In the 'better late than never' category, I watched '127 Hours' last night. To say I was underwhelmed would be putting it mildly.
As nearly everyone knows the film is based on a true story of a man rock climbing in a deserted area in Colorado, meets an unfortunate series of, um, rock climbing events and ends up in a shallow ravine with his arm under a rock. After, well, 127 hours or so, he cuts the offending arm off with a rusty nail and sashays away. Well, okay, perhaps not 'sashay' but he does get away and back to safety and civilization. And in the process learns, I think, that everybody needs the love and support of other people. Or maybe he learns to always leave a note as to where he's going, even if it's to the store to buy some yams. Or maybe he learns to never leave his Swiss Army Knife at home. Or maybe he learns to buy American. I'm not sure what he learns but he apparently learns something.
First of all, unlike the real story of this guy (I watched him on Dateline one night), I couldn't have cared less. There is absolutely no exposition or 'backstory' for this guy. We don't don't know who he is, what he's about, what his loves and fears are, we don't know squat about him. He just ups and runs off on a bike one day and falls in a ditch. And then spends the rest of the movie halucinating about a life we know nothing about. Finally, he gets all sassy and cuts his arm off.
I am not now nor have I ever been terribly impressed with James Franco as an actor. For me, he's always been sort of the 'poster boy' for generation X. There's a detachment to his work, emotionally, that I find appalling in the intimate confines of film making. You could turn this film into a drinking game. Every time Franco changes expressions everyone has to take a drink. I'm guessing the entire room would be stone cold sober by the end of the movie.
And I'd be curious to know what executive watched this film and said to himself, "You know, after seeing this, I'm thinking James Franco is a perfect choice to host the Oscars."
Yes, there is some drama, in a wincing sort of way, when he finally gets around to sawing his appendage off. And, like The Alamo, this comes as no surprise when he does finally get around to it. We're all waiting for the 'cut off the arm' moment. In fact, we're all waiting forever, it seems like. And then, when he does cut the damned thing off, instead of feeling the rush of catharsis, instead we look at our wristwatches and calculate the time to the credits rolling. We think, "Well, okay, the arm is gone. Now they've got no choice but to end this thing." But, no. After he leaves the arm back at the ranch, he staggers around in the badlands for another half hour or so looking for an ambulance.
Danny Boyle has directed the whole fiasco like an MTV video, clearly not trusting the attention span of his audience. And then, shockingly, tries to add a moral lesson at movie's end.
Aside from his 'Naked Lunch' style flashbacks and his chance meeting with two Rubenesque female hikers early in the film, it's essentially a one-man show. But it's kind of like watching your accountant in a one-man show. Franco is a dismal choice for the role. Physically, he's the right age, the right stature, whatever, but his performance lies somewhere between David Duchovny in his most emotionally bereft X Files period and a badly scripted Olive Garden commercial in which a gaggle of thirty-somethings sit around a table and laugh for no apparent reason as salad and bread is being passed around.
The whole device of using the camcorder to record his thoughts and water-deprived ravings is interesting for about a minute and a half but it's been done to death starting as far back as Beckett's 'Krapp's Last Tape.' The good thing, I suppose, is the driving club music throughout. It has a good beat and is easy to dance to, is what I kept thinking.
I also noticed (my wife, Angie, and my buddy John were watching it with me) that once Boyle gets to the only dramatic moment of the film, the actual amputation of the arm, everyone turns away anyway. It's kind of like stepping out to smoke a cigarette the moment before Oprah finally asks, "So, tell me, why did you decide to drown all 36 of your wife's inlaws?"
Eventually, as I said, he gets out of the ditch and wanders off armless. It's at this point that I learned losing your arm also makes you deaf because he can't hear anybody for the rest of the movie. See, this is why I love going to the cinema, to learn things like this.
The movie, staying true to its MTV genesis, begins and ends with a sixties, Don Knotts in 'The Love God,' split screen motif with a kind of blinking computer font over it all. This made me feel very hip for watching it. Sort of as if I were in on a happenin' new webisode.
This film was one of ten Academy Award nominees for Best Picture. And Franco was nominated for Best Actor. This made me idly wonder why 'Saved By the Bell' never got an Emmy nomination.
On a wholly different note, Angie and I are off to purchase a new computer today. The one I'm writing on now, the circa' 1954 model complete with dilithium crystals to run it, is about to be retired. I wrote some good scripts on this thing but finally had to look into getting a new one when it started calling me 'Dave.'
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
The First Read.
Had the first table read for this new piece I'm involved in as an actor, The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, last night. Directed by Jim Fall. Feel free to google both of those names and you'll see for yourself the level of talent involved.
First readings are always kinda interesting. Sort of the 'first day of school' feeling for everyone. Hard to make any firm conclusions about anything at such an early juncture but it does give an idea, scant to be sure, of the level of competence in the room. One impression I got last night is undeniable; there are some really fine actors involved with the piece. Michael Testa, who served as casting director for the piece (and, incidentally, also cooked an amazing dinner for everyone last night) told me afterwards the casting process for this play had been over two months. That's a lot for a play. And I can see it in the choices, actually. If ever there were a gaggle of actors that fit their roles like a glove it's this bunch.
Once I got home I was telling Angie all about it, as is my habit, and the one thing I kept coming back to was, at first impression anyway, how damn good the actors were. As I understand it, the script will undergo some cutting and rewrites, as always happens with a brand new piece, and then rehearsals will start in earnest.
The first readthru is always an exciting time. For one thing, it's the first time the playwright gets to hear the words out loud from pros (although as I understand it, this piece was subject to a staged reading in NYC last year). For another, and perhaps more importantly, it gives everyone - playwright, director and actors - an idea of the flow and ebb of the piece and a chance to sort of visualize where one fits into it all.
I've had, over a long career, some fairly interesting first reads. When I did 'Lost in Yonkers' in Chicago some years back, the entire cast had done the play in other venues and everyone came in off book. When the director said, 'okay, let's read it,' no one at the table opened their script.
Olivier, of course, was legendary for coming into the first read off book, even for the big ones (Othello, Lear, Hamlet, Richard).
One of the things I've learned over the past century of doing this kind of stuff is to be wary of the actor that gives his opening night performance at the first read. This happens more than one might think. It doesn't happen all that often, to be sure, but it does happen. Sometimes what you get at the first read is what you get...period. The actor has made all of his choices already and will stick to them come hell or high water. This is not always necessarily a terrible thing, but it's not the way I, personally, like to work.
A buddy of mine, a very fine actor who has since left the business, would come in at first read and do the entire thing in a monotone. The first time I worked with him it scared the bejesus out of me. Happily, it turned out he was a wonderful actor but simply chose to do that so as not to dig a ditch for himself too early.
Other actors I know and admire come in and just let it all fly. No holding back, top volume, energy cranked, deadly serious. That's more in line with the British tradition and there's certainly something to be said for that, too. I tend to do more rather than less at a first read myself, not so much for my own exploration but so the writer (if he's on hand) and director can get a better feel for the piece as a whole.
This play, The Interlopers, delves deeply into the one area of mystery, the proverbial 'undiscovered country' of the stage world, the final frontier of live theatre, and that is sex. The two leads (both wonderful, incidentally) are two transgendered people; a male wanting to become a female and a female wanting to become a male. The play follows them as they fall in love. As one might imagine, the complications of romantic love and physical sex gets very complicated, indeed, and in fact, this might even be the overwhelming thesis of the play. Albee explored a similar theme in 'Sylvia, or, The Goat' and lesser playwrights have certainly taken a swipe at it as well, but all in all, it's a taboo subject for stage. One reason is because film does sex so much better. Film has been grappling with the issue as far back as Bertolucci's 'Last Tango in Paris.' Americans, even today in the year of our Lord 2011, are mired in a Victorian era of exploring sex, both physically and in the mind, where it actually counts. This is primarily the reason I took the gig, even though frankly it's not a very large role, because the subject matter fascinates me. Even last night, knowing the script as I do, I was hard pressed to keep it all straight in my head: a girl who is waiting to become a guy but likes girls is falling in love with a guy who is becoming a girl but likes girls...the mind reels. As one character says late in the play, "Jesus, you need a flow chart to keep up with you people." But that's the fascinating part of this whole thing. Where are the rules that say one can't love whoever one wants? And who, exactly, wrote these rules? It is most definitely a hot button right now in the political and social arenas in this country, exacerbated by our morally entrenched Tea-Party right.
Gary Lennon, who penned the piece, is clearly a smart guy. And he doesn't pander with this complicated and revealing subject matter. In lesser hands it would be easy to let the piece slip into the genre of soft porn. This is not the case here, I'm delighted to say. Instead, like GB Shaw at his very best, the play asks questions rather than supply answers. I like that very much.
It's all very exciting and on a purely selfish note, I'm beside myself with the fact that, like the last two outings on the stage for me, I don't have to carry the piece. I have a small role. And I'm happy with that. And I'm equally happy with the fact that the actors who do have to carry it are apparently more than up to the task.
See you tomorrow.
First readings are always kinda interesting. Sort of the 'first day of school' feeling for everyone. Hard to make any firm conclusions about anything at such an early juncture but it does give an idea, scant to be sure, of the level of competence in the room. One impression I got last night is undeniable; there are some really fine actors involved with the piece. Michael Testa, who served as casting director for the piece (and, incidentally, also cooked an amazing dinner for everyone last night) told me afterwards the casting process for this play had been over two months. That's a lot for a play. And I can see it in the choices, actually. If ever there were a gaggle of actors that fit their roles like a glove it's this bunch.
Once I got home I was telling Angie all about it, as is my habit, and the one thing I kept coming back to was, at first impression anyway, how damn good the actors were. As I understand it, the script will undergo some cutting and rewrites, as always happens with a brand new piece, and then rehearsals will start in earnest.
The first readthru is always an exciting time. For one thing, it's the first time the playwright gets to hear the words out loud from pros (although as I understand it, this piece was subject to a staged reading in NYC last year). For another, and perhaps more importantly, it gives everyone - playwright, director and actors - an idea of the flow and ebb of the piece and a chance to sort of visualize where one fits into it all.
I've had, over a long career, some fairly interesting first reads. When I did 'Lost in Yonkers' in Chicago some years back, the entire cast had done the play in other venues and everyone came in off book. When the director said, 'okay, let's read it,' no one at the table opened their script.
Olivier, of course, was legendary for coming into the first read off book, even for the big ones (Othello, Lear, Hamlet, Richard).
One of the things I've learned over the past century of doing this kind of stuff is to be wary of the actor that gives his opening night performance at the first read. This happens more than one might think. It doesn't happen all that often, to be sure, but it does happen. Sometimes what you get at the first read is what you get...period. The actor has made all of his choices already and will stick to them come hell or high water. This is not always necessarily a terrible thing, but it's not the way I, personally, like to work.
A buddy of mine, a very fine actor who has since left the business, would come in at first read and do the entire thing in a monotone. The first time I worked with him it scared the bejesus out of me. Happily, it turned out he was a wonderful actor but simply chose to do that so as not to dig a ditch for himself too early.
Other actors I know and admire come in and just let it all fly. No holding back, top volume, energy cranked, deadly serious. That's more in line with the British tradition and there's certainly something to be said for that, too. I tend to do more rather than less at a first read myself, not so much for my own exploration but so the writer (if he's on hand) and director can get a better feel for the piece as a whole.
This play, The Interlopers, delves deeply into the one area of mystery, the proverbial 'undiscovered country' of the stage world, the final frontier of live theatre, and that is sex. The two leads (both wonderful, incidentally) are two transgendered people; a male wanting to become a female and a female wanting to become a male. The play follows them as they fall in love. As one might imagine, the complications of romantic love and physical sex gets very complicated, indeed, and in fact, this might even be the overwhelming thesis of the play. Albee explored a similar theme in 'Sylvia, or, The Goat' and lesser playwrights have certainly taken a swipe at it as well, but all in all, it's a taboo subject for stage. One reason is because film does sex so much better. Film has been grappling with the issue as far back as Bertolucci's 'Last Tango in Paris.' Americans, even today in the year of our Lord 2011, are mired in a Victorian era of exploring sex, both physically and in the mind, where it actually counts. This is primarily the reason I took the gig, even though frankly it's not a very large role, because the subject matter fascinates me. Even last night, knowing the script as I do, I was hard pressed to keep it all straight in my head: a girl who is waiting to become a guy but likes girls is falling in love with a guy who is becoming a girl but likes girls...the mind reels. As one character says late in the play, "Jesus, you need a flow chart to keep up with you people." But that's the fascinating part of this whole thing. Where are the rules that say one can't love whoever one wants? And who, exactly, wrote these rules? It is most definitely a hot button right now in the political and social arenas in this country, exacerbated by our morally entrenched Tea-Party right.
Gary Lennon, who penned the piece, is clearly a smart guy. And he doesn't pander with this complicated and revealing subject matter. In lesser hands it would be easy to let the piece slip into the genre of soft porn. This is not the case here, I'm delighted to say. Instead, like GB Shaw at his very best, the play asks questions rather than supply answers. I like that very much.
It's all very exciting and on a purely selfish note, I'm beside myself with the fact that, like the last two outings on the stage for me, I don't have to carry the piece. I have a small role. And I'm happy with that. And I'm equally happy with the fact that the actors who do have to carry it are apparently more than up to the task.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Fun in the City of Angels.
Ah, showbiz. 'Tis been a frenetic week in the City of Angels for me. Mostly good stuff with a couple of dark clouds here and there.
Finally got my blood work back from a couple of weeks ago (had to go in for further tests regarding the old 'silent killer'). Most of it came back looking quite peachy with the exception of the numbers indicating the proper functioning of my kidneys. Not so good. Correctable, but not so good. All a bit of a wake up call, actually. So...new diet, new excercise regime, all that. This diabetes thing is a pain in the ass. Not to mention the kidneys.
Aside from that diabolical piece of information, however, it's been a grand week.
I've been commissioned to do some writing, two projects, actually. The first I can't really talk about yet, it's still too early in the proceedings and there are other people involved that don't want the information out there yet. Which is fine, because it's the harder of the two pieces. Frankly, I'm not sure how to proceed. But it'll come. Just a matter of time. It's a huge gig, one that'll recieve a great deal of press throughout the next year, I suspect, with some real heavyweights attached to the project. I just have to figure out how to write the damned thing.
The other has been a labor or love. A friend of mine, a guy that works a great deal in Europe in a number of different capacities in the entertainment industry, has hired me to write a short, festival-bound film about the futility of war. Kind of a high-falutin' subject, but thankfully, he already had a storyline. He just wanted me to fill it out. Which I did over three long days and nights of nearly non-stop writing.
Yesterday, after this marathon writing session, I sent off a fairly comprehensive first draft to him (he's in Berlin). It's not bad, I think, and that in itself is encouraging because I usually always hate my first drafts of anything I write. But I rather like this, and I spent a lot of time on it, relatively speaking.
We're looking to shoot in late summer and then submit to various and sundry festivals here and there. It was a fascinating excercise for me, I have to admit. I was given a very loose outline in terms of plot, a heavy handed theme to explore, the added complications of a love triangle and a premeditated opening shot. That's it. From that scant information I set out to write a half hour to forty minute screenplay, trying to avoid cliche'. I'll most likely hear from the producer today as to what he thinks of what I've written. Hopefully, he'll like what's on the page. And if he doesn't, that's okay, too. I'll simply go back to the drawing board and start from scratch. All of this was accompanied with a healthy check so I don't mind in the least. And, I probably shouldn't say this because most writers are always yammering on about how hard it is to write, yada yada yada, but I thoroughly enjoy it. I like writing. Always have. In fact, if I could make a living solely through my writing, there's a good chance I'd never step on stage or in front of a camera ever again. Alas, professionally speaking, I'm not at that point yet.
Also, this past Saturday we finished filming a new short in which I got to play a lunatic, Irish, rogue assassin. I had a remarkable amount of fun with that one. Late yesterday, I got a VERY rough cut from the director after initial edits. It's a great little film. Still a lot of work to do in 'post', as they say, but it's all there: dangerous, funny, unpredictable. And in addition, I had the opportunity to work with one of my oldest and dearest friends, John Bader, on it. John played a corrupt, super-tense, bad-guy police captain in the film. John and I have known each other so long (about 26 years) that we sort of communicated through verbal short hand with each other, sensing what the other was gonna do before he did it. I think that history was captured on film, too, which makes it all the richer.
Today is the first table read of a new play I'm doing a supporting role in called 'The Interlopers,' written by Gary Griffin, a former writer for the television series, 'The Shield.' It's being directed by Jim Fall, another film guy primarily. It's a very good script and I look forward to diving into it. We open at The Bootleg Theatre here in LA in June and run it through July.
So, all in all, health issues aside, I couldn't be more pleased. Ridin' high in April, shot down in May. The old Sinatra tune is never far from my mind as I wend my way through the various daily surprises and opportunities here in Tinsel Town. To be honest, it's all a buttload of fun.
And on top of all that, my new management team has been sending me out all over the place for auditions. Mostly the big ones, too, the network stuff and feature films. Of course, as I've mentioned before in this blog, most of the time in this town, it's simply a numbers game when it comes to auditions. It's not about how 'good' you are, or how 'prepared' you are. No, it's mostly about are you 'exactly what they're looking for?' Consequently, it becomes a numbers game. You might not book something for ten, fifteen reads, and then all of a sudden you land one you're not expecting because by some trick of fate you happen to look exactly like the guy the producer had in mind. And so it goes.
The old treacherous and unwelcome insomnia has reared its ugly head today so I'm up inordinately early. Thought I'd catch up on some blogging.
It's a good day. They all are. And I'm delighted to be sauntering down the road less traveled.
See you tomorrow.
Finally got my blood work back from a couple of weeks ago (had to go in for further tests regarding the old 'silent killer'). Most of it came back looking quite peachy with the exception of the numbers indicating the proper functioning of my kidneys. Not so good. Correctable, but not so good. All a bit of a wake up call, actually. So...new diet, new excercise regime, all that. This diabetes thing is a pain in the ass. Not to mention the kidneys.
Aside from that diabolical piece of information, however, it's been a grand week.
I've been commissioned to do some writing, two projects, actually. The first I can't really talk about yet, it's still too early in the proceedings and there are other people involved that don't want the information out there yet. Which is fine, because it's the harder of the two pieces. Frankly, I'm not sure how to proceed. But it'll come. Just a matter of time. It's a huge gig, one that'll recieve a great deal of press throughout the next year, I suspect, with some real heavyweights attached to the project. I just have to figure out how to write the damned thing.
The other has been a labor or love. A friend of mine, a guy that works a great deal in Europe in a number of different capacities in the entertainment industry, has hired me to write a short, festival-bound film about the futility of war. Kind of a high-falutin' subject, but thankfully, he already had a storyline. He just wanted me to fill it out. Which I did over three long days and nights of nearly non-stop writing.
Yesterday, after this marathon writing session, I sent off a fairly comprehensive first draft to him (he's in Berlin). It's not bad, I think, and that in itself is encouraging because I usually always hate my first drafts of anything I write. But I rather like this, and I spent a lot of time on it, relatively speaking.
We're looking to shoot in late summer and then submit to various and sundry festivals here and there. It was a fascinating excercise for me, I have to admit. I was given a very loose outline in terms of plot, a heavy handed theme to explore, the added complications of a love triangle and a premeditated opening shot. That's it. From that scant information I set out to write a half hour to forty minute screenplay, trying to avoid cliche'. I'll most likely hear from the producer today as to what he thinks of what I've written. Hopefully, he'll like what's on the page. And if he doesn't, that's okay, too. I'll simply go back to the drawing board and start from scratch. All of this was accompanied with a healthy check so I don't mind in the least. And, I probably shouldn't say this because most writers are always yammering on about how hard it is to write, yada yada yada, but I thoroughly enjoy it. I like writing. Always have. In fact, if I could make a living solely through my writing, there's a good chance I'd never step on stage or in front of a camera ever again. Alas, professionally speaking, I'm not at that point yet.
Also, this past Saturday we finished filming a new short in which I got to play a lunatic, Irish, rogue assassin. I had a remarkable amount of fun with that one. Late yesterday, I got a VERY rough cut from the director after initial edits. It's a great little film. Still a lot of work to do in 'post', as they say, but it's all there: dangerous, funny, unpredictable. And in addition, I had the opportunity to work with one of my oldest and dearest friends, John Bader, on it. John played a corrupt, super-tense, bad-guy police captain in the film. John and I have known each other so long (about 26 years) that we sort of communicated through verbal short hand with each other, sensing what the other was gonna do before he did it. I think that history was captured on film, too, which makes it all the richer.
Today is the first table read of a new play I'm doing a supporting role in called 'The Interlopers,' written by Gary Griffin, a former writer for the television series, 'The Shield.' It's being directed by Jim Fall, another film guy primarily. It's a very good script and I look forward to diving into it. We open at The Bootleg Theatre here in LA in June and run it through July.
So, all in all, health issues aside, I couldn't be more pleased. Ridin' high in April, shot down in May. The old Sinatra tune is never far from my mind as I wend my way through the various daily surprises and opportunities here in Tinsel Town. To be honest, it's all a buttload of fun.
And on top of all that, my new management team has been sending me out all over the place for auditions. Mostly the big ones, too, the network stuff and feature films. Of course, as I've mentioned before in this blog, most of the time in this town, it's simply a numbers game when it comes to auditions. It's not about how 'good' you are, or how 'prepared' you are. No, it's mostly about are you 'exactly what they're looking for?' Consequently, it becomes a numbers game. You might not book something for ten, fifteen reads, and then all of a sudden you land one you're not expecting because by some trick of fate you happen to look exactly like the guy the producer had in mind. And so it goes.
The old treacherous and unwelcome insomnia has reared its ugly head today so I'm up inordinately early. Thought I'd catch up on some blogging.
It's a good day. They all are. And I'm delighted to be sauntering down the road less traveled.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
So...You Wanna Be an Actor.
I had an interesting dilemma yesterday during an audition for a film. It was a low budget thing my new managing team set up. Part of the whole 'grooming' process, I'm told, to set me up for larger projects. I got the script a couple of days earlier and had ample time to work on it. Problem was, it was just a horrible piece of writing. So bad, in fact, that I actually read some of it aloud to Angie and asked, in complete sincerity, 'Who in their right mind would green-light something like this?' It was that bad.
So anyway, I toddle over to West Hollywood to the audition and go in and do my thing. The role was a very loud and aggressive corporate boss type guy. It had lines like, "Well, I thought..." "That's your problem, you THOUGHT. I do the thinking around here!" Eventually (it was agent submission only so I didn't have to wait too long in the crowded lobby) I was called in and the girl (maybe the director? Not sure) says, "I'd like you to do it really loud. No subtlety. Just scream it." Thus the dilemma. I was being asked to purposely do bad work.
I made a snap decision and ignored the direction. I played it low and menacing, without unecessary vocal pyrotechnics. She was unimpressed. I left, breathed a sigh of relief, and drove home.
Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good shouting scene as much as the next guy, but that was not the case here. This was not an isolated piece of cliche' writing to make a point about the character or the situation. No, the ENTIRE script was written like this. Years ago (not so much in the past couple of decades), soap writing was usually of this calibre. You know, late seventies stuff on As the World Turns or General Hospital. That type of stuff.
The point is I made a choice not to play this crap with the ham-handedness it deserved. I won't get the role because I chose not to follow her direction. And if I had to do it again, I'd do it exactly the same way.
This is a vivid example of the downside of being an actor in a city that, on the whole, doesn't appreciate actors. Now, of course, that's a gross generalization, but you get my drift. I may not have landed the role but I slept really well last night.
Angie and I had a good laugh about it as I described it all and then I just turned it off and moved on with my day.
Whenever stuff like this happens to me, I'm always reminded of a moment that occurred about 27 years ago in Davenport, Iowa. I was on a non-union, bus and truck tour of 'The Fantasticks.' I was playing the role of 'El Gallo.' It was a cheap little midwestern tour originating from a company called 'The Old Creamery Theatre' (now, there's a catchy name) and basically we drove from small town to small town and did the show in various civic centers. In fact, our programs had a typo in them that said my character's name was 'ED GALLO.' I was very young and had signed up for the tour because at the end of it I was promised my Equity Card (this is back in the day when it was a lot tougher to join the union). Anyway, at one point we found ourselves doing a 'promotional' in a small, strip mall in Davenport, Iowa. My old and dear friend, Johnny Bader, was on the tour with me. So we're standing there in the middle of this little mall, people walking by us completely oblivious to what we're doing, singing songs from the show, and there I am, sitting atop a small stepladder warbling out the song 'Try to Remember' over a tacky sound system, holding a microphone with silver duct tape all over it, in full costume including a big, black, ill-fitting sombrero and black, tight-fitting, spandex pants and no one, and I mean NO one, is paying the least bit attention to me, and John looks up at me while I'm singing and says, "So...you wanna be an actor."
I barely got through the rest of the song I was giggling so hard.
And that's exactly what I heard in my head yesterday as I was acting that poorly conceived, badly written scene. "So...you wanna be an actor."
See you tomorrow.
So anyway, I toddle over to West Hollywood to the audition and go in and do my thing. The role was a very loud and aggressive corporate boss type guy. It had lines like, "Well, I thought..." "That's your problem, you THOUGHT. I do the thinking around here!" Eventually (it was agent submission only so I didn't have to wait too long in the crowded lobby) I was called in and the girl (maybe the director? Not sure) says, "I'd like you to do it really loud. No subtlety. Just scream it." Thus the dilemma. I was being asked to purposely do bad work.
I made a snap decision and ignored the direction. I played it low and menacing, without unecessary vocal pyrotechnics. She was unimpressed. I left, breathed a sigh of relief, and drove home.
Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good shouting scene as much as the next guy, but that was not the case here. This was not an isolated piece of cliche' writing to make a point about the character or the situation. No, the ENTIRE script was written like this. Years ago (not so much in the past couple of decades), soap writing was usually of this calibre. You know, late seventies stuff on As the World Turns or General Hospital. That type of stuff.
The point is I made a choice not to play this crap with the ham-handedness it deserved. I won't get the role because I chose not to follow her direction. And if I had to do it again, I'd do it exactly the same way.
This is a vivid example of the downside of being an actor in a city that, on the whole, doesn't appreciate actors. Now, of course, that's a gross generalization, but you get my drift. I may not have landed the role but I slept really well last night.
Angie and I had a good laugh about it as I described it all and then I just turned it off and moved on with my day.
Whenever stuff like this happens to me, I'm always reminded of a moment that occurred about 27 years ago in Davenport, Iowa. I was on a non-union, bus and truck tour of 'The Fantasticks.' I was playing the role of 'El Gallo.' It was a cheap little midwestern tour originating from a company called 'The Old Creamery Theatre' (now, there's a catchy name) and basically we drove from small town to small town and did the show in various civic centers. In fact, our programs had a typo in them that said my character's name was 'ED GALLO.' I was very young and had signed up for the tour because at the end of it I was promised my Equity Card (this is back in the day when it was a lot tougher to join the union). Anyway, at one point we found ourselves doing a 'promotional' in a small, strip mall in Davenport, Iowa. My old and dear friend, Johnny Bader, was on the tour with me. So we're standing there in the middle of this little mall, people walking by us completely oblivious to what we're doing, singing songs from the show, and there I am, sitting atop a small stepladder warbling out the song 'Try to Remember' over a tacky sound system, holding a microphone with silver duct tape all over it, in full costume including a big, black, ill-fitting sombrero and black, tight-fitting, spandex pants and no one, and I mean NO one, is paying the least bit attention to me, and John looks up at me while I'm singing and says, "So...you wanna be an actor."
I barely got through the rest of the song I was giggling so hard.
And that's exactly what I heard in my head yesterday as I was acting that poorly conceived, badly written scene. "So...you wanna be an actor."
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
What Would Happen If...
Within a couple of days I've been commissioned to write three, count 'em, three different projects. In addition, I'm shooting some new film stuff starting this weekend and about to start rehearsals for a tightly-written, new play at The Bootleg Theatre here in Los Angeles. So, in light of all this, I decided to start looking online for a new car. I told Angie awhile back that we need to embrace the fact that LA is a car culture. Now, don't get me wrong, we have a fun, reliable, little Saturn station wagon at this time. It's a great car, not a dent on it with a great engine. It's only given us minor troubles over the past year and gets us unfailingly from point A to point B.
So I found this great site online which compares and contrasts seemingly every car ever made. In my spare moments during the day I pour over it.
I've decided Angie needs a 'classy' car 'cause Angie's a classy lady. The site gives one the option of choosing the price range in addition to a host of other categories. I'm looking at the 25 to 35 thousand dollar range.
At this point I've narrowed it down to three cars for Angie: the Audi A-4 sedan, the Chrysler 300 or one of the Mercedes C-class autos. For me, either the Toyota Cruiser or the Jeep Wrangler Rubicon 4-door. Frankly, I haven't had so much fun shopping since I looked for some platform shoes for my 8th grade Sadie Hawkin's Dance.
I've never before been interested in cars, really. My entire life I could've cared less what someone was driving. Cars have always bored me, to be honest. But now that we're honestly considering different brands, it's all quite exciting.
For myself, I'm leaning toward the Toyota Cruiser because it looks like a giant Matchbox car. It looks like one of my old Hotwheels blown up to a human scale. Angie, quite astutely, told me it would probably be best if I didn't mention that when we actually go to the dealer and check them out. She apparently feels it would give the salesman the idea that I'm a bit naive about the whole thing. She may be right.
We've gotten into the habit lately (and this is more than a little embarrassing to admit) of buying one, and only one, Mega Millions lottery ticket twice a week. We do this for several reasons, but the biggest is because it gives us license to fantasize. Currently the lottery is up to 42 million dollars, which means, should we win, we would get a one-time cash settlement of approximately 21 million dollars. This possibility stirs me to my very core.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm fully aware that money can't buy happiness. But, as Bill Gates once said, "People that say that have never had money."
On the other hand, this incessant fantasizing (I really only do it while walking our dogs...somehow I've designated that time as my 'silly dreams' time) gives me no small amount of comfort. But the thing is, it also constantly makes me appreciate the wonderful life I have now; all the amazing things in my life that I might otherwise take for granted.
I'm perfectly aware that the odds of winning the Mega Millions lottery is approximately a kajillion to one. But I still do it. Two dollars a week is a very small price to pay for the wonderful fantasies it gives me.
It also tells me a lot about myself. I inevitably start the fantasy by thinking of all the things I could buy to make our lives more comfortable: a small ranch here in LA, new horses for Angie, a BMW 750i, a Range Rover, a second home in Manhattan, a vacation home on Captiva Island, possibly even a 99-seat theatre complex to run (my lifelong dream). But as the fantasy progresses I start whittling away, in my mind, some of these purchases. I begin to think of the myriad ways I could use the money to help other people, friends and family. I begin to think of the difference it might make to various charities that desperately need an influx of moveable cash. In short, I begin to think of how I might be of service.
And by the end of the long walk with Franny and Zooey I have, in my mind, given away most of the millions I acquired at the beginning of the walk. It's annoying.
The better angels of my nature always assert themselves. I start voraciously greedy. My intentions are entirely selfish. But then my damned moral conscience rears it's ugly head and my fantasies turn to other people. This would not have happened ten, even five, years ago. Recent events, mostly personal, have rudely intruded upon my belief system.
I'm not proud of this and I certainly wouldn't admit it out loud but I think, much like the diabetes I was diagnosed with late in my adult life, unexpected things happen to us as we age. In my pathetic case, I have been burdened with an unwelcome sense of right and wrong. Everytime I begin to visualize the new BMW 750i, it is abruptly replaced with feeding hundreds of hungry children or giving some talented kid a chance at college that he wouldn't ordinarily get or helping every close friend and family member I know finally get out of the nearly unavoidable financial debt that living in the twenty-second century incurs or allowing some struggling drug and alcohol half-way house continue to operate. The stupid, altruistic list is virtually endless.
Damned brain. Pisses me off.
See you tomorrow.
So I found this great site online which compares and contrasts seemingly every car ever made. In my spare moments during the day I pour over it.
I've decided Angie needs a 'classy' car 'cause Angie's a classy lady. The site gives one the option of choosing the price range in addition to a host of other categories. I'm looking at the 25 to 35 thousand dollar range.
At this point I've narrowed it down to three cars for Angie: the Audi A-4 sedan, the Chrysler 300 or one of the Mercedes C-class autos. For me, either the Toyota Cruiser or the Jeep Wrangler Rubicon 4-door. Frankly, I haven't had so much fun shopping since I looked for some platform shoes for my 8th grade Sadie Hawkin's Dance.
I've never before been interested in cars, really. My entire life I could've cared less what someone was driving. Cars have always bored me, to be honest. But now that we're honestly considering different brands, it's all quite exciting.
For myself, I'm leaning toward the Toyota Cruiser because it looks like a giant Matchbox car. It looks like one of my old Hotwheels blown up to a human scale. Angie, quite astutely, told me it would probably be best if I didn't mention that when we actually go to the dealer and check them out. She apparently feels it would give the salesman the idea that I'm a bit naive about the whole thing. She may be right.
We've gotten into the habit lately (and this is more than a little embarrassing to admit) of buying one, and only one, Mega Millions lottery ticket twice a week. We do this for several reasons, but the biggest is because it gives us license to fantasize. Currently the lottery is up to 42 million dollars, which means, should we win, we would get a one-time cash settlement of approximately 21 million dollars. This possibility stirs me to my very core.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm fully aware that money can't buy happiness. But, as Bill Gates once said, "People that say that have never had money."
On the other hand, this incessant fantasizing (I really only do it while walking our dogs...somehow I've designated that time as my 'silly dreams' time) gives me no small amount of comfort. But the thing is, it also constantly makes me appreciate the wonderful life I have now; all the amazing things in my life that I might otherwise take for granted.
I'm perfectly aware that the odds of winning the Mega Millions lottery is approximately a kajillion to one. But I still do it. Two dollars a week is a very small price to pay for the wonderful fantasies it gives me.
It also tells me a lot about myself. I inevitably start the fantasy by thinking of all the things I could buy to make our lives more comfortable: a small ranch here in LA, new horses for Angie, a BMW 750i, a Range Rover, a second home in Manhattan, a vacation home on Captiva Island, possibly even a 99-seat theatre complex to run (my lifelong dream). But as the fantasy progresses I start whittling away, in my mind, some of these purchases. I begin to think of the myriad ways I could use the money to help other people, friends and family. I begin to think of the difference it might make to various charities that desperately need an influx of moveable cash. In short, I begin to think of how I might be of service.
And by the end of the long walk with Franny and Zooey I have, in my mind, given away most of the millions I acquired at the beginning of the walk. It's annoying.
The better angels of my nature always assert themselves. I start voraciously greedy. My intentions are entirely selfish. But then my damned moral conscience rears it's ugly head and my fantasies turn to other people. This would not have happened ten, even five, years ago. Recent events, mostly personal, have rudely intruded upon my belief system.
I'm not proud of this and I certainly wouldn't admit it out loud but I think, much like the diabetes I was diagnosed with late in my adult life, unexpected things happen to us as we age. In my pathetic case, I have been burdened with an unwelcome sense of right and wrong. Everytime I begin to visualize the new BMW 750i, it is abruptly replaced with feeding hundreds of hungry children or giving some talented kid a chance at college that he wouldn't ordinarily get or helping every close friend and family member I know finally get out of the nearly unavoidable financial debt that living in the twenty-second century incurs or allowing some struggling drug and alcohol half-way house continue to operate. The stupid, altruistic list is virtually endless.
Damned brain. Pisses me off.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Bin Ladin.
As I think everyone in this country and perhaps the civilized world knows by now, Osama Bin Ladin was killed last night in Pakistan by U.S. Special Forces on a direct order from the President of the United States. As Mark Twain once wrote, "I have never wished a man dead but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure."
In a different world in a different time, the news of the death of Hitler was met with similar celebration. The death of Mussolini slightly less so. And of course the capture and eventual death sentence of Sadam Hussein was also a cause for satisfied whooping in this country.
Bin Ladin was in his sixties with a terminal case of kidney failure so his time was, in all probability, nearly up anyway. It is unclear just how much 'leadership' he was still employing as opposed to simply being a symbolic and iconic figure for his followers.
Although I have been a vocal liberal nearly all my life, when it comes to national security and safety of American citizens I have always been on the side of the hawks. After 9/11 I, like most of America, wanted swift, deciding, vengeful action. It was not to be. In fact, G.W. Bush, either frustrated by his inability to get at Bin Ladin or, as Michael Moore asserts, because of his family oil ties with the Bin Ladin family, chose instead to divert America's anger and invade a country that had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11, fabricating instead a fantastical 'weapons of mass destruction' myth which plunged this nation into a long and virtually unending conflict with a savage dictator who, undeniably, needed to be displaced but, I would have liked, under more honest circumstances.
It has become, over the years, unmistakably clear that Bin Ladin orchestrated 9/11. This was an act of war against this nation. And for that alone he became a participant in the war and fair game for military repercussions.
I believe Bush hunted Bin Ladin relentlessly. I don't buy into the idea that he 'really wasn't trying' to find Bin Ladin. I don't accept Michael Moore's thesis, as much as I admire Mr. Moore. To think otherwise would be to activate a cynicism so deep and extraordinary as to plunge me into a lifetime of anger and rage. Subsequently, I simply cannot believe it.
Our president may very well have secured his second term with this recent turn of events. I certainly hope so. His work has only just begun and he's making great and history-changing strides. He is, in my opinion, despite enormous political divide in this country at the moment, staying true to the course and daily striving to do the right thing. Yes, he has been forced to compromise. Yes, he has made concessions. And yes, he hasn't always been as swift as I would have liked. But, like Clinton before him, he shows up everyday and doesn't quit despite brutal and inexplicable opposition from a segment of our population mired in early twentieth century thought.
In his address to the American people last night he said quite clearly, "I ordered it. I did it." I liked that very much. "I ordered the death of this man." It's a heady statement in the geo-political world climate of 2011. Bravo, Mr. President.
In essence he was saying, "We will accept economic attacks, economic downturns, world chagrin, international name-calling; we will accept the scorn of the world as we reluctantly wear the mantle of global policeman, but we will not accept violence visited upon an American citizen anywhere, anytime. In fact, more than that, if it is done, you will be hunted down and killed regardless how long it takes."
The responsibilities and diplomacy of being the last military super-power does not extend to turning the other cheek. Sometimes, unreasonably, I confess, I wonder why we even continue the plodding negotiations to make the Arab extremist Muslim countries inclusive in the world order. I have often thought, sometimes shamedly so, it will never get better until the American flag is flying, unabashadedly, over Tehran, Bagdad and Cairo. So why not just do it and get it the fuck over with?
But then I remember that this country, despite it's 235 years of proclaiming to be uncompromising, is in fact, built upon compromise. The genius of our system of government, it has always seemed to me, has been compromise itself, not the rejection of compromise. It is inherent in our constitution; what the founding fathers had specifically in mind. Checks and balances, separation of powers, freedom of speech and religion, freedom of the press, and rejection of dictatorial privileges. Compromise is our greatest strength, not our greatest weakness.
I am proud to be an American citizen today. I am proud justice has been, albiet ten years after the fact, served. I am proud that our president said yesterday, behind closed doors, we will carry the burden of power under nearly impossible circumstances, we will suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, we will steadfastly pursue our commitment to democracy and the tenants of existing in a Republic. But we will not have hands laid upon us. We will not negotiate through violence. And we will never stop hunting for the unfortunate souls who think otherwise.
See you tomorrow.
In a different world in a different time, the news of the death of Hitler was met with similar celebration. The death of Mussolini slightly less so. And of course the capture and eventual death sentence of Sadam Hussein was also a cause for satisfied whooping in this country.
Bin Ladin was in his sixties with a terminal case of kidney failure so his time was, in all probability, nearly up anyway. It is unclear just how much 'leadership' he was still employing as opposed to simply being a symbolic and iconic figure for his followers.
Although I have been a vocal liberal nearly all my life, when it comes to national security and safety of American citizens I have always been on the side of the hawks. After 9/11 I, like most of America, wanted swift, deciding, vengeful action. It was not to be. In fact, G.W. Bush, either frustrated by his inability to get at Bin Ladin or, as Michael Moore asserts, because of his family oil ties with the Bin Ladin family, chose instead to divert America's anger and invade a country that had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11, fabricating instead a fantastical 'weapons of mass destruction' myth which plunged this nation into a long and virtually unending conflict with a savage dictator who, undeniably, needed to be displaced but, I would have liked, under more honest circumstances.
It has become, over the years, unmistakably clear that Bin Ladin orchestrated 9/11. This was an act of war against this nation. And for that alone he became a participant in the war and fair game for military repercussions.
I believe Bush hunted Bin Ladin relentlessly. I don't buy into the idea that he 'really wasn't trying' to find Bin Ladin. I don't accept Michael Moore's thesis, as much as I admire Mr. Moore. To think otherwise would be to activate a cynicism so deep and extraordinary as to plunge me into a lifetime of anger and rage. Subsequently, I simply cannot believe it.
Our president may very well have secured his second term with this recent turn of events. I certainly hope so. His work has only just begun and he's making great and history-changing strides. He is, in my opinion, despite enormous political divide in this country at the moment, staying true to the course and daily striving to do the right thing. Yes, he has been forced to compromise. Yes, he has made concessions. And yes, he hasn't always been as swift as I would have liked. But, like Clinton before him, he shows up everyday and doesn't quit despite brutal and inexplicable opposition from a segment of our population mired in early twentieth century thought.
In his address to the American people last night he said quite clearly, "I ordered it. I did it." I liked that very much. "I ordered the death of this man." It's a heady statement in the geo-political world climate of 2011. Bravo, Mr. President.
In essence he was saying, "We will accept economic attacks, economic downturns, world chagrin, international name-calling; we will accept the scorn of the world as we reluctantly wear the mantle of global policeman, but we will not accept violence visited upon an American citizen anywhere, anytime. In fact, more than that, if it is done, you will be hunted down and killed regardless how long it takes."
The responsibilities and diplomacy of being the last military super-power does not extend to turning the other cheek. Sometimes, unreasonably, I confess, I wonder why we even continue the plodding negotiations to make the Arab extremist Muslim countries inclusive in the world order. I have often thought, sometimes shamedly so, it will never get better until the American flag is flying, unabashadedly, over Tehran, Bagdad and Cairo. So why not just do it and get it the fuck over with?
But then I remember that this country, despite it's 235 years of proclaiming to be uncompromising, is in fact, built upon compromise. The genius of our system of government, it has always seemed to me, has been compromise itself, not the rejection of compromise. It is inherent in our constitution; what the founding fathers had specifically in mind. Checks and balances, separation of powers, freedom of speech and religion, freedom of the press, and rejection of dictatorial privileges. Compromise is our greatest strength, not our greatest weakness.
I am proud to be an American citizen today. I am proud justice has been, albiet ten years after the fact, served. I am proud that our president said yesterday, behind closed doors, we will carry the burden of power under nearly impossible circumstances, we will suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, we will steadfastly pursue our commitment to democracy and the tenants of existing in a Republic. But we will not have hands laid upon us. We will not negotiate through violence. And we will never stop hunting for the unfortunate souls who think otherwise.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Another Play, Another Film.
It has been my experience that there is absolutely no reason whatsoever why some auditions simply fly and others fall like a dead rock. It seems to have nothing to do with preparation or lack of preparation or anything else for that matter. This happened to me this week, in fact, and I was just as confused as to why as the people sitting behind the table.
The first audition shall remain anonymous. My agent called and asked if this was a project I'd be interested in doing. I said no. I really wasn't. Nonetheless, there were going to be some relatively important people in the room and he wanted them to see me for future gigs. We both agreed if they offered me something I'd turn it down. But, as he said (and rightly so) being somewhat of a newbie out here in LA it would good to at least get on their radar. So I go in and do my thing and it was just tragic. A terrible audition; phony, presentational, and pretty much all-around bad. I don't know why. I honestly was doing the best I could. But even in the midst of the audition I knew I was failing miserably and I couldn't do anything about it. The harder I tried to get back on the rails, the worse it got. I finally finished and left the room in a bit of a daze. Completely clueless as to why I couldn't find the zone.
The very next day I had an audition, about which I'll go into more detail later, for a project I found interesting (I've reached a point in my career and life where, unless there's a ton of money involved, I won't consider doing something that doesn't engage me). The audition soared. I hit all the right notes. What's more, during the audition I KNEW I was hitting all the right notes. And by 'notes' I don't mean musically. I mean, I instinctively knew I was nailing it AS I was nailing it. And sure enough, before the day was over I had been offered the gig. Which I accepted.
I had made a half-hearted decision to concentrate on film and television for the next year or so rather than live performance. Lots of reasons for that and not all of them money, believe it or not. So when my agent sent me the script and breakdown for this project I only glanced at it at first. Which was a mistake. Because as I started looking at the whole script (at this point I didn't know who was involved in the piece) it became clear this was an extraordinarily good piece of writing. And that's a rare thing in LA, the city that brought us The A-Team and Saved By the Bell.
The play is called 'The Interlopers' and it's been written by a regular writer for the television series 'The Shield' named Gary Lennon. Gary has written lots of other stuff but 'The Shield' is probably the most recognizable. It's a fascinating piece, sort of a Romeo and Juliet for transgenders and it's smart stuff. It's being directed by Jim Fall, a guy who's made his name doing some really edgy film work, highly lauded in the press. And of course, like Romeo and Juliet, I'm obviously not doing either of the lead roles but rather a strong, fun supporting role. Which is just fine with me. My last two outings on the stage have been projects that required me to carry the show and frankly I wanted to avoid that again. For one thing it's utterly exhausting. And for another I just didn't want to step up to the plate again and be expected to hit a home run. I kinda like the idea of hitting a double and contributing to the game as a whole, if that makes any sense.
Rehearsals start this week and the play opens in June and runs through July at a wonderful space called The Bootleg Theatre. The Bootleg is sort of the Tom Waits of theatre venues here in town. It is a space that has gained a very loyal following by doing exceptionally edgy stuff. It has a reputation for grungy excellence.
But back to my original thesis. I have no idea why one reading was so much better than the other. It certainly wasn't through lack of effort on my part to do one better than the other. And I don't think it had anything to do with my interest for the project. No, it was simply that one 'felt' right and the other didn't. And frankly that's about as close as I can come to the meat of that subject. As they say in Shakespeare in Love, "It's a mystery."
In other news, this weekend I'm shooting a short film with my buddy, John Bader, and the wonderful director Adrian Fulle (feature film director for LOVE 101 and Shiloh Falls). We've worked out all the details finally in pre-production and start shooting on Saturday morning. Should be fun if nothing else and of course, it's always a pleasure to work with top of the line talent like John and Adrian.
And finally, Angie and I watched (neither of us had seen it before, strangely enough) Barton Fink last night. And I can't decide if it's brilliant or pretentious. I'm leaning toward brilliant, but I can't decide why. It's one of those films I have to think on for awhile.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. We're off this morning to meet another friend of mine about yet another possible film project (I've come to the conclusion that in Southern Cal instead of the phrase 'Life is what you do while you're busy making other plans' it should be 'Meetings are what you do while busy making other plans').
Oh, and for my Los Angeles readers, if you haven't tried or experienced Handy Market's tri-tip BBQ (only available on Saturdays in Burbank on Magnolia)you should. It is truly a small slice of heaven.
See you tomorrow.
The first audition shall remain anonymous. My agent called and asked if this was a project I'd be interested in doing. I said no. I really wasn't. Nonetheless, there were going to be some relatively important people in the room and he wanted them to see me for future gigs. We both agreed if they offered me something I'd turn it down. But, as he said (and rightly so) being somewhat of a newbie out here in LA it would good to at least get on their radar. So I go in and do my thing and it was just tragic. A terrible audition; phony, presentational, and pretty much all-around bad. I don't know why. I honestly was doing the best I could. But even in the midst of the audition I knew I was failing miserably and I couldn't do anything about it. The harder I tried to get back on the rails, the worse it got. I finally finished and left the room in a bit of a daze. Completely clueless as to why I couldn't find the zone.
The very next day I had an audition, about which I'll go into more detail later, for a project I found interesting (I've reached a point in my career and life where, unless there's a ton of money involved, I won't consider doing something that doesn't engage me). The audition soared. I hit all the right notes. What's more, during the audition I KNEW I was hitting all the right notes. And by 'notes' I don't mean musically. I mean, I instinctively knew I was nailing it AS I was nailing it. And sure enough, before the day was over I had been offered the gig. Which I accepted.
I had made a half-hearted decision to concentrate on film and television for the next year or so rather than live performance. Lots of reasons for that and not all of them money, believe it or not. So when my agent sent me the script and breakdown for this project I only glanced at it at first. Which was a mistake. Because as I started looking at the whole script (at this point I didn't know who was involved in the piece) it became clear this was an extraordinarily good piece of writing. And that's a rare thing in LA, the city that brought us The A-Team and Saved By the Bell.
The play is called 'The Interlopers' and it's been written by a regular writer for the television series 'The Shield' named Gary Lennon. Gary has written lots of other stuff but 'The Shield' is probably the most recognizable. It's a fascinating piece, sort of a Romeo and Juliet for transgenders and it's smart stuff. It's being directed by Jim Fall, a guy who's made his name doing some really edgy film work, highly lauded in the press. And of course, like Romeo and Juliet, I'm obviously not doing either of the lead roles but rather a strong, fun supporting role. Which is just fine with me. My last two outings on the stage have been projects that required me to carry the show and frankly I wanted to avoid that again. For one thing it's utterly exhausting. And for another I just didn't want to step up to the plate again and be expected to hit a home run. I kinda like the idea of hitting a double and contributing to the game as a whole, if that makes any sense.
Rehearsals start this week and the play opens in June and runs through July at a wonderful space called The Bootleg Theatre. The Bootleg is sort of the Tom Waits of theatre venues here in town. It is a space that has gained a very loyal following by doing exceptionally edgy stuff. It has a reputation for grungy excellence.
But back to my original thesis. I have no idea why one reading was so much better than the other. It certainly wasn't through lack of effort on my part to do one better than the other. And I don't think it had anything to do with my interest for the project. No, it was simply that one 'felt' right and the other didn't. And frankly that's about as close as I can come to the meat of that subject. As they say in Shakespeare in Love, "It's a mystery."
In other news, this weekend I'm shooting a short film with my buddy, John Bader, and the wonderful director Adrian Fulle (feature film director for LOVE 101 and Shiloh Falls). We've worked out all the details finally in pre-production and start shooting on Saturday morning. Should be fun if nothing else and of course, it's always a pleasure to work with top of the line talent like John and Adrian.
And finally, Angie and I watched (neither of us had seen it before, strangely enough) Barton Fink last night. And I can't decide if it's brilliant or pretentious. I'm leaning toward brilliant, but I can't decide why. It's one of those films I have to think on for awhile.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. We're off this morning to meet another friend of mine about yet another possible film project (I've come to the conclusion that in Southern Cal instead of the phrase 'Life is what you do while you're busy making other plans' it should be 'Meetings are what you do while busy making other plans').
Oh, and for my Los Angeles readers, if you haven't tried or experienced Handy Market's tri-tip BBQ (only available on Saturdays in Burbank on Magnolia)you should. It is truly a small slice of heaven.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
NYC Memories.
Blogging about The White Horse Tavern yesterday got me to thinking about a number of old haunts in NYC back in the eighties and nineties when I lived there. Disney and Giuliani hadn't yet arrived on the scene in those days and parts of NY were still pretty much the old west. Midtown most certainly was still something from a Fellini movie in those days and from 110th street and up on the West Side, it was definitely off limits. Now, of course, neither of those things are true. Midtown is now an extension of Disney World and Harlem is Clinton Country.
For a couple of years I lived up in Washington Heights on the Upper West and one could always jump on the A train Express and bypass Harlem. Naturally, once I got off in the wrong place, walked out of the subway station at 125th and was immediately surrounded by about five or six cops. They walked me back down to the station and put me on the train. In 1987, 125th street was no place for a stupid, white kid from the midwest to be blithely sashaying about.
A buddy of mine from those days, Greg Orosz, emailed me yesterday about our many times at The White Horse Tavern. In fact, Greg had acted in one of my plays, 'Changing it to Brando', and would toddle over to the tavern with me after rehearsals. But mostly, as I recall, Greg and I would drink at a place around the corner from where we both worked, an old Irish pub with wood walls and tin ceilings called 'Mulligans' on 33rd Street. In fact, Greg and I once sat in that place for hours inventing a new drink. We spent an enormous amount of money that night. We'd decided to invent a new tequila-based drink and the eager bartender (charging us for every mistake - and there were many) mixed away as we tasted each new concoction. I seem to vaguely remember ending up with an amazing drink but by that time we were both far too deep into the evening to remember what it was.
It's funny (and more than a little sad) but when Angie and I finally get a break in our schedule out here in LA and take that trip to NYC, most of the places I'll show her from my 'old' days will be various bars. I spent a good deal of time in bars back then, for better or worse. She once asked me, 'Did you ever go to the Statue of Liberty or the top of the Empire State Building or something like that?' Well, no. I mean, I worked in the Empire State Building for years but it never really occured to me to actually go to the top of it. And taking the time to go the Statue of Liberty seemed sheer insanity for one who actually lived in NYC.
Speaking of Greg Orosz, one of the places we frequented was a rehearsal space near the Times Square Howard Johnson's (which I believe is still there). It's where we had rehearsals for the play. Problem was immediately next door was a gay strip joint of the hard core variety. Which was fine, but the problem was the two doors were identical, as were the stairs one had to traverse to enter the respective places. On more than one occasion we quite innocently found ourselves accidentally walking into the strip club before rehearsal only to turn around and descend the stairs again to find the right door.
Usually, after rehearsal in midtown, we'd head over to a place called 'Charlie's' for drinks. I always liked that place and it was a great place to spot celebrities working on Broadway. I ran into Elaine Stritch there one night nearly five years before we actually did a show together. She didn't remember, of course, but I did. Also sat next to Tim Hutton once at the bar and drank the night away. Later still, I did a play directed by the late Patrick O'Neal and sat there with him drinking about thirty bottles of red wine and listening to him hold court about the old days in the fifties in New York. Patrick had been the original T. Lawrence Shannon in the Tennessee Williams' play, 'Night of the Iguana.' He'd worked with Bette Davis in that play and had some jaw-dropping stories to tell about her. Ironically, Angie and I now live quite literally about fifty yards from the old Bette Davis ranch here in LA.
Later still, we rehearsed another play of mine, 'Golden Eggs', at the National Shakespeare Conservatory in the East Village. This is when I first discovered The Spring Street Lounge. As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, it was quite a find. The tourists hadn't yet discovered this joint thmeselves yet, so it was still a true blue NY place; sawdust floors, mismatched tables and chairs, writers, both playwrights and novelists, sitting around scribbling longhand on pads, either Sinatra or Springsteen blaring from the ancient juke box. This is where I met Lanford Wilson one afternoon writing away. Also Mailer and Jay McInerney were often in there. One night Sean Penn was in there doing shots with Martin Sheen. It was a cool place, to say the least, and I think it's gone now, alas. One had to know the bar was there because there was absolutely nothing on the outside to indicate there was a pub inside; only a big, bright red, metal door. No sign whatsoever. In fact, I wrote the entire script for 'Golden Eggs' in that place in a corner by the bathrooms, sitting there afternoon after afternoon, nursing a couple of beers for hours and scribbling away. One day, about a month before we began production on it, my late friend, Robert Fiedler met me there. I showed him the script (I hadn't even typed it yet, it was all still in longhand). He wandered over to a table by himself and sat and read it for about an hour. Afterwards he came back to the bar and sat beside me and said quickly, "If you change one word of this you're a fucking idiot." We never mentioned it for the rest of the night. And I never changed a word.
I'm glad I lived in NY when I did. As John Malkovich once said, "You can't afford to be a starving artist in New York anymore. It's better to starve somewhere else." He's right. New York is not a place to be poor. I think I was there in the last decade where it was possible to still be poor and also barely afford to live there. I think the days of moving to NY after college to 'try and make it' are long gone. 'Tis a pity, really. What an extraordinary city it was and is. And maybe it's just retrospective falsification, but it's still my favorite city in the world. Sometimes my students ask me what it was like to live in NY in those days. I tell them I had a love/hate relationship with the city...some days I'd wake up and rather be anywhere else in the world but there. Other days I'd get up in the morning and rather be nowhere else in the world. That was the singular allure of New York City for me.
See you tomorrow.
For a couple of years I lived up in Washington Heights on the Upper West and one could always jump on the A train Express and bypass Harlem. Naturally, once I got off in the wrong place, walked out of the subway station at 125th and was immediately surrounded by about five or six cops. They walked me back down to the station and put me on the train. In 1987, 125th street was no place for a stupid, white kid from the midwest to be blithely sashaying about.
A buddy of mine from those days, Greg Orosz, emailed me yesterday about our many times at The White Horse Tavern. In fact, Greg had acted in one of my plays, 'Changing it to Brando', and would toddle over to the tavern with me after rehearsals. But mostly, as I recall, Greg and I would drink at a place around the corner from where we both worked, an old Irish pub with wood walls and tin ceilings called 'Mulligans' on 33rd Street. In fact, Greg and I once sat in that place for hours inventing a new drink. We spent an enormous amount of money that night. We'd decided to invent a new tequila-based drink and the eager bartender (charging us for every mistake - and there were many) mixed away as we tasted each new concoction. I seem to vaguely remember ending up with an amazing drink but by that time we were both far too deep into the evening to remember what it was.
It's funny (and more than a little sad) but when Angie and I finally get a break in our schedule out here in LA and take that trip to NYC, most of the places I'll show her from my 'old' days will be various bars. I spent a good deal of time in bars back then, for better or worse. She once asked me, 'Did you ever go to the Statue of Liberty or the top of the Empire State Building or something like that?' Well, no. I mean, I worked in the Empire State Building for years but it never really occured to me to actually go to the top of it. And taking the time to go the Statue of Liberty seemed sheer insanity for one who actually lived in NYC.
Speaking of Greg Orosz, one of the places we frequented was a rehearsal space near the Times Square Howard Johnson's (which I believe is still there). It's where we had rehearsals for the play. Problem was immediately next door was a gay strip joint of the hard core variety. Which was fine, but the problem was the two doors were identical, as were the stairs one had to traverse to enter the respective places. On more than one occasion we quite innocently found ourselves accidentally walking into the strip club before rehearsal only to turn around and descend the stairs again to find the right door.
Usually, after rehearsal in midtown, we'd head over to a place called 'Charlie's' for drinks. I always liked that place and it was a great place to spot celebrities working on Broadway. I ran into Elaine Stritch there one night nearly five years before we actually did a show together. She didn't remember, of course, but I did. Also sat next to Tim Hutton once at the bar and drank the night away. Later still, I did a play directed by the late Patrick O'Neal and sat there with him drinking about thirty bottles of red wine and listening to him hold court about the old days in the fifties in New York. Patrick had been the original T. Lawrence Shannon in the Tennessee Williams' play, 'Night of the Iguana.' He'd worked with Bette Davis in that play and had some jaw-dropping stories to tell about her. Ironically, Angie and I now live quite literally about fifty yards from the old Bette Davis ranch here in LA.
Later still, we rehearsed another play of mine, 'Golden Eggs', at the National Shakespeare Conservatory in the East Village. This is when I first discovered The Spring Street Lounge. As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, it was quite a find. The tourists hadn't yet discovered this joint thmeselves yet, so it was still a true blue NY place; sawdust floors, mismatched tables and chairs, writers, both playwrights and novelists, sitting around scribbling longhand on pads, either Sinatra or Springsteen blaring from the ancient juke box. This is where I met Lanford Wilson one afternoon writing away. Also Mailer and Jay McInerney were often in there. One night Sean Penn was in there doing shots with Martin Sheen. It was a cool place, to say the least, and I think it's gone now, alas. One had to know the bar was there because there was absolutely nothing on the outside to indicate there was a pub inside; only a big, bright red, metal door. No sign whatsoever. In fact, I wrote the entire script for 'Golden Eggs' in that place in a corner by the bathrooms, sitting there afternoon after afternoon, nursing a couple of beers for hours and scribbling away. One day, about a month before we began production on it, my late friend, Robert Fiedler met me there. I showed him the script (I hadn't even typed it yet, it was all still in longhand). He wandered over to a table by himself and sat and read it for about an hour. Afterwards he came back to the bar and sat beside me and said quickly, "If you change one word of this you're a fucking idiot." We never mentioned it for the rest of the night. And I never changed a word.
I'm glad I lived in NY when I did. As John Malkovich once said, "You can't afford to be a starving artist in New York anymore. It's better to starve somewhere else." He's right. New York is not a place to be poor. I think I was there in the last decade where it was possible to still be poor and also barely afford to live there. I think the days of moving to NY after college to 'try and make it' are long gone. 'Tis a pity, really. What an extraordinary city it was and is. And maybe it's just retrospective falsification, but it's still my favorite city in the world. Sometimes my students ask me what it was like to live in NY in those days. I tell them I had a love/hate relationship with the city...some days I'd wake up and rather be anywhere else in the world but there. Other days I'd get up in the morning and rather be nowhere else in the world. That was the singular allure of New York City for me.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Dylan Thomas and The White Horse Tavern.
Yesterday, Easter ("The High Holy Day for Believers," as a priest buddy of mine in NYC used to say in a tremulous voice), Angie and I traveled over to some friends in Torrance. I'd never been to Torrance, nor had I ever heard of it, but it was a fun day, nonetheless. In any event, as the various guests came and left, I found myself at one point in the kitchen with our friend, Mark Lipps (Mark is a honcho with FOX out here in LA)and another fellow, Tom, a novelist with some six books under his belt so far, talking about 'the old days' in NYC. We'd all lived there at one point or another, Mark and Tom before I got there in 1985. Mark was remembering some times he spent with the vestiges of the old Warhol gang from the 'Factory' and Tom was going back even further with memories of The Village when it was truly 'The Village.'
The great thing about New York is that at one point or another everyone has been in the same place and can pinpoint that place and everyone can see it clearly in his or her mind's eye. In this particular instance we began, quite unpremeditatedly, remembering the legendary White Horse Tavern down on 11th and Hudson.
The White Horse was the first place, outside of my hotel, that I visited upon moving to NYC. It was May 5th, 1985, and after I'd checked into my hotel (the then decrepit but now quite oppulent Paramount Hotel) I flagged a cab and asked to be taken to The White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village. I had my reasons.
It's amazing how much more courage (or in this case, naivety) one has at the age of 24 than one has at, say, the age of 50. So I flagged a cab and off I went. Fortunately, this was back in the days when cabbies spoke English.
It was about 3:00 in the afternoon and when I entered the venerable, old pub, it was empty. Just me and the bartender. I swaggered to the bar (my mindset in those days was to always appear supremely confident even though I hadn't the vaguest idea where I was half the time) and asked the bartender where Dylan Thomas was sitting when he drank 18 straight bourbon shots and then fell face down on the bar and died of alcohol poisoning.
He glanced up from what he was doing and said casually, "English major, huh? First day in New York?" I hesitated, "Um, yes." He smiled. "Right over there." Naturally, I thought I was being quite original coming to The White Horse to see where the great Welsh writer had died. Apparently not.
Today I'm told there is a small plaque at that place at the bar commemorating the spot. Back then, there was no plaque. So I sat at the very spot where Thomas had keeled over and ordered a beer. I sat there for a bit and then asked where Belushi always drank. He pointed to a table across the bar and I walked over there and sat for awhile. Belushi and Akroid used to come to The White Horse, without fail, after doing SNL back in the mid-seventies. The place was just full of self-destructive history. As I sat there, I remembered that this is also where Burton would drink after doing his famous Hamlet in 1964. Norman Mailer had once passed out in this joint and Charles Bukowski had once called it 'the perfect bar.'
A few years later, while I was doing one of my plays ('Changing it to Brando') the cast and crew and I would retire to this place after the show to drink until 5am. A few years after that I would be sitting outside with a buddy (there was a small sidewalk area for drinking) when a homeless guy jumped the fence and grabbed my pint of beer and ran off. Another time I was in there and a guy came in and tried to sell me a watch. I told him to beat it. But he was persistant and I ended up buying the watch for two bucks just to get rid of him. A few weeks later I discovered he'd sold me a real Cartier Tank Watch for two dollars. I wore that $3,000 watch (I had it appraised) for years. And a few years after that The White Horse was the last place I visited before moving to Chicago.
It turned out to be the place to meet in my NYC days. In those days there were four of us who regularly would meet up after our respective plays in NY to spend the evening drinking. John, Jeff, Robert and myself. Robert has since died, John is now out here in LA with me and Jeff is in Colorado teaching computer stuff to people. But at the time we were constantly in the maelstrom of the NYC nightlife and most of the time our long nightly trek would begin at The Whitehorse. From there we would usually walk over to 'the bar on Jane Street' (none of us ever knew the name of it) or to The Spring Street Lounge, a favorite haunt of ours because there were only two artists on the juke box (Sinatra and Springsteen) and only two things to order (Budweiser and Jack Daniels). They don't make 'em like that bar anymore.
I remember getting a bottle thrown at my head one night at The White Horse because I drunkenly berated a yuppie for daring to drink a frozen drink while sitting at the Dylan Thomas spot. The subsequent battle raged into the street (Hudson) and I recall narrowly avoiding a trip to jail that night. It seemed important to me at the time to express my feelings about a Pina Colada being drank at the very spot where Dylan Thomas had fallen. It somehow just seemed terribly wrong. I remember one of the cops that night saying to me, "I'd slap the bastard, too, if I were you." A literate cop...who would've suspected?
Someday I'll take Angie to that spot in The White Horse Tavern and although I don't drink anymore, I'll have a refreshing club soda and give her the oral history of Dylan Thomas and 'Under Milk Wood' and 'Death and Entrances' and a slice of my youth when arrogance and ignorance permeated the days and nights and everything and nothing was possible. The cool thing about my wife is that she'll undoubtedly be as reverential about the whole thing as I was back in those halcyon days in the spring of 1985.
I'm told the small, brass plaque attached just underneath the lip of the bar in that hallowed spot reads simply, "Dylan Thomas sat and died here - November 9, 1953." Not coincidentally, I'd like to think, the day I moved to Los Angeles and watched my whole world change.
See you tomorrow.
The great thing about New York is that at one point or another everyone has been in the same place and can pinpoint that place and everyone can see it clearly in his or her mind's eye. In this particular instance we began, quite unpremeditatedly, remembering the legendary White Horse Tavern down on 11th and Hudson.
The White Horse was the first place, outside of my hotel, that I visited upon moving to NYC. It was May 5th, 1985, and after I'd checked into my hotel (the then decrepit but now quite oppulent Paramount Hotel) I flagged a cab and asked to be taken to The White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village. I had my reasons.
It's amazing how much more courage (or in this case, naivety) one has at the age of 24 than one has at, say, the age of 50. So I flagged a cab and off I went. Fortunately, this was back in the days when cabbies spoke English.
It was about 3:00 in the afternoon and when I entered the venerable, old pub, it was empty. Just me and the bartender. I swaggered to the bar (my mindset in those days was to always appear supremely confident even though I hadn't the vaguest idea where I was half the time) and asked the bartender where Dylan Thomas was sitting when he drank 18 straight bourbon shots and then fell face down on the bar and died of alcohol poisoning.
He glanced up from what he was doing and said casually, "English major, huh? First day in New York?" I hesitated, "Um, yes." He smiled. "Right over there." Naturally, I thought I was being quite original coming to The White Horse to see where the great Welsh writer had died. Apparently not.
Today I'm told there is a small plaque at that place at the bar commemorating the spot. Back then, there was no plaque. So I sat at the very spot where Thomas had keeled over and ordered a beer. I sat there for a bit and then asked where Belushi always drank. He pointed to a table across the bar and I walked over there and sat for awhile. Belushi and Akroid used to come to The White Horse, without fail, after doing SNL back in the mid-seventies. The place was just full of self-destructive history. As I sat there, I remembered that this is also where Burton would drink after doing his famous Hamlet in 1964. Norman Mailer had once passed out in this joint and Charles Bukowski had once called it 'the perfect bar.'
A few years later, while I was doing one of my plays ('Changing it to Brando') the cast and crew and I would retire to this place after the show to drink until 5am. A few years after that I would be sitting outside with a buddy (there was a small sidewalk area for drinking) when a homeless guy jumped the fence and grabbed my pint of beer and ran off. Another time I was in there and a guy came in and tried to sell me a watch. I told him to beat it. But he was persistant and I ended up buying the watch for two bucks just to get rid of him. A few weeks later I discovered he'd sold me a real Cartier Tank Watch for two dollars. I wore that $3,000 watch (I had it appraised) for years. And a few years after that The White Horse was the last place I visited before moving to Chicago.
It turned out to be the place to meet in my NYC days. In those days there were four of us who regularly would meet up after our respective plays in NY to spend the evening drinking. John, Jeff, Robert and myself. Robert has since died, John is now out here in LA with me and Jeff is in Colorado teaching computer stuff to people. But at the time we were constantly in the maelstrom of the NYC nightlife and most of the time our long nightly trek would begin at The Whitehorse. From there we would usually walk over to 'the bar on Jane Street' (none of us ever knew the name of it) or to The Spring Street Lounge, a favorite haunt of ours because there were only two artists on the juke box (Sinatra and Springsteen) and only two things to order (Budweiser and Jack Daniels). They don't make 'em like that bar anymore.
I remember getting a bottle thrown at my head one night at The White Horse because I drunkenly berated a yuppie for daring to drink a frozen drink while sitting at the Dylan Thomas spot. The subsequent battle raged into the street (Hudson) and I recall narrowly avoiding a trip to jail that night. It seemed important to me at the time to express my feelings about a Pina Colada being drank at the very spot where Dylan Thomas had fallen. It somehow just seemed terribly wrong. I remember one of the cops that night saying to me, "I'd slap the bastard, too, if I were you." A literate cop...who would've suspected?
Someday I'll take Angie to that spot in The White Horse Tavern and although I don't drink anymore, I'll have a refreshing club soda and give her the oral history of Dylan Thomas and 'Under Milk Wood' and 'Death and Entrances' and a slice of my youth when arrogance and ignorance permeated the days and nights and everything and nothing was possible. The cool thing about my wife is that she'll undoubtedly be as reverential about the whole thing as I was back in those halcyon days in the spring of 1985.
I'm told the small, brass plaque attached just underneath the lip of the bar in that hallowed spot reads simply, "Dylan Thomas sat and died here - November 9, 1953." Not coincidentally, I'd like to think, the day I moved to Los Angeles and watched my whole world change.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Death and Taxes
Yesterday Angie was doing our taxes for a few hours. It was a lot like that scene in 'A Christmas Story' when Darren McGavin (the father) has to fix the basement furnace. A subdued yet continuous string of expletives coming from the office. I thought it wise to stay out of it.
As an actor, one can deduct nearly everything. Especially if one is on the road. It's something I learned a long, long time ago in NYC when my tax guy would prepare my taxes for me. In any event, Angie was in the midst of tax hell for quite awhile last night. Late in the evening we made a dash for a late night post office in Burbank and got them off in the nick of time.
Interestingly, on the way home we both had a bit of an epiphany about things financial in our lives. We realized how lucky we were. How we were so incredibly blessed to have a great home, plenty of food to eat, a nice car, two perfect dogs and a ridiculous amount of comfort around us. We were startled to have this information rush to us at the same time. Regardless what happens to us on a day to day basis, the little things, the annoying, small, life things...we are, for the most part, living a life of unabashed contentment. It's a good thing to realize now and again.
We had a little health scare a few days ago. Angie's stepfather, a very good man indeed, had a small stroke. Of course at first we didn't realize it was a small stroke and spent most of an entire day worrying and waiting for information. We think, although with these sorts of things one can never be sure, it's all fix-able. Or at least manageable. I have enormous respect for Angie's stepdad and was quite disturbed by the news.
I was thinking about it last night as we were wending our way through Burbank's myriad backstreets to get to the post office on time. Death and taxes. Two things, as unpleasant as they are, that eventually loom in everyone's life like a murder of crows on the telephone lines in the front of our homes. Unavoidable and, for most of us, unspeakable. I am always reminded of an interview I once read with the lifelong hypochondriacal Woody Allen, "If any of us knew how quickly we were rushing toward the void we would be too frightened to get out of bed everyday."
Angie and I had a brief, albeit serious, conversation the other night about what to do with our remains when or if one of us 'goes' first. We both favor cremation. It was a sobering exchange for both of us.
As one gets older it's important to at least consider the possibility of one's demise, I think. For myself I have lived, at times, a life of near total disregard for health and longevity. Angie, as always, is far more pragmatic about these things.
So with the recent 'death and taxes' reality in our lives, I keep thinking of the old phrase, 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' Or the only good line in the Scorcese movie, The Departed. 'How's your mother?' 'She's dying.' 'We all are. Act accordingly.'
See you tomorrow.
As an actor, one can deduct nearly everything. Especially if one is on the road. It's something I learned a long, long time ago in NYC when my tax guy would prepare my taxes for me. In any event, Angie was in the midst of tax hell for quite awhile last night. Late in the evening we made a dash for a late night post office in Burbank and got them off in the nick of time.
Interestingly, on the way home we both had a bit of an epiphany about things financial in our lives. We realized how lucky we were. How we were so incredibly blessed to have a great home, plenty of food to eat, a nice car, two perfect dogs and a ridiculous amount of comfort around us. We were startled to have this information rush to us at the same time. Regardless what happens to us on a day to day basis, the little things, the annoying, small, life things...we are, for the most part, living a life of unabashed contentment. It's a good thing to realize now and again.
We had a little health scare a few days ago. Angie's stepfather, a very good man indeed, had a small stroke. Of course at first we didn't realize it was a small stroke and spent most of an entire day worrying and waiting for information. We think, although with these sorts of things one can never be sure, it's all fix-able. Or at least manageable. I have enormous respect for Angie's stepdad and was quite disturbed by the news.
I was thinking about it last night as we were wending our way through Burbank's myriad backstreets to get to the post office on time. Death and taxes. Two things, as unpleasant as they are, that eventually loom in everyone's life like a murder of crows on the telephone lines in the front of our homes. Unavoidable and, for most of us, unspeakable. I am always reminded of an interview I once read with the lifelong hypochondriacal Woody Allen, "If any of us knew how quickly we were rushing toward the void we would be too frightened to get out of bed everyday."
Angie and I had a brief, albeit serious, conversation the other night about what to do with our remains when or if one of us 'goes' first. We both favor cremation. It was a sobering exchange for both of us.
As one gets older it's important to at least consider the possibility of one's demise, I think. For myself I have lived, at times, a life of near total disregard for health and longevity. Angie, as always, is far more pragmatic about these things.
So with the recent 'death and taxes' reality in our lives, I keep thinking of the old phrase, 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' Or the only good line in the Scorcese movie, The Departed. 'How's your mother?' 'She's dying.' 'We all are. Act accordingly.'
See you tomorrow.
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