The Luck of the Wall Socket

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

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

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

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

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)

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.

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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.

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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

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.