Last Tango in Los Angeles: Father's Day.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Father's Day.: "I have a couple of close friends who are fathers. Which always surprises me because I knew them when they were mostly just sons. I don't ..."

Father's Day.

I have a couple of close friends who are fathers. Which always surprises me because I knew them when they were mostly just sons.

I don't know where they learned to be fathers. Maybe watching Oprah over the years, maybe some book that's passed around in secret, maybe endless viewings of old 'Little House on the Prarie' reruns, I just don't know for sure.

But they're both pretty good at it as far as I can tell. One is a new father. He has a two year old and his wife is pregnant with another child right now. We spent a good deal of time over the years being less than perfect human beings together. We wallowed in our political incorrectness and jointly celebrated our myriad conquests over the years. We stayed up late together and got up early, daily swaggering through our narrow lives always keeping a crusty veneer over anything remotely resembling vulnerability.

We leapt in and out of romantic entanglements like a night in a bouncy room, steering clear of anything out and out crass but at the same time firmly clutching, like some sort of ephemeral trophy, our pride in ducking the commitment bullet time and again. Wearing our bachelorhood like a shiny pendants.

Today, he doesn't take calls on Saturdays and Sundays because that time is 'baby time.' Today he routinely sleeps on the floor beside his daughter's small bed when she has trouble drifting off. Today, everything in his life that does not directly impact his baby girl holds a distant interest on his 'to-do' list. He works to make money so he might spend it all on her or her future. He plans for schools and play trips and even college in all his spare time. Whenever we speak I hear first about her and then, when he's done boasting, about him. Nothing comes before his daughter, nothing. He is half the man I used to know, not because he's half the man but because he now only has half to share.

My other buddy adopted two little girls, both with special needs. Not serious, overt, physical special needs, but the kind of needs that come from growing up in foster homes and feeling unloved. The kind of special needs that come from living without immediate grown-up protection and approval. And love. He and his wife adopted them and are making a beautiful home for them. He, too, learned somewhere how to make them the explosive priority in his life somewhere along the line. Don't know where. This is a guy that matched me nearly tequila shot for shot on the sawdust floors of New York City's dingiest bars for about a decade, all the while arguing violently about the place of art in our lives and in the world, shouting down mediocrity and drawing up war plans for life without compromise. Now he matches their outfits before they go out and gently scolds them with ten minutes of 'quiet time' if they get a little rambunctious. Now he's a guy that carefully monitors what they watch on television, which movies they see, what words they hear.

And both of them know, by heart, dozens of songs from Hannah Montana and Barney. They could sing them if awakened in the dead of sleep on a winter night at three in the morning. They are both armed to the teeth with reassurance.

And because I am perceptive to the point of clinical diagnosis regarding the slightest facial tick or change in countenence (it's what I do for a living), I sometimes see fleeting and shadowed fear and concern and protectiveness wash over their faces, my two close friends, as they cluck and wade through their little ones. And I am astonished.

I've known them both for a good many years, well over a quarter century, and these are minute muscle configurations I've never once seen allign on their faces before. It's new face, a new thought-pattern, a new concern and it often takes me completely off guard. And I realize it is the face of a father. Not the face of my friends, my goaded and cynical, life-charging friends, but the face of a man with babies. It confuses me and makes me envious and surprises me and makes me think about it later when they've gone.

It is the face of inevitability. Of responsibility. Of love and self-sacrifice. Of total devotion, come hell or high water.

Today my two father friends are on my mind. My sleep-deprived, love-swollen, agenda-planning, face-lined friends, both battling, against unspeakable odds, to make a perfect world in their little corner of the universe for their kids. Both constantly second-guessing themselves, right out in public for everyone to see, both shouldering an unimaginably heavy boulder made up of choices and decisions, their eyes searching down one road and then the other, blindly trying to choose the one less traveled, the one less threatening, the one less painful, the one that will be kinder in the end to their daughters. It's an awesome and humbling sight.

Happy Father's Day to my two, old warrior friends. Happy Father's Day to you and your young families. Happy Father's Day to you both. Happy Father's Day, Jim and Jeff.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, opens tomorrow nig...

Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, opens tomorrow nig...: "So we open this new play, The Interlopers, this Friday. Tomorrow, in fact. And I have to say, I have not worked with a finer bunch of ac..."

The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, opens tomorrow night. Bootleg Theatre. Los Angeles.

So we open this new play, The Interlopers, this Friday. Tomorrow, in fact. And I have to say, I have not worked with a finer bunch of actors and crew in quite some time. There are no weak links. There is an old adage which applies to the theater, "A show is only as good as the weakest actor in it." And, although perhaps a bit harsh, it's true. And to be completely honest, there is usually a weak actor. I am beside myself with satisfaction to note there is no weak link in this bunch, a startlingly talented group of artists. I am, quite frankly, delighted to be involved.

From the top on down, playwright Gary Lennon has written an astonishingly original love story. Jim Fall is directing with a sensitivity rarely seen in this sometimes garrish business. Diarra Kilpatrick, Trevor Peterson, RD Call, Tara Karsian, Paul Ella, Leandro Cana and Darryl Stephens are, quite simply, as good as it gets. The show is impeccably cast.

Long-time readers of this blog will no doubt be a tad surprised at my unabashed optimism. But it's all absolutely true. Having done about 120 or so professional productions over the years, I have come to deeply appreciate it when a cast comes together like this one. Everyone is on the same page, everyone is, well, just good at what they do. In addition, it's the funniest bunch of theatre artists I've run across in a long, long time. We just finished two marathon rehearsals incorporating all the tech stuff, lighting, sound, projections, costumes, transitions, and I can't remember laughing so much during this unavoidably tension-laden juncture of a production.

I thought about this a bit last night and I think one of the reasons this is the case is because I see no second guessing taking place. There is an inordinate amount of trust in this piece. Trust of the writing (which is top notch), the directing (which is most definitely assured and muscular), the acting (which honestly just doesn't get much better), and the tech (which is all there when it should be there and what's more, perfectly pitched to the play itself).

Now, the unvarnished truth is, ninety nine percent of the time in this business, there's usually that one guy that's disgruntled, a little Napoleonic, a bit of a control freak, that poisons, however slightly, the whole shebang with his (and when I say 'his,' I mean 'his' or 'her') attitude. Reminds me of a stage manager I once had, used to always say, "Wanna hear an actor bitch? Hire him." Well, not so here.

My wife said to me yesterday, "I have never seen you so calm during a rehearsal period." She's right. And it is precisely because everyone is so damn, well, GOOD, at what they do. Now granted, I'm not carrying this show as I did the last two I did here in LA, but that's not it, either.

In the last thing I did here there was that one guy that, for whatever reason, was under the misguided impression he was running the show, that his work was far more important than everyone else's, that he alone possessed the secret formula to a successful play. And of course, over time, this attitude infects the entire proceeding with a layer of negativity. This happens more often than not with younger artists, that haven't yet learned that they are responsible for mowing the grass in their yard only, that other people will take care of their own lawns.

And usually the only thing to do is to say, at some point during the process, 'Hey, just stop. I've got this. This is what I do. You do what you do.'

I have no idea whatsoever if we have a hit. I think we do. But one never knows. We have a preview tonight and we'll probably get an inkling as to where we are. And of course tomorrow night in front of a full house. But over the years I've developed a sense for these things, through sheer trial and error, and if I were a betting man, I'd put money on this one.

Another aspect I've noticed over the past couple of weeks is the clear difference between ego and confidence in this bunch of artists. It's a fine line, but unmistakable. When casts like this come around it's such a pleasure to just sit back and enjoy it. Yes, there's ego, there's always ego. But it comes from someplace. It comes from a history of excellence. It's good ego, positive, assured, not annoying. It doesn't come from fear. Everyone's lawn is spectacularly manicured.

I was chatting for a brief moment with Gary, the playwright, last night before I left. He said, quite casually and off hand, "I think everyone knows just how they fit in." That's a deceptively powerful statement. To the layman it may seem self-evident. It is not. It is a pronouncement of awesome confidence. In fact, it strikes to the very heart of the business of theatre...'everyone knows just how they fit in.'

RD Call, one of those actors that's forgotten more about acting than most of us ever learned, is giving a performance so grounded and intrinsic as to be sort of frightening. He's a force of nature, a quiet volcano that erupts now and then and makes us involuntarily gasp. Tara Karsian, in a supporting role both heart-breaking and hysterical, absolutely owns the stage when she steps on it. And in addition, has that wonderful ability to undercut a line like nobody's business. There's always that glimmer of chaos and mischief in her eye that keeps one riveted. Darryl Stephens (whom I'd met a year or so ago when I was doing Praying Small) has taken a role that would, in lesser hands, be a cliche diversion, to a sort of tragic understanding. It's a remarkably intelligent performance. Leandro Cana, a very big guy with the soul of a small guy, does one of the hardest things to do onstage, be terrifying and gentle all at once. Quite a coup. Paul Ella, a new actor to LA, is in possession of one of those rare things in the theatre, the mysterious 'likable' factor. You just LIKE this guy, no matter what. Again, a small thing to the layman, a huge thing to the actor. And finally, Trevor Peterson and the extraordinary Diarra Kilpatrick in the two leading roles are seemingly incapable of being dishonest on stage. Trevor is doing something damned near impossible, playing shy but powerful all at once. And Diarra, one of the most talented young actresses I've seen in about ten years in this business, is miraculous. There's the old cliche about actors 'becoming' their characters. A misunderstood process most of the time (thank you Lee Strasberg) but in this particular case I suspect Diarra is in no danger of being recognized on the street as her character in this play. Her nightly transformation is, quite simply, stunning.

And there you have it. A very rare love letter to my fellow partners-in-crime. And all from the heart.

Our director, Jim Fall, is known as one of our finest, fearless, original film directors working today. He tells me he doesn't do a lot of theatre anymore, although like most true artists, he adores doing it and in some ways finds it more satisfying than film. Well, his lack of time to direct live theatre is our loss. He's got the eye. And very few people have 'the eye.' I can count on one hand the number of directors I've worked with over the last century or two who legitimately have 'the eye.'

I don't usually plug a project like I've just plugged this one. But I mean every word. This one is what theatre is supposed to be like. The kind of project that makes us all remember why we do this in the first place...the kind of play that makes us want to devote our lives to this silly business. It's kind of like playing golf all your life in the hopes of that one, great shot. Doesn't make sense to a lot of people. And that's okay. because it makes sense to us. This one is that one, great shot. The one that makes us get up the next day and play again.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: A New Brown Car

Last Tango in Los Angeles: A New Brown Car: "The New Car...except brown. We've been having problems with our car lately. We've got a Saturn. Gently used. In fact, we got it about ..."

A New Brown Car

The New Car...except brown.

We've been having problems with our car lately. We've got a Saturn. Gently used. In fact, we got it about a year ago. We traded our truck for it because the truck was using enough gas to heat the city of Wichita every week. I must admit, up until lately the Saturn has been a great car. But recently there have been some concerns.

First of all, it's leaking oil. Now, I know very little about cars. In fact, I'm the guy that once crumpled his own fender because I had a flat tire and couldn't remember if the jack attached to the fender or bumber. I had a 50/50 chance I figured and went with the fender. I was wrong.

But it's leaking oil. At least I think it's oil. It's dark and stains our driveway and it smells like the battle of the bulge. If it's not oil then we're being vandalized nightly by a very bad abstract artist.

Second of all, it won't start every now and then. The engine won't turn over because it's not getting, um, lightning bolts from the battery, or something like that. This happened yesterday.

We'd pulled into our bank's parking lot to do a little banking and turned the car off and then it wouldn't start. Angie, ever the quick-fixer, quickly asked a guy in a pick-up if he had some jumper cables. Thankfully, he did. Problem was he was as crazy as a shit-house rat.

He pulled his big truck over and attached the cables while I stood by trying to look masculine. He started talking about a girl who had just dumped him. He seemed to think we either knew this girl or were aware of the whole back-story. Angie, thinking fast, immediately began to pretend she did in fact know all about this unfortunate development in his romantic life and offered up pithy condolences. I, of course, just stared at him like a shot rabbit.

"The young ones, you'd think I'd know by now to steer clear of them."

"Huh?"

"Oh, yeah. She just walked away from me without a word, without a 'how do you do."

"Right. It's red on red and black on black, right?"

"Oh, she was a devil. A real princess. Stabbed me right in the center of my back."

"Yes, that must have been terrible. Uh, ready? Go ahead and try to start it, Angie."

"But I got her number. She'll be sorry. In fact, I've already lined up another bitch. Taking her out tonight, in fact."

"Uh, huh. Okay. Hit the gas, Angie."

"It's the young ones that get you. Right, buddy? Them damn young ones."

"Oh, yes. Well, thanks for the jump, buddy, and, uh, good luck with the new bitch."

I've never had a real knack for conversing with nutcakes. My first reaction is always a bit succinct. "Oh, shut up." Usually not the best course of action. But we got the Saturn started and came home.

So, I guess we have to start seriously thinking about either dumping some money into the old car or just get a new one. I told Angie I either want a Toyota Cruiser or a four-door Jeep. Not because I've done any research on these two vehicles but because they look a lot like big Matchbox cars.

I do know this, however, it is very important to have a least one reliable car in Los Angeles. I'm darting off daily to auditions these days, some big, some not so big, so it's paramount to have a reliable car. And, of course, we can't really afford a new one. Well, actually, we can, but that money has been ear-marked for other things, like new Playstation games and a trip to Gettysburg and new hair care products for Angie and a new flat-screen and some whole chickens from the Armenian Market.

I've never really been able to get close to people who know a lot about cars. They bore me. I tend to stagger and faint when the conversation drifts toward cars and their mysterious inner workings. My eyes roll up into my head and a wave of bored dizziness washes over me. I drop to the ground and convulse when they start talking about transmissions and viscocity and ball bearings and clutches. My father and brother could talk endlessly about cars and engines. When they did I would stand in a corner and quietly weep.

I've been known to deeply embarrass myself and my family by blurting out, "So, have you heard the new Mandy Patinkin CD?" when the backyard talk veers toward engines.

Be that as it may, we need a new car and being the male partner in the marriage it's my god-given duty to look up the options. I'm looking at brown ones. I've decided I want a brown one. Brown is a sturdy color for a car. Oh, and one that sits a little high up. I like to be high up. I like to look down at other cars on the freeway. And one that will peel out. Not that I would peel out, but I'd like to know I could if I wanted. And one that has that little camera that lets you see behind you when you back up. Not that I'm really all that interested in what's behind me when I back up, but because it's like having a little movie screen in your dashboard. In fact, I'd like to ask for one that saves the image so I can watch it later when I'm alone, sort of re-live the whole backing out experience. It's like making your own little home movie while leaving your driveway. And one that has a snooty British woman that talks to you from the GPS. For some reason I find I trust directions from British people more than Americans. Not so much the French. I don't trust the French will give me reliable directions. And comfortable back seats. I'm always a little concerned I might have to sleep in my backseat. I had to do that once in graduate school, locked out of the house by accident, and it haunts me to this day. It seems important to be able to stretch out and get a good night's sleep in the back seats should something similar happen again. And one that can outrun a tornado or tropical storm if I find myself being chased by one on the highway. I don't want to have to pull over and take my chances. I want to outrun them. I want to be like those over-actors in the movie, Twister, and shout things like, "It's a class 5 big one! Gun it! Let's get the hell out of here!" In fact, sometimes I do that in perfectly fine weather just to liven things up when I'm stuck in traffic.

I've written all these things down, listed in their order of importance, numbered paranthetically, with exclamation points after the ones that really matter. Like the color brown. That's a deal-breaker. It's brown or nothing as far as I'm concerned. I can sway a little on the tornado speed, but not the brown.

See you tomorrow.

Examining Good and Bad.

Brando

While waiting for tech stuff to be done yesterday in rehearsal I sat out on the nicely appointed wooden porch off the side of the theater chatting amiably with a couple of the other cast members. One was my buddy RD Call, a wonderful actor with whom I share the stage in this new play we're mounting, The Interlopers (Bootleg Theater, Los Angeles, June 17 thru July 23). As often happens with actors, we began talking about past performances, on both screen and stage, that we've admired over the years. RD has been around the block a few times in this wacky business out here in LA.

In any event, it turns out RD ran across Brando a few times in various capacities over the years. He told a few great stories about meeting him, Brando's singular eccentricities, his effect on other actors when they met him; I was enthralled, of course, being the Brando-phile that I am.

It's very telling when you meet and work with other actors that have the same sensibilities about what's 'good' work and what's 'bad' work. It encourages me. The first theater company I worked with when I moved out here was not quite like that. Whenever I spoke to the artistic director there and the conversation drifted to the same subject, he began to speak rather worshipfully of the work of 'the great Carol Channing in Dolly!" or 'the amazing Gwen Verdun in Damn Yankees!" Both perfectly nice performances, I'm sure, but not exactly what I'd characterize as life-changing. I began to suspect it might not be a good fit.

It's important to be on the same page in this business, to work with like-minded people. Not that it, ultimately, changes anything, but it's nice to have the same reference points. With this guy I would mention Brando ("Oh, he got so FAT!") or maybe Olivier ("He spoke so FAST!") or perhaps Richard Burton ("Liz Taylor was DIVINE, wasn't she?") and it just didn't quite hold the same gravitas for us both. Again, not that it matters when the rubber finally meets the road and the houselights dim on opening night...good work is good work, regardless of one's personal convictions.

Last night I was in bed early because my neck and shoulders were very sore due to an unfortunate traffic mishap earlier in the day. But my wife shares the same sense of nostalgia when it comes to classic film and iconic performances so she stayed up watching that old chestnut, Towering Inferno, on one of the uninterupted cable channels. She hadn't seen it for some two decades and was fascinated with the gaggle of star power in it. And I must admit, although a fairly forgetable movie, it is interesting to see the likes of Newman and Bill Holden and Steve McQueen handle the stilted dialogue like the great professionals they were. Newman, who always had a finely-tuned ear for crap did a lot of angst-ridden eye-shutting throughout, tilting his head upwards toward the heavens, eyes tight shut, and sort of whispering his lines as though maybe that would help change the fact that they were nearly unutterable in their idiocy. It's a valiant effort.

As I was sitting out with RD it became apparent we were both big fans of the stunning mini-series in the late eighties, Lonesome Dove. In fact, RD came damn close to actually doing it. He was up for a large role in it, but upon being offered it, had to turn it down due to another film committment. All these years later, he said he still regrets it. Can't blame him. It is, in my opinion, a watershed moment in television, and one would be hard-pressed to find a better performance than the one Tommy Lee Jones delivers in that piece. Simply awesome work. Not to mention Duvall's Emmy-winning turn.

So I always find a bit of comfort knowing that someone else sees what I see. It's probably a slight character flaw in me, but I tend to choose friends, like anyone else I suppose, based on our shared perceptions.

I remember shortly after I arrived in LA, I was invited to this staged reading. The aforementioned artistic director highly recommended it, saying he 'wept uncontrollably' throughout when he'd seen it in rehearsal. So Angie and I trotted over to give it a look. It was, of course, appallingly bad. In fact, it was my first inkling of why theatre in this town has gotten such a bad name. Simply jaw-droppingly awful. We sat there in a state of tharn, like Richard Adams' rabbits in Watership Down. I, too, fought the urge to weep uncontrollably although for entirely different reasons, I'm sure. In retrospect, it was probably good I'd seen it, however.

I rememeber turning to my wife later that night and saying, "You know, I may have a little trouble getting my work done here." And, of course, that turned out to be uncomfortably true.

F. Scott Fitzgerald famously said, "Sports, politics and religion are the three passions of the badly educated." He might have included theatre in that sentence. My point being just because I don't like something doesn't mean someone else will. Theatre, like music, is entirely subjective. As is film, as is television, as is dance, as is any artform, really. And that's the miracle of it, in the final analysis. I recall in chrystaline detail seeing Brando in Last Tango in Paris when I was an undergrad and being stunned, absolutely stunned, with his performance. Yet the young actor watching it with me, a good friend of mine, said, "Oh, I just don't buy that young, beautiful girl getting the hots for that overweight older guy." To my way of thinking he had missed the point entirely, yet it was his opinion and perfectly valid. Subjective. The film, Berolucci's best in my opinion, was well into the realm of impressionism and consequently his take on it was every bit as sensible as mine.

As I get older I have less passion or patience for the discussion of art; what is and what isn't, that is to say. As a young man in New York I would spend endless hours at various coffee shops in that city arguing vehemently with friends about what I thought was good work and bad work. Today, I'd just as soon have an emergency root canal done. One artist's path is simply not always shared. And it took me awhile, but I've come to believe that's a beautiful thing. The legendary Carol Channing's portrayal of Dolly Levi may only be amusing and diverting entertainment for me, but it is life-affirming and miraculous to someone else. Marlon Brando's slice of genius in On the Waterfront may be the very reason I do what I do, but pedestrian and artistically unsatisfying for someone else.

And that, I believe, is a good thing. A very good thing.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Bookshelves

Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Bookshelves: "My wife and I, ever the careful and vigilant shoppers, are still searching dilligently for the 'perfect' set of bookshelves for our front..."

The Bookshelves

My wife and I, ever the careful and vigilant shoppers, are still searching dilligently for the 'perfect' set of bookshelves for our front room. It's become an obsession, really. It fills our thoughts and daydreams daily. It has become the source of endless conversation, this quest for the holy bookshelves. Well, we may have found some. We saw them in a store yesterday afternoon, circled them warily, eying them with apprehension, occasionally darting in to pat them or run our hands quickly over the grain of the wood. We don't want to rush into anything yet at the same time we don't want to appear cautious should we decide to make them our own, assert our dominance over them. This morning we're going back to them to give them another once-over.

The thing is I would never have thought in a million years I could be so absorbed by such domesticity. Many years ago when I bought a vacuum cleaner for my first apartment alone in New York, I found myself sort of depressed for days because it seemed to herald a new era of adult behavior on my part. An unwelcome era, at that. Back then, anything remotely resembling something my parents might do saddened me no end. I fancied myself a rebel, a renegade, a man without a country, a loose cannon who sneered at the idea of a vacuum cleaner in his apartment.

I hid the vacuum cleaner from sight, tucked it away in a hall closet behind a plastic bag of empty beer cans, denied its existence. It became a symbol of encroaching adulthood that I found myself ill-equipped to accept. I bought it a few blocks from my second story walk-up in Astoria, Queens, and carried it, shame-faced and disgruntled, back to my bachelor's pad where I quickly used it to vacuum the rug and then hid it just as quickly in the musty closet and tried, unsuccessfully, to forget it.

I was thinkng about that long-ago, discarded vacuum cleaner yesterday as we sized up the new bookshelves. I'm not sure when or how it happens, this sudden recognition of one's surrender to the mundane, the acceptance of living comfortably, the pardigm shift that occurs in the brain when one is no longer satisfied with furniture left on the curb but rather begins to embrace the idea of buying furniture that is part of one's life. This is not a literary exaggeration; for years I furnished apartments through late-night scavenger hunting for old couches and chairs and kitchen tables left on the street. Back in the day, that was considered quite noble, in fact. It was a source of boasting.

"Cool couch, Man."

"Yeah, found that on 44th and Lex a few nights ago at four in the morning. Took me an hour to drag it home."

Well, those halcyon furniture days are gone now.

It's all part of aging gracefully, I suppose; learning to surrender the glory of youth and accepting the sturdiness of middle age. Old Thomas Wolfe was onto something when he famously insisted you can't go home again. It's true. You can't. Oh, you can visit sometimes, a night out with the boys, an irresponsible evening of slovenly behavior, a stubborn, unhealthy night of ignoring consequences. But that, too, is really a mirage, a few hours of denial. No, the truth is, eventually the vacuum cleaners and the bookshelves become the reality and the smoky, smirk-filled nights of tequila shots and psuedo wisdom become the dream. Man cannot live on presumption alone.

And, really, I don't mind it at all. Now, granted, I've lived a life of hedonism for the most part. 'Twas a badge of honor for nigh on two decades. But things happen, people slow down, arrogance subsides, children are born.

A few of my old friends and I are planning a two-week getaway in the fall. To the battleground site of Gettysburg, in fact. Not Mardi Gras, not the beaches of Miami, not rafting on the Colorado river, but a walking tour of a chapter in our high school history book. And what's more, we're all terribly excited about it. In fact, of the four of us going, three of us don't even drink any more. In the midst of setting up this Burmuda shorts-laden trip, I asked another buddy of mine to go, too. Called him on the phone. I outlined our plan. He said simply, "I have babies." And for a very brief moment I felt every day of my fifty years on the earth.

Growing up is not so bad. Even for scofflaw, ne'er-do-wells like myself. It just takes some adjusting to. It just takes minor shifts in one's thinking. The knee-jerk response to life wavers almost imperceptably from 'fuck you' to a heavy sigh. Acceptance is the key. As my wife can tell you, I doggedly hang on to many things adolescent. But I'd like to think they're the small things in life. And now, in complete reversal, the things of my youth, the attitudes and disdain of an orderly world, are tucked away mostly, hidden in a closet behind a plastic bag of empty Dr. Pepper cans. The bookshelves and vacuume cleaners of my life are right out front now, worked for and paid for, a part of my carefully matched living room furniture, color co-ordinated with my hardwood floor, as solid and comfortable as my marriage.

No, Thomas, you can't go home again. But you can make a new one. A better one. One of your choosing. One that matters.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Dresser

Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Dresser: "Sir Donald Wolfit. The famed British actor/manager. Although better than I used to be I still have an uncanny ability to screw up all thi..."