The Gold Ring.

I can't seem to get a story out of my head that my wife told me the other day. She used to be, for some twenty years or so, a casting associate here in the LA area. She knows a lot of the major 'players' here. She has worked on a goodly number of films you would recognize in an instant. And now and then, she will off-handedly tell me some inside goop about the business, which of course, I always love.

So she tells me about the ultimate, to my way of thinking anyway, the ultimate Hollywood nightmare story. Although normally she has worked directly with casting agencies and even for a brief time as an associate producer on several films, at this particular time she was working closely with a management firm. Managing actors, that is.

A young actor, tall, goodlooking, sort of personable, former model, comes out here and auditions for one of the most sought-after roles in Hollywood, the lead in a major motion picture, produced and distributed by one of the leading studios. He's all over the press, doing junkets, talk shows, etc. Problem is, he's no good. He's really not a very good actor. And probably never will be. But he's got his one and only shot at the gold ring. And he took it. Turns out the film was a flop, he was eviscerated by the critics, and the big time turned it's back on him.

For some reason this story, absolutely true and factual, fascinated me. Nowadays, this guy lives in somebody's guest house with his wife and struggles mightily for another chance. It is the Hollywood dream tale gone bad. Naturally, prudence dictates that I not use any names or titles, but I saw it as a gargantuan cautionary tale about being ready for the shot at the title when or if it comes.

I know and have worked with a lot of young actors, both here and in Chicago and New York. Some good, some bad, some with potential, some with wonderful instincts but no technique, some with charisma but no craft, some with craft and no charisma. I am drifting dangerously close to 'old codger-ism' here but nonetheless...

Young actors, more so here than NY or Chicago, think that getting the break is enough. Getting the shot at the title is enough. It's not. I am astonished sometimes at the sheer naivety displayed by young artists. And yet, I think it's only natural.

I don't know why people think the acting business is just something one can 'get into.' Good Lord, this is a tough and competitive biz. Even at the very low and early level upon which I compete, it is fierce at times. Of course, I've only been out here in LALA Land about a year or so, and I don't often get the opportunity to get in front of the real movers and shakers. But every now and then, I do. And even after some thirty years of making a living at this muck, I get very anxious as to whether or not I have the 'right stuff.' I can't imagine getting a shot at something big and not being supremely confident in my ability to deliver the goods. Early on I discovered that potential is the cheapest commodity in the world. No one is interested in potential, certainly not at my age, anyway.

Recently I was up for a rather large gig that ended up not getting because I didn't 'look' the part. That's okay. I can handle that. The CD involved called my agent personally and said, "He was the best actor in the room, but we decided he didn't fit the role." I can live with that. I'm not happy about it, but I can live with it.

The old boy scout motto...Be Prepared. It's so important. Hard to make a young arrogant actor realize that, but it is. And in this business of constant, day to day rejection, arrogance is not always a bad thing. As long as it doesn't go too far, that is. I tell my students this all the time...it's okay to think highly of your talent, but when the time comes to show your goods, well, you damn well better have them.

See you tomorrow.

One for Art and then One for the Money...

Ideally, I'll finish the few, short scenes I have left in this low-budget film I'm doing today. I'm looking forward to finishing for a couple of reasons. First, the moment I'm done I can cut my hair. Yes, cut my hair. It hasn't been cut since October of last year because I had to have it long for ADDING MACHINE. And, as it turns out, the director and producer of the film wanted me to keep it that way. So, here I am six months later with this whole 'Bob, your friendly, small town, midwestern, comb-over, insurance man" look going. Or, as I like to call it, the 'Gorbachev with a hangover' look. Oddly, my wife likes it. Go figure. I despise it and can't wait to shave my head later on today.

Today's finishing scenes are all to be shot in 8mm and then later transferred and processed digitally. They're B & W flashback scenes.

I also have the unexpected opportunity (well, 'opportunity' may be a bit strong) to do 'King Lear' in a theatre way south of here. That would be actually playing Lear in the play. I'm passing on that. It's not a lot of money and frankly I just don't want to tie myself up in another massive stage role for so long. Although the idea of doing Lear is rather enticing. It is, of course, one of those roles actors like to test themselves against. It was Olivier's last stage appearence. Finney has done it, most famously in recent times and I read that Kevin Kline is looking into doing it at Lincoln Center soon.

Personally, I've always felt Lear to be a rather silly role; a cantankerous, old man, consumed by jealousy, living solely by his ego. But it's Willy the Shakes, and that alone is challenging. I just don't think it's the role or play that others think so highly of. I always thought I was alone in this thinking but I recently discovered Olivier felt the same way. He writes in his first of two books on acting, "I suppose people think it's such a great part because it's usually only attempted by older, established actors late in their career."

A friend of mine told me the other day that I should reconsider because 'you'll probably never get another shot at it.' He's right, of course, but honestly, after just finishing this huge piece of stage acting in ADDING MACHINE, I just don't think I have it in me right now.

In John Houseman's book about his life and career, he recounts a conversation he once had with Marlon Brando in the mid-eighties. It was a chance meeting on the upper east side in New York. He said he saw Brando getting out of a car (remember, Houseman produced the film 'Julius Caesar' in the mid-fifties with Brando in the role of Marc Antony) and rushed up to him. He begged him to consider doing Lear onstage in New York calling it 'the greatest casting coup of the century.' He says Brando seemed unexpectedly excited about it for a few minutes and then stared off into space for a bit and said, "I just did the whole thing in my head. It was wonderful. But, John, that's the closest I'll ever get to the stage again. Sorry."

I've seen a few productions of Lear over the years. The latest here on the West Coast was, in fact, just a few miles from here with the wonderful actor, Dakin Matthews, in the title role. Matthews, incidentally, won an Ovation Award for it. But after a bit of soul-searching, I've decided I'm not interested in grappling with the role myself.

That is not to say there are a still a few older roles I wouldn't drop everything to assay. For example, I think sometime in the next ten years or so I'll take a shot at Willy Loman somewhere. I'd also like to pull out that old chestnut, Inherit the Wind, and take a crack at Drummond or Brady. But that's all just speculation.

In any event, first things first. I'm nearly finished with my new play, THE PROMISE, which I'm eager to mount somewhere in the LA area. In fact, just yesterday I emailed the script, unfinished but taking shape, to the key players. It's clearly going to be a long one, a three-act piece, and I'm sort of getting excited about it. The inescapable fact is as I get older I take so much more satisfaction in writing than I do in actually performing. I suppose it's only natural.

These days I'm kind of letting my mind and body relax after pouring everything into Mr. Zero. It was one of those roles that simply left me hollow after doing it onstage every night for so long. The thought of jumping right back into another all-consuming role like that, so soon after finishing one, just makes me quake. I think an actor has to let him or herself rejuvenate, get the mojo back, find the excitement again after climbing a mountain like that. And, to be perfectly frank, I haven't given myself that time yet.

There's also that old acting adage about alternating roles. You do one for yourself and then one for money. ADDING MACHINE was for myself. Now I need to do one for the money. It's a sad state of affairs, but a solid truth in this business. Man does not live by reviews alone. Now and then he needs to put a taco on the table.

See you tomorrow.

Scott Turow

I'm about halfway through a novel by Scott Turow. It's not his latest, but his second to last one, I think. Turow is sort of the thinking man's John Grisham. He is, apparently, still a working lawyer in Chicago despite his success as a novelist. His biggest hit, of course, was 'Presumed Innocent' back in the late eighties. I remember reading that novel when it was a sensation. I would take the subway into Manhattan every day from Astoria and it seemed nearly everybody on the train was reading it.

Like Faulkner, he keeps a cast of characters going throughout all of his books which are set in the fictional 'Kindle County' in the midwest, clearly meant to be Cook County. Turow is a fine writer, not in the least lawyerly or didactic. Unlike Grisham, with clear cut villains and heroes, Turow sees the law as a grey place, an ever-bending and very flixible line that can be crossed and re-crossed.

The book is called 'Reversable Errors' and, like all of Turow's books, once I got into it a bit, I became riveted. He knows his way around a sentence, this guy.

One of the interesting devices he uses is the 'judgemental set up scene.' He will introduce a character, revel in recounting his or her questionable moral decisions and/or lifestyle and then take a literary U-turn and explain what it might be like to be in their shoes. Just when you think you have somebody to root against, he turns the tables. It sort of violates all the 'writing class' rules one is taught and I love it. It tends to keep the reader on shaky moral grounds. Like a lot of readers, I love to see a good villain get his come-uppance. Often times, like Wambaugh, Turow places his cops in a wholly separate universe of right and wrong. They break rules to fight the greater evil. And usually, the police officers are blind to the moral implications of their actions. But his primary characters are officers of the court and they all seem to regard cops as a necessary evil. My thoughts exactly.

Another aspect of his writing that I enjoy are his physically less than ideal women characters. Unlike Grisham, there are rarely 'stunning, beautiful, desired' women to be chased. Turow's women are flawed. A little overweight, or older than one might expect, or perhaps even downright ugly. No matter, he still basks in their sexuality. And in Turow's world, a fifty five year old woman is still very much a sexual being.

As I mentioned, his most famous novel is 'Presumed Innocent,' which was later made into a film with Harrison Ford. It was one of those rare books that was actually very good writing and also happened to capture the public's imagination. Plus it had the added benefit of a startling 'reveal' towards the end of the story. It was one of those delicious who-done-its that, once explained, made the reader slap his forehead and say, 'Of course!'

Unlike Grisham's lawyers, Turow's people don't seem to get a great deal of enjoyment from the law. His characters all find themselves sinking in a dirty mire of hypocricy and double standards at one point or another. One can only suspect that Turow himself thinks this way. If so, it's refreshingly honest writing. In the words of Shakespeare, 'First, kill all the lawyers.' Consequently, Turow's characters are all on the line, neither good people or bad people but rather people struggling mightily to maintain dignity in a sea of mendacity.

This is my fifth Turow novel and he has yet to disappoint me. He's the kind of writer you'd really like to have a long cup of coffee with if you could. I also feel that way about John Irving. I'd really just like about an hour or two to simply pick his brain. And Turow, like Irving, has no compulsions about killing characters off. It's another device academia would frown upon, spending a great deal of the book flushing out a leading figure and then unceremoniously disposing of them. Tends to keep the reader unsettled.

I have so much respect for good prose writers. If nothing else, for their sheer stamina, living and wallowing in a story, a plot, a theme for years at a time sometimes. The good ones - the Irvings, the Turows, the Hemingways, the Faulkners, what have you - are latter day knights, I think. Spending their countless days and nights pursuing a murky truth that ultimately can't be found. They never patronize, these writers. They assume, rightly so, that their reader is every bit as bright as they are.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Television.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Television.: "We probably watch too much television in this house. To be fair, I do spend a good deal of time reading, but usually that comes toward the ..."

Television.

We probably watch too much television in this house. To be fair, I do spend a good deal of time reading, but usually that comes toward the end of the evening. I also spend a hefty amount of time writing, but that's tough to do sometimes because there are often distractions around here keeping me from it. But true to our latter day, twentieth century roots, Angie and I tend to equate television after dinner, sitting together on the couch with the dogs around us, our 'family time.'

We always watch the news, of course. I've discovered since being here, however, that local news in the LA area is laughable. For whatever reason, Angie alwyas turns it to channel 4, which is NBC, for the local news. I don't know why this is because there is an anchor guy on that NBC affiliate named Chuck Henry who may be the single most incompetent news announcer I've ever seen or heard. He announces everything as though he's just spotted a new float in a parade coming around the corner, be it the Japan disaster or the most recent murder in East LA. There's always a subdued smile playing around his delighted lips as he reports in his carnival barker voice the latest horror of humanity. But most annoying and unnerving is his 'between stories banter.' It takes innanity to a whole different level. His comments are not only sort of stop-in-your-tracks stupid, they're unbelievably insensitive. And of course the fact that he clearly thinks he's the height of wit makes it even more unbearable. And yet, we watch him. Sometimes, when Angie isn't around, I flip it over to The Fox network for the local news. Unlike the national Fox folk who are unabashedly conservative and anti-Obama, that doesn't seem to be the case with the local guys. Plus, apparently Fox can't afford nice chairs because they make them stand up, awkardly so, to do the news.

In any event, once the news, both local and national, is over, the real battle for the TV begins. Angie prefers 'Dancing with the Stars' and 'American Idol.' I don't hold this against her because having seen both a few times, I admit it IS easy to get involved with that nonsense. The other night I found myself in an embarrassing conversation about whether the dance we'd just seen was indeed a 'quick step.' I had to disengage in the middle of it because I suddenly heard myself saying something like, "I really think it was too modern for a quick step. It bordered on jive. And although they did it well, I felt they didn't have the clean arm movements and step precision they had last week. And Ralph Macchio's line wasn't right. He needs to work on his posture a bit for next week." It was at this point I realized what I was saying and threw up in my mouth just a little a bit. I had to step out back and take some deep breaths and think of Eugene O'Neill and Sergio Eisenstein.

If left to my own devices I will always choose either The History Channel or The Military Channel. Last week there was a fascinating piece called 'Third Reich, the fall.' Pretty gritty stuff. Filmed by Germans, about Germans between the years 1939 and 1945. I was mesmerized. Angie tends to call all of these programs, 'The Hitler show.' She thinks they're all the same program. Whether it be WWII in Color or World at War or Iwo Jima or U-Boats in the North Sea or America at War...she thinks it's all the same show, The Hitler Show. So she always says, "We've seen this already. It's the Hitler Show. You watched it last night." To which I reply, "It is NOT the Hitler Show. There is no such program called The Hitler Show. This is about comparing and contrasting the Sherman tank and the Panzer tank in the Battle of the Bulge." To which she replies, "Yes. Exactly. The Hitler Show. We've seen that one." It's a no-win situation.

Fortunately, we mostly agree on our Netflix selections. Except every now and then when I start ordering a bunch of boxing documentaries. She doesn't care for that and will protest by standing in the kitchen for hours at a time silently weeping.

Bravo used to show episodes of The West Wing everyday. They've stopped doing that, which is too bad, because Angie and I could watch West Wing episodes until the cows come home. I've made no secret about the fact that I sincerely believe it to be the finest network television show in the history of broadcasting. At least the first five seasons until Sorkin bailed out. I never get tired of them simply for the writing. It's like going to school every time I see one. Sorkin is a master storyteller and I steal from him relentlessly. I don't know if the likes of it will ever come around again. And the parallels to the current administration are absolutely startling sometimes.

Angie is also a big fan of something called 'The Dog Whisperer,' which is about a Mexican obsessed with being 'The Pack Leader." I don't pay much attention to it, but now and then I look at it for a few minutes. This guy (I think, not surprisingly, his name is 'Cesar') likes to kicks dogs (gently, to be fair) and push them to the ground and demand allegiance from them. He is forever prattling on about being 'The Pack Leader.' These poor dogs, most of them small ones that couldn't hurt a tit-mouse, are bullied into following his every command. Now and then, in his insatiable pursuit of being 'The Pack Leader' he'll stare them down until they're so uncomfortable they roll over and pretend to die. This Cesar guy likes it when they do that and subsequently swaggers around for awhile afterwards touting himself as 'the true and undisputed champion of all Pack Leaders' in broken English. Sounds like a little overcompensating to me. Nonetheless, Angie is convinced this guy is Dr. Doolittle. Frankly, I don't know why he calls himself a 'whisperer,' because he always shouts. His claim, apparently, is that the dog is never wrong but the owners need training. I think his show should be called 'The Dog Bullier.'

Another beautiful day in So Cal. My buddy Jeff and his family came to visit us from Colorado last week and the entire time turned out to be rainy and cold. He'll probably never believe now that Southern California is almost never like that.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Grocery Shopping in Burbank...or, The Battle of Th...

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Grocery Shopping in Burbank...or, The Battle of Th...: "Yesterday was our designated grocery shopping day. To the outsider this may sound fairly innocuous. Not so. We go to about a half dozen d..."

Grocery Shopping in Burbank...or, The Battle of The Armenian Women.

Yesterday was our designated grocery shopping day. To the outsider this may sound fairly innocuous. Not so. We go to about a half dozen different stores for various items. This is complicated enough by itself, but when you add the fact that we usually have a short debate over every purchase, it becomes a day-long ordeal. By the end of the day Angie is at her wit's end and cursing the pre-nup I made her sign.

First we travel over to the actual grocery store, the one that features actual groceries. It has several names; Von's, Pavillions, or Paladium, which is what I call it because I can't remember the first two. I have come to know Paladium like the back of my hand. I know where all the 'naughty' aisles are and where all the 'boring' aisles are. For example, the frozen pizza aisle, which is roughly the length of the autobon, is a 'naughty' aisle. Often times I'll dash off in a frenzied trot as soon as we enter the store and a half hour later Angie has to call me on my cell to find me. It has all the earmarks of a black-ops procedure because at this point it becomes about getting stuff into the cart without Angie seeing it. Fairly easy if I'm clandestine enough. She tends to leave the cart unattended for periods of time while she gropes produce. At this juncture my mission is to get the frozen pizza or handful of frozen burritos or pint of chocolate chip cookie dough into the cart and make a quick retreat without being spotted. I've discovered that she is unwilling to make a scene at the check out counter if the item is already in the cart. If she discovers the item beforehand she can simply toss it aside and plead ignorance. The whole operation demands stealth and strategy on my part.

Next, we drive over to the 'Armenian Market.' Which is code for 'Combat.' The Armenian Market is a hodge-podge of unpronounceable foodstuffs and jams and jellies containing pomegranate and olives. It is also a terrifying experience in that I usually have to grapple middle-aged Armenian women with mustaches. They're a tough and saavy lot, these women. The trick is, I've found over the months, not to let them get you on the ground. Best to use my reach and speed of hand. Just flicker light jabs at them and then wait for an opening when I can really let fly a haymaker. Once they've got you on the ground, they're tenacious. They bite and throw short hooks to the kidneys. And they use their weight advantage to keep you pinned. Plus there's that constant jabbering in their mother tongue, which I'm sure is trash talk, but I can't understand it so it's fairly wasted on me. Now and then another hefty, European, bearded woman will pause in her shopping to deliver a quick, pointed-boot kick to the ribs if I'm already down. They stick together, those Armenians. But, alas, The Armenian Market has 'cheap chicken,' according to Angie, so we have to go. You can't show any fear as you enter The Armenian Market, otherwise they'll swarm you like early morning hungry pigs in the Ozarks. So usually as soon as we enter I bellow at the top of my lungs, "Who wants a piece of me!?" Like timber wolves surprised in their den, they scatter and assess the situation before attacking. This gives Angie, usually, just enough time to get some 'cheap chicken' and make a getaway. Sometimes I take a broom handle with me and start banging it on the wall creating a distraction while she bolts for the chicken. It's all pretty unnerving. I sort of see myself as Charlton Heston in The Omega Man during these trips. Taking on the Armenian women full-on is futile. One has to outsmart them.

After that we drive over to Trader Joe's for the fun stuff. Trader Joe's has stuff never before seen inside the known solar system. It is the Wonka Factory of grocery stores. Plus I've noticed people tend to dress up to go to Trader Joe's. So Angie and I make a quick dash home and change into our hippest clothing before going. It would simply not do to shop in Trader Joe's unless you're properly attired. I also discovered early on that I have to pretend to read the ingedient labels in Trader Joe's. It's part of the experience. I used to just go in and get stuff and throw it in the cart. But as time wore on, I started hearing the whispers, seeing the disapproving stares. Not reading the ingredient labels on the food there is considered unbelievably crass. So now I pick up a jar of peanut butter, pretend to pour over the back label for a few minutes, deep in concentration, occasionally clucking and tisking, and then finally, with a deep sigh, decide to purchase it. Apparently the people that shop at Trader Joe's have a history of accidentally purchasing food laced with cyanide.

After Trader Joe's we go back home and change back into our normal clothes and then drive over to Target, which, according to Angie, has the best deals on paper towels and deoderant. The Target store, here in Burbank, is the best place to spot a celebrity, oddly enough. So I always take my autograph book with me. While Angie scours the shelves in search of an opportunity to save somewhere between 3 and 9 cents, I run up and down the aisles in search of a B-list celebrity. I've been rewarded handsomely a few times and I now have autographs from Michael J. Pollard and Bonnie Franklin, which, of course, I treasure.

When we get home, I have to first treat the cuts and abrasions I've received at the hands of the Armenian women and then help Angie put away the groceries. It is often at this point she discovers the goodies I've managed to slip into the cart throughout the day. Yesterday, in a completely unselfish moment, I managed to get some doggie treats in the cart made entirely of retired mailman parts, ground up. Our dogs, Franny and Zooey are, generally speaking, pacifists, but will viciously attack anything resembling a mailman. I can only guess they've been unfairly treated by the U.S. Postal Service at some point. They hold a grudge.

So, having started our grocery shopping at nine in the morning, we finish, exhausted and exalted, at six in the evening. Both of us, tired yet relatively unscathed, fell onto the couch with a new appreciation of life, of our god-given health, of our good fortune to have survived another day. Next monday it starts all over again; the fear, the anticipation, the planning, the night sweats.

Until then, I'll try and put it out of my mind. I'll try and live each moment as it comes. I'll try and be grateful for every second I have left. I'll try and appreciate the here and now and not obsess over the coming mondays, the looming possibilities of bodily harm, the supressed anxiety of physical combat with cunning and strong Armenian women.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Groucho Marx and Memories of Dead Friends.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Groucho Marx and Memories of Dead Friends.: "Because I was in serious need of distraction last night I watched The Marx Brothers in Animal Crackers on TCM. I hadn't seen it in thirty y..."

Groucho Marx and Memories of Dead Friends.

Because I was in serious need of distraction last night I watched The Marx Brothers in Animal Crackers on TCM. I hadn't seen it in thirty years, maybe longer. It is the film that contains Groucho's famous line, "I shot an elephant in my pajamas. What he was doing in my panjamas, I'll never know."

The old film (1930) was made right after the advent of sound and it certainly looks it. One can see Groucho looking off to the crew or director for approval at times. The camera is essentially stationary and they simply do a play in front of it. Clearly, no one has any idea what to do with this new medium called motion pictures. And yet, there's Groucho, right in the middle of it all, being ridiculously funny. Eighty one years after it was made there I am, sitting on my couch giggling uncontrollably while my wife looked at me as though I were daft. Everything about the movie is just horribly dated, even Harpo (although he has his moments of absurdity). But Groucho still holds up. He's still funny. He's still Groucho.

There's a wonderful book out there, out of print now I think, called 'The Groucho Letters.' It is exactly that. Letters from and to Groucho Marx. It is a really fun, surprisingly thought-provoking book. Groucho Marx, oddly, kept a running dialogue with the likes of Einstein, John Kennedy, Winston Churchill and Jack Benny. The letters, some absurd, others shockingly serious and intelligent, are a pleasure to read. Groucho was self-educated but unbelievably bright. And one can never predict which subject he will choose to take seriously. I recommend the book highly. It's easy to understand why the likes of Dick Cavett and Woody Allen have always worshipped at the Groucho altar.

There are hundreds of Groucho stories out there amongst old timers like myself. When I was doing Praying Small over in NoHo last year, there was a show right next to mine, a new musical, based on The Marx Brothers and I would stand by the stage door chatting with a couple of the actors from that show sharing Groucho stories. My favorite has always been one from his television show in the fifties called 'You Bet Your Life.' It was a simple premise, designed to let Groucho adlib and talk about whatever was on his mind. The guest would come out, usually an everyman in an everyday job, and Groucho would try and get him to say 'the secret word' during conversation at which point a duck would drop from the ceiling and he would win a few hundred bucks. Not the duck, the guest. This is the one I saw many years ago on a 'blooper reel.' The man came out and sat and the conversation went like this:

Groucho: So. Do you have any children?

Man: Why, yes, Groucho, I do.

Groucho: Good, good. How many do you have?

Man: We have 13 children.

Groucho: Really? Hm. Why so many?

Man: Well, Groucho, I love my wife.

Groucho: Uh huh. Well, I love my cigar but I take it out now and then.

Pure Groucho and still funny. Naturally, it was edited out seeing how it was 1955 or something.

So, my buddy Jeff Wood and his delightful family came to stay with us last week while they made a couple of trips to Disneyland. It was a great joy to hang out with Jeff again after some twenty years or so. Like most old friends it was as though we'd been together only the day before. Our friendship was instantly rekindled and I realized why I had chosen him as a friend to begin with. Now if I could just get him to drop everything and move out here and get back into directing. Probably not gonna happen. Nonetheless, a good time was had by all and I think, I hope anyway, his little girls had a great time. Disneyland is something every little girl should experience at least once.

On Thursday night we played a concentrated yet fun game of Trival Pursuit. Afterwards, as another old friend, John Bader, was leaving to go home, someone brought up the fact that it would be perfect if our late friend, Robert Fiedler, could have been here. Robert died about a year and half ago from an overdose. But the four of us were together often back in our NY days and all three of us, John, Jeff and myself, were somehow acutely aware that he wasn't with us. Robert, in and out of a terrifying lifestyle of drugs and booze, was nonetheless part of who we were, what we stood for, where we were going, how we lived. His absence, strangely, was felt that night. His name was mentioned and we all stood there, by my front door, momentarily silent and giving him an instant of tribute in an entirely unpremeditated way. No one really had anything to say about it. Death and unfairness has intruded upon all of our lives all too often over the past two decades and, like the older men we are now, we didn't drag the pain out, simply acknowledged it and moved on. Robert, in all his predictable insanity, was still a chunk of that time for us. His memory is a bit of an unhealed scab that none of us like to itch. There but for the grace of God...and so on and so forth.

Big audition tomorrow, more shooting on the new film on Thursday, rewrites on the new play, a leisurely yet pleasantly examined day planned. The dogs need a walk, I have to take my diabetes medicine, Angie is making her list of things to do. Beautiful, exquisite, sensible, magical mundanity. Life is good.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Labcoats and Workshops.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Labcoats and Workshops.: "I finished my first day of shooting on this new film yesterday. It was a relatively smooth shoot, well organized, pre-planned to the smalle..."