It could be a wonderful, rich, shared Hollywood experience for the people who want it: writing, producers working with writers, directors working with producers and writers, actors working with directors, all of it catered by someone who understands that garlic really upsets my stomach.
But it’s never easy at the grabby table. Because it’s all about the pie. For some reason, people want to hog down the whole thing, or hide the whole thing for later, or pretend there isn’t much of a pie so it can’t be shared. It’s disgusting.
I have worked for many years as an accountant in small, cable television production offices. The number one goal of the producers has always been to keep as much money for themselves as possible. Segment producers do not get writing credit, though they do almost nothing but research and writing. They often make $1200 per week. No chance of residuals. The producers would never think of giving them anything more. If a show gets a fee of $600,000 from a studio to produce one special episode, a pair of producers do their best to keep $300,000 for themselves, and then use the other half for the budget. When someone asks for a larger salary than $1200 (which is usually for at least a sixty hour work week) the producer responds, naturally, “There just isn’t that much money in the budget.” The segment producer (writer actually) glumly, yet feverishly works for $20 per hour in a very stressful, deadline oriented office. The two producers feel justified pocketing the $300,000 because they are in a high risk business and they need to protect themselves from ruin.
Therein lays the basis of producers’ greed: FEAR. They stockpile cash. They aren’t in this business to make glorious art. They are in this business (like brokers are in the securities trade) to amass cash for a safer, more opulent future.
There is so much money coming at producers. They skim and whine. I hope this WGA strike is grueling and bloody. This Halloween, I’m pulling up my ringside seat and I’m ready to hear all the “Boos”.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
May I Have Your Attention Please?
Due to Increased Security Measures, all passengers will be shot to death in the waiting area.
It’s getting ghastly out there. We often take flight 181 at 5PM from JFK back to LAX. It’s a good time to leave and you get to your house by 9PM. Plenty of time to clean up the piss from all your pets, check the mail, email, put things away, you name it, before hitting the hay.
But that’s just it. Here we are, having our normal lives, flying around, paying the bills, working when there’s work, hoping and writing about a better future and there’s just this infuriating stasis. And what about the kids? The kids are not rising up! Sure, it’s great that the laundry is going and my Energystar appliances are reducing my carbon footprint...I guess...but with Bush & Cheney getting ready to drop bombs on Iran now, we need to do something. And frankly, I’m just too busy with my life to do anything about it or to even know what to do about it. When I was just a wee boy, the Vietnam demonstrators were out in full force. I expect it again. It’s not happening.
We spent some time with my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner Adam’s niece who is in college in Vermont at the very funky and cool Marlboro College, where you get to design your own course of study. These kids seem like a lovely gaggle of patchouli pacifists. Which is wonderful! Maybe that’s the answer to the whole problem. Of course, the side of me that wants closure to this whole war thinks, “One Nuke per Middle Eastern Nation.” Reactionary? Surely. I’m impatient. Obviously, I’m no war policy expert and killing millions of innocents is not the answer. I watched the graduate students of The Fletcher School of Law & Diplomacy at Tufts walking seriously into their dorms from my sophomore window. I never even talked to them. They seemed so sad and determined. I wonder what they’re doing now? Are they muscling for change? What the hell is going on? Are their kids in college? What are they going to do?
It’s frustrating to live with this endless badness. I fear for every one peaceful clove smoker at Marlboro College, there are three righteous bomb throwers at Virginia Tech.
Limited resources, over population, greed, and maniacs running the show—and all I care about or even know what to care about is to make sure I get an aisle seat on the flying aluminum tube that is burning its way back to my house. Like the kids, I don’t really know if I have any power at all. It’s so big. Can I have another cup of water without ice?
It’s getting ghastly out there. We often take flight 181 at 5PM from JFK back to LAX. It’s a good time to leave and you get to your house by 9PM. Plenty of time to clean up the piss from all your pets, check the mail, email, put things away, you name it, before hitting the hay.
But that’s just it. Here we are, having our normal lives, flying around, paying the bills, working when there’s work, hoping and writing about a better future and there’s just this infuriating stasis. And what about the kids? The kids are not rising up! Sure, it’s great that the laundry is going and my Energystar appliances are reducing my carbon footprint...I guess...but with Bush & Cheney getting ready to drop bombs on Iran now, we need to do something. And frankly, I’m just too busy with my life to do anything about it or to even know what to do about it. When I was just a wee boy, the Vietnam demonstrators were out in full force. I expect it again. It’s not happening.
We spent some time with my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner Adam’s niece who is in college in Vermont at the very funky and cool Marlboro College, where you get to design your own course of study. These kids seem like a lovely gaggle of patchouli pacifists. Which is wonderful! Maybe that’s the answer to the whole problem. Of course, the side of me that wants closure to this whole war thinks, “One Nuke per Middle Eastern Nation.” Reactionary? Surely. I’m impatient. Obviously, I’m no war policy expert and killing millions of innocents is not the answer. I watched the graduate students of The Fletcher School of Law & Diplomacy at Tufts walking seriously into their dorms from my sophomore window. I never even talked to them. They seemed so sad and determined. I wonder what they’re doing now? Are they muscling for change? What the hell is going on? Are their kids in college? What are they going to do?
It’s frustrating to live with this endless badness. I fear for every one peaceful clove smoker at Marlboro College, there are three righteous bomb throwers at Virginia Tech.
Limited resources, over population, greed, and maniacs running the show—and all I care about or even know what to care about is to make sure I get an aisle seat on the flying aluminum tube that is burning its way back to my house. Like the kids, I don’t really know if I have any power at all. It’s so big. Can I have another cup of water without ice?
Monday, October 15, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The Poodle Tray
Religion, If We Must
Lately, I feel like we might as well have Religion.
People, for the most part, have a hard time grasping algebra, never mind the complex ideas of existential existence, evolution, secular humanism, or how to happily make a delicious fish taco for no other reason than the joy it gives the maker.
When brilliant authors, like Richard Dawkins, write their screeds against religion, they take a completely logical stance. But life is not completely logical. And again, people have a hard time happily making tacos. Plus, since we, like Dawkins, are able to logically assess the ignorance of the masses, doesn’t it then become logical that ignorance needs its solace?
I accept religion as the great soul softener if it aids in mollifying hard souls who will then reach out and take care of the old and the infirm. It makes sense that older people become more religious and inculcate others because it serves them well. Kinder people won’t just toss grandma on an iceberg flotilla. Old people have a lot at stake with Religion. Let them promulgate and benefit.
Religion is not for me. But then, I live in big American cities and I’m not poor and I can go to LAX and fly around and I have never known a day of hunger or serious disease. I don’t need some caring father figure in the sky to take care of me. But lots of people do.
I believe the destruction of Religion will only come when there are far fewer people on earth, when everything is truly mechanized, when human beings only follow their bliss and this is all accepted as a fine way to live. Until then...water rationing, And God.
People, for the most part, have a hard time grasping algebra, never mind the complex ideas of existential existence, evolution, secular humanism, or how to happily make a delicious fish taco for no other reason than the joy it gives the maker.
When brilliant authors, like Richard Dawkins, write their screeds against religion, they take a completely logical stance. But life is not completely logical. And again, people have a hard time happily making tacos. Plus, since we, like Dawkins, are able to logically assess the ignorance of the masses, doesn’t it then become logical that ignorance needs its solace?
I accept religion as the great soul softener if it aids in mollifying hard souls who will then reach out and take care of the old and the infirm. It makes sense that older people become more religious and inculcate others because it serves them well. Kinder people won’t just toss grandma on an iceberg flotilla. Old people have a lot at stake with Religion. Let them promulgate and benefit.
Religion is not for me. But then, I live in big American cities and I’m not poor and I can go to LAX and fly around and I have never known a day of hunger or serious disease. I don’t need some caring father figure in the sky to take care of me. But lots of people do.
I believe the destruction of Religion will only come when there are far fewer people on earth, when everything is truly mechanized, when human beings only follow their bliss and this is all accepted as a fine way to live. Until then...water rationing, And God.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Junior High Gym Locker
When I finally got to go to Junior High School, I was so excited. An actual SCHEDULE. I love schedules. It makes you feel like you are part of something important. It was very exciting. It was also a time for smoking all kinds of things, drinking what was available and figuring out, at least somewhat, what sex was all about. Exciting times, being twelve, and getting on that bus to Junior High.
What I did not anticipate, however, was that I was going to have to share a gym locker. I understood that I had to take gym and the army-navy store sold the uniforms. Fine. What I did not know was that my somewhat filthy outfit was going to be hanging right next to someone else’s filthy outfit. Right there, in the locker room, in the basement of the school, stinking to high heaven.
Because I was about three feet tall, weighed six pounds, threw like a mouse girl and loathed playing with balls outdoors, I was not the most desirable companion in gym class. This, of course, landed me being picked second to last for all teams. The guy who was picked dead last? Gerry Schwartz, the very fat kid. The recoiling kind of fat.
When it came time to choose a locker mate, well, Gerry and I became a natural pair. Neither one of us dared to ask someone else to be our locker mate, nor did anyone ask either one of us. Our gym clothes moved in with each other that first week of school.
At first, it really wasn’t a problem. I was barely in puberty but had already sworn to a life of deodorant. I was sitting on the bench one day, in fifth grade, during a basketball game. I guess I had exerted myself during practice and I smelled like an orangutan. I told my father (and very soon after told him I was never playing basketball again) and we got some Tussey.
So, in Seventh Grade, my first week of Junior High, I had a clean gym outfit (blue shorts and white T) and I didn’t really push too hard, didn’t sweat much, and was wearing my anti-smell chemicals.
Gerry was another story. He clearly had not discovered the personally sweetening properties of flecked aluminum in white stick or spray. And let’s all just admit it—Fat people sweat a lot. After jogging around the field, doing some jumping jacks, squat-thrusts, and other things that were actually just fine with me, I’d hang in the field during whatever game we were playing and just stay out of the way. I was dry as a bone upon completion. Gerry, after the calisthenics, tried to play a little in the game. And Gerry sweated like a Sooey-Pig.
Back in the locker room, we were both embarrassed about our bodies. I still looked like I was nine years old. And Gerry was just rotund, with huge, sagging breasts. We’d both undress very slowly and wait for the others to clear out before we put our regular clothes back on. Neither one of us ever showered, though Gerry really could have used many. I’d hang my shorts and T-shirt on one hook and Gerry would hang his dripping, musky, fetid garments on the other.
The next time we would come back to gym class (about every two days), there his stuff would be...dry now...but crusty and sweet.
Over time, I just accepted it. In fact, I played a trick on myself, convincing myself that, “Yeah, it’s just a smell. It’s pretty nice actually. It IS sort of sweet. And I like skunks.” We were supposed to bring our gym clothes home at the end of each week to get them washed. I followed rules and always brought mine home. Gerry, he always watied at least two weeks, sometimes three. It was awful.
For a while, I really liked Gerry. He had a very warm smile. He had nice, straight hair. He probably would have been very cute, now that I think about it, had he lost eighty pounds. He took being made fun of in stride. He smiled, laughed it off.
I figured I was with this smelly fat kid, I might as well like him. And he did have his good smile and hair and a sort of even, good natured temperament. I even thought that it would be kind of cool if we became really good friends.
But it didn’t take long for me to realize he was completely emotionally hiding inside his blubber and I saw that his shame and pain over his size was something he had been dealing with his whole life and so he had developed a way of not really being honest about anything and thus, really couldn’t form friendships. And the dishonesty became troubling to me. If I asked him to bring his stinking gym clothes home to wash them, he’d say, “Sure,” and then he wouldn’t. But I always forgave him in the way you forgive people with great infirmities. I thought—if he’s this fat, there must be other things that are really wrong with his family. Maybe they’re poor and don’t have detergent.
Within a few months, I became friends with the hardened, smoking, cool crowd of the seventh grade. My sister was friends with all their older siblings in the ninth grade, so we younger hippies formed a pack in response. Gerry remained a smiling fat kid, standing at the locker, putting on his filthy clothes week after week. I internally distanced myself from the whole experience, figured out that one day I would not have to take gym any longer, and that this whole thing would pass. After figuring out things like this, I'd rush out to "the shed" to smoke a Parliament.
Eventually, I didn’t leave my gym clothes in the locker with Gerry’s gym clothes. I couldn’t take it. I kept mine in my regular locker in the hall along with my books and lunch and just brought them with me to gym class. When I changed, I didn’t even put my regular clothes in Gerry’s locker. I thought of it as only Gerry's locker since he really chased me out with his stench.
During gym, I'd leave my regular clothes in another empty locker. We didn’t really have to share lockers. What we were sharing was locks, provided by the school. It was back in the day before you even thought about buying your own lock. So, I’d take the chance and leave my clothes unlocked. It was fine.
I wish I could have been friends with Gerry. I really did try to look for things, but he was too hidden and sad and I needed to be free and adventurous. As the year wore on and I would change at the gym locker that I was using, that would never be locked, Gerry would give me a funny look which said, “You abandoned me, just like every other kid who has ever known me has abandoned me, but I'm going to remain smiley and nice and that's how I'm going to survive. You look like you're heading for trouble with that pack of Parliaments. We used to share lockers, but you dumped me, but I’m glad you didn’t try to steal the lock away from me because I like having my own locker and my own lock. I don't mind the smell at all. I don’t get you either and we were never going to be friends anyway.”
What I did not anticipate, however, was that I was going to have to share a gym locker. I understood that I had to take gym and the army-navy store sold the uniforms. Fine. What I did not know was that my somewhat filthy outfit was going to be hanging right next to someone else’s filthy outfit. Right there, in the locker room, in the basement of the school, stinking to high heaven.
Because I was about three feet tall, weighed six pounds, threw like a mouse girl and loathed playing with balls outdoors, I was not the most desirable companion in gym class. This, of course, landed me being picked second to last for all teams. The guy who was picked dead last? Gerry Schwartz, the very fat kid. The recoiling kind of fat.
When it came time to choose a locker mate, well, Gerry and I became a natural pair. Neither one of us dared to ask someone else to be our locker mate, nor did anyone ask either one of us. Our gym clothes moved in with each other that first week of school.
At first, it really wasn’t a problem. I was barely in puberty but had already sworn to a life of deodorant. I was sitting on the bench one day, in fifth grade, during a basketball game. I guess I had exerted myself during practice and I smelled like an orangutan. I told my father (and very soon after told him I was never playing basketball again) and we got some Tussey.
So, in Seventh Grade, my first week of Junior High, I had a clean gym outfit (blue shorts and white T) and I didn’t really push too hard, didn’t sweat much, and was wearing my anti-smell chemicals.
Gerry was another story. He clearly had not discovered the personally sweetening properties of flecked aluminum in white stick or spray. And let’s all just admit it—Fat people sweat a lot. After jogging around the field, doing some jumping jacks, squat-thrusts, and other things that were actually just fine with me, I’d hang in the field during whatever game we were playing and just stay out of the way. I was dry as a bone upon completion. Gerry, after the calisthenics, tried to play a little in the game. And Gerry sweated like a Sooey-Pig.
Back in the locker room, we were both embarrassed about our bodies. I still looked like I was nine years old. And Gerry was just rotund, with huge, sagging breasts. We’d both undress very slowly and wait for the others to clear out before we put our regular clothes back on. Neither one of us ever showered, though Gerry really could have used many. I’d hang my shorts and T-shirt on one hook and Gerry would hang his dripping, musky, fetid garments on the other.
The next time we would come back to gym class (about every two days), there his stuff would be...dry now...but crusty and sweet.
Over time, I just accepted it. In fact, I played a trick on myself, convincing myself that, “Yeah, it’s just a smell. It’s pretty nice actually. It IS sort of sweet. And I like skunks.” We were supposed to bring our gym clothes home at the end of each week to get them washed. I followed rules and always brought mine home. Gerry, he always watied at least two weeks, sometimes three. It was awful.
For a while, I really liked Gerry. He had a very warm smile. He had nice, straight hair. He probably would have been very cute, now that I think about it, had he lost eighty pounds. He took being made fun of in stride. He smiled, laughed it off.
I figured I was with this smelly fat kid, I might as well like him. And he did have his good smile and hair and a sort of even, good natured temperament. I even thought that it would be kind of cool if we became really good friends.
But it didn’t take long for me to realize he was completely emotionally hiding inside his blubber and I saw that his shame and pain over his size was something he had been dealing with his whole life and so he had developed a way of not really being honest about anything and thus, really couldn’t form friendships. And the dishonesty became troubling to me. If I asked him to bring his stinking gym clothes home to wash them, he’d say, “Sure,” and then he wouldn’t. But I always forgave him in the way you forgive people with great infirmities. I thought—if he’s this fat, there must be other things that are really wrong with his family. Maybe they’re poor and don’t have detergent.
Within a few months, I became friends with the hardened, smoking, cool crowd of the seventh grade. My sister was friends with all their older siblings in the ninth grade, so we younger hippies formed a pack in response. Gerry remained a smiling fat kid, standing at the locker, putting on his filthy clothes week after week. I internally distanced myself from the whole experience, figured out that one day I would not have to take gym any longer, and that this whole thing would pass. After figuring out things like this, I'd rush out to "the shed" to smoke a Parliament.
Eventually, I didn’t leave my gym clothes in the locker with Gerry’s gym clothes. I couldn’t take it. I kept mine in my regular locker in the hall along with my books and lunch and just brought them with me to gym class. When I changed, I didn’t even put my regular clothes in Gerry’s locker. I thought of it as only Gerry's locker since he really chased me out with his stench.
During gym, I'd leave my regular clothes in another empty locker. We didn’t really have to share lockers. What we were sharing was locks, provided by the school. It was back in the day before you even thought about buying your own lock. So, I’d take the chance and leave my clothes unlocked. It was fine.
I wish I could have been friends with Gerry. I really did try to look for things, but he was too hidden and sad and I needed to be free and adventurous. As the year wore on and I would change at the gym locker that I was using, that would never be locked, Gerry would give me a funny look which said, “You abandoned me, just like every other kid who has ever known me has abandoned me, but I'm going to remain smiley and nice and that's how I'm going to survive. You look like you're heading for trouble with that pack of Parliaments. We used to share lockers, but you dumped me, but I’m glad you didn’t try to steal the lock away from me because I like having my own locker and my own lock. I don't mind the smell at all. I don’t get you either and we were never going to be friends anyway.”
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
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Subscribe, for the love of it.
In the upper right corner of this Blog-page, you can easily subscribe to OPEN TRENCH.
After you subscribe, Feedblitz will send you the latest blog entry every day in an easy to read format right into your inbox.
They won’t spam you.
They won’t give your email away.
They won’t secretly use your computer as an espionage lily pad.
And when you get your email, if you enjoy the blog entry and you want to make a comment, just click on the title and you will be sent directly to the regular OPEN TRENCH site.
It’s the next layer of things.
We all await the unifying theory.
Monday, October 08, 2007
M C
While watching the movie, Michael Clayton, I was absorbed, mostly. Though being a writer of a story or two, I was mentally poking at it with a stick, seeing what it was made of for most of the viewing.
There is a large problem. The climax is shown first and then they backtrack and show you how they get to that spot. You’ve seen this device before and it can work if there are lots of surprises along the way. Trouble is, as soon as they start back to square one, you kind of know exactly how it all will go down because of the climax that you saw. So you sit there for an hour and a half, slogging back to the scene you already saw near the beginning and you want to quietly whisper, “Okay, finally. Now let’s move on with the story.”
No one is talking about this as a problem? I think it’s a big one.
The acting is truly wonderful. Tilda Swinton as evil in full female flesh is quite enervating. Tom Wilkinson, a latter day Peter Finch from Network, is the nut who is causing all the trouble. George Clooney is the janitor/fixer. But what we quickly learn in this world of corporate greed, power and selfishness is that everyone is a version of janitor/fixer. And janitors do feel the need to clean up.
I don’t know. Hollywood seems to be congratulating itself for this movie. I think it’s just a big ol’ movie. Well done. But there’s a flatness to the story, a lack of twists, missing layers of onions to peel.
Sydney Pollack plays power very well. He is also one of the producers of the movie.
I sometimes feel sad that as Americans, we are mostly intrigued by the use and abuse of power. We are a nation of citizens who came here powerless in search of power. So it makes sense that the distribution and negotiating of power is what we mostly want to witness. But maybe juxtapose it against other human attributes without getting too cheesy?
I don’t like to have the time to pull back and think about the sociological underpinnings of a movie while I’m watching it. But with this one, I did.
Michael Clayton
There is a large problem. The climax is shown first and then they backtrack and show you how they get to that spot. You’ve seen this device before and it can work if there are lots of surprises along the way. Trouble is, as soon as they start back to square one, you kind of know exactly how it all will go down because of the climax that you saw. So you sit there for an hour and a half, slogging back to the scene you already saw near the beginning and you want to quietly whisper, “Okay, finally. Now let’s move on with the story.”
No one is talking about this as a problem? I think it’s a big one.
The acting is truly wonderful. Tilda Swinton as evil in full female flesh is quite enervating. Tom Wilkinson, a latter day Peter Finch from Network, is the nut who is causing all the trouble. George Clooney is the janitor/fixer. But what we quickly learn in this world of corporate greed, power and selfishness is that everyone is a version of janitor/fixer. And janitors do feel the need to clean up.
I don’t know. Hollywood seems to be congratulating itself for this movie. I think it’s just a big ol’ movie. Well done. But there’s a flatness to the story, a lack of twists, missing layers of onions to peel.
Sydney Pollack plays power very well. He is also one of the producers of the movie.
I sometimes feel sad that as Americans, we are mostly intrigued by the use and abuse of power. We are a nation of citizens who came here powerless in search of power. So it makes sense that the distribution and negotiating of power is what we mostly want to witness. But maybe juxtapose it against other human attributes without getting too cheesy?
I don’t like to have the time to pull back and think about the sociological underpinnings of a movie while I’m watching it. But with this one, I did.
Michael Clayton
Friday, October 05, 2007
Closeted Senator Stays Put
The thing that wouldn’t leave!
That’s Larry Craig. He’s sticking to his senate seat.
I’m all for his barnacle nature.
Though he is certainly a hypocritical lunatic, there is no law that can unseat him, unless 2/3 of the senate votes for his dismissal. Isn’t going to happen.
Tapping my toes for Larry. Let freedom ring.
That’s Larry Craig. He’s sticking to his senate seat.
I’m all for his barnacle nature.
Though he is certainly a hypocritical lunatic, there is no law that can unseat him, unless 2/3 of the senate votes for his dismissal. Isn’t going to happen.
Tapping my toes for Larry. Let freedom ring.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Time Regained
Thanks to Jeff Kaufman, who might as well be the King of Sycamore Avenue, I have finally taken care of my sluggish computer syndrome.
Okay, you know how your computer just isn’t as fast as it used to be? Well, that’s because it isn’t. You need it to be faster. Sure, you can slow down in other areas of your life. Take long strolls along the Seine. Watch the roses grow. Pet your animals. Chew completely.
But in order to do that, you need your computer to be zippy so you’re not wasting time.
I only had 512 RAM going. I needed to double it.
Here’s what you do to see if you can increase the speed of your computer. It was so simple, a slightly educated monkey could do it.
Right click on you’re My Computer, click on Properties. A list of info shows up.
The amount of RAM is listed at the bottom, right next to the speed (Hz) of your processor. You might have 256 RAM or 512 RAM or 1GB RAM.
Also, you have to know what your computer model is.
Figure these things out. Write them down or do a dance about them. Just, remember them.
Then, go to www.crucial.com
Follow their easy steps for Memory Upgrade. You put in the necessary info you have at hand, they let you know what the maximum amount of RAM you can have in your model. You buy the extra RAM (mine was only $40). They send it to you.
Then, you just slip it in. Every computer is different---but basically, there’s always some simple slot somewhere just underneath a panel and you click it in. If you don’t know where your slot is, you can certainly do an online search for it. It truly does just click in.
Jeff was the inspiration. My credit card was so convenient.
My computer now runs gazelle-fast...even when I type, the letters hit the screen faster. It’s a fucking miracle.
I went from 512 to 1GB.
I wish I did this three years ago.
Okay, you know how your computer just isn’t as fast as it used to be? Well, that’s because it isn’t. You need it to be faster. Sure, you can slow down in other areas of your life. Take long strolls along the Seine. Watch the roses grow. Pet your animals. Chew completely.
But in order to do that, you need your computer to be zippy so you’re not wasting time.
I only had 512 RAM going. I needed to double it.
Here’s what you do to see if you can increase the speed of your computer. It was so simple, a slightly educated monkey could do it.
Right click on you’re My Computer, click on Properties. A list of info shows up.
The amount of RAM is listed at the bottom, right next to the speed (Hz) of your processor. You might have 256 RAM or 512 RAM or 1GB RAM.
Also, you have to know what your computer model is.
Figure these things out. Write them down or do a dance about them. Just, remember them.
Then, go to www.crucial.com
Follow their easy steps for Memory Upgrade. You put in the necessary info you have at hand, they let you know what the maximum amount of RAM you can have in your model. You buy the extra RAM (mine was only $40). They send it to you.
Then, you just slip it in. Every computer is different---but basically, there’s always some simple slot somewhere just underneath a panel and you click it in. If you don’t know where your slot is, you can certainly do an online search for it. It truly does just click in.
Jeff was the inspiration. My credit card was so convenient.
My computer now runs gazelle-fast...even when I type, the letters hit the screen faster. It’s a fucking miracle.
I went from 512 to 1GB.
I wish I did this three years ago.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Double Edged WiFi VooDoo
As the Santa Ana condition worsens and my head pounds like a pumpkin against a wrought iron gate, I sit at the computer and I wonder how my life got so wired.
Wanting to get more blog traffic, I set up a MySpace page and a Facebook Page with links to this blog.
Which is fine. That didn’t take long. But then---there you are—looking at your dog-ugly MySpace page compared with all the other ones that are covered with jewels, music and sometimes even fur you can feel.
I covet those pimped out electric calling cards and I want to dive deep into this world of fabulous cyber sunflowers. Yet one must, I don’t know, stop at some point?
There is all this life to be lived. And it needs to be lived with people, not with pages that are somehow linked to people.
However, I did already hook up with a performance venue in town through this MySpace thing. Although my blog is as sober looking as a book binding, I do enjoy a bit of the carnival.
I think, like everything else, one must limit one’s time going down the rabbit hole of the pulsing www. There is something lovely about organizing one’s life, publicly, for all to consume. But then there is privacy. I fear that people are not experiencing anything when they are private.
I meditate just five minutes each morning. When I do that, I feel so happy.
Wanting to get more blog traffic, I set up a MySpace page and a Facebook Page with links to this blog.
Which is fine. That didn’t take long. But then---there you are—looking at your dog-ugly MySpace page compared with all the other ones that are covered with jewels, music and sometimes even fur you can feel.
I covet those pimped out electric calling cards and I want to dive deep into this world of fabulous cyber sunflowers. Yet one must, I don’t know, stop at some point?
There is all this life to be lived. And it needs to be lived with people, not with pages that are somehow linked to people.
However, I did already hook up with a performance venue in town through this MySpace thing. Although my blog is as sober looking as a book binding, I do enjoy a bit of the carnival.
I think, like everything else, one must limit one’s time going down the rabbit hole of the pulsing www. There is something lovely about organizing one’s life, publicly, for all to consume. But then there is privacy. I fear that people are not experiencing anything when they are private.
I meditate just five minutes each morning. When I do that, I feel so happy.
The Game is Over
No one is immune to being Awful.
When people pull out the victimization card as trump, I say bah!
You can be a slave, break free, become a very wealthy CEO and bully your underlings.
You can be the downtrodden poor in Seventeenth century Europe, take a boat to the new world and kill the natives to secure your farmland.
You can be a victim of the Nazi party, then settle into the West Bank and underpay the locals.
You can be abused as a child and then grow up and destroy anyone who gets in the way of your owning Michigan.
Spare me the tales of your past as target. Then lay down your wretched darts.
When people pull out the victimization card as trump, I say bah!
You can be a slave, break free, become a very wealthy CEO and bully your underlings.
You can be the downtrodden poor in Seventeenth century Europe, take a boat to the new world and kill the natives to secure your farmland.
You can be a victim of the Nazi party, then settle into the West Bank and underpay the locals.
You can be abused as a child and then grow up and destroy anyone who gets in the way of your owning Michigan.
Spare me the tales of your past as target. Then lay down your wretched darts.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Wild, Into It
Into the Wild
Based on the Krakauer book of the same name, adapted and directed by Sean Penn, this thing is something else.
First of all, you have to decide for yourself, “Is this kid on a spiritual journey or a suicide mission?”
The brain tries to figure out which one it is. Of course, it’s both.
Into the Wild is slow. No question. The horrendous couple next to us (whom we moved over for so they could be together) did grow bored, talked to each other, leaned into each other for some heavy petting with the general tone that sounded like, “Baby, don’t you worry, I’d never do anything weird like leave you and head out into the wild to find, I don’t know, myself, God, nature, Death.”
It’s a movie you have to be in the mood for. I hadn’t been to the movies in a few weeks, so I was quite ready. Plus, I just finished reading Richard Ford’s very good novel, The Sportswriter, which is glacial yet somehow its snail pace spoke to my inner, meditative mollusk. I have been in the mood for slow, in depth things. Maybe I’m officially ancient.
Into the Wild is lovely in its administration to detail. And the point of going into nature, kind of like Thoreau but more severe, means slowing down, taking it all in. However, the experience of shooting a film and making a film that really makes you feel that way are two different things. At times, it worked. Other times, it seemed kind of overwrought---with slow shots of sky, rock, cloud, bush, bear. Growl.
The acting was pitch perfect. This is the shining goodness. Emile Hirsch does an amazing job as a coming-of-age kid who has pushed down all his rage toward his awful parents and submitted to a higher calling. He is immediately likable and everyone who comes into contact with him is galvanized into loving him. Supporting turns by Marcia Gay Harden, William Hurt, Catherine Keener, newcomer Brian Dierker as Rainey, Vince Vaughn and especially Hal Holbrook are fully realized and completely joyful to behold. I will repeat it again: especially Hal Holbrook. One can smell Oskie.
If you want to slow down and take in a big movie that tries its best to engulf a few big ideas, go for it. It’s good to slow down. But one does wish Sean Penn was just a tiny bit better at making movies if he’s going to continue. And we know he is.
Warning: Nasty moose slaughter scene.
Into the Wild
Based on the Krakauer book of the same name, adapted and directed by Sean Penn, this thing is something else.
First of all, you have to decide for yourself, “Is this kid on a spiritual journey or a suicide mission?”
The brain tries to figure out which one it is. Of course, it’s both.
Into the Wild is slow. No question. The horrendous couple next to us (whom we moved over for so they could be together) did grow bored, talked to each other, leaned into each other for some heavy petting with the general tone that sounded like, “Baby, don’t you worry, I’d never do anything weird like leave you and head out into the wild to find, I don’t know, myself, God, nature, Death.”
It’s a movie you have to be in the mood for. I hadn’t been to the movies in a few weeks, so I was quite ready. Plus, I just finished reading Richard Ford’s very good novel, The Sportswriter, which is glacial yet somehow its snail pace spoke to my inner, meditative mollusk. I have been in the mood for slow, in depth things. Maybe I’m officially ancient.
Into the Wild is lovely in its administration to detail. And the point of going into nature, kind of like Thoreau but more severe, means slowing down, taking it all in. However, the experience of shooting a film and making a film that really makes you feel that way are two different things. At times, it worked. Other times, it seemed kind of overwrought---with slow shots of sky, rock, cloud, bush, bear. Growl.
The acting was pitch perfect. This is the shining goodness. Emile Hirsch does an amazing job as a coming-of-age kid who has pushed down all his rage toward his awful parents and submitted to a higher calling. He is immediately likable and everyone who comes into contact with him is galvanized into loving him. Supporting turns by Marcia Gay Harden, William Hurt, Catherine Keener, newcomer Brian Dierker as Rainey, Vince Vaughn and especially Hal Holbrook are fully realized and completely joyful to behold. I will repeat it again: especially Hal Holbrook. One can smell Oskie.
If you want to slow down and take in a big movie that tries its best to engulf a few big ideas, go for it. It’s good to slow down. But one does wish Sean Penn was just a tiny bit better at making movies if he’s going to continue. And we know he is.
Warning: Nasty moose slaughter scene.
Into the Wild
Friday, September 28, 2007
Hair Ye!
www.HAIRTIX.com
This afternoon, I got in my car which was parked near the hardscrabble intersection of Overland and the entrance ramp to the 10 Freeway. If you live in Los Angeles, you might recall this section of town as a place with many ramps, bridges, medians and weeds. In one of the medians was a man with a sign that read, “Vietnam Vet. Disabled. Just Hungry. Can you Help?” He limped. He was old. He continuously moved his jaw up and down as if he were chewing or something—the kind of action you see in an old Hitchcock movie when it wants to be made clear that “this old guy is sort of nuts and falling apart.”
I didn’t give him any money. I honestly only had twenties. However, I did have quarters. But I need those for parking. I felt bad for the guy, truly, but I did nothing to help him. Next, I had my privileged day and went to the theatre. Which woke me up.
We saw HAIR, the 40th anniversary production at the MET Theatre. HAIR is presented by the original Broadway producer, Michael Butler, a very affable guy whom we met in the very convenient $5 parking lot.
Guys, go see it. It’s fabulous. I have never seen the play before. Sure, I saw that Twyla Tharp movie of it (a few times) which was so 1979 does 1968. And I actually liked the movie. For the music. But the play is a much more enjoyable experience. The extremely loose nature of the narrative, the be-in philosophy, the fun sketchy bits, the lovely celebration of life, light, color and flesh really do work on your senses and your soul that by the end, when they drag the audience up onstage to clap to LET THE SUNSHINE IN, you are not only happy to go, you are pretty much in love with everyone in the room.
Of course, Galt MacDermot’s music is still the big star here. My favorite songs, both in composition and execution, were Ain’t Got No, Frank Mills, Black Boys/White Boys, Walking in Space & What a Piece of Work is Man. These, of course, are not the greatest hits, but that’s usual for my taste. Singing talent varies some, but it’s really not much of a problem. There are some standout singers. When you go, you can hear them for yourself.
The cast is gorgeous, talented, honest, generous, extremely present and filled with some kind of special love. To be in their presence, even if they were to be doing nothing more than humming the phone book, is worth the price of admission.
I do not want to give short shrift to Ragni’s and Rado’s script. It is infused with the full awareness of some positive life force, a wonderment that is especially coursing in the blood during the coming-of-age season in life. The writers juxtapose this natural, positive energy against a society that is willing to take these beautiful young adults and have them killed. It is really quite shocking, an enormous tragedy and obviously relates to today’s situation in Iraq. By the time the sardonic What a Piece of Work is Man is sung, overlooking the mock carcasses of a recognizable sampling of different groups of people who have killed each other during the last few centuries, you realize, intellectually, this is where the whole story has led and it's like being hit with a plank. Then, emotionally, you feel completely saddened by the fragile, confused psyche of the human species and its ability to twist into the insane direction of fear, greed and thoughtless carnage. This play makes you want to make sure that not only do you remain conscious every second of your life, but that your life, in fact, needs to also be about awaking consciousness in others.
Do I have to mention again how great the music is?
Really, go see the play.
Get your Wig Here
www.HAIRTIX.com
Personal Hair History:
I was too young to see the play when it came out. I remember, in Peekskill, my Uncle Gene had the album and it was totally taboo and we were not allowed to listen to it.
Years later, I was Berger in a production of HAIR at Harvard (Tufts and Harvard shared hams) which I had to quit because, basically, it was a terrible production, completely rewritten in the worst way. Then, in the late eighties in New York City, I was offered the role of Berger in a German touring production---but just to take over for a few weeks so the real Berger could have a Christmas break. I didn’t take the gig because my ego was bruised, being offered nothing more than a mere replacement jaunt. I did meet Ragni and Rado, the creators, during the endless days of auditions. Old, fun, nutty Hippies. Hard to tell exactly who was gay between them. The audition process was much like the play—sort of wild and without boundaries and I was put off by it. I didn’t get it exactly. I was never meant to be in HAIR, I guess. But often, I sit at the piano and pound out Easy to Be Hard or Walking in Space.
www.HAIRTIX.com
Thursday, September 27, 2007
I Fear Depression
I sit and wonder about the economy. How can we bleed all this money into an un-winnable war and not completely destroy our fiscal lives?
It’s one thing to pummel a country and then plunder their resources, like Georgie wanted to do in Iraq. But to just spend and spend and get nothing at all? It’s suicide.
Simple bookkeeping teaches us that we are headed for ruin.
And the nutjob in the White House continues whistling his tune like a deranged bird at 4PM sitting in a mossy tree.
Dead young men and women. So many dollars gone that could have been used for healthcare and engine innovation. Because a super rich kid with not one original idea in his head was handed the presidency.
As the Catholics say:
“Let Us Pray.”
It’s one thing to pummel a country and then plunder their resources, like Georgie wanted to do in Iraq. But to just spend and spend and get nothing at all? It’s suicide.
Simple bookkeeping teaches us that we are headed for ruin.
And the nutjob in the White House continues whistling his tune like a deranged bird at 4PM sitting in a mossy tree.
Dead young men and women. So many dollars gone that could have been used for healthcare and engine innovation. Because a super rich kid with not one original idea in his head was handed the presidency.
As the Catholics say:
“Let Us Pray.”
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
STANDING OVATION
A year ago, my play THE FAT OF THE LAND ran for six weeks in Hollywood.
Which was a big, full experience.
Here in Los Angeles, we have these things called Ovation Awards--which are really our local theatre awards, mini-Tony's if you will.
Dan Alemshah, who played Claudia Vestibule, the big hearted, multi-racial Tranny, received an Ovation award nomination. It is really very exciting and well, we're all so happy for this.
Congratulations Dan.
"I tried to sneak out the window, but I'm too big."
The Fat of the Land
Which was a big, full experience.
Here in Los Angeles, we have these things called Ovation Awards--which are really our local theatre awards, mini-Tony's if you will.
Dan Alemshah, who played Claudia Vestibule, the big hearted, multi-racial Tranny, received an Ovation award nomination. It is really very exciting and well, we're all so happy for this.
Congratulations Dan.
"I tried to sneak out the window, but I'm too big."
The Fat of the Land
More Judy
Thanks to a new friend (hello DB) I have been turned on to this website.
The Judy Garland Experience
I did not dare join, enter or even consider. That fabulous rabbit hole is not for me as I have deadlines and headlines to make. But go ahead and enter, if you dare. Apparently, there are some hilarious Joan Crawford postings on there where she steals some of Judy’s stage thunder.
One of my close straight friends (hello JK) cannot understand the gay male obsession with Judy Garland. He tries his theories out on us. He thinks maybe we want to be her or maybe it’s just that we want to be her. When we explain that she embodies the timeless hurt of gay people and that we really relate to her, it doesn’t compute. Maybe he cannot see the pain underneath The Acheson, Topeka and the Santa Fe?
Perhaps we, as a gay people, understand putting on a show to cover up pain. It’s what we do. And no one put on a better show than Judy. Vulnerable, strong, talented and just a really great singer with always a huge gay following, Judy inspired the Stonewall Riots on the night of her death. And for that, too, we love her.
The Judy Garland Experience
I did not dare join, enter or even consider. That fabulous rabbit hole is not for me as I have deadlines and headlines to make. But go ahead and enter, if you dare. Apparently, there are some hilarious Joan Crawford postings on there where she steals some of Judy’s stage thunder.
One of my close straight friends (hello JK) cannot understand the gay male obsession with Judy Garland. He tries his theories out on us. He thinks maybe we want to be her or maybe it’s just that we want to be her. When we explain that she embodies the timeless hurt of gay people and that we really relate to her, it doesn’t compute. Maybe he cannot see the pain underneath The Acheson, Topeka and the Santa Fe?
Perhaps we, as a gay people, understand putting on a show to cover up pain. It’s what we do. And no one put on a better show than Judy. Vulnerable, strong, talented and just a really great singer with always a huge gay following, Judy inspired the Stonewall Riots on the night of her death. And for that, too, we love her.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Gayest Concert Ever
In a disappointing tone I must say the Rufus Wainwright doing the Judy Garland Carnegie Hall Album at The Hollywood Bowl concert---was rueful.
The LA Philharmonic was sublime. It’s like the codgers in the orchestra were just waiting their whole lives for this night. They were as smooth and alive and clean as a tight ensemble, yet they were a whole orchestra. Amazing musicians.
But poor Rufus. He was not up to the task. He did keep apologizing. Frankly, it was as if he said at a bar one night, all drunk, “I can make a movie. Watch me.” And then he went ahead and it turned out to be the worst thing ever made.
Rufus couldn’t hit the notes. He cracked all night long. He could not act the songs. He behaved as if it was torture just getting the songs through his chords. By the end of the concert, even a visitation by Lorna Luft couldn’t really do much. Not that one thinks Lorna could. The evening devolved into a family living room fest with his sister singing and his mother at the piano and Rufus croaking out some more old standards.
It was sad. Someone should have stopped him.
There is a lot of stuff that happens because someone has a certain stature. His or her senators should keep a very watchful eye.
The LA Philharmonic was sublime. It’s like the codgers in the orchestra were just waiting their whole lives for this night. They were as smooth and alive and clean as a tight ensemble, yet they were a whole orchestra. Amazing musicians.
But poor Rufus. He was not up to the task. He did keep apologizing. Frankly, it was as if he said at a bar one night, all drunk, “I can make a movie. Watch me.” And then he went ahead and it turned out to be the worst thing ever made.
Rufus couldn’t hit the notes. He cracked all night long. He could not act the songs. He behaved as if it was torture just getting the songs through his chords. By the end of the concert, even a visitation by Lorna Luft couldn’t really do much. Not that one thinks Lorna could. The evening devolved into a family living room fest with his sister singing and his mother at the piano and Rufus croaking out some more old standards.
It was sad. Someone should have stopped him.
There is a lot of stuff that happens because someone has a certain stature. His or her senators should keep a very watchful eye.
Friday, September 21, 2007
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