Oscar Observations, not that anybody cares

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?

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?

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

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

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

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

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.