Yesterday was one of those days that a lot got done. Intentionally, or otherwise, a lot got done.
I like days like that.
I was up early, five-ish, so I could make what are known as 'the generals' at The Mark Taper Forum. Normally, I would never do a cattle call audition. I did enough of those in my NY days to last me a lifetime. Broadly speaking, they're kind of tough on the self-esteem. One lines up early in the morning to get a 'time slot.' And then one tries to find something to do to pass the time until that slot arrives. At least that's how it always was in New York.
Not so in Los Angeles I learned yesterday. If there were ever a specific moment at which to point to forever prove this is a film town and not a theatre town, yesterday was it. I had managed to cajole my friend John to join me for the auditions. My agent told me that The Forum has a long history of casting through their generals and, as I've mentioned, I don't exactly have a fan base out here. That is to say, I'm virtually unknown. It's not like the old days on the East Coast when I had gigs lined up a year in advance. It's a different ballgame now and I scramble for jobs just like anyone else. Working on the West Coast has been like starting over from scratch for me. It's like I'm 24 again sometimes and just starting out in NYC.
So John and I get there around 8 in the morning to sign up for a slot at 9. When we arrived there were three people in line. John's an old NY theatre veteran, too, so we were both a bit shocked, to say the least. Around ten till nine, a few more people showed up. Turns out, John and I got the numbers 2 and 3 slots, respectively.
The Mark Taper Forum and The Center Theatre Group are the big dogs in town when it comes to stage...The Geffen, Music Theatre West, Pasadena Playhouse, Reprise and a couple of others closely following. The Old Globe, too, if you count San Diego.
It was an actor's dream to actually get there, sign up, go in, audition and walk out, all before ten a.m. But that's what happened. I can remember standing in the rain for hours in NY waiting for a sign up slot. Hundreds of starving actors ahead of me even though I'd gotten there at six in the morning.
Amazing.
When we finished we had a hearty and terribly unhealthy breakfast in Burbank and then came back to my house. John wanted a website (he's throwing himself into his career these days after sort of a 'hiatus' of doing commercial work almost without exception for the last couple of years - highly lucrative but not so satistying). So I spent the rest of the morning and afternoon designing John's simple but classic website. Now, of course, I'm not a web designer by any stretch of the imagination, but I found a very user-friendly site that helps the uninitiated do it. So by 6pm, we had ourselves a very cool website which John will be posting within the next couple of days. Here's the temporary link:
http://www.wix.com/clifdmts/john
During this time I finally got the word about a film audition I've been waiting to hear about. Plus the sides. That happens today at noon. Very exciting and one that my wife and I have been looking forward to. More on that as it pans out.
John stayed for dinner (a two hour, labor intensive 'Mexican Casserole' with everything in it except an actual Mexican). Angie is, quite possibly, the most talented chef I've ever run across and it was lip-smackin' good, this Mexican Casserole. Fortunately, she loves cooking. And she's really, really good at it. On more than one occasion I've opened the refrigerator door and exclaimed there was nothing to eat only to find myself sitting in front of a feast an hour later made with nothing but 'stuff' found in the kitchen.
Afterwards, in John's continuing 'attack the career' mindset, we designed his new business cards online and ordered them.
I love days where things get done. We seem to spend so many where things don't get done. And by 'we' I mean all of us. Sometimes it seems we're on this little hamster wheel, running full speed ahead and when we get off, we've nothing to show for it. I remember reading a passage in Marlon Brando's book, Songs My Mother Taught Me. Not a very good book, considering. But in it, every now and then, Brando would write something fascinating. In this particular passage he says, "As I look back I realize I could never have been successful at anything but acting. The reason is not because I think I'm talented or anything of that sort, but rather because I have an attention span of seven seconds. I've timed it. Seven seconds exactly. That's the longest I can stay excited about something. Which, of course, made me a perfect candidate to be a professional actor."
I know precisely how he felt.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
One Year
Yesterday my wife and I celebrated our one year wedding anniversary. It happened to coincide with two things: the start of a decidedly un-fun 'Dr. Oz Cleansing Diet' and the table read for the new film I'm doing in Michigan, of all places, called "Confirmation." I'll be in the U.P. for approximately a week playing the role of a gruff, aloof war veteran who has shut himself off from the world and is now a cook at a private summer camp. The guy (the character's name is 'Gus') gets involved with a rebellious youth against his better judgement and ends up teaching the young man a valuable lesson about loyalty. It's not a bad script, filming on location at a remote camp in Michigan with a fun and irreverent director. Of course, I'll be surrounded by 12 and 13 year old actors all of which will be flown to Michigan with their parents but I'm hoping for the best. Needless to say, the film is G-rated. But then again, so was 'E.T.' Dogs and kids - always a possibility of disaster there. I have, through the years, worked extensively with both. I enjoy the dogs a little more, I'd have to say.
It was an interesting table read. Like a good soldier, I brought my script along. Not the kids. Oh, no. They all had their laptops and i-pads and alien technology in front of them. I felt like a dinosaur. An actual script at a table read - the nerve of me.
My rather unusual contract states I'll have a 'log cabin,' to myself; 'rustic but comfortable.' Before the table read one of the producers told us 'cell phones will be sketchy' because the area was so remote. Although, he continued, 'there is one land line.' Hm. Sounded a bit like the beginning of a bad plot in a B horror movie.
Realizing too late this was the case, our anniversary was also the beginning of our 'Dr. Oz Diet,' which my wife has actually been looking forward to while I've been dreading it like the first day in a new Gulag. So even though I had some flowers delivered we didn't have a big, beautiful, candlelit meal like I wanted. Instead we had, and I'm not making this up, sliced apples and sour kraut. For lunch yesterday I had a huge plate of cut vegetables and for breakfast something resembling Russian gruel without the explosion of flavor.
I've never been a diet kinda guy. I've been exceptionally lucky most of my life because I never really had to diet. But I'm in the tall weeds now, age-wise, and I can't avoid them any longer. Thus the 'Dr. Oz Diet.' Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, my wife approaches them kind of like Patton approached Sicily. She is relentless in her preparation. Our refrigerator and cabinets are full of things I can't pronounce much less eat. And that schlepp, Dr. Oz, seems to have gone out of his way to include exotic foodstuffs in the diet. Sunday at our local grocery store I overheard my wife asking the manager in which aisle might she find the 'canned otter entrails in butterscotch paste.'
This past year has been a doozy, I'll say that. For longtime readers of this blog you might recall we were married in a mall by 'Reverent Chuck' (who was also the vice president of his local Harley Davidson Club). It was a conveyor-belt-type wedding, in and out, a quick 'for sickness and in health' speech by Reverend Chuck who also had the San Diego Chargers game playing in the background and every now and then would pepper the marriage ceremony with 'Oh, for God's Sakes, just THROW THE BALL!' Nonetheless, we both wept. Mostly because the Chargers lost big.
Our photos from that day are odd because my head was shaved for a role. Angie, naturally, looked great and was excrutiatingly beautiful. Our photographer had to do some fancy trick shooting so as not to get the Harley Davidson trophies in the background. I wrote the vows myself and when we were done, Reverend Chuck gazed at both of us tenderly, tears wellng in his eyes and said poetically, "Is that it? Are you done? Can I finish this now?" We were both terribly moved.
I'm not an easy guy to live with. I could go on and on about that but suffice to say perhaps Angie's greatest gift to me is that she makes it LOOK easy to live with me. It is not. I'm a troublemaker. Always have been. I make trouble. I can't help myself. And yet my wife daily rises above it all and takes exquisite care of me. And that's just pretty darn cool.
I remember our big, lavish dinner after the ceremony with Reverend Chuck. Our dear friend Tammy Jackson-Lipps arranged it all. Wonderful food, great wines, stunning table arrangements, the spread stretching about forty feet or so through our backyard, the horses nearby watching with curiosity, about thirty of our closest friends in attendance. And Tammy gave a little toast. My two Best Men, Jim Barbour and John Bader, did the same and Angie's Women-in-Waiting, or whatever the bride's counterparts are called, also raised a glass and spoke a little. But Tammy's short speech has stuck with me. She started and ended her toast with the words, 'Marriage is hard.' And then in the middle she explained how beautiful and magical it can be. And then she repeated, to make sure we both grasped the essence of her toast, 'Marriage is hard.'
I have often thought how wise and generous that toast was. Without slapping us around, she outlined briefly and pointedly just what to expect. Really she was telling us that all of our dreams and hopes and aspirations and fantasies were now within reach. We were a team now, Angie and I, and the odds of our lifetime happiness had just advanced exponentially. She was telling us that joy and daily satisfaction were within our reach now, shockingly close, in fact. But it was not free. It comes with a price. And we needed to be willing to pay it. Every hour of every day we have to pay it. And it's not easy. Simple, perhaps, but not easy. But if we did pay it, if we did make the sacrifice of putting each other ahead of ourselves, if we did think in terms of 'we' and not 'I,' if we did trust in the idea, the possibility, the beauty of unconditional love, well, we needed to strap in and take the roller coaster ride of our lives. And we have. We stray, we demand, we fight, we argue, we love, we apologize, we regret, but we make it work. And lo and behold it has turned out to be the best year of my entire life. And not because I've accomplished anything wonderful, not because I've done great things, not even because I've done anything remotely good. But because I, we, both of us, go to bed happy and wake up happy every single day. And that's more than I ever, ever expected out of life.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Capitalism - A Love Story and Occupy Wall Street
I suspect, after watching 'Capitalism - A Love Story' by Michael Moore last night, that more than a few of the original organizers of 'Occupy Wall Street' were influenced by it. Although the documentary/film has the usual sarcastic and cynical tone of most of Moore's features, this one felt a little different. I think Moore filmed mad.
Let me explain. In professional boxing there are few maxims, a few absolutes that are generally considered unbreakable. One is 'Kill the body and the head will follow.' Another is 'No one can beat the heavy bag.' And yet another is 'Never fight mad.' The most recent example of the latter is the famous ear-biting fight with Tyson and Holyfield. Tyson fought mad. He lost control and, well, he bit Holyfield's ear off and lost the fight.
So this is the pervasive feeling I got from 'Capitalism - A Love Story.' When I was younger, high school in fact, I was a member of the Speech and Debate team. Forensics, we called it. Mostly I did the acting part of it -the creative part: Duet Acting, Solo Monologue Acting, Improv, whatever. And I carried a whole buttload of trophies home, for the record. But once, I recall, I debated. Me and this other guy, can't remember his name now, were a team, a debate team. It went like this: we were given a subject a half hour before the debate and we had exactly thirty minutes to prepare. We were, unlike today with the entire internet at one's disposal, allowed to bring a small, metal box, carefully weighed, with our research material crammed into it. The tricky part was we had no idea what subject we would be debating so we had to choose our material wisely. Most debaters, ourselves included, would cram the box with old TIME or NEWSWEEK magazines. Sometimes, to the really serious debater, a ludicrously detailed, handwritten series of 4 by 5 cards with facts on every hotbutton subject possible. We weren't that serious. We just had a bunch of TIME magazines in our box.
In any event, I quickly discovered I wasn't very well suited for the 'debate' part of 'speech and debate.' I would inevitably lose my temper. I would, in effect, 'debate mad.' I specifically remember being penalized for starting a rebuttal like this: "Alright, now you listen to me, you fat, little, four-eyed punk..."
So this is the feeling I got while watching 'Capitalism - A Love Story.' Moore was filming mad. Unlike his brilliant 'Roger and Me' or even his frightening 'Bowling for Columbine,' this film is recklessly angry. Which, in the end, it really needn't be for Moore is, to a greater degree I suspect, preaching to the Choir. I'm guessing the CEO of GM or Goldman Sachs or AIG or Bank of America didn't rush out to watch this documentary. And yet Moore shot it as though they were going to. Consequently, his trademark absurdist interviewing and partisan bent feels strained and forced, like a comedian having an off night.
Now, make no mistake, I'm in the choir. I don't need convincing. I, like most of liberal America, have conjured up images of nefarious back room deals drenched in cigar smoke, fat cat CEOs with evil handlebar mustaches and ill-fitting, three-piece suits setting out to screw the American people just for the sheer hatred-filled fun of it. The rational part of me knows this is not true, at least not literally, but nonetheless I can't help myself. These guys, these companies, did a bad thing, an amoral thing. It is undeniable. They were bailed out to the tune of 700 billion dollars with Americn taxpayed money and then they screwed us. The government gave them a blank check with no rules attached, just a verbal promise they would 'do the right thing.' And, of course, they didn't. Why would they? There was absolutely nothing to be gained, profit-wise, by doing 'the right thing.' So they went right back to screwing us with their newly acquired chunk of 'found money.'
There is, however, one section of 'Capitalism - A Love Story' that not only caught me off guard but absolutely fascinated me. And that was the 'secret memo' sent by Bank of America to its largest shareholders outlining (I think it was sent in 2005 before all hell broke loose) their plans for a 'financial coup de'tat.' The memo brazenly outlines Bank of America's assessment that we no longer live in a democracy but rather a plutocracy, which is to say, that the one percent of the wealthiest Americans now control the country, Republic be damned. The memo goes on to say the only thing to be feared would be if the 99 percent rose up and 'voted as one.' Because the one thing they couldn't control was the 'one person, one vote' part of the American democratic system. This idea, while farfetched, also scared the hell out of them.
As I continue to visualize my idea of the privileged, let-them-eat-cake, cigar-chomping, sail boat-buying fatcats of Bank of America and Goldman Sachs wandering from window to window, looking down at the Occupy Wall Street crowds below, much like a frantic Saruman in Lord of the Rings when the Ents attacked his tower, I can't help but wonder what they're really thinking. Are they the least concerned with this little peasant uprising? Or do they feel completely insulated from any retribution? I'd love to be a fly on the wall durng a high-level meeting about this in one their ivory towered discussions. If they even have a discussion about it. Or is it too inconsequential still? Do they really even care?
Obviously for any real change to take place laws would have to be repealed, rewritten and then enforced. And we've seen, all too clearly, that the United States Congress cannot be counted on to upset the apple cart. Although initially voting down the 700 billion dollar bailout, they quickly reversed themselves and gave Wall Street exactly what they asked for. And more, they gave it to them without any, I repeat, ANY reservations or prerequisites. After the initial vote, Congress, clearly seeing which way the wind was blowing, caved a mere three days later after some very heavy and threatening lobby work from the banking institutions. It was one of the saddest days in American history if not the saddest day.
In the other film I've seen regarding this travesty in our history, HBO's 'Too Big to Fail,' the banks are represented as a sort of Tri-lateral Commission, planning and scheming to economically rape the American working class. Which they do. And this well-written film espouses the Machiavellian credo 'the ends always justify the means.' This placed our President, George W. Bush, in a perfect position to implement his final nation-killing decision, sadly only one in a long line of nation-killing decisions. He appeared on national television imploring the American people to support the big bank bailout. If you go back and look at that speech, it's right out of Chaplin's 'The Great Dictator,' Bush's eyes darting about, trying to hide an emerging smirk, stringing together preposterous sentences defying any and all logical thought. And of course it worked.
I think, in the end, history will be kinder to G.W. Bush about Iraq and Afghanistan than we suspect. But with the 20/20 vision of hindsight it will be very harsh regarding his final act of treachery, the selling off of the American middle class. At least I hope so.
In the final analysis I fear the Occupy Wall Street movement and Mr. Moore's cautionary documentary, Capitalism - A Love Story, are most likely simply annoying gnats flitting about a sleeping grizzly; soul-stirring and rightous in their outrage and demands but ultimately unthreatening. For the banks and Wall Street aren't doing anything illegal. They made sure of that. They're only doing what we, the huddled masses, gave them the legal right to do: take away all our stuff and then leave us to die.
See you tomorrow.
Let me explain. In professional boxing there are few maxims, a few absolutes that are generally considered unbreakable. One is 'Kill the body and the head will follow.' Another is 'No one can beat the heavy bag.' And yet another is 'Never fight mad.' The most recent example of the latter is the famous ear-biting fight with Tyson and Holyfield. Tyson fought mad. He lost control and, well, he bit Holyfield's ear off and lost the fight.
So this is the pervasive feeling I got from 'Capitalism - A Love Story.' When I was younger, high school in fact, I was a member of the Speech and Debate team. Forensics, we called it. Mostly I did the acting part of it -the creative part: Duet Acting, Solo Monologue Acting, Improv, whatever. And I carried a whole buttload of trophies home, for the record. But once, I recall, I debated. Me and this other guy, can't remember his name now, were a team, a debate team. It went like this: we were given a subject a half hour before the debate and we had exactly thirty minutes to prepare. We were, unlike today with the entire internet at one's disposal, allowed to bring a small, metal box, carefully weighed, with our research material crammed into it. The tricky part was we had no idea what subject we would be debating so we had to choose our material wisely. Most debaters, ourselves included, would cram the box with old TIME or NEWSWEEK magazines. Sometimes, to the really serious debater, a ludicrously detailed, handwritten series of 4 by 5 cards with facts on every hotbutton subject possible. We weren't that serious. We just had a bunch of TIME magazines in our box.
In any event, I quickly discovered I wasn't very well suited for the 'debate' part of 'speech and debate.' I would inevitably lose my temper. I would, in effect, 'debate mad.' I specifically remember being penalized for starting a rebuttal like this: "Alright, now you listen to me, you fat, little, four-eyed punk..."
So this is the feeling I got while watching 'Capitalism - A Love Story.' Moore was filming mad. Unlike his brilliant 'Roger and Me' or even his frightening 'Bowling for Columbine,' this film is recklessly angry. Which, in the end, it really needn't be for Moore is, to a greater degree I suspect, preaching to the Choir. I'm guessing the CEO of GM or Goldman Sachs or AIG or Bank of America didn't rush out to watch this documentary. And yet Moore shot it as though they were going to. Consequently, his trademark absurdist interviewing and partisan bent feels strained and forced, like a comedian having an off night.
Now, make no mistake, I'm in the choir. I don't need convincing. I, like most of liberal America, have conjured up images of nefarious back room deals drenched in cigar smoke, fat cat CEOs with evil handlebar mustaches and ill-fitting, three-piece suits setting out to screw the American people just for the sheer hatred-filled fun of it. The rational part of me knows this is not true, at least not literally, but nonetheless I can't help myself. These guys, these companies, did a bad thing, an amoral thing. It is undeniable. They were bailed out to the tune of 700 billion dollars with Americn taxpayed money and then they screwed us. The government gave them a blank check with no rules attached, just a verbal promise they would 'do the right thing.' And, of course, they didn't. Why would they? There was absolutely nothing to be gained, profit-wise, by doing 'the right thing.' So they went right back to screwing us with their newly acquired chunk of 'found money.'
There is, however, one section of 'Capitalism - A Love Story' that not only caught me off guard but absolutely fascinated me. And that was the 'secret memo' sent by Bank of America to its largest shareholders outlining (I think it was sent in 2005 before all hell broke loose) their plans for a 'financial coup de'tat.' The memo brazenly outlines Bank of America's assessment that we no longer live in a democracy but rather a plutocracy, which is to say, that the one percent of the wealthiest Americans now control the country, Republic be damned. The memo goes on to say the only thing to be feared would be if the 99 percent rose up and 'voted as one.' Because the one thing they couldn't control was the 'one person, one vote' part of the American democratic system. This idea, while farfetched, also scared the hell out of them.
As I continue to visualize my idea of the privileged, let-them-eat-cake, cigar-chomping, sail boat-buying fatcats of Bank of America and Goldman Sachs wandering from window to window, looking down at the Occupy Wall Street crowds below, much like a frantic Saruman in Lord of the Rings when the Ents attacked his tower, I can't help but wonder what they're really thinking. Are they the least concerned with this little peasant uprising? Or do they feel completely insulated from any retribution? I'd love to be a fly on the wall durng a high-level meeting about this in one their ivory towered discussions. If they even have a discussion about it. Or is it too inconsequential still? Do they really even care?
Obviously for any real change to take place laws would have to be repealed, rewritten and then enforced. And we've seen, all too clearly, that the United States Congress cannot be counted on to upset the apple cart. Although initially voting down the 700 billion dollar bailout, they quickly reversed themselves and gave Wall Street exactly what they asked for. And more, they gave it to them without any, I repeat, ANY reservations or prerequisites. After the initial vote, Congress, clearly seeing which way the wind was blowing, caved a mere three days later after some very heavy and threatening lobby work from the banking institutions. It was one of the saddest days in American history if not the saddest day.
In the other film I've seen regarding this travesty in our history, HBO's 'Too Big to Fail,' the banks are represented as a sort of Tri-lateral Commission, planning and scheming to economically rape the American working class. Which they do. And this well-written film espouses the Machiavellian credo 'the ends always justify the means.' This placed our President, George W. Bush, in a perfect position to implement his final nation-killing decision, sadly only one in a long line of nation-killing decisions. He appeared on national television imploring the American people to support the big bank bailout. If you go back and look at that speech, it's right out of Chaplin's 'The Great Dictator,' Bush's eyes darting about, trying to hide an emerging smirk, stringing together preposterous sentences defying any and all logical thought. And of course it worked.
I think, in the end, history will be kinder to G.W. Bush about Iraq and Afghanistan than we suspect. But with the 20/20 vision of hindsight it will be very harsh regarding his final act of treachery, the selling off of the American middle class. At least I hope so.
In the final analysis I fear the Occupy Wall Street movement and Mr. Moore's cautionary documentary, Capitalism - A Love Story, are most likely simply annoying gnats flitting about a sleeping grizzly; soul-stirring and rightous in their outrage and demands but ultimately unthreatening. For the banks and Wall Street aren't doing anything illegal. They made sure of that. They're only doing what we, the huddled masses, gave them the legal right to do: take away all our stuff and then leave us to die.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Lucky Guy
Above - with the fine actor, Powers Boothe, following an invitation only reading of 'ABSOLUTE TRUTH.'
It's been a short second since I've blogged. The reason is simple. I've been too busy working on other projects. Three writing projects and a couple of acting projects, to be precise. I have entered an unexpected phase of my hot and cold career lately in that I find myself writing big things, long things, complicated and time consuming things that will, in the end, not only generate substantial income but also dictate my day to day life. The acting stuff (I used to be 'an actor who writes.' These days I find myself squarely in the category of 'writer who acts') is paying the bills but the writing stuff is sustaining the dreams.
I'm not sure exactly when or how I fell into my particular habit of writing, but I seem to be at my best early in the morning. For example, it is now 4:50 in the morning. I feel fresh, relaxed and clear-headed and pushing at the gates to get going. Odd, since most of my life was about getting to bed right about now.
One of the bi-products that surfaced after I made a cognizant pardigm shift in thinking some years back (read: stopped drinking enough to kill a bull elephant every night) was the astonishing realization that I'm a morning person by nature. I like the morning. I feel at my best in the morning. I am acutely aware of the myriad possibilities spread before me like an impromptu banquet.
The downsize is I'm ready to hit the hay around 7:30 at night. Just about the time Alex Trebek rolls out the final Jeopardy question I'm ready to put my face mask on. This is one of the things my wife found 'cute' early on but now finds annoying.
Speaking of my wife, this Monday, October 10, we'll celebrate one year of marriage. And what a year. Good Lord, what a year. The best of times and, well, the best of times. How she manages to put up with my eccentricities, which border on a need for clinical diagnosis at times, is beyond me. Nonetheless, she does. And not only does she allow me my personality quirks and disorders, she makes it fun. That's about all I can say about that. I'm learning to be prudent.
I just finished a film in San Pedro a couple weeks ago. It's called 'Sunken City.' A throw back kind of script. A few times during the filming I began to feel a little like Mike Connor in 'Mannix.' Except my suit was nicer.
In a week I head to Michigan, the U.P., to shoot the exteriors in a new film called 'Confirmation.' The location stuff is a remote camp in the apparently beautiful (I've never been there but my mother-in-law, Rosemary, who has traveled almost as much as Christopher Columbus tells me so) part of Northern Michigan and then back to LA to do the interiors for a week or so. In fact, I just learned yesterday I'll be lodged in a 'log cabin' for the shoot there. It's a good role - the gruff, but loveable, ex-military high school teacher. Kind of like Lou Gosset Jr. in 'Officer and a Gentleman' except without the karate and the potty mouth.
I just finished another reading with the gruff but lovable Powers Boothe. I love talking to Powers. It's sort of like talking to a film encyclopia. He knows everyone, has worked with everyone, and has an opinion about everyone. Smart guy and, of course, a very good actor.
And along the way I've done what I never expected to do, which is turn down some theatre gigs, good ones, at that, so I that I might be in a position to do more film work. And speaking of which, the next gig, following the gruff but lovable, ex-military high school teacher, looks to be a 'sleazy lawyer' (although I've read the script and he doesn't seem all that 'sleazy' to me) in a Lifetime movie to be shot in and around LA this winter. Of course, that's not in the bag yet. Until the contract is dried and the money is in the bank, I've learned, through trial and error, to not count on anything in this business. I still have to read for it. But it looks very promising and also it's a chance to work with a good buddy of mine who happens to be a wonderful director. My wife and I have our fingers firmly crossed for that one, hoping for the best and always expecting the worst. A credo I've become all too familiar with in this town.
The screenplay I've been commissioned to write is finally complete after about 187 drafts. In addition to being exceptionally challenging, it also made me learn to write for the screen. Literally. I think it goes without saying that writing for the screen is a different animal than writing for the stage. For film one is literally 'writing images.' Not words, but images. Took me awhile, but I finally grasped that long about the 104th draft. In any case, it's done and I'm happy with it. I meet with the producer next week before heading to Michigan to discuss what we have.
I also spent a lifetime or so turning 'Praying Small,' my most successful stage piece, into a screenplay. But I really can't count that as work. More a labor of love. That, too, I think, is pretty good, albeit a little wordy.
And finally, a television pilot. I just finished that one. Angie and I have a dear friend in the television biz and I'm going to put it in front of him soon and see if there's anything there to pursue. It's the best, most natural, most exciting writing I've done in quite some time and it involves a subject I'm most passionate about and, I'd like to think, anyway, somewhat knowledgeable: professional boxing in the 1960s. Again, it's a subject off the beaten path, to say the least, but one that stirs me. To be perfectly honest, it's a piece of writing I've been waiting decades to put on paper, metaphorically speaking. Actually, it's not 'on paper' at all but sitting firmly and securely in my computer.
I'm a lucky guy. Always have been except for a brief decade I spent being unlucky in the bowels of Chicago. And frankly, all of Chicago is a bowel as far as I'm concerned. I heard a good line in an otherwise bad film the other night. Some chick said, "You're my angel. You've rescued me simply by being alive." I knew instantly exactly how she felt. Because the same happened to me. I was blind and then I saw. I met my wife.
And finally, I've found myself inordinantly preoccupied with, no pun intended, with Occupy Wall Street, the movement taking place all around the country at the moment. It has awakened in me a sense of injustice, a sense of indigination. I don't really know what, if anything, this movement hopes to accomplish (my wife constantly points this out to me - "They don't even know what they want") but the fact that they're angry about being the ox and yoke for a privileged, well-paid few speaks to me on a very basic level. I, like the stalwart and brave-hearted hundreds freezing their asses off tonight on Wall Street, feel betrayed. And I feel I cannot keep up a constant chatter of patriotic blather and still live with the knowledge that the big banks and the corporate innkeepers of this nation are getting unspeakably rich on the backs of the dwindling middle class. Anyway. I could write reams on this, but I'll exercise discretion here and not. Suffice to say, if I still lived in New York I'd be very cold and laying in a tent right this very moment.
But I'm a lucky guy. And I have more to write this morning before my perfect wife and my perfect dogs, Franny and Zooey, awake. I have miles to go before I sleep (which, as I mentioned, comes about 7:30 or 8:00 these days, it seems). I have a road less taken to explore. I have to fire up the Pandora and stare for few endless minutes at an unyielding white piece of paper. I have to hope for a little while that someone else thinks that what I'm about to write today is as interesting as I think it is.
I wouldn't have it any other way. Because I'm a very lucky guy.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Nine Eleven
Like the rest of the country I watched and listened to the events unfold in New York and Washington and Pennsylvania ten years ago this weekend. As I recall, I was teaching then and cancelled all of my classes. I sat by the television (and the radio - for some odd reason I had them both on) and tried to make sense of the information crowding my brain.
I had already moved to Chicago by then and a couple of days after the attack I was on Michigan Avenue, near the huge, now defunct, Border's Bookstore across from the old Water Tower. A television reporter stopped me on the sidewalk and did a quick 'man on the street' interview. They wanted to know if the incidents in the previous few days would effect my Christmas shopping; if I thought the economy would suffer because of the devastation. I said I hoped not and kept walking.
I lived in New York City from 1985 until 2000. I was not that long gone from the city when it happened. While I can't exactly say the WTC was on my beaten path, I had certainly been there a few times, once even eating in the restaurant there, Windows On The World, I think it was called. And many years ago, shortly after moving to NYC, I had waited tables at a place very near the towers, can't even remember the name of it, and took the subway there everyday. I didn't like the financial district in NYC, especially on rainy days. This was the eighties and 'power unbrellas' were big then. These were huge umbrellas that yuppies carried around. They were a constant source of irritation to people who were not carrying one because they were so big and they tended to poke people in the face while walking on the street. It was purely a yuppie thing in NYC and mostly the young, dumb and rich carried them. Hence their presence in the financial district.
I remember Chicago, of course, always envious of New York and constantly in comparison (every business in Chicago used the tag line 'Better Than New York!' it seemed), was reporting for awhile that the fourth plane, the one that fell into a muddy field in Pennsylvania, had been heading for some target in Chicago. Of course that wasn't true, but they repeated it quite a bit for a week or so on the local news. Turns out that plane had already turned around and was heading for one of two sites in D.C., one quite possibly The White House.
Like nearly everyone else in the nation I remember wanting swift and violent retribution for the people responsible. The American public, for the most part, didn't know anything about Osama Bin Laden or AL-Qa'ida. I had been in NYC for the first attack on The World Trade Center in 1993 and had no doubt heard the name then, but, like the rest of the country, assumed we had qualified people working on that and the name didn't register or stick with me in any concrete sense.
At that period in my life I was living a very insular existence, self-exiled and reclusive. So I didn't discuss my feelings about the attacks with anyone else for a long time. But I watched almost compulsively as the talking heads replayed it over and over during the next few weeks. I watched to see if I could recognize anyone I knew in the dust and panic of that day, anyone fleeing the towers covered with white soot. I didn't see anyone.
And like most extraordinary events in my life, I experienced a delayed reaction to it all. In fact, it wasn't until the first anniversary of the attacks that I really began to get a grasp on the import of that day. And finally the oft-repeated phrase, 'everything changed,' began to make sense to me. Everything had changed. I did everything alone in those days, I ate in restaurants alone, I drank alone, I spent my evenings alone. I would teach during the day and spend comfortable nights by myself in my darkened apartment. It was a phase that was to last many years. But something had been taken from me, from us, that day. A sense of detachment had been yanked away. Our false sense of isolation had been removed - for me, both personally and as an American, whatever that might mean.
Now, ten years later and 1750 miles away from Chicago, my wife and I have watched three or four specials on the event over the last few nights. It somehow seems more real to me now than it did ten years ago. And the thing that keeps occuring to me is that the horror of that day for so many was also the beginning of the end for my own period of forced isolation. It is almost allegorical in its timing. Like many, I suppose, who can mark the moment in their lives when they heard that Kennedy had been shot, or when the astronauts landed on the moon, or the chaos and panic of Pearl Harbor, the images of Nine One One take me back to a stretch of time that marked an apathetic loneliness in my own life, an era of quiet, personal anarchy. And, almost against my will, I found myself being forced to think of the tragedy of other people, other lives, distant pain. It became impossible to consider the idea that I was the center of my own little universe. The images from the television screen, leaping out and clawing at me, simply wouldn't allow my self-inflicted compartmentalization to continue, try as I might to let it be so.
In the final analysis, this is what I remember about that anonymous and explosive day in September. The first glimpses of a life outside myself, of casting off a firmly embedded sense of isolation. I ached for the families that lost husbands and wives and fathers and mothers that day. And surprisingly, I began to feel connected again. Connected to a whole nation of grieving, imperfect people.
Today, when I watch the same images again, the atrocity of people being forced out of the upper floors of the towers, leaping to their certain deaths, I am filled with a moral outrage. Ten years ago I was filled with something else, a numb anger, perhaps. And again, I begin to understand the oft-repeated cry, Everything Has Changed. Because Everything Had.
See you tomorrow.
I had already moved to Chicago by then and a couple of days after the attack I was on Michigan Avenue, near the huge, now defunct, Border's Bookstore across from the old Water Tower. A television reporter stopped me on the sidewalk and did a quick 'man on the street' interview. They wanted to know if the incidents in the previous few days would effect my Christmas shopping; if I thought the economy would suffer because of the devastation. I said I hoped not and kept walking.
I lived in New York City from 1985 until 2000. I was not that long gone from the city when it happened. While I can't exactly say the WTC was on my beaten path, I had certainly been there a few times, once even eating in the restaurant there, Windows On The World, I think it was called. And many years ago, shortly after moving to NYC, I had waited tables at a place very near the towers, can't even remember the name of it, and took the subway there everyday. I didn't like the financial district in NYC, especially on rainy days. This was the eighties and 'power unbrellas' were big then. These were huge umbrellas that yuppies carried around. They were a constant source of irritation to people who were not carrying one because they were so big and they tended to poke people in the face while walking on the street. It was purely a yuppie thing in NYC and mostly the young, dumb and rich carried them. Hence their presence in the financial district.
I remember Chicago, of course, always envious of New York and constantly in comparison (every business in Chicago used the tag line 'Better Than New York!' it seemed), was reporting for awhile that the fourth plane, the one that fell into a muddy field in Pennsylvania, had been heading for some target in Chicago. Of course that wasn't true, but they repeated it quite a bit for a week or so on the local news. Turns out that plane had already turned around and was heading for one of two sites in D.C., one quite possibly The White House.
Like nearly everyone else in the nation I remember wanting swift and violent retribution for the people responsible. The American public, for the most part, didn't know anything about Osama Bin Laden or AL-Qa'ida. I had been in NYC for the first attack on The World Trade Center in 1993 and had no doubt heard the name then, but, like the rest of the country, assumed we had qualified people working on that and the name didn't register or stick with me in any concrete sense.
At that period in my life I was living a very insular existence, self-exiled and reclusive. So I didn't discuss my feelings about the attacks with anyone else for a long time. But I watched almost compulsively as the talking heads replayed it over and over during the next few weeks. I watched to see if I could recognize anyone I knew in the dust and panic of that day, anyone fleeing the towers covered with white soot. I didn't see anyone.
And like most extraordinary events in my life, I experienced a delayed reaction to it all. In fact, it wasn't until the first anniversary of the attacks that I really began to get a grasp on the import of that day. And finally the oft-repeated phrase, 'everything changed,' began to make sense to me. Everything had changed. I did everything alone in those days, I ate in restaurants alone, I drank alone, I spent my evenings alone. I would teach during the day and spend comfortable nights by myself in my darkened apartment. It was a phase that was to last many years. But something had been taken from me, from us, that day. A sense of detachment had been yanked away. Our false sense of isolation had been removed - for me, both personally and as an American, whatever that might mean.
Now, ten years later and 1750 miles away from Chicago, my wife and I have watched three or four specials on the event over the last few nights. It somehow seems more real to me now than it did ten years ago. And the thing that keeps occuring to me is that the horror of that day for so many was also the beginning of the end for my own period of forced isolation. It is almost allegorical in its timing. Like many, I suppose, who can mark the moment in their lives when they heard that Kennedy had been shot, or when the astronauts landed on the moon, or the chaos and panic of Pearl Harbor, the images of Nine One One take me back to a stretch of time that marked an apathetic loneliness in my own life, an era of quiet, personal anarchy. And, almost against my will, I found myself being forced to think of the tragedy of other people, other lives, distant pain. It became impossible to consider the idea that I was the center of my own little universe. The images from the television screen, leaping out and clawing at me, simply wouldn't allow my self-inflicted compartmentalization to continue, try as I might to let it be so.
In the final analysis, this is what I remember about that anonymous and explosive day in September. The first glimpses of a life outside myself, of casting off a firmly embedded sense of isolation. I ached for the families that lost husbands and wives and fathers and mothers that day. And surprisingly, I began to feel connected again. Connected to a whole nation of grieving, imperfect people.
Today, when I watch the same images again, the atrocity of people being forced out of the upper floors of the towers, leaping to their certain deaths, I am filled with a moral outrage. Ten years ago I was filled with something else, a numb anger, perhaps. And again, I begin to understand the oft-repeated cry, Everything Has Changed. Because Everything Had.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Up and at 'em
Up early and ostensibly working the new screenplay. I say 'ostensibly' because I'm really not. But I will when I finish blogging.
104 yesterday in The Valley. When it gets that hot, plans have to be adjusted, to say the least, and consequently I spent the day watching old fight films I've managed to record off of Uverse...mostly old ALI films from the seventies. I'm weird that way.
I've come to the conclusion that I'm an expert on only one thing in my life...heavyweight boxing in the 1970s. An odd thing to know so well, but there you have it.
I have this reading coming up with the wonderful actor Powers Boothe next week. Powers and I did another one a few months ago and that was fun so I decided to do another for the same director when he contacted me.
The week after that another Indy film, this one down in Long Beach, I think. Small role. Haven't even read the whole script.
So hopefully the intense heat will stay away long enough to get a walk in this morning before retreating into the solitude of air conditioning. Once that's done I'll pull out the new writing and have a go at it all day. Angie's been a bit under the weather so I'll be quiet and studious for the most part. Her allergies have gone super nova, apparently.
All of the 9/11 programs are coming on these days due to the 10 year anniversary. It hardly seems 10 years since that horrible day. I was lucky. I didn't actually personally know anyone in the towers that day. Many NY friends did, however. I did know a guy I had done a few plays with and his wife died that day. But I'd never met her.
Of all the terribly images of that day, the one that haunts me the most are the 'jumpers,' the ones that couldn't stand the heat and decided to leap. I see those images from the footage today and I'm still just appalled, stricken.
Angie and I watched the new HBO documentary out about the day...the one that Martin Sheen voices. Quite good, but it kept us both up after we'd seen it.
And I don't have the same sense of outrage at GW Bush about it anymore now that I know more of his reasons for his odd reactions to the attack. Knowing how much he wanted to get back to DC after the attacks and the secret service kept him in the air, I mean.
I was a bit shocked to learn, however, that Rumsfeld wanted to immediately carpet bomb Iraq that day with no evidence whatsoever that they were involved. That's a bit scary. Even after Cheney, of all people, told him Afghanistan was the place to concentrate on. But thinking back, I, too, wanted immediate revenge. Now, of course, I realize how savage and futile that would have been.
It certainly changed everything, that dreadful day in September of 2001. For me, for everyone.
But the sun is coming up, the dogs are eyeing me with anticipation, and life is stretching out before me. Everyday is so very good.
See you tomorrow.
104 yesterday in The Valley. When it gets that hot, plans have to be adjusted, to say the least, and consequently I spent the day watching old fight films I've managed to record off of Uverse...mostly old ALI films from the seventies. I'm weird that way.
I've come to the conclusion that I'm an expert on only one thing in my life...heavyweight boxing in the 1970s. An odd thing to know so well, but there you have it.
I have this reading coming up with the wonderful actor Powers Boothe next week. Powers and I did another one a few months ago and that was fun so I decided to do another for the same director when he contacted me.
The week after that another Indy film, this one down in Long Beach, I think. Small role. Haven't even read the whole script.
So hopefully the intense heat will stay away long enough to get a walk in this morning before retreating into the solitude of air conditioning. Once that's done I'll pull out the new writing and have a go at it all day. Angie's been a bit under the weather so I'll be quiet and studious for the most part. Her allergies have gone super nova, apparently.
All of the 9/11 programs are coming on these days due to the 10 year anniversary. It hardly seems 10 years since that horrible day. I was lucky. I didn't actually personally know anyone in the towers that day. Many NY friends did, however. I did know a guy I had done a few plays with and his wife died that day. But I'd never met her.
Of all the terribly images of that day, the one that haunts me the most are the 'jumpers,' the ones that couldn't stand the heat and decided to leap. I see those images from the footage today and I'm still just appalled, stricken.
Angie and I watched the new HBO documentary out about the day...the one that Martin Sheen voices. Quite good, but it kept us both up after we'd seen it.
And I don't have the same sense of outrage at GW Bush about it anymore now that I know more of his reasons for his odd reactions to the attack. Knowing how much he wanted to get back to DC after the attacks and the secret service kept him in the air, I mean.
I was a bit shocked to learn, however, that Rumsfeld wanted to immediately carpet bomb Iraq that day with no evidence whatsoever that they were involved. That's a bit scary. Even after Cheney, of all people, told him Afghanistan was the place to concentrate on. But thinking back, I, too, wanted immediate revenge. Now, of course, I realize how savage and futile that would have been.
It certainly changed everything, that dreadful day in September of 2001. For me, for everyone.
But the sun is coming up, the dogs are eyeing me with anticipation, and life is stretching out before me. Everyday is so very good.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Wrap Party
I went to my first actual 'wrap party' last night (see new photo right) following the completion of THE PARTY IS OVER, the new comedy I did with Cathy Baker, produced by Steve Robman and featuring a whole gaggle of very talented twenty-somethings. I sat with Cathy over dinner and drinks and finally had a chance to talk to her about some of her work over the years, specifically FOOL FOR LOVE, the Sam Shepard piece she did with Ed Harris at the beginning of her career. The play was directed by Shepard at The Magic Theatre in San Francisco and then moved to Circle Rep in New York and, well, the rest is history. It's a legendary production in theatre circles, famous not only for its quality of work but for the iconic poster attached to it - the one with Elvis tongue-kissing the elated female fan.
Shepard directed the play in the small space in San Francisco (a 99-seater) and Cathy said they were all sort of shocked when they were told it was moving to Circle Rep in New York. The Rep wanted to recast (Harris had just made THE RIGHT STUFF and was starting to get a bit of a name but Cathy hadn't done any film or TV yet and no one knew who she was) in NYC but Shepard held firm and said they could only have the play if the original cast stayed in place. Cathy told me she thought NY was going to 'eat them up' but on opening night there was such a tumultuous greeting from the opening night audience she knew they were in something special.
I was living in NYC when it played at Circle Rep and I could kick myself for not seeing it. She stayed with the play for the long run but she said Harris left after only six weeks to pursue film stuff. It is one of my favorite Shepard plays.
The director of the movie, Vahe Gabuchian (very talented young filmmaker) put together a six or seven minute 'compilation' reel for the party...just quick snippets of scenes from the film (it's a 'full length,' not a short) and I must say it looks super cool. When asked by a friend the other day what the film was about I had to think a moment. It's an odd one, to be sure. The best I could come up with was 'a thinking man's AMERICAN PIE,' if that makes any sense. I have a smallish role in it, but very, uh, entertaining.
Steve Robman (google him) produced. Steve is a very successful television and stage director and turns out we have dozens of mutual friends in the theatre biz in Chicago and New York. He directed quite a bit at The Goodman back in the day and we both know a lot of the same Chicago actors.
It's completely a youth oriented movie - I think Cathy and I were probably the oldest ones involved and that's counting the crew as well. The three lead actors, all in their early twenties, looked really good in the compilation we saw last night. In fact, the whole thing looked really good. Look for it sometime in 2012.
Angie and I are continuing with our new 'health kick.' Essentially this means we're cutting back on cigs and bread and potatoes and taking killer walks up into the mountains. Sunday we walked a place called 'Fryman's Canyon.' I saw my life pass before my eyes. I now call it 'The Widowmaker.' I'm told it's not an especially difficult hike, but it nearly closed the curtain on me. Within the first five minutes I had sweat completely through my shirt. I have a long, long ways to go with this new 'get in shape' stuff. Fortunatly, while climbing The Widowmaker, Angie let me stop now and then and take huge, gulping breaths. I pretended I was stopping for Zooey's sake (she's our 12 year old dog) but, much to my chagrin, Zooey seemed to be doing just fine and was impatient with my stop and start technique on The Widowmaker.
Los Angeles, thankfully, is in the middle of a heat wave right now so I've been spared a repeat trek for the time being. We're taking the long 'Oasis Walk' in our own neighborhood until the heat breaks. The Oasis Walk is a long one, too, but it's all flat and it circles around the 'Los Angeles River,' which is not a river at all but just a big concret waterway. Over the years, however, foliage has grown unimpeded all around and in it. It's really quite accidentally beautiful.
The work on two, count 'em, two screenplays continues. One sucks and one is looking okay. The one that sucks has me completely bamboozled. I have no idea what to do with it. The one that's okay, however, has me rather excited. I'll continue working it today.
Angie and I were also talking to another screenwriter last night at the wrap party. He recommended a book called 'Your Screenplay Sucks.' I'm going to try and pick it up today at the library. I asked him if he'd read 'Save the Cat,' the book that impacted me so much when I first started writing my screenplay, and he had pretty much the same opinion of it that I did, which is to say, initially impressed and then sort of offended by its continual references to writing a script that makes money rather than writing a script that means something to you.
Life is good. Angie and I are coming up on our one year anniversary. We were married on October 10, 2010, and we haven't quite decided what to do to celebrate. I want to take a three week trip to Europe but Angie reminded me we don't have any money, so we're probably going to go with a three hour trip to Van Nuys, which I'm told, is quite lovely this time of year.
See you tomorrow.
Shepard directed the play in the small space in San Francisco (a 99-seater) and Cathy said they were all sort of shocked when they were told it was moving to Circle Rep in New York. The Rep wanted to recast (Harris had just made THE RIGHT STUFF and was starting to get a bit of a name but Cathy hadn't done any film or TV yet and no one knew who she was) in NYC but Shepard held firm and said they could only have the play if the original cast stayed in place. Cathy told me she thought NY was going to 'eat them up' but on opening night there was such a tumultuous greeting from the opening night audience she knew they were in something special.
I was living in NYC when it played at Circle Rep and I could kick myself for not seeing it. She stayed with the play for the long run but she said Harris left after only six weeks to pursue film stuff. It is one of my favorite Shepard plays.
The director of the movie, Vahe Gabuchian (very talented young filmmaker) put together a six or seven minute 'compilation' reel for the party...just quick snippets of scenes from the film (it's a 'full length,' not a short) and I must say it looks super cool. When asked by a friend the other day what the film was about I had to think a moment. It's an odd one, to be sure. The best I could come up with was 'a thinking man's AMERICAN PIE,' if that makes any sense. I have a smallish role in it, but very, uh, entertaining.
Steve Robman (google him) produced. Steve is a very successful television and stage director and turns out we have dozens of mutual friends in the theatre biz in Chicago and New York. He directed quite a bit at The Goodman back in the day and we both know a lot of the same Chicago actors.
It's completely a youth oriented movie - I think Cathy and I were probably the oldest ones involved and that's counting the crew as well. The three lead actors, all in their early twenties, looked really good in the compilation we saw last night. In fact, the whole thing looked really good. Look for it sometime in 2012.
Angie and I are continuing with our new 'health kick.' Essentially this means we're cutting back on cigs and bread and potatoes and taking killer walks up into the mountains. Sunday we walked a place called 'Fryman's Canyon.' I saw my life pass before my eyes. I now call it 'The Widowmaker.' I'm told it's not an especially difficult hike, but it nearly closed the curtain on me. Within the first five minutes I had sweat completely through my shirt. I have a long, long ways to go with this new 'get in shape' stuff. Fortunatly, while climbing The Widowmaker, Angie let me stop now and then and take huge, gulping breaths. I pretended I was stopping for Zooey's sake (she's our 12 year old dog) but, much to my chagrin, Zooey seemed to be doing just fine and was impatient with my stop and start technique on The Widowmaker.
Los Angeles, thankfully, is in the middle of a heat wave right now so I've been spared a repeat trek for the time being. We're taking the long 'Oasis Walk' in our own neighborhood until the heat breaks. The Oasis Walk is a long one, too, but it's all flat and it circles around the 'Los Angeles River,' which is not a river at all but just a big concret waterway. Over the years, however, foliage has grown unimpeded all around and in it. It's really quite accidentally beautiful.
The work on two, count 'em, two screenplays continues. One sucks and one is looking okay. The one that sucks has me completely bamboozled. I have no idea what to do with it. The one that's okay, however, has me rather excited. I'll continue working it today.
Angie and I were also talking to another screenwriter last night at the wrap party. He recommended a book called 'Your Screenplay Sucks.' I'm going to try and pick it up today at the library. I asked him if he'd read 'Save the Cat,' the book that impacted me so much when I first started writing my screenplay, and he had pretty much the same opinion of it that I did, which is to say, initially impressed and then sort of offended by its continual references to writing a script that makes money rather than writing a script that means something to you.
Life is good. Angie and I are coming up on our one year anniversary. We were married on October 10, 2010, and we haven't quite decided what to do to celebrate. I want to take a three week trip to Europe but Angie reminded me we don't have any money, so we're probably going to go with a three hour trip to Van Nuys, which I'm told, is quite lovely this time of year.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Real Stuff
Yesterday I auditioned for a 'guest starring' role on the television program, 'Parks and Recreation.' This is a program I've seen a few times. I like it. It's in the style of 'The Office' or 'Reno 911,' lots of 'takes' to the camera, breaking the fourth wall, etc. Some witty writing, good, loose, free-wheeling acting style, a clever and smart show.
Before I went in for the read, I did my homework, of course. I took a look at some of the recent, 3rd season shows, got a feel for the humor, studied some of the plot lines...and then memorized my stuff and drove over to Hollywood and did it for the casting director (who, incidentally, was great, very pleasant). The character calls for someone with a 'bad haircut.' And of course when I walked in I saw all these character actors, roughly my age, with, well, bad haircuts. Some had done their hair in a sort of 'comb over,' some had rugs on, and some really DID have bad haircuts.
This sort of thing makes my eyes roll up into my head. It's what I call the 'lab coat' syndrome. That is to say, some time ago I was called in for the role of a Doctor in some show or movie (can't remember now what it was, frankly). And when I got there, every last guy in the room had a damn lab coat on. A couple even had a stethascope slung around their shoulders. Another time, when I first got to LA, I was sent out to a read for a music video shoot (I was naive then - these days I never accept those auditions) that required a 'priest.' When I got there, everybody had on a priest's outfit. Every last one. A couple of the people there actually WERE priests.
I refuse to buy into this phenomenon. For one thing, it's embarrassing. And for another, it's just dumb. I imagine a conversation like this in the Casting Director's office after the audition: "Well, hm. Both were very good actors, I guess. But the one guy, well, he had that lab coat on. My gut tells me to go with him. He LOOKED like a doctor, after all."
Balderdash. I simply can't believe the casting of roles in this town is as infantile as that. But on the other hand, maybe it is. Well, I won't get those roles, then.
Now don't get me wrong. If the role is described as a 'businessman,' yes, I will wear a suit to the audition. If the role is a 'cowboy,' yes, I'll wear jeans and boots. But that's about it. Any further becomes humiliating.
It all reminds me of one of my first professional gigs. I was in my early twenties, living in NYC and I was offered and accepted a job in Kentucky at a summer stock theater. Actually turned out to be a good thing because I made a few lifelong friends from that gig. But anyway, one of the shows they were doing that summer was a 'frontier musical' set in the 1830s in Kentucky. To this day it is the worst piece of writing for the stage I have ever encountered and that is really saying something. But that's beside the point. In a letter, a couple of months before I left NY to head down to KY, I was asked to 'bring all my buckskins.' The letter went on to say for me not to worry because I would be financially compensated if the theater decided to use 'any personal buckskins' on stage. I wrote back, "Let me get this straight. You want me to bring ALL my buckskins?" They must not have found that amusing because they never answered that letter.
A couple of my friends who have been in LA for quite awhile, been in the trenches, kicking and biting to get roles, tell me this is a relatively new thing, this 'dressing up as the character' silliness. And, what's more, there are, now and again, in the breakdowns ('breakdowns' are the information sent to agents and managers so that they might submit their clients more suited for the available roles), actual instructions to WEAR clothes that might fit the character. Again, I simply ignore these instructions. It indicates an appalling lack of imagination on the casting director's part. Of course, none of the 'real' casting directors ever ask for this, the CDs that cast on the big time level, I mean. This is something only the ham and eggers do.
All of this is further complicated by the plethora of 'reality shows' out there. I never go on those auditions, either. Nothing could interest me less. So, these 'reality based' programs throw their hat in the ring of breakdowns. They routinely call for 'real doctors' or 'real cowboys' or 'real midgets with one leg slightly longer than the other and who work as a fireman.' The sad thing is, hundreds of midgets with one leg longer than the other who work as firemen actually show up. It's a tough town.
I have to memorize a long, long monologue today for a feature I'm shooting next week. I hate memorizing words. I think Brando had it right. Just put an earpiece in and have someone read the words into your ear during the shoot. Of course, he was Brando and people let him get away with that. I'm not, however, so I have to learn these frickin' words. And that's what I'm about to do right now.
See you tomorrow.
Before I went in for the read, I did my homework, of course. I took a look at some of the recent, 3rd season shows, got a feel for the humor, studied some of the plot lines...and then memorized my stuff and drove over to Hollywood and did it for the casting director (who, incidentally, was great, very pleasant). The character calls for someone with a 'bad haircut.' And of course when I walked in I saw all these character actors, roughly my age, with, well, bad haircuts. Some had done their hair in a sort of 'comb over,' some had rugs on, and some really DID have bad haircuts.
This sort of thing makes my eyes roll up into my head. It's what I call the 'lab coat' syndrome. That is to say, some time ago I was called in for the role of a Doctor in some show or movie (can't remember now what it was, frankly). And when I got there, every last guy in the room had a damn lab coat on. A couple even had a stethascope slung around their shoulders. Another time, when I first got to LA, I was sent out to a read for a music video shoot (I was naive then - these days I never accept those auditions) that required a 'priest.' When I got there, everybody had on a priest's outfit. Every last one. A couple of the people there actually WERE priests.
I refuse to buy into this phenomenon. For one thing, it's embarrassing. And for another, it's just dumb. I imagine a conversation like this in the Casting Director's office after the audition: "Well, hm. Both were very good actors, I guess. But the one guy, well, he had that lab coat on. My gut tells me to go with him. He LOOKED like a doctor, after all."
Balderdash. I simply can't believe the casting of roles in this town is as infantile as that. But on the other hand, maybe it is. Well, I won't get those roles, then.
Now don't get me wrong. If the role is described as a 'businessman,' yes, I will wear a suit to the audition. If the role is a 'cowboy,' yes, I'll wear jeans and boots. But that's about it. Any further becomes humiliating.
It all reminds me of one of my first professional gigs. I was in my early twenties, living in NYC and I was offered and accepted a job in Kentucky at a summer stock theater. Actually turned out to be a good thing because I made a few lifelong friends from that gig. But anyway, one of the shows they were doing that summer was a 'frontier musical' set in the 1830s in Kentucky. To this day it is the worst piece of writing for the stage I have ever encountered and that is really saying something. But that's beside the point. In a letter, a couple of months before I left NY to head down to KY, I was asked to 'bring all my buckskins.' The letter went on to say for me not to worry because I would be financially compensated if the theater decided to use 'any personal buckskins' on stage. I wrote back, "Let me get this straight. You want me to bring ALL my buckskins?" They must not have found that amusing because they never answered that letter.
A couple of my friends who have been in LA for quite awhile, been in the trenches, kicking and biting to get roles, tell me this is a relatively new thing, this 'dressing up as the character' silliness. And, what's more, there are, now and again, in the breakdowns ('breakdowns' are the information sent to agents and managers so that they might submit their clients more suited for the available roles), actual instructions to WEAR clothes that might fit the character. Again, I simply ignore these instructions. It indicates an appalling lack of imagination on the casting director's part. Of course, none of the 'real' casting directors ever ask for this, the CDs that cast on the big time level, I mean. This is something only the ham and eggers do.
All of this is further complicated by the plethora of 'reality shows' out there. I never go on those auditions, either. Nothing could interest me less. So, these 'reality based' programs throw their hat in the ring of breakdowns. They routinely call for 'real doctors' or 'real cowboys' or 'real midgets with one leg slightly longer than the other and who work as a fireman.' The sad thing is, hundreds of midgets with one leg longer than the other who work as firemen actually show up. It's a tough town.
I have to memorize a long, long monologue today for a feature I'm shooting next week. I hate memorizing words. I think Brando had it right. Just put an earpiece in and have someone read the words into your ear during the shoot. Of course, he was Brando and people let him get away with that. I'm not, however, so I have to learn these frickin' words. And that's what I'm about to do right now.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Procrastination
I think if I had to name the one thing in my life that constantly defeats my best laid plans it would have to be procrastination. I'm not sure exactly why this is. Possibly an advanced case of laziness on my part. Maybe fear of the unknown. Possibly forgetfullness. Whatever the underlying reason, it is a decades old character flaw. And every now and again, I awake in the morning with fire in my gut, eyes blazing, determined to change the pattern. Like this morning. "That's it," I say to myself. "No more procrastination."
I think procrastination for the single person is one thing, but procrastination for someone part of a couple, a team, a civil union, a marriage...quite another. Because then my character flaw not only effects my own life but my wife's life, too. And then it becomes not just a character flaw but a 'thing.' And a 'thing' has to eventually be dragged into the light and 'talked about.' And once it's 'talked about' then it becomes an ongoing 'incident' that has been identified and labeled and listed as 'something to be fixed.' At that point it is a problem.
My ongoing procrastination has become a problem.
I've decided to join a gym. In fact, we went gym shopping yesterday. It is down to two. One is in downtown Burbank and has a pool, yoga classes, up-to-date weight machines, pilate classes (whatever that means), and a host of other self-improvement stuff. The other gym is closer but all it has are some weights and a big bag (in the 'boxing room'). I decided to go with that one.
But it was a long time coming, this whole 'joining a gym' thing.
Procrastination.
For one thing, I've been very lucky my entire life when it comes to 'working out.' I didn't need to, really. At least not outwardly so. I have always had the kind of metabolism or genetic make-up or whatever that insured I didn't get an unsightly premature gut or saggy 'man breasts' or any of the other countless ills that aging brings (the balding and greying thing is an entirely different story, however). And fortunately, I didn't have to work out to fend them off. But now, at 50, this is changing. My body is betraying me. After decades of abuse it has decided this is the year to pay me back. Thus, the gym decision.
At first my wife and I were discussing joining the gym with all the bells and whistles. They have a 'family plan' that we were going to subscribe to. But then I decided the other gym had all I needed and I probably wouldn't use all the bells and whistles anyway. Plus my wife has never been a gym person herself. She prefers running in the morning and doing yoga in a separate and individual class.
The other thing that came to mind is that I don't have any gym clothes. I have to get some today. You know, gym shorts, shoes, etc. I have a lot of old t-shirts so that's covered. But I don't have the other obligatory apparel.
When we visited the gym to look it over yesterday I asked the girl at the counter if someone could show me how to use some of the more 'new fangled' machinery. I'm prehistoric when it comes to being in a gym. The last time I joined one all they had were heavy rocks to carry around. She gave me an odd look and said, 'Well, sure, I guess.' I'm sure she was thinking that this gym already featured old equipment, how is it I wouldn't know how to work them? I didn't want to tell her that the last time I joined a gym people were still doing jumping jacks.
I have never met, not once in my entire life, an interesting person that works out. Oh, I've met people I consider smart and fascinating that work out now and then. But people that obsess over it? Never. Not once. They have been, to the man, pretty boring and dumb. Part of that, I'm sure, has to do with the whole narcissism thing. But I don't know. So I've been rationalizing by telling myself I'm only going to try and get rid of the gut and the upper body deterioration. Just sort of combat the aging process a little bit. Just pop in to the gym a few times a week and keep the wolves at bay.
But then I think of my lifelong history of procrastination. And I hear myself saying, 'I'll work out tomorrow.' In addition, I see myself working out like a madman for a little while and then deciding not to do it anymore. I'm childish that way. For one thing, I don't really care for pain.
So, I'm at an impasse. I have to decide whether or not to join this gym, to put some hard cash on the counter, to disrupt my lazy, life-of-the-mind existence, to get off my fifty year old ass and do something productive.
I think I'll make a decision tomorrow.
At which point I'll see you.
I think procrastination for the single person is one thing, but procrastination for someone part of a couple, a team, a civil union, a marriage...quite another. Because then my character flaw not only effects my own life but my wife's life, too. And then it becomes not just a character flaw but a 'thing.' And a 'thing' has to eventually be dragged into the light and 'talked about.' And once it's 'talked about' then it becomes an ongoing 'incident' that has been identified and labeled and listed as 'something to be fixed.' At that point it is a problem.
My ongoing procrastination has become a problem.
I've decided to join a gym. In fact, we went gym shopping yesterday. It is down to two. One is in downtown Burbank and has a pool, yoga classes, up-to-date weight machines, pilate classes (whatever that means), and a host of other self-improvement stuff. The other gym is closer but all it has are some weights and a big bag (in the 'boxing room'). I decided to go with that one.
But it was a long time coming, this whole 'joining a gym' thing.
Procrastination.
For one thing, I've been very lucky my entire life when it comes to 'working out.' I didn't need to, really. At least not outwardly so. I have always had the kind of metabolism or genetic make-up or whatever that insured I didn't get an unsightly premature gut or saggy 'man breasts' or any of the other countless ills that aging brings (the balding and greying thing is an entirely different story, however). And fortunately, I didn't have to work out to fend them off. But now, at 50, this is changing. My body is betraying me. After decades of abuse it has decided this is the year to pay me back. Thus, the gym decision.
At first my wife and I were discussing joining the gym with all the bells and whistles. They have a 'family plan' that we were going to subscribe to. But then I decided the other gym had all I needed and I probably wouldn't use all the bells and whistles anyway. Plus my wife has never been a gym person herself. She prefers running in the morning and doing yoga in a separate and individual class.
The other thing that came to mind is that I don't have any gym clothes. I have to get some today. You know, gym shorts, shoes, etc. I have a lot of old t-shirts so that's covered. But I don't have the other obligatory apparel.
When we visited the gym to look it over yesterday I asked the girl at the counter if someone could show me how to use some of the more 'new fangled' machinery. I'm prehistoric when it comes to being in a gym. The last time I joined one all they had were heavy rocks to carry around. She gave me an odd look and said, 'Well, sure, I guess.' I'm sure she was thinking that this gym already featured old equipment, how is it I wouldn't know how to work them? I didn't want to tell her that the last time I joined a gym people were still doing jumping jacks.
I have never met, not once in my entire life, an interesting person that works out. Oh, I've met people I consider smart and fascinating that work out now and then. But people that obsess over it? Never. Not once. They have been, to the man, pretty boring and dumb. Part of that, I'm sure, has to do with the whole narcissism thing. But I don't know. So I've been rationalizing by telling myself I'm only going to try and get rid of the gut and the upper body deterioration. Just sort of combat the aging process a little bit. Just pop in to the gym a few times a week and keep the wolves at bay.
But then I think of my lifelong history of procrastination. And I hear myself saying, 'I'll work out tomorrow.' In addition, I see myself working out like a madman for a little while and then deciding not to do it anymore. I'm childish that way. For one thing, I don't really care for pain.
So, I'm at an impasse. I have to decide whether or not to join this gym, to put some hard cash on the counter, to disrupt my lazy, life-of-the-mind existence, to get off my fifty year old ass and do something productive.
I think I'll make a decision tomorrow.
At which point I'll see you.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Tragedy and Hope
Tragedy has struck our household. The coffee pot, the actual coffee container, has sprung a leak. It won't hold coffee. The leak is near the bottom, a little below the one cup mark, so just making a cup of coffee is impossible. This is dire. Plus, we have the kind of coffee maker that does not allow foreign objects to take the place of the coffee container. I can't just stick an old Dr. Pepper bottle under there.
So it's off to get a new coffee maker today. Sooner rather than later. Everything else is on hold. Life as we know it will cease until this epic tear in the fabric of life is corrected. The earth has figuratively stopped spinning as I wait for the stores to open. My eyes have glazed like a shark's, moments away from ripping into a human leg, swimming innocently, unaware.
Fortunately, I discovered this horror as I was filling up the pot with water. At first I couldn't quite get my mind around what was happening, it was too monumental. The water spewed from a small hole near the bottom of the pot. I stared at it, frozen with shock, the meaning of it all failing to get a foothold in my conscience thought. I simply stared as the water streamed out of the hole, like a broken fire hydrant, unable to connect the dot to dot ramifications of this jagged-edge sepuku gutting my morning routine.
At times like this, the human mind ricochets around at light speed. "Houston, we have a problem," is the first thing that slammed into my brain. Second, I realized I would have no coffee this morning. A silent, Meryl Streep-esque tear silently made its way down my cheek, serpentining around the disfigurement of the muscles around my face due to the unpremeditated contortions made by my sudden and violent weeping. And then, pausing in an oasis of unexpected sanity, I contemplated the last complex-compound sentence.
Coffee in the morning has become, over the past decade or so, one of the great and holy joys in my life. Without it, the cosmic apple cart of my soul is upset. As a devout creature of habit I have come to rely on that morning cup of coffee the way a way a Republican gleefully relies on all the vengeful passages in the bible. It is something I need, damn me. Nothing else makes sense without it.
Coffee is as American as violence. It is our birthright, the latter day manna of our lives. Without it we're nothing. We're pretenders. We have no drive for greatness. All of our delusions of grandeur are whisked away and replaced with dread and pessimism. Coffee in the morning, that old devil sent, that caffiene jolt of undeserved rightousness, is the very bedrock of who we are. Nothing to look forward to, no sense of euphoria as we take that first, careful sip of steaming, black confidence. A day without coffee is like a day without resentment. It is necessary to our distorted image of superiority.
But, like a wounded Navy Seal, my mind darts and zips and staggers, hunched over, in agony, searching for a quick fix, a solution to this mind-numbing violation. Like a pedophile Christian minister, I try and find immediate justifications, a way out, a substitution, an explanation, anything that will fill this unspeakable void.
And then it came to me: Starbucks. Starbucks sells coffee. They have coffee at Starbucks. They give it to you in cardboard cups. No questions asked. No forms or background checks. Just a ration of coffee in a non-glass container. No suspicious glances, no sly comments about why you're there, no judgemental stares, slightly askance, as to why you're not making coffee in your own home. Just a quick exchange of dirty money and then, passed through the slot like a chunk of black horse, charred smack, the life-sustaining cup of java. The 'movin' kinda slow' Joe. The stuff that dreams are made of.
And they open, these Starbucks warrior angels, at some ungodly hour like three a.m. or something. They are there, first thing in the morning, the sun barely tipping the scales, ready to feed the beast, to calm the phantoms, to rectify the damage, to capture the dragons. They call themselves coffee shops but they are not. They are miracle makers, dream satisfiers, visionaries, wonder builders, hope outlets. And like the true heroes they are, it's all part of a day's work. Starbucks...the final stop before destiny.
I'm going to get some right now.
See you tomorrow.
So it's off to get a new coffee maker today. Sooner rather than later. Everything else is on hold. Life as we know it will cease until this epic tear in the fabric of life is corrected. The earth has figuratively stopped spinning as I wait for the stores to open. My eyes have glazed like a shark's, moments away from ripping into a human leg, swimming innocently, unaware.
Fortunately, I discovered this horror as I was filling up the pot with water. At first I couldn't quite get my mind around what was happening, it was too monumental. The water spewed from a small hole near the bottom of the pot. I stared at it, frozen with shock, the meaning of it all failing to get a foothold in my conscience thought. I simply stared as the water streamed out of the hole, like a broken fire hydrant, unable to connect the dot to dot ramifications of this jagged-edge sepuku gutting my morning routine.
At times like this, the human mind ricochets around at light speed. "Houston, we have a problem," is the first thing that slammed into my brain. Second, I realized I would have no coffee this morning. A silent, Meryl Streep-esque tear silently made its way down my cheek, serpentining around the disfigurement of the muscles around my face due to the unpremeditated contortions made by my sudden and violent weeping. And then, pausing in an oasis of unexpected sanity, I contemplated the last complex-compound sentence.
Coffee in the morning has become, over the past decade or so, one of the great and holy joys in my life. Without it, the cosmic apple cart of my soul is upset. As a devout creature of habit I have come to rely on that morning cup of coffee the way a way a Republican gleefully relies on all the vengeful passages in the bible. It is something I need, damn me. Nothing else makes sense without it.
Coffee is as American as violence. It is our birthright, the latter day manna of our lives. Without it we're nothing. We're pretenders. We have no drive for greatness. All of our delusions of grandeur are whisked away and replaced with dread and pessimism. Coffee in the morning, that old devil sent, that caffiene jolt of undeserved rightousness, is the very bedrock of who we are. Nothing to look forward to, no sense of euphoria as we take that first, careful sip of steaming, black confidence. A day without coffee is like a day without resentment. It is necessary to our distorted image of superiority.
But, like a wounded Navy Seal, my mind darts and zips and staggers, hunched over, in agony, searching for a quick fix, a solution to this mind-numbing violation. Like a pedophile Christian minister, I try and find immediate justifications, a way out, a substitution, an explanation, anything that will fill this unspeakable void.
And then it came to me: Starbucks. Starbucks sells coffee. They have coffee at Starbucks. They give it to you in cardboard cups. No questions asked. No forms or background checks. Just a ration of coffee in a non-glass container. No suspicious glances, no sly comments about why you're there, no judgemental stares, slightly askance, as to why you're not making coffee in your own home. Just a quick exchange of dirty money and then, passed through the slot like a chunk of black horse, charred smack, the life-sustaining cup of java. The 'movin' kinda slow' Joe. The stuff that dreams are made of.
And they open, these Starbucks warrior angels, at some ungodly hour like three a.m. or something. They are there, first thing in the morning, the sun barely tipping the scales, ready to feed the beast, to calm the phantoms, to rectify the damage, to capture the dragons. They call themselves coffee shops but they are not. They are miracle makers, dream satisfiers, visionaries, wonder builders, hope outlets. And like the true heroes they are, it's all part of a day's work. Starbucks...the final stop before destiny.
I'm going to get some right now.
See you tomorrow.
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