I Got Steaks.

Yesterday a young man came to our door and said, "Want some steaks?" I said, "Pardon me?" He said, "Got some steaks here. Want some?" It took me a second to process. Then I said, "Um, no, thanks, we've already got steaks." Which was true, we did have some steaks. He rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah, right, you've got some steaks." And then he turned sharply and walked away.

It wasn't a very good pitch. In fact, I'm not altogether sure he wasn't referring to 'stakes' as in 'a stake to kill a vampire with.'

Either way, he just wasn't a very good salesman.

I'm not a very good salesman, either, so I could identify.

I turn fifty today and all week I've been trying to figure out what I wanted to do to commemorate the day. At first, Angie and I were going to go over to this hoity-toity Italian place in Pasadena, get dressed up in our sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes and really do it up right. But I decided I didn't wanna do that.

Last night in a pre-birthday celebration we had dinner at a place called 'Islands,' which specialized in burgers. It was fun and I like the place. I'm a burger fan.

The whole thing was dampened a bit because I'd seen my doctor again yesterday morning. She's still trying to figure out my various health issues regarding the 'silent killer,' diabetes, which has been a pain in my ass for the past six or seven months or whatever. The latest complication has been a recurring bout of dizziness. It's playing hell on my work in the play because I'm constantly concerned about dropping over like a ten-pin at any given moment. Consequently, my performance has become a bit delicate which is not the way I like to do the role. This role requires a 'bull in a china shop' approach.

So we're still deciding things.

I was thinking back last night on all the birthdays that have come before. Forty nine of them, to be precise.

And I was a little surprised to realize that frankly I couldn't remember what I'd done on most of them. A few, I could. Some had been quite joyous, I think. Mostly I remember them through photographs; me holding a cake at a theatre in Iowa, me holding a cake at a theatre in Virginia, me holding a cake at a theatre in Florida. Clearly, I'd been on the road for a lot of birthdays.

No one of note was born on my birthday, really. Frederic Chopin and I share the day...but that's nothing to write home about. That's sort of depressing. Although I wish Fred the best, of course.

My dogs, Franny and Zooey, don't seem to know or care that it's my birthday, which is painful because we always do something special on their birthdays.

There are other birthdays, other people, I mean, that I've celebrated more than my own. I used to get blind drunk on Marlon Brando's birthday. My buddy, Jim, and I used to celebrate Laurence Olivier's birthday. And I used to hoist a few on Shakespeare's birthday with a buddy of mine in New York.

Turning fifty is weird for me on a whole bunch of levels. One is, I don't deserve to turn fifty. And I don't mean that in any maudlin sense. It's just true. I honestly don't deserve to be fifty. A lifetime of placing myself squaringly in harm's way justifies that feeling. I have heard the proverbial bullet whiz past my ear so often that sometimes I feel like a circus act.

But that was then and this is now.

I have some writing to do. Work on the new piece. And the dogs need walking. As do I. And I have to put some oil in the car. And we need some more gas or oil or keroseen or urine or whatever it is we put in our grill to make it light up. So I'll go buy some of that. I have to finish writing a business plan for our new venture. I need to purchase a new 'kit' that checks my 'numbers' for this 'silent killer' crap. I don't want any presents because I have everything I want or need. Although, I wouldn't mind a new Play Station game. But it's not pressing.

And upon reflection, I realized this morning that I really do have all the 'steaks' I need. We, Angie and I, have a whole house full of steaks. I have so many damned steaks I couldn't eat them all if I had steak everyday for the rest of my life. My life, day in and day out, is a life of steaks.

I just couldn't make that guy yesterday understand that while he was at the door. He didn't seem to believe me. "Yeah, right, you've got some steaks," he said. Well, I do. I wanted to say, "As God is my witness, buddy, this house is all about steaks. Every single moment is overflowing with steaks." And that's just not too shabby.

See you tomorrow.

My First Celebrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you tomorrow.

A Night Out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you tomorrow.

Sheen, Lohan and Arquette.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you tomorrow.

The Finger.

So I'm sort of half watching the tv last night, half doing piddly stuff on the computer, and this story comes on about 'serious, young, LA actors studying at the Strasberg Institute and their reaction to the upcoming Oscars.' Well, as you might imagine, I had to immediately stop what I was doing and watch what I knew would be something funny and embarrassing all at once. It was. They started this segment (I think it was the local channel four news with that half-wit Chuck Henry) with a clip of a few youngish type actors, one with a pronounced, almost comical British accent, screaming at each other on a bare stage. Screaming so savagely it was impossible to understand what they were saying. It was a flashback to the shockingly bad stuff we've (actors) all seen at one point or another in college acting classes. The clip was clearly meant to show how serious they were because they were screaming so and gnashing their teeth. There were about half a dozen of them 'studying' there at the 'institute.' After the screaming, they cut to them all sitting in the theatre all dressed in their circa 1950 acting uniforms; torn t-shirts, dirty jeans, unkempt hair, slouching demeanor. Then they made some comments about the upcoming Oscars. "I guess it's cool," one said. Another shouted (the hysterical Englishman) off camera when asked about 'The Social Network,' "It shouldn't even be CONSIDERED!" Another, looking particularly serious, muttered something about 'the money and the fame, yeah, I guess that's all okay.' They all shouted the name 'Natalie Portman!' when asked who they thought should win Best Actress and one girl piped up that 'to work and prepare for six months only eating nuts and fruit for a role, that's what it's all about.' Off camera once again we hear the attention-starved, verbose Brit, "Oh, is THAT all it takes!"

After that the teacher there at the 'institute' spoke briefly about the seriousness of the 'institute.' His last name was Strasberg, according to the subtitles, so I suppose he was a descendant of old Lee.

Anyway, the whole thing sort of plunged me back 28 years or so to my own college acting classes. I studied with an older gentleman (old to me, anyway, he was probably in his late fifties at that point) who worshipped at the hemlines of Uta Hagen. He meant well, he really did, but good Lord, thinking back on it now, I'm appalled.

And the sheer tonage of crap he stuffed into our impressionable heads back then is jaw-dropping as I think about it nowadays. I remember once, I'd just finished a scene with someone, sat down, and, in the fashion of one his idols, Lee Strasberg, he began to lecture. He said, "Okay, tell me what you did wrong." I said I didn't know, really, it had felt pretty good. "Can anyone tell him what he did wrong," he asked the rest of the class, dismissing me. Hands shot up everywhere. There were the usual suspect type answers: "I didn't feel he was in the moment." "He wasn't emotionally connected." "He wasn't committed on an organic level." And on and on. They were all parrot-like criticisms, the things they'd heard our teacher say ad nauseum over the years. Finally, he said, no, these were all valid comments but they weren't getting to the meat of the problem. So he narrowed it down. "Think back to when he pointed to the other actor during the scene. What did he do wrong?" Some muttered in confusion. "HE USED ONLY ONE FINGER!" Huh? "HE USED ONLY ONE FINGER!" He yelled again. "WHEN YOU POINT ONSTAGE YOU MUST USE TWO FINGERS SO THEY CAN SEE IT IN THE BACK ROW!"

And therin lies the wisdom of academia in a nutshell.

Oh, I'm not saying all college acting teachers are full of shit. I'm sure they're not. I'm sure there are some out there that are just dandy. But over the decades I've talked to hundreds of actors about the things they were taught in academia from well-meaning but clueless acting teachers.

This guy had only worked once, and for only one summer, as a professional actor himself. A summer-stock situation in the 1940s in New England. But he called upon those memories to make his points as though it were the Moscow Arts Company itself. "We worked and rehearsed seven days a week with only a half day off on Sunday to do our laundry. Other than that we spent every waking moment working on our craft!" No doubt this is where he picked up that whole 'point with two fingers' revelation.

Don't get me wrong, he was not a bad guy, although I locked horns with him repeatedly during my course of study there. But he was dangerous, I think. Dangerous in the sense that, like most of academia, he was woefully inadequate with regards to preparing his disciples for the hard, cold, unimaginably depressing world of professional theater.

I was lucky. In my early years in New York I stumbled, quite accidentally, across the brilliant actor/teacher Michael Moriarty. I learned more about acting from Michael in one night than I did in my previous four years of academia. And since then I've vehemently distrusted teachers and directors who haven't actually acted themselves.

So, anyway, I suspect that's what's going on over there at the 'institute.' I could be wrong. I often am. But probably not. First of all, any acting class that refers to itself as an 'institute' gives me pause.

I could write reams about Lee Strasberg and his iconic, narrow-minded, soul-sucking style of teaching. But I'm really not interested in doing that. Besides which there are a few actors out there, stellar actors, that would disagree: Pacino, Winters, Newman, DeNiro, to name only a few. But I think I would reference Stella Adler as a defense: "Good actors are good actors no matter what. I didn't 'teach' Brando anything. I just gently pushed him in the right direction."

In fact, Brando himself is on record as calling Strasberg a 'windbag' who 'liked to hear himself talk.' He never studied with Strasberg, despite the media-encouraged myth that he did. According to his own memoirs he only 'audited' a few classes with him and left after a week highly discouraged. There's a story of Pacino, early on in the filming of The Godfather, quoting Strasberg in front of Brando. Brando purportedly said, "If it makes you feel better, Al, go ahead and keep thinking that."

The uncomfortable truth is most acting teachers, academic or otherwise, are charlatans. They approach acting like math with clear and undeniable right choices and wrong choices. It's balderdash.

But, alas, the damage is done. After thirty years or so, everytime I point onstage I inwardly chuckle at the idea of using 'two fingers instead of one.' And sometimes, just to amuse myself, I do, in fact, use two fingers to point.

A few weeks ago, standing in the kitchen, Angie was cooking something. I was standing nearby sampling the wares, no doubt. She pointed, with one lonely, felonious finger, to some diced onions and said, "Could you hand me those, please?" I said, under my breath, "Can anyone tell me what she just did wrong?"

See you tomorrow.

Writing is a Lonely Business.

Today I have to write a 'business plan.' I have no idea what that means or, really, how to go about writing it. But I'm going to give it a whirl. Angie and I are standing unsteadily on the edge of a new idea, one that is quite original, if I don't say so myself, and we're getting close to actually launching it. Now, one of the reasons (I say 'one' because there are so many) I'm not a particularly wealthy man is because I have absolutely no business sense. None whatsoever. I have a few friends that have 'portfolios' and 'investments' and 'retirement packages.' I don't have any of those things. In fact, I'm not even sure what some of those things are.

I remember some time back I was a 'guest artist' in a large Equity theater in upstate New York. It was actually a LORT A theater, so it wasn't a 'guest artist contract' as specified in EQUITY, the union for professional stage actors, but rather a new thing that had been drawn up specifically for me. A contract that outlined my duties as a teacher, director, and yes, an actor, over an entire season. It was intertwined with my duties for the the local university as well as the theater itself. It turned out to be quite a busy year.

In any event, I ended up having a longish 'thing' with a graduate student at the university. Part of the contract that my agent negotiated was this really beautiful apartment right on the river, high up, large balcony, tons of space, nicely furnished. The girl I was having this 'thing' with assumed it was my apartment and that I must be a reasonably wealthy guy. I did nothing to discourage this line of thought. So one night, quite secretively, she asked about my 'portfolio.' I told her not only did I have one, but that it was quite large and I hadn't even gotten around to using it yet. Problem was, I'd left it in my apartment in New York because I didn't anticipate having to do a lot of filing while I was up there. She was not amused.

So, this idea, this new business we're about to launch, is on my mind today. I haven't the faintest idea, of course, whether or not it will fly, but I suspect under ideal circumstances it could. And if so, it could be a wonderful little money making thing.

But, like most entrepenearial ideas, it will require seed money. Hence, the business plan.

I'm a little gun-shy about the whole venture because the last time I tried something like this (a new theatre company), once I had launched it and got it rolling, I had to go off for a bit to make some money and in my absence the whole thing came to a grinding halt. Taught me a lesson about starting a business with too many fingers in the pie. Not that I'm upset about this, it just happened. Falls under the category of 'if you want something done right, do it yourself.'

So this new thing is just my wife and I. My title is His High Chairman, Mr. President, In-Charge-of-All-Things and Angie's title is The Sensible One Who Actually Makes It Work. That's pretty much the way things are in my life, too.

If and when this idea takes flight, I'll be a bit more specific about it all.

In other news I am starting to gear up for some new playwriting, too. I have to finish a new play that's been hidden in the bottom of the proverbial trunk. It's tentatively called 'The Promise' and I think it's fairly good stuff. I went back and read what I have so far and, unusual for me, I actually sort of liked it. I started it about six months ago because I wanted a project that my friends and I could act in together: Jimmy Barbour, John Bader, Kyle Puccia, Rob Arbogast and myself. So I began writing it with the rare luxury of having actors in mind that might play it.

Unfortunately, I then went off to do this Adding Machine thing and it stopped for awhile. Well, today I'll pick it back up.

You know, I don't much enjoy writing. I have a good buddy of mine, an old, old, friend and one of the finest prose writers I've ever read, Jeff Wood, who says he likes writing quite a lot. Jeff, like most of my close friends, is much smarter than I am, and I suspect has a clear idea of what he wants when he sits down to a blank page. Not me. I do have an idea of how I want a play to start, sometimes an idea of what I want to happen, and once in a blue moon, an idea of how I want it to end. But further than that, I'm completely adrift.

I don't think I could ever be a full-time writer of any sort because I tend to write only when I'm engulfed in a wave of passion for a particular idea. For example, once I started writing 'Praying Small' I did nothing else for a few weeks; just wrote, ate, slept and wrote. And then, of course, the actual nuts and bolts of the craft began - the dreaded rewriting and editing. If possible I dislike rewriting and editing even more than the actual writing.

As Faulkner said in his famous speech upon accepting the Nobel Prize, it's a lonely business.

A lot of writer buddies I know say that HAVE to write in order to maintain their sanity. They say they don't care if no one ever reads it. They say it's the writing itself that is important. Well, that might be a great position to take if you're living on a dune in Provincetown in 1923, but it holds no luster for me today. I'd kinda like people to see and hear my stuff eventually.

Another part of writing that disturbs me is the fact that once a play is done it takes about thirty years for anyone to mount it. Well, not thirty years, but you get my drift. I'm an impatient guy. I want to finish the last sentence of the play and then go into rehearsal the next day. Obviously, that rarely if ever happens.

And I can't even imagine writing a screenplay for a major studio out here. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone wants to suggest rewrites. This is even true for the playwright who holds a position of near royalty in the live theatre as opposed to the screenwriter who is, at best, considered a necessary evil in Hollywood. It's the old George S. Kaufmann quote: 'Every human being has four needs in life: the need for food and water, the need to procreate, the need for shelter and the need to rewrite someone else's play.' Truer words were never spoken.

Now, for anyone who has ever read my work, they know that I tend to be fairly raw sometimes with the language. Like Mamet, I completely believe if you say an offensive word enough it loses the power to offend. This is the tact many rappers have taken with word 'nigger.' Although I personally have no use for rap, I completely support this point of view.

So, and this is a true story, once I had a play going up in Chicago. One of the play's themes was a fightening dose of misogyny. The director of the play, an otherwise sensible fellow, called me up one night and said, "You know, you've got seven 'cunts' in the play. I'd like to cut three of them. I think seven is simply too many and our audience will be offended." I said, "So, you're saying that four of them won't offend them but seven would push them over the edge?" "Yes," he said. "I think so."

I don't usually allow someone else to dictate the actual writing in one of my plays (a director recently tried very hard to do so out here in LA and the experience turned into an ugly ordeal), but this one time I said, okay, cut the other three cunts. Just out of curiosity, one night I attended a performance and talked to an audience member right after. I asked, "Tell me, did the fact that this guy in the play said the word 'cunt' four times, offend you?" He said, "Not at all...that's the way that guy talked. He was a dirt bag." So I said, "If he had said the word three more times would you have bolted from the theatre screaming in horror?" He didn't know I was the playwright and looked at me oddly. "Um, no. No I wouldn't have." Then he quickly brushed past me and pushed through the crowd in the lobby, darting looks back at the obviously crazy man behind him.

I don't know where I'm going with all of this. Just getting the old fingers warmed up, I guess. Which brings to mind a trick Stephen King talks about in his book 'On Writing.' He says when he's having trouble getting started in the morning, he'll pull out a favorite novel, in this case 'The Great Gatsby,' and begin typing it out, word for word. After a bit, he claims, the creative juices start to flow and he's ready to write his own stuff. Interesting.

Alright, courage summoned, healthy bowl of oatmeal in front of me, music in the background, fingers warmed up, mildly focused, ready, set...write.

See you tomorrow.

More Gibberish on Turning 50.

I think it's time to seriously re-think this whole diet and exercise thing. In a week I turn fifty. Fifty. I can scarce type the word without feeling a chill. I can't help but feel, like that series of bad horror movies, the name of which escapes me at the moment, that there's been a serious mistake somewhere. Some great scorekeeper of the clouds has a call in right this very moment to his superior who's office is on the cloud above him..."Got this guy here, slipped through somehow, he's turning fifty. Please advise."

As I sit here pecking away I can think of, with no effort whatsoever, at least ten different occasions when I cheated the scythe. A bit like Captain Kirk in one of the last Star Trek movies. Although I think I've always had better taste in trousers than Kirk. Anyway, I think, like James T. Kirk, I've always been a bit skeptical about getting older. "Bones," I hear myself saying, "I've (searching pause, not in the written dialogue)...I've...cheated death. I've laughed at it. I've (another inexplicable pause)...danced(yet another)...around...it."

In any event, it's an odd feeling, this turning half a century business. When I dream of myself, I'm always about twenty eight or so. I don't know if this is how others dream of themselves. I should ask around, I suppose. But I'm always around that age. Perhaps that's when I felt best about myself. I don't know. Regardless, I never dream of myself as being in my forties.

In many ways I understand completely now when over the years I've heard people say, old codgers, to my way of thinking, 'I don't FEEL fifty.' Well, I don't, despite the complications of diabetes I've recently had to contend with.

Now, I have no interest in getting all philisophical about this right now...I already did that in a blog a couple of weeks ago. No, I'm really just curious about the whole thing. I mean, it's just another day, the day I turn fifty. Right?

I've been reading (in fact, I'm finished now) a published, day-to-day diary/journal kept by Sir Alec Guinness lately. He was eighty three when he wrote it. It was published in 1996 and Guinness had four years to live. Not surprisingly, at eighty three Guinness is obssessed with the idea of dying. Mostly because all of his friends are dying. That's not the case with me, although I've certainly seen my share of death amongst friends I've known over the years.

In my play, From the East to the West, there is a recurring line that each character, at one point or another, says: 'How did I get here?' That's more or less the way I feel. How did I make it this far? How did this oversight escape unnoticed? And it's never a comfort when older people say to me, "Ah, you're a youngster still." A very fine actress, a girl who's name I've long forgotten, once said to me long ago while doing a play together in NYC, "I may have been born yesterday, but I stayed up all night."

The most telling billboard about all this aging business is most readily apparent when I haven't seen someone for many years. It happened to me when I first moved to LA. A friend of mine, at one point in my life a very close friend of mine, had moved here a decade or so before me. The last time I'd seen him was in Louisville, KY, when I was doing a play down that way. I hadn't seen him since. He drove over a few weeks after I'd gotten here. I was visibly stunned at how much he'd aged. And vice versa, obviously, because he immediately said upon seeing me, "Where's Clif? I thought I was supposed to meet Clif here."

Funny. And a bit sad.

There's another of my plays, Bachelor's Graveyard, in which the leading character, in much the same way Terrence McNally does in 'Love, Valour, Compassion,' skips ahead chronologically and tells the audience exactly how and when another character dies. It's a terrible device, really, not because it doesn't work, it does, but because it would be absolutely terrifying to have that information at one's fingertips. It's an old parlour game...if you could know the exact date and fashion of your death, would you want to know? I think not. At least not me.

There's another phrase, often used as a punchline of sorts, that comes to mind: 'How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.' Now THAT has certainly been a truism in my life.

But enough of all this yammering about death. These are the good, old days, as a folk singer once said. One of the interesting things about reaching the startling age of fifty is the single, unexpected fact that I find myself living what Thoreau, sitting stiffly beside his touted pond, called 'a life of the mind.' Or what, a few years earlier, Socrates warned of 'a life unexamined.' I do not fear that old Greek's advice. I've spent the better part of a year now examining the road less traveled. Wow, three dusty allusions in one paragraph. How's that for pretention?

In any event, I have very few regrets. Things I might have done differntly, oh, good God, yes, but regrets? I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention...Stop it. Just stop it. Where was I? Oh, yes. Regrets. I regret being, on occasion, unkind. Tennessee Williams believed the only 'unforgivable sin' was 'deliberate cruelty.' I think he may have been on to something with that. I sincerely regret being unkind.

I suppose, by natural progression, I ought to start thinking about my epitaph. I say this in jest, of course, but epitaphs have always fascinated me. W.C. Fields had written on his gravestone, "All in all, I'd rather be in Philadelphia." Which, upon first hearing, I thought was pretty funny. But thinking about it now, given the root word 'Philadelphia,' I think it may be a bit more thought out.

My favorite is Jack Benny's, a lifelong hypochondriac. Written on his tombstone? "See, I told you I was sick." That still makes me chuckle all these years later.

But I think, upon serious consideration, I'd prefer mine to be almost common. Succinct, really, and what I'd like. I've already told Angie.

I want it to say simply, "A good husband and person who sincerely regrets any unkindness."

My second choice is more ambiguous. It would say, "Pizza, pizza, pizza!" Because then I'd know the movie was about to start.

See you tomorrow.

Two Not-So-Bad Movies Over The Weekend.

I've been dealing with unexpected complications with regards to the 'silent killer' (diabetes) the past couple of days. Consequently I spent a goodly amount of time on the couch watching some movies I've recorded.

The first was a movie Angie had never seen, 'Come Back, Little Sheba,' a 1952 film based on the William Inge play. The extraordinary Shirley Booth reprised her stage role in the movie and she's just teriffic in every possible way. Unfortunately, Burt Lancaster is miscast opposite her as the shaky recovering alcoholic husband, Doc. Funny, because I remember seeing the film some twenty years ago and vaguely recall Lancaster being good. Well, he's as good as he can be under the circumstances, I suppose, but woefully miscast, ultimately.

The play is one of those rare ones that is so stunningly good in terms of ideas and themes, but badly written. Much of the language (it was written in 1949) is terribly dated. But aside from that the play itself works on so many different levels. It's just a blisteringly good idea, but it was Inge's first play and he didn't quite have the horses to pull that cart as a writer yet. It is one of the few plays that I would love to go back and rewrite myself. That sounds a tad arrogant, but I kept thinking it all the way through. Somehow it has become a bit of a 'sacred cow' over the years and the idea of tampering with it makes theater purists a bit crazy. I don't care, I'd really love to update the script and make it relevant to today.

My God, what a sad story. And a lot of the sadness comes from Booth. Yes, it's a very well-sculptured role, but she takes it to an entirely different level with her astonishing performance. She deservedly won the Oscar for it. Lancaster, on the other hand, is playing a role clearly written as a frumpy, past-his-prime, living-in-his-head, scaredy-cat. Lancaster, especially later in his career, had some chops. That's not the problem. The problem is he's too young for the role and too goodlooking. The character should be at the end of his rope, physically unappealing, caught forever in a daily existence of en oui. Lancaster, through no real fault of his own, looks like he could run away and be a gigolo if he wanted.

But the core of the movie is still there. It made Angie cry (and me, too, actually). As well it should. It's such a great idea for a drama. And a little more poignant knowing that Inge himself died of alcoholism some twenty years later. I kept thinking what a remarkable film it would have been if Spencer Tracy had played the role instead of Burt Lancaster.

The second film was a surprise. A surprise in the sense that I completely expected it to be a laugh-riot, tongue firmly planted in cheek, much like, say, 'Dusk Till Dawn' is a funny film. It's called 'Hostel' and it's produced by Tarantino and directed by Eli Roth. It follows the same sort of pattern as the DiCaprio movie 'The Beach.' Some youngish, American party types are looking for fun and sex in Europe while backpacking across the continent. They unexpectedly hear about the existence of a sex-filled, girl-laden hostel in Slovakia so they hop on a train and head over there to check it out. And I'll be damned if the movie doesn't actually get scary at this point. Now, to be honest, it's nothing to write home about. I mean, it's not in the same league as, say, 'Silence of the Lambs' or 'Jaws' or 'The Exorcist,' but it's pretty spooky nonetheless. And the special effects are dead-on. To say much more would spill the beans about the film, but suffice to say it manages to make a very believable right turn from 'Beach Party Movie' to genunine 'Scare the Shit Out of You Movie.' And even though Roth directed it, there are very clear touches of Tarantino throughout.

And the sheer ability to go from a movie apparently about topless girls sitting on a bed, breasts bouncing enticingly, giggling and uttering inanities to a hide-your-eyes, real-assed horror flick is in and of itself quite an achievement.

Anyway, there you have it. 'Come Back, Little Sheba' and 'Hostel,' two movies to which I give a half-assed thumbs up.

The old blood pressure is fluctuating wildly. So much so, in fact, that the play had to be cancelled yesterday because I was having trouble standing up. Waves of dizziness. Saturday's show was a nightmare for me. There were four separate spots in the show I actually thought I might lose my balance and pass out.

Good Lord, I hate getting old.

Seeing you tomorrow.

Books.

Yesterday, a dear friend brought over a couple boxes of books and gave them to me. He no longer had the room to store them, apparently. It was an ecclectic bunch of books ranging from biographies of Orson Welles and Marlon Brando to sassy, cutting edge cookbooks to fantasy genre to Jack Kerouac (my favorite quote on Kerouac: when Johnny Carson asked Truman Capote what he thought of this 'hot, new writer,' Capote replied, "That's not writing, that's typing."). There's even a copy of 'The Great Gatsby,' arguably the finest novel of the twentieth century.

By God, I love books. They have been my salvation throughout a sometimes turbulent life. Not film, not tv, not theatre, not religion, not love, but books. Books. Books have been the constant in my life that have kept me from spinning off into a life of true apathy and self-destruction. Now, that's a heady statement, to be sure, but I believe it whole-heartedly.

Many years ago in New York when I was suffering through a savage break-up (and only age and late-life understanding have finally made me realize that nothing, nothing at all, can ease the pain of love lost...except the passage of time...and that's always a poor trade-off) I didn't leave my apartment for a month. I just sat indoors and read. And read. And read. And a month later, I finally escaped my self-imposed exile a better person. That was my Faulkner period. During that month of self-pity I devoured everything Billy Faulkner had ever written.

Skip ahead about ten years and I was in Rochester, NY, and again suffering through a devestating break-up (beginning to sound like a pattern, isn't it). I was teaching at the time and would only leave the apartment to go to class, and afterwards would race home and start reading again. This was my holocaust period. I was pouring over everything I could find about the Jewish Holocaust. There was no connection between that particular subject matter and my broken heart, it just turned out that way.

When I first moved to NYC I was often scared witless. I mean, here I was, 23 years old in New York, knowing hardly anyone, working as a waiter in an anonymous restaurant, absolutely no idea what my next step in life might be, and I discovered the works of John D. McDonald and Robert Parker and Dashiell Hammett. After my lunch shift I'd keep my brave face on until I got back to my apartment in Jersey City and spend the evening enveloped in that unmistakably American genre writing, the detective story. Parker, incidentally, recently passed away. He's a vastly underrated writer. A terrific story teller.

And, of course, when my mom died in a boat accident in 1987, once again, I took refuge in books. I needed some powerful voo-doo for that one. And it was then that I started on the Russians: Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Gorky and Pushkin. Those old Russians saved me. They took me to places where mid-summer, tragic, middle-class houseboat accidents didn't happen.

Naturally, over the years, I've developed favorites. John Irving is one. I love opening a new Irving book. Mostly because he's one of the few writers around today that always surprises me. Yes, one can always count on at least a passing reference to Austria, hotels, bears, wrestling or incest, but man oh man, can he surprise me. He may be the only living writer that has had me weeping with laughter and only a few pages later weeping with genuine sorrow. He is the Dickens of our time. An absolute master story teller.

But I'm not a snob about reading. I devour King and Grisham and Clancy, too. In fact, one of the books I recieved yesterday was King's 'Bag of Bones,' perhaps my favorite of King's later books. My early King favorite was, oddly, 'Pet Semetary.' That book, for some reason, scared the bejesus out of me. And make no mistake, now and then King can do some real writing. He'll be chugging along with all of his paranormal yadayada and suddenly, out of nowhere, he'll write a heart-breaking paragraph, as good as any writer working today anywhere. King, despite being the best-selling author in the history of mankind, is no lightweight. When he chooses, he can write like a house-a-fire.

Early in life, of course, I discovered Hemingway and Salinger, two writers that planted ideas and phrases in my head that have forever taken residence. Hemingway was the master at writing the exact right word at the exact right time. There's a story about him being unable to submit his novel, 'The Sun Also Rises' because he couldn't find the right word for the last sentence. The protagonist, Jake, is confronted with his ex-lover and she says something along the lines of 'We could be happy forever together...the best of lives.' Jake finally answers, 'Wouldn't it be pretty to think so.' It took Hemingways months to find the word, 'pretty.' Remember, he was at the top of his game then, the world breathlessly awaiting his next masterpiece. And he held it up for months in order to find that word. Nice.

And Salinger. Ah, Salinger. First I found 'Catcher in the Rye' like most teenage boys. Later I discovered my favorite of his, 'Franny and Zooey.' It is the most important book of my life, along with Irving's 'Prayer for Owen Meany.' I've read it dozens of times and still find something new. I give it out yearly as Christmas presents. I buy it for students because I think it's the most valuable book an actor can ever read. I've probably given away over a hundred copies of the book over the years. If you haven't read it, I recommend it highly. It addresses the idea of honesty in acting, truth on stage, integrity amidst lies. An astonishing piece of writing. And it's a quick read, too. A novella, really. If you haven't read it, run, don't walk, to your nearest bookstore.

And even though for some years I made my living as a playwright, I've never really enjoyed reading plays. Plays are meant to be seen not read. Hence the bad rap Shakepeare has gotten over the centuries. Who among us hasn't had to sit through an English class reading 'Romeo and Juliet' or 'Julius Caesar' out loud? Oh, the humanity. It wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that I finally figured out what all the fuss was about Shakespeare. He was meant to be seen, not read. Shakespeare done well is among life's greatest pleasures. And during my journey of discovering Shakespeare I came to the conclusion that there is Shakespeare and then there is every other writer in the history of the planet. His work lives unchallenged on a hill by itself. He grasped the human condition more completely than anyone before or since. But, Christ, it's hard to get my students to understand this. And mostly it's because of all those clueless high school English teachers crassly tossing his work around like a bucket of dead fish. Academia has nearly single-handedly hidden the genius of Shakespeare.

So I gots me some new books. And I am quivering with anticipation. Today I begin a personal and joy-filled quest into the world of Orson Welles, and later I'll have a front row seat as dragons terrorize the night skies, and after that I'll enter the life of Jay Gatsby once again and lovingly wonder why he was so lonely and what great burdens he carried, what mysteries he locked away in his heart, what kept him from saying, "I love you" to the great love of his life. And I'll envision the great eyes of a billboard staring accusingly at all that pass by and I'll sit on a long dock at the end of a long day and picture, in my mind, the unblinking green light across the bay.

See you tomorrow.

The Rich Get Richer, etc.

I don't usually blog about political issues and I'm not going to start now. For one thing I'm too dumb. But recently I posted an article on Facebook about the widening divide between the ultra-rich and the so-called 'middle-class' in this country. It sparked a fire fight because a couple of conservative Facebook friends weighed in on the issue. I was mildly surprised at the rage and online hissing that followed.

Really, however, I don't know why anyone is surprised. Not at the reaction to the posts, but at the reality of the situation. I think the simple fact that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer is a natural endgame to capitalism. I mean, come on, it's at the very root of the American dream. It is the pot of gold at the end of the idealogical rainbow, the game-winning response to the final American jeapardy question; in short, it is the solution we sought, not the problem we've inadvertently created. And now, 235 years after the fact, we're shocked and awed it turned out this way at all.

I don't mean to sound elementary here, but the final goal of capitalism is not, regardless of what we've been taught, supply and demand. No, not at all. The final goal of capitalism is who can screw the most people out of the most money in the shortest amount of time. And the circus-like atmosphere that envelops this nation in the high-stakes game of disguising that fact has become treacherous and partisan, to say the least.

The great experiment known as democracy has succeeded. I can't remember who said it and I'm paraphrasing here, but it's been called 'the worst system of government on earth...until you look at all the others.' And make no mistake, democracy and capitalism are forever and permanently bound together.

And yet, we (and by 'we' I mean 'me') are outraged by it. The combined income of the wealthiest ten percent of American citizens comes to approximately 1.7 trillion dollars. The bottom fifty percent comes to 1.6 trillion dollars. We're coming to the end of the monopoly game, Gentle Readers, and there are winners and losers. As in every single aspect of life in the 21st century, there are winners and losers. It is an extension of Darwin's survival of the fittest and, as in nature itself, the most adaptable, the boldest, the strongest, the ones without remorse, the quickest to the draw, continue to thrive and flourish. The weak, the less aggressive, the slow and careless, the moral and fair-minded are destined to live in the dreaded bottom fifty percent.

Even Jesus, allegedly delivering his inauguration address from the mount, acknowledged the inherent unfairness in Darwin's theory. He extolled the virtues of 'the weak,' encouraging them and offering the consolation prize of 'inheriting the earth,' of partaking in a much fairer plain of existence in the afterlife, promising everyone a 'mansion' in the kingdom of heaven, and mollifying the disgruntled masses by promising that 'the rich man' cannot enter. It was tantamount to the after game speech from a disappointed little league coach...'we'll get 'em next year, boys.'

This is the system of economy our ancestors bled and died for. We won. Our dreams came true. Everything we stood for, believed in, were taught was sacred, has come to fruition. And, as Cervantes warned, we were apparently not careful enough in our wishes, because we have had the misfortune to have them granted. The rich, not the meek, have inherited the earth. And we're all just starting to shake off the effects of the dream and coming to grips with the fact that it wasn't a dream after all. It is our who we are.

And in our confusion, we want to call a 'do over.' "Wait a minute," we say, "Um, this is not, uh, this is not what we wanted at all. There's been a terrible mistake. We'd like to start the game over, please." Too late. Too late for that. The game of Risk is nearly over, 'global domination,' as it says in the rulebook, is the final solution. We wrote the rulebook. We approved it. We voted for it. We wrote it and then prayed to it. And now, like the scientists at Los Alamos, we'd like to put the genie back in the bottle.

And finally, we are enraged. We are appalled that the playing field has been so unlevel all these years, all these centuries. We paid our money, we took aim, we threw the softball and we didn't quite knock all the stacked bottles down. And we didn't get the stuffed bear. All we got was a weathered and yellowing ticket and a hopeful memory of the circus that came blazing through town 235 years ago.

I dare say in about a hundred years, our grandchildren's children will be the true recipients of our shortsidedness. And we can only hope we will be forgiven for a noble experiment gone terribly wrong. Our roads were indeed paved with the very best of intentions. But we wrote the rule book. We set the height of the bar ourselves. We clearly and methodically outlined the game. And now it's getting late, people are going home, most have already been ousted from the game, the winners are still gathered around the table and the losers are questioning why they ever started.

America was founded on the concept of winning and losing. "...And justice for all" and "We, the people..." are wonderful concepts for a melodrama, but lousy concepts by which to develop a philosophy to insure 'the pursuit of happiness' for upwards of 300 million people. In the final analysis, 'the rich get rich and the poor get poorer' is not a courageous and defiant phrase uttered by our parents and grandparents. It is a summation of the rules of the game. The game we invented. The game we played passionately and lustfully. The game most of us lost.

See you tomorrow.