Shards (Jack Neary's Blog)

2012-01-01T17:11:00.000-05:00

So it's January 1, 2012. I plan to blog daily, 366 times this year.

Okay, to quote William Goldman via Dustin Hoffman in ALL THE PRESIDENT'S MEN, that's total bullshit, but at least I haven't missed the first day. I don't have a good feeling about writing tomorrow, but you never know.

Anyway, this time of year invariably takes me back to a period in my life which I recall warmly. Well, mostly warmly. There was that horrible five minutes which I've been meaning to discuss for the past 33 years, but the experience was, generally speaking, a pleasant one.I was playing a snowflake in SCROOGE AND MARLEY, which I believe is Israel Horovitz's excellent adaptation of that Christmas show everybody complains about doing but always does. 1979, I think it was. I was a child. The production was being staged at what was called back then Theatre By The Sea in Portsmouth,NH. By "snowflake" I mean I was one of those non-Equity people who played a businessman in scene one, a caroler in scene two, a Fezziwig reveler in scene three, and on and on, costume change by costume change, throughout the show, for probably 45 bucks a week. Wait. That's a little high for a non-Union actor in New Hampshire in 1979. Let's say 40. I was making about five bucks a costume change.

But I had a nice time. I was reacquainted with an old friend from the Garrett Players in Lawrence. We car pooled and it was fun, except on the day he decided to show me how he could get through the Portsmouth toll booth on 95 without paying. That was frightening. But he was a good guy and it was fun to work with him again. I made some new friends among the other snowflakes, and got to sing a little harmony in scene two. Working in theatre at Christmastime, doing Dickens. What's to complain about, really?

Well, there's that five minutes I mentioned above.

So it's dress rehearsal day. A long one. Probably 10 hours out of 12. We had gone through tech the day before, but it was a mammoth show and the dress wasn't running as smoothly as it should the day before opening. But it was nothing out of the ordinary. Anybody who works in theatre knows that dress rehearsals of technically difficult shows have their ups and downs. But you stop and go and fix things and eventually you open and run and get paid and go home. Show biz.

So it's somewhere in the middle of the second act. Probably the scene change into Dick's living room, or whoever the hell owned the living room Scrooge visits in the Present. No, not Dick. The Nephew. Yeah. Dick's from the Fezziwig scene. Snowflake Senility. Anyway, it's a big scene change and a lot of the actors are involved in it. I am not. I had been, during tech the day before, but the stage manager, who had me moving a chair from one spot to another, made a change during the final run of the tech and gave the chair move to one of the Equity actors. No biggie. It was just easier for that guy than it was for me in terms of where we were on the stage.

Well, we get to this change in dress and it's a train wreck. Nothing works. The stage manager, who is a very tall, bearded, unkempt individual who looked like he took tickets at Woodstock, screams HOLD!!!!So we held. He yelled loudly. It was our best option.He started to fix the change.

Well, that's not really true. What he did was he proceeded to tell us how we screwed up the change."Jack, you were supposed to move the chair from left to right! Come on, for Christ's sake!"

"Uh...Bill (wild guess, could have been Bob. Or Mike. Or Asshole. I'll call him Bill.)...you changed that yesterday. Peter is moving the chair."

"You are moving the chair."

I was concerned that Peter wouldn't register this conversation, so I wanted to keep things correct and avoid another train wreck.""No, Bill, you changed the move from me to Peter yesterday..."

"I'm looking at my book where is says, 'Jack moves the chair.' Do you have a book? Do you have that written in your book?"

"You told me to..."

"DO YOU HAVE THE STAGE DIRECTION WRITTEN IN YOUR FUCKING BOOK, JACK????"

"No."

'THEN MOVE THE FUCKING CHAIR AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

In my entire theatre life, before that time or since that time, I have never heard a stage manager talk that way to an actor. It was the most humiliating, embarrassing, and WRONG thing I've ever experienced in a rehearsal. And I've been in a lot of rehearsals.So we ran the scene change again. When it came time for me to move the chair, I went to the chair and reached for it. At the same time, the Equity actor who had been assigned to move the chair after the move had been taken from me, waved me off and moved the chair himself. He also moved it on opening night. And he moved it for every performance of our three-week run. Every performance.All I want to say here is that, if anybody ever runs into Asshole, or Bill, please tell him that I was in place, poised, prepared to move that chair for every performance, but never did, because the actor he had assigned to make the move, did it himself. But I was there. Every time.

I hope, Bill, that you stopped playing a stage manager soon after that show, because you were not then a stage manager, and I doubt seriously you'd ever be a stage manager. Not a real stage manager.Let me put it this way--every time I visit a McDonald's drive-through, I look closely in the window. I am confident that, someday, the person handing me my Big Mac will be you.

Okay. 365 to go.

2011-11-26T10:10:00.001-05:00

I have found myself, over the past couple of years, watching entire series of old TV shows. It's a fascinating, if time-wasting, exercise that offers glimpses not only into the creative process of these old shows, but also into the social context in which these shows were produced and presented.

My first complete series was THE ANDY GRIFFITH SHOW. First of all, let me say that I think Andy Griffith is brilliant. From his youthful parody recordings such as his country-telling of the ROMEO AND JULIET story, through his early Hollywood career making films like NO TIME FOR SERGEANTS and the outstanding A FACE IN THE CROWD, through his short Broadway stint in DESTRY RIDES AGAIN to his long-running television shows (don't forget MATLOCK), Griffith had an uncanny ability to find the pulse of the public and treat it with worthy entertainment.

Ron Howard had to have learned film-making discipline from his many years with Griffith. Jim Nabors' career was launched and catapulted through Griffith's insistence that he was a star. Don Knotts became a television icon when Griffith wisely stepped back to serve as Knotts straight man when he realized his sidekick was getting all the laughs.

Griffith simply knew how to make audiences happy. His first television series--not really a sitcom, but rather more a subtle, sweet, episodic lesson in morality, friendship and understanding--ran from 1960 to 1968, when it morphed into MAYBERRY, R.F.D. It made the mandatory transition from black and white to color in 1966. Often, the storyline involved Howard, who played Sheriff Andy Taylor's son Opie, and who would invariably choose or be lured into doing something wrong--like sling-shooting a bird to death--and, in the final scene, would sit on the porch of the Mayberry house and learn right from wrong from Dad. Griffith's Taylor, always gently firm, knew how to get his point across without hammering it home. Whatever Opie learned, we learned. And we tuned in the following week because we cared about the characters and believed in the truth the series evoked.

The characters were memorable--Aunt Bee, Gomer Pyle, his cousin Goober, Floyd the barber (played by Howard McNear, who suffered a stroke after the first couple of seasons, was brought back by Griffith after he recovered, and was, if it's possible, funnier after the stroke than he was before it), Ernest T. Bass (the irrepressible Howard Morris) and so, so many others over the years. Most unforgettable, of course, was Knotts' Barney Fife, possibly one of the five most iconic television characters in history. There wasn't a second of Knotts' lunacy as the bumbling deputy that wasn't honestly rendered by the actor, who deservedly went on to win a slew of Emmys.

It's difficult to pick a favorite episode of the over 200 produced, so I won't even try. However, a favorite moment, which occurred many times in the life of the series, was the late-in-show porch sit with Andy, strumming softly on his guitar, harmonizing a hymn with Barney. True, heartfelt, without embarrassment or apology, Griffith told his story.

Next time--Amos and Andy. Yes. That's what I said.

9/11 Fund Raiser for Veterans

2011-08-28T12:23:00.006-04:00

Wanted to let you know about an upcoming event. I've been playing in a September baseball game with a group of friends, many of them from Lowell's Sacred Heart Parish, for 30 years. This year, the game falls on September 11, and we'd like to commemorate our 30th Anniversary by honoring the memory of the victims of 9/11, and our Veterans. Below is the event's official letter. Hope you'll consider helping out:

Dear Friends,

As you are aware, the tenth anniversary of the tragedy of September 11^th is upon us. The City of Lowell and Community Teamwork, Inc. Senior Corps programs will commemorate the 10th Anniversary of September 11th at a flag raising ceremony on Friday, September 9th. The observance recognizes the impact of terrorism on the surviving family members and friends of those who lost their lives or suffered otherwise on that day.

In addition, as a way of thanking those whose lives have been changed forever by the service they have given to our nation since that time, CTI’s Senior Corps programs are partnering with local Senior Centers to collect supplies that have been requested by local area veterans’ services. All items will be donated to benefit local veterans who are struggling.

To assist in this noble effort, a group of friends, many lifelong Lowellians and many from the former Sacred Heart Parish, are raising funds to support the CTI’s Senior Corps and our veterans. The interesting story about this group of friends is that for the past thirty years, they have gathered on the Sunday after Labor Day at ballparks across the City for a game of baseball. In fact, 2011 marks the 30^th anniversary of the game. Of course, the speed and level of play has diminished over the years but the spirit of the players has not. A pre-game ceremony is planned to honor our Veterans, and Micky Ward will throw out the first pitch.

It seems fitting that as a way to give back to their community, and to show their gratitude to local service men and women that the players dedicate this year’s game to the heroes who now need our support.

The players seek to raise $5000 to be donated to CTI’s Senior Corps to be used to purchase much needed items for veterans living in Lowell. The funds will be raised in a number of ways including donations from players, friends and families, and from sponsorships from local contributors.

We know that you share our commitment to the spirit, pride, selflessness, generosity, courage and service of the men and women of our military forces. We respectfully request that you consider participating in our efforts by contributing an affordable amount to help our seniors help our heroes.

Thank you in advance for your support and contribution. Click below. You'll be taken to PayPal, where you can use your credit card to donate by entering an amount designated for "CYB."

Sincerely,

The Sacred Heart Church Yard Boys

2011-06-14T16:08:00.006-04:00

I've been wondering what it would take to get me back on this blog. For some reason, I haven't been able to get my brain around anything worth typing here. Not that anything I've typed up to this point is worth the cyberspace it occupies. But I've been busy, working, and every time I considered blogging, I was just too damned tired or stressed or pissed off or frustrated or annoyed or discombobulated to get down to it. There was just nothing prompting me to get back up on the blogging horse.

Until last night.

Last night, for the first time in six years, I had a Burger King Whopper.

Six years ago, I lost 42 pounds over the course of about eight months. I did this by not eating crap. A lot of the crap I was eating at the time was Burger King Whoppers. I'd get out of a rehearsal or a performance late at night, probably having skipped dinner. I'd head home. A glance to the left off the Lowell Connector drew my baby blues to the glaring Burger King lights on Chelmsford Street. And toward those lights I would go, tummy gurgling in anticipation of another late night Whopper.

And with the Whopper comes the Fries. Everybody knows that.

I would make this Burger King pilgrimage often. Once or twice a week. And think nothing of it. Well, I'd think of it, because the belt buckle was gnawing at the burgeoning folds at my waist but…I devoured the Whoppers anyway.

Because the Burger King Whopper, you see, to me, is not really crap. The Burger King Whopper is, to me, the Greatest Food In History.

I'll tell you why.

In my first summer out of college, I worked as an actor at Theatre By The Sea in Matunuck, Rhode Island. Let me amend that. I was not primarily an actor. I was primarily a member of the Junior Company at Theatre By The Sea. There were about twenty of us--show biz hungry 20-somethings so early in our careers that we believed the torture TBTS management inflicted on us was par for the course. In fact, it may have been. Perhaps all summer theatres worked their apprentices like plow horses and pack mules. Perhaps all summer theatres called whatever they dubbed their Junior Company kids to the shop at 8 am, without breakfast, worked them non-stop until noon, then didn't serve them lunch, worked or rehearsed them from 1 to 5, then didn't serve them dinner before they shoved them onstage to appear as happy chorus cowboys and farmers in OKLAHOMA before summoning them again for a couple of hours after the show to do some more grunt work in the scene shop before bed. Yeah. All summer theatre was like this. Absolutely. That's what we told ourselves, anyway. Because we were working in theatre, and working in theatre is HARD. Right? Right!

Please notice in the paragraph above the effort I made to emphasize the lack of FOOD offered to us by TBTS. There was a restaurant attached to the theatre, yes--but we had to PAY FOR THE FOOD IF WE WANTED TO EAT IT. And few if any of us could afford that. We all PAID A FEE to be a part of the Junior Company, so there was no salary.

(Wait, that's not entirely true. I was cast as the Puerto Rican Delivery Boy in Neil Simon's THE GINGERBREAD LADY at the beginning of the season, the only JC member so blessed. As a result, I received my first check as an actor. Seven dollars and fifty cents. I don't consider that a feather in my cap, however, because of the life price I paid. You see, I was a fair skinned Irish kid who could do Simon riffs with a decent Latino dialect, so in order to play the Puerto Rican, I was also asked to blacken my blond strands by RUBBING SHEETS OF CARBON PAPER INK INTO MY HAIR. Anybody who knows me now or takes a look at my headshot knows how successful THAT experiment was.)

Bottom line: we had no food. Or if we did it was only the food we could muster up by trying to grab a half hour to walk or bicycle to the general store about two miles down the road to get some Wonder Bread and boiled ham, which we would fashion into sad sandwiches to stuff into our skeletal faces on our way to the next shop call or costume parade or photo session.

I know--the Whoppers--I'm getting to it.

Anyway, we did six or eight shows a week, I forget how many. But one of our show days, on Saturday, featured a matinee and evening performance. And in between shows, probably because there was some kind of Rhode Island child abuse law, TBTS fed us. Once a week. Just once.

Every Saturday, after the matinee, before the evening show, the truck drove up, opened and dropped the rear flap, and handed out the red, orange and white paper bags containing our sustenance. The same menu week after week.

Burger King Whoppers.

Never before, or since, have I tasted anything so desperately divine.

And last night, for the first time in six years, because I was late for a rehearsal and had to grab a fast dinner, I glanced off the highway, saw the Burger King lights, went there, and had myself a Whopper.

God Almighty, it was good.

Not quite as good as it was between shows of OKLAHOMA.

But damn, damn good.

Cinema Shardiso

2011-01-04T16:15:00.010-05:00

So I saw THE FIGHTER recently. Not a bad movie. Not a great movie, by any means, but not bad. I think the movie would have had more teeth if it had gone whole hog and admitted it was about Dicky and not Micky. I'm from Lowell, but I have had no interaction with any of these guys, so my observation is simply as a moviegoer. And if the movie had been about Dicky, then it could have turned on that phone call when Dicky discovered that Micky had listened to him about the approach to the Vegas fight. That happens, Dicky is redeemed, he cleans himself up, the movie is about him. On the other hand, I'm sure Dicky's story was a bit under-told, and perhaps his redemption might not be as viable as Micky's achievement. I don't know. Still, Bale wins the Oscar, over Jeremy Renner, who received the only Oscar nomination scored for a better movie, THE TOWN.

I am from Lowell, though, and I have to say this...

Watching THE FIGHTER prompted me to watch HIGH ON CRACK STREET, the searing, 59-minute documentary that is a crucial part of the plot of THE FIGHTER. Because it's a short film, you won't find it on Blockbuster or Netflix. But you can find it very easily online, and you can watch it for free on your computer.

So if you see THE FIGHTER....

...and then you see HIGH ON CRACK STREET...

...and you are from Lowell...

...then you can't be very happy about the way Hollywood has depicted your city.

Sure, both stories, interwoven as they are, are legit and worth telling.

But, my God...are these films the city's cinematic legacy?

Sure, Ricky Gervais' THE INVENTION OF LYING showed scenes of Lowell at its nicest. But it did not acknowledge the name of the city. So that doesn't count.

I've written a play about Lowellians, entitled THE PORCH. Perhaps sometime, some theatre in Lowell will stage it. So far, one has rejected it. Too bad. I think folks in the area would appreciate its message of hope and friendship. But I can't help at the moment.

I'm just sayin'...

There are Lowellians out there living sane, productive, and INTERESTING lives, and they have stories to tell. Paul Marion and other local writers pen wonderful material about the city.

But the rest of the world sees us in THE FIGHTER and HIGH ON CRACK STREET and...

I'm just sayin'...
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I think I saw THE SOCIAL NETWORK and I think it was pretty good. I just can't remember all that much about it. I'll watch it again. If it takes Best Picture, that's fine with me. Besides, I am a huge fan of director David Fincher, whose SEVEN is one of my all-time favorite films.
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Jeff Bridges is terrific in TRUE GRIT but it looks like he hasn't shaved or bathed since before CRAZY HEART. I don't think you should win back-to-back Oscars without changing your clothes. Good, solid movie, though, from the Coen Brothers, who stepped a little away from their customary quirkiness to tell an old fashioned western story extremely well. Hailee Steinfeld? Superb.
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Colin Firth is probably going to win the Best Actor Oscar, but, for some reason, as good as he is in THE KING'S SPEECH, I had a little trouble getting past the technical acting-out of the stammering George VI. That's not fair, I know, but...that's my reaction. What I took away from that movie was the nuanced, moving, brilliantly subtle work of Geoffrey Rush. My God, is he good in this movie. Can't win the Oscar, though. Not with Christian Bale as competition.
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Michelle Williams turns in a star performance in BLUE VALENTINE, which also features Tewksbury's Maryann Plunkett as Williams' mother in the film. Williams scored an Oscar nom, her second, for her work. But, for my money, the standout performance in BLUE VALENTINE belongs to Ryan Gosling, who breaks your heart as a man who just wants to be a husband and father, but who doesn't have the life skills to provide for his family. Just a beautiful job of acting.
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I kind of have a feeling I saw INCEPTION, but I'm just not sure if it was a dream. I'll have to look for the ticket stub.
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Okay, are you sitting down--I still say that the best film I have seen this year is TOY STORY 3. It is meticulously structured, hysterically funny, occasionally scary, and downright moving. There is a moment late in the film that I still can't believe happened, it was so fresh and surprising. It will be Best Animated Feature but...I think it needs to be considered as best of the year.

Shards of the Season

2010-12-11T16:29:00.004-05:00

Songs of the Season I will listen to until they're over, regardless of whether I am parked in front of my house and it's freezing:

White Christmas - Bing Crosby
Jingle Bell Rock - Bobby Helms
Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree - Brenda Lee
A Holly Jolly Christmas - Burl Ives
Do You Hear What I Hear - Bing Crosby
The Little Drummer Boy - Harry Simeone Chorale
O Holy Night - Andy Williams
Mele Kalikimaka - Crosby and the Andrews Sisters

And that's it. I did not forget Nat Cole's The Christmas Song. It's beautiful, but it won't stop me from turning off the ignition.

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And speaking of Do You Hear What I Hear - how come that's the title of the song? It's not the tag of the first stanza of the song. That's Do You See What I See. It's not the tag of the final stanza of the song. That's Do You Know What I Know. It's not repeated any more often than any other Do You Whatever What I Whatever in the song. Who decided Do You Hear What I Hear was going to be the title? Should I worry about this? Should you?

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And here's the deal about The Little Drummer Boy. First of all, with the Harry Simeone version available, there was really no need for anybody else to record the song. However, some people did. Some people keep doing it. Hey--that's their right. Be aware, though, you people who make up your mind to sing this song, that you damn well better know how to Parump A Bump Bum. There are a number of versions out there in which the Parump A Bump Bum is atrocious. Very few humans can pull off the Parump a Bump Bum required to make this song work. I think Crosby comes close in the version of The Peace Carol/Little Drummer Boy he sang with David Bowie on that Christmas TV Special he filmed in England about five minutes before he died. I think he lucked into a correct reading of Parump a Bump Bum because he was so embarrassed singing the song with David Bowie that he kind of turned his brain off and pretty much threw away the phrase, making it strangely effective. Truth be told, though, damn few singers can execute the phrase properly. My recommendation: leave the song alone. There's a perfect version out there already.

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I see Die Hard turning up in lists of people's favorite Christmas movies. Okay. I'll buy that. I'm just pretty sure Sister Gonzaga would not have chosen it as the movie to show us back in the eighth grade at the Sacred Heart before sending us off for Christmas vacation.

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If you're looking for a holiday film and you're kinda over some of the all-time favorites, I strongly suggest you get a copy of Ricky Gervais' 90-minute finale of his THE OFFICE. Gervais and Stephen Merchant decided to end their brilliant BBC series after only a couple of seasons, and fashioned this piece to tie up loose ends of the two most prominent stories the series featured--Gervais' David Kemp's attempt to live and love, and the "it has to happen but how?" romance between Tim and Dawn. And they set it at Christmastime. Frankly, the show is painful to watch, as Gervais and Merchant put Kemp through humiliations that would destroy most people--funny, but painful--but the astonishing two endings of the above-mentioned storylines make all the pain worthwhile. (Spoiler Alert) The moment when Tim and Dawn finally come together is as moving and as tastefully handled as anything you've seen in film or on television, ever. You can probably watch this without having viewed the two full seasons of Gervais-Merchant's THE OFFICE. But it is best appreciated knowing who these people are, and how they got to be at the point and time covered in the finale.

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So the holiday season is sometimes a depressing one. Let's face it. Not everybody is filled with joy and cheer and the Yuletide is not always as gay as the song would make it out to be. But please, people, those of you who insist on putting those enormous blow-up Santas and Snowmen and Rudolphs out on your lawn--for the love of God, get up in the morning, go out to the lawn, and RE-BLOW THE DAMN THINGS UP! If a guy is having a tough time dealing with the season, for whatever reason, if he's down in the dumps and weeps uncontrollably as he drives to work while Mariah Carey blares out that all she wants for Christmas is him, there is NOTHING more emotionally deflating than seeing all these elves and reindeer out of air and sprawled on the lawn, waiting to be revitalized for the afternoon commute. COME ON PEOPLE! BLOW UP YOUR LAWN SANTAS! KEEP CHRISTMAS ALIVE!

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Merry Christmas

The Luck of the Wall Socket

2010-11-16T14:37:00.013-05:00

I am in the Barnes and Noble café in Nashua, NH. As usual. Trying to work. Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes less so. Most times, I can achieve a level of concentration here I can't reach in a more private atmosphere. Today, at least at this moment, is not one of those times.

I'm in the only seat I could get near a wall socket. A seat near a wall socket is crucial at Barnes and Noble, because I have to plug in my computer. Yeah, I have a battery, but the computer is about four years old and the battery doesn't last all that long. So the wall socket is a must.

Unfortunately, today, I am sitting next to a couple of 20-somethings, a man and a woman (boy and a girl?), who are in the very first stage of chatting each other up. Emphasis on the chatting. And the conversation is as inane as any conversation I've ever heard. The most prevalent words emerging from their lips are the words "like" and "awesome." The conversation has evolved in the last thirty minutes from dogs watching him kissing his "ex" in bed (he made sure he emphasized the "ex" part) to his receding hairline, which is not really receding, which he knows, but which, since he brought it up, she feels compelled to defend. Points for him. (He's 26, tops, and he just used the phrase "If I could do it all over again…") You can, asshole! Twice!

Sitting on the table in front of her is a paperback entitled, "Personal Development for Smart People." From what I've heard of the conversation, she hasn't had a chance to begin reading yet.

Okay, he just said, "That was my first tattoo." She called it "cool." He thinks the lines are too thick. She doesn't agree. She thinks it's fantastic. He has absolutely NOTHING to worry about in terms of action later in the day. Or night.

Two more "likes," a "sucks" and a "basically." Classic.

I just took a quick glance in the guise of a look to the clock or something. She is wearing jeans and a shirt, each of which is full of carefully calculated holes.

As I said, this guy is In Like Flynn.

For those of you who enjoy century-old baseball references.

I'd really like to get down to work on this new play I'm writing, but I can't. I know--I should go home and lock myself in my room and concentrate. But I can't. I do my best writing in the cafe at B&N. That's just the way it is. I have to wait for these two to shut up, or else wait until another wall socket opens up so I can move.

These two shutting up is not going to happen. Not for a while. She just looked at her watch, gushed, and asked him if he knew what time it was.

He said, "I dunno. 11:30?"

It's 2:30.

She gushed again.

This guy knows exactly what he's doing. I think he told her he's an Emergency Medical Technician. Even if it's not true, it's gonna get him through this day. And night. I guarantee it. He's so smooth there's no question she's paying for dinner, too.

If they make it to dinner.

Maybe he parked his ambulance outside. That'd be quicker.

I wonder if she's gonna buy the book.

Uncle Crumbs

2010-10-15T09:13:00.006-04:00

A couple of months ago, I introduced you to Eddie and Timmy. I had just moved in with them and my brother and sister-in-law in Derry, NH, where I set up my man cave and began perpetrating whatever it is I do on society from there. Let me reacquaint you with the boys.

This is Eddie. Eddie is the shaggier of the brothers. A little lankier, a little longer than Timmy. If the two brothers walked into a doggie saloon, Eddie would be the one the girl doggies would slobber over. He'd lope up to the bar, casually order a Milk Bone (which he wouldn't have to pay for), and fake chew on it as he eyed the doggettes up and down the bar to select which he would grace with his charm for the rest of the evening.

And this is Timmy. Timmy's the stockier one, the fireplug. Timmy would be Eddie's wing man as they ambled into the doggie saloon. Timmy would not be concerned that the doggettes were slobbering over his smoother-looking brother, because Timmy knows, 1. He's the brains of the outfit and 2. Eddie's hand-me-downs are gonna be just fine for his purposes.

Eddie and Timmy, after about four months of allowing me to share their domicile, have adjusted to my presence. That is to say, they know my place in the household. I am the guy who tosses doggie treats at them all hours of the day and night. I am the guy who, when preparing his dinner in the kitchen, brings a little can of PikNik Original Shoestring Potatoes with him and who, as he stirs his soup or manages the franks in his George Foreman Grill, will sprinkle PikNik Original Shoestring Potatoes on the floor near the stove to keep Eddie and Timmy occupied while dinner is being prepared. I am the guy who, after he eats his breakfast in his man cave, will be very careless with the toast crumbs and the New Kellogg's "Simply Cinnamon" Corn Flakes (free with rebate for a limited time), so that the carpet in the man cave is replete with bits and pieces of toast and flakes ready for the little doggie vacuums to consume.

I am...Uncle Crumbs.

There are advantages to being Uncle Crumbs. For one, it means the dogs like me. True, it's kind of pathetic to be appreciated for your food scraps, but one takes what one can get in this life. Yes, I know that when Timmy scratches on my door mid-morning (Eddie never does the scratching. That's the wing man's job.), I know he's not visiting to shoot the breeze or catch up on the latest reading of one of my plays, but rather it's to see whether I've gone back to Lightly Sweetened Multi-Grain Cheerios, which he and Eddie find inferior to the new Cinnamon Corn Flakes. I mean, they will eat the discarded Cheerios, but, come on (they think), not only do the Flakes taste better, there's the damn rebate! But it does mean they visit, which is a good thing. I fear that if I cleaned up my act and stopped spilling my breakfast on the floor, I'd never see them again. But that won't happen. I'm something of a slob. They know it. They'll always be back.

September 15, 2010: A Night on THE TOWN

2010-09-15T18:09:00.008-04:00

About a year ago, I was called in by CP Casting to read for an upcoming film to be directed by, co-written by, and starring Ben Affleck. As I recall, I initially read for the role of a Charlestown gangster leader whose flower shop fronted for his operation. I read the scene and was called back another time to read it again. Eventually, I was called in to read for another part, Arnold Washton, one of the guys guarding the stash of concessions cash collected at Fenway Park after a four-game series with the Yankees. In other words, if I got the part, I would be guarding a lot of fake Hollywood dough. My first few auditions were for the CP folks, my last one--a callback for "Arnold," was for Ben Affleck. I remember I walked into the audition room and stepped boldly to the table where Ben was sitting. I held out my hand, and it occurred to me that Ben was not expecting this. It also occurred to me that his not expecting this meant that he was going to consider me an asshole and not consider me for the part. I went through with the handshake, though, even though Ben's ball point pen stayed clumsily in his hand as he shook mine. Never ambush a movie star who's wielding a ballpoint pen. It's just not done.

Anyway, I read the scene for Ben, and I thought the reading went less successfully than the reading I did for the CP people but...that's the way it goes. As I walked out of the room, the woman who runs CP asked me if I would be available for a table read. A bunch of folks were going to sit around and read the script, see how it sounds. I said sure, of course, but that table read never came to pass for me. I was to read the part of the Charlestown gangster, a major supporting role, and, as it turned out, they didn't need me. But it was fun to be asked.

Anyway, I do get the part of "Arnold," and I do the shoot, which lasts two days and I think I covered all this in an earlier blog entry. Fast forward to last night, Tuesday, September 14, 2010, when the finished film is to be given its Boston premiere at Fenway Park, which is the location of the final heist of the film. I was amazed that they planned this. It's outdoors, in mid-September, and it's not a football game. It's a movie. Could it be anything but cold, uncomfortable, and possibly even wet?

Turns out, none of the above. A beautiful late summer day turned into a gorgeous late summer evening. My friend Sandra and I got into town early (I am a huge traffic beater, whenever I can swing it), and planned to have dinner before the premiere. We parked in the main Fenway Lot (FREE PARKING PASS!!!!!! ANYBODY WHO'S BEEN TO FENWAY KNOWS WHAT THIS MEANS.) and I looked across the street to the Cask and Flagon. Now, again, anybody who has gone to a Red Sox game knows that you just don't go to the Cask and Flagon before the game. Mainly because you can't get in there. To paraphrase Yogi--"Nobody goes there. It's too crowded." But I could see that there was plenty of room inside, and even though the C&F ain't the height of New England elegance, I thought we'd give it a shot, because I'd never get in there again. We found a table near the window which looked out on to Gate E, which happened to be the Gate those of us folks privileged to be invited to the premiere were supposed to use. We figured we could sit and watch the stars go by.

Well, we did sit and we did watch, but no stars went by. Unless you consider Jerry Kissel a star. I actually do. I think he's one of the best actors in Boston. But when you're looking for Jennifer Garner, Jerry Kissel just doesn't cut it. Still, it was fun to anticipate things that never happened. Eventually, we left the Cask and Flagon and became just another couple of non-stars waiting to get into the park. Finally, Gate E opened and we stepped inside, only to be greeted by scanners and pat downs and all kinds of "keep the terrorists away from the movie people" security. No big deal, but I did have a lot of change (I never go to Boston without dozens of quarters), and it was embarrassing filling up the plate that was whisked through the scanner. Took me twenty minutes to get everything back in my pocket. But I did, and we followed the throng up the ramp to Section 26, which overlooks the third base line.

Walking into Fenway, no matter how many times you've done it, or how old you are, is a thrilling experience. It is just one, big, damn, beautiful place. (To look at, not to sit in, but that's another story.) But rarely does one walk into an essentially empty Fenway, to see a mammoth motion picture screen mounted on scaffolding, and spanning the entire third base line.

There seemed to be a Red Carpet rolled along the stands next to the Red Sox dugout on the first base side, with a group of movie posters lined up with the carpet. The folks were pokily making their way to their seats, which were mostly in Section 26, handily tucked between two posts so that everybody could see the screen. Ultimately, people sat in Sections 25 and 27, but only where the posts wouldn't interfere. Sandra and I took our seats in Row 6, #s 8 and 9. As we did, we were handed an official THE TOWN blanket, which Warner Bros. provided gratis, in case autumn stealthily intruded during the screening. The blanket was black, and had "The Town" sewn into it, in red. Things did not get under way according to the schedule, and there was a lot of sitting around and "Howayahs!" shared by the folks in the stands, many of whom, it seemed, knew each other. Now that everybody and his brother is making gangster movies in Boston, the need for gangster types among the local thespian crowd has grown precipitously. They were all having a hell of a time. Sandra became very deft at taking photos without looking into the lens.

Finally, at about 8:40, all the stars had arrived and taken their seats, and Fenway suddenly went black. That's quite an experience if, as I am, you're used to the place in stunning brightness. Then, just as suddenly, a spotlight hit Ben Affleck, who stood in front of the screen and graciously thanked the Boston film community for the good experience he had working in Charlestown and thereabouts shooting the movie. He didn't introduce the stars with him (it was just too dark), but did let us know that Jeremy Renner, Blake Lively, Rebecca Hall, Chris Cooper and Jon Hamm were present, as was Ben's friend Matt Damon. Alas, no Jennifer. (I've been a big fan since ALIAS.)

At the conclusion of his really terrific speech, the film began. At first, it seemed like it was simply going to be an evening of people recognizing themselves and their friends on screen and doing the WHOOP! thing, but, though that did happen occasionally during the evening, by and large the audience watched the film with interest. It is beautifully shot, and the sound and sight systems set up for Fenway were excellent. The story may have a hole or two, but the performances, the humor, and the incredible (I use that word intentionally) special effects and action sequences make it a damn good show. I think it will do very well, and unless five other actors do bang-up work in supporting roles between now and Oscar time, I think Renner gets a nomination. If the film is a huge hit, look for Affleck, too, to get a nod, as director.

When the film ended most eveybody hung around a bit to watch the credits, and those of us with small roles were very happy when our names did appear. I had done two days on the film, and had one line as I was tied up by Affleck as he robbed Fenway. My line did not survive the cut, but ten seconds of me looking frightened in medium close-up did, and for that, I'm grateful. And there was my name. Up there on the screen. For the first time.

All in all, a truly cool evening.

And, oh, by the way, that part I had initially read for and was called back for--went to the great character actor Pete Postlethwaite. Why they'd want to use him instead of me....

And my parking space was sooooo good....I got outa town in no time.

August 27, 2010 Movies: The Unexpected

2010-08-27T10:32:00.003-04:00

This is a Good News/Bad News thing. I saw a couple of movies this week, one in a theatre, one via Netflix Streaming. My expectations were knocked sideways with each film.

First, the Bad News.

I really like Steve Carell (Wait, while I go to the Internet and check, once again, on the l's and the r's in his name.) Okay. Carell. I remember his earlier work on THE DAILY SHOW. And I remember how blown away I was with his performance in LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE. Who knew the guy had acting chops like that? And then there's THE OFFICE. I am now watching a lot of OFFICE reruns. The show itself is brilliant. Brilliant in a different way from Gervais' brilliant British version, but brilliant nonetheless. Brilliant in a decidedly American way. So the first time through these shows, it was the show--and the beautifully written and performed arc of the Jim/Pam relationship--that made the show work for me. Now, on my second time through, I'm recognizing how remarkably honest and funny Carell is in the show. Episode by episode he brings everything he's got to the table, and that's a lot. He is at once silly and ridiculous and pathetic and charming and...sad. Gervais does all this as well, it is true, but...Carell (and the OFFICE writers) need to be recognized for this wonderful character. Okay. All right. I love Steve Carell. I thought both he and Tina Fey were very good in DATE NIGHT, though I thought the writing let them down. Okay. All right. But the other day, in a theatre, I saw DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS.

Here's how I think the pitch meeting for DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS went down.

PITCHER: Are you ready? Guy wants a promotion. His boss says okay. But the guy has to bring an idiot to dinner so the boss and his cronies can make fun of the guy. DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS. Whatdya think?

PRODUCER: Are you sure this will...

PITCHER: Schmuck is Steve Carell.

PRODUCER: Make the movie!

And that's where the creativity stopped. The movie is a long exercise in badly considered and executed "comic" situations and hideously unfunny jokes. I am terrible at remembering specifics about movies, so I am unable to regurgitate the jokes for you here but, trust me, the writers are sophomoric and talent-free when it comes to getting to the heart of the comic matter. And the very talented (I think) and very witty Zach Galifianakis is wasted in a stooge role that is offensively underwritten. It takes a lifetime to get to the dinner, and when we do, we are treated to more of the same lame humor and patented "guy movie" cliches we sat through to get to dinner. My question: Did Carell and Paul Rudd and Galifianakis actually read the script before committing to the movie? Or did they, like the producer, just sign on with the pitch? I'm guessing the latter. Because all of those actors are much, much, much better than the material in DINNER FOR SCHMUCKS.

And then there's TRANSSIBERIAN.

(No matter how many times I type that title, the spell check always goes into Panic Mode, but as far as I can tell, that's the way it's spelled.)

This is a thriller I don't think anybody saw. Made in 2008 by writer/director Brad Anderson (THE MACHINIST, NEXT STOP WONDERLAND), it's a story about an American couple (Woody Harrelson and Emily Mortimer--yeah, playing an American), who are taking the Transsiberian Express from Beijing to Moscow after doing some social work in China. Along the way, they encounter an "interesting" young couple who attracts them in varying ways, and the results are far from pleasant for Woody and Emily. The plot involves the Russian drug trade and the shady way in which the Russian police force goes about its business. Eduardo Noriega and Kate Mara play the mysterious strangers on the train, and Ben Kingsley plays a Russian detective. The Lithuanian shoot stands in for Siberia, and the film is beautifully rendered.

More than all this, though, is the fact that TRANSSIBERIAN is a terrific thriller, and terrific thrillers are hard to come by. Most of the time, the plot line in current thrillers is transparent almost from the first reel. This movie, like Polanski's THE GHOST WRITER, is a current thriller that involves the viewer carefully, and then, about halfway through the movie, just grabs the viewer and takes him on an unexpected ride full of twists and turns that lasts until the very last frame.

TRANSSIBERIAN had the misfortune of opening the same weekend as THE DARK KNIGHT, the biggest opening in film history, and thus accounts for its relative obscurity.

But it's still out there, available to see, and I recommend it without reservation.

August 24, 2010--Sister Annette, the Russians and the Mulligan Twins

2010-08-23T15:59:00.005-04:00

I'm always hearing stories about how the nuns messed up the lives of so many of my Lapsed Catholic friends. (Yes, Catholics can be friends with Lapsed Catholics. All a Catholic has to do to maintain the friendship is to nod and laugh when the Lapsed Catholic tells him how much the religion messed the LC up. When the C laughs, then the LC thinks the C is an LC and everybody is happy. One thing the C should never, ever do is try to explain to the LC why he, the C, is still a C. That's just asking for trouble. Because all the C is doing, really, is triggering the GUILT the LC has been harboring since he turned LC. And once the GUILT is triggered, the friendship between the C and the LC is endangered, because dredging up that GUILT is just not the friendly thing to do. The C rarely intends to trigger the GUILT but...that's the way it is with GUILT. It kind of sideswipes you like a neglectful Nissan driver in a slippery parking lot.)

Anyway, I never had any real trouble with nuns. Well, one, maybe. Sister Annette. I'm not changing her name because there's no way she's still alive and if she is she deserves to be really, really old. She was my second grade teacher and, I swear to God, she had us thinking the Russians were out in the cloak room ready to pounce on us if we so much as sneezed during Arithmetic. Yeah. Russians. Russians were very big back in those days if you wanted to scare the crap out of kids. And Sister Annette knew what she was doing when it came to kid crap scaring. I remember back then that I was afraid of Protestants (that's just a level of paranoia I do not want to examine right now), but not nearly as afraid as I was of the Russians. Back then, our only option when it came to escaping the Russians was to "duck and cover." Or, in the case of those of us in the Sacred Heart School, to move single file down the stairs to the basement where the Russians, we understood, couldn't get to us. Sister Margaret Claire in the first grade and Sister Perpetua in the third grade never mentioned the Russians. Perhaps that's because they were older and Russians to them still lived under Tzars and hadn't procured the hydrogen bomb. But Annette--she knew Russians, and she knew that if she wanted something out of us, all she had to do was invoke the imminence of World War Three and we would comply. Another thing about Annette that bugged me was that, one time, she heard somebody talking in the boys' room. This was strictly forbidden. I have no idea how talking might have negatively affected urinating, but she seemed to believe it would and banned chatter from the lav. Anyway, she heard talking one day (I guess she was just outside the boys' room door, listening), and when we filed out of the lavatory, she lined us up against the blackboard and demanded to know who was the chatterbox. Nobody owned up. We all knew that whoever owned up was going to be fed to the Russians. Trouble was, I KNEW who was talking. It was one of the Mulligan twins. It didn't make any difference which one it was. They looked the same and acted the same and both had a habit of talking in the boys' room. And I knew it was one of them. And it showed on my face. And Annette was really, really good at honing in on a face that showed. So she looked me in the eyes, and asked me who was the talker. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. The Mulligan twins were enormous, and all I could think of at that moment was either I tell on the twin that I can see and who can kill me, or I hope to God that Annette is lying about the Russians.

I was punished. No Russians. Just blackboard clapping or something, I forget. But I was held responsible for the bathroom gabfest, even though I never, ever said a word in there.

I think, though, that the Mulligan twin who did the talking gained a modicum of respect for me after that day.

I have no idea what happened to Sister Annette.

But I hope the Russians got her.

August 15, 2010 ("I stepped on my Kindle" edition)

2010-08-16T16:40:00.007-04:00

I stepped on my Kindle.

This is one of the main things you should not do with your Kindle. Step on it. When you step on it, it stops being a Kindle. The only thing it's really good for after you step on it is throwing it at librarians. Because it would be really ironic. Other than that, though, a stepped-on Kindle is useless.

I've stepped on a few books in my life, and the books remained readable. Not the Kindle. They don't tell you that when you buy the Kindle. They don't say, "Hey, you can't step on this thing, you know." If they had said that, I probably would have stepped on it anyway, because who thinks he's ever gonna step on his Kindle? Not me, baby. I had gotten into the habit of placing my Kindle on the floor beside my bed (because my night stand, which is a stool, can hold only my radio alarm clock, my reading glasses, and my iPhone), and I was diligently leaning up and over my bed to put my DVDs in alphabetical order...What, you don't have your DVDs in alphabetical order? What's the matter with you?...and after I had squeezed MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY (1935) between THE MUSIC MAN (1962) and MY COUSIN VINNY (1992), I leaned back to admire my assiduousness and heard a tiny little "crack," which was my Kindle turning into a large coaster.

I contacted Amazon and, amazingly, even though the warranty had expired, they reported that they would replace my $350 Kindle for $89. I thought this was a good deal. But then I realized the brand new up-to-date generation Kindle was $189, so I ordered that one. It's smaller, I understand, which gives me a little better chance of not stepping on it.

But I'm guaranteeing nothing.

-----

I just received a call on my cell phone. I monitored it, because I didn't recognize the number. When I checked the voice mail, I was advised that the call came from "Beverly Hills, California." Cool, I thought. Maybe my ship had finally come in. When my ship comes in, I am convinced it will come in via telephone. People don't write letters or send emails when they have "your ship has come in" type news. They call. I never look for anything exciting in the mail. But when the phone rings and it's from "Beverly Hills, California," there's always the possibility that something I wrote, somewhere out there, has been discovered and I will not have to go on relief. Or whatever destitution is called these days.

Well, it wasn't that kind of news, but it wasn't bad. It was Warner Bros., or somebody affiliated somehow with the Ben Affleck film, THE TOWN, inviting me to the premiere, which is going to be held in Boston on September 14. I had a couple of days as an actor on the film and when I returned the voice mail and learned about the invite, I asked the person if this meant my scene had made it into the movie. She couldn't promise me that, but she could promise me two tickets to the premiere. This is good. I may even shower that day.

-----

I have switched my dinner hour repeats viewing from SEINFELD to THE OFFICE. My God, are those shows funny! I really think they should stop filming when Steve Carrell leaves after this season. Not that the writers and producers couldn't still come up with more funny situations but...what they'll have accumulated after seven or eight seasons, or whatever it is, is so GOOD, it could only be comparably lame, in my opinion. Gervais stopped his British OFFICE after two and a half seasons, and it's considered a classic. I think this American OFFICE will eventually be considered a classic series as well. So why not stop with Carrell's final episode? Please!!!!

-----

I'm ready to read the sequel to THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO.

But I can't.

I stepped on my Kindle.

And that's where the book is.

-----

Now that I live in New Hampshire, it's become necessary for me to fling dog shit over the fence. I never did this in Lowell. I did encounter dog shit in Lowell, because the people who moved in downstairs had a dog and he would "contribute" to the front yard, but if I had flung his dog shit over the fence, it would have landed on the windshield of passing Nissan Sentras and would not have been appreciated. In Derry, though, our backyard fence features, on its other side, a mini-forest that belongs to my brother and sister-in-law and when Eddie and Timmy (the dogs) "contribute," all we have to do is get the little dog shit shovel and flick the DS over the fence into our mini-forest. My first two or three attempts were somewhat hazardous, in that I was using way too much wrist. When you are flinging dog shit over the fence, you MUST keep the wrist out of it. Or wear goggles. The wrist just makes the flinging way too treacherous. No. What you must do to properly fling dog shit over the fence, is you treat the little shovel like a shot put, stiffen your arm, brace your legs, and "put" the shit, with a hearty thrust, over the fence. I have to admit, I've become very good at this, so if you need a lesson in dog shit thrusting, please, give me a call. My rates are very reasonable.

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August 11, 2010 Remembering Ed LeLacheur

2010-08-10T14:14:00.008-04:00

So much has been written over the past few days about my friend--our friend, everybody's friend--former State Rep Ed LeLacheur and his boundless enthusiasm for life and service, that nothing I can contribute here can really add much to his legacy. I do have two stories, though, from my experience with Ed, to pass along.

If you played baseball at any time in your life, you remember that one play that is the "best" you ever made. Some of you are lucky, in that the "best" play happened in a real game, a sanctioned game, maybe even a playoff game. Not me. The "best" play I ever made happened in batting practice.

We were at Manning Field. Probably a Saturday. The Sacred Heart Parish--"The Haht"--was putting together a softball team to play in the church league. Maybe the late 70's, early eighties, something like that. A bunch of guys were fiddling around before the first practice started, and the fiddling evolved into something of an organized batting practice session. You know--guy grabs a bat, takes a few swings, another guy grabs a bat. Not all that formal, but...organized nonetheless. For some reason, I planted myself at third base to shag whatever came off the various bats as I awaited my own turn. All I remember about the rest of that day is Eddie, taking his swings, lifting a pop foul behind the bag at third, which then drifted toward the corner in left. I sized it up, and started back to shag the fly. Shagging flies in batting practice usually means picking the ball up off the ground after the fly lands. But I saw that I could get to this pop up. It would not be easy, but...I don't know...for some reason I felt I needed to make the play. So I turned on the jets--don't laugh, I had jets then and when push comes to shove I have jets now--and I kept the soaring sphere (yeah, I've read purple baseball prose before, too) in sight as I peeked when I could at the chain link fence that separated the field from the parking lot down the left field line. I wasn't going to make it. The ball was going to hit the ground and my effort was going to be all for naught. (I try to do as little as possible for naught in my life.) My back was completely turned from the field. LeLacheur was probably leaning into the next batting practice pitch. Nobody was watching me. Still--I had to catch this ball. And just before it was to scrape the fence, I lunged forward and Willie Mays-ed the thing into my glove. Without question, the best baseball play I ever made. Nobody cared then. Nobody cares now. I know this. But Eddie's passing allows me to tell the story, because he was the guy who hit the ball.

My second and favorite recollection of Ed has to do with his infectious sense of humor.

It's another "Haht" story. This time, again in the 70's, it's the Sacred Heart Bowling League which met weekly at the Brentwood Lanes. A machine of a league coordinated by the late, great Frank Flynn, and we all had a terrific time. From this point on in the story, except for LeLacheur, I'm not going to name names. I think everybody's dead, but I'm still clamming up on the names. People have relatives.

Anyway, it's early in the evening and LeLacheur is there, yucking it up with the rest of the guys. At one point, one of the older guys in the league--big,blustery, pipe-smokin' Irishman--points to another guy about to roll. The other guy is also older, but smaller, quieter, and probably not all that Irish. Kinda reminded me of Donald Meek in the movies or John Fieldler on TV. Anyway, the blustery Irishman takes a look at Donald Meek and says to LeLacheur, "That's the pastor, isn't it?" Of course, it was not the pastor. Not even close. But Eddie saw an opportunity and took it. "Sure," says Eddie. "That's the pastor. Absolutely."

And that was it. For a while. The evening wore on and, for all intents and purposes, Donald Meek guy was the pastor to the Blustery Irishman guy. The rest of the bowlers in LeLacheur's group got into it, too, deferring all evening to Donald Meek guy--"Nice one, Father!" "Way to go, Father!" "Which Mass are you saying on Sunday, Father?" LeLacheur, the instigator, just let it keep going.

Until the end of the evening approached. At that point, Eddie pulled Donald Meek guy aside just before he was about to try for a spare and whispered something into his ear. Donald Meek guy nodded, and made his way to the lane. He took his duckpin ball, and lined up his shot. Blustery Irish guy watched. Donald Meek guy made his approach, rolled the ball, and missed the spare.

(In the interest of keeping the blog relatively clean, I'm misspelling the featured word in this upcoming rant.)

"What the eff was that!" Donald Meek guy roared! "Did you guys see that effin' ball! The effin' lane is effin' warped! I'm not bowlin' at this effin' place ever again!"

Blustery Irish guy blanched. I think he may have even dropped his pipe into his lap. Every bowler in the place, by that time, was in on the joke. Everybody roared.

Nobody, though, more than LeLacheur. I had never seen anybody more ecstatic in my life. His laughter thrust him away from the lanes, over by the bench near the front door, where he collapsed in an avalanche of guffaws.

To me, it wasn't just the idea of the gag that was brilliant. It was the execution. The timing. The patience it took to get from the set up to the delivery.

I will remember Ed LeLacheur for many things--including the fact that the last time I saw him, he came to see my play THE PORCH in Stoneham, and I believe he had a great time.

But this memory--which I call "That's the pastor, isn't it?"--is my favorite.

August 4, 2010 (a Surrounded By Idiots entry)

2010-08-04T09:24:00.010-04:00

I would like to introduce you to Timmy on the right, and Eddie, below. They are very sweet little dogs owned by my brother and my sister-in-law, and they live with all of us in Derry, NH. As you can see from a quick viewing, these dogs are not Idiots. However, they are living in a world
where Idiots abound, and they are not happy about it. Especially Eddie.

Earlier this summer, I was making daily trips between Lowell, MA and Derry as I moved from one place to the other, and as I toodled in my Sentra off the Exit 4 ramp, I would be greeted by two huge stores, both of which sported huge signs reading FIREWORKS! Two stores. Within 100 yards of each other. Each store selling FIREWORKS. I knew I was not in Kansas anymore. Or, maybe I was, I have no idea what the FIREWORKS situation is in Kansas.

Anyway....back to the doggies. These little guys are just the best tempered animals you could ever want to meet. Loving and playful and almost always silent. Just...perfect pets. Until the Idiots interfere.

Okay, so, you're a guy. And you're an Idiot. You're looking for something to enliven your dreary summer. Your options are few, because of the Idiocy. I mean, let's face it, you're not planning trips to Tanglewood or the Williamstown Theatre Festival. The Red Sox are wallowing around .500 and there haven't been any new episodes of COPS for weeks. What's a fella to do? Well, that's simple. A fella goes to one (or maybe both) of the TWO stores in town selling FIREWORKS, and he loads a shopping cart full of things that blow up and make a lot of noise. Because what else will enliven a calm and balmy summer's evening better than a shopping cart full of things that blow up and make a lot of noise?

So you get home and you unpack your goodies and you go out in the back yard and you wait until after 10pm, because what good is blowing up stuff early in the evening when everybody in the neighborhood is AWAKE? Ten o'clock rolls around and BOOM BITTY BANG BANG you are off and running, lighting up your firecrackers and cherry bombs and whatever the hell else it is you put on your debit card that rocks the audible universe. (I apologize for knowing no technical terms for the things that blow up and make noise, but my Idiocy is in another area altogether.) The night is alive with snaps, with crackles, with pops and with ungodly booms. Your summer is enlivened. Good for you!

I ask you (the reader, not the Idiot) now to scroll back to the top of this entry and re-introduce yourself to Eddie and Timmy. They live in a neighborhood where these noisemakers live. And the following is my interpretation of what they are "saying" to each other as they try to relax in their previously quiet little home. Anything below in small letters is a growl. Capital letters denote barking.

Scene: Eddie and Timmy sit in the living room, enjoying the blissful peace of a summer evening. Then...

BOOM!

Eddie: WTF????
Timmy: Oh, Jesus. Oh, what was that? Oh, Jesus. Oh, crap.
Eddie: WTF WAS THAT SHIT?
Timmy: Oh boy. Oh, boy. Not good. Not a happy thing. Bad stuff. Oh, boy. Bad shit going down.
Eddie: COME ON! LET'S GO TO THE WINDOW!!!
Timmy: Really? You think we should do that? All the way to the window? Closer to where the shit is?
Eddie: COME ON!!!!

They leap onto the sofa and look out the window.

Eddie: Okay, nothing. No more whatever that was.
Timmy: You think it's over, Eddie? You really think? Jeez, I hope so. Boy, that was god awful whatever that was.
Eddie: Ssh! Listen. Listen. (beat) Nothing.
Timmy: Okay. Good. Whew. Glad it was nothing.

BOOM!

Eddie: WTF??? WTF????!!!
Timmy: Oh, Christ! Oh, CHRIST! We're gonna die. I know we're gonna die!
Eddie: W. T. F??????????
Timmy: And I don't even know what dying is!
Eddie: COME ON, LET'S GO TO THE BACK DOOR!
Timmy: Why?
Eddie: MAYBE WE CAN GET OUTSIDE AND ATTACK IT!
Timmy: Attack what?
Eddie: HOW THE HELL DO I KNOW, ATTACK WHAT? LET'S JUST GO. WE CAN'T STAY HERE ON THE COUCH.
Timmy: Oh, Jeez, okay...Oh, Jeez...Oh, boy...

They leap off the sofa and race to the back screen door.

Eddie: OKAY, WHOEVER YOU ARE OUT THERE, STOP THIS SHIT OR WE'LL COME OUT AND BEAT THE CRAP OUTA YOU!
Timmy: Oh, Eddie, do you really think that's a good idea, I mean, maybe they'll get madder and just...

BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!

Timmy: WTF!!!!!

-----
Okay, you get the idea. I know nobody who reads this blog of mine is an Idiot, so I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but, my GOD...is there anything less productive, less constructive, and more dehumanizing than going out in your friggin' backyard POINTLESSLY setting off firecrackers and cherry bombs and other BOOMING things in the middle of the night and scaring the bejesus out of sweet little dogs?

Anyway...if you run across any Idiots who might benefit from reading this, please pass it along.

July 23, 2010

2010-07-23T17:46:00.002-04:00

So I believe I've determined that I don't know enough about any one thing to ever put together another blog entry on a single subject, so rather than risk running out of Roman numerals with the "Shards" thing, I'd thought I'd just title the entire blog "Shards" and identify each entry by date.

That way, the pressure of trying to come up with 250 words on one issue would be eliminated. Eliminating pressure is one of my main goals in life.

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I finished reading THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO and immediately brought up the Swedish film version on my Blu-Ray via Netlflix. (Of course, I checked out what Roger Ebert had to say about it first.) I enjoyed the book. I loved the movie. Usually the other way around with me. And just about everybody. The film, featuring a number of actors whose names I can't spell, eliminated a couple of the sexual dalliances featured in the book, in order to more specifically focus on the mystery unraveled over the course of 140 minutes. Subtitles, of course, but that's never bothersome after a couple of minutes. I will now read the second installment in the "Millennium Trilogy," and, after that, check out the second film. I know there's an American version on the way, though I can't imagine casting could be any more appropriate than what the Swedes managed. I like George Clooney, too, but...come on....his name is way too easy to spell for this story.
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Speaking of sexual dalliances uncovered in film versions of best-selling novels--I'm reminded that, in Peter Benchley's JAWS, the Richard Dreyfuss character, Hooper, has an affair with the wife of Roy Scheider's character, Brody. How unnecessary that would have been to the Spielberg film. Besides, Lorraine Gary wouldn't have given Dreyfess a second glance.
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I stayed up until 2 this morning watching the Red Sox beat Seattle, mainly because I couldn't believe they blew a five-run lead in the ninth. That kind of disbelief can lead to all kinds of insomnia.
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Everywhere I drive this summer, there is construction. I had no idea there were that many orange barrels and cones in the world.
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I am totally infatuated with my new GPS. I love being told where to drive. I had originally gone with the female voice (I forget her name--isn't that just like a guy?), but that became way too distracting. I kept wanting to go to dinner and then drive to the Showcase Cinema and see "The Kids Are All Right." So I am now taking directions from "Jack," the voice that shares my name. I like to mess around with Jack's electronic brain every once in a while, and I will disobey his instructions just to hear how many times he can say "recalculating" without getting pissed off at me. So far, every time!
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I have set up the DVR to record the mini-series of Ken Follett's PILLARS OF THE EARTH this week. Ian McShane and Donald Sutherland. Hope it's as good as the book.
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The end of my daily run these days, now that I'm living in the wilds of New Hampshire, is a relentless one-mile incline. The first few times I tried it, I kept my head down and just looked at the road, forcing myself to not stare up the road at the never-ending hill. Lately, though, I hold my head up and laugh derisively at the mini-mountain as I trundle my way to the top. I always bring my iPhone with me, though, in case my derisive laughter turns into a cardiac event. Never had to worry about that when I ran around the very flat Edsen Cemetery on Gorham Street in Lowell.

Shards V (not so delayed)

2010-07-19T15:06:00.005-04:00

So until I can construct one extended, cohesive thought, I'm gonna have to keep the "Shards" thing going. I'm trying to remember the last extended, cohesive thought, I had. Let me see...uh...

On another matter, I'm in Shaw's in Derry the other day, seeking out my beloved Waist Watchers aspartame free diet soda, when I see this kid, like eight years old, and not a miniature eight years old at that, sitting INSIDE the shopping cart his mother is hauling through the store. The kid (young adult) barely fits inside the thing, and his mother has to find whatever body-part-free nooks and crannies the lazy brat has left so she can stuff her various shopping items in them. He's sitting there, sucking on some kind of ice cream treat, while she's gathering foodstuffs and carefully inserting them in the parts of the cart where her son isn't. Okay, I'm coming down pretty hard on the kid when, truthfully, what the hell is this mother thinking? I hope she's thinking, "He'd better remember me when it comes time for the nursing home." And he'd better.
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The cable went out for a few hours yesterday afternoon, during the Red Sox game. And...I didn't care. Goes to show you what kind of season they're having. Plus, I dropped two notches down from leading my fantasy league this week. It doesn't help to have Pedroia, Buchholz and Justin Murneau all on the DL at the same time.
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I finished a short play which I hope will be part of the new Emerson College-Paramount Theatre event this fall. I utilized, once again, the two characters from my recent Boston Theater Marathon plays--Bethel and Clarice--who have been so beautifully played by Ellen Colton and Bobbie Steinbach. It's called CASTING AMANDA, for those of you keeping score.
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From the "My Mother Never Threw Anything Out" department--I just found my father's draft card from 1944. He never entered the service, but from the card it looks like he was 1-A. Perhaps the events in Normandy slowed things down a bit. Plus, I think he was kind of the head of his household at that time.
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Up until this year, I had not been in a swimming pool since 1973, when I broke down and took a swim in Gail Gilman's pool. Why, you may ask, if I'm such an aquaphobe, did I take a swim in Gail Gilman's pool in 1973? One look at Gail Gilman in 1973, and you'd have your answer. She asked me to. I did what I was told. Since that time, though, I've had no reason to indulge in any kind of waterfest. Now, though, with a beautiful pool in the backyard, I've come to see the attraction of a cool dip on a sweltering afternoon. "A Cool Dip On A Sweltering Afternoon." Sounds like the B-side of a bad Mel Torme 45.
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I listened to the Original Cast album of CHICAGO as I ran today. We're kinda thinking of doing the show at Dracut High School next spring. I have my fingers crossed, 'cause I'd love to direct it. Listening to the album also reminded me of the great, great show business career turned in by the late Jerry Ohrbach, who played Billy Flynn in the original. A New Yorker who pretty much stayed there, he fashioned himself a career that, while based in the theatre, spanned movies and TV, including superb work on LAW AND ORDER and in Woody Allen's terrific CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS. He was the original El Gallo in THE FANTASTICKS and the original stage version of Chuck Baxter in PROMISES, PROMISES. And then there was 42nd STREET. And many other shows. Amazing.
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Okay, I'm now guilty of over-using the word "amazing," and I will work to avoid using it in the future. I'm still trying to get the rest of the world off "awesome," but I'm failing miserably. Even when I suggest the far more jauntily tongue-tripping "wicked pissa" as a replacement.
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Two entries in one week. I'm exhausted.

Shards IV (greatly delayed)

2010-07-15T14:45:00.004-04:00

Clearly, I need to work on my blogging.

Clearly, I am not a dedicated blogger.

It's good that I have only eight followers, because, clearly, I am not a good leader.

I will try to improve.

Some random things to type about, relative to the last two and a half months...

I am typing this from a lovely deck overlooking a lovely back yard and a lovely pool in Derry, New Hampshire, where I now almost reside. I am in the process of actually moving ALL the stuff of my life for the first time in twenty-five years, and the undertaking is mammoth. I have thrown NOTHING away, and, while I'm getting better at discarding little bits and pieces of my life, I'm still a hoarder. I have until July 31 to gather and store what needs to be retained. I have moved and stored all my books and my vinyl. You know, the important stuff. Now, for the rest of it.

I have created a mancave here in my new digs. I have ensconced myself in a corner of the first floor of my brother and sister-in-law's house, and turned it into a combination screening room, library, kitchenette, sleeping quarters and semi-office. And the bathroom is only a few feet away. Eventually, the plan is to build a real office out over the garage. I may never leave New Hampshire again.

An exaggeration, but it is very, very nice here.

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Just back from New Century Theatre at Smith College in Northampton where I directed my play TO FORGIVE, DIVINE as part of New Century's 20th Anniversary Season. I am co-founder of the theatre, along with Sam Rush. On July 18, 1991, we presented the first performance at New Century--my play JERRY FINNEGAN'S SISTER, featuring Chris Connell and Jenna Moscowitz. Jenna was in the audience for TFD last week and looked not a day over the 21 she was when she did the show. TFD, after battling through the smallish audiences over the July 4th weekend, played to big, responsive houses for the final five shows, and it was a wonderful experience, working with old friends Dave Mason, Sandra Blaney, Ed Jewett, Barb McEwen, and Catherine Bloch, and introducing the NCT audience to young Nora Kaye. Good show, I think.

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Been getting some significantly favorable response from some savvy actor friends about my new play, AULD LANG SYNE. In the well-respected tradition of not jinxing it, that's all I'll say about it.

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Anybody seen Kevin Bacon in TAKING CHANCE? Worth the rental. He's never been better, and the story, about a Marine colonel accompanying the body of a fallen soldier back to his hometown, is gut-wrenching.

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And then there's the just-released documentary on Joan Rivers, entitled JOAN RIVERS, A PIECE OF WORK, which I highly recommend. It is honest beyond belief and Joan is funny as ever as she scratches and claws through a year in the business, battling a system that reveres youth and sidesteps performers of a certain age. Check it out.

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Reading a couple of swell books on my Kindle: THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO by Stieg Larsson and THE MEN WHO WOULD BE KING, an examination of the life of DreamWorks SKG, by Nicole Laporte.

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I'm glad THE CLOSER is back and I don't give a damn how much you don't like Kira's Southern drawl because the stories are interesting and well written and the acting is terrific. So there.

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Among the vinyl I have successfully stored in my move is an album of John Kiley organ solos. Does anybody know who that is? Don't quote me on this, but I bet John played "Sweet Caroline" at Fenway before he passed away.

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Okay, I'll try to save something and perhaps come up with another entry within the next three months.

Shards III

2010-04-29T16:46:00.005-04:00

I'm at Barnes and Noble again. I come here so that I can be in the company of human begins instead of staring at the four walls of my office all the time. However, sometimes the humans make me crazier than the four walls.

What some of the humans like to do, usually female humans who are at Barnes and Noble with mute friends or husbands, is grab a magazine from the rack, take it to a table, and read impertinent facts to the mute friend or husband. Interminably. Today, the female human who visited the magazine rack brought the current Red Sox Yearbook back to her table, which just happened to be right next to mine. And then she proceeded to broadcast to her friend the vital statistics, player by player, of most of the team members.

"Dustin Pedroia. Five-nine. A hundred eighty five pounds. Imagine."

Pause. Pause. Pause. Nothing from her friend. Then...

"David Ortiz. Six-five. Two hundred thirty five pounds." Pause. Pause. "Imagine."

My God.
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Gotta tell you, they REALLY pissed off Jack Bauer a couple of weeks ago when they shot Renee through that apartment window, thus ending her two-year (excuse me, two day) stint on the show. Haven't the bad guys on 24 learned that it's just not a good idea to piss off Jack Bauer?

For those of you missing Renee, she has resurfaced as Annie Wersching in this month's Esquire. She is the featured player in the "Funny joke told by a beautiful woman" page. the joke isn't funny. It doesn't matter.
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You know, you guys, when you drive by in your car and you see me running up by the Edson Cemetery or Shedd Park, and you honk your horn and I wave back as if I don't know who you are, it's because, most of the time, I don't know who you are, because I cannot see through the glare in your windshield. Nothing against you. It's just your windshield. But thanks for caring.
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Disappointed in DATE NIGHT, which is one of the few movies these days I went out of my way to see. (It's easier, ain't it, to just wait for the DVD?) I couldn't be a bigger fan of Steve Carrell or Tina Fey. Each is at the top of his/her game these days. But the movie, with so much star potential, just kinda fizzles in its preposterousness. These are clever actors, and writers, and they are put through typical romcom/action movie moments through most of DATE NIGHT, and it wears thin fast. I wanted to like it. I really did. But I didn't. Sorry.
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I did, however, really like Roman Polanski's GHOST WRITER, with Ewan McGregor and Pierce Brosnan. Say what you want about Polanski, he knows how to make a thriller that keeps you guessing right up to the last frame of the movie. CHINATOWN. ROSEMARY'S BABY. Good stuff. Even idiots can make good movies.
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I am currently leading my fantasy baseball league, which only means this is a fleeting moment of glory. There must be something very wrong about my being at the top of the league this early in the season. Reminds me of a photo the Globe took somewhere in the early sixties, at the first of June, with the entire Red Sox team, lead by manager Johnny Pesky and first baseman Dick Stuart, smiling into the camera, and with the photo captioned "Look Who's In First Place, Fellas!?
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ABC'S MODERN FAMILY is the best new TV comedy in years. Performances are wonderful, the writing is incisive and witty and the comedy unrelenting. Ty Burrell, late of Kelsey Grammer's underrated sitcom BACK TO YOU, plays a young Dad and he is brilliant. And, best of all, Ed O'Neill is back on TV, in a vehicle that maybe even Al Bundy would appreciate.
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So this year I'm losing 24, DAMAGES and LOST. That's a lot of TV to take away from a guy in one season. Maybe somebody will pick up DAMAGES, which still has some life in it. The only really bad thing about the end of 24 is that there's no way they can do something spectacular like kill off Jack Bauer. Because they're already planning the movie.
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I've just finished reading Charles Van Doren's A HISTORY OF KNOWLEDGE, which I truly enjoyed. A thoroughly readable analysis of ideas over the course of human history. For a guy (me) who has trouble understanding Facebook, Charlie kept me involved and informed throughout the book. Kinda makes me think a little more of him after learning all about his escapades on the TV quiz show "21" in the fifties. See the Redford movie. You won't regret it.

Sox Opener--Fantasy Versus Reality

2010-04-06T09:38:00.000-04:00

Well, the first fantastic element of the Red Sox Opening Night game was that it was a night game in early April and none of the players in the dugouts was wearing those silly looking earmuffy things they wear in April and October. The weather was magnificent. Who'd a thunk it? All that bitching and moaning (in which I participated) about the ridiculousness of opening at night on April 4 was countered by a God who, on Easter Sunday, displayed a great sense of humor. "That'll teach you guys," He seemed to say.

For me, it was the first time I'd watched an Opening Game in HD. This is an experience. Heidi Watney in regular definition is one thing, in HD, something else entirely. I think I'll just leave it at that.

The kid with the Herb Brooks speech? Kinda not a good idea. I mean, okay, good...he memorized a lot of words and somebody told him which ones to emphasize and a lot of people (Ellen Degeneres) thought it was cute and a lot of people thought it was classless. I just worry about the kid going back to kindergarten and dealing with fingerpainting time and milk break. I mean, doesn't everything after last night have to be pretty much down hill from here on?

Loved Pedro, as does Pedro. But that's all right. He did take a month and a half to walk from left field to the pitcher's mound, but he's just so damned lovable, he could get away with it. Fortunately, I had recorded it so I could fast forward. Not sure how I would have reacted if I'd had to watch it in real time.

Same deal with the anthem and Steven Tyler. Sue me. I fast-forwarded. Not Neil Diamond, though. Watched that whole "Sweet Caroline" thing. I think the way the owners cater to the pink hats is damn near offensive and this exhibition was right up there, but...had to watch. Don't know why. At least they edited the song. And I did like his Brooklyn Dodger plea on his jacket.

Pesky is great, though perhaps they should sit him in a box seat and bring the camera to him. I do envy his head of hair, though. Man.

Nice game. Turned out the way it needed to turn out. Scary, but we made it.

Oh, the fantasy stuff.

A friend in NY asked me to join his fantasy baseball league, so last night was the first night I participated. It took me a week or so to figure out what the hell I was doing, and when the Sox game started, I found myself in the very, very odd position of wanting the Sox to win, but wanting Jeter and Posado not to suck. Because they are on my fantasy team. As it turned out, I had a pretty good night. Both these guys did well, as did Pedroia, who is also on my squad. I don't know how I'm going to feel as the season progresses. I know, ultimately, I will choose rooting for the Sox over rooting for my Yankee players to shine. But last night's baptism of fire was a good way to introduce myself to the fantasy format.

I'm going to the game on Wednesday. I understand it'll be in the 70's again.

Fantasy, to be sure.

Something's Comin....

2010-03-28T16:41:00.003-04:00

So I've been directing the annual musical at Dracut High School for...I think twelve years now. WEST SIDE STORY, which I'm directing now, is my thirteenth. I don't want to think about that. So I won't.

What I will think about is the astonishing opportunity Dracut High School, and particularly the Head of the Music and Theatre Department there, Leon Grande, offers the students on a yearly basis. I've told Lee more times than I imagine he's interested in hearing that the DHS job is one of the most pleasant of my working year. Always. That doesn't mean it's an easy gig. Far from it. The kids can attest to that. I mean, when I started out with ANYTHING GOES 13 years ago, I had a full head of hair.

That's a total lie, but it reads well, so I'm going to leave it in.

The job is pleasant for me because of the care Lee takes in providing his students with the chance to work with the greatest musical theatre creations of the 20th Century. The material we've worked with over the years is classic. FIDDLER ON THE ROOF, LES MISERABLES, SOUTH PACIFIC, GUYS AND DOLLS, THE MUSIC MAN, WEST SIDE STORY...these are the best of the best, and exposing young theatre students to this remarkable catalogue of musical theatre is important not only for them and their theatre education, but it's also crucial because it ingrains this exceptional, vitally American, musical art into the minds and hearts of these kids who, forgive me, are exposed on a daily basis to music that really isn't music. Come on...it really isn't. Anyway...as we try to guide them through the machinations of the extremely challenging Leonard Bernstein music and Stephen Sondheim lyrics of WSS, it's heartening to know that they will remember this time, and they will remember and care about the music, the lyrics, and the show.

Don't get me wrong--these are high school kids. They have other things to do and care about than the annual musical. Lee and I and Phyllis George, the choreographer, must, on a daily basis, confront conversations like this:

"Jack...I don't think I can come to play practice tomorrow..."
"You mean rehearsal?"
"Yeah. I think I have a dentist appointment."
"You think you have a dentist appointment?"
"It's an appointment. My Mom told me that's what it was. I think it might be a dentist appointment."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because I have a toothache."

You get the idea. It's another world and Lee deals with it much more effectively than I do. But what I've grown to learn over the years is, despite the fact that the kids are distracted by EVERYTHING for the first nine weeks of rehearsal, they are listening to us, and, when their parents and other relatives show up on Opening Night, the kids will ACTUALLY DO WHAT WE HAVE ASKED THEM TO DO during play practice.

I mean, rehearsal.

Lee is retiring after next year's show, and the families of Dracut can only hope he'll be replaced by a person who cares one tenth as much as he does about his students, and musical theatre.

WEST SIDE STORY. April 8,9, 10, Dracut High School.

Nausea, thy name is Greengrass.

2010-03-19T18:22:00.003-04:00

So I must stop going to Paul Greengrass movies.

It's not that he makes bad movies. He makes relatively decent movies. Like UNITED 93, THE BOURNE UTIMATUM and even, I bet, GREEN ZONE, which is a movie I saw, sort of, the other day.

I say "sort of" because, while I did make it all the way through the film, I really couldn't watch all of it. No, it wasn't the violence, although there was that. I have no problem with excessive violence in movies as long as the story is told. It wasn't the story or the acting or the politics of the film. The WMD issue in Iraq is certainly an issue worth examining and GREEN ZONE does just that, with villains and heroes clearly placed in the political world established by the film.

No, it's not any of the above that made much of GREEN ZONE (and UNITED 93) difficult to watch.

It's the damn HAND-HELD CAMERA!

For God's sake, Greengrass, buy a dolly! Set up a shot in one place and put the camera down and leave it the hell alone! My God! You shouldn't go to the movies and get nauseous because your eyes are bouncing up and down in their sockets. And nausea is what ensues if you have my stomach and you try to watch GREEN ZONE. Every single scene is filmed by a hand-held camera, and when the movie is over, if you didn't know what the word "jostle" meant beforehand, you know it then. Thank heavens I didn't opt for the popcorn and soda before the movie, because each would have ended up on the deck of the AMC Cinema at the Liberty Tree Mall.

The first time I experienced this sensation was when I saw THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT. I left that cinema (Showcase, West Springfield, MA) feeling sick, and I couldn't figure out why. Then I read the newspaper reports about all the people who fell ill at that film and I knew I was a victim of the same hand-held camera technique that Greengrass INSISTS on using.

Yeah, I know TV is now overrun with the same kind of camera work. Even the sitcoms have a lot of hand-held camera action. But it's different in a mammoth movie theatre. The reaction is visceral. And unpleasant. So Greengrass, either use a stationary camera or change your name, otherwise, you've lost me.

Oscar Observations, not that anybody cares

2010-03-08T17:31:00.003-05:00

A few random thoughts after watching the Oscars last night...

How did I ever watch this show before DVRs? Commercials and uninteresting (to me) awards are skimmed over effortlessly, or with only the effort it takes to depress one's thumb on the appropriate button on the remote. As long as you're able to hold off watching for a couple of hours, you can then watch the whole thing in 90 minutes or less. That dance sequence, for example, in my house, lasted twelve seconds.

What happened to Farrah Fawcett in the We Are The Dead section? Didn't she pass this year? Yeah, she did. About four minutes before MJ. She made movies. Where was she in the tribute?

What was George Clooney so pissed off about? The first couple of shots of him were funny, because it appeared as if his gloominess was jocular. Then, after about the twentieth shot of old George frowning, it became troublesome. We don't want George to be unhappy! This was his opportunity to be Nicholson (and where was he???). George, knowing he was gonna lose the Best Actor award to Jeff Bridges, could have yucked it up, totally relaxed, all night. But, nope...he just sat there seemingly annoyed. I'm worried. I hope everything is all right. Maybe he has too much MONEY!

Mo'Nique, who provided us with the most harrowingly brilliant performance of the year, fooled everybody by coming up with a dignified, contained, brief acceptance speech. Good for you, Mo!

Jeff Bridges, on the other hand, acted as if he'd just shown up at the affair by accident. I just don't understand why a lot of American actors (not the Brits--they're always prepared!) are so casual about the time they're given accepting these things. It's one thing to be loose as a goose, Dude. But, come on--review a few Tom Hanks speeches and be prepared! Like Sandy! Bullock was totally in control and terrific in her acceptance speech, even when she almost lost it when she was thanking her mother. And Waltz, too, was great accepting. Jeff! You let us down!

Now, tell me this...before she went out there, did Streisand find one of the Price Waterhouse guys and demand to know the winner of the Best Director award before announcing it? Or did she just have the cojones to go out there and practically give it to Kathryn Bigelow BEFORE she even revealed the winner? Would have been damned uncomfortable if she had opened the envelope and it said, "James Cameron." Fortunately, it worked out. Until Kathryn's speech. She, like Jeff, was overwhelmed and unfocused. Hate that. Her ex-husband was kind of obnoxious when he accepted for TITANIC, but I don't think he bumbled about as she did.

Really thought Steve and Alec were superb. Nice material, well-delivered. Some guy in the Herald today dumped all over them and said that the show should have been hosted by Neil Patrick Harris and Ben Stiller. That kind of criticism shows a decided lack of awareness of what show business and comedy is about.

Tina Fey and Robert Downey, Jr. Hysterical. I'm sure Fey wrote that bit. Is she or is she not at the top of her game? God, they were funny.

I didn't expect that Taylor guy to be so poised. Of course, out there as he was with poor, frightened Kristen Stewart, it was pretty easy to look poised.

I know Meryl's been nominated a million times, but how about Randy Newman? I think he's been nominated every year since Walt Disney died.

I'm still worrying about Clooney. Has anybody called him today?

Sandra Bullock needs a big, big sandwich. Man, did she look skinny. But sharp. SHARP!

Not a big HURT LOCKER fan. More of a fan of INGLORIOUS BASTERDS and UP IN THE AIR.

Maybe that's why George was dyspeptic. UITA won nothing, by my calculations.

I hope that's it.

Why Me?

2010-03-02T16:15:00.003-05:00

So I'm driving on the Daniel Webster Highway the other day. I'm not sure how old Daniel would feel, with the highway named after him all cluttered up with strip malls, gas stations and discount furniture outlets, but...hey, I suppose if you get a highway named after you, you should just shut up and be grateful. Anyway, I come to the stop lights at the Barnes and Noble in Nashua. I pretty much live at Barnes and Noble because that's where I get most of my work done, so I'm stopped, waiting to make the left turn to the road that leads to the bookstore, when I see the driver's side door of the incredibly huge NEW pickup truck in front of me open. Then I see the booted foot of the driver. We are stopped, remember, so this is, to this point, a manageable life situation.

Then, however, inevitably following the foot, comes the rest of the driver, and in his grubby little mitts is a piece of paper, maybe letter size not not letter stock--perhaps a paper towel. And it is burning. Fully and indisputably BURNING. Said owner of said foot then steps out of the cab of the BIG NEW truck and places the burning piece of paper on the ground.

Have I mentioned the wind?

There's wind. A lot of it. And when the paper hits the ground, BURNING, the wind takes the paper for a ride.

So I sit there in my Nissan (not a Toyota, thank God) Sentra, watching this BURNING piece of paper as it wends its windy way UNDER MY CAR.

I start beeping my horn, figuring the idiot who put the BURNING PAPER on the ground would see what was going to happen, get out of his BIG TRUCK and stomp on the paper.

But, no...Einstein just gets back in the truck. Where nothing is BURNING. Anymore. I assume.

I start to swerve my Sentra out of the way. Swerving was absolutely called for at the moment. I watch 24. I know what happens when open flame hits gas lines. I don't feel like blowing up on the Daniel Webster Highway.

I beep and honk some more. The BURNING PAPER gets closer and closer to the front of my car. IDIOT TRUCK GUY stays in BIG TRUCK. I lose sight of the BURNING PAPER. I figure it is under my car. I begin to consider leaving my vehicle. (I have done this before, but that's a story for another time.)

Fortunately, though, the light changes, and I am able to follow the IDIOT IN THE BIG PICKUP TRUCK through the intersection before his friggin' piece of BURNING PAPER gets under my car.

I know you won't read this, IDIOT BIG PICKUP DRIVER--but did you ever consider just stomping on the paper as you placed it on the ground? Did you see my Sentra four feet from you? Do you watch 24? Were you able to afford a television after you purchased your BIG STUPID PICKUP TRUCK?

AND HOW THE HELL DID A PAPER OF THAT SIZE--OF ANY SIZE--START BURNING IN YOUR PICKUP?

The only positive thing I could take away from this, other than the fact that I didn't get blown to smithereens, is that if I had been blown to smithereens, I think I would have taken IDIOT BIG STUPID PICKUP TRUCK GUY with me.

I don't trust BIG TRUCK GUYS. Never have. I don't believe they need trucks THAT BIG.

But if you do have a BIG TRUCK, and if you do, for some reason, start a fire inside the truck, KEEP THE DAMN FIRE TO YOURSELF, OKAY?

Awesome! Really?

2010-02-26T18:17:00.005-05:00

I watched an excellent documentary last night on the lunatic/writer Harlan Ellison. Ellison has written about a trillion words on a million subjects, but he is perhaps most noted for his science fiction writing and over-the-edge short stories, such as "The Whimper of Whipped Dogs." I've always found his writing (I've read only a small percentage) fascinating, honest, brutally funny, scathing. The documentary, in which he participated fully (he is a bit enamored of himself), is damn good and I recommend it if you are a fan of Ellison's writing. It's called "Dreams With Sharp Teeth."

Ellison warmed the cockles of my heart, though, when, as the documentary approached its conclusion, he encountered a fan who proclaimed that his work, Ellison's work, was "awesome."

Harlan, who, at the time, was filling a plate with food, put down the plate, looked the fan in the face and told him that no, the Grand Canyon was awesome. The Sistine Chapel is awesome. His work was not. Awesome. He begged the fan to join in the crusade to return that wonderful word to its proper place in the lexicon. Because if pedestrian things, like lunch, lawn furniture and TV shows can be "awesome," then the word means nothing. It certainly doesn't mean what it means, which is "awe inspiring." Lunch cannot, really, inspire awe. Having a fun time at the mall can't be awesome. It cannot inspire awe. Really. It can't. No, don't argue with me. It cannot.

The last time I can remember when I could legitimately have used the word "awesome" was when I traveled to Toronto in the early 2000's for a Red Sox-Blue Jays series. The Sox swept all four games, but that was not an awesome accomplishment. I didn't drive close enough to Niagara Falls to see the Falls, which I'm sure were awesome, but because I missed them, there was nothing awesome about the drive. I was, however, sitting in the third base upper boxes when Manny Ramirez, who used to be a ballplayer, drilled a sad pitch from Chris Carpenter into the fifth--the FIFTH-- deck at whatever the hell they called that stadium back then. I had never, ever seen anything like the trajectory of the ball off the bat on that day, at that moment, and I remember turning to the guy next to me, probably a Canadian because he was on the Blue Jays side of the field (I took what seats they gave me), and I said to him, "Good God in Heaven." A mammoth blast. An astonishing athletic achievement. Certainly, truly...awesome.

But when I ask somebody if they saw AVATAR and they say yeah, it was awesome...

I have an unbelievably awesome desire to leap for his or her throat and wring some semblance of true awe into his or her brain.

The word is no longer simply overused.

It is universally abused.

I would like to call a moratorium on the use of the word "awesome." Maybe for ten years. That might do it. And then, we'll all meet at the foot of the Sphinx and look up and, in unison, we can all say the word again. At that point, perhaps, the word will have returned to its proper place in the world of adjectives, and no longer will we be tempted to describe things like American Idol, a trip to Milwaukee, or Lady Gaga as awesome.

Once that is accomplished, we can get to work on the various spellings of there, their and they're.

This Time of Year, Sundays, Back Then

2010-02-22T14:08:00.003-05:00

This is what I did on Sunday afternoons in February and early March, when I was a yoot. (Thank you, Joe Pesci, MY COUSIN VINNY.)

Well, first of all what I did on Sunday afternoons in February when I was a yoot was I probably whined. Because of what I had to do. Whining did me no good at all, because what I had to do had to be done.

And what that was, was...

I had to go to the old armory up on Westford Street in Lowell, MA. Not sure what time of day. Maybe mid-afternoon. And I had to march. With the Sacred Heart Band. We marched at the armory on Sundays in February and early March because we were preparing to march--really march--in the annual St. Patrick's Day Parade in Manhattan, and, damn it, if we were going to do that, we were going to practice.

And, of course, it wasn't just marching. It was marching and playing my trumpet. At the same time. Playing trumpet is not a very easy thing to do. At all times, as you pucker up to that mouthpiece, your lips and your tongue are in serious jeopardy of becoming bashed or pinched, especially when you are marching. Listen to a marching band sometime--any level of ability--and you will hear the occasional frightening sound emanating from a trumpet when the trumpet player steps in a pothole or some kind of bump in the road. And trust me, the sound you hear isn't nearly as painful as the pain of the player's pinched pucker.

But I digress, which I am very good at.

As I recall, I did everything in my power to get my mother or father to drive me to the armory early--like 45 minutes early--not because of any desire to warm up or practice puckering. No. What happened a half hour before the marching was the only fun thing February Sundays featured--the basketball playing.

That is, if we could find the basketball.

The armory was something of a basketball court. God knows who played there. But there were hoops and, somewhere in the bowels of that building, usually in the possession of a friendly (sometimes) custodian huddled in some dark basement cubbyhole listening to whatever sports were left to listen to on the radio on a February Sunday, a basketball. The first who showed up of those of us who wanted to play would seek out this elusive old coot and talk him into giving us the basketball. And we would choose sides and we would play. And we would play hard. Much harder than we would march. And we would sweat. So that by the time the marching started, we were ready for a shower that would never happen.

At starting time, the whistle would blow--the whistle either came from band director Ray Greeley, or drum instructor Al Gougen, or marching instructors Johnny Conlon or Jack Morris (not the Tigers pitcher), and we would reluctantly roll the ball off to the sidelines (giving the custodian something to do later in the afternoon), grab our various instruments, and line up.

Lining up was a big deal. We weren't the greatest musicians in the world, nor were we the most talented marchers, but, damn, could we line up. I was one of the privileged who got to be at the end of a line, and, therefore, got to lift my left arm up and wait for the seven or so kids in my line to align themselves as neatly as possible. Once the marching started, the line was shot to hell. But boy, could we line up with the best of them.

Then we would march in a circle around the armory. And around the armory. And around. And around. And around. And, I have to say, what we really didn't do, was march. We more or less walked. In tempo. Marching is a thing that the Sacred Heart Band pretended to do, but really didn't do. We called it marching, though, so we felt okay about it.

We'd march around and around for an hour, then take a break--more basketball, more sweating--and then we'd march again for another half hour, though this time the marching was more complicated. We counter marched! That meant that we eschewed the circle, and spread our lines across the width of the floor, and marched up and down. When you reached the end of the hall, you turned and marched back, cagily avoiding the line coming at you. Counter marching! It never really made a lot of sense. We probably did it just to keep our parents entertained. There's only so much entertainment you can get out of circle marching.

At the end of a total of two hours, we'd go home.

I don't think, after each session, we were any better as marchers.

Nor as basketball players.

But there was something about the anticipation of that real march down up Fifth Avenue on March 17 that made the armory Sundays exciting. We all knew we were focused on something special.

The armory isn't there anymore. There's a playground, I think.

And I bet--I swear to God, I bet--that underneath that playground is a buried room in which one can find a worn and beaten old basketball.

And probably a custodian.

Me, Shirley Feeney and The Big Ragu

2010-02-18T17:15:00.003-05:00

Last year at this time I was in Auburn Hills, Michigan, or, as I like to refer to it, the Frozen Tundra, directing my play KONG'S NIGHT OUT at the Meadow Brook Theatre. (Actually, it wasn't that cold. Unless you consider 6 below cold.)

I was invited out there to direct the play and I was very excited because the great folks at Meadow Brook had arranged for TV's Cindy Williams--Shirley of LAVERNE AND SHIRLEY--to star in the show. And, what's more, Cindy talked her old friend and former TV co-star, Eddie Mekka ("The Big Ragu" on L&S) to perform in the show as well. It would be my first time directing TV stars, and I was a little anxious about it. Excited, but anxious.

Plus, Christos Savalas, son of TV's KOJAK, Telly Savalas, was going to play the gangster "Little Willie" in the show, and Kady Zadora, daughter of Pia Zadora, was going to play "Daisy," the innocent from Buffalo who gets mixed up in all kinds of jams.

KONG'S NIGHT OUT is a showbiz comedy about what I thought might have happened in the room NEXT TO the room where King Kong whisks Faye Wray out of the bedroom in the classic 1933 film. Folks have described it as a farce, and, yes, there are many doors slamming often in the play, but I think of it more as a screwball comedy. In any case, it requires comedians who know what they're doing out there. Cindy and Eddie certainly filled that bill, as did the rest of the cast.

Christos, however, had never set foot onstage in a play before. And he was acting in a very important part. He turned out to be the nicest young man in the history of show business and worked mightily to learn the set-ups and deliveries of all the jokes, and the dialect of the character, and he was terrific. Kady had had some experience and her "Daisy" was funny and charming.

Cindy and Eddie were a revelation.

First of all, Cindy is very reserved and quiet offstage. She shows up at rehearsal and finds her little corner and opens her script and goes to work. Eddie's a little more gregarious, but no less diligent about getting the job done. Time and again, as I'd be working with some of the other actors in the rehearsal room, I'd see Cindy and Eddie off on their own in another part of the room, going over and over a piece of business or dialogue to make sure it was honed to perfection. What a pleasure to watch professionals taking their artistic responsibility so seriously. And the work paid off.

When it came time to stage Cindy's entrance, I managed to set it up so that she would enter alone and have a moment to be seen by the audience. I assumed there'd be entrance applause. And there would have been. Except Cindy, very rightly, determined that it was not appropriate at that moment in the play for it to stop cold. So we worked the scene without a pause and, though the audience always tried to start applauding when she entered, it was never a full reaction, because Cindy just kept going!

Eddie Mekka is a dancer and a gymnast, and his producer character, Sig Higginbottom, in this production, ended up doing all kinds of stage flips and dives and pratfalls. I never anticipated that for the character, but all the bits worked beautifully.

When it came time to stage the curtain call, I had Cindy bowing last. She demurred, letting me know that the final bow should be taken by the actor playing her son, and she was right--but we ended up with Cindy bowing last anyway. Sometimes you just have to go with tradition and with what the audience expects.

The show ran for four weeks. I had to leave after the first weekend, but I continued to get reports that all was well. I'm still in touch with Cindy and Eddie and, in fact, I've just written a play I hope they'll do some day.

Just wanted to let you know what Shirley and The Big Ragu have been up to.

Shards II

2010-02-16T18:44:00.002-05:00

I heard a news report today that production of the Fox Network's 24 has come to a halt because star Keifer Sutherland was injured on the set.

Shut down???

Would Jack Bauer SHUT DOWN CTU?

I don't think so.

24 will not abandon any episodes planned, they tell us, but...boy, you like to think the guy playing Jack Bauer wouldn't be responsible for something like this.

---

I'm probably shooting myself in the foot by saying this but...those of you left out there who still go to live theatre, would you do me a favor? Would you participate in a standing ovation ONLY if you felt the production you just saw was...and I hate to use this word, but I'm going to use it here...AWESOME? Standing ovations should be reserved for only the most astonishing performances in theatre. That's why God invented standing ovations. When I go to the theatre now, I think perhaps 60 per cent of the time the audience is standing applauding at the end of the show. This percentage is far too high. I'm thinking...what? One percent? Two, maybe, it should be? I mean, you're standing up, telling the cast that they blew your mind! Mind blowing is something that happens very, very rarely. Or, at least, it should happen very, very rarely. Otherwise, there'd be way too many people walking around with blown minds. I mean, if standing ovations have become de rigueur; if we stand for even the most ordinary of performances, then how can we tell an actor, or actors, that we have been genuinely moved beyond comprehension? Standing? Big deal! Happens all the time. What do you have to do? Stand up on your seat? A Seat Standing Ovation? And if that becomes de rigueur, what next? Taking off your clothes? A Stripping Ovation? I know. I have too much time on my hands. But I'd like, somehow, for standing ovations to go back to meaning something in the theatre.

---

I had a play of mine rejected by a local theatre today. No big deal. The Artistic Director explained that the play, THE PORCH, does not feature the kind of writing he likes to bring to his theatre. I understand. Artistic Directors have their tastes and they have the right to accept or reject any script that comes over their desks. The play has done well elsewhere and will do well again in other theatres. But it's a constant battle--finding artistic directors and literary managers who embrace...what can I call it?...the traditional form of theatre comedy that I write. I admit it. I learned what I know about writing from Ring Lardner, Neil Simon, Mel Brooks and Woody Allen. These gentlemen, for the most part, wrote and write comedies. They also wrote and write plays and movies about real people who happen to say funny things. Real people who deal with real situations that sometimes make the comedy hard to take. Real people dealing with...life. This is a hard sell these days, because when artistic directors and literary managers read my stuff, they see the jokes, and they don't often embrace the possibility that the characters are real. They think that, because the characters say funny things, they can't have authentic emotion and manage the challenge of living. It's the Curse of Sitcom. There have been so many bad sitcoms on television over the years, that when a theatre script shows up on an artistic director's desk, and it has that "sitcom" feel, it is, more often than not, doomed. It's a very distinct style, it's my style, and, as I say, it's a very tough sell.

I've reached the point where I know that if I can get my stuff to the audience, I'll be fine. I know them. And I have complete confidence that when a play of mine begins, they are going to know my characters. They're going to laugh a lot; and they are gonna get whacked with a hard life situation that they will understand, relate to, and embrace.

But getting there is a journey. Bless the artistic directors who embrace the style. They are few and far between.

I See Blue People

2010-02-10T13:38:00.002-05:00

Well, I saw AVATAR yesterday. For six bucks. And that included the glasses. Tuesdays at Showcase in Lowell is the day when the price is cut in the afternoon. Maybe all day, for all I know. Anyway, as I mentioned about 36 words ago, I saw AVATAR.

Well, I saw most of AVATAR. I kinda nodded off about sixteen times in the first hour and twenty minutes. I mean, the most exciting thing that happened in the first hour and twenty minutes was when I read on the plastic package that the glasses came in that it was not a good idea to use the glasses as sun glasses. That shook me up a bit, but I managed to hang in there.

Before the first hour and twenty minutes, though, the big screen kept telling me to put on my glasses and take off my glasses. Too friggin' much work for just going to the movies. But, dutifully, I did what they told me so that when Johnny Depp lunged at me in the trailer for DISNEY'S ALICE IN WONDERLAND I was taken slightly aback, which was Johnny's intention, I am sure. Then they had other trailers that were not in 3-D so the big screen told me to take my glasses off (being certain to not use them as sun glasses). I did. Then after a couple more trailers, the big screen told me to put my glasses back on, dammit, because SHREK 3-D, the Final...Whatever...was being trailered.

Thereafter, I was no longer asked to do anything with my glasses, though I was tempted to suggest to the big screen what it might do with them but I kept my mouth shut.

Anyway, first hour-twenty. Yawn. Sure, absolutely, it was visually stunning. Well, not stunning. Visually...cool. Cute. Different.

But dark.

Those glasses make everything dark.

I guess that's why they tell you not to use them in the sun. Because the temptation is so great, because the glasses are DARK.

And they make everything on the big screen dark.

And when it's dark, what are you tempted to do?

Nod off! Correct!

Okay, I can't fool around with this anymore.

AVATAR is about these really, really bad Us People (meaning you and me) who are hell-bent on DESTROYING a very leafy planet because we (Us People) have already destroyed ours. Sigourney Weaver, who is director James Cameron's go-to guy now that Arnold is trying to stop the mud slides in California, has come up with this scientific hoohah thing in which human people roost and then cryo-boogly turn into the people of the planet the Us People are about to destroy. We are destroying it because...oh, I don't know. It just has to be done. Maybe it's oil. Or water. Or Count Chocula. Who cares? Us People want it. So Sigourney and the Lead Guy (no, I don't know who he is and I'm not gonna look him up), who is in a wheel chair, go into the googly box and turn into Blue People. (When he is a Blue Person, he no longer needs the wheel chair.) Once among the Blue People, and now that they are Blue People themselves, Sigourney and Lead Guy discover that the Blue People are very, very, very nice people. (Except the warriors, but they just get huffy every once and while and we know they're good people at heart, too.) And they realize that the Blue People are connected to their Leafy Green Planet in a Very Special Way. Like when they touch trees, they become part of the tree. Sigourney and Lead Guy realize that what Us People are doing is BAD. Very BAAAAD.

Plus, Lead Guy has fallen head over heels for the hottest Blue Girl on the Leafy Green Planet, and, dammit, if she believes she is part of a tree, she is part of a tree! He realizes this when he is enveloped by a floating snow flake, or something that looks like a floating snow flake, millions of which seem to float all over the place on the Leafy Green Planet and make the place a better place. It also fixed a boo boo he had on his arm or something. Us People would never, EVER, understand the floating snowflakes. Never!

Okay, I've gone on way too long with this. After about an hour and twenty-minutes, I woke up because the movie got louder. The music was telling me the movie was getting exciting. Thank God. I wouldn't have known.

And then it occurred to me that this movie was just like every other movie JC has ever made. Us People are Bad. Blue People Are Good. The Us People, led, of course, by a screaming lunatic of a Military Guy, are gonna bulldoze the Blue People to oblivion. The Blue People, see, know how to take care of their Leafy Green Planet. We blew our chance at taking care of our own planet, now we want to ruin theirs. So we bulldoze them and bomb them and shoot them while Lead Guy and Sigourney do their damnedest to fight back against Us People, to whom they used to belong. Eventually, Lead Guy figures out a way to get big scary birds to fly above the tanks and helicopters of the Us People and obliterate them with bows and arrows and lots of yelling. And Big Scary Lizards and Stuff.

So, what have we learned?

Us People are Bad. Blue People are Good. And if you want to save the planet, you have to bulldoze and bow and arrow the shit out of each other.

If this thing wins Best Picture, I'm going back to reading books.

Shards

2010-02-08T17:32:00.003-05:00

Michael Jackson's personal physician was charged today with involuntary manslaughter in the singer's death. Over the years, I have not spent a lot of time considering Michael Jackson's work. I remember being astonished at the stunning performance of "Billy Jean," on Motown 25. And I have, of course, enjoyed a lot of his music. But as he burrowed himself into the consciousness of the supermarket news rack brain trust, I just didn't waste a lot of time thinking about him.

Then I watched THIS IS IT the other day.

Man. That would have been one hell of a show.

And man, that was a guy who has no business being dead.

The drug administered by the recently-hired private physician is dubbed "milk of amnesia."

Enough said.
--------------
Saw Jeff Bridges in CRAZY HEART yesterday. Yeah. He's damn good. The movie, not so much. And, truth be told, Jeff's work, while terrific, is not all that astounding, mainly because the character doesn't have a lot of depth or dimension, and where he goes in the movie is on a journey that has been filmed time and time and time again. Particularly, it was filmed in the eighties as TENDER MERCIES and it featured the brilliant performance of Robert Duvall, who is also in CRAZY HEART, and is also one of CRAZY HEART's producers. Duvall's story in TM is far more complicated, and Duvall's performance is memorable. This is not to take anything away from Bridges, who is pretty much always watchable anytime he's on screen in anything he does. I'm just sayin'. I'm just sayin' this movie didn't seem to be much of a challenge. And, I'm sorry, the pretty, plucky, young, intelligent Maggie Gyllenhaal character would never fall so quickly for the aging, boozed up singer Jeff brings to the screen. I mean, his cigarette breath alone would scare her away.

So, for my money, at least at this point, I opt for George Clooney in UP IN THE AIR as my Oscar pick for Best Actor. He won't win, but I think Clooney risked more, and found more in his character than was written for Bridges.
-------
I want to see AVATAR, but I just don't know if I can deal with the glasses. However, I don't want to see it 2D. What a dilemma. And there's no way I luck into one of my famous 4:30 pm private viewings with this one.
-------
I have a female friend who doesn't understand what all the hoopla is about Rose Byrne, who stars with Glenn Close on TV's DAMAGES. She doesn't see what I see in the actress. I chalk this up to the fact that my friend is, as noted, a female friend.
-------
I watched Elia Kazan's PANIC IN THE STREETS the other night, streamed in on my Netflix account through the new HD DVR. Here is a movie about the possibility of the plague sweeping into 1950's New Orleans, directed by the man who brought ON THE WATERFRONT to the screen. Sheesh. Rarely have I seen such a ham-handed film in my life, with poor Richard Widmark, as the doctor nobody will listen to, screaming his medical head off from frame to frame, scaring his poor (probably now deaf) wife Barbara Bel Geddes in the process. WATERFRONT came after PANIC. Guess Elia learned something about the movies. Like they have microphones and cameras. Sheesh again.
-------
Now that I'm totally enamored of stadium seating at the movies, any time I have to look upwards at a screen it just feels so wrong.
-------
This is one of those days, clearly, when I am forcing myself to write a blog entry. Thank you for your patience.

Whoever you are.

His Outside Voice

2010-02-06T15:41:00.002-05:00

So here I am again, at Barnes and Noble, in Peabody, on a Saturday afternoon, trying to write a ten-minute play for this year's Boston Theatre Marathon. Ten-minute plays usually run about ten pages. I'm on page six. But I have to stop.

(Okay, you're right, if I want quiet I should stay at home. No argument. But there's quiet and there's quiet, and home quiet, for me, is too quiet. I like the murmur/mumble quiet of Barnes and Noble. I like being able to take my face out of my computer, look up, and see human beings, some of them attractive women, milling about, enjoying the ambiance of literature and glossy magazines. Most of the time, I'm able to concentrate.)

But right now, the cafe is crowded, I'm near an electrical outlet and my computer is plugged in, and can't really move anywhere, and at the table next to me...

...is this guy.

He's one of these guys who can't just talk. He has to proclaim. He has to announce. He has to bullhorn everything he says. He walked up to this table, where another guy was waiting, and the first thing he starts to do is talk about somebody--I'm assuming it was his father or his uncle or some older relative--who is newly in a nursing home. Today, I--and everybody east of Wilmington--has learned that Nursing Home Guy is comfortable today, relaxing reading a magazine. Glad to hear it. And, boy, did I hear it. But not only that--Nursing Home Guy has a doctor appointment this week. He can't close one of his eyes. His eye just stays open all the time and he has to have some kind of procedure to remedy this situation. I'm hoping Talking Guy goes along with Nursing Home Guy to the appointment and gets the same procedure done on his own MOUTH.

Anyway, usually at B&N, folks sit down for, maybe, fifteen or twenty minutes, shoot the breeze, finish their latte, and go away. This is what I was hoping for with this guy.

However, after he completed his now world renowned report on Nursing Home Guy, he pulled out a deck of cards, and began teaching the other guy at the table, WHO HAS NOT SAID A WORD SINCE TALKING GUY SAT DOWN--how to play some kind of card game. It is "Card School at Barnes and Noble Day," and this human sound system is the instructor.

So, I guess I'll just have to wait until Quiet Guy learns how to play the game and they go home. I suppose I can walk around the store and not spend money, but that's such a waste of time.

Speaking of waste, I can't believe I'm wasting this electrical outlet. Electrical outlets, in these days of Wi-Fi, are so hard to find. And I found one. And I can't work.

Because this guy WON'T SHUT UP.

This post, perhaps, will not make it to the Bloggers Hall of Fame in Radford, Virginia, but I needed to get this off my chest.

And, yes, I made up the Bloggers Hall of Fame.

I did not make up Radford, Virginia.

Bully!

2010-01-28T17:01:00.003-05:00

No, this is not a blog entry extolling the life and times of Teddy Roosevelt.

I just felt like chiming in with my two cents regarding the sad story last week out of South Hadley, Massachusetts, where high school student Phoebe Prince committed suicide, allegedly as a result of bullying from her schoolmates.

Okay, sure...Phoebe may have, could have had, probably did have, ...emotional issues unrelated to bullying that contributed to her state of mind as she contemplated being no more. That's not the point.

The point is, bullies, and you know who you are, need to be identified and stopped. I wanted to say bullies need to stop but...I just don't think bullies are smart enough to understand that they are who they are and therefore they are not smart enough to know to stop. In fact, a bully, by nature, outrageous as it may seem, might even increase his or her bullying energies in the wake of something like Phoebe's death, to prove to others (really, to prove to themselves) that what they do is harmless, that what they do is not responsible for the failure to continue to live of the people they target, that what they do is...really nothing. If it's anything, it's entertainment.

Entertainment never moved anybody to suicide.

And what is a bully, really, in his or her own eyes, but an entertainer?

I'm not sure about this, but does a bully bully in a vacuum? Does a bully bully for his or her own gratification? Or must there be a middle-man, or -men, or-women? Must there be an audience? There must be, right? The bully must have a way to take a curtain call for the relentless humiliation he or she imposes on the target. There has to be people laughing; there has to be people patting the bully's back, reporting the bully's achievement to the world, usually the middle- or high school world at large. Otherwise, what's the point? Where else is the bully going to be embraced as a success? In the classroom? No. On the athletic field? Maybe, but not likely. In the debating society? Please.

The word is a problem. Bully. It's become a buzzword. A lightning rod. In a way, it's losing its potency. Bullying. Bullyism. It's a thing that happens. Not a big thing. A thing that happens in schools. Just the kids being kids, most of the time. Plus, it doesn't SOUND like a word that describes a crime. Bullyism. It sounds like what Bluto did to Popeye. And Popeye always, always ended up beating the bejesus out of Bluto.

I found myself in trouble a year or so ago because of the word. I had written an article for a Catholic magazine, the St. Anthony Messenger, detailing my high school friendship with John Ogonowski, Captain of the first plane to fly into the WTC on September 11, 2001. The point of the article was that I was a shy, quiet kid as a freshman in high school, and, as a shy and quiet kid, I was the target of a few geniuses who took it upon themselves to entertain their entourages by making the first few months of my high school career a living hell. Not that big a deal, in the grand scheme of things. I would have survived on my own. But John, a great kid who became a great man, took me under his wing, and the idiots went on to bother someone else. The word "bully" appeared in the article, though bullyism was not the article's focus. When the Lowell Sun interviewed me about the article, bullyism again was mentioned, but, again, my friendship with John is what gave birth to the interview.

Still, for a month or so after the newspaper article appeared, I heard from friends that a few of my high school classmates were upset about my implication that there was bullying when I was there. One brave individual cornered me at a neighborhood party and identified me to his friends as the guy who "bloviated" in the Sun about bullying at my (and his) high school. None of these people, to my knowledge, ever read the original St. Anthony's article.

So I'm wondering...just wondering...if the guys who were upset about the article, might just have been...

Never mind.

My point is, the callous, careless, relentless psychological abuse of the quieter, the smaller, the less popular of kids in schools is a real thing. And the perpetrators of the abuse are just not intelligent enough to realize the harm they are doing.

Sure, it's been going on forever. Sure, it's just kids being kids.

But it's really all about arrogance. Arrogance born of stupidity and insecurity. And arrogance very often sticks to a person's character into adulthood. I hate arrogance.

I don't know what schools should do to the offenders, if and when they might be discovered. Suspend 'em? Expel 'em? I pretty much don't think that will do anything but provide them with impetus to become even worse human beings than they already are.

I say confront 'em, tell them what they are doing, show them how it hurts, and why it hurts, and then watch them to see if they change. If they don't, then confront 'em again. Give them the opportunity to show they have a brain. It's a longshot, but it's worth a try.

What they need to learn is that they are in no way entertaining.

Lower the curtain.

Kindle-ing

2010-01-24T09:30:00.002-05:00

I've had my Amazon Kindle for about six months now. Purchased it about six minutes before they lowered the price from $350 to $250. With timing onstage as an actor and director, I'm pretty good. With timing when it comes to buying new gadgets--not so good. I'm the guy who buys things first, tells other people about the things, and then watches as the other people buy the things at vastly reduced prices.

You're welcome. All of you.

Immediately after I bought the Kindle, I did what the Amazon people expected I would do. I bought a large number of books for the little device. I loved the damn thing. I still do. But for the first few weeks, I LOVED IT. Seemed to me there was no more economical way to purchase recently-published books, no quicker way to get them into my hot little hands, no easier way to sit and read them. Prop it up in front of your face, place the thumbs where they can most efficiently "turn" the "pages," and you're off to the races.

All of that is true.

Now, however, six months into my Kindlelife, I realize that there is definitely a place on my bookshelf for...yes, I'll admit it...books.

So, for those of you who have eschewed Kindleism because you cannot imagine yourself curled up beside the fire with an electronic doohickey whose textured pages you can neither riffle nor smell, I'm here to tell you that you can be both a Kindle owner and a real book reader.

It just takes about six months for the Kindle (or Nook or Sony Reader) newness to wear off.

I am now reading real books from my bookshelf, and electronic books on my Kindle, and enjoying all the reading. My Kindle no longer lifts its cybernose to the books, the books no longer turn envious leafs to the Kindle. We're all living in peaceful harmony.

It's just that, instead of walking through Barnes and Noble and looking at all those brand new, exciting best sellers and checking the calendar to anticipate when they'll be out in paperback, now I can zip them onto my Kindle for ten bucks in a matter of about sixty seconds. This is the major Kindle advantage. That, and if you play your cards right, you can actually find many classics for virtually no cost at all. All you sacrifice is the (admittedly important) self- promotional aspect of displaying the classics on your bookshelf. So, instead of displaying books so that your friends THINK you read them, you'll actually have to READ THEM in order to discuss them with your friends. It's a small (but time-consuming) price to pay for paying such a small price.

So, those of you on the Kindle/Nook/Sony Reader diving board, dipping your toe in the pool, trying to decide whether or not to do it, DO IT! Dive in!

Someday when you're sitting in an airport and your flight's delayed by three hours, you will thank me.

You're welcome.

A Professional At Work

2010-01-18T17:42:00.002-05:00

One of the most frightening aspects of last night's Golden Globe awards ceremony was the decided lack of gray hair in the audience and on the heads of presenters. Oh, sure, John Lithgow and William Hurt were there to balance the age curve. James Cameron, again on top of the world with AVATAR, looked a lot older than he did when he took the Oscar for TITANIC. But, by and large, everybody else was twelve. And, as is often the case these days, I didn't know who some of them were. I imagine many of them played vampires in those TWILIGHT movies or slutty suburbanites on some CW TV show. One look at them and all I could think was: I just don't care.

But on Friday night, I hauled myself into Boston (which I hate to do) to see the great Richard Lewis. Gray hair and all. And he didn't let me down.

I had booked tickets for Lewis last year, at the Calvin Theatre in Northampton. But he cancelled. I suspect, because nobody was coming to see him. He should have known better than to book that place. Nobody in Northampton has a sense of humor. I mean, not really. Something about wearing Birkenstocks saps the wit out of a person. So, while I was disappointed, I was not surprised when he bailed.

But there he was on Friday, at the Wilbur Theatre in Boston, converted into a half club, half theatre, half arena. (Okay, you do the math, I don't have time.)

First, though, there was JB Smoove, to open.

Now, one thing you become aware of very quickly as you look at the electronically changing marquee outside the Wilbur, is that Larry David's CURB YOUR EHTHUSIASM is a hit TV show, because no fewer than four cast members are booked to play the Wilbur this season. Susie Essman and Jeff Garlin will be in town later in the winter. Tonight, it was Lewis and Smoove. (Patton Oswalt, not a CURBIE, but who I think is damn funny, is also coming to the Wilbur. Check it out. And check out his superb performance in the film nobody saw, BIG FAN.)

JB plays "Leon," Larry's live-in-and-won't-leave foil on the show, and, on the show, he is brilliant. There is a control to his insanity, and his ad-libs (it's all pretty much ad-lib on CURB) are exquisite. I still can't read or hear the word "ejaculate" without thinking of Smoove's line reading. Anyway, JB is a funny dude, and his stand-up has moments of wonderful lunacy--like when he portrays a stage coach driver getting juiced by listening to a hip hop tune while he races from the bad guys. But a lot of his act is repetitive, and you can tell that it's going to be a while before he has a true handle on this aspect of the business. His act is as raunchy as, say, Louis CK, but LCK has it under control. JB, not quite. Still, some funny stuff.

Richard Lewis, though, is a man who has been doing stand-up for forty years, which he tells you more than once in the course of his act, and you can tell that this is true--in a good way. I remember Lewis used to bring an almost infinite scroll of notes onstage with him, and went back and forth from the scroll as he threaded his act together. Now, at 62, he has abandoned the scroll, and trusts his manic brain to bring him from one bit to the next. And when his manic brain lets him down, he uses the loss of memory to transition from riff to riff, and he's as funny transitioning as he is riffing.

His act, like everybody's these days, has sex as its core. He's a man who seems to have been a serial womanizer for years, who is now married, and that late life alteration has provided him with a perspective that fuels his comedy.

And his energy is ceaseless. If you've watched him on CURB, you've wondered if his frail body was going to make it from frame to frame. Onstage at the Wilbur, you get the impression he could have gone on for a month.

I waited years to see Lewis onstage and he did not let me down.

When you commit to your art, and you work at it, and you believe in it, it shows.

Long Live Lewis.

The Original F-Word

2010-01-15T11:05:00.006-05:00

See...this is the problem...

There's a full page ad in this week's Entertainment Weekly magazine. (Yes, I subscribe to Entertainment Weekly. I follow the world of entertainment and I like to be updated weekly. So I subscribe to Entertainment Weekly.)

So, this ad.

It's for a new CW Network show, entitled Life Unexpected. I don't know what to expect of life and I don't intend to watch so I don't care about the show. This is not about the show.

Well, it is, and it isn't.

First of all, the tag line at the top of the ad is:

"Juno meets Gilmore Girls."

That's nice, I guess. But I don't care. I saw Juno and it was okay but I've never seen Gilmore Girls. So I don't care.

Then there's a photo of the three stars in their character costumes.

I don't know the three stars and their character costumes are so SELECTED and PRECISE and HIP and CALCULATED with their emblem-ed T-shirts and leather jackets and half-laced boots and faded jeans and the characters are so PERFECTLY HAIR-ED that I don't want to have anything to do with the show.

But that's not the point.

The point is the second tagline, the show's catchphrase, attached to the bottom of the ad.

You ready?

"Family is the new F-word."

I'll pause a moment here for you to let that sink in.

"Family is the new F-word."

Here's my problem:

The 20-something studio executive who came up with that line probably got a raise. When he or she brought it up at the sales meeting, there was probably a rhapsody of oohs and aahs in the room and pencils and styrofoam coffee cups were probably tossed in the air in amazement at the unbridled brilliance and cleverness of that line.

To me, it's just so damned glib and cynical that I can't stand it.

First of all, you 20-something studio exec, what do you think is the first word that comes to mind when anybody reads that tagline?

"Family?" No.

"The original F-word?" Yes!

So you don't think about family. You don't think about warmth. You don't think about caring or loving or humanity or even the perfect hair of the actors in the show. You think about the original F-word.

Is that what you set out to do?

You will say "NO!" I will say "YES!" That IS what you set out to do. You did not want the world to say, "Oh, yes, I want to watch this family show." You wanted the world to say, "Oooh! How clever to remind us of the original F-word in the context of this family show!"

What you have done, in essence, is, you have connected the word "family" to the original "F-word" so that when we think of the former, we think of the latter. Inevitably. Inexorably.

You jerk, whoever you are.

I will not watch your show, because I don't like your costumes or your hair.

But mainly I will not watch your show because I despise your smug manipulation of the language under the guise of cleverness.

The original F-word you.

Probably Best to Skip This Entry

2010-01-10T10:14:00.005-05:00

So...public rest rooms. For guys. (Sorry, this is the only kind I'm qualified to address.)

Question.

If you're a guy, and you walk into a public rest room, and there are three empty urinals staring at you, which one do you use?

Better question, which one DON'T you use?

Why, the one in the middle, of course.

Because, by using either the one on the right or the one on the left, there is AT LEAST the possibility that the next guy into the rest room will not be standing directly next to you. Why is it a good thing to not have a guy standing directly next to you?

Well, it just is, that's all.

And if you're a guy, using the urinal, please do not sing. Or hum. Or whistle.

I've been in rest rooms where this happens.

My first question to you songbirds is this: What, really, is there to hum about? Sure, it's a relieving, pleasant thing you are doing. We who are in the rest room with you already know that. By definition, we are happy for you. We do not need you to serenade us while you are taking a leak. Because, truth be told, all your little concert is doing for us is holding up our progress, if you know what I mean. We cannot concentrate while you are warbling to your...whatever. And, look, if you do feel it's necessary to sing or hum or whistle while you're addressing the urinal, please, for the love of God, sing or hum or whistle something that is not familiar to us. I mean, if you sing or hum or whistle "Tie A Yellow Ribbon 'Round The Old Oak Tree" while you're whizzing away, even when you leave, the damn tune is gonna be in our brains, and we STILL will not be able to concentrate on the task at hand. A friend of mine once told me that when you get a tune stuck in your head, the only way to eliminate it is to replace it with "The Girl From Ipanema." He never told me how to get rid of "The Girl From Ipanema," however.

And, say you're in a rest room situation where a number of guys are waiting to use, as it were. Say you get to the urinal before your buddy, who is behind you in line. Don't, please, keep your conversation with your buddy going while you're going. "Yeah, I think they're gonna have a good infield, but they're not gonna be able to hit." "You think so?" "Oh, yeah, they got a lot of trouble in the middle of the order!" Again, it's all about concentration. For one thing, I may want to join in the conversation, because I just may think the middle of the order is okay, but how can I keep my mind on my business when I'm thinking about the Red Sox OBP? Plus, add to that the intimidation factor. With your oh, so casual conversation, here's what you're telling the rest of us mutes: "Hey, look what I can do! I can pee and talk at the same time!" It makes a guy just want to zip up and go back to the table.

One more thing for anybody still with me here...

You young dads who are instructing your kids on how to use the public rest room. I know--it's an important part of the dad-son teaching process, and I respect it. But...before you embark upon the training session, take the little tyke aside and tell him this:

"Billy, now we're going to go in here and we're going to go to the bathroom like grownups. Pretty soon, you'll be able to do this all by yourself. Now...the only thing you really need to know before you go in there, is this: Do not talk to the other fellas while they are using the rest room. Do not ask them what they are doing. Do not point to them and say, "Look, Daddy, that man didn't wash his hands like he's supposed to." And also, please, tell them not to sing. It's good to train them early for stuff like that.

Oh, yes...and for you sign-makers out there. It took me a good long time before I was able to understand precisely what "Baby Changing Station" meant when it's plastered on the outside of a men's room door. For a split second, yes, I'll admit it, I thought this might be a room where you could exchange your baby for another one. Rewrite, please.

"Well, if I was on patrol, maybe..."

2010-01-06T19:59:00.002-05:00

A cop just said the above to me. After he handed me a $150 ("Well, the State sets this, not us.") ticket for running a stop sign.

I had asked him, very politely, after he brought the ticket back to me, why, given that I had slowed down at the 4-stop sign intersection, and given that I did put my foot on the brake (though my car never did stop) and given that there was NOBODY anywhere else in the intersection, and given that I had stopped at that intersection EVERY TIME about 50 times a week for the past ten years, given all that, I asked him, did he, or anybody who wears the uniform he wears, EVER consider the possibility of, MAYBE, suggesting to me that, hey, i know there was nobody in the intersection but, hey, you know, guy, you do need to stop. You know...a WARNING. I know they give WARNINGS. And I, the milquetoastiest of drivers, would be the first to be SO GRATEFUL for a WARNING, that I would think sometime, somewhere SOME COP would consider just giving a guy a WARNING just to see what GRATITUDE is like.

But this is what he said when I asked him if they ever just gave warnings in simple, harmless situations like these:

"Well, if I was on patrol, maybe I would. But I'm on traffic detail."

"Oh! So your entire point is to catch me?"

"Yes."

Look, I know the life of a policeman is a dangerous one. I know that I would not be comfortable in a town without a police force. I know the good police do.

But GOD.

A hundred and fifty bucks, not because I did what I did, but because the cop was WAITING for me to do what I did, even though there were no other vehicles anywhere near me, and nobody was in danger.

I think, maybe, a four second conversation with me before writing out the citation would have convinced this guy that I'm not a $150 criminal.

However, I think (and now I get really pissed), this guy was on a training program.

Because as soon as he stopped me, another cruiser drove up behind him and waited until he was finished. When I drove by the same intersection later on my way home, he had stopped another car, and the second cruiser was driving up behind him again.

I hope he got $150 worth of training.

I will get over this.

But the next time I see a police car take a right turn onto Moore from Andrews Street, at the stop sign, without stopping, which happens ALL THE TIME...

Well....Well...I'll be darned angry.

I wish I drank.

It's (Not That) Complicated

2010-01-06T17:27:00.002-05:00

So, with the new HDTV and Blu Ray player in place, I hardly ever go OUT to the movies anymore. I mean, I have something like 125 movies in my Netflix streaming queue, some of them in HD. My God. Why spend ten bucks or more to see something I will be able to see more comfortably in, say, three months time at home?

Well, sometimes you just hafta, you know what I mean?

If there's a movie opening in December and it features Meryl Streep, Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin, with a supporting role played by John Krasinski, going to the multiplex automatically appears on the agenda.

Nancy Meyers, the writer director of IT'S COMPLICATED, has some cred. PRIVATE BENJAMIN, the remake of FATHER OF THE BRIDE, SOMETHING'S GOTTA GIVE. Pretty decent stuff. And the cast. Come on. Heavy hitters.

And that's...almost the problem here.

Not that there's a problem.

Well, there is. But not a huge one.

It's about a 20-minute problem. Somewhere in IT'S COMPLICATED is twenty minutes of film that needed to be left on the cutting room floor. Or, these days, in the "Save It For The DVD" file on the Mac. The great cast is a problem because they pretty much make those twenty minutes, wherever they are, interesting. Just as interesting as they make the other hundred minutes of the film. So when you look at the twenty minutes, you say, what's the problem? Then you get home late for dinner, and you see the problem.

No ground is broken here. Unless you consider an adult film made and performed by adults ground breaking. And you might.

Meryl and Alec are divorced. They are the parents of the three MOST WELL ADJUSTED GROWN CHILDREN IN HISTORY. They are so well-adjusted, one of them is going to marry Krasinski, who is KING of the well-adjusted on film and on TV these days. Alec has married a hot Latina (her kid is named Pedro and she is dark and beautiful, so I take the leap) who is twenty-five years his junior and who broke up with him once to go have her kid with another guy. We know Alec is not going to succeed here. Meryl is succeeding as a restaurant owner and chef. She is adding on to her house and Steve Martin is her architect. Alec wants to come back to Meryl, Meryl is hot for Alec but likes Steve, Steve likes Meryl and he's going through the throes of divorce. We see plot points coming at us from miles away.

But these actors are just so damned good.

And Meryl is the best.

She has to be, to carry off the somewhat fantastical fancies she has to accommodate in the screenplay. We stay with her because we know she can do this. Otherwise, we would go out for popcorn. Nobody but Meryl could play this character believably. Because hers is not really a believable character.

Alec is believable, because he's been written and seen a million times before.

Steve is believable because we just plain like him no matter what he does on film, and what he does here is restrained and honest and downright nice.

I've heard people recently say that Krasinski always plays "Jim," the character he plays on THE OFFICE. A legitimate critique.

Still--go find somebody who does this better than he does.

Jimmy Stewart never played a wide range of types in the movies.

And Stewart may have been the best film actor ever.

In the final analysis, IT'S COMPLICATED just isn't. It tries to be. But by the time we get past the 90-minute mark, the complications seem forced and impossible. I'm thinking this happens about the time Meryl lights up the joint. Yeah. There.

Still, you wanna see movie acting?

See it.

Wait till you get it at home, maybe.

But do see it.

And, if you can, see Meryl in JULIE AND JULIA. Then compare that to this.

She is the best.

Have I said that already?

Irratating

2010-01-03T16:34:00.002-05:00

So I sign up for this online voice-over service. I had been associated with the service for a couple of years, but as the end of 2009 approached and I needed stuff to write off, I figured I'd sign up as a premium member and take advantage of the service in a more meaningful way. I mean, I have a relatively decent recording set-up at home and, what the hell, if this service could nail me a few tiny-paying jobs here and there, what's the harm? As soon as I paid the premium fee, I was sent a number of audition opportunities and I made the audition recordings at home and sent them out and hoped for the best. Just like everything else I do as a writer/performer, I was working ON SPEC. I'm used to it. Rejection is the Tonto to my Lone Ranger. Not all that helpful, but always there.

I've auditioned for maybe five V.O. gigs, with no results yet. Fine. No problem. As I say, it's easy to make a recording and send it out online. No skin off my nose.

Today, though, I discovered that one of the "premium" services I receive is that Voice Seekers are allowed and even encouraged to "tag" my demo reel. This means that a Voice Seeker can listen to my online reel, which is a professionally-made 2 minutes of me reading copy, and then "tag" my reel. Tagging simply means the Voice Seeker can apply a word of reaction to my reel, and that word is listed as a tag. The first three words I received as tags were "exciting," "professional" and "sense of humor," which is technically three words, but who's quibbling. I don't know where these tags originated, and for all I know, they just came from the service trying to make me feel good.

But about fifteen minutes ago, I received an email from the service titled, "Congratulations! You have been tagged!" This meant that another Voice Seeker had listened to my reel, and applied a tag to it. I checked it out.

There, in addition to "professional," "exciting" and "sense of humor," was the tag "irratating."

Think about it. There's somebody out there, who is seeking voice over talent, who, therefore, is a person in a position to hire people, to be the BOSS of another person, who CAN'T FRIGGIN' SPELL!

Listen, if you're gonna dump on me, at least, for the love of God, use spell check. Some words are not caught by spell check, but IRRATATING certainly would be.

Now, this incident kind of spills over into the rest of my work life.

There are, out there, people in CHARGE OF US, who DO NOT KNOW WDF THEY ARE DOING!

And yet, they are in charge of us.

They write things about us.

They write anything they want to write about us.

Because THEY ARE IN CHARGE.

How did this happen, is my question?

Did this asshole who thinks my voice is "irratating" get out of "middel" school?

Full disclosure: the voice over service makes it very easy for "talent," which they tell me is what I am, to go into the files and remove tags we don't "agree with." Well, it's not that I didn't agree with the comment. I don't, but that wasn't my main reason for deleting the word.

I just couldn't stand the thought that somebody out there with the brain of a Ticonderoga Number 2 pencil eraser had the power to critique my work. I don't know who he or she is. He or she will never read this (or have it read to him or her). So all I can do is holler in the wilderness of cyberspace.

PEOPLE IN CHARGE OF ME! LEARN HOW TO SPELL!!!

Waiting for the Cable Guy

2009-12-30T14:20:00.002-05:00

I am now officially off TiVo, and if you know me, you know this is a rather big deal. I've been a major TiVo advocate since 2003, to the point where I had two TiVo DVRs in my apartment up until last week. See, there'd be times, usually in September and October, when I'd need to catch three programs at once, one of them being the Red Sox and...well, the only way I could do it was by operating a couple of TiVo boxes. And a VHS recorder. It's complicated. And a little sick. But, as I tell anyone who'll listen, television is the only thing I do. I'm kinda like the shark in JAWS except for the making babies part. Substitute "watching TV" for making babies and I am the shark in JAWS. Except I don't swim. Okay, forget the shark in JAWS. But you get the idea.

Anyway, I purchased a nice 32-inch Samsung HD TV, so I acquired the Comcast HD box and DVR and after a week or so, it became clear to me that I didn't need TiVo anymore.

But as soon as I disconnected my TiVo boxes, the Comcast DVR broke down.

Backstory:

The Comcast DVR box I had was the third I had picked up from the Comcast office, which happens to be down the street from my house. The first two boxes I picked up already had the Comcast TiVo software installed. Except I didn't WANT the Comcast TiVo software installed, and, beyond that, if the Comcast TiVo software is installed in the box, you can't get it to work, because you don't have the various codes you are given to activate the damn Comcast TiVo box. Unfortunately, the clerks at Comcast just take the RECONDITIONED boxes out of their plastic RECONDITIONED bags and give you the box without knowing what's already programmed, which is why it took me three trips to Comcast to get a box that was not already programmed for TiVo.

Are you still with me?

I'm not.

So I get the third box and it works and three weeks later I stop TiVo and disconnect it and my second old Comcast non-DVR box (don 't ask) and bring that to Comcast. I get home, and the Comcast DVR now does not work.

I call Comcast. This is not the Comcast that is down the street from my house. Well, it is, but the person I'm talking to is not down the street from my house. God knows where she is. But I'm telling her I can no longer get any channels on my new Comcast DVR box. She sympathizes. I have talked to many Comcast phone operators and they are programmed to sympathize. Or empathize. Somethingthize. Anyway, she feels my pain and reboots my box (insert your own joke here) and I wait for something to happen. Nothing does. She reboots my box again. (Same joke, if you like.) Again, nothing happens. She says I need to make an appointment with a service guy. It's Tuesday. First open appointment is on Saturday. Does she understand whom she's talking to? She gives me the option to take the box back to my neighborhood Comcast in the morning. I keep the appointment, but take the box down anyway, covering all bases. I re-install it. It works fine. I cancel the appointment.

Next day, I record SEINFELD, which I do almost nightly, because I like to sit in front of the TV and watch SEINFELD while I dine. Eat. Whatever. I hit the "play" on the DVR and up comes Jerry and the gang.

But they are pausing. And tiling. And stopping. And going. And freezing. It is unwatchable.

I turn to live TV. It also is pausing. And tiling. And stopping. And going. And freezing. It also is unwatchable.

I call yet another Comcast operator. The tone of my voice gets me $20 off my next bill. Because she somethingthizes with me. She reboots my box (I am starting to enjoy this), and reboots it again. I think Comcast operators like to reboot people's boxes. Nothing works. Still freezing. Then I make another service appointment.

Get up the next day, and the TV seems fine. I cancel the appointment.

Last night, I record SEINFELD again. Again, the freezing. Live and Recorded freezing.

I call Comcast. Again with the somethingthizing. Again with the rebooting. Again with the nothing. I make another appointment.

Which is where I am now.

However, I know it's the box. I know this. It's not the connection. It's the box. I just didn't want to bring it back on my own. Not again. I wanted a cable guy to come here and bring a box to me. I have become that person.

I will tell him (or her) that when the service is rebooted, it's fine, but when I record anything, it all goes to hell.

I hope to God he (or she) buys this, because I don't want to spend an hour watching him (or her) traipsing around my cluttered apartment trying to fix something. Just give me another box. That's all I need.

Preferably a new one. But that won't happen, because, I am told, all local Comcast DVR boxes are RECONDITIONED!

I am now within 20 minutes of the scheduled two-hour slot when the cable guy (or girl) is supposed to be here.

I am afraid. I am very afraid.

In Case You Missed Them...

2009-12-29T10:07:00.006-05:00

It's the time of year when Ten Best Lists start appearing everywhere. Such lists are essentially inconsequential, given the subjective nature of it all, but every once in a while a peek at a Ten Best List will prompt me to check out a movie or a book that I normally would bypass. Such was the case this past week when I came upon a couple of Ten Best Lists in Entertainment Weekly.

(What, you thought I kept The Economist on the magazine rack in my bathroom?)

((Before I continue, however, I want to report that a play of mine appeared on a Ten Worst List in a local newspaper a couple of years ago. I subsequently discovered that the "critic" who compiled the list had not reviewed the play for publication. In other words, he told the world my play sucked [It did not, incidentally. It's called THE BIG APPLE and it's kind of funny in a frightening sort of way.] but did not have the guts to explain why. He just stuck it on his friggin' Ten Worst List. Boom. Like that. When word got back to the "critic" that I was upset because of his cowardice, he became all huffy and harumphy and continued to refuse to write a review. Therefore, I determined that, in any future reference to this "critic," I will always identify him as a "critic" in quotation marks. It's my little rebuttal.))

Anyway...

My scan of the Entertainment Weekly lists sent me to two films: ADVENTURELAND and (500) DAYS OF SUMMER.

ADVENTURELAND is written and directed by Greg Mottola, and features Jesse Eisenberg and Kristen Stewart. Kristen's face is splashed over the entire checkout line universe as one of those TWILIGHT people. Eisenberg's claims to fame include something called ZOMBIELAND which must have generated some kind of interest because he's "in development" with ZOMBIELAND 2. He was also in M. Night Shyamalan's THE VILLAGE, which pretty much explains why he's not a household name. In any case, ADVENTURELAND is a relatively predictable coming-of-age movie, with "relatively' being the operative phrase here. What I mean is, that while what you expect to happen pretty much happens, the honesty and humor with which Mottola and his actors find their way to their conclusion is refreshing. And Stewart, who has the smoldering good looks one would expect from the female star of a vampire movie, turns in a nicely nuanced performance in a prickly, challenging role. "Coming of age" is not really applicable here, I think, because these characters are post-college, and any "of age" has pretty much come and gone. But their little story here is genuinely compelling, and the two stars stay with Mottola's through-line stride-by-stride.

(500) DAYS OF SUMMER is an even later coming of age story, directed by Marc Webb, written by Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Webb, and featuring Zooey Deschanel and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. I had seen him recently hosting SNL, and, of course, I had no idea who he was or what he had done to earn that job. Turns out he was on the TV series THIRD ROCK FROM THE SUN and got the SNL gig because of the success of (500) DAYS. She has been around playing annoying cuties here and there, and I think I saw her for the first time on WEEDS a few seasons ago, being cute and annoying Justin Kirk's "Andy," among others. The storyline here, we've also seen before, because it would be very difficult to tell a love story, or write a romantic comedy, which breaks new ground in terms of the basic story. What's nice here, as in ADVENTURELAND, is that the writing is truthful and really funny, as opposed to being dishonest and faux funny. Plus, where we end up is in a little different place from where we usually end up in such films (although not really--there's a tag ending that we really could have done without--although not really). Both lead actors are terrific, and even if you've been annoyed by Zooey in the past, check this out. She will probably annoy you again, but that's kind of the point, unless you put yourself into the mindset of Gordon-Levitt's character, which you will, if you're a guy. And I am. And I did. Even though my age is going, rather than coming.

While neither of these films reaches the heights of the iconic SAY ANYTHING, each has its own charm, and each would be an especially fine New Year's Eve rental for those of you not braving the lunacy outside the house.

Me, I'll be watching Woody Allen's RADIO DAYS, as always. The best New Year's Even movie ever. Well, let's call it the "sweetest, most nostalgic" New Year's Eve movie ever.

Because there is, of course, THE APARTMENT, which is KING of them all.

A View from the Parking Lot

2009-12-26T09:35:00.002-05:00

So it's that time of year when I'm in and out of my car constantly, to one sister's house for Christmas Eve, to my brother's in-laws' house for Christmas Day, to my other sister's house for family gift day tomorrow...and every time I get out of my car, which I leave in the parking lot across the street from my house, I see the Sacred Heart Church.

Abandoned. Empty. Decrepit. Cold. Lifeless. Dead.

And I wonder why nobody ever told me this might happen.

And I wonder if I should be angry.

Or sad.

Or understanding.

Or all of the above.

I think all of the above is what I am, although understanding sits very low on that particular list of reactions. I understand, because it's very clear to me why the church building is no longer viable. There are all kinds of variations and tangents of explanation that can be applied to this issue. I'm going with "mismanagement."

Not of this building in particular. I think it was managed quite well over the years by a number of different men who took their responsibility seriously. Middle-managers who were probably, in a lot of cases, much smarter than their superiors, but because one of the principal functions of their position was to obey, and because they were responsible individuals who took their job seriously, they obeyed.

And look what happened.

So when I step out of my car in the parking lot, and when I look at the church building and the convent to its right and the rectory to its left--all Abandoned. Empty. Decrepit. Cold. Lifeless. Dead.--my initial, immediate, visceral reaction is that I have been let down hard. Were I to voice that reaction to those in charge now, I would be reminded that another, newer building has assimilated the congregation of the now empty Sacred Heart Church, and I will say, not really.

Because there was a promise made in, and by, that building, and the aura that surrounded it, that has gone unfulfilled, and a new building, in another part of town, is not going to remedy that. With that broken promise, hordes of parishioners have abandoned not only the building, but also the institution. And those of us who have not abandoned the institution are still waiting, I believe, for an explanation that makes sense.

Of course, it is time that has dealt the most powerful sledge hammer to the church and the Church. I recognize that.

But, sad to say, it is some of the people who called and who still call the shots who have inflicted the most severe damage.

So when I step out of my car in the parking lot, I am, for a split second, angry at the building I see. But then I remember what it meant to me as I was growing up, how vital it was, how friendly its people were, how much energy it engendered, how much future it promised, and sincerely promised, and I am no longer angry at the building. Because what it was made me who I am, and that's not the worst thing in the world.

The worst thing in the world is that it's not doing that for this or future generations.

And whose fault is that?

Christmas Questions

2009-12-21T18:00:00.003-05:00

Just some things I'm wondering about...

When you're a couple in your sixties, and the wife says to the husband, "Here, wear this Santa cap. I'm going to wear mine and we'll go to the mall and we'll both be wearing these Santa caps." When the wife says that, why doesn't the husband lose the car keys or fake diarrhea or just do anything to stay home and not wear the Santa cap to the mall? Why doesn't the husband do that?

When you set up your cell phone ring tone, what's wrong with "ring?" Why does it have to be the 1812 Overture or Sonny and Cher singing "I Got You, Babe" or if you're a kid a recording of all your friends yelling at you to answer your cell phone? "Ring!" Remember how it used to be? "Ring..." So sweet. (Not a Christmas Question, but important nonetheless.)

Why did Barbra Streisand make a Christmas album?

Who invented those effin' blowup Santas and Snowmen and why do they depress me instead of putting me into the holiday spirit? Is it me? Or is it the blowup Santas and Snowmen? (Clue: It's the blowup Santas and Snowmen.)

Why didn't at least one person who sings NOT make a recording of "The Christmas Song?"

Who's idea was it to change the lyrics to "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" to include the line "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough?" instead of "Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow." It makes a beautlful, wistful, almost sad song damn near pointless.

Why did I feel weird about calling this entry "Christmas Questions" instead of "Holiday Questions?"

Why do so many people revere "A Charlie Brown Christmas" yet so few really adhere to the sentiment it evokes?

Why do people who refuse to acknowledge the popular brilliance of IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE, not bother to champion MEET JOHN DOE, which accomplishes, in essence, the same thing WONDERFUL LIFE does, but in a much darker context. Isn't that what you guys want???

Why do I start these entries and then have no idea how to finish them?

Is Bing Crosby wearing his toupee under his Santa cap at the end of the movie WHITE CHRISTMAS?"

Would you?

An observation as I close:

I watched WHITE CHRISTMAS for about the fiftieth time last night, and instead of relishing the beauty of all the chorus girls in the big dance numbers, I kept saying to myself, "Shit, if they're not dead, they're 85!"

I Got Nothin'

2009-12-18T15:22:00.003-05:00

I have nothing to say.

That pretty much covers it.

I'm sitting here at Barnes and Noble in Peabody (MA), where they're not supposed to serve Godiva Hot Chocolate but they do anyway, hoping to get myself into a writing mood so I can get back to the play I'm writing with Cindy Williams and Eddie Mekka in mind. But nothing's coming. I finished a draft of Act One yesterday, and it doesn't stink. Problem is, when Act One is over, there are only a couple of options: go back and keep fixing Act One, or move on to create Act Two. Fixing is easy. Creating a new Act Two is not. So I have Cindy's character at home on New Year's Eve. She's just asked one of her neighbors to kill her before midnight. And that's the end of Act One. Something will come to me. Maybe not here, maybe not today, but sometime.

I hope.

I got nothin'.

I look at the magazine racks and see famous people staring at me.

Taylor Swift. Where have I seen her? Saturday Night Live. I didn't know who she was then and I barely know who she is now. On this magazine cover (what magazine?), she seems to be paired with another Taylor, this time a guy, from I think the TWILIGHT movies. Where have I seen him? Saturday Night Live. Didn't know who he was then and....you get the idea. I don't know his last name. I sneak over and thumb through the magazine. Every time he is mentioned, he is referred to only as "Taylor." This means he is so famous, that everybody knows him by his first name!

But what if you're referring to Taylor Swift?

No wonder they're hooked up on this magazine cover. Poor kids. They're so rich and famous they have to be placed side by side on a magazine cover so they won't be mistaken for each other.

Alec Baldwin. Now, I've seen him lots of places, but mainly on...Saturday Night Live, where he is one of the best guest hosts. This would be a good place for an Alec Baldwin family phone call joke, but I've done that already in an earlier blog.

Tiger. On Golf Digest. Standing behind a superimposed photo of Obama. Something about 10 tips Tiger can give the president. Seems Tiger is a couple of presidents late on this one. The guy just before Bush II may have been able to learn something from the Tig Man.

Miley Cyrus. All I know about her is I have her father's one hit on my iPod because it's helpful to run to it. Especially at the beginning of a run. Really gets me going. Miley herself, I wouldn't recognize a tune by her on the radio. Sorry. And she's kinda hidden on the magazine under the two Taylors. Miley's fifteen minutes may be down to two or three.

Perhaps I should stop looking at the magazine rack and try to write that second act.

Wait! Rihanna on the cover of GQ! I don't know who she is, but she absolutely belongs on the cover of GQ. Way to go, Rihanna!

Oh, yes, I did see her on SNL as well, didn't I?

She is wearing far, far less on the cover of GQ.

Way to go, Rihanna!

Now, that second act...

Hold on...

Reese and Jake have split. What a shame.

Tiger and Jessica are linked.

Linked, get it?

Robert Pattison and Jaycee Dugard are among People's Most Intriguing People of the Year.

WDF are they?

He's one of those damn vampires, isn't he?

Jennifer Aniston says, "You just have to love your life!"

Well, why is she telling me that NOW? Damn!

So many magazines, so many celebrities, so little time.

Wait, if you pick up People Magazine with Jennifer Aniston upright, then open the magazine, everything else is upside down!

That means something...I know it does.

It means I'd better get back to that second act.

Mo'Nique

2009-12-17T14:37:00.002-05:00

Normally, you'd have to drag me kicking and screaming to a movie entitled PRECIOUS. A film produced by Oprah and Tyler Perry, no less. Nothing against these giants of entertainment but...I'm not first in line for their projects, let's face it.

But I trust Roger Ebert. And Roger Ebert gave the film four stars. And I hadn't been to the movies in a while. And neither THE HURT LOCKER nor UP IN THE AIR had opened in the Boston area, so...it was either PRECIOUS or the Nick Cage BAD LIEUTENANT sequel or remake or whatever it is, which Roger also recommended. LIEUTENANT started at 5:25, PRECIOUS at 4:10. Didn't feel like eating at 8. So I went to see PRECIOUS.

It's not a great film. It may not even be a good film. It is gritty and it pushes all kinds of buttons about abuse and poverty and...it's really what you expect it to be.

But then, there's Mo'Nique.

Not a big fan of the solo-named actors. I mean, look at Cher. Good actress. Won an Oscar. But, all these years later, she's still a punch-line, and I think a main reason for that is her single name. Okay, quick, everybody--let's holler out Madonna's movie hits:

Cricket. Cricket.

Okay, maybe EVITA wasn't too bad.

But you get my point.

Anyway, back to Mo'Nique. I don't know much about her. I know she's done some TV acting, some stand-up, some TV hosting. Pretty much thrived in the "celebrity" category. I mean--the name. It's the name. What else could she be but a celebrity?

Well, I'm here to tell you this woman is an actor.

Over the years, I've been an avid moviegoer (not so much this year, but...) and, maybe, five or six times in the past twenty years or so I've come out of a movie blown away by a performance. Robert Duvall in TENDER MERCIES. John Voight in COMING HOME. Emily Watson in BREAKING THE WAVES. Cate Blanchette in NOTES ON A SCANDAL.

Mo'Nique (fix your name, girl!) delivers that kind of performance as the mother of Clareece "Precious" Jones in PRECIOUS. Gabourey Sidibe is terrific in the title role, and she will be nominated for everything. But the heart and soul of this picture is Mo'Nique. As the film progressed, I was impressed with her work, but, truth be told, it appeared to be a one-note performance, which I was blaming on the writer and the director. However, as the film concludes, she is given a scene where she has to try to explain the abominable things she has done to her daughter, and while her abominations are waaaaay beyond forgiveness, Mo'Nique somehow manages (with the help of the writer and director, of course) to bring the viewer into her world, not really to accept it, or even to understand it--but to know it. It is a harrowing, magnificent scene.

And this actress nails it.

Except for maybe the Duvall performance, which is subtle perfection from first frame to last, what distinguishes the other three performances mentioned above is the bravery which the actors must have to bring the characters honestly to the screen. Mo'Nique's performance in PRECIOUS is brave to the nth degree. It is brutally honest and shattering. She has revealed that she was molested by a family member as a child, so what she brings to the screen, she brings with a backstory.

If there is any justice out there, the Best Supporting Oscar must be hers. Duvall and Voight won for their performances. Watson and Blanchette did not. So I'm two for two.

For the record, her name is Monique Imes. I'd go with that.

Voice Recognition Software

2009-12-15T09:39:00.002-05:00

I am making this blog entry utilizing my new voice recognition software. Because I am new at this, I find that I sound very much like a robot at this point. However, this program is amazingly accurate.

It is relatively expensive, but at this time of the year, especially in a year when I had two plays produced for long runs in professional theaters, I have to find things to write off. If I don't, I'll be paying the IRS. So, if it's a matter of paying a few bucks to Apple for some new software or paying the IRS, I pick Apple.

Get it? I pick... Apple.

Okay, now it seems that every time I try to write something in a new application, all I do is tell the new application that I'm trying out my new voice recognition software.

So that's what you blog readers -- all one of you -- is/are getting today.

It must be very unsettling for my landlord downstairs. She never hears me talk to anybody. Even when I'm on the telephone I don't talk as loudly as I'm talking now. It's entirely possible she will make me pay more rent for this other person I seem to be talking to at all times now.

I think the best use of this new voice recognition software is going to be my transcribing the written material I found from my mother and from other relatives regarding family history. I have been bemoaning the fact that I don't know that much about my family, but the fact of the matter is my mother and other relatives have actually written things down that I can dig up and record for the family.

So that's what I'm going to do.

This program is amazingly accurate. I said that already.

By the way, side note to my one blog reader at this point -- I plan to tell more friends that I am writing this blog, and I plan to do this when I send out my annual end of the year letter. Problem is, my annual end of the year letter usually comes out sometime in the spring.

I'll see if I can get this done any sooner this year.

Robot signing off.

Why Have the Disease When You Can Worry About It Without Really Having it?

2009-12-12T17:12:00.003-05:00

I am a hypochondriac.

I don't watch medical shows on TV, because when I do, I have all the symptoms of that week's disease about two seconds after the closing credits roll. I watched HOUSE for three seasons before I gave up. Most of his diseases were so exotic even I couldn't develop symptoms. But after three seasons House's dyspepsia did me in. So, in a way, it was a disease that killed that show for me as well.

About a month ago, my brother had surgery in which a couple of stents were placed where stents are placed to open up whatever stents open up. Naturally, since that time, I have had chest pains that radiate down my left arm. I had these same pains ten years ago and went through all the steps people go through with these pains and was declared free of any kind of heart issues. Since I was officially declared free, I stopped worrying about the pains. Now, they're back and it's because I am incapable of not sharing other people's maladies.

Today, as I sat at Barnes and Noble innocently working on a play, the two ladies sitting in front of me doing the volunteer Christmas wrapping thing started discussing a friend of theirs who had passed away. Not a heart attack, but something to do with chest pain.

I wanted to take their wrapping paper and just...wrap the hell out of them.

I have three little lumps of something in my right palm. A year ago, I showed these lumps to my dermatologist. She smiled and said, "Oh, we don't usually do anything about these lumps. Unless there's pain, we just leave them alone."

I've gone a year not worrying about the lumps.

But recently, it occurred to me that it was my dermatologist telling me there was nothing to worry about.

What the hell does a dermatologist know?

So now I'm worrying about the lumps again.

Last Christmas, I was feeling some muscle pain in my neck and skull area. Went to my doctor at Lahey Clinic on CHRISTMAS EVE! He looked at me for about 32 seconds, felt my head, told me I was fine. And I was.

Until this week, when the pains returned.

Now I'm worrying about the pains again.

Maybe it's a Christmas thing.

Every slight discoloration on my body must be melanoma.

Every headache must be a brain tumor.

Every chest ache must be a heart attack.

Every cough must be lung cancer.

I need an episode of HOUSE where, at the end, Hugh Laurie looks into the camera and says, "Nobody is sick. Everybody is well. You, particularly, Neary, have nothing to worry about."

That'll last me a while.

Until I overhear another symptom in the line at CVS.

Well, at least at CVS I can pick up something to take for the ailment.

Whatever it may be.

I am a lunatic.

Gus Bernier ("Uncle Gus")

2009-12-11T09:24:00.003-05:00

It's that time of year when what has become depressing about the holiday season triggers memories of holiday seasons past when the holiday season was the Christmas season and hardly anybody was afraid to utter the phrase, "Merry Christmas."

Now, when you utter the phrase, you are being bold and defiant.

Jesus.

Oops, there's another un-utterable holiday phrase!

And it's his birthday!

I digress.

So as I fight, fight, fight to return this time of year to its former stature (i.e., better than Thanksgiving), I remember a guy who contributed greatly to making Christmas Christmas for me back in the day.

Gus Bernier. Just a guy who pretty much ran the old WMUR TV station in Manchester in the fifties and a bit into the sixties. I got the impression he showed up in the morning, opened the door of the station, cranked up the broadcasting equipment, and then did everything until he went home, probably after eight or nine in the evening. He did the news and weather, I'm pretty sure about that. And he had a kiddie show, called "The Uncle Gus Show," which ran a while.

But the reason I remember him, and the reason I bring him up today, is that I believed he was Santa Claus.

Yeah, I said "believed."

Sometime in December each year when I was extraordinarily young, Gus did himself up as Santa, sat behind a WMUR desk, and transformed himself. The show would open, as I recall it, with what had to be a miniature igloo or something being dusted by WMUR snow. There was a window in the igloo and the camera zoomed in to the window, then opened up on Gus as Santa. He had an elf, named Ooglook (forgive the spelling, I have no idea), who could have been a man or a woman, and who had the voice of a bursting steam pipe. Bernier's voice was perfect--booming, happy, blustery. He would spend the first part of the show talking to us kids, directly into the camera, as if each of us was his own personal visitor. The television was like Santa's lap, and, since he came on at about 5:00, we watched and listened as we had dinner, or "suppa" as we called it back then.

After this, he would go to his workshop, and show us (and our parents, who, in those days, had "suppa" with the kids) all the new toys he and his elves had "built" at the North Pole. For some reason, which we kids neither understood nor tried to understand, he would tell us (and our parents) that if we wanted to take a closer look at the toys he had built, all we (and our parents) had to do was visit his "friends at Mattel" or wherever. Sponsorship taken care of.

And that's pretty much it. He was as believable a television character as any of the greats--Ed Norton, Barney Fife, Archie Bunker, Cartman--and when I woke up as a very young child and found gifts under the tree, it was this guy I believed had visited the house the night before, left the gifts, ate the cookies and milk.

To me, that's an astonishing accomplishment for an actor.

Well, making me believe, I mean. The cookies and milk--any actor could do that. Most would.

Thanks, Gus.

Merry Christmas.

Heidi

2009-12-02T22:34:00.002-05:00

So...

I'm going to miss Heidi.

Heidi was my brother and sister-in-law's dog. I never learned her breed. I always thought she looked just like a small deer. So whatever that breed is, that's what she was.

Didn't matter.

What matters, at least from my standpoint, is that Heidi made me a dog lover.

I went damn near fifty years not really caring about dogs, one way or the other. Cats, I couldn't stand. Cats made me nervous and I didn't like to be nervous. Dogs didn't bother me. I never cared all that much about them, but they didn't make me nervous so...they didn't bother me.

Well, a couple of dogs made me nervous. One German Shepherd on my old paper route made delivering the Globe on Sidney Street a walk in Hell on a daily basis. But dogs in general--they were okay.

Then Heidi moved in downstairs on Andrews Street, and it didn't take long before I knew what they meant when they would talk about man's best friend.

Heidi had a terrifically mild and friendly temperament.

Unless you were a guy with a beard, or a guy smoking cigarettes.

Those guys would piss her off.

And if you were a bearded guy smoking a cigarette--head for the hills!

But with us, with the family, with friends, with neighbors, Heidi was a sweetie.

I was fortunate enough to dog sit for Heidi a few times, and just the notion of allowing a dog to be in my apartment when I was SLEEPING was proof that I had taken the leap into canine-appreciation land. My favorite moment when taking care of her was when it was time for a walk. All I had to do was reach for the long leash and she'd be leaping up and down like a 37-year old single bridesmaid going after the bouquet. After I held her down to link the leash, she'd lead me to the front or back door, lean up against it, panting with anticipation, and then we'd hit the yard or the sidewalk and get a breath of air. Loved doing that with Heidi.

Heidi was something of an apartment building explorer. Both my mother and I, at different times and in different apartments, woke to Heidi staring us in the face, first thing in the morning. She had found her way downstairs to my mother's apartment, and upstairs to mine, and seemed damned pleased that she'd done it.

Heidi knew me. Heidi knew I liked her, and she'd always come to greet me when I'd visit the downstairs apartment on Andrews Street or the house in Derry. But, after a couple of vain attempts on her part to get me to allow her to lick my face or my hand, she learned, she knew, that this is something that just wasn't going to happen with Uncle Jack. It was a tacit understanding between us, and, after about a month or so, when she'd greet me, she would never reach out in that way again. And it was fine.

Heidi has been sick, and she went away tonight.

I am forever grateful to Jim and Tracie, who took such good care of her, and to Heidi herself, for opening up her world to me.

So long, Heidi.

You did a very good job.

Love...

Uncle Jack

Shrink Wrap

2009-11-25T17:17:00.004-05:00

I need to hire someone to open things for me.

Otherwise, I will probably kill myself, accidentally or intentionally.

Shrink wrap.

Who the fuck invented shrink wrap?

Not regular, thin shrink wrap that you find on CDs and magazines that consider themselves worthy of shrink wrap.

I mean the kind of shrink wrap you get on utensils and batteries and DVDs and things like the LAN adapter I received from Amazon today. Maybe it isn't even shrink wrap. It's hard and plastic. But it's wrap. And it looks like it's been shrunk around whatever it's covering.

AND YOU CAN'T FRIGGIN' OPEN IT!

Oh, you can. Of course you can. Otherwise nobody would ever be able to put a battery into a camera or radio. But when you do open it, you take your life in your hands.

First of all, you need a box cutter or a very sharp pair of scissors to cut through the shrink wrap. Or the hard plastic. Or whatever the crap it is. But there's no real avenue of entrance for your box cutter or your scissor(s). You either cut through the shrink wrap into what is usually the instructions for whatever it is you're buying, thus tearing the instructions to shreds, or you decide not to cut, but rather to poke a hole into the wrap and slide the box cutter or scissor(s) up the side of the package. When you do this, it is entirely possible your box cutter or scissor(s) will miss the poke, and poke you, which is what happened to me when I tried to get to my LAN adapter opened yesterday, puncturing my palm. There is nothing enjoyable about a punctured palm, let me tell you.

What's even worse is when you buy a box cutter or a pair of scissors and they're all shrunk up into shrink wrap and the only way you can get to your box cutter is by using a box cutter or a pair of scissors, but you can't because your box cutter and scissor(s) is (are) shrunk up in the shrink wrap and....AAAARGH!

I used to like Graham Crackers.

I still do.

But I don't like opening a package of Graham Crackers. Not since shrink wrap.

It's depressing.

Opening Graham Crackers should not be a depressing experience.

I mean...they're Graham Crackers!

Remember when things used to be wrapped in paper? And aluminum foil?

That was nice.

That was safe.

Reynolds Wrap won't kill you like shrink wrap will.

I hate shrink wrap.

I really do.

The Stuff Is Winning

2009-11-24T11:01:00.003-05:00

Okay, I tried to work on the stuff yesterday. And I succeeded, to a certain extent. I went out to my hallway and picked up all the cardboard boxes I would have thrown away a long time ago had I not felt guilty about recycling them. See, it's not a concern for the environment that moves me toward recycling--it's guilt. But, you know, guilt pretty much drives every other action of mine, so there's no reason to be surprised that guilt drives this one.

Anyway, I gathered up all the cartons and boxes (are they the same thing?) and took a box cutter and went to work. Got them all cut up and packed in a bigger box to put in the recycling bin tomorrow.

So that was good.

But it was just a small strand on the full head of hair which is my stuff. And it took me an hour or so. And then I had to go to my directing job.

So today, I went at the stuff again, and the stuff just laughed at me. It didn't smile. It didn't smirk. It laughed. Out loud.

"Who the hell do you think YOU are to try to get rid of us?" the stuff said. "We are your STUFF, and we do not go down without a fight! Har Har Har!" (That's how stuff laughs. Har Har Har. I have no idea why.)

So what I ended up doing this morning was what I always do when I feel the need to get rid of stuff but when the stuff laughs at me.

I moved the stuff from one part of my apartment to the other, thereby clearing stuff from a portion of the apartment, allowing me to fool myself into thinking I have actually done something about the stuff.

But I have not.

Because there it was, on the other side of the apartment. Laughing.

And it took me two hours to realize it.

So, there is a certain amount of guilt removed by the work done.

But the problem remains.

And the stuff laughs.

Har. Har. Har.

Stuff

2009-11-23T09:12:00.004-05:00

I have way too much stuff.

And I just don't know how to deal with it.

In fact, that's the reason I'm writing this at this moment. Because, by writing this, I don't have to deal with my stuff.

And I've determined that it is, in fact, really, really time to deal with my stuff.

I am terrible at throwing things away. Somehow, the Depression mentality embedded in the generation previous to mine has embedded itself in my brain. I look at something--a piece of stuff that is no longer pertinent to my existence--and if it isn't shattered beyond comprehension, I tend not to toss it, but to store it. I guess I think that in some sort of Stuff Afterlife, there's gonna be a Stuff Resurrection when all this useless stuff is going to be refurbished and useful either to me or somebody else.

Right now, as I stare at the top of my refrigerator, I am looking at two cookbooks.

First of all, I have no need for one cookbook. I cook, but I don't cook by the book.

And even if it makes a tiny bit of sense to keep a cookbook in the house, why would I need two cookbooks, especially since one of them is torn and tattered and anything worth cooking inside probably wouldn't taste good anyway because of the decrepit shape of the book?

I currently own five televisions. Maybe six. I'll have to look in the back of the closet.

Radios. Boom boxes. Tape recorders. Walkmen. (Walkmans?) Telephones. Answering machines.

In a now-fully digital world, I refuse to let go of my analog past.

And I won't even start with the books.

Magazines. What is it about a magazine which, when I finish reading it, obliges me to think I need to keep it? (There's a sentence there, somewhere, just look for it.) Maybe it's the gloss. I can barely throw out non-glossy items, how the hell can I throw away something that's shiny and sparkly and has a picture of Reese Witherspoon on the cover?

And, on another matter entirely, when have I EVER finished reading a magazine?

Why do I even subscribe to magazines?

Wait a minute, now...as I recall, a few months ago, I threw away a whole slew of VHS tapes. Not commercial tapes, mind you, but old VHS tapes I used to record TV shows. So somewhere in the dump, if you're interested, you can find VHS tapes full of old SEINFELDS and NYPD BLUE episodes.

What I need to do, is to get myself in whatever mode I was in when I threw out the VHS tapes, and begin to throw out everything else.

And I'm not going to get into that mode by typing this.

So...here I go. STUFF! GET READY TO MEET THE DUMPSTER!

Wait...who's that on the cover of Entertainment Weekly?

Jennifer Connelly?

Well, I guess I can hold on to just this one...

Surrounded by Idiots, Part One

2009-11-19T09:18:00.004-05:00

So you're driving. You're toodling up the ramp, aiming for the highway. Maybe it's 95 in Burlington. Maybe it's 495 at Woburn Street in Lowell. Maybe it's 93 in Stoneham.

But you're toodling. And you're in Massachusetts. What's worse, you're FROM Massachusetts. And what's even WORSE WORSE, you were BORN in Massachusetts.

So, as you're toodling, what's going through your head is this:

I am driving.

I am from Massachusetts.

I was BORN in Massachusetts.

I have the right of way.

Always.

ALWAYS.

So you toodle up the ramp, and you don't look in your rear view mirror to see what vehicle, most likely driven by someone nearly as human as you are, is heading in your direction. You don't look because you are a Massachusetts driver and YOU HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY.

Trouble is, there's a very good chance that the vehicle containing a human or humans nearly as human as you are is heading toward your ramp and the human who is driving is likely ALSO to be a Massachusetts driver.

IDIOT ALERT! YOU BOTH CANNOT HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY!

And here's what you do if you're toodling up that ramp heading towards doom and destruction.

You put your foot on the gas. And you enter the highway. And you keep not looking. Because you know, because you are you and you are an IDIOT, that you are not going to be demolished by that SUV or SEMI. You know that. Because you are from or you were born in Massachusetts and you are an IDIOT.

And you know what? You are right. Because the human driving the vehicle you are about to CUT OFF, despite not having the right of way, is ME.

And I will back off. And I will let you on the highway. Because I, also, am an IDIOT.

However, I am an IDIOT who wants to LIVE.

After I allow you on the highway, I will then spout off a series of sentences featuring a certain f-word which you can hear on premium cable. I will curse you to within an inch of your life.

But you will live.

As will I.

Because while I am an IDIOT like you, I am an IDIOT who understands your IDIOCY, and who knows how to deal with it.

It doesn't make for an easy, quiet commute.

But I get to where I am going.

And I get to use the f-word. Loudly. Uncompromisingly. Enthusiastically.

Which is, somehow, soothing.

In an IDIOTIC kind of way.

Fred Gwynne

2009-11-18T10:59:00.004-05:00

Visiting a friend in the Bronx last week. We went into a video store, to the television DVD section, and I noticed a sale video of the TV show THE MUNSTERS, with Fred Gwynne's mug doing the Herman Munster smirk for all the world to see.

And it occurred to me...

THIS is how guy is going to be remembered?

Oh, I know, it was TV and he probably made a lot of dough and nobody was twisting his arm to play Herman. I know all that. But Fred Gwynne did a couple of other things which certainly need to be remembered.

First and actually foremost are his two outstanding appearances on The Phil Silvers "Bilko" show in the 50's. In one episode, he played "The Stomach," a champion at food-eating contests in the army. Bilko, of course, gets him in his platoon and starts making bets with other sergeants knowing he can't lose with The Stomach on his side. Trouble is, The Stomach has lost his one true love, and has gotten over her. When he lost her, he started eating to overcome his sadness. But he's past that, and now he's lost his appetite. Silvers' Bilko then proceeds to do everything in his power to bring the memory of the lost love (and the appetite) back to life. The segment when Gwynne is forced to listen to love songs on Bilko's record player is priceless, mainly due to Gwynne's sweet acceptance of all the friendly bullying Bilko imposes on him.

And in another episode, Gwynne plays a soldier who has spent waaaay too many months assigned to work alone in a radio shack in Alaska, where his only entertainment was a book about birds. He knows everything about birds. Everything. So, naturally, Bilko recruits him for the big TV quiz show, where he and his platoon can use Gwynne's expertise to get the ever-elusive "million dollars!"

Hijinks, and failure, ensue. It's hysterical.

Both these are classic episodes, made classic by Silvers, his writers--and Gwynne.

And Gwynne's last appearance before his death, as the southern judge in MY COUSIN VINNY, I believe, deserved an Oscar nomination. Honest and funny and very different from, but as brilliant as, his earlier TV and movie work, it is a wonderful performance.

So the next time you consider Fred Gwynne and his contribution to the world of show business, go back and look at his Bilko stuff, and MY COUSIN VINNY.

That's the real Fred Gwynne.

November 17

2009-11-18T10:56:00.001-05:00

My mother passed away six years ago today. The anniversary of her passing is just ten days after that of my father. Adds a little bristle to the late autumn chill.

She was a fighter. Challenged by heart and kidney disease for the last five years of her life, she shuttled and was shuttled to innumerable nurse practitioners and specialists and not-so-specialists and clinics and rehabs and hospitals and waiting rooms and nursing homes and...you name it. Frustration found its way into her demeanor on occasion, but, for some reason, there was an overwhelming sense of hope in her heart that life was going to return to normalcy sometime, maybe soon, maybe later, but sometime.

She was fully prepared for such a final act--from pre-paid funeral to fully-covered life insurance policies to signing the house over to her kids. Except for the hideous bureaucracy one has to encounter when dealing with a sick elderly parent, our work was pretty simple when it came to letting her go, and moving on.

The New New York

2009-11-15T11:48:00.004-05:00

Haven't been to New York City for...oh, I don't know...maybe six years. And the last two or three times, I've visited exclusively to go to Yankee Stadium. So my return to midtown Manhattan over the past few days has been a long time in the making. A few observations:

There are more people. If that's possible. And very few of them look like they know where they're going. And usually, when they're at the point where they are the least aware of where they're going, they stop to take a picture. I guess just to make sure they remember forever that moment in time when they had no idea where they were going in Manhattan.

Forty-Second Street. Hear the beat. It's not the 42nd Street I remember from the mid-nineties. Most (not all) of the sleazy movie theatres are gone. Many more savory people crowd the sidewalks. There are a couple of active "Broadway" houses between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. One is for MARY POPPINS, the other for AFTER MISS JULIE. Couple of huge mainstream movie complexes. The biggest McDonald's marquee I've ever seen. And people. People everywhere.

And, speaking of people, there appears to be a uniform for women between 18 and 40. Black everything. Coats and boots and blouses ans sweaters and...everything. And tights. Black tights. It's as if all these women got together for a meeting and decided this is what HAD TO BE WORN. And remember all those secretaries and executive assistants back in the 80's and 90's who left the office in sneakers? There are about four of them left. Doesn't seem to be the thing anymore.

And there's a portion of Times Square around the TIX...well, I was going to say "booth" but I don't think it's a booth anymore. The TIX...place. An area where, if you want, you can sit at a table in what used to be the middle of Broadway and watch the world go by without fear of getting sideswiped by a cab. Most of the people who don't know where they're going congregate here to take pictures. Times Square is an...I'm going to use the word I never use here because here it fits...it's an awesome sight to behold if you've never been there before. Especially when the sun goes down. And I promise I will not use that...word...again for a year, at least. But Times Square, for the uninitiated...is awe-inspiring.

Most importantly, I was able to find two places where a human can go to the bathroom without getting berated or thrown out, one in the Lincoln Center area (Barnes and Noble--they put it on the 5th floor to make it tough to get to, but one can get to it) and the Equity Office on 46th and 7th. Of course, you need an Equity card to use this one, but I have one, so there. Finding usable bathrooms in midtown is an important thing if you don't have a hotel room.

Priorities, you know.

Anyway, it was nice to get back. I've always loved New York, especially midtown.

Wouldn't mind living there again.

Couple of Things

2009-11-11T09:02:00.003-05:00

Off today to New York City to see Judith Ivey's THE LADY WITH ALL THE ANSWERS and then to meet with Judith about my play, THE PORCH. Always pleased when a respected actor reads my stuff, gets it, and expresses interest in it. Doesn't happen all the time. Almost never happens with Artistic Directors, Literary Managers, or Dramaturgs. Anyway, we'll see what we shall see.

Netflix delivered the remake of THE TAKING OF PELHAM 1-2-3 yesterday. Good flick. Especially worth watching for John Travolta's lunatic villain--not a big challenge, showy role, but he pulls it off quite well--and, most especially, for Denzel Washington's mild-mannered, schlumpy, ferociously honest exec-turned-subway train dispatcher. I've never thought a lot about what Denzel brings to the table as an actor, but he never disappoints. Always seems to bring his A-game and, in this case, sacrifices leading man good looks and charisma for sincerity and accommodation of the story, making the movie, perhaps, a little better than it really is. There's a lot of action and things blowing up, of course. It is a Tony Scott film, after all. But Denzel's character--and John Turturro's hostage negotiator as well--ground the story in reality, and make the film worth watching.

That's all I have today. Must begin checking every faucet and electrical outlet in preparation for my three days away from here.

It's exhausting, being me.

NYC

2009-11-10T08:05:00.003-05:00

When I was a yoot (thank you, Joe Pesci), traveling to New York City was THE big thing for me. I did it annually, thanks to the Sacred Heart Band, which marched in the St. Patrick's Day parade every year for about 20 years. And I would continue to visit at least once a year throughout my time in high school. Back then, it was possible to see a Broadway show for a price that insanity had not yet overcome. (I don't know if that sentence makes sense, but I'm going with it, regardless.) I believe I saw CABARET for six bucks, mainly because I purchased a last-minute, half price ticket. So the ticket was twelve bucks. Or maybe it was 24 and I paid 12. Whateveh! It was cheap. I remember that Anita Gillette played Sally Bowles and she was terrific. I saw both Ginger Rogers and Pearl Bailey play "Dolly," in different productions, of course. Pearl's "Vandergelder" was Cab Calloway. One doesn't think about the iconic position these people would take when one is 15. I saw Robert Goulet, much maligned as a lounge lizard in his later career, in his wonderful, Tony-winning performance in THE HAPPY TIME, a lesser-regarded but beautifully written musical by Kander and Ebb. I saw Ruby Keeler in NO, NO NANETTE, along with Jack Gilford and Helen Gallagher. Irene Ryan doing her show-stopping number in PIPPIN. Ben Vereen, too, of course. (I think so, anyway. Not sure if he was still in the show when I saw it, but since Ryan was, I assume he was as well.) Jerry Orbach in PROMISES, PROMISES. Jack Albertson and Sam Levene as the original SUNSHINE BOYS. Later, when I was a grad student, I saw Robert Duvall in AMERICAN BUFFALO. Suffice it to say, I've seen some good theatre in New York.

I'm going back tomorrow, for the first time in maybe six or seven years, to meet with the actress Judith Ivey, to talk about her interest in my play, THE PORCH. I will meet with her carrying no expectations, because expectations in my business, at least with me, often lead to black holes. But the fact that she's interested, and seeing me, in the midst of the run of her one-woman show about Ann Landers, makes the trip well worthwhile.

And I may see a Broadway show. But it'll cost me $125.

It was better when I was a yoot.

The Remake of CAPE FEAR, or What Was Scorcese Smoking?

2009-11-09T08:39:00.003-05:00

Because of the proliferation of Blu-Ray discs, many standard DVDs are sold inexpensively these days, so I've been piling up films I think I'd like to see one or two more times in my life, or films that look somewhat interesting, or films by great directors. With this notion in mind, I picked up Martin Scorcese's remake of J. Lee Thompson's 1962 thriller, CAPE FEAR, which I believe was based on a John D. McDonald novel. I had seen the remake on a date, as I recall, so I probably wasn't paying much attention the first time around.

Scorcese has made some great films (RAGING BULL, GOODFELLAS, and, yes, even his Oscar-winning THE DEPARTED), and some not-so-great films with compelling moments in them (THE AVIATOR, GANGS OF NEW YORK). But this one. I don't know what the hell was going through his mind with this one. it was as if Marty said, "Okay, that original? Good flick. Subtle. Sexually charged. Dynamite. Great. Let's just up the tempo a bit, see what happens."

What happens is loud and broad and ACTED within an inch of its life. Robert DeNiro, surely one of the great actors of our generation, got it into his head that he could play a trashy southerner with a trashy southern dialect. Sorry. There's too much Tribeca in him for that. Every drawled vowel sounded like it was italicized in a bad dialect manual. Nick Nolte, as DeNiro's target throughout the film, somehow managed to keep every strand of his slicked-down hair in place as he squinted and scrunched his eyebrows trying to determine how to get DeNiro off his back. (The first thing I would have done is report DeNiro's Max Cady to the fashion police. What was he wearing in this thing?) Jessica Lang seemed to try, frame-by-frame, to out-eyebrow Nolte, and when she couldn't, she yelled. And cried. And screamed. And yelled again.

Somebody thought it was a good idea to use an update of Bernard Hermann's original soundtrack. Not so sure it was that good an idea. In the early nineties, we had reached the stage where we didn't need all that music telling us how to feel. Worked in PSYCHO. The original, that is. Not so much here.

The only moments that worked were SOME moments with the very young Juliette Lewis, who withstood one of the smarmiest scenes in movie history, when DeNiro seduces her character in a school theater, and at least showed us that some thinking was going on in her head, unlike the heads of everybody else in the movie.

Scorcese hired Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck from the original, and gave them kinda juicy parts, probably to keep them off his back when they saw the remake.

And here's the thing--I'm not saying this movie is unwatchable. It is scary at times and certainly entertaining on a number of levels.

But Scorcese?

I don't think so.

November 7

2009-11-07T11:29:00.002-05:00

So my father died 45 years ago today. This morning. A Saturday. That's how old I am.

I remember waking up and stepping into the kitchen to see my sister Claire sitting on my aunt (Sister Ann Teresa, SSMN)'s lap, crying. My mother was waiting for me. Father McLaughlin was there, too. My brother, Jim, only 9. I believe my mother said, "Daddy's gone." And I know Father McLaughlin said, "God took him." And I remember going right to my father's rocking chair in the kitchen, sitting in it, and saying, "Well, there's just another saint to pray to."

A little dramatic, perhaps portending my future. But there it is. I had last seen my father six days earlier, on a Sunday morning. I had gone to band rehearsal in the school hall, knowing he was heading back to Boston, to the Pratt Clinic, where he had been the preceding week for...the dreaded word...tests. I knew he was having an operation the next day, on Monday. I didn't know what the operation was for, because we were Irish and the adults didn't talk about cancer to the kids. But I knew it was kind of important, this operation. And I knew, when I got home from band and he was already off to Boston with my Uncle Bill, that I needed to see him. So I looked outside the front door and saw that my uncle's black Chevy Impala had just taken a left turn down Otis Street, which meant he'd be coming back out to Moore via Bourne. So I ran as fast as my then-chubby body would take me (pretty fast, to tell you the truth--they didn't call me "Flash" in the school yard for nothing), and caught up with the Impala at the corner of Moore and Bourne.

I have written about this, and performed the written piece on stage. So I won't repeat myself here. I've held off getting it published, but I think I'll do that someday.

And I did say goodbye that morning, to him, in person, to his face. And for that, I am eternally grateful. I didn't know, or even imagine, that the goodbye would be my last goodbye. But it was.

And it was a good one.

Laughing Out Loud

2009-11-06T09:30:00.003-05:00

One of the most vivid memories of my childhood has me lying in bed, late at night, listening to my parents--mainly my mother--laughing out loud at the Jack Paar Tonight Show. Or maybe Carson. But most likely Paar. I didn't realize it at the time, because I was a KID and KIDS realize nothing about comfort and contentedness and happiness and well-being. All these notions kick into place when it's much too late in life to appreciate them. But, in recollection, I appreciate those out-loud laughs emanating from the TV Room. Which brings me to Thursday Nights on NBC.

NBC as a network, if you follow the showbiz news, is not performing all that well. Matters not a whit, because NBC provides us with Thursday nights from 8 until 10 and some excellent comedy. True, it has taken COMMUNITY and PARKS AND RECREATION time to settle in. P&R, in fact, is now in its second year and is just finding its comic legs. But, though it may be too late as network brass are probably already looking for a replacement for the show, it's getting better, and last night I LAUGHED OUT LOUD at least three times during the show, as guest Megan Mullalley played a manipulative ex-wife with an agenda, up against Amy Pohler's rigidly comic Leslie Knope. COMMUNITY is newer, but has leapt forward over the past few weeks as Joel McHale's character has subtly evolved into what the central character on a sitcom needs to be--the anchor and observer, rather than the looney comic instigator. And last night, finally, I found myself LAUGHING OUT LOUD at Chevy Chase, who has taken over 20 years to re-find his comic pulse. And then there's THE OFFICE, which has sustained a high comic sheen throughout its six-year run, and in which John Krasinski has turned his character of "Jim" into a work of art. Steve Carrell, also, is brilliant on a weekly basis, as is the raucous cast of supporting characters. I hope the producers and writers can find a way to bring back the incredible Amy Ryan for a week or two or three as Carrell's love interest. Rarely has a guest spot in a television show been so perfectly filled. And 30 ROCK, if you're out of your mind (in a good way) rarely fails to hit for extra bases. Many times last night I LAUGHED OUT LOUD, especially when Alec Baldwin's Jack Donaghy not-so-subtly did promos for the network (touting NBC's Winter Olympic coverage as he dumped on it) and for an Internet conferencing service. I even ALMOST LAUGHED OUT LOUD at Tracy Morgan last night, and, for me, that's an accomplishment.

Okay, so I live alone and nobody here in my apartment hears me LAUGHING OUT LOUD.

Maybe Ma does, though.

That'd be nice.

Now It Can Be Winter

2009-11-05T08:24:00.004-05:00

Okay, it's November 5 and the World Series is over. Whew. Theeeeee Yankees win. Let me just say that if the sixth game had gone 50 innings and Pedro Martinez pitched the entire game, Matsui would have gone 23 for 25, with two hard-hit line drives for outs. Hideki owns Pedro.

It is gray and cold and the air is dead outside. I have located my shovel. I am ready.

I am heading down to New York a week from yesterday to meet with the actress Judith Ivey about my play, THE PORCH. Ms. Ivey, a two-time Tony winner, was given the script by Sheriden Thomas, an actor who played "Gert" so well in the Stoneham Theatre production last year. Judy (this is how she signs her emails) liked it, and we've been in email contact for a few months. She is currently starring at the Cherry Lane in New York in THE LADY WITH ALL THE ANSWERS, a one-woman show about the advice columnist Ann Landers. Then, I believe, she is taking her "Amanda" from her recent Long Wharf THE GLASS MENAGERIE to the Roundabout. She is one busy actor. So I feel very lucky and honored to get this chance to talk with her about my play.

In the meantime, I'm juggling 94 projects in various stages of development, none of them making me any dough. Couple of plays, a screenplay, a TV pilot. All speculative. All difficult. All---what I do.

Learned recently that my adaptation of THE TURN OF THE SCREW is going to be published by Playscripts in New York. Very happy about this. I think the play works very well--it certainly did when we staged it at New Century--and it's a title not seen too often in theatres, perhaps because there aren't that many adaptations of it available.

Well, in about six months, mine will be.

Along about the time the 2010 baseball season starts.

Winter will be over then.

Pedro

2009-11-04T08:37:00.003-05:00

It's November 4, and the World Series still isn't over. This is not right. I'm not sure why this has happened--perhaps the World Baseball Classic nudged the beginning of the season by a few days--but it's not right. Baseball needs to be over before Halloween.

And yet, Pedro Martinez, that grand showman, takes the mound tonight for the Phillies against his Daddies, the New York Yankees. It's almost worth TiVoing. With so much at stake, and with the potential for such pressure on the Bombers tomorrow if they lose tonight, there is NO WAY they lose tonight. Seems like a reverse-reverse lock to me. The reverse lock would be the Yankees losing, because they are so highly favored. So in order for Pedro and the Phillies to lose, the reverse lock needs to be reversed. And that's where I think we are.

The only real hope for the evening is that Pedro goes six or seven and keeps the Phils in the game. Maybe they pull it out, maybe they don't. But Pedro needs to leave the game with face. He will put on face, regardless of the outcome. He always does. And when he steps before the microphones after the game, he will be more articulate and quotable and funny than maybe 95% of his fellow players.

So the stage is set (in that most stage-is-settable of cities) for high drama tonight. However, with the reverse-reverse lock in effect, it'll probably just be a Yankee blowout and we can get back to preparing for Thanksgiving and watching football as we should be doing at this time of year.

But with Pedro, there's always the "You Never Know" factor.

He's Baseball's Captain Show Biz.

Jack Benny

2009-11-03T08:08:00.003-05:00

I guess I was always amused by Jack Benny. Growing up, I'd watch the occasional television show or special, laugh at little, enjoy his guests, be entertained and move on. It never really occurred to me to consider him in the pantheon of show business greats. Not as bodacious as Gleason. Not as maniacally driven as Silvers. Not as relentlessly comic as Durante. Just a nice man who liked to put himself in the middle of crazy people and react.

Now, I think he's a genius.

Recently, I came upon a DVD (very cheap, not surprisingly) which featured about twenty of his half hour TV shows from the fifties and early sixties. A basic show would begin with a monologue, maybe some banter with announcer Don Wilson, maybe some silliness with singer Dennis Day, and then evolve into a sketch (appearing behind a proscenium, theatre-style curtain) in which we the audience would participate in some kind of pedestrian, typical Benny day. He rents his house. He goes to the supermarket. He shops for Christmas gifts. Ordinary stuff.

But Benny and his writers' grasp on the absurdity of the ordinary was epic. Every situation could be turned into something ridiculously outrageous because Benny attracted the loonies of the world to serve him in his daily routines. Frank Nelson always appeared as a hotel operator or concierge; Mel Blanc sold jewelry or whatever Benny happened to want to buy; Bea Benedaret would be a receptionist or telephone operator. And none would allow Benny to proceed with his life without some kind of comic blockade that would trigger his patented stare of disbelief.

And when the day ended, he'd go home to his "Man" Eddie "Rochester" Anderson, whom he treated as an equal, and who knew how to dish it out when Benny stepped a little out of bounds with an order or an attitude.

I'm going to continue to think about Benny, in hopes of putting him onstage again. Before somebody else does.

In the meantime, enjoy this CLIP as I have. It features Benny, on his TV show, with the young and talented Gisele MacKenzie. They play a violin duet. And it's the closest thing to comic perfection I have ever seen.

Polanski, Rosemary and Chinatown

2009-11-02T08:04:00.005-05:00

Roman Polanski appears to be a creepy individual whose personal life I must and will condemn. He seems to be remorseless about his hideous crime against a young girl and, despite the later tragedy in his own life, this tragedy imposed upon the girl and her family must be remembered and abhorred.

Having written the above, I must also say he makes a damn good movie.

At least two are favorites of mine, the nastily-driven ROSEMARY'S BABY and the brilliant CHINATOWN. Both movies are long and complicated, but never boring. If you're paying attention. Both are cast extraordinarily well, and feature absorbing stories told with scathing detail and awareness of what moves an audience viscerally. It took me two viewings of CHINATOWN to realize how great a film it is, mainly because I watched it lazily the first time around. CHINATOWN is not a movie that can be watched lazily and appreciated. Same goes for ROSEMARY'S BABY, which I watched again last night. Mia Farrow, probably not much of an actor at that time (she grew immeasurably in that department when she began working with Woody Allen), is dragged through an emotional and physical wringer in the movie, and one gets the impression that Polanski must have dragged her through it. The rest of the talented and experienced cast looks like they're on their own and they enjoy the freedom. Farrow is the director's tool and the movie is better for it. It seems odd to write favorably about Polanski treating his young leading lady this way, but I write purely about the cinematic aspects of the director's tool kit. I supposed I might read somewhere that he mistreated Farrow along the way to get what he needed from her performance. I hope not. ROSEMARY'S BABY goes on my list as one of the most successfully executed thrillers I've seen. Maybe not up there with PSYCHO and SEVEN, but pretty close.

As I watched ROSEMARY'S BABY, the Yankees stepped all over the Phillies again, leaving the third base bag uncovered for Johnny Damon to steal along with any momentum the Phils gained in the bottom of the eighth.

It will all be over soon.

Gig

2009-11-01T13:55:00.003-05:00

Sang last night with my sister Tricia at the Sac Club in Lowell. I enjoy doing this but I will never, ever get used to performing in a small club where what you really are expected to be is background music. I find I get pissed off at the people. This is not a good thing when you are singing for their entertainment and pleasure. My sister doesn't seem to mind it all that much, and my brother Jim, with whom I used to "gig" back in the early eighties, really didn't seem to mind it. He used to worry that I was gonna display my displeasure and get us into a bar fight, which, the more I think about it, was always possible back then in the days of the Foxtail in Lowell and the Tailgate in Raymond, NH (home of Carlton Fisk--Raymond, not the Tailgate), where two guys who looked like Charlie Rich had a knock-down-drag-out while Jim and I were singing "Lyin' Eyes" by the Eagles. Anyway, a bunch of friends from the Sacred Heart filled up a couple of Sac Club tables and it made for a good night. My friend Dick Flavin also braved the neighborhood and showed up, buying a round for all my friends at the end of the evening. I remember reading once that Buddy Rich, equally annoyed at bar crowds but with much more influence than I, demanded in some club to have a large window placed in the middle of the room, separating the talkers from the listeners. I kinda think such a demand at the Sac Club would go unheeded.

(Side note: I'm typing this at Barnes and Noble, and there's a guy on a cell phone having an animated and incredibly loud conversation with somebody he is trying to sell something to, or he's at least trying to convince somebody to buy something. He seems to care not that the rest of us here have NO FRIGGIN' INTEREST in his stupid conversation. This is a phenomenon that is becoming more prevalent in life as we know it. On the other hand, a gorgeous woman just walked by having a very quiet cell phone conversation. Her, I don't mind. I wonder why.)

Universal Monsters

2009-10-31T09:45:00.003-04:00

When James Whale's FRANKENSTEIN opened up the doors of horror at Universal Pictures, the bosses there walked happily through those doors and created a series of films that remain intriguing today. I'm in the middle (at Halloween time) of watching a number of these movies, and though the acting is a bit arch and the storytelling a tad stretched, the energy behind the films is viscerally potent and very entertaining. Over the last two evenings, I've screened SON OF FRANKENSTEIN, with Basil Rathbone chewing up whatever scenery Universal could throw at him as the son of Henry ("Heinrich" on the grave) Frankenstein, who created the Monster that will not die. Last night, it was GHOST OF FRANKENSTEIN, in which stodgy Sir Cedric Hardwicke, clearly counting the zeroes on his paycheck, trundled through the story of yet another iteration of the Monster, while Ralph Bellamy kept finding it impossible to locate Lon Chaney's Monster even when it walked down the main street and entered houses through the front doors. Regardless, thoroughly engaging and fun to watch. Also fun to see which straws were drawn when the casting sessions were held. Would the Monster be Karloff again, or Chaney, or Lugosi? Would Lugosi, in the wake of his iconic DRACULA, continue to play (and play extremely well) the misshapen Igor? Which British leading man would be hired to fall breathlessly into the thrall of the "It's Alive" mentality established by Colin Clive in the original? And how many townspeople killed in previous Frankie movies would appear bearing torches in the town in the next one? Great stuff. Always ready to toss a Universal Monster DVD into the player and await the silly little bi-plane (or whatever it is) circling the silver globe at the opening.

If The Mood Strikes...

2009-10-30T08:01:00.003-04:00

So I like to think I'm a writer. At least, that's what I tell people when they ask what I do. The fact that people ask what I do kind of makes me wonder if I am a writer. But that's a question for another day. For now, I thought I would pass along a link to my WEB SITE. I do this for two reasons. First, I would like anyone reading this to visit the site and see what I've been up to as a writer, director, actor...Second, I want to see if I can make the HTML work on this blog and actually set up a link. Looks like I may have succeeded. Once you're on the web site, you will find a number of visitable pages, which I could easily link directly here, now that I know how to use this thing, or I could just let you visit the main page and wander through the site, which is what I am going to do. You'll find links on the site to my PLAYS, my PLAYS FOR YOUNG AUDIENCES, a number of VIDEOS from my plays, and, most importantly, my SCRIPTSTORE, where vistors may purchase perusal copies of my scripts, and even pay royalties for shows of mine they've performed.

As of this writing, or this blogging, I see that absolutely no one besides yours truly has read this thing. This is because, as is usually the case with me, I like to keep things to myself.

Perhaps I will figure out a way to change this.

For now, I remain a mystery to myself, and others.

Movies

2009-10-29T08:57:00.005-04:00

Yesterday was one of those days when people talked to me even though I had no need for them to do so. I'm at the box office at the Hollywood Hits movie theatre in Danvers, and I ask for a ticket to Julie and Julia. This is a difficult enough task if you're a guy, but I did it. The woman who had just purchased a ticket asked me if I was going to go home afterward and cook something. I chuckled. Chuckling is the only non-scatological response to something like that. Then I go into the theatre and two women sitting together in the last row of the virtually empty room see me and one of them says, "Hope you can find a seat!" I thought of chuckling again, but this one deserved a response. So I said, "I'll do the best I can." People wanted to be friendly yesterday for some reason. They had no idea whom they were dealing with.

Julie and Julia is a thoroughly engaging movie spiked by not only a monster performance by Meryl Streep, but also by an equally monster dual performance by Streep and Stanley Tucci, who plays Julia Child's husband, Paul. My God, these two actors conducted a cinema master class in timing, connection and truth-telling. The marriage depicted is supposed to have been a special one, and these guys, and Nora Ephron, brought it to the screen as if they'd been rehearsing since graduate school. They were getting laughs from barely audible voice rumblings and slightly arched eyebrows. There has been a lot written about the supposedly sub-par performance of Amy Adams as Julie, but...come on. Give her a break. The character is written and played as a kind of driven lunatic and Adams, I think, is letter perfect throughout. Chris Messina, as Julie's husband, is also terrific, and reminded me of the husband in...

Paranormal Activity.

Both these guys deserve medals of honor for dealing with the wives/girlfriends they've hooked up with.

The thing about Paranormal Activity is...the hype. You're going to see it or rent it or download it because of the hype. And...you know...it's not all that bad. But if you are bored by looking through a night-vision camera at two people sleeping, this movie is going to drive you to the concessions stand pretty quickly. Yes, there are a few nice moments of boo!, but you can see the ending coming for miles and there's really nothing new about all this unless you count the fact that it cost them about 37 cents to make it. Blair Witch Project pissed me off because the hand-held camera made me nauseous, but I do remember at least being shocked and spooked throughout the movie. This one, not so much.

But those husbands/boyfriends in these movies...saints. Saints!

And Another Thing...

2009-10-28T14:09:00.003-04:00

The next snot-nosed, lip-pierced, eyeshadow-slathered movie box-office or grocery checkout Britney who asks me if I want a senior discount is in for a tongue-lashing unheard of outside of an Alec Baldwin family phone call. I am not a senior. I don't intend to be a senior. And the only time I am EVER going to ask for a senior discount is on my death bed when I'm around 97 (I hope), when I will ask for a discount on the morphine drip. I run 3-5 miles every day, I went 3 for 5 at this year's UMass Lowell Reunion Baseball Game, and anybody who has sat through one of my note sessions after a rehearsal knows I have more energy than any 21st Century high school slacker who sells tickets at Showcase Cinemas. Stop asking! Anybody who wants a discount will ask for a discount. Those of us who don't want one, will not ask for one, and we do not want to be asked! Get it? Just because there's a little gray hair sticking out from under the sides of our Red Sox caps does not mean we are seniors. Shut DF Up!

There's Always A First Time

2009-10-28T10:11:00.000-04:00

So I'm blogging. Knowing my track record for such things, this will last one, two, three days, tops. But I am blogging. I know I am. Because I can feel myself typing and I can see the words appearing on the Blogging Screen. I use "Captain Show Biz" as the title of the Blog because that's pretty much all I know. Yeah, I know a little baseball and a few things about Catholics, but when push comes to shove, as it does so often in my life, it's show business that I know about. And, to be truthful, I really only know about show business prior to 1970. See, now I can feel push coming to shove and I want to stop this thing altogether. But, what the hell, I'll post this and see what happens. Maybe what I'll do is blog and not tell anybody about it. That's pretty much the way I've managed my life in the arts, anyway. Surreptitiously. Under the radar. It's quieter that way.