Seven years later and it is still the most defining event of our century.
To those who lost their family and friends on this day, I am so sorry.
Also to those who lost their family and friends on this day, seven years ago, I am appalled that our government used it as an excuse to invade Iraq. It is disgusting.
And to those who lost their family and friends on this day, to hear a vice president nominee claim that it was God’s will that we invade Iraq, I am mortified. One should never let the prom queen run for class president. She’s usually an idiot.
An email circulated today which basically stated, “Don’t click on Palin links. It just tells the news websites that you want more Palin links.” Good advice. Ignore her and she will go away.
People get bored quickly. They will be Palined out by this weekend. Then we can get back to the task at hand: Choosing Obama over McCain.
Seven years ago, so many of us lost our innocence and an entire government, save a few of the brave and outspoken, lost its integrity. I want a return of both.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
All This Talk
So, Americans are lining up behind McCain and Hockey Momma Palin. Big deal.
There is a dialogue going on between them. It goes something like this:
“I’ll say nothing if you say nothing and then we’ll pretend that everything is okay.”
It’s the denial vote.
When I went to high school, the class president was an awesome, bookish nerd. He was tall, skinny, a track runner and very into how things had to be run. He loved his work. He was reelected every year in a landslide.
He was the right guy for the job.
Of course, when people are afraid, they leave their senses. I believe Americans have lost their minds. And when people lose their minds, they don’t necessarily want the right guy for the job, they want a protector. And Hanoi McCain and Moosedressing Barbie seem to be more the protector types.
I could imagine at the Debates, no matter what is asked of McCain, all he has to answer is, “Hanoi,” and he’ll get a pass. Palin: She’ll just smile and respond, “Hockey Mom,” to every inquiry. And the rumble of millions of heads nodding in agreement will be felt across the land.
Friends, Obama has to want this like Bill Clinton wanted it, like Hillary still wants it. He has a huge job to do. He has to convince people that an old war vet and a moose killer are not going to make them feel safer, that really, they are going to merely fiddle while Wall Street burns.
I don’t mind McCain so much, as a person. Sarah Palin, however, is simply foolish. Together, they add up to almost nothing. When McCain and Obama debate on national television, it will be clear that one man is vital and the other man needs to retire. But if people are terrified, they may not be able to see this reality.
I wish Obama and the Democratic Party would take the huge risk of really saying,
”This is the new world we are going to live in. It will be peaceful, clean and prosperous. And this is exactly how we are going to get there.”
But I believe he is already saying that. I just hope people get out of their turgid state so their ears start functioning. And that they believe him.
There is a dialogue going on between them. It goes something like this:
“I’ll say nothing if you say nothing and then we’ll pretend that everything is okay.”
It’s the denial vote.
When I went to high school, the class president was an awesome, bookish nerd. He was tall, skinny, a track runner and very into how things had to be run. He loved his work. He was reelected every year in a landslide.
He was the right guy for the job.
Of course, when people are afraid, they leave their senses. I believe Americans have lost their minds. And when people lose their minds, they don’t necessarily want the right guy for the job, they want a protector. And Hanoi McCain and Moosedressing Barbie seem to be more the protector types.
I could imagine at the Debates, no matter what is asked of McCain, all he has to answer is, “Hanoi,” and he’ll get a pass. Palin: She’ll just smile and respond, “Hockey Mom,” to every inquiry. And the rumble of millions of heads nodding in agreement will be felt across the land.
Friends, Obama has to want this like Bill Clinton wanted it, like Hillary still wants it. He has a huge job to do. He has to convince people that an old war vet and a moose killer are not going to make them feel safer, that really, they are going to merely fiddle while Wall Street burns.
I don’t mind McCain so much, as a person. Sarah Palin, however, is simply foolish. Together, they add up to almost nothing. When McCain and Obama debate on national television, it will be clear that one man is vital and the other man needs to retire. But if people are terrified, they may not be able to see this reality.
I wish Obama and the Democratic Party would take the huge risk of really saying,
”This is the new world we are going to live in. It will be peaceful, clean and prosperous. And this is exactly how we are going to get there.”
But I believe he is already saying that. I just hope people get out of their turgid state so their ears start functioning. And that they believe him.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Traitor
Traitor, starring and produced by the intelligent and talented Don Cheadle and also starring the beautiful Guy Pearce, one does get pulled into this caper of world wide FBI searching into a terrorist plot. It’s engaging stuff. The acting is solid. The shooting is good. The story, an idea by Steve Martin, is interesting, though fundamentally structured like stories you’ve seen before.
And Don Cheadle gets a little earnest at the end. Too bad.
But this is the thing about Traitor. I was sitting there watching the movie and it just seemed so normal, now, to have a movie about Jihad. It’s just, I guess I always thought it would be a blip, but it is a world idea that seems to be sticking. And it is sticking in movies. And there I am paying to watch it. The terrorists won’t go away. Our need for an enemy won’t go away. Everyone loves a good fight. And in our culture, everyone loves a good fight where we are definitely much mightier. It adds to our smugness.
Clearly, we are all keeping this alive. Why is it still alive?
We need something else.
And Don Cheadle gets a little earnest at the end. Too bad.
But this is the thing about Traitor. I was sitting there watching the movie and it just seemed so normal, now, to have a movie about Jihad. It’s just, I guess I always thought it would be a blip, but it is a world idea that seems to be sticking. And it is sticking in movies. And there I am paying to watch it. The terrorists won’t go away. Our need for an enemy won’t go away. Everyone loves a good fight. And in our culture, everyone loves a good fight where we are definitely much mightier. It adds to our smugness.
Clearly, we are all keeping this alive. Why is it still alive?
We need something else.
Monday, September 08, 2008
I Am Not the Only One on Earth
The season is here. Allergy season in Los Angeles. It’s hot. It’s dry. The leaves are dying on the trees and opportunisitic mold is starting to eat everything up.
Certainly, this is not ideal. But who am I to say that other things shouldn’t live so I can have a more enjoyable earth experience?
My allergy theory: The reason why there are so many allergic people is because nature chose for us. Think about it. All sorts of horrible things must have flown on the backs of specks. Plague on rat dander. Who knows what on pollen, mold and dust mites! So, if your immune system attacked anything that was sort of speck-like, it did its best to remove all kinds of diseases.
At least, that’s what the positive side of me thinks.
In any event, allergies are just allergies, an inconvenient variant. Not as bad as diabetes. But certainly not as innocuous as iris color.
Other things live on earth and allergic people just plain ol’ want to fight them!
I say, let ‘em live! Here’s the clip:
GORGEOUS LIVING BEASTS
Certainly, this is not ideal. But who am I to say that other things shouldn’t live so I can have a more enjoyable earth experience?
My allergy theory: The reason why there are so many allergic people is because nature chose for us. Think about it. All sorts of horrible things must have flown on the backs of specks. Plague on rat dander. Who knows what on pollen, mold and dust mites! So, if your immune system attacked anything that was sort of speck-like, it did its best to remove all kinds of diseases.
At least, that’s what the positive side of me thinks.
In any event, allergies are just allergies, an inconvenient variant. Not as bad as diabetes. But certainly not as innocuous as iris color.
Other things live on earth and allergic people just plain ol’ want to fight them!
I say, let ‘em live! Here’s the clip:
GORGEOUS LIVING BEASTS
Friday, September 05, 2008
September 5, 1974
I ate lunch today with Chris, Steven, Jimmy, etc. I’m really having fun in the Jr. High. But It’s gonna be tough. Well Nanny came over tonight. So I guess I’ll be a going to bed.
That “a-going to bed” quality of my journal entries is some sort of mock hokum thing. I don’t remember being like that at all. But you know how it is when you’re a kid, trying on hats, making different noises, being a character was more fun than being yourself.
The three guys I ate lunch with were all a year older than me, from my neighborhood. I had spent the summer with them and a whole bunch of other people playing a lot of bumper pool, smoking, and drinking Boone’s Farm Apple Hill and Cherry Orchard Wine. I don’t remember what I ate at that lunch, but I do remember the feeling of belonging. We were all trying to be so cool, well I was. They were already very cool. It was 1974 in the suburbs of New York, which is like 1968 in San Francisco. I remember we ate in the eighth grade lunch room. You didn’t have to be in eighth grade to eat there, but most of the seventh graders didn’t so I felt like I was given an upward social bump. It was mayhem, that lunch room, packed. A cool looking old room with very high ceilings and highly polished old wooden floors. The guys, Chris, Steven and Jimmy, ate as quickly as possible because the deal was, you only had about thirty minutes for lunch. So, you’d woof down some food and then go out to “the shed” which was an aluminum utility shed in this rocky copse of trees behind the school. All around it was wide open playing fields. The shed area was not too big, but the trees gave cover so we could all smoke. Once the vice principal started making regular visits to the shed, we eventually gave it up and started hiding in the row of pine trees along the fence on the north side of the soccer field. Once that was discovered, we’d hop the fence, which was the only thing separating the school grounds from the grassy hill that rolled down to the New York State Thruway, and smoke there. There was so much smoking going on in Junior high of 1974.
That “a-going to bed” quality of my journal entries is some sort of mock hokum thing. I don’t remember being like that at all. But you know how it is when you’re a kid, trying on hats, making different noises, being a character was more fun than being yourself.
The three guys I ate lunch with were all a year older than me, from my neighborhood. I had spent the summer with them and a whole bunch of other people playing a lot of bumper pool, smoking, and drinking Boone’s Farm Apple Hill and Cherry Orchard Wine. I don’t remember what I ate at that lunch, but I do remember the feeling of belonging. We were all trying to be so cool, well I was. They were already very cool. It was 1974 in the suburbs of New York, which is like 1968 in San Francisco. I remember we ate in the eighth grade lunch room. You didn’t have to be in eighth grade to eat there, but most of the seventh graders didn’t so I felt like I was given an upward social bump. It was mayhem, that lunch room, packed. A cool looking old room with very high ceilings and highly polished old wooden floors. The guys, Chris, Steven and Jimmy, ate as quickly as possible because the deal was, you only had about thirty minutes for lunch. So, you’d woof down some food and then go out to “the shed” which was an aluminum utility shed in this rocky copse of trees behind the school. All around it was wide open playing fields. The shed area was not too big, but the trees gave cover so we could all smoke. Once the vice principal started making regular visits to the shed, we eventually gave it up and started hiding in the row of pine trees along the fence on the north side of the soccer field. Once that was discovered, we’d hop the fence, which was the only thing separating the school grounds from the grassy hill that rolled down to the New York State Thruway, and smoke there. There was so much smoking going on in Junior high of 1974.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Election
When I sat tonight and watched Sarah Pangolin, seeker of Cheney’s throne, mother of many, with her pinched righteousness in full attack, I could only think of Reese Witherspoon in the brilliant movie Election.
.
Call me pro-sexist, but I LOVE perky, aggressive women.
You know, Sarah Pangolin is kind of fun. She’s sort of game. She even winks at a crowd.
And though one might cringe thinking, “Oh my goodness, this moose killer is just one melanoma away from becoming our next president,” it seems clear, at least to me, that she is pretty much a lightweight. Not a complete joke. But a joke of some kind.
Alaska? Not really reflective of how the rest of this country works. Though large in land mass and resources, it’s really a small state with very few new ideas. Pangolin is, proudly, a small town mom, a pit bull wearing lipstick, an ambitious Christianist, a don’t-you-tax-me, but give-my-state-tons-of-federal-tax-money schizophrenic. Good for her for grabbing the spotlight! The mentally ill need our attention. But certainly not through any sort of national health care, I imagine.
Of course, I have a big gay beef with the Pangolin. She wanted to put legislation into Alaska law that denies health care coverage for gay partners. So, pretty much, I can only experience her as a great northern Nazi.
With regard to something less baleful, I don’t take much issue with her pregnant daughter. It's not Bristol's fault. Obviously, it’s pretty easy to get pregnant when you’re reading abstinence literature while your hockey boyfriend fills you full of cum. Not much we can do but love and accept the newborn.
And who doesn’t love the Pangolin’s little Down Syndrome baby? What a cutey! A chromosomally flawed but lovable creature. I’d like to say some of my best friends have Down Syndrome, but I have always found their company a bit tedious, always pointing to the overhead lighting as if they have just discovered it for the first time and asking for pretzels.
I’ll admit that life does begin at conception, but if something is growing inside your body and you don’t want it, by all means, kill it. Ideal? No. But people kill their unwanted blastulas, always have. No sense in making something illegal that is as common as swatting flies. I’ve blogged it before: If you have no problem executing fully grown human beings then you should have no problem murdering the unborn. You can’t be Pro-Death and Pro-Life at the same time. It just doesn’t make sense.
In my heart (and we all know how useless that sentiment is: Think of Bush’s heartfelt knowledge of Putin) I think McCain will lose. Maybe not in a landslide, but nevertheless soldiering back to Arizona, non-victorious. I believe his historically strong belief in self-defeat will do him in. The Pangolin will help him get there.
Of course, I could be wrong.
.
Call me pro-sexist, but I LOVE perky, aggressive women.
You know, Sarah Pangolin is kind of fun. She’s sort of game. She even winks at a crowd.
And though one might cringe thinking, “Oh my goodness, this moose killer is just one melanoma away from becoming our next president,” it seems clear, at least to me, that she is pretty much a lightweight. Not a complete joke. But a joke of some kind.
Alaska? Not really reflective of how the rest of this country works. Though large in land mass and resources, it’s really a small state with very few new ideas. Pangolin is, proudly, a small town mom, a pit bull wearing lipstick, an ambitious Christianist, a don’t-you-tax-me, but give-my-state-tons-of-federal-tax-money schizophrenic. Good for her for grabbing the spotlight! The mentally ill need our attention. But certainly not through any sort of national health care, I imagine.
Of course, I have a big gay beef with the Pangolin. She wanted to put legislation into Alaska law that denies health care coverage for gay partners. So, pretty much, I can only experience her as a great northern Nazi.
With regard to something less baleful, I don’t take much issue with her pregnant daughter. It's not Bristol's fault. Obviously, it’s pretty easy to get pregnant when you’re reading abstinence literature while your hockey boyfriend fills you full of cum. Not much we can do but love and accept the newborn.
And who doesn’t love the Pangolin’s little Down Syndrome baby? What a cutey! A chromosomally flawed but lovable creature. I’d like to say some of my best friends have Down Syndrome, but I have always found their company a bit tedious, always pointing to the overhead lighting as if they have just discovered it for the first time and asking for pretzels.
I’ll admit that life does begin at conception, but if something is growing inside your body and you don’t want it, by all means, kill it. Ideal? No. But people kill their unwanted blastulas, always have. No sense in making something illegal that is as common as swatting flies. I’ve blogged it before: If you have no problem executing fully grown human beings then you should have no problem murdering the unborn. You can’t be Pro-Death and Pro-Life at the same time. It just doesn’t make sense.
In my heart (and we all know how useless that sentiment is: Think of Bush’s heartfelt knowledge of Putin) I think McCain will lose. Maybe not in a landslide, but nevertheless soldiering back to Arizona, non-victorious. I believe his historically strong belief in self-defeat will do him in. The Pangolin will help him get there.
Of course, I could be wrong.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Get on the Train: Transsiberian
See Transsiberian.
It is the rare movie, especially a suspenseful one, that deals with character so well as does Transsiberian. It takes a long time for the story to pull out of the station. You wonder when it’s going to really cross that tundra, and when it does pick up, fast, about midway, you are so glad you had the slow ride to afford you the chance to get to know everyone.
This is really Emily Mortimer’s movie. Everyone else is supporting, but in very big ways.
There is no way to delve into the plot without destroying all surprises, so I will not. But it does start with some sort of drug investigation. At movies’ end, not everyone remains alive.
So let’s talk tone, style, beauty, overall effect.
It’s a sad movie. It feels really Russian. Snow is everywhere. The cinematography is stark and lovely. The story is surprising and pretty horrible all the way around.
Woody Harrelson is not completely believable as a Christy yokel. But he’s appealing, nevertheless. Eduardo Noriega overdoes it as the “Spaniard”. He’s already Spanish. Why overdo it? Kate Mara is spot on as the troubled youth.
Ben Kingsley is, of course, God.
Emily Mortimer is spectacular in all her brightness and shadows. Fine, sharp performance. Every moment. Something about actors who can really stay in reality, without slipping into vanity or showiness, this is what we want, right?
The train is also a star. A big star. And if you are any kind of old world romantic or engine freak, as I am, you must choo-choo down the track and get to the entertainment station.
One of the only great movies this summer. Go, if you can still find it.
I give it 3.8 out of 4 pangolins.
See Transiberian
It is the rare movie, especially a suspenseful one, that deals with character so well as does Transsiberian. It takes a long time for the story to pull out of the station. You wonder when it’s going to really cross that tundra, and when it does pick up, fast, about midway, you are so glad you had the slow ride to afford you the chance to get to know everyone.
This is really Emily Mortimer’s movie. Everyone else is supporting, but in very big ways.
There is no way to delve into the plot without destroying all surprises, so I will not. But it does start with some sort of drug investigation. At movies’ end, not everyone remains alive.
So let’s talk tone, style, beauty, overall effect.
It’s a sad movie. It feels really Russian. Snow is everywhere. The cinematography is stark and lovely. The story is surprising and pretty horrible all the way around.
Woody Harrelson is not completely believable as a Christy yokel. But he’s appealing, nevertheless. Eduardo Noriega overdoes it as the “Spaniard”. He’s already Spanish. Why overdo it? Kate Mara is spot on as the troubled youth.
Ben Kingsley is, of course, God.
Emily Mortimer is spectacular in all her brightness and shadows. Fine, sharp performance. Every moment. Something about actors who can really stay in reality, without slipping into vanity or showiness, this is what we want, right?
The train is also a star. A big star. And if you are any kind of old world romantic or engine freak, as I am, you must choo-choo down the track and get to the entertainment station.
One of the only great movies this summer. Go, if you can still find it.
I give it 3.8 out of 4 pangolins.
See Transiberian
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Hopefully a Sign of Things to Come
There are many ways to sing the National Anthem. Not that I like war songs, but let's think of it as a song of strength and determination. Watch and listen to the National Anthem at the Republican National Convention sung by Miss Minnesota, giving it her best shot.
Then, watch Jennifer Hudson at the Democratic National Convention. Just when the song is about to go high, she modulates into an even higher key. It’s what Democrats are doing now. We see the challenge and we are setting the bar even higher and we are, clearly, reaching it.
Nothing against Miss Minnesota. Hear for yourself.
Then, watch Jennifer Hudson at the Democratic National Convention. Just when the song is about to go high, she modulates into an even higher key. It’s what Democrats are doing now. We see the challenge and we are setting the bar even higher and we are, clearly, reaching it.
Nothing against Miss Minnesota. Hear for yourself.
Friday, August 29, 2008
All's Well for All
Why Rejoice?
Obama was ballsy and he's ready to fight.
My computer died after having not backed up anything for three months. (Why did I take a break from Being Anal?) And nothing was lost. They just had to pull the hard drive out and hook it up to something else and all the data was there.
The days are getting shorter, the nights cooler, the dog, I have to say it, healthier.
Obama was ballsy and he's ready to fight.
My computer died after having not backed up anything for three months. (Why did I take a break from Being Anal?) And nothing was lost. They just had to pull the hard drive out and hook it up to something else and all the data was there.
The days are getting shorter, the nights cooler, the dog, I have to say it, healthier.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Happy Labor Day
Hello Friends.
How will you be spending your labor day weekend?
I hope it is something extraordinary.
I woke up this morning, turned on the computer and got the dreaded signal at the DOS prompt "Press Ctl-Alt-Delte to Start"
And when I did so, it just wouldn't start and the same message reappeared over and over "Press Ctl-Alt-Delte to Start". So, off to Best Buy to drop off the doorstop of a computer at The Geek Squad. One hopes they can get the bastard to boot up. If not, it's off to their signature location in Santa Monica where they will exhume the hard drive and charge me obscene amounts of money for a data recovery (I have not backed up in three months).
Sadly, my latest play of 132 pages is on there (I have not backed up in three months).
And all I ever do is tell people, YOU MUST BACK UP, ALWAYS! (I have not backed up in three months).
Friends. BACK UP. ALWAYS.
Have a lovely weekend.
How will you be spending your labor day weekend?
I hope it is something extraordinary.
I woke up this morning, turned on the computer and got the dreaded signal at the DOS prompt "Press Ctl-Alt-Delte to Start"
And when I did so, it just wouldn't start and the same message reappeared over and over "Press Ctl-Alt-Delte to Start". So, off to Best Buy to drop off the doorstop of a computer at The Geek Squad. One hopes they can get the bastard to boot up. If not, it's off to their signature location in Santa Monica where they will exhume the hard drive and charge me obscene amounts of money for a data recovery (I have not backed up in three months).
Sadly, my latest play of 132 pages is on there (I have not backed up in three months).
And all I ever do is tell people, YOU MUST BACK UP, ALWAYS! (I have not backed up in three months).
Friends. BACK UP. ALWAYS.
Have a lovely weekend.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Let Me Out of Here!
Here I sit at Jeff's house. It's his birthday, you know. Straight across from me is the McCain lawn banner I pulled out of someone's bush. I am an adult, and yet I couldn't help but vandalize, if you can call it that.
How, on earth, can someone put a McCain sign in their bush?
I didn't even think about it. I just ripped it out and brought it as quarry.
All this talk about Obama not being ready to lead, or Obama being black-as-trouble or Obamaramadingdong, whatever. A pangolin could do a better job than McCain. Imagine if someone came along right after Herbert Hoover and said, "Let's do what Herbie was doing."
I feel a surge of energy. I'd do anything to keep these freaky lunatics out of the White House. The best I could come up with was yanking out this sign.
But truly, and I am not a warring person, I would go to war to secede. Chile's a skinny little country on the Pacific coast and does quite well. I can see a one-hundred mile wide strip up and down the whole west coast becoming its own nation. The Northeast can easily be another sovereign entity, comprising New York, New Jersey and New England. I'd fight for both of these nascent democracies.
Why is the union so important? Furthermore, if South Ossetia wants to be part of Russia, go for it. Who cares! People who can't stand to be lumped with other people, let them part.
The world map needs some changing. People have decided who they are and they are taking sides. Let them. I would happily isolate the middle of this country. Let their main artery to the world be the deranged and filthy Mississippi River. Let them eat all their soy beans and corn. We'll eat greens and decent cheeses.
Oh, to secede! To secede!
How, on earth, can someone put a McCain sign in their bush?
I didn't even think about it. I just ripped it out and brought it as quarry.
All this talk about Obama not being ready to lead, or Obama being black-as-trouble or Obamaramadingdong, whatever. A pangolin could do a better job than McCain. Imagine if someone came along right after Herbert Hoover and said, "Let's do what Herbie was doing."
I feel a surge of energy. I'd do anything to keep these freaky lunatics out of the White House. The best I could come up with was yanking out this sign.
But truly, and I am not a warring person, I would go to war to secede. Chile's a skinny little country on the Pacific coast and does quite well. I can see a one-hundred mile wide strip up and down the whole west coast becoming its own nation. The Northeast can easily be another sovereign entity, comprising New York, New Jersey and New England. I'd fight for both of these nascent democracies.
Why is the union so important? Furthermore, if South Ossetia wants to be part of Russia, go for it. Who cares! People who can't stand to be lumped with other people, let them part.
The world map needs some changing. People have decided who they are and they are taking sides. Let them. I would happily isolate the middle of this country. Let their main artery to the world be the deranged and filthy Mississippi River. Let them eat all their soy beans and corn. We'll eat greens and decent cheeses.
Oh, to secede! To secede!
Now Playing: FEED THE CHILDREN
Q:
What happens when two past-their-prime dancers and a mute dressed like Nijinsky duke it out for a solo spot on the teacup stage at the North Hollywood fundraiser, FEED THE CHILDREN?
A:
It involves a seal.
FEED THE CHILDREN
By Don Cummings
Directed by David Narloch
W/ Michael Vincent Carrera, Emma Hawley, J.C. Henning & David Narloch
A one act play, part of The Summer Sizzle One Act Play Festival.
Series A (And you get to vote)
Friday 9/5, Saturday 9/13, Friday 9/19 @ 8PM and Sunday 9/7 @ 3PM
The Chandler Studio Theatre
12443 Chandler Boulevard
North Hollywood CA 91607
Tickets: The Production Company
or 1-800-838-3006
What happens when two past-their-prime dancers and a mute dressed like Nijinsky duke it out for a solo spot on the teacup stage at the North Hollywood fundraiser, FEED THE CHILDREN?
A:
It involves a seal.
FEED THE CHILDREN
By Don Cummings
Directed by David Narloch
W/ Michael Vincent Carrera, Emma Hawley, J.C. Henning & David Narloch
A one act play, part of The Summer Sizzle One Act Play Festival.
Series A (And you get to vote)
Friday 9/5, Saturday 9/13, Friday 9/19 @ 8PM and Sunday 9/7 @ 3PM
The Chandler Studio Theatre
12443 Chandler Boulevard
North Hollywood CA 91607
Tickets: The Production Company
or 1-800-838-3006
Monday, August 25, 2008
From the Sort of Sublime to the Pretty Ridiculous
Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, sang at Disney Concert Hall today during a matinee performance with The California Philharmonic. It was exciting. The program was called Beethoven, Bernstein & Bolero. A big section of West Side Story selections followed by Bolero comprised the first act. The second act was selections from Bernstein’s Candide followed by Beethoven’s Ode to Joy from his 1824 Symphony No. 9.
The choir sang in act two. Especially moving was the piece Make Our Garden Grow from the finale of Candide. It’s a stirring, wonderful piece of music. I hate music writing so I will keep away from it. Just listen to it when you have a chance. But what was quite something else was watching and listening to the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth. It’s really quite complicated with overlaying movements going on. I have never heard it live, before. A treat. And even though the French horn section was weak (especially obvious during Bolero), the whole concert came off exceptionally well.
I particularly liked watching Bolero being performed. Seeing the instruments being added in bit by bit, you could actually watch how the piece was composed. Fascinating.
And of course, the sound at Disney is legendary. The visual of the French Fries organ is a bit distracting, but also playful. California is just playful. It’s Googie. No way around it.
Problem with going to concerts, one can get a little sleepy. My good friend Anne took a bit of a cat nap during Bolero. I must admit, I succumbed for about three minutes during the Beethoven. Maybe we need music to soothe us to sleep? I don’t know.
After a large meal in Chinatown, we went to see Tropic Thunder. Tom Cruise as a big money-worshipping, hairy Jew? Robert Downey Junior in blackface? Ben Stiller sucking on steaming guts?
Look, I’m not very P.C., nor am I queasy. I guess this kind of movie is simply not for me. I can’t say it was the worst movie I've ever seen or anything. All I can say is, I’m old and have no interest in this sort of offering. Years ago, we walked out of There’s Something About Mary. Not because it was offensive, but because lack of wit in a comedy just seems like a waste of time. Could there be a way to do this kind of thing without such worn out ideas and poundingly monstrous ham fisting? Is the money-worshipping Jew, played by Tom Cruise, the personification of Ben Stiller himself? A guy who makes the exact fare that he knows will extract maximum dollars from possible movie-going wallets? I would not have dared to write something so offensive before today, but Tropic Thunder begs one to tread in this territory, mercilessly, so hopefully one can shame (and lets go all the way here, the way the movie does) the offending Jews who gave their Jew money to make this tacky Jew movie. Isn't that funny the way I kept writing Jew?
Dying is easy, comedy is hard. True. Movies are made, but mostly not for me, boobala.
The choir sang in act two. Especially moving was the piece Make Our Garden Grow from the finale of Candide. It’s a stirring, wonderful piece of music. I hate music writing so I will keep away from it. Just listen to it when you have a chance. But what was quite something else was watching and listening to the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth. It’s really quite complicated with overlaying movements going on. I have never heard it live, before. A treat. And even though the French horn section was weak (especially obvious during Bolero), the whole concert came off exceptionally well.
I particularly liked watching Bolero being performed. Seeing the instruments being added in bit by bit, you could actually watch how the piece was composed. Fascinating.
And of course, the sound at Disney is legendary. The visual of the French Fries organ is a bit distracting, but also playful. California is just playful. It’s Googie. No way around it.
Problem with going to concerts, one can get a little sleepy. My good friend Anne took a bit of a cat nap during Bolero. I must admit, I succumbed for about three minutes during the Beethoven. Maybe we need music to soothe us to sleep? I don’t know.
After a large meal in Chinatown, we went to see Tropic Thunder. Tom Cruise as a big money-worshipping, hairy Jew? Robert Downey Junior in blackface? Ben Stiller sucking on steaming guts?
Look, I’m not very P.C., nor am I queasy. I guess this kind of movie is simply not for me. I can’t say it was the worst movie I've ever seen or anything. All I can say is, I’m old and have no interest in this sort of offering. Years ago, we walked out of There’s Something About Mary. Not because it was offensive, but because lack of wit in a comedy just seems like a waste of time. Could there be a way to do this kind of thing without such worn out ideas and poundingly monstrous ham fisting? Is the money-worshipping Jew, played by Tom Cruise, the personification of Ben Stiller himself? A guy who makes the exact fare that he knows will extract maximum dollars from possible movie-going wallets? I would not have dared to write something so offensive before today, but Tropic Thunder begs one to tread in this territory, mercilessly, so hopefully one can shame (and lets go all the way here, the way the movie does) the offending Jews who gave their Jew money to make this tacky Jew movie. Isn't that funny the way I kept writing Jew?
Dying is easy, comedy is hard. True. Movies are made, but mostly not for me, boobala.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Give Us Brilliance
While people sit around poking each other on Facebook, robbers run around my Melrose neighborhood, gun in hand, taking money off innocent walking people.
Ah.
And now Russia’s all pumped up, full of oil money, rattling their sabers.
There are two big problems for American voters right now. The economy has slipped and the world, especially east of Berlin, is still loaded with ancient animosities, many people picking up weapons, looking to kill.
So. Bad economy. Bad warring world. Typical.
If Obama wants to win this election, he better get a serious grip on his world view. You hate to admit it, but it better be pretty hard assed. And if it isn’t hard assed, which is what Americans seem to want, then it better be strategically and philosophically brilliant. And the brilliance needs to be immediately understandable to Joe Q. Pennsylvania.
Ah.
And now Russia’s all pumped up, full of oil money, rattling their sabers.
There are two big problems for American voters right now. The economy has slipped and the world, especially east of Berlin, is still loaded with ancient animosities, many people picking up weapons, looking to kill.
So. Bad economy. Bad warring world. Typical.
If Obama wants to win this election, he better get a serious grip on his world view. You hate to admit it, but it better be pretty hard assed. And if it isn’t hard assed, which is what Americans seem to want, then it better be strategically and philosophically brilliant. And the brilliance needs to be immediately understandable to Joe Q. Pennsylvania.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Vicky Cristina Barcelona or what I like to call Kristy McNichol Barcelona, is a very entertaining movie once Penélope Cruz arrives about halfway through. She plays the madwoman psycho ex-wife of Javier Bardem, the central lothario of a foursome. Cruz is the only actor who really comes to life. Every other actor is sort of trapped in a semi-neurotic, semi-travelogue escapade of uncertain lust and love. But truly, the lust part isn’t all that steamy and the love part isn’t at all believable. It’s just a bunch of people barely connecting. I can understand it. Maybe the pain of watching this movie is caused by the relentless underpinning of the impossibility of true romantic love. A couple of marriages do survive by the end of the movie, but they are marriages of inertia, one old, one new. Certainly not romantic.
The movie is worth seeing for the setting, which is certainly gorgeous, and for Penélope Cruz. But don’t be surprised if you can trace bits of every other W.Allen film ever made in this one. Which is too bad. You want him to take a leap. Why keep rearranging the same old characters, the same old stretched fictions? One wishes he would slow down and make fewer, but better movies.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
The movie is worth seeing for the setting, which is certainly gorgeous, and for Penélope Cruz. But don’t be surprised if you can trace bits of every other W.Allen film ever made in this one. Which is too bad. You want him to take a leap. Why keep rearranging the same old characters, the same old stretched fictions? One wishes he would slow down and make fewer, but better movies.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Greek Lesson: Obama's Running Mate
To win the swing states, Obama’s obvious choice for a running mate should be a blastula.
Just a little ring of cells, a few days after conception, to take on foreign policy and the like.
Or maybe he should take on a high level Exxon executive or Clarence Thomas?
If McCain is going to reach across and perhaps choose Lieberman, then Obama should have no trouble reaching across and asking Cheney to do it all over again.
Though millions of disgruntled voters would like to see Hillary Clinton on the ticket, it seems unlikely given that she is Hillary Clinton. It will be difficult enough for an intelligent black man to win this election, never mind an intelligent black man and an intelligent woman together. If he wants a woman on the ticket, he needs to go for a more folksy dame, someone people might want to have a beer with. How about Britney Spears? Or, let’s face it, that great campaigner, Paris Hilton? They drink beer.
However, if Obama is to choose a woman (and not someone from Kansas, please), my vote would be for Athena. She’s a warrior goddess. This will aid the Obama team since swing people like a good war. But even better, Athena was the virgin patron of Athens, which built the Parthenon (Parthenogenesis: to be born without having to copulate, like some worms and lizards) in her honor. And we all know Americans hate sex but love battle. Athena, the sexless goddess of war. Obama needs to choose Athena.
Just a little ring of cells, a few days after conception, to take on foreign policy and the like.
Or maybe he should take on a high level Exxon executive or Clarence Thomas?
If McCain is going to reach across and perhaps choose Lieberman, then Obama should have no trouble reaching across and asking Cheney to do it all over again.
Though millions of disgruntled voters would like to see Hillary Clinton on the ticket, it seems unlikely given that she is Hillary Clinton. It will be difficult enough for an intelligent black man to win this election, never mind an intelligent black man and an intelligent woman together. If he wants a woman on the ticket, he needs to go for a more folksy dame, someone people might want to have a beer with. How about Britney Spears? Or, let’s face it, that great campaigner, Paris Hilton? They drink beer.
However, if Obama is to choose a woman (and not someone from Kansas, please), my vote would be for Athena. She’s a warrior goddess. This will aid the Obama team since swing people like a good war. But even better, Athena was the virgin patron of Athens, which built the Parthenon (Parthenogenesis: to be born without having to copulate, like some worms and lizards) in her honor. And we all know Americans hate sex but love battle. Athena, the sexless goddess of war. Obama needs to choose Athena.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Transcendence: Closing the Loop
All religions, or most religions, deal with pain and suffering in some way. I like the tradition of good works in the name of fellow beings (though I keep mine at a manageable quantity) and the idea of transcendence.
Everyone wants to transcend. We need to escape the mundane, repetitive realities of having dinner, chicken yet again, or the polite acknowledgement of people’s fears, which are as petty as your own but seem pettier in their hands.
So we transcend. Because we must. Because the monkey in us got too smart and figured so much of it out, which hemmed us in. The monkey in us got too tame. It would be so much better to swing violently through trees. But violence can lead to trouble in organized society.
Lately, I have noticed that transcendence needs a target or else it leads to dissipation. Banging on the piano for hours on end can lead to an unquenchable excitability (though one should maybe bang even longer, to exhaustion). Of course, drinking too much alcohol leads to headaches, fatigue and gastric distress. Pious, all-day closet cleaning proves satisfying, but only because there’s a target.
The people with God have a target. It’s all done for Him. I understand the need. I have no God, but I do have respect for the mystery of the miracle. Perhaps the target is that. To stay in proportion to that mystery while actively transcending the pettiness of the quotidian rabble. Without a target, there is no upper limit. Without an upper limit, there is extension beyond capable extension.
Everyone wants to transcend. We need to escape the mundane, repetitive realities of having dinner, chicken yet again, or the polite acknowledgement of people’s fears, which are as petty as your own but seem pettier in their hands.
So we transcend. Because we must. Because the monkey in us got too smart and figured so much of it out, which hemmed us in. The monkey in us got too tame. It would be so much better to swing violently through trees. But violence can lead to trouble in organized society.
Lately, I have noticed that transcendence needs a target or else it leads to dissipation. Banging on the piano for hours on end can lead to an unquenchable excitability (though one should maybe bang even longer, to exhaustion). Of course, drinking too much alcohol leads to headaches, fatigue and gastric distress. Pious, all-day closet cleaning proves satisfying, but only because there’s a target.
The people with God have a target. It’s all done for Him. I understand the need. I have no God, but I do have respect for the mystery of the miracle. Perhaps the target is that. To stay in proportion to that mystery while actively transcending the pettiness of the quotidian rabble. Without a target, there is no upper limit. Without an upper limit, there is extension beyond capable extension.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Like a Plump Woodchuck
Last night at book club, there was three-quarters of a leftover Yankee Blueberry Buckle. There are all kinds of buckles out there, most of the ones I've eaten (and I've eaten plenty) are not much different than cobbler. This Yankee Blueberry Buckle, a guilt offering proffered by Anne who bailed on book club because she got free Etta James tickets to the Hollywood Bowl, was more in the coffee cake family, loaded with blueberries, and is the best buckle I've ever tasted. Of course, no one wanted to take the leftover buckle because carbs are like something out of satan's ass, but I kind of like satan. I lugged it home. In a brown bag. Walking.
So, I've been snacking on it all day long. Anne, who is an amazing baker, with her oven always on full blast over in Silver Lake, needs to have her own snack line, made my sweet day. But I am also resentful. So I wrote this poem, kind of like the woodchuck could chuck wood thing. It's vulgar, but you try rhyming with buckle!
How much buckle
Can a fat fag shovel
From a Silver Lake
Fag Hag Fuckle?
So, I've been snacking on it all day long. Anne, who is an amazing baker, with her oven always on full blast over in Silver Lake, needs to have her own snack line, made my sweet day. But I am also resentful. So I wrote this poem, kind of like the woodchuck could chuck wood thing. It's vulgar, but you try rhyming with buckle!
How much buckle
Can a fat fag shovel
From a Silver Lake
Fag Hag Fuckle?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Largo: I'm Really Different (Now)!
I’m Really Different (Now)!
A Musical Performance Piece, with comedy by Karen Kilgariff and Music by Don Cummings. And a guest.
Tuesday, August 19, 9PM.
The Little Room at the New Largo
366 N. La Cienega Blvd. Los Angeles 90048
No Reservations. Sixty Seats. Air Conditioned. Come on.
Like ten bucks.
Always New Songs. Always.
A Musical Performance Piece, with comedy by Karen Kilgariff and Music by Don Cummings. And a guest.
Tuesday, August 19, 9PM.
The Little Room at the New Largo
366 N. La Cienega Blvd. Los Angeles 90048
No Reservations. Sixty Seats. Air Conditioned. Come on.
Like ten bucks.
Always New Songs. Always.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
So Long Screwy, Remember ol' Saint Louis
Max Boot, the hard ass right wing Op-Ed guy in the LA Times, cries for weapons from the West for Georgia and a hard line against Russia, because Russians are just outrageous and could be trying to reinstate their empire, just like HITLER did when he invaded Czechoslovakia! Oh my. And then there’s Maureen Dowd (okay this is off subject, but still an example of extremity) in the NY Times bashing Hillary Clinton whenever she gets the chance. She just hates Hillary so much. Jealousy? What is it with you, Maureen? You seem kind of out of your mind.
It’s great to close the papers and see what’s happening in the world, away from opinion.
We see Sarkozy cozying up to both the Russians and the Georgians like a good Frenchman does. Because, babies, it isn’t black and white out there. It’s all about diplomacy. Let’s remember Saint Louis IX (Yes, St. Louis, Missouri is named after him). He was loved partly because he listened and brought people together. He was also quite a Catholic. I guess one of the good ones, because they turned him into a saint.
Why are Americans so strident and unyielding? At least in newspapers? And why can’t we all just be a little more French, like Sarkozy and Saint Louis? Sarkozy knew this skirmish was mere breakaway trouble—like Glendale trying to escape the tyranny of Los Angeles County bureaucracy. He smiled, carried legal documents between foes and acted like a calm adult.
I have to give Bushy a little extra French credit. He played both sides. And friends, that’s what diplomacy is all about. Give Bush a discount at Galaries Lafayette.
It’s great to close the papers and see what’s happening in the world, away from opinion.
We see Sarkozy cozying up to both the Russians and the Georgians like a good Frenchman does. Because, babies, it isn’t black and white out there. It’s all about diplomacy. Let’s remember Saint Louis IX (Yes, St. Louis, Missouri is named after him). He was loved partly because he listened and brought people together. He was also quite a Catholic. I guess one of the good ones, because they turned him into a saint.
Why are Americans so strident and unyielding? At least in newspapers? And why can’t we all just be a little more French, like Sarkozy and Saint Louis? Sarkozy knew this skirmish was mere breakaway trouble—like Glendale trying to escape the tyranny of Los Angeles County bureaucracy. He smiled, carried legal documents between foes and acted like a calm adult.
I have to give Bushy a little extra French credit. He played both sides. And friends, that’s what diplomacy is all about. Give Bush a discount at Galaries Lafayette.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Dying Dog Show: The Photo
This picture, taken on Sunday, is Louise after a homemade haircut. She can no longer go to the salon because her shots are outdated. And why would we give her shots at this point?
Notice how the picture captures her movement. Is she moving away from something or toward something?
Monday, August 11, 2008
Tell No One
Tell No One is not a taught thriller, but a big sloppy French thriller-mystery with so many twists and blind alleys and wrong turns and lies and lies unearthed, that when the whole thing is over, you just feel sort of irritated. And I like France.
Look, it’s much better than much out there. The acting is, truly, sublime. The shooting is so beautiful and suspenseful, without being jumpy, that you just want to thank someone for your set of eyes. And what is this bluish-gray filter they’ve been using lately for everything? I like it. There is a chase scene through an open air market in a low end neighborhood on the edge of a highway that is thrilling. The acting, I have to say it again, is perfect, all across, everywhere.
The story, well, okay, so a woman gets killed. But eight years later, maybe she’s not dead. And the cover ups. And the families that are linked. The power plays. The thugs. The lake. The beatings. But who beat who? The horses. Paris. The lesbians (of course!). A Versailles hospital. But one man, one doctor in fact, just really misses his wife and he wants her if she is still alive. But then, who is it that wants her dead if she is still alive? And why are the cops all so stupid? Except for one?
Oh, mes amis, it’s a web of treachery and racing against the clock and some very life threatening misunderstandings.
Every story idea from every whodunit you’ve ever seen is packed into this one. Did I mention raped orphans? Well, there are raped orphans, too. Why not!
If an art house nearby is playing this film and you’re sick of cribbage and the small screen, you might as well go see it. It’s August and it’s really quite a show for adults who can handle it. Superbly executed in every way. The story, well, if you have the mind for this kind of thing, which I clearly lack, you will just love the puzzle within the puzzle within the lie within the double crossing. Did I mention cut up faces and dead cats and dogs in ditches next to murder victims by a serial killer? Yeah, that, too. Woof. Meow. Screech.
Tell No One
Look, it’s much better than much out there. The acting is, truly, sublime. The shooting is so beautiful and suspenseful, without being jumpy, that you just want to thank someone for your set of eyes. And what is this bluish-gray filter they’ve been using lately for everything? I like it. There is a chase scene through an open air market in a low end neighborhood on the edge of a highway that is thrilling. The acting, I have to say it again, is perfect, all across, everywhere.
The story, well, okay, so a woman gets killed. But eight years later, maybe she’s not dead. And the cover ups. And the families that are linked. The power plays. The thugs. The lake. The beatings. But who beat who? The horses. Paris. The lesbians (of course!). A Versailles hospital. But one man, one doctor in fact, just really misses his wife and he wants her if she is still alive. But then, who is it that wants her dead if she is still alive? And why are the cops all so stupid? Except for one?
Oh, mes amis, it’s a web of treachery and racing against the clock and some very life threatening misunderstandings.
Every story idea from every whodunit you’ve ever seen is packed into this one. Did I mention raped orphans? Well, there are raped orphans, too. Why not!
If an art house nearby is playing this film and you’re sick of cribbage and the small screen, you might as well go see it. It’s August and it’s really quite a show for adults who can handle it. Superbly executed in every way. The story, well, if you have the mind for this kind of thing, which I clearly lack, you will just love the puzzle within the puzzle within the lie within the double crossing. Did I mention cut up faces and dead cats and dogs in ditches next to murder victims by a serial killer? Yeah, that, too. Woof. Meow. Screech.
Tell No One
Friday, August 08, 2008
08-08-08
On this day, I wish you a very joyful 08-08-08.
Whether you live in the United States, Europe or anywhere else, you are probably writing or typing 08-08-08 on everything.
If we can all agree on 08-08-08, why not much simpler things?
I mean, the calendar is pretty complex. 7 Days? 12 Months? 52 weeks? What the heck! Weird bunch of numbers. Yet, everyone, okay not everyone, but almost everyone is on board.
Or on, bored.
If there was no conflict on earth, maybe people would simply fall asleep at the wheel?
Whether you live in the United States, Europe or anywhere else, you are probably writing or typing 08-08-08 on everything.
If we can all agree on 08-08-08, why not much simpler things?
I mean, the calendar is pretty complex. 7 Days? 12 Months? 52 weeks? What the heck! Weird bunch of numbers. Yet, everyone, okay not everyone, but almost everyone is on board.
Or on, bored.
If there was no conflict on earth, maybe people would simply fall asleep at the wheel?
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Amoebas and Punishment
There are times when I mosey along thinking, “What am I going to blog about tonight?”
Today, while strolling to my allergist’s office for shots, I thought, I should write an entry entitled:
What Makes a Conservative
And the one line entry would be:
Someone who believes in punishment for all mistakes, except financial ones for the rich.
I have to admit, that line does not have much ring to it. But I do believe conservatives are a vengeful bunch.
But then, I read something in the paper tonight that really snagged my attention. It was that damn Brain Eating Amoeba that sometimes comes around and, well, eats someone’s brain. Some poor kid swam in Lake Elsinore out in Riverside County and got infected with the deadly Naegleria fowleri amoeba and it ate his brain and killed him.
The amoeba swims up your nose in warm fresh water lakes, travels along the olfactory nerve into your brain and then eats your olfactory bulb and brain, which has the side effect of killing you.
Not unlike what George Bush, conservative, tried to do to the entire population of the United States of America.
Eh, not such a great tie-together at the end there.
Let’s just say this: Conservatives are odd people, often noncreative, who like things to remain exactly the same and to punish those who venture outside their picky little lines.
Brain Eating Amoebas are just awful creatures that are only doing what they were born to do: They eat your brain.
Today, while strolling to my allergist’s office for shots, I thought, I should write an entry entitled:
What Makes a Conservative
And the one line entry would be:
Someone who believes in punishment for all mistakes, except financial ones for the rich.
I have to admit, that line does not have much ring to it. But I do believe conservatives are a vengeful bunch.
But then, I read something in the paper tonight that really snagged my attention. It was that damn Brain Eating Amoeba that sometimes comes around and, well, eats someone’s brain. Some poor kid swam in Lake Elsinore out in Riverside County and got infected with the deadly Naegleria fowleri amoeba and it ate his brain and killed him.
The amoeba swims up your nose in warm fresh water lakes, travels along the olfactory nerve into your brain and then eats your olfactory bulb and brain, which has the side effect of killing you.
Not unlike what George Bush, conservative, tried to do to the entire population of the United States of America.
Eh, not such a great tie-together at the end there.
Let’s just say this: Conservatives are odd people, often noncreative, who like things to remain exactly the same and to punish those who venture outside their picky little lines.
Brain Eating Amoebas are just awful creatures that are only doing what they were born to do: They eat your brain.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Frozen River
Sometimes around our house, we declare a Monday Night at the Movies or a Tuesday Night…which we did this evening. At the Sunset 5 (which I used to believe was the center of Los Angeles) we saw Frozen River.
Perfectly imperfect and truly great. The grand jury prize winner of Sundance, this is the big Indie Film of the summer and in a world of flying bats, men made of iron and forty year old stoner boys, it is a great relief.
The acting, superbish. Melissa Leo and Misty Upham pair up to smuggle people across the Canadian border. They drive right over the frozen St. Lawrence River into Canada on tribal land to do it (Misty Upham as Lila is a Mohawk Native American).
All this to buy a double wide trailer? Yes! You may never make a trailer joke again. Melissa Leo as Jay makes the need for a double wide so basic and so upwardly mobile (she lives in a single with her two boys) that everyone can relate!
Lovely film. The plot turns on very human needs. Okay, I’ll say it—on the basic needs of caring for others (fucking women, why can’t they just stop caring for others?, especially their own children?)-- See? What a world we live in? I actually was a little thrown that the story had something to do with caring for your kids in this primary way.
Oh, and the scene with the Pakistanis. Well, I can’t write anything about it. Don’t want to ruin anything.
Trailers burn. Cops get involved. Christmas is coming. So is the Repo man. Anything for money in a desperate frozen land.
I’ve been all around up by Plattsburgh, New York. There are really only two things to do up there:
1) Make a movie
Or
2) Get the hell out!
Frozen River. I give it three and a half out of four Pangolins.
(All units of measure are random. Let’s face it.)
Perfectly imperfect and truly great. The grand jury prize winner of Sundance, this is the big Indie Film of the summer and in a world of flying bats, men made of iron and forty year old stoner boys, it is a great relief.
The acting, superbish. Melissa Leo and Misty Upham pair up to smuggle people across the Canadian border. They drive right over the frozen St. Lawrence River into Canada on tribal land to do it (Misty Upham as Lila is a Mohawk Native American).
All this to buy a double wide trailer? Yes! You may never make a trailer joke again. Melissa Leo as Jay makes the need for a double wide so basic and so upwardly mobile (she lives in a single with her two boys) that everyone can relate!
Lovely film. The plot turns on very human needs. Okay, I’ll say it—on the basic needs of caring for others (fucking women, why can’t they just stop caring for others?, especially their own children?)-- See? What a world we live in? I actually was a little thrown that the story had something to do with caring for your kids in this primary way.
Oh, and the scene with the Pakistanis. Well, I can’t write anything about it. Don’t want to ruin anything.
Trailers burn. Cops get involved. Christmas is coming. So is the Repo man. Anything for money in a desperate frozen land.
I’ve been all around up by Plattsburgh, New York. There are really only two things to do up there:
1) Make a movie
Or
2) Get the hell out!
Frozen River. I give it three and a half out of four Pangolins.
(All units of measure are random. Let’s face it.)
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Burger Meister
Sometimes you get lucky and someone is there on your birthday to cook the burgers and wienies. Thank you, Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, for all these years of great cooking!
Monday, August 04, 2008
Slouching Towards Bethlehem -- Joan Didion
California is a place in which a boom mentality and a sense of Chekhovian loss meet in uneasy suspension; in which the mind is troubled by some buried but ineradicable suspicion that things had better work here, because here, beneath that immense bleached sky, is where we run out of continent.
--Notes from a Native Daughter, Joan Didion
“On nights like that,” Raymond Chandler once wrote about the Santa Ana, “every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen.”
--Los Angeles Notebook, Joan Didion
--Notes from a Native Daughter, Joan Didion
“On nights like that,” Raymond Chandler once wrote about the Santa Ana, “every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen.”
--Los Angeles Notebook, Joan Didion
Friday, August 01, 2008
A Soft Clean Rain is Coming. Clean Out Your Gutters.
As the economy clears out all that needs to be cleared, it’s a great time to do the same thing at home. Why not have life imitate life imitating life? While, of course, caring for the planet:
1) Unsuscribe to all that crappy email that comes at you that you don’t need. Sure, it doesn’t take much energy for Macy’s to send you an email about its latest sale. But it does take SOME energy. And it certainly takes SOME time and effort for you to delete it every time, for the rest of your life. So, next time an email comes you are sick of seeing, scroll to the bottom and click unsubscribe. You don’t need it. I no longer needed John Kerry.com or Writers Digest and a whole bunch more. Within one week, my inbox has been less stuffed. I wish I had advice for how to deal with spam. I do not. Just delete it as it comes in.
2) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You MUST use Catalogue Choice. This is an amazing service. At Christmas, when most catalogues arrive, we collected a pile, a very high pile, of all the wretched catalogues that come to our house. Then, we went to this site and opted out, one by one. It is such a relief. Now, we get almost none. Do it. You’ll be thrilled. Let the catalogues collect every month in a pile. Then take twenty minutes to go online so you can GET RID OF THEM. You save yourself the agony of facing them every month in your mailbox. You save the mailman the agony of having to lug them around. You save the planet by NOT wasting paper (these catalogues are hardly ever printed on recycled paper) and by NOT wasting the fuel to have them transported only so you can throw them in the recycling bin, or worse, the trash.
3) Go around your house and collect things that you no longer use, especially old electronics, and sell those useless items on Ebay. They will be useful to someone else. I have even sold a BROKEN, crashed imac on Ebay. I listed, “This item is broken. It is only good for someone who wants to use it for parts.” It sold to someone in Long Beach for about 150 bucks. My latest cell phone (a 3G Samsung Blackjack) ultimately saved me money. When I sold my old phone and all the accessories that went with it and put that toward the purchase of my new phone, I came out ahead $80. If Ebay isn’t your thing, then just GIVE your STUFF away to a thrift store. If that still isn’t for you, then save up all your old electronics and go to your local electronics recycling location and drop them off. Of course, you can sell almost anything on eBay, or give almost anything away. Just do it. These are clearing times.
CLEAR IT OUT. A soft rain o’ plenty is on its way. And these things are going to be green and lovely. Make room on your shelves. Make room in your life.
1) Unsuscribe to all that crappy email that comes at you that you don’t need. Sure, it doesn’t take much energy for Macy’s to send you an email about its latest sale. But it does take SOME energy. And it certainly takes SOME time and effort for you to delete it every time, for the rest of your life. So, next time an email comes you are sick of seeing, scroll to the bottom and click unsubscribe. You don’t need it. I no longer needed John Kerry.com or Writers Digest and a whole bunch more. Within one week, my inbox has been less stuffed. I wish I had advice for how to deal with spam. I do not. Just delete it as it comes in.
2) I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You MUST use Catalogue Choice. This is an amazing service. At Christmas, when most catalogues arrive, we collected a pile, a very high pile, of all the wretched catalogues that come to our house. Then, we went to this site and opted out, one by one. It is such a relief. Now, we get almost none. Do it. You’ll be thrilled. Let the catalogues collect every month in a pile. Then take twenty minutes to go online so you can GET RID OF THEM. You save yourself the agony of facing them every month in your mailbox. You save the mailman the agony of having to lug them around. You save the planet by NOT wasting paper (these catalogues are hardly ever printed on recycled paper) and by NOT wasting the fuel to have them transported only so you can throw them in the recycling bin, or worse, the trash.
3) Go around your house and collect things that you no longer use, especially old electronics, and sell those useless items on Ebay. They will be useful to someone else. I have even sold a BROKEN, crashed imac on Ebay. I listed, “This item is broken. It is only good for someone who wants to use it for parts.” It sold to someone in Long Beach for about 150 bucks. My latest cell phone (a 3G Samsung Blackjack) ultimately saved me money. When I sold my old phone and all the accessories that went with it and put that toward the purchase of my new phone, I came out ahead $80. If Ebay isn’t your thing, then just GIVE your STUFF away to a thrift store. If that still isn’t for you, then save up all your old electronics and go to your local electronics recycling location and drop them off. Of course, you can sell almost anything on eBay, or give almost anything away. Just do it. These are clearing times.
CLEAR IT OUT. A soft rain o’ plenty is on its way. And these things are going to be green and lovely. Make room on your shelves. Make room in your life.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sit Back and Get Ready for the Reverse Flow
This recession is a correction. It had to happen because the money was all going in the wrong direction. It had to be stopped.
There’s a regrouping, a great swell of creation going on. The economy isn’t set up to pay for creative time. But it sure is set up for selling time. Soon, there will be so much to sell. And it will be the right things. And cash will flow again.
Time to endure the discomfort for the greater good. This all had to happen.
There’s a regrouping, a great swell of creation going on. The economy isn’t set up to pay for creative time. But it sure is set up for selling time. Soon, there will be so much to sell. And it will be the right things. And cash will flow again.
Time to endure the discomfort for the greater good. This all had to happen.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
These Tectonic Plates Mean Business
While lying in bed at 11:47 AM with my cancer ridden dog reading Joan Didion’s Slouching Toward Bethlehem, a cold eyed view of young hippies hanging around 1967 Haight-Ashbury, the house started to shake like it does when there is an earthquake.
I got out of bed, naked, and went to the door of the bedroom. I am always naked during earthquakes. During the big one of ’94, which was truly terrifying, I was standing naked in the doorway of the hall with Adam and just three thoughts went through my head:
1) How long is this going to last and is it going to get even bigger?
2) What is going to fly off the wall and chop off my mandate?
3) At what time does the U-haul place open because I am moving back to New York immediately?
Today, which experienced a much milder quake, but not just a tremor but a real earthquake, I thought:
This is not so bad but it is lasting a long time. The house seems to be taking it very well.
Louise, the pooch, didn’t even stir. No cracks in the walls. Nothing moved.
It would have been interesting to open the refrigerator to watch the olives dance in their juice.
Earthquakes can be enjoyable. They certainly get your adrenalin pumping. And who doesn’t like a little adrenalin every now and then?
After it was over, I finished the Joan Didion piece. Phone lines were busy. The weather was perfect.
I got out of bed, naked, and went to the door of the bedroom. I am always naked during earthquakes. During the big one of ’94, which was truly terrifying, I was standing naked in the doorway of the hall with Adam and just three thoughts went through my head:
1) How long is this going to last and is it going to get even bigger?
2) What is going to fly off the wall and chop off my mandate?
3) At what time does the U-haul place open because I am moving back to New York immediately?
Today, which experienced a much milder quake, but not just a tremor but a real earthquake, I thought:
This is not so bad but it is lasting a long time. The house seems to be taking it very well.
Louise, the pooch, didn’t even stir. No cracks in the walls. Nothing moved.
It would have been interesting to open the refrigerator to watch the olives dance in their juice.
Earthquakes can be enjoyable. They certainly get your adrenalin pumping. And who doesn’t like a little adrenalin every now and then?
After it was over, I finished the Joan Didion piece. Phone lines were busy. The weather was perfect.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Bus Driver Hypothesis
A theory: People do the job they most need to learn. So, a bus driver (like the one for a theatre tour I was on years ago) might be a good driver, but what he really needs to learn is a sense of direction. Our bus driver got us lost constantly. He needed to learn how to find his way around, so being a bus driver was perfect for him.
Moving on.
I believe Democrats, in many ways, are really Republicans and vice versa.
Democrats want everything to be fair. But usually, Democrats are at the opposite ends of the economic strata. New York City is incredibly Democratic and one of the most class conscious places in the country. So, most Democrats are living out their very individual experiences, ultimately based on their “hard work” or “lack of hard work” or “luck”. Democrats are almost libertarian in how they are living their lives. They are Democrats in ideology, but Republicans in action.
And the damn Republicans, why, they are living in bands of religious hives, bringing each other covered dishes, scratching each others’ backs with Jesus back scratchers. They are practically communists, albeit with a Christian crunch.
So, the Democrats need to learn to be better with communalism. The Republicans need to break free of the church and become more like true individuals. This is what they need to learn. I, as a self motivated person, relying on no group that says, “You are all equal in the eyes of God,” really behave very much like the definition of a Republican, so I need to learn how to be a Democrat, so I am one.
Moving on.
Freedom. We all scream about freedom because we are the least free people on earth. We are prisoners to capitalism and churchy righteousness. Similar to the bus driver who needs to learn a sense of direction, Americans need to learn a sense of freedom. That is why we are here. We are not free. We need to learn to be free.
Moving on.
I believe Democrats, in many ways, are really Republicans and vice versa.
Democrats want everything to be fair. But usually, Democrats are at the opposite ends of the economic strata. New York City is incredibly Democratic and one of the most class conscious places in the country. So, most Democrats are living out their very individual experiences, ultimately based on their “hard work” or “lack of hard work” or “luck”. Democrats are almost libertarian in how they are living their lives. They are Democrats in ideology, but Republicans in action.
And the damn Republicans, why, they are living in bands of religious hives, bringing each other covered dishes, scratching each others’ backs with Jesus back scratchers. They are practically communists, albeit with a Christian crunch.
So, the Democrats need to learn to be better with communalism. The Republicans need to break free of the church and become more like true individuals. This is what they need to learn. I, as a self motivated person, relying on no group that says, “You are all equal in the eyes of God,” really behave very much like the definition of a Republican, so I need to learn how to be a Democrat, so I am one.
Moving on.
Freedom. We all scream about freedom because we are the least free people on earth. We are prisoners to capitalism and churchy righteousness. Similar to the bus driver who needs to learn a sense of direction, Americans need to learn a sense of freedom. That is why we are here. We are not free. We need to learn to be free.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Stop Complaining. This Might Help.
I do complain (silently to myself) when I run out of soap. I have to leave my small bathroom and go to the big bathroom to get a new one. Why would I grumble about that? Why not be grateful there’s more soap in the house, soap that I don’t even by. It just shows up. And all I have to do is walk about thirty feet to get it?
Ridiculous.
So, every minute, it’s time to pay attention and be amazed.
Speaking of, if you are in New York, you must go see [title of show], which is amazing and stage managed by my friend, Martha Donaldson. Broadway at its most hip and intimate.
If you can’t get there, then just have a good time with the next clip. It’s out of control. It’s like something you’d see at the Nuremberg Parade Grounds. Mickey’s all over the place while Judy steps light and easy. And there are choreographed gun shots.
I Got Rhythm from Girl Crazy with Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, staged by Busby Berkeley, played by Tommy Dorsey:
Ridiculous.
So, every minute, it’s time to pay attention and be amazed.
Speaking of, if you are in New York, you must go see [title of show], which is amazing and stage managed by my friend, Martha Donaldson. Broadway at its most hip and intimate.
If you can’t get there, then just have a good time with the next clip. It’s out of control. It’s like something you’d see at the Nuremberg Parade Grounds. Mickey’s all over the place while Judy steps light and easy. And there are choreographed gun shots.
I Got Rhythm from Girl Crazy with Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, staged by Busby Berkeley, played by Tommy Dorsey:
Friday, July 25, 2008
My Summer Vacation
It was time to push back away from the computers. Though we get a little obsessive with our careers around here, you do realize that it is summer, the Pacific Ocean is all over the place, and you really should go sit by it. This morning, I received The Global Rich List
from Megan and when I went to the sight and plugged in my number, I saw that I was one of the richest people on earth, so no worries! Orange County here we come.
I suggested we drive down to San Onofre. There’s a nude beach. It’s a little over an hour away. How Hawaiian. Let’s do it! We would stop at San Clemente for lunch, get to the beach by 2:30. Okay. We got as far as San Juan Capistrano. There were warning signs. “Big accident ahead, 57 miles.” Would we get to San Clemente before 57 miles? Yes, we would. The accident was further south, along the middle of Camp Pendelton. Problem is, the traffic started to severely back up in San Juan Capistrano, swallows or not. So, we aborted our plan, since sitting in a very long, thin parking lot for an hour or more did not sound like much fun.
We U-turned it and went Laguna. Always a good choice. Completely beautiful. The way it always is. Strong pounding surf. Read a New Yorker. Watched some volleyball. Took a walk.
On the way back north, we stopped to take a look at The Crystal Cove Cottages. Eh. Kind of cramped. The ones at top are in serious earshot of the very noisy Route 1-PCH. Many of the cottages down below are close to the restaurant. If you ever stay there, I suggest staying in one of the cottages as far south as possible. They are below a noise blocking bluff and far away from the restaurant. However, I think those cottages might be two family upper-downers.
We then drove to Newport Beach. What hilarity. White mall people living in the Matrix. We ate at Muldoon’s Pub at Fashion Island (a big circular mall). Imitation Irish pub. Quite pretty, actually. Food was fine. But you could feel the puppet master shoving the Erin Go Bullshit down your gullet. Orange County is a strange beast of a place.
But what better location to see Mamma Mia? Oh, my friends, if you like Abba, as did most of the two-ton Tessies over fifty in the audience, apparently, and you feel like having a hen night at the mall, go check it out. Frankly, I thought it was a big ol’ mess. But the actors are all so game (even the ones who aren’t the strongest singers), and the Aphrodite vibe is fabulous, everyone getting into their sensuality and love for each other. Beautiful colors, sea, people. Best number was Dancing Queen, followed by Meryl’s full blown The Winner Takes it All. Fun having a real “Greek chorus”. Ending the evening on a beautiful Greek island was a good idea.
from Megan and when I went to the sight and plugged in my number, I saw that I was one of the richest people on earth, so no worries! Orange County here we come.
I suggested we drive down to San Onofre. There’s a nude beach. It’s a little over an hour away. How Hawaiian. Let’s do it! We would stop at San Clemente for lunch, get to the beach by 2:30. Okay. We got as far as San Juan Capistrano. There were warning signs. “Big accident ahead, 57 miles.” Would we get to San Clemente before 57 miles? Yes, we would. The accident was further south, along the middle of Camp Pendelton. Problem is, the traffic started to severely back up in San Juan Capistrano, swallows or not. So, we aborted our plan, since sitting in a very long, thin parking lot for an hour or more did not sound like much fun.
We U-turned it and went Laguna. Always a good choice. Completely beautiful. The way it always is. Strong pounding surf. Read a New Yorker. Watched some volleyball. Took a walk.
On the way back north, we stopped to take a look at The Crystal Cove Cottages. Eh. Kind of cramped. The ones at top are in serious earshot of the very noisy Route 1-PCH. Many of the cottages down below are close to the restaurant. If you ever stay there, I suggest staying in one of the cottages as far south as possible. They are below a noise blocking bluff and far away from the restaurant. However, I think those cottages might be two family upper-downers.
We then drove to Newport Beach. What hilarity. White mall people living in the Matrix. We ate at Muldoon’s Pub at Fashion Island (a big circular mall). Imitation Irish pub. Quite pretty, actually. Food was fine. But you could feel the puppet master shoving the Erin Go Bullshit down your gullet. Orange County is a strange beast of a place.
But what better location to see Mamma Mia? Oh, my friends, if you like Abba, as did most of the two-ton Tessies over fifty in the audience, apparently, and you feel like having a hen night at the mall, go check it out. Frankly, I thought it was a big ol’ mess. But the actors are all so game (even the ones who aren’t the strongest singers), and the Aphrodite vibe is fabulous, everyone getting into their sensuality and love for each other. Beautiful colors, sea, people. Best number was Dancing Queen, followed by Meryl’s full blown The Winner Takes it All. Fun having a real “Greek chorus”. Ending the evening on a beautiful Greek island was a good idea.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Obama's Field of Hope
Of course, I’m voting for Obama. Not that it matters in California. He’ll get the 55 electoral votes without batting an eyelash, I mean, without bumping a terrorist fist jab.
But what about his logo? I think it looks like something you’d see on a cold cereal box.
His slogan should be, “Barak Obama, He’s not just for breakfast anymore!”
Gay in the Writer's Room, Fine in the World
Sometimes, I think Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, is just right on. He was interviewed for this piece, (Second page): Gay in the Writer's Room.
Bravo on his take. He didn’t get all polemical. He didn’t get all victimy. He didn’t get all, “We gays, we gays, oh how hard it is for we gays.” He just talked about working.
I have had this problem lately---and I think it comes from some leftover 1960’s-70’s stuff. There was a time when the very common mantra, “The Personal is Political,” was being said and written everywhere. It had its place. It was necessary.
Eventually, that mantra disappeared, but the attitude stuck, much how the Romantic era ended toward the end of the nineteenth century but still exists in popular culture. It’s hard to shake a way of thinking, even if it has already been played out. Even if the words are gone, the sentiment-philosophy remains.
I am among the generation for which “The Personal is Political” still seems to be sticking. The younger generation, thank Yahweh in the tuna casserole, seems to have dumped it.
Lately, during these trying times, there has been a lot of complaining. People want their fair share. They feel they are not getting their fair share because they are gay, brown, female, whatever. But it is so clear that almost no one is getting their fair share. How can people single themselves out as victims? Furthermore, why would you WANT to single yourself out as a victim? Seems strange to me.
I have to say, and I say this honestly, I have always felt that being gay (as an adult) has never held me back. And I am happy to live with someone who, it seems, feels the same way.
If the personal is political, then what I have to say is, “I personally feel I am no worse off politically than anyone else. These days, everyone is a hated minority. Good luck to all. Pass the salt. For some reason, I always like a little extra salt. And that’s not a problem either.”
Bravo on his take. He didn’t get all polemical. He didn’t get all victimy. He didn’t get all, “We gays, we gays, oh how hard it is for we gays.” He just talked about working.
I have had this problem lately---and I think it comes from some leftover 1960’s-70’s stuff. There was a time when the very common mantra, “The Personal is Political,” was being said and written everywhere. It had its place. It was necessary.
Eventually, that mantra disappeared, but the attitude stuck, much how the Romantic era ended toward the end of the nineteenth century but still exists in popular culture. It’s hard to shake a way of thinking, even if it has already been played out. Even if the words are gone, the sentiment-philosophy remains.
I am among the generation for which “The Personal is Political” still seems to be sticking. The younger generation, thank Yahweh in the tuna casserole, seems to have dumped it.
Lately, during these trying times, there has been a lot of complaining. People want their fair share. They feel they are not getting their fair share because they are gay, brown, female, whatever. But it is so clear that almost no one is getting their fair share. How can people single themselves out as victims? Furthermore, why would you WANT to single yourself out as a victim? Seems strange to me.
I have to say, and I say this honestly, I have always felt that being gay (as an adult) has never held me back. And I am happy to live with someone who, it seems, feels the same way.
If the personal is political, then what I have to say is, “I personally feel I am no worse off politically than anyone else. These days, everyone is a hated minority. Good luck to all. Pass the salt. For some reason, I always like a little extra salt. And that’s not a problem either.”
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Let's Pause for a Little Joni Mitchell, 1970
California on the dulcimer
Both Sides Now
The disaster at Isle of Wight
Monday, July 21, 2008
Batman's New Clothes
I do not care for Wookies, the Middle Earth, Unicorns or yore.
And I do not have any interest in comics, dark worlds, super heroes or men who can fly.
Of course, there really is no reason for someone like me to be sitting in the audience of the new Batman movie, The Dark Knight.
I bought into the hype and there I went. Longish film.
Heath Ledger. Sure. He might be dead, but he can act. Of course, the Joker is the best part of any movie and one would expect the most from whoever plays this sort of role. Lovely work, Heath. Rest easy.
Poor Aaron Eckhart. He gets burned.
Christian Bale? Does not seem appropriately blue blooded to me. But solid hairline. Wooden really. But who can blame him?
What is most interesting to me is Batman does not have super powers. He’s just a guy (Bruce Wayne of "The Waynes") with a lot of cash who uses his largesse to make nifty crime fighting gadgets and machines. Boys do like this kind of thing.
Lots of nihilism in this movie. This is being praised. I believe Warner Brothers, DC Comics, the press and the world bank got together and made the largest and most expensive performance art installment on earth. The movie is made for a budget that would feed Darfur for a couple of years. The press reports that The Dark Knight is some sort of masterpiece. This publicity is a crafty, printed refraction of the movie’s nihilism, fooling the people of Gotham (that would be us) that this is exactly the kind of world we live in so we must embrace it and must go see the movie. There we are, reading the reviews, paying for tickets and sitting in the audience, all of these actions as empty and meaningless as the movie itself. Actually, what a brilliant worldwide performance piece with all of us who choose to be in it, in it.
Lastly: Today’s blow ups are tomorrow’s has been styles.
I would recommend waiting for the DVD. You can watch the first few minutes, then fast forward to Heath Ledger’s scenes.
Or better yet, take nine minutes for a little POW! WHAM! OUCH!
And I do not have any interest in comics, dark worlds, super heroes or men who can fly.
Of course, there really is no reason for someone like me to be sitting in the audience of the new Batman movie, The Dark Knight.
I bought into the hype and there I went. Longish film.
Heath Ledger. Sure. He might be dead, but he can act. Of course, the Joker is the best part of any movie and one would expect the most from whoever plays this sort of role. Lovely work, Heath. Rest easy.
Poor Aaron Eckhart. He gets burned.
Christian Bale? Does not seem appropriately blue blooded to me. But solid hairline. Wooden really. But who can blame him?
What is most interesting to me is Batman does not have super powers. He’s just a guy (Bruce Wayne of "The Waynes") with a lot of cash who uses his largesse to make nifty crime fighting gadgets and machines. Boys do like this kind of thing.
Lots of nihilism in this movie. This is being praised. I believe Warner Brothers, DC Comics, the press and the world bank got together and made the largest and most expensive performance art installment on earth. The movie is made for a budget that would feed Darfur for a couple of years. The press reports that The Dark Knight is some sort of masterpiece. This publicity is a crafty, printed refraction of the movie’s nihilism, fooling the people of Gotham (that would be us) that this is exactly the kind of world we live in so we must embrace it and must go see the movie. There we are, reading the reviews, paying for tickets and sitting in the audience, all of these actions as empty and meaningless as the movie itself. Actually, what a brilliant worldwide performance piece with all of us who choose to be in it, in it.
Lastly: Today’s blow ups are tomorrow’s has been styles.
I would recommend waiting for the DVD. You can watch the first few minutes, then fast forward to Heath Ledger’s scenes.
Or better yet, take nine minutes for a little POW! WHAM! OUCH!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Airwaves over New England
An old high school friend contacted me. He's a dj on a bunch of radio stations in the northeast….
So, I get a call to be on his show--as the talking guest on the phone (for about an hour and a half duration, with breaks). It was an classic pop-rock music show and he just kept egging me on to promote I’m Really Different (Now) among other things---like writing, performing, etc. On the air, I mentioned something about me being a bit of a creative platypus. I have always felt the best time to discuss monotremes is during evening broadcasts when people are feeling misty and romantic under the pink and purple clouds and less judgmental toward extreme evolutionary tricks.
So—all of central Massachusetts (notably-Worcester) and southern Vermont and New Hampshire—know about what I’ve been up to for the past thirty years. And, if they decide to come to LA for a little vacation (which the host kept talking as if such a thing was possible for his audience), they very well could choose to come see the Largo show, which I plugged at least seven times. I was actually spelling out Largo during the interview. L A R G O- which I don’t think was too “talking down to the listeners," being that that part of the world is mostly known for mill closures.
Before the interview began and then while talking, I discovered a divergence within my vain self:
1)I hated the idea of having to do a radio interview because I’ve never done one before. I got cranky about it. I was insecure. I yelled at Adam five minutes beforehand, “Stop clanking around that kitchen. You KNOW I have a radio interview coming up!” I really resented the idea of doing it.
2) Once on the air, I found talking about myself to be quite a pleasant experience, one I plan to repeat often. It’s also great that one can doodle and surf the internet during commercial and song breaks.
How strange to talk on your phone at home and be beamed all around central New England. And this is such old technology. Imagine how surprising it will seem to me when I'm broadcasting from up in the space station--
Come to LA, Worcester! We’re waiting for you!
Yours in all media,
Don
So, I get a call to be on his show--as the talking guest on the phone (for about an hour and a half duration, with breaks). It was an classic pop-rock music show and he just kept egging me on to promote I’m Really Different (Now) among other things---like writing, performing, etc. On the air, I mentioned something about me being a bit of a creative platypus. I have always felt the best time to discuss monotremes is during evening broadcasts when people are feeling misty and romantic under the pink and purple clouds and less judgmental toward extreme evolutionary tricks.
So—all of central Massachusetts (notably-Worcester) and southern Vermont and New Hampshire—know about what I’ve been up to for the past thirty years. And, if they decide to come to LA for a little vacation (which the host kept talking as if such a thing was possible for his audience), they very well could choose to come see the Largo show, which I plugged at least seven times. I was actually spelling out Largo during the interview. L A R G O- which I don’t think was too “talking down to the listeners," being that that part of the world is mostly known for mill closures.
Before the interview began and then while talking, I discovered a divergence within my vain self:
1)I hated the idea of having to do a radio interview because I’ve never done one before. I got cranky about it. I was insecure. I yelled at Adam five minutes beforehand, “Stop clanking around that kitchen. You KNOW I have a radio interview coming up!” I really resented the idea of doing it.
2) Once on the air, I found talking about myself to be quite a pleasant experience, one I plan to repeat often. It’s also great that one can doodle and surf the internet during commercial and song breaks.
How strange to talk on your phone at home and be beamed all around central New England. And this is such old technology. Imagine how surprising it will seem to me when I'm broadcasting from up in the space station--
Come to LA, Worcester! We’re waiting for you!
Yours in all media,
Don
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The Dying Dog Show: Encino
There is only one place to get a special drug for my dying dog. It’s in Encino, a dense suburb about thirty minutes away from Hollywood. This drug is a combination cough suppressant and narcotic. The name of the drugstore is Valley Drug and Compounding. Compounding means this place mixes together their own drugs.
I arrived at 1:30 PM. The West Valley is hot. Felt about one-hundred degrees. Maybe it was ninety-eight. I was extremely hungry. I saw Johnny Rocket’s, in no mood for burgers. I looked across Balboa Boulevard and there, in a strip mall, just north of Ventura Boulevard was Salads Galore . How couldn’t I eat there? I had a spa salad, which was basically a bunch of shredded white meat chicken, grilled red peppers and zucchini over a poured out bag of mixed spring greens. It was fine. The place was lively. Lots of old people in there. Had a deli vibe.
I wiped the balsamic off my bouche and went across the street to the drug store to pick up the doggy pills at Valley Drug and Compounding. The place smelled like a 1970’s main street drug store. Sort of humid and carpety.
There were apothecary bottles on shelves and a very helpful staff who had the pills all ready. Large drug companies are trying to shut down compounded medicine locations. Check it out.
www.savemymedicine.org
These pills work so well for my dog, I really do feel we need to save compounded drugs, even though I didn’t know what they were until today.
I arrived at 1:30 PM. The West Valley is hot. Felt about one-hundred degrees. Maybe it was ninety-eight. I was extremely hungry. I saw Johnny Rocket’s, in no mood for burgers. I looked across Balboa Boulevard and there, in a strip mall, just north of Ventura Boulevard was Salads Galore . How couldn’t I eat there? I had a spa salad, which was basically a bunch of shredded white meat chicken, grilled red peppers and zucchini over a poured out bag of mixed spring greens. It was fine. The place was lively. Lots of old people in there. Had a deli vibe.
I wiped the balsamic off my bouche and went across the street to the drug store to pick up the doggy pills at Valley Drug and Compounding. The place smelled like a 1970’s main street drug store. Sort of humid and carpety.
There were apothecary bottles on shelves and a very helpful staff who had the pills all ready. Large drug companies are trying to shut down compounded medicine locations. Check it out.
www.savemymedicine.org
These pills work so well for my dog, I really do feel we need to save compounded drugs, even though I didn’t know what they were until today.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Latest Technology: Wood Putty
I often adapt within a year of the latest technology. So when ATT knocked on my door and insisted I order U-Verse, the fiber optic high speed internet line and DVR television service that can record up to four shows at once, I said, “Sure.”
I dreaded install day. Today it happened.
Look, how hard is it when you say to someone, “Drill the one hole you have to drill in the floor, right here, right next to this desk leg, here, just to the left of the leg, right in this spot?”
I came back five minutes later to see the guy had moved the piece of furniture next to the desk, a flat-bottomed wooden file cabinet, and drilled the hole over there. Being flat bottomed, there was then no way he could push it back against the wall. I asked him, “Oh, I’m sorry, wasn’t I clear? Okay, well, you can’t have the cable come up there because the filing cabinet will never again be able to move back against the wall. Please, I will fill the incorrect hole, please drill over here just to the left of the desk leg.”
I came back five minutes later. He had found a different hole in the floor molding that already had some cable coming up, about four feet away. He tapped into that, stapled cable going across the molding, which then turned up, right at the place where I wanted him to drill the hole. Then, I was stunned, “Okay, I don’t know why you can’t understand this. I want you to drill the hole right here. Right in this spot, right here. I do not want extra cable stapled along my wall. I do not want to add to the mess of wire at my feet. I want you to drill the hole just to the left of the desk leg and run the cable up from there. Please. This isn’t difficult.”
He did not respond. I left again and returned. He drilled the hole to the right of the desk leg, very close, which still would be a problem for the file cabinet that he pulled out. He snipped the plastic little skirt that goes around the cable at the floor so the file cabinet next to the desk could be pushed back in. It was not ideal, but it did fit.
He simply would not drill where I asked him to drill.
Basically, the guy did not want to be told what to do. He certainly didn’t want to move the desk a few inches away from the wall so he could make room for his four foot long drill.
When he finished the installation he just left, never saying goodbye, leaving behind another guy who took two hours to trouble shoot all sorts of connection problems.
Can you imagine going into someone’s house and just drilling wherever you please?
I filled the two extra holes. The new service is spectacular, even though the installer was a twisted, aggressive man, lumbering and sneering around my house for five hours.
I dreaded install day. Today it happened.
Look, how hard is it when you say to someone, “Drill the one hole you have to drill in the floor, right here, right next to this desk leg, here, just to the left of the leg, right in this spot?”
I came back five minutes later to see the guy had moved the piece of furniture next to the desk, a flat-bottomed wooden file cabinet, and drilled the hole over there. Being flat bottomed, there was then no way he could push it back against the wall. I asked him, “Oh, I’m sorry, wasn’t I clear? Okay, well, you can’t have the cable come up there because the filing cabinet will never again be able to move back against the wall. Please, I will fill the incorrect hole, please drill over here just to the left of the desk leg.”
I came back five minutes later. He had found a different hole in the floor molding that already had some cable coming up, about four feet away. He tapped into that, stapled cable going across the molding, which then turned up, right at the place where I wanted him to drill the hole. Then, I was stunned, “Okay, I don’t know why you can’t understand this. I want you to drill the hole right here. Right in this spot, right here. I do not want extra cable stapled along my wall. I do not want to add to the mess of wire at my feet. I want you to drill the hole just to the left of the desk leg and run the cable up from there. Please. This isn’t difficult.”
He did not respond. I left again and returned. He drilled the hole to the right of the desk leg, very close, which still would be a problem for the file cabinet that he pulled out. He snipped the plastic little skirt that goes around the cable at the floor so the file cabinet next to the desk could be pushed back in. It was not ideal, but it did fit.
He simply would not drill where I asked him to drill.
Basically, the guy did not want to be told what to do. He certainly didn’t want to move the desk a few inches away from the wall so he could make room for his four foot long drill.
When he finished the installation he just left, never saying goodbye, leaving behind another guy who took two hours to trouble shoot all sorts of connection problems.
Can you imagine going into someone’s house and just drilling wherever you please?
I filled the two extra holes. The new service is spectacular, even though the installer was a twisted, aggressive man, lumbering and sneering around my house for five hours.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
More Bank News? Not Really.
It's vague out there. I can hear the scrambling of little feet running to the vault, but then, the head attached to those feet (by a trembling body)is left with no real instructions.
Friends, these are trying times. People went ape shit in the greed department and now we have to worry about our banana futures.
Not everyone can be rich. It is still puzzling to me that so many poor people voted for a man that did not care about them, at all. (Stalin called these people useful idiots. George Bush calls them __________.)
I am still optimistic about the future as is my nature. People are very creative. Corrections occur. The discomfort is real, but it's only discomfort. Like a sinus headache. It will pass.
There are rumors of all kinds of runs on all kinds of banks. If people get too nuts about it and start pulling out their money, en masse, then the banks will surely fail.
Of course, I'm not adverse to trading in labor, coconut shells or sacks of flour. It could be empowering and interesting. However, that's all very inconvenient.
Of each dollar that has floated around the economy over a period of one recent year, I wonder how much of it has been eaten up by the oil war effort.
It is a lack of creativity, hardened with fear, that brought us into this mess.
Friends, these are trying times. People went ape shit in the greed department and now we have to worry about our banana futures.
Not everyone can be rich. It is still puzzling to me that so many poor people voted for a man that did not care about them, at all. (Stalin called these people useful idiots. George Bush calls them __________.)
I am still optimistic about the future as is my nature. People are very creative. Corrections occur. The discomfort is real, but it's only discomfort. Like a sinus headache. It will pass.
There are rumors of all kinds of runs on all kinds of banks. If people get too nuts about it and start pulling out their money, en masse, then the banks will surely fail.
Of course, I'm not adverse to trading in labor, coconut shells or sacks of flour. It could be empowering and interesting. However, that's all very inconvenient.
Of each dollar that has floated around the economy over a period of one recent year, I wonder how much of it has been eaten up by the oil war effort.
It is a lack of creativity, hardened with fear, that brought us into this mess.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Forecast: Hot with a Chance of Bubbles
Standing in front of the NASDAQ board in Times Square, I was with a friend who had most of his inherited money in tech stocks. With a wild look in his eyes, he said, “This is the future. It will just keep going up.”
His jittery fear and greed all balled up into absolute knowledge, it being 1999 and all, I just thought, “Well, it won’t hold. But who am I to burst someone’s bubble?”
Bubbles, like amniotic sacks, break. For how else can we welcome the newly born?
I thought I would write about how awful it is that bubbles are allowed to occur and that the government should really regulate prices in order to maintain some peace of mind in markets (in much of Europe, food and energy costs are highly regulated). But frankly, why not let the markets go hog wild? It gives people a chance to check their greed.
When my tiny house was tipping at 1M in street value, I sat, sort of smug, on my plastic-bottles-recycled sofa and thought, “It’s so nice to be rich.” But then I thought, again, “This won’t hold. It can’t.” And it hasn’t.
When things got so bad at IndyMac Bank in Pasadena that the Feds had to take it over, I thought, “It should never have to come to this.” But, people only understand grand gestures in The U.S. after much pain. It's a Christian thing. To have cut this off any sooner, there would have been a howling.
So, suffer little greedy children, and then come unto me. Those bubbles, back away from them. They are the blob and they will eat you. In the future, perhaps awareness of bubbles will correct them more quickly. The market is a reflection of thinking. Why people have such strange, uninformed thoughts is beyond me. Oh, wait, no, it’s because no one wants to pay for education. And fantasies are the better sell. The United Sell of America.
Pass the Ramen.
His jittery fear and greed all balled up into absolute knowledge, it being 1999 and all, I just thought, “Well, it won’t hold. But who am I to burst someone’s bubble?”
Bubbles, like amniotic sacks, break. For how else can we welcome the newly born?
I thought I would write about how awful it is that bubbles are allowed to occur and that the government should really regulate prices in order to maintain some peace of mind in markets (in much of Europe, food and energy costs are highly regulated). But frankly, why not let the markets go hog wild? It gives people a chance to check their greed.
When my tiny house was tipping at 1M in street value, I sat, sort of smug, on my plastic-bottles-recycled sofa and thought, “It’s so nice to be rich.” But then I thought, again, “This won’t hold. It can’t.” And it hasn’t.
When things got so bad at IndyMac Bank in Pasadena that the Feds had to take it over, I thought, “It should never have to come to this.” But, people only understand grand gestures in The U.S. after much pain. It's a Christian thing. To have cut this off any sooner, there would have been a howling.
So, suffer little greedy children, and then come unto me. Those bubbles, back away from them. They are the blob and they will eat you. In the future, perhaps awareness of bubbles will correct them more quickly. The market is a reflection of thinking. Why people have such strange, uninformed thoughts is beyond me. Oh, wait, no, it’s because no one wants to pay for education. And fantasies are the better sell. The United Sell of America.
Pass the Ramen.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Music to my Ears
Anger is fuel. Without it, what would you use?
Attraction to what is outside of you? A challenge like that--
I have been working on music lately and it reduces anger, reduces stress, pretty much reduces everything but joy. The only motivation is to get the sound just right, to freely get into it physically. It must be pleasure that is the motivating force. Certainly, there is no conflict.
A fine way to spend time.
Attraction to what is outside of you? A challenge like that--
I have been working on music lately and it reduces anger, reduces stress, pretty much reduces everything but joy. The only motivation is to get the sound just right, to freely get into it physically. It must be pleasure that is the motivating force. Certainly, there is no conflict.
A fine way to spend time.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Dying Dog Show
Louise, our dog, has cancer. We’ve known since March 7. Attached to her heart, a tumor is growing.
For months she has had a cough because the tumor has pushed into her trachea. During the same period of time she was bloated because her hepatic vein (from the liver) was getting backed up because the heart wasn’t working too well.
During the last few weeks, she has lost her bloat, stopped coughing and seems to be her old self. I kept saying, “She’s in remission, or something.”
We went to Mexico, returned, and the pooch looks even better. Like nothing is wrong, at all.
While sitting next to her, I was petting her neck and I felt a lump and then I grabbed the lump and it was about the size of a large plumb. And it had a beat.
It’s the tumor. It has fallen. It’s this big lumpy tumor that you can grab and hold onto and feel her hearting beating right through it since it is attached there.
How great is it to have your huge tumor fall forward and then you stop coughing and your liver can work again and you feel so much better?
These are times to celebrate. My dog’s tumor has fallen.
For months she has had a cough because the tumor has pushed into her trachea. During the same period of time she was bloated because her hepatic vein (from the liver) was getting backed up because the heart wasn’t working too well.
During the last few weeks, she has lost her bloat, stopped coughing and seems to be her old self. I kept saying, “She’s in remission, or something.”
We went to Mexico, returned, and the pooch looks even better. Like nothing is wrong, at all.
While sitting next to her, I was petting her neck and I felt a lump and then I grabbed the lump and it was about the size of a large plumb. And it had a beat.
It’s the tumor. It has fallen. It’s this big lumpy tumor that you can grab and hold onto and feel her hearting beating right through it since it is attached there.
How great is it to have your huge tumor fall forward and then you stop coughing and your liver can work again and you feel so much better?
These are times to celebrate. My dog’s tumor has fallen.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Largo: I'm Really Different (Now)!
I’m Really Different (Now)!
A Musical Performance Piece, with comedy by Karen Kilgariff and Music by Don Cummings. And a guest.
Tuesday, August 19, 9PM.
The Little Room at the New Largo
366 N. La Cienega Blvd. Los Angeles 90048
No Reservations. Sixty Seats. Air Conditioned. Another New Song. Come on.
Like ten bucks.
A Musical Performance Piece, with comedy by Karen Kilgariff and Music by Don Cummings. And a guest.
Tuesday, August 19, 9PM.
The Little Room at the New Largo
366 N. La Cienega Blvd. Los Angeles 90048
No Reservations. Sixty Seats. Air Conditioned. Another New Song. Come on.
Like ten bucks.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Monday, July 07, 2008
Mexico and More
Something about going to Mexico... The most important thing, of course, was the celebration of my parents' 50th wedding anniversary. The entire family jumped on jets. Eleven people. A mixture of relaxation and adventure. No big tensions. Lots of margaritas, snorkeling, eating, beaching, visiting Mayan ruins, these kinds of things.
What is bizarre about the Yucatan is until the 1970's it was not a tourist destination. Now, it certainly is. The Mexican government and the local Mexican people built hotels and houses, erected fences with entry fees around beautiful lagoons, jungles and ruins, all of them well worth experiencing.
It can be very relaxing in the tropics. Mexico is a strangely wealthy country with questionable infrastructure. Truly, everything works well in its fashion. The people approach life at a slower pace than those of us north of the Rio Grande, but their laid back steadiness is appealing. I love getting close to new plants and animals. Strange rodents, iguanas, huge fish, sting rays.
Why they still haven't figured out how to deliver potable drinking water is beyond me. Mexico is a rich country. Why not use some of that great billionaire money down there to really separate the drinking water from the water that comes out of people's asses?
My memory is that Mexico uses human waste to fertilize, which is admirable? It clearly has drawbacks.
I could snorkel for months.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Heading South
Heading to Mexico for a while. Will return July 7.
Playa Del Carmen. Yucatan. Mayan Riviera. Snorkeling.
Why not take some time and check out the blogs listed over to the right?
Hot Links For YOU.
Or check out the subject categories, pick a subject and dive deep.
Enjoy your Independence.
Great times ahead.
See you in a week.
Playa Del Carmen. Yucatan. Mayan Riviera. Snorkeling.
Why not take some time and check out the blogs listed over to the right?
Hot Links For YOU.
Or check out the subject categories, pick a subject and dive deep.
Enjoy your Independence.
Great times ahead.
See you in a week.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
America's Next Chapter
You have to wonder why Gary Hart was never president:
THE novelties of race and gender have largely distracted the nation from the more profound aspect of the 2008 presidential election: This campaign presents the potential for a new cycle of American history.
The idea that American politics moves in cycles is usually associated with the historian Arthur Schlesinger Jr., but it has an even longer currency. Ralph Waldo Emerson noted the political oscillations between the party of memory and the party of hope, the party of conservatism and the party of innovation. Henry Adams believed that “a period of about 12 years measured the beat of the pendulum” during the era of the founders. Schlesinger, borrowing from his historian father, estimated that the swings between eras of public action and those of private interest were nearer to 30 years.
What matters more than the length of the cycles is that these swings, between what Schlesinger called periods of reform and periods of consolidation, clearly occur. If we somewhat arbitrarily fix the age of Franklin D. Roosevelt as 1932 to 1968 and the era of Ronald Reagan as 1968 to 2008, a new cycle of American political history — a cycle of reform — is due.
The Republican coalition — composed of the religious right on social issues, the radical tax cutters or “supply-siders” on economic issues, and the neoconservatives on foreign policy — has produced only superficial religiosity, a failed war and record deficits. Traditional conservatives, who are dedicated to resistance to government intrusion into private lives, fiscal discipline and caution on military interventions, have yet to re-emerge, and may not. The character of the next Republican Party will result from an intraparty debate that has yet to begin and might occupy a decade or more.
Democrats, meanwhile, have yet to produce a coherent ideological framework to replace the New Deal, despite an eight-year experiment in “triangulation” and an undefined “centrism.” Once elected, Barack Obama would have a rare opportunity to define a new Democratic Party. He could preside over the beginning of a new political cycle that, if relevant to the times, would dominate American politics for three or four decades to come.
Senator Obama has two choices. He can focus on winning the election to the exclusion of all else and, like Robert Redford in “The Candidate,” ask, “What do we do now?” after it is over. Or he can use his campaign as a platform for designing a new political cycle and achieve a mandate for starting it.
Noting the power of “custom and fear,” and “of orthodoxy and of complacency,” Schlesinger believed that “the subversion of old ideas by the changing environment” would give a new leader the best chance to create a new cycle of reform and innovation.
No individual can entirely determine the architecture of a historical cycle. But much of the next one will be defined by how we grapple with a host of new realities, ones that reach beyond jihadist terrorism. They include globalized markets; the expansion of the information revolution into places like China; the emergence of new world powers including India and China; climate deterioration; failing states; the changing nature of war; mass migrations; the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction; viral pandemics; and many more.
Senator Obama’s attempt to introduce the next American cycle should include, at minimum, three elements. National security requires a new, expanded, post-cold-war definition. America must transition from a consumer economy to a producing one. And the moral obligations of our stewardship of the planet must become paramount.
These themes and the policies that flow from them, if made the centerpiece of the 2008 election (perhaps along with alternatives that others might suggest), could produce the mandate required to begin a new historical cycle. This post-New Deal, post-Morning in America era would be more in tune with the current century and its realities than the continued political circling that confuses most Americans, who repeatedly and overwhelmingly report that they know America is adrift.
They are right. And they are right because they instinctively realize that old politics, old parties and old policies are increasingly irrelevant to our lives, to our revolutionary times and to our country’s future. The next cycle of American history is as yet unframed, awaiting a national leader who can define a new role for government at home and a new role for America in the world of the 21st century.
Gary Hart is a former Democratic senator from Colorado. This Op-Ed was published in The New York Times, June 25, 2008.
THE novelties of race and gender have largely distracted the nation from the more profound aspect of the 2008 presidential election: This campaign presents the potential for a new cycle of American history.
The idea that American politics moves in cycles is usually associated with the historian Arthur Schlesinger Jr., but it has an even longer currency. Ralph Waldo Emerson noted the political oscillations between the party of memory and the party of hope, the party of conservatism and the party of innovation. Henry Adams believed that “a period of about 12 years measured the beat of the pendulum” during the era of the founders. Schlesinger, borrowing from his historian father, estimated that the swings between eras of public action and those of private interest were nearer to 30 years.
What matters more than the length of the cycles is that these swings, between what Schlesinger called periods of reform and periods of consolidation, clearly occur. If we somewhat arbitrarily fix the age of Franklin D. Roosevelt as 1932 to 1968 and the era of Ronald Reagan as 1968 to 2008, a new cycle of American political history — a cycle of reform — is due.
The Republican coalition — composed of the religious right on social issues, the radical tax cutters or “supply-siders” on economic issues, and the neoconservatives on foreign policy — has produced only superficial religiosity, a failed war and record deficits. Traditional conservatives, who are dedicated to resistance to government intrusion into private lives, fiscal discipline and caution on military interventions, have yet to re-emerge, and may not. The character of the next Republican Party will result from an intraparty debate that has yet to begin and might occupy a decade or more.
Democrats, meanwhile, have yet to produce a coherent ideological framework to replace the New Deal, despite an eight-year experiment in “triangulation” and an undefined “centrism.” Once elected, Barack Obama would have a rare opportunity to define a new Democratic Party. He could preside over the beginning of a new political cycle that, if relevant to the times, would dominate American politics for three or four decades to come.
Senator Obama has two choices. He can focus on winning the election to the exclusion of all else and, like Robert Redford in “The Candidate,” ask, “What do we do now?” after it is over. Or he can use his campaign as a platform for designing a new political cycle and achieve a mandate for starting it.
Noting the power of “custom and fear,” and “of orthodoxy and of complacency,” Schlesinger believed that “the subversion of old ideas by the changing environment” would give a new leader the best chance to create a new cycle of reform and innovation.
No individual can entirely determine the architecture of a historical cycle. But much of the next one will be defined by how we grapple with a host of new realities, ones that reach beyond jihadist terrorism. They include globalized markets; the expansion of the information revolution into places like China; the emergence of new world powers including India and China; climate deterioration; failing states; the changing nature of war; mass migrations; the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction; viral pandemics; and many more.
Senator Obama’s attempt to introduce the next American cycle should include, at minimum, three elements. National security requires a new, expanded, post-cold-war definition. America must transition from a consumer economy to a producing one. And the moral obligations of our stewardship of the planet must become paramount.
These themes and the policies that flow from them, if made the centerpiece of the 2008 election (perhaps along with alternatives that others might suggest), could produce the mandate required to begin a new historical cycle. This post-New Deal, post-Morning in America era would be more in tune with the current century and its realities than the continued political circling that confuses most Americans, who repeatedly and overwhelmingly report that they know America is adrift.
They are right. And they are right because they instinctively realize that old politics, old parties and old policies are increasingly irrelevant to our lives, to our revolutionary times and to our country’s future. The next cycle of American history is as yet unframed, awaiting a national leader who can define a new role for government at home and a new role for America in the world of the 21st century.
Gary Hart is a former Democratic senator from Colorado. This Op-Ed was published in The New York Times, June 25, 2008.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
It Really is a Singular Sensation
A Chorus Line, 1975. A Chorus Line, 2008.
It holds.
The Ahmanson. Through July 6.
As the treasurer and eventual president of the theatre goers club in high school, of course we saw A Chorus Line. Suburban kids on a school bus go to town. That’s when Times Square still had Nathan’s and whores.
A true whore quote from one whore to another while getting a load of me,
“That kid ain’t even old enough to have a hard on and he’s already smoking cigarettes.”
I listened to the cast album for most of high school. I really did believe that everything was probably more beautiful at the ballet. Or at least I understood wanting to leave your life to be somewhere more interesting.
The show at the Ahmanson is very close to the original, with all the original choreography. Not easy stuff. There are so many choreographed mistakes, since it is the staging of an audition. I remember the actors in the original production being more desperate. These Ahmanson actors did not have as great a need. Also, for whatever insane time reason, all the songs were sped up. This was irritating. There was no reason to speed up the songs. The play did not feel so much 1975 as it felt 2008, but maybe that’s just how things go. The movie, Hair, was really Hair-1979.
A Chorus Line is powerful. It is universal. It speaks to anyone who passionately loves something and just really wants to be a part of it. The music by Marvin Hamlisch is intricate and intelligent. What I Did for Love is the simplest song.
The grueling audition (competition) grating against the humanism (communalism) is really at the heart of all societal trouble, especially in the West. A Chorus Line has lasted all these years because of its combination of great music, spare yet huge choreography and the appealing 1970’s awareness of the “me” in the “we”.
These days, it just seems downright hokey to hear someone talk about their life story. But the 70's paved the way for people to open up to "Tell it like it is." This telling ultimately advanced all of society. A Chorus Line is part of that social line-up. I grew nostalgic for a time when you could talk about strong feelings and ideas and people would not even think to respond uncomfortably, "Tell me how you really feel," or "Too Much Information."
We are back to all competition and people hiding in their positions. Of course, the next wave of progress is soon upon us.
Tuesday night and the place was packed. Worth the trip. Completely enjoyable. Sharp, well done stuff.
It holds.
The Ahmanson. Through July 6.
As the treasurer and eventual president of the theatre goers club in high school, of course we saw A Chorus Line. Suburban kids on a school bus go to town. That’s when Times Square still had Nathan’s and whores.
A true whore quote from one whore to another while getting a load of me,
“That kid ain’t even old enough to have a hard on and he’s already smoking cigarettes.”
I listened to the cast album for most of high school. I really did believe that everything was probably more beautiful at the ballet. Or at least I understood wanting to leave your life to be somewhere more interesting.
The show at the Ahmanson is very close to the original, with all the original choreography. Not easy stuff. There are so many choreographed mistakes, since it is the staging of an audition. I remember the actors in the original production being more desperate. These Ahmanson actors did not have as great a need. Also, for whatever insane time reason, all the songs were sped up. This was irritating. There was no reason to speed up the songs. The play did not feel so much 1975 as it felt 2008, but maybe that’s just how things go. The movie, Hair, was really Hair-1979.
A Chorus Line is powerful. It is universal. It speaks to anyone who passionately loves something and just really wants to be a part of it. The music by Marvin Hamlisch is intricate and intelligent. What I Did for Love is the simplest song.
The grueling audition (competition) grating against the humanism (communalism) is really at the heart of all societal trouble, especially in the West. A Chorus Line has lasted all these years because of its combination of great music, spare yet huge choreography and the appealing 1970’s awareness of the “me” in the “we”.
These days, it just seems downright hokey to hear someone talk about their life story. But the 70's paved the way for people to open up to "Tell it like it is." This telling ultimately advanced all of society. A Chorus Line is part of that social line-up. I grew nostalgic for a time when you could talk about strong feelings and ideas and people would not even think to respond uncomfortably, "Tell me how you really feel," or "Too Much Information."
We are back to all competition and people hiding in their positions. Of course, the next wave of progress is soon upon us.
Tuesday night and the place was packed. Worth the trip. Completely enjoyable. Sharp, well done stuff.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
More Fucking Oil
It just makes no sense. Finally, the no contest bids are in and the usual players are getting the oil contracts in Iraq (though just to service, not to own).
Bushy Boy got what he wanted: all that fresh goop in the hands of the West.
But economically speaking, passing over all the dead Iraqis, dead Americans and billions of dollars, it still would have made more sense to spend that money on developing other ways to run engines. But is that true?
All that oil is just sitting there. Maybe it is cheaper to have a war and then just get the oil, hopefully on the cheap. Surely, as the supply increases, the price will come down.
A huge underground lake of oil is still cheaper to go after than the slim possibility of developing a positive energy flow hydrogen fuel tank. Or is that because I, like most people, just don’t have the facts?
The new energy must have three characteristics:
It must be plentiful
It must create zero emissions at all phases of production and use
and
It must give off more energy than it takes to create it.
The obvious choice seems to be hydrogen fuel created by solar energy.
No messy corn. No filthy coal. No greasy wars.
The civilized world moves forward by looking forward. Come on.
Bushy Boy got what he wanted: all that fresh goop in the hands of the West.
But economically speaking, passing over all the dead Iraqis, dead Americans and billions of dollars, it still would have made more sense to spend that money on developing other ways to run engines. But is that true?
All that oil is just sitting there. Maybe it is cheaper to have a war and then just get the oil, hopefully on the cheap. Surely, as the supply increases, the price will come down.
A huge underground lake of oil is still cheaper to go after than the slim possibility of developing a positive energy flow hydrogen fuel tank. Or is that because I, like most people, just don’t have the facts?
The new energy must have three characteristics:
It must be plentiful
It must create zero emissions at all phases of production and use
and
It must give off more energy than it takes to create it.
The obvious choice seems to be hydrogen fuel created by solar energy.
No messy corn. No filthy coal. No greasy wars.
The civilized world moves forward by looking forward. Come on.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Cancer Cuts
Our dog, Louise, has a slow growing tumor attached to her heart. She is in the last year of her life, living comfortably on blood pressure medication, diuretics, cough suppressant and narcotics. It’s pet hospice.
It has been very hot this early summer and her hair has grown very long. Usually, she goes to the groomer. When I made an appointment today, I was informed I needed to bring in proof of all recent vaccinations. The groomer listed five of them, including rabies. This dying dog is not going to get revaccinated for anything.
I pulled out a scissor and some old buzz razor and I did it myself. Adam helped by holding Louise. Then I gave her a bath. It looks just like what Petco used to do. Except, of course, there are some terrible baldish hack marks where I cut too close. So now cancer dog has a bit of that cancer look. It’s appropriate. Might be her last haircut. Her last sad haircut.
When my grandmother was in the last few months of her life dying of cancer, she was living with us. Pretty unruly, definitely cranky and with a big mouth, my mother decided the only place to take her for her final birthday was something where it wouldn’t be much trouble, especially for the other diners. We went to the main street of our town, Lafayette Avenue, and had dinner at the Cathay Too, a Chinese restaurant. Not a great place, but new enough so it still felt exotic for our suburban town. It was a little festive in there with a yellow and red Chinese thing going on and certainly bright with full pane windows to the sidewalk. But it smelled like a mop. I felt sad knowing that my grandmother’s last birthday dinner was at such a non-romantic hole. I particularly remember we were not far from the service area. Plenty of water glasses, pitchers, food coming from the back. We ate, my grandmother was loud, we left.
It has been very hot this early summer and her hair has grown very long. Usually, she goes to the groomer. When I made an appointment today, I was informed I needed to bring in proof of all recent vaccinations. The groomer listed five of them, including rabies. This dying dog is not going to get revaccinated for anything.
I pulled out a scissor and some old buzz razor and I did it myself. Adam helped by holding Louise. Then I gave her a bath. It looks just like what Petco used to do. Except, of course, there are some terrible baldish hack marks where I cut too close. So now cancer dog has a bit of that cancer look. It’s appropriate. Might be her last haircut. Her last sad haircut.
When my grandmother was in the last few months of her life dying of cancer, she was living with us. Pretty unruly, definitely cranky and with a big mouth, my mother decided the only place to take her for her final birthday was something where it wouldn’t be much trouble, especially for the other diners. We went to the main street of our town, Lafayette Avenue, and had dinner at the Cathay Too, a Chinese restaurant. Not a great place, but new enough so it still felt exotic for our suburban town. It was a little festive in there with a yellow and red Chinese thing going on and certainly bright with full pane windows to the sidewalk. But it smelled like a mop. I felt sad knowing that my grandmother’s last birthday dinner was at such a non-romantic hole. I particularly remember we were not far from the service area. Plenty of water glasses, pitchers, food coming from the back. We ate, my grandmother was loud, we left.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Largo Saturday Night
When Karen Kilgariff, one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, asked me to get involved in her act at Largo, playing songs we would make up, I had to say yes.
Saturday night. Doors open at 8:30. Show starts at 9. It’s the new Largo at the old Coronet at 366 N. La Cienega. The little room. No reservation necessary.
There’s no food or drink so do all that before, after, sneak some in.
Largo
Saturday night. Doors open at 8:30. Show starts at 9. It’s the new Largo at the old Coronet at 366 N. La Cienega. The little room. No reservation necessary.
There’s no food or drink so do all that before, after, sneak some in.
Largo
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Oh What M. Night! or There's Something in the Air
Okay, it's half my fault. Adam (who I could call my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Spouse, now, if we were to get married, but who remains my Domestic Partner) and I went to see M. Night Shamalamadingdong's The Happening.
We just wanted to see a big ol' movie.
It was simply terrible.
I am about to divulge everything. So, if you plan to see the movie and do not want the surprise destroyed, then click away from here.
Okay, so people kill themselves. First, they kind of freeze. Then, they find the most expedient way to die. Guns, a large lawnmower, jumping off high buildings, more guns. Turns out, the plants are doing it. Apparently, (and all the knowledge in this movie comes at you from news reporters on television screens), plants, in distress, will send out signals to other plants and together they will release toxins to kill invaders once they feel threatened enough.
The trees and grass of the Northeast can't take people another minute, what with the destruction of their habitat (though, someone should have told M. Night that the Northeast is actually healthier, forest-wise, than the rest of the lower forty-eight, especially New England).
So, the survivalist plants emit a toxin that makes people kill themselves.
The lead actors, poor things, had to say such ridiculous lines in such ridiculous places for such ridiculous reasons, you just have to wonder what was the exact day during the filming that they threw up their hands and said, "Fuck it, I made a mistake signing up for this crap. Let's just finish up, collect the fee, and get the hell out of here."
Betty Buckley as the crazed shut-in who kills herself by banging her head into her own wall and windows was quite a sight.
I haven't been to a movie at a movie theatre in months. It was enjoyable to be in a great theatre, looking at the wooded scenery of Pennsylvania, watching Mark Wahlberg be all middle class and dull. I actually enjoyed it in a perverse way.
But truly--
You have to wonder why the studio let this director have a dime to make anything at all.
Why didn't they read that script and simply say, "There is no way on earth."
We just wanted to see a big ol' movie.
It was simply terrible.
I am about to divulge everything. So, if you plan to see the movie and do not want the surprise destroyed, then click away from here.
Okay, so people kill themselves. First, they kind of freeze. Then, they find the most expedient way to die. Guns, a large lawnmower, jumping off high buildings, more guns. Turns out, the plants are doing it. Apparently, (and all the knowledge in this movie comes at you from news reporters on television screens), plants, in distress, will send out signals to other plants and together they will release toxins to kill invaders once they feel threatened enough.
The trees and grass of the Northeast can't take people another minute, what with the destruction of their habitat (though, someone should have told M. Night that the Northeast is actually healthier, forest-wise, than the rest of the lower forty-eight, especially New England).
So, the survivalist plants emit a toxin that makes people kill themselves.
The lead actors, poor things, had to say such ridiculous lines in such ridiculous places for such ridiculous reasons, you just have to wonder what was the exact day during the filming that they threw up their hands and said, "Fuck it, I made a mistake signing up for this crap. Let's just finish up, collect the fee, and get the hell out of here."
Betty Buckley as the crazed shut-in who kills herself by banging her head into her own wall and windows was quite a sight.
I haven't been to a movie at a movie theatre in months. It was enjoyable to be in a great theatre, looking at the wooded scenery of Pennsylvania, watching Mark Wahlberg be all middle class and dull. I actually enjoyed it in a perverse way.
But truly--
You have to wonder why the studio let this director have a dime to make anything at all.
Why didn't they read that script and simply say, "There is no way on earth."
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Comes a Time
I think the media is handling the gay marriage surge with great discretion.
At least the Los Angeles Times.
Respectful coverage. And done. No big deal.
The less the gay marriage issue is in the news, the better chance it has of catching on.
No more need to write about it. Let it happen. Take over. Like kudzu. But the good kudzu. And it’s there.
At least the Los Angeles Times.
Respectful coverage. And done. No big deal.
The less the gay marriage issue is in the news, the better chance it has of catching on.
No more need to write about it. Let it happen. Take over. Like kudzu. But the good kudzu. And it’s there.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Moderation Please
The push and pull, I’m exhausted.
There is no doubt, a large amount of capital, pooled, is useful. Big things can be done with mounds of money.
So why try for density in only one area?
We, on the left, push it toward government.
Those, on the right, push it toward business.
We all know the government wastes.
And big business steals.
Waste and theft. There we are.
So, why not spread it around? Then there are many places to go to get the big lumps of capital for big things.
There will be waste. There will be theft. Sure.
But spread it.
There is no doubt, a large amount of capital, pooled, is useful. Big things can be done with mounds of money.
So why try for density in only one area?
We, on the left, push it toward government.
Those, on the right, push it toward business.
We all know the government wastes.
And big business steals.
Waste and theft. There we are.
So, why not spread it around? Then there are many places to go to get the big lumps of capital for big things.
There will be waste. There will be theft. Sure.
But spread it.
Monday, June 16, 2008
A Wedding Cake with a Saw in It
Congratulations to all the men and men and women and women who will be married today at 5:01PM.
Though Massachusetts has already been doing this for years, it’s a smallish state. It doesn’t get huger than California. Big equal times ahead.
But wait. Did you know there are laws in Delaware and Wisconsin that if a gay couple gets married out of state, they can be held on criminal charges once they return? Apparently true. The law in Wisconsin permits authorities to punish offenders with a fine of up to $10,000 and nine months imprisonment for marrying that special someone.
Yes, if Steven and Dave from Milwaukee go to California and get married and then return to work the next day, the police can haul them off to prison. The good people of Wisconsin voted for it. These are the people you share a military with.
When the crops have all failed from warming, flooding and pestilence, and the civil war breaks out over who deserves the last few grains of wheat, I say let this wretched union be torn asunder to become at least three or four countries.
Though Massachusetts has already been doing this for years, it’s a smallish state. It doesn’t get huger than California. Big equal times ahead.
But wait. Did you know there are laws in Delaware and Wisconsin that if a gay couple gets married out of state, they can be held on criminal charges once they return? Apparently true. The law in Wisconsin permits authorities to punish offenders with a fine of up to $10,000 and nine months imprisonment for marrying that special someone.
Yes, if Steven and Dave from Milwaukee go to California and get married and then return to work the next day, the police can haul them off to prison. The good people of Wisconsin voted for it. These are the people you share a military with.
When the crops have all failed from warming, flooding and pestilence, and the civil war breaks out over who deserves the last few grains of wheat, I say let this wretched union be torn asunder to become at least three or four countries.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Kern County
Nasty County.
It accounts for one-tenth of United States oil production.
I have been to Kernville, the little town that is the center of white water rafting. There was a meanness to the place. It had that bullying feeling.
It is no surprise that the county seat, Bakersfield, will not perform any weddings of any kind at the court house. They will allow marriage papers to be submitted, but they will not officiate.
Ugly place.
It accounts for one-tenth of United States oil production.
I have been to Kernville, the little town that is the center of white water rafting. There was a meanness to the place. It had that bullying feeling.
It is no surprise that the county seat, Bakersfield, will not perform any weddings of any kind at the court house. They will allow marriage papers to be submitted, but they will not officiate.
Ugly place.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Marriage Laws Map
In the Los Angeles Times, yesterday, was a poorly printed map of where Gay Marriage stands in every state.
It reminds me of the maps of the Civil War with Missouri in something very bold to signify the Missouri Compromise. (Thank goodness California eventually entered the union as a free state. It set the tone for the west coast.)
The Civil War will never end.
I wish I could look at this map and see something more innocuous, "This reminds me of the corn, wheat, steer and oil distribution maps of my youth."
But it does not.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
It's a Wedding Storm
People are planning on getting married all over the place. The courthouse, of course, in fields, at the ocean’s edge and even next to the tar pits, my favorite.
There are so many other great places to get married in Los Angeles. On line at Pinks Hot Dogs? The Farmer’s Market. Up at the Griffith Observatory could be stellar. Maybe a moving ceremony along the 101, driving from downtown LA to Hollywood.
I am looking forward to all these gay couples being wed. Then, I am looking forward to the law suits against the federal government for not transferring survivor rights to spouses in the military and for social security benefits.
Until the law suits, I hope married gay couples start jointly filing their federal income tax returns. Less paper.
There are so many other great places to get married in Los Angeles. On line at Pinks Hot Dogs? The Farmer’s Market. Up at the Griffith Observatory could be stellar. Maybe a moving ceremony along the 101, driving from downtown LA to Hollywood.
I am looking forward to all these gay couples being wed. Then, I am looking forward to the law suits against the federal government for not transferring survivor rights to spouses in the military and for social security benefits.
Until the law suits, I hope married gay couples start jointly filing their federal income tax returns. Less paper.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, June 09, 2008
Mrs. Ashwood
When I was five years old, we moved. My parents made it sound very exciting. They bought a house near my father’s sister in New City, New York, twenty miles from Peekskill, NY where we were leaving, on the other side of the Hudson River. The day we arrived, everything in a huge moving truck, my parents were told by the bank that the builder of the house was involved in some shady deal and they would not fund our mortgage. We could not close and we became officially homeless.
We moved into the Ashley Motor Court in Nanuet for a few weeks until my parents found us a nice bungalow to rent in an apple orchard on Route 45 in Spring Valley. The Maggots, truly their name, were an old Orthodox Jewish couple renting out rooms in out buildings and in their home to people like us and also at the time, to a couple of swinging British girls in their early twenties who flirted with my brother and I. They rented in the big barn. My brother and I slept on cots in the Maggots’ kitchen. I started kindergarten at Summit Park Elementary school. Six weeks later, my parents bought a real house in Spring Valley, with nine rooms and a stream in the back yard where I finished kindergarten at Oakwood.
Before I began first grade, Bluefield Elementary School was built. It was during the period when people were fleeing New York City and moving to the suburbs so there was a need. The hallways of Bluefield were painted in bright orange, red and yellow shapes, many of them isosceles triangles. This was Bella Abzug and Betty Friedan country, and all was liberal, progressive, and who knows what else! That summer, just before the school opened, there was an article in the local newspaper about something truly exciting about to take place. Two black teachers were hired to teach in this practically all white school district. One was Mrs. Brown, the music teacher (an amazing favorite who would throw her wig on the piano when she got angry). The other one was Mrs. Ashwood (let’s call her that). I had never seen black people, really. Maybe when we drove through Yonkers to visit my grandparents or on television. But not real ones.
Mrs. Ashwood taught first grade. I was assigned to her class. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. Because the newspaper made such a fuss about it, I assumed that black people were inferior and that I was getting a really bad deal. I could not imagine what it would be like. Since teachers, at that age, are kind of like mother substitutes, I felt like I lost some sort of lottery and I would never be able to get close to this new kind of woman, an unwhite person. For God’s sake, I could barely make her face out in the poorly lit newspaper photo.
Mrs. Ashwood turned out to be exceptional, warm, a great teacher and I became her pet. She had an enormous afro. We had spelling bees called the lollipop house—if you got to the top of the stairs spelling words correctly on the blackboard, you’d get a lollipop. I still have the report cards showing her curly handwriting. She was bright and interested, pretty and lovely. When the girls in reading group were all laughing at me, and it turned out it was because of my dimples, she stood up and told those girls that my dimples were cute. Like most boys with their first grade teachers, I had a little crush on her.
There was a dark side to the whole thing. A kid in my class, let’s call him Larry Morton, had behavioral problems. He acted out. My guess is he had A.D.D. and his parents just thought he needed lots of discipline. The lore goes, they signed some sort of piece of paper that said Mrs. Ashwood could beat or hit Larry if he got unruly. And she did. At first, she did not. But as the year wore on and he wore on her nerves, she would pinch, him, pull his hair, grab him hard, and one time she even threw him into a metal garbage can. That particular day, we all just sat there, stone silent, knowing she had gone just too far but no one said anything, I don’t think, and she did not get in trouble. But after that day, she never hit him again. So I assume something went down and she was told to stop.
I didn’t think her beating up Larry was anything that strange. In fact, it was no different than what the Italian mothers up and down my street were doing to their children when they got out of hand. Seemed to me that Black people were just like any other people.
A few decades later, we are about to elect an African American president. He went to Harvard and he keeps very trim. I have known many people who have gone to Harvard who have remained thin. Again, no difference.
We’ve come a long way. Should work out well.
We moved into the Ashley Motor Court in Nanuet for a few weeks until my parents found us a nice bungalow to rent in an apple orchard on Route 45 in Spring Valley. The Maggots, truly their name, were an old Orthodox Jewish couple renting out rooms in out buildings and in their home to people like us and also at the time, to a couple of swinging British girls in their early twenties who flirted with my brother and I. They rented in the big barn. My brother and I slept on cots in the Maggots’ kitchen. I started kindergarten at Summit Park Elementary school. Six weeks later, my parents bought a real house in Spring Valley, with nine rooms and a stream in the back yard where I finished kindergarten at Oakwood.
Before I began first grade, Bluefield Elementary School was built. It was during the period when people were fleeing New York City and moving to the suburbs so there was a need. The hallways of Bluefield were painted in bright orange, red and yellow shapes, many of them isosceles triangles. This was Bella Abzug and Betty Friedan country, and all was liberal, progressive, and who knows what else! That summer, just before the school opened, there was an article in the local newspaper about something truly exciting about to take place. Two black teachers were hired to teach in this practically all white school district. One was Mrs. Brown, the music teacher (an amazing favorite who would throw her wig on the piano when she got angry). The other one was Mrs. Ashwood (let’s call her that). I had never seen black people, really. Maybe when we drove through Yonkers to visit my grandparents or on television. But not real ones.
Mrs. Ashwood taught first grade. I was assigned to her class. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. Because the newspaper made such a fuss about it, I assumed that black people were inferior and that I was getting a really bad deal. I could not imagine what it would be like. Since teachers, at that age, are kind of like mother substitutes, I felt like I lost some sort of lottery and I would never be able to get close to this new kind of woman, an unwhite person. For God’s sake, I could barely make her face out in the poorly lit newspaper photo.
Mrs. Ashwood turned out to be exceptional, warm, a great teacher and I became her pet. She had an enormous afro. We had spelling bees called the lollipop house—if you got to the top of the stairs spelling words correctly on the blackboard, you’d get a lollipop. I still have the report cards showing her curly handwriting. She was bright and interested, pretty and lovely. When the girls in reading group were all laughing at me, and it turned out it was because of my dimples, she stood up and told those girls that my dimples were cute. Like most boys with their first grade teachers, I had a little crush on her.
There was a dark side to the whole thing. A kid in my class, let’s call him Larry Morton, had behavioral problems. He acted out. My guess is he had A.D.D. and his parents just thought he needed lots of discipline. The lore goes, they signed some sort of piece of paper that said Mrs. Ashwood could beat or hit Larry if he got unruly. And she did. At first, she did not. But as the year wore on and he wore on her nerves, she would pinch, him, pull his hair, grab him hard, and one time she even threw him into a metal garbage can. That particular day, we all just sat there, stone silent, knowing she had gone just too far but no one said anything, I don’t think, and she did not get in trouble. But after that day, she never hit him again. So I assume something went down and she was told to stop.
I didn’t think her beating up Larry was anything that strange. In fact, it was no different than what the Italian mothers up and down my street were doing to their children when they got out of hand. Seemed to me that Black people were just like any other people.
A few decades later, we are about to elect an African American president. He went to Harvard and he keeps very trim. I have known many people who have gone to Harvard who have remained thin. Again, no difference.
We’ve come a long way. Should work out well.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Stop Children, What's that Sound?
It took forty years, but maybe we’re getting there?
These are exciting times.
For What It’s Worth.
These are exciting times.
For What It’s Worth.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
We All Know It
If he doesn’t take her as his vice, he will be pummeled with forklifts and estrogen patches.
Come on Barry, we all know you’re stalling, grandstanding even.
Go ahead, take a couple of days. But we know what you have to do.
We’ve known it for months.
This is so exciting, I think I’ll make a George Bush Pudding Effigy and eat the whole thing in one sitting.
Come on Barry, we all know you’re stalling, grandstanding even.
Go ahead, take a couple of days. But we know what you have to do.
We’ve known it for months.
This is so exciting, I think I’ll make a George Bush Pudding Effigy and eat the whole thing in one sitting.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Bringing in New Sheaves
Now that Obama has fully quit his church, who is going to have him? It will be very interesting to see how he is pursued, by clergy. What choice will he make? Will he join another church that is primarily comprised of African American churchgoers? Does he do it in Washington D.C.? This is going to be a political move that will be watched, of course. It will be hard to accept any choice he makes. No matter where he goes, one will wonder how calculated it is. When it comes to Christ, one must not be too calculating.
I hope he joins a Unitarian church, the most liberal of the bunch. You can be an atheist yet still be a Unitarian. But I bet he does something much more hard core.
I hope he joins a Unitarian church, the most liberal of the bunch. You can be an atheist yet still be a Unitarian. But I bet he does something much more hard core.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Rock Garden
With a Rock Garden--- you get to have small plants with lots of rocks. Rocks don’t need much water.
And one can use broken concrete for the rocks.
There is a lot of concrete around.
It’s time we took our garbage, our building garbage, and built it into gardens.
Inspired by a trip to the Botanical Gardens up in the Bronx, and always loving rock gardens, I fully re-endorse rock gardens.
And one can use broken concrete for the rocks.
There is a lot of concrete around.
It’s time we took our garbage, our building garbage, and built it into gardens.
Inspired by a trip to the Botanical Gardens up in the Bronx, and always loving rock gardens, I fully re-endorse rock gardens.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)