I ever actually start this thing and throw myself into it. Diverse, too.
I need two things, essentially: a space and some seed money. Sort of reminds me of Steve Martin's old line: 'Here's how to make a million bucks. First...get a million bucks.'
I'm even tossing around the idea of getting as many of the aforementioned people together in the next month or so and brainstorming a bit about getting a company going.
Starting and running a small theatre company requires an unbelievable amount of passion and discipline. Not to mention sacrifice. People like Daniel Henning of The Blank and Michael Colucci of Chicago's Redtwist, have my unyielding respect for doing something so noble and difficult. To be perfectly frank, I'm not sure I have that kind of discipline and passion. I think I do, but who knows.
Anyway. I'm gonna discuss this with some close friends this weekend. Yesterday I called a close friend of mine who happens to be independently wealthy. He's always said if I wanted to really get serious about a company, he's be on board financially and as a board member. I've never taken him up on it. Maybe it's time to stop yammering about it all the time and get off my ass and do it. It's an unimaginably huge undertaking.
Today, I'm learning some new music for an upcoming project and working on a decent Swedish accent. Ah, the life of an itinerant actor. Have Dialect, Will Travel.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Random Early Morning Blogging.
Our youngest, Franny, is up very early this morning. I think he has a tummy ache. He's a nine month old Norfolk Terrier we rescued from a shelter in Bakersfield, CA, of all places. So I got up around four this morning and let him out to do his 'bidness.' Now I'm up and awake. So I thought I'd just do a little random blog stuff.
I had the commercial audition for the Fox NFL thing yesterday. At first I thought I might be in the wrong place. There were about fifty 16 year old girls, all dressed to look sexy and alluring gathered about the casting office and a couple of old goats like myself. They say one of the signs one is getting old is when it becomes impossible to tell how old other people are anymore. That was certainly the case yesterday. When I first got there I looked around at all the eye candy and thought to myself, "Hm. They must be casting a porno thing here today, too." Why Fox Sports would be casting a porno movie was beyond me. But as I began to look a little closer, I realized how young the girls all were. There were more Blackberries being handled in that room than a pie convention. It was a texting nightmare come alive.
One astonishingly beautiful young girl with very little clothing was sitting beside me. I asked her if she was here for the NFL on Fox gig. She looked at me like I was a pederast. She said, "Uh, no. The other thing." Ah. The Other Thing.
They called me in almost immediately and I did my thing for them. Not a big thing. Just a couple of lines with Troy Aikman (not him, of course, but a Troy Aikman stand-in) and that was it. These little gigs are all about the numbers. They see about 100 other guys that look exactly like me and then God knows how they decide. Nonetheless, it pays exceptionally well, as most of these gigs do, and it would be fun to have a little mad money in my pocket.
Angie and I have discovered a place here in Burbank called "It's a Wrap." It's a thrift store of sorts. The highest end thrift store you can imagine. Most of the soaps in town donate their stuff to this place when they're through with it. Consequently, the clothes are really cool, for the most part. And incredibly cheap, relatively speaking. In fact, yesterday Angie found a stunning dress there that she desperately wanted. A thousand dollar piece of clothing for about a hundred and fifty bucks. The men's department is like that, too. Amazing suits all along one wall for hugely discounted prices.
I'm reading a short, little 'how to' book right now called How To Start Your Own Theatre Company by the former managing director of Chicago's Congo Square Theatre, Reginald Nelson. I don't know Reginald, oddly enough. I know most of the prominent Chicago actors but my path never crossed his. Although clearly we have a lot of mutual friends.
Anyway, the book holds no surprises for me although it's very well done. What is most interesting about it are the last couple of chapters which outline the first two seasons of Congo Square and the ups and downs they experienced. I vaguely recall the buzz of their inaugural show, The Piano Lesson (which I saw in previews in NYC years ago with Jim Barbour - in fact, the playwright, August Wilson, sat right behind us and took notes).
But one thing does stand out in this cut and dried, short account of Congo Square's origins and that is Reggie's repeated warnings about having an 'ego-driven' artistic director and managing director. The pitfalls of having a management team out to make money off the artists' work in the company. I understand and appreciate that part of the book. I have seen this all too often. Recently, in fact.
As I've recounted in this blog a number of times, my ultimate dream is to run my own small theatre company. It takes a goodly amount of 'up front' money to do this, however. And while I've had some good years as a playwright and actor, certainly not good enough to raise the capital needed to start a company.
Ideally, one could finance the first couple of seasons of a new company out of one's own pocket. This, however, rarely works in the long run. My artistic mentor, Michael Moriarty, did just that back in the late seventies with an American Shakespeare Company called Potter's Field. It drained Michael financially and nearly ruined his career because he began accepting film work for the money simply to fund his fledgling company. His intentions were noble but ultimately, it didn't work.
Noah Wiley, of ER fame, did the same thing here in LA. The company is called The Blank Theatre Company and Wiley funded the first few seasons almost entirely out of pocket. They're still going strong because I think Wiley must have distanced himself after a bit and let the company fail or survive on its own merits.
I once read an interview with David Schwimmer, a founding member of Chicago's Lookingglass Theatre, in which he says it would have been easy for him to personally fund the theatre in its early years from the money he was making on Friends. He chose not to in the end, however, because he said the company needed the personal impetus to survive on its own. To step in and save the company every time they got into financial trouble would have been a mistake, he said. Personally, I've never been a fan of that company's work because their stuff is so obtuse. I think Mary Zimmerman is mostly to blame for that. It's simply incomprehensible sometimes.
Steppenwolf, of course, is the prototype of all serious theatre companies looking to make a mark in this country. They started out with incredibly humble origins in the basement of a church in suburban Chicago and a decade later became the gold standard by which all other theatre companies in the country measured themselves. Of course, it didn't hurt that they had some of the most talented and stirring actors in the world on their roster at the time: John Malkovich, Terry Kinney, Gary Sinise, Joan Allen, Laurie Metcalf, John Mahoney, Jeff Perry, Kevin Anderson, Austin Pendleton and Frank Gilati to name just a few of the early ones. I would have loved to have been there when they were all just starting out.
An old friend of mine asked yesterday on her Facebook page what one would do with an enormous amount of sudden cash. People answered honestly and there were quite a few interesting objectives. I answered flippantly, of course. However, in reality, there would be no question about what I would do: start a theatre.
Well, Franny seems to have settled down a bit. He's sleeping beside me now, tummy ache apparently gone.
Maybe I can still salvage a couple hours of sleep.
See you tomorrow.
I had the commercial audition for the Fox NFL thing yesterday. At first I thought I might be in the wrong place. There were about fifty 16 year old girls, all dressed to look sexy and alluring gathered about the casting office and a couple of old goats like myself. They say one of the signs one is getting old is when it becomes impossible to tell how old other people are anymore. That was certainly the case yesterday. When I first got there I looked around at all the eye candy and thought to myself, "Hm. They must be casting a porno thing here today, too." Why Fox Sports would be casting a porno movie was beyond me. But as I began to look a little closer, I realized how young the girls all were. There were more Blackberries being handled in that room than a pie convention. It was a texting nightmare come alive.
One astonishingly beautiful young girl with very little clothing was sitting beside me. I asked her if she was here for the NFL on Fox gig. She looked at me like I was a pederast. She said, "Uh, no. The other thing." Ah. The Other Thing.
They called me in almost immediately and I did my thing for them. Not a big thing. Just a couple of lines with Troy Aikman (not him, of course, but a Troy Aikman stand-in) and that was it. These little gigs are all about the numbers. They see about 100 other guys that look exactly like me and then God knows how they decide. Nonetheless, it pays exceptionally well, as most of these gigs do, and it would be fun to have a little mad money in my pocket.
Angie and I have discovered a place here in Burbank called "It's a Wrap." It's a thrift store of sorts. The highest end thrift store you can imagine. Most of the soaps in town donate their stuff to this place when they're through with it. Consequently, the clothes are really cool, for the most part. And incredibly cheap, relatively speaking. In fact, yesterday Angie found a stunning dress there that she desperately wanted. A thousand dollar piece of clothing for about a hundred and fifty bucks. The men's department is like that, too. Amazing suits all along one wall for hugely discounted prices.
I'm reading a short, little 'how to' book right now called How To Start Your Own Theatre Company by the former managing director of Chicago's Congo Square Theatre, Reginald Nelson. I don't know Reginald, oddly enough. I know most of the prominent Chicago actors but my path never crossed his. Although clearly we have a lot of mutual friends.
Anyway, the book holds no surprises for me although it's very well done. What is most interesting about it are the last couple of chapters which outline the first two seasons of Congo Square and the ups and downs they experienced. I vaguely recall the buzz of their inaugural show, The Piano Lesson (which I saw in previews in NYC years ago with Jim Barbour - in fact, the playwright, August Wilson, sat right behind us and took notes).
But one thing does stand out in this cut and dried, short account of Congo Square's origins and that is Reggie's repeated warnings about having an 'ego-driven' artistic director and managing director. The pitfalls of having a management team out to make money off the artists' work in the company. I understand and appreciate that part of the book. I have seen this all too often. Recently, in fact.
As I've recounted in this blog a number of times, my ultimate dream is to run my own small theatre company. It takes a goodly amount of 'up front' money to do this, however. And while I've had some good years as a playwright and actor, certainly not good enough to raise the capital needed to start a company.
Ideally, one could finance the first couple of seasons of a new company out of one's own pocket. This, however, rarely works in the long run. My artistic mentor, Michael Moriarty, did just that back in the late seventies with an American Shakespeare Company called Potter's Field. It drained Michael financially and nearly ruined his career because he began accepting film work for the money simply to fund his fledgling company. His intentions were noble but ultimately, it didn't work.
Noah Wiley, of ER fame, did the same thing here in LA. The company is called The Blank Theatre Company and Wiley funded the first few seasons almost entirely out of pocket. They're still going strong because I think Wiley must have distanced himself after a bit and let the company fail or survive on its own merits.
I once read an interview with David Schwimmer, a founding member of Chicago's Lookingglass Theatre, in which he says it would have been easy for him to personally fund the theatre in its early years from the money he was making on Friends. He chose not to in the end, however, because he said the company needed the personal impetus to survive on its own. To step in and save the company every time they got into financial trouble would have been a mistake, he said. Personally, I've never been a fan of that company's work because their stuff is so obtuse. I think Mary Zimmerman is mostly to blame for that. It's simply incomprehensible sometimes.
Steppenwolf, of course, is the prototype of all serious theatre companies looking to make a mark in this country. They started out with incredibly humble origins in the basement of a church in suburban Chicago and a decade later became the gold standard by which all other theatre companies in the country measured themselves. Of course, it didn't hurt that they had some of the most talented and stirring actors in the world on their roster at the time: John Malkovich, Terry Kinney, Gary Sinise, Joan Allen, Laurie Metcalf, John Mahoney, Jeff Perry, Kevin Anderson, Austin Pendleton and Frank Gilati to name just a few of the early ones. I would have loved to have been there when they were all just starting out.
An old friend of mine asked yesterday on her Facebook page what one would do with an enormous amount of sudden cash. People answered honestly and there were quite a few interesting objectives. I answered flippantly, of course. However, in reality, there would be no question about what I would do: start a theatre.
Well, Franny seems to have settled down a bit. He's sleeping beside me now, tummy ache apparently gone.
Maybe I can still salvage a couple hours of sleep.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Blind Side.
Off to read for a Fox Sports NFL thingee with Troy Aikman today. Could be worse, I guess. Could be with Clay Aiken. But then again, I can't imagine why Clay Aiken would be doing a spot for NFL. The audition was secured by my new Commercial Agent, Pinnacle Talent. Love that. Keep 'em comin'.
Got the big Garbo Talks final reading coming up next week. Got the music I need to learn via MP3 from my legit agent over at Schiowitz and Connor, et al. The day after that a song for the producers of ANNIE at Music Theatre West in Long Beach. Strangely, I'm looking forward to both. I love the competition.
The Bell, Book and Candle role went non-Equity, apparently. Oh, well, these things happen. It was a good read, though, and I was relatively content with it, which doesn't happen often.
Angie and I watched a movie last night with Sandra Bullock called The Blind Side. Bullock won an Oscar for it. I have to say I really liked it. And yet part of me is sort of ashamed that I liked it. It is allegedly based on a 'true story' and the filmmakers even include snapshots of the real family portrayed in the movie during the end credits. First, I'm always dubious when I see that opening disclaimer, "Based on a true story." To me, that's a phrase that reads in my mind's eye as saying, "Get ready for a load of shit."
The family, as portrayed in the film, are a pack of conservative, republican, Christian saints. Oxymoron written all over THAT sentence.
Sandra Bullock sees a huge, ghetto, black guy walking around on the streets in shorts and a t-shirt on a cold night, turns the Lexus around, picks him up and adopts him thus changing his life forever. Okay.
Some years ago I gave up theatre, gave up teaching, gave up writing, gave up auditioning, gave up my life's work to pursue a new career as a drug and alcohol counselor for inner-city men plagued with alcohol and drug abuse problems. Went back to school and got my CADC. Was hired by the ultra-conservative, unimaginably evil organization known as The Salvation Army. Had visions of helping people day to day. Get my hands dirty. Do some real work instead of this make-believe nonsense called acting and writing.
I came, over the next few years, to know more about the urban, black experience than I ever wanted to. And yes, it's as mind-bogglingly horrible as one might imagine. I learned first hand that the way out of the ghetto through education, drive, passion and ambition is about as common as winning the lottery. I suppose it happens. I suppose things like The Blind Side have taken place in the world. I suppose there are, in fact, people like Sandra Bullock's character in the world. But if there are, I never met them, saw them or heard of them during my stint as a counselor.
The inner-city, gang-ridden, violent, anarchistic, hate-filled black culture in Chicago (and I'm guessing elsewhere) is as terrible as anyone can possibly imagine. The race divide is not a symbolic creek we can hope to someday leap over, it's a raging, miles-deep river that may be impossible to cross now or ever. As a middle-class white guy pursuing his altruistic instincts, I quickly learned I didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of making any sort of discernible difference in the lives of these men. They were taught from birth to hate white people. All white people. My liberal bent refused to accept this at first. But I soon learned it was simply a fact. And nothing I could ever do or say would ever change that.
I remember being a bit amused at the country's reaction to Obama's "renegade" pastor, Jeremiah Wright back in the presidential campaign. The liberals were horrified. The white conservatives vindicated. Me? I was amused that anyone would ever think otherwise. In my capacity as a counselor in Chicago, I attended many self-help meetings, black church spiritual meetings, black community gatherings, church services, etc. Every single time I was met with a deep-seated hatred of the perceived white community's concerted effort to keep the black man down. This is no small problem. This is not something the government can fix. This hatred is deeper and more complicated than one can ever conceive. There are spots, neighborhoods, in Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Detroit, Atlanta and other cities that are virtually unrecognizable as having anything to do with the United States of America. They are more violent, more hate-filled, more frightening than I can begin to convey. I have been there. I have seen these places. And I have counseled the men who lived there. This massive hole in our racial infrastructure cannot be fixed by simply electing a black president. It can't be fixed with liberal optimism. It can't be fixed with any magic, governmental waving of a wand. This seething, nefarious, dark underbelly hidden in plain sight in our country is the true threat to our civilization. Just ask any cop in any of these cities. They'll tell you. And as far as I can see, the racial gap is only widening. It may be too wide to cross already. There is too much fear on one side and hatred on the other.
All of that was running through my mind as I watched the cartoon version of how love conquers all in The Blind Side. Late at night, your kids are in the car, HUGE black guy walking alone in a tree-laden area, murky atmosphere. Stop and pick him up and offer to change his life. Stop and take him home to your labeled spice racks, your photo albums of Yosemite, your new IKEA gazebo, your prized collection of 2,400 CDs. Do that.
There are no easy answers to this problem that I suspect someday will reach a pressure-cooker level of anxiety in our society.
Nonetheless, I really liked the movie because it would be really neat if that's how it could work. Every well-to-do white family in America could adopt a troubled, angry, broken, emotionally-scarred black youth and make it all okay. Obama could even make a it a national observance: adopt a gang-banger day.
At the end of the day the liberals are blind and the conservatives are scared. I have been both. I am both. Maybe that's why I liked the movie so much.
Yeah.
See you tomorrow.
Got the big Garbo Talks final reading coming up next week. Got the music I need to learn via MP3 from my legit agent over at Schiowitz and Connor, et al. The day after that a song for the producers of ANNIE at Music Theatre West in Long Beach. Strangely, I'm looking forward to both. I love the competition.
The Bell, Book and Candle role went non-Equity, apparently. Oh, well, these things happen. It was a good read, though, and I was relatively content with it, which doesn't happen often.
Angie and I watched a movie last night with Sandra Bullock called The Blind Side. Bullock won an Oscar for it. I have to say I really liked it. And yet part of me is sort of ashamed that I liked it. It is allegedly based on a 'true story' and the filmmakers even include snapshots of the real family portrayed in the movie during the end credits. First, I'm always dubious when I see that opening disclaimer, "Based on a true story." To me, that's a phrase that reads in my mind's eye as saying, "Get ready for a load of shit."
The family, as portrayed in the film, are a pack of conservative, republican, Christian saints. Oxymoron written all over THAT sentence.
Sandra Bullock sees a huge, ghetto, black guy walking around on the streets in shorts and a t-shirt on a cold night, turns the Lexus around, picks him up and adopts him thus changing his life forever. Okay.
Some years ago I gave up theatre, gave up teaching, gave up writing, gave up auditioning, gave up my life's work to pursue a new career as a drug and alcohol counselor for inner-city men plagued with alcohol and drug abuse problems. Went back to school and got my CADC. Was hired by the ultra-conservative, unimaginably evil organization known as The Salvation Army. Had visions of helping people day to day. Get my hands dirty. Do some real work instead of this make-believe nonsense called acting and writing.
I came, over the next few years, to know more about the urban, black experience than I ever wanted to. And yes, it's as mind-bogglingly horrible as one might imagine. I learned first hand that the way out of the ghetto through education, drive, passion and ambition is about as common as winning the lottery. I suppose it happens. I suppose things like The Blind Side have taken place in the world. I suppose there are, in fact, people like Sandra Bullock's character in the world. But if there are, I never met them, saw them or heard of them during my stint as a counselor.
The inner-city, gang-ridden, violent, anarchistic, hate-filled black culture in Chicago (and I'm guessing elsewhere) is as terrible as anyone can possibly imagine. The race divide is not a symbolic creek we can hope to someday leap over, it's a raging, miles-deep river that may be impossible to cross now or ever. As a middle-class white guy pursuing his altruistic instincts, I quickly learned I didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of making any sort of discernible difference in the lives of these men. They were taught from birth to hate white people. All white people. My liberal bent refused to accept this at first. But I soon learned it was simply a fact. And nothing I could ever do or say would ever change that.
I remember being a bit amused at the country's reaction to Obama's "renegade" pastor, Jeremiah Wright back in the presidential campaign. The liberals were horrified. The white conservatives vindicated. Me? I was amused that anyone would ever think otherwise. In my capacity as a counselor in Chicago, I attended many self-help meetings, black church spiritual meetings, black community gatherings, church services, etc. Every single time I was met with a deep-seated hatred of the perceived white community's concerted effort to keep the black man down. This is no small problem. This is not something the government can fix. This hatred is deeper and more complicated than one can ever conceive. There are spots, neighborhoods, in Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Detroit, Atlanta and other cities that are virtually unrecognizable as having anything to do with the United States of America. They are more violent, more hate-filled, more frightening than I can begin to convey. I have been there. I have seen these places. And I have counseled the men who lived there. This massive hole in our racial infrastructure cannot be fixed by simply electing a black president. It can't be fixed with liberal optimism. It can't be fixed with any magic, governmental waving of a wand. This seething, nefarious, dark underbelly hidden in plain sight in our country is the true threat to our civilization. Just ask any cop in any of these cities. They'll tell you. And as far as I can see, the racial gap is only widening. It may be too wide to cross already. There is too much fear on one side and hatred on the other.
All of that was running through my mind as I watched the cartoon version of how love conquers all in The Blind Side. Late at night, your kids are in the car, HUGE black guy walking alone in a tree-laden area, murky atmosphere. Stop and pick him up and offer to change his life. Stop and take him home to your labeled spice racks, your photo albums of Yosemite, your new IKEA gazebo, your prized collection of 2,400 CDs. Do that.
There are no easy answers to this problem that I suspect someday will reach a pressure-cooker level of anxiety in our society.
Nonetheless, I really liked the movie because it would be really neat if that's how it could work. Every well-to-do white family in America could adopt a troubled, angry, broken, emotionally-scarred black youth and make it all okay. Obama could even make a it a national observance: adopt a gang-banger day.
At the end of the day the liberals are blind and the conservatives are scared. I have been both. I am both. Maybe that's why I liked the movie so much.
Yeah.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
"Time it was and what a time it was, I have a photograph..."
I got a new camera yesterday. Or, more precisely, I got an old camera yesterday. It's a 1969 Pentax with a built in light meter and flash attachment. It's a beauty and it weighs about a pound and a half. It's also in mint condition.
Now, I don't know anything about cameras. And when I say 'anything,' I mean that. I literally know nothing whatsoever about cameras except you point it at something and shoot and a bit later there's an image of that. That's rather strange because I'm an image kinda guy. I have a near photographic memory of images and still-life mental pictures I've seen throughout my life. It's come in handy as a writer. Also, like Truman Copote allegedly had, I have a near perfect recall of conversations that happened years ago. That's also come in handy.
But having said all that, I have never been particularly interested in cameras and photography. One of the reasons for that is my color blindness, I think. My mom claimed when I was in the first grade she got a call from my teacher to come see her. She did and my teacher (Mrs. McCrae, as I recall) showed her a bunch of pictures I'd drawn in class. The trees were all colored brown, the sky was purple, the sun orange. In all of them. So it was clear I wasn't dabbling in impressionism at the age of six. I just didn't see colors like other people saw them.
Even now when driving at night, I can't tell the difference between orange lights and yellow lights. I run a lot of traffic lights, bless my heart.
So I think that has something to do with my lack of interest in art and painting and photography.
But now I have this cool, new camera. I contacted my buddy, Jay Karr, who's a professional photographer on the East Coast and told him all about it. Described it, read some of the instruction booklet to him, etc. Jay knows cameras. He told me it's a professional level camera, widely used by serious camera folk in the sixties and seventies. It's a very good camera, in other words. I also went online and looked it up. It's an expensive camera, too, apparently.
Now, although I've never been drawn to photography in a general way, I've always been fascinated by black and white work. Again, this is undoubtedly due to the color blindness.
The IDEA of photography has always interested me, however. The idea of catching a moment in time, forever frozen, there to scrutinize and pour over. For example, and this is not exactly photography, but you catch my drift, the Zapruder film has always fascinated me. Catching the exact moment of assassination. That snippet of film is forever stamped on my brain. A careless piece of film that forever changed the world.
Other shots, still shots, come to mind. An old black and white picture of me in repose during a lapse in rehearsal of a play I did thirty years ago. Looking down and deep in thought. It is a perfect example of the struggle I put myself through whenever I'm trying to find a new person to be for a little while on stage. Rehearsals are never fun for me. They're more like the pain of Lon Cheney turning into the werewolf. It's always a worrisome transformation. That old photo captures that metamorphic experience perfectly. There's another of my mother sitting on the front stoop of my childhood home, dressed in a fancy dress and pearls, sitting pristinely beside a bunch of ragamuffin neighborhood kids. It's black and white, of course, and it takes me instantly back to 1973. Another is a picture of me on the deck of my family's houseboat on the The Lake of the Ozarks around 1978. I'm reading For Whom the Bell Tolls and someone has caught my attention and I am looking up at the camera in disgust. I was always in a state of disgust during those times because something, even then, was aware that there was something terribly wrong with spending every single weekend on the lake blind drunk. I was too young to drink so I would always stock up on books and read through the weekend while I watched the adults drink to the point of coma. All of that is written on my face in that candid photo.
So here's what I want to do: I want to take candid, extreme close-up, black and white shots of actors that I work with over the next couple of years or so. I want to use my ability of conversational recall and transcribe our conversation on the day the shot is taken. Even if the conversation is innocuous. The picture on one page, the conversation on the other. Essentially, an attempt to take the viewer back to that exact moment in time not only with an image but also in dialogue. I don't want to publish the book. I just want it for my own personal edification. I've worked with thousands of actors over the years, some of them a cross section of the most interesting people I've ever met. To preserve that moment forever seems to me a noble use for my new, professional, high-quality, Pentax, 1969 camera.
I with I had had it for Praying Small. But I'll start with the very next production I do. I think it might be a really compelling, original thing to do although I feel certain it's probably been done before. But not with me and not with this camera and not with these people.
I'll let you know in a few years how it all worked out.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Last Bed.
Summer, for all intents and purposes, is over. Labor day traditionally is the day that, while not officially so, tells us that. Of course, here in LA there is no distinct weather pattern that goes with that passage of time. It just gets a little cooler eventually and that's that. In other places I've lived, New York, Chicago, Missouri...one can count on the weather being that final nail in the seasonal coffin. Not so, here.
I'm up inordinately early today because of all the usual things on someone's mind: bills, future, concern for close friends, blithely trying to predict the unknown. I'm an early riser by nature. Even more so in the past few years. Some time back I wouldn't have thought that possible. Actually, some time back, I'd probably be getting to bed right about now. But as I got older and my lifestyle changed, a freakish thing happened. I became aware that I was a morning person. Helluva thing to discover about oneself after decades of being a night owl.
Yesterday, once again, Ange and I walked over to the new house we're desperately hoping will soon be ours. And consequently, once again last night, I dreamt of living in that house. It appears to be everything we want in a house. I don't have, nor have I ever claimed to have, very good taste when it comes to stuff like fixing a house up. My idea of a cool house is based on the houses I've seen on television. I've always thought the ideal house for me was something akin to The Ponderosa house. The one Hoss and Adam and Little Joe lived in. That gives some indication of my taste as a decorator.
When it comes to this 'settling down' business, I am decidedly a late bloomer. Yes, I've had dozens of apartments I've sort of nested in. New York and Chicago, most pointedly. But my idea of fixing a place up was to put a new picture on the wall. I remember years ago I was asked to do the entire season at an Equity theatre called Mill Mountain in Roanoke, VA. Back then they housed the out of town actors in a large communal boarding house of sorts. We all had our own very large room with a huge kitchen that we shared. It met all the Equity requirements for housing, however. I traveled over to the local library and discovered one could check out famous prints of classic paintings for months at a time. So my room ended up having Picasso and Van Gogh all over the walls for six months. I felt very cosmopolitan.
Another idea I had about the perfect place to call home was Salinger's description of The Glass Family Apartment in Franny and Zooey. Huge bookshelves everywhere, sagging under the weight of thousands of books, massive leather furniture, throw rugs tossed here and there, the smell of coffee and leather and reading in the air. The late afternoon sun shining through dust motes and cigarette smoke. But that image always seemed more appropriate for New York than Burbank.
I once parted with quite a lot of money trying to make an apartment in Queens look like that.
In any case, I never quite grasped the concept of making a home an actual home. For one thing it just never seemed that important. I was the kind of guy that would carry a light bulb from room to room rather than actually take the time and go out and buy more light bulbs. I ate countless meals over the sink. If I had a coffee maker, a well-stocked bar and a reasonably clear television, I was fine.
Now, of course, all of that has changed. I'm actually thinking along lines of permanence. Of growing old in one place. Of making my surroundings a natural extension of who I am. And it is, in a suburban dad kind of way, rather gratifying.
A few weeks ago I found myself wandering around our backyard trying to think of things that would make it seem more inviting, more comfortable. Ange and I spend a lot of time in our backyard. It's very private, very secluded, with tall walls on either side, a gazebo, several concrete walkways, two horse stalls, a tack room, a large garage, a long strip of garden, lots of cast iron lawn furniture, a huge grill. All the things I've never given a moment's thought to before very recently.
The place we're trying very hard to move into has all of that and more...a guest house, lots of trees, a huge barn, an office, a patio, a big stretch of grass and shrubbery. The house is set on about 10,000 square feet of land, in fact.
So things change. The only constant, I'm told, is change. Change in how one perceives things, how one envisions things, how one approaches life. I'm a poster boy for change, it would seem sometimes. Odd, considering the one thing I dislike the most is change. Like lots of people I know, I always wrongly assume that the way life is at any particular moment is the way life shall be forever. That line of thinking has never worked out once, not one single time, yet I am always shocked when it doesn't. I'm a slow learner.
The new house has somehow gotten inside my consciousness. I think of it at the oddest moments. I find myself dreaming about it. In my dreams I write and act and direct short plays based on it. I see Angie superimposed over the image of June Cleaver sashaying about the property in pearls and aprons. I conjure up film clips of myself as Ward Cleaver, smoking a pipe, reading the paper by the fire, changed from suit coat to button down sweater, still wearing a plain, black tie.
It's almost nightmarish in its constancy, this new idea of life.
Recently, Angie and I toddled off to Target (yes, I know it's not cool to shop there these days now that we know of all the right wing contributions this corporation makes, but hey - we had a bunch of Target cards) and got a bunch of new stuff for our dining room. A new tablecloth, a new clock on the wall, a new picture of a bird that matches the colors in the tablecloth, new candles, new placemats, new napkins that match it all...and the coup de gras, new curtains. Now, every time I walk past the room I feel compelled to look at it and swell with pride. It's a disturbing new era I've entered.
There's also a part of me, the nomad part of me, that quakes at the idea of staying in one place forever. Of awaking every day to the same view. Of finishing my life in the same familiar barco-lounger. Not that I have a barco-lounger, but euphemistically speaking.
We don't have kids, obviously (unless we count the puppies, but I suspect they'd be happy anywhere as long as we were there with them) so it's not that. We're not compelled to make a better life for our off-spring like many other people. No, it's not that.
Then what?
I think, and I'm only guessing here, that it boils down to the idea of simply not having the energy or ambition to keep doing it over and over anymore. Not having the drive to make new friends, to establish new boundaries, to start from scratch just one more time. It's soothing to think that this might be the last time. The final nest. The search ended. The holy grail attained.
It is unimaginably comforting to know this is the last bed I'll ever have to awaken in.
And, by natural extension, the last person I'll ever have to awaken to.
And, wonder of wonders, it's exactly the the bed and person I've spent a lifetime searching for.
My, oh, my, how odd life is sometimes.
See you tomorrow.
I'm up inordinately early today because of all the usual things on someone's mind: bills, future, concern for close friends, blithely trying to predict the unknown. I'm an early riser by nature. Even more so in the past few years. Some time back I wouldn't have thought that possible. Actually, some time back, I'd probably be getting to bed right about now. But as I got older and my lifestyle changed, a freakish thing happened. I became aware that I was a morning person. Helluva thing to discover about oneself after decades of being a night owl.
Yesterday, once again, Ange and I walked over to the new house we're desperately hoping will soon be ours. And consequently, once again last night, I dreamt of living in that house. It appears to be everything we want in a house. I don't have, nor have I ever claimed to have, very good taste when it comes to stuff like fixing a house up. My idea of a cool house is based on the houses I've seen on television. I've always thought the ideal house for me was something akin to The Ponderosa house. The one Hoss and Adam and Little Joe lived in. That gives some indication of my taste as a decorator.
When it comes to this 'settling down' business, I am decidedly a late bloomer. Yes, I've had dozens of apartments I've sort of nested in. New York and Chicago, most pointedly. But my idea of fixing a place up was to put a new picture on the wall. I remember years ago I was asked to do the entire season at an Equity theatre called Mill Mountain in Roanoke, VA. Back then they housed the out of town actors in a large communal boarding house of sorts. We all had our own very large room with a huge kitchen that we shared. It met all the Equity requirements for housing, however. I traveled over to the local library and discovered one could check out famous prints of classic paintings for months at a time. So my room ended up having Picasso and Van Gogh all over the walls for six months. I felt very cosmopolitan.
Another idea I had about the perfect place to call home was Salinger's description of The Glass Family Apartment in Franny and Zooey. Huge bookshelves everywhere, sagging under the weight of thousands of books, massive leather furniture, throw rugs tossed here and there, the smell of coffee and leather and reading in the air. The late afternoon sun shining through dust motes and cigarette smoke. But that image always seemed more appropriate for New York than Burbank.
I once parted with quite a lot of money trying to make an apartment in Queens look like that.
In any case, I never quite grasped the concept of making a home an actual home. For one thing it just never seemed that important. I was the kind of guy that would carry a light bulb from room to room rather than actually take the time and go out and buy more light bulbs. I ate countless meals over the sink. If I had a coffee maker, a well-stocked bar and a reasonably clear television, I was fine.
Now, of course, all of that has changed. I'm actually thinking along lines of permanence. Of growing old in one place. Of making my surroundings a natural extension of who I am. And it is, in a suburban dad kind of way, rather gratifying.
A few weeks ago I found myself wandering around our backyard trying to think of things that would make it seem more inviting, more comfortable. Ange and I spend a lot of time in our backyard. It's very private, very secluded, with tall walls on either side, a gazebo, several concrete walkways, two horse stalls, a tack room, a large garage, a long strip of garden, lots of cast iron lawn furniture, a huge grill. All the things I've never given a moment's thought to before very recently.
The place we're trying very hard to move into has all of that and more...a guest house, lots of trees, a huge barn, an office, a patio, a big stretch of grass and shrubbery. The house is set on about 10,000 square feet of land, in fact.
So things change. The only constant, I'm told, is change. Change in how one perceives things, how one envisions things, how one approaches life. I'm a poster boy for change, it would seem sometimes. Odd, considering the one thing I dislike the most is change. Like lots of people I know, I always wrongly assume that the way life is at any particular moment is the way life shall be forever. That line of thinking has never worked out once, not one single time, yet I am always shocked when it doesn't. I'm a slow learner.
The new house has somehow gotten inside my consciousness. I think of it at the oddest moments. I find myself dreaming about it. In my dreams I write and act and direct short plays based on it. I see Angie superimposed over the image of June Cleaver sashaying about the property in pearls and aprons. I conjure up film clips of myself as Ward Cleaver, smoking a pipe, reading the paper by the fire, changed from suit coat to button down sweater, still wearing a plain, black tie.
It's almost nightmarish in its constancy, this new idea of life.
Recently, Angie and I toddled off to Target (yes, I know it's not cool to shop there these days now that we know of all the right wing contributions this corporation makes, but hey - we had a bunch of Target cards) and got a bunch of new stuff for our dining room. A new tablecloth, a new clock on the wall, a new picture of a bird that matches the colors in the tablecloth, new candles, new placemats, new napkins that match it all...and the coup de gras, new curtains. Now, every time I walk past the room I feel compelled to look at it and swell with pride. It's a disturbing new era I've entered.
There's also a part of me, the nomad part of me, that quakes at the idea of staying in one place forever. Of awaking every day to the same view. Of finishing my life in the same familiar barco-lounger. Not that I have a barco-lounger, but euphemistically speaking.
We don't have kids, obviously (unless we count the puppies, but I suspect they'd be happy anywhere as long as we were there with them) so it's not that. We're not compelled to make a better life for our off-spring like many other people. No, it's not that.
Then what?
I think, and I'm only guessing here, that it boils down to the idea of simply not having the energy or ambition to keep doing it over and over anymore. Not having the drive to make new friends, to establish new boundaries, to start from scratch just one more time. It's soothing to think that this might be the last time. The final nest. The search ended. The holy grail attained.
It is unimaginably comforting to know this is the last bed I'll ever have to awaken in.
And, by natural extension, the last person I'll ever have to awaken to.
And, wonder of wonders, it's exactly the the bed and person I've spent a lifetime searching for.
My, oh, my, how odd life is sometimes.
See you tomorrow.
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