Earl Pomerantz: Just Thinking...

"London Jottings - 6"

2012-01-27T04:00:00.001-08:00

Today… (well, it was “today” when it happened)

When the tour ended, we vacated our hotel in favor of another apartment, this one in a bustling part of London, an area teeming with restaurants, trendy boutiques and foot traffic. The building was located at the other end of a narrow alley off of hyper-busy Oxford Street. We had stayed at this place on a previous visit, so, though it was slightly hidden away, it was not difficult to relocate. It was exactly where we’d left it.

One drawback to the place: A coffin-sized elevator, capable of holding only two riders, one, if they’re wearing a coat. I generally avoid such mini-conveyances, as they evoke nightmarish foreshadowings of my final resting place, with the unwelcome disadvantage of being confined inside them while I am still alive.

I take the stairs. Even though it’s three floors up. Which is really four floors up, since, in England, the First Floor is on the Second Floor, because they call the First Floor the Ground Floor. Meaning you have to walk up four flights of stairs to get to the Third Floor.

(This additional stair-climbing may explain why English people aren’t in as terrible shape as their diets would predict. I cannot believe what they eat. It’s like nutritional suicide. The food American heart surgeons instruct us to avoid, in England, that’s their “staples” – carbs, butterfat, beef, bacon, jam and salt. They love it! And they’re doing quoit noicely, it appears. Could I be eating healthy stuff for nothing? )

The apartment building’s stairs present challenges of their own. For some reason, the treads on the steps are extremely tiny, accommodating barely half of your foot (the front half going up, and the back half going down.)

It’s as if the manufacturers had originally designed the staircase for an orphanage, but when the orphanage was unable maintain the payments, it was repossessed and resold to this apartment, relegating the orphans to climb up the sides of the building to get to their rooms.

Home Entertainment

We stay in for the night in a week. I slip off my shoes and click on the TV. Among various other entertainments is a generous array of sports – cricket (which I understand about twelve percent of), soccer, rugby, live NFL football (the East Coast game is broadcast at six P.M., the later game starts at nine), and, most surprisingly, English-league ice hockey (as distinguished from field hockey), a program appropriately sponsored by a firm of personal injury lawyers.

With this eclectic range of offerings vying for my attention, I was finally won over by to the predominant sporting event of the day –

The National Darts Championship.

My mouth dropped, seeing an arena packed with thousands of spectators who had paid money to watch two guys throw darts at a seventeen-and-three-quarter inch dartboard. They must have had really good eyes. Especially the ones in the back.

It turned out, I had lucked into an unprecedented occurrence. It was not just the semi-finals of a national darts showdown I would be privileged to witness; I would experience an event that had never taken place in the entire history of the tournament.

Let me set the scene for you. The air was thick with excitement, as the two well-matched competitors took turns flicking darts at the dartboard. Suddenly, one of the players stops in mid-flick, and refuses to continue. The referee is required to call a halt in the action.

This was entirely unheard of. You do not call “time” in the middle of a dart’s competition. You play on till the blewdy finish.

Why had this happened? It was explained to us that the player who had demanded the interruption in the contest had claimed he had detected…

A breeze.

Which was throwing off his aim.

The player insisted that he would only return to the competition after the source of breeze had been discovered, and that said dart-deflecting impediment had been alleviated.

The delay was officially marked at twenty-two minutes. The search for the breeze-causing was on. And it was feverish, believe me. Never before had a national darts tournament been disrupted by a prevailing weather pattern (and may I remind you, the tournament was indoors.)

During the interruption, the announcers filled the time by adjudicating the appropriateness of the demand for the stoppage, predicting what effect it might have on the tournament, once play was resumed. One commentator branded the competitor who refused to continue weak-willed. His guess was that a man who was unable to accept the dart-throwing conditions as they were would probably lose, owing to a lack of the requisite grit.

It was ultimately determined that the disruptive breeze was the product of the collective body heat of the darts-watching assemblage. There was nothing to be done about it. The tournament must resume.

It did.

And the breeze-complainer lost.

Read in a local newspaper…

“{Prime Minister} David Cameron is facing a backlash after a millionaire businessman jailed for fraud appeared on the “New Year Honour List.”… Last night, the Cabinet Office refused to confirm whether the honour was the first senior award to be given to someone who has been convicted of a crime.”

"London Jottings - 5B"

2012-01-26T16:00:00.000-08:00

A director we met on our London Arts Discovery tour labeled our group “cultural activists.” Sounds a little too “art lovers at the parapets” for my liking, but what are you going to do? Theater directors are, by definition, “theatrical.” That’s their style – flamboyantly flattering. Which is appropriate when the guy has been paid to meet with us, and, meeting at “tea”, we were supplying him with free scones.

Okay, back to the theater…

One Man, Two Guvnors (based on The Servant of Two Masters, by Goldoni)

An extremely broad farce, which, as a comedy genre, is not my favorite. The barely decipherable working class accents and the cascade of specifically English references defeat my ability to understand what’s funny. And yet, the show’s cleverly-conceived conceptualization, its breakneck pace and the sublime quality of a number of the performances, highlighted by substantial chunks of improvisation hilariously executed by the lead actor, overpower my resistance, and I surrender to its silliness, both verbal and physical.

Example: Stanley Stubbers, laying low at a pub called “The Cricketers Arms” is currently in conversation with Francis, a dim bulb Stanley has recently taken on as his servant.

STANLEY: (READING FROM A “LETTER OF AUTHORIZATION”) To whom it may concern, the bearer is an authorized agent of Stanley Stubbers.

FRANCIS: Who’s Stanley Stubbers?

STANLEY: Shhh!

FRANCIS: Who’s Stanley Stubbers?

STANLEY: (Whisper) Me. But don’t call me Stanley Stubbers. I’m going to have to make up a new name for the pub.

FRANCIS: What’s wrong with ‘The Cricketers Arms?’

(NOTE TO COMEDY WRITERS: The joke’s set-up line -“I’m going to have to make up a new name for the pub” – could not have been better. It makes logical sense on its own. And it’s exquisitely structured to be misunderstood if the listener, like, in this case, Francis, is an idiot.)

Next up…

Juno and the Paycock (an Irish classic by Sean O’Casey)

‘Tis a gud t’ing we rad de play ahedo toim, or we wuddn’ ‘ave onderstuhd a ward dey war sayin’.

The final play included on the tour was

Jerusalem

Despite a toweringly memorable lead performance a a veritable Niagara of cascading language, I found Jerusalem less deep and resonating than the playwright might have preferred.

Our weeklong program ended with an English National Ballet performance called Strictly Gershwin. Okay, this is me, and it’s just what it is. I have no point of access into presentations, as skillful as they may be, where nobody talks. They’re dancing, it’s nice, the music is wonderful. And I’m sitting there thinking, “Why aren’t they saying anything?”

Reflecting my wavering interest, I spent the entire intermission, scribbling notes for an impassioned disquisition on the subject of why the cucumber sandwich should not be considered a sandwich.

(When the tour ended, we saw one other play, Three Days In May, set in 1940, depicting Churchill’s efforts to rally his cabinet to fight Hitler, rather than suing for peace. This is a monumental turning point. Unfortunately, the actors were not up to the history.)

To complete my survey of the tour’s itinerary, let me briefly mention two art exhibits, one a little less briefly than the other:

Gerhard Richter

At the Tate Modern Gallery, I spent over an hour listening to an accompanying audiotape, as I wandered from room to room, intensely examining five decades of paintings in this extremely impressive exhibit. However, when I checked out the post cards featuring reproductions of many of Richter’s most famous works in the Gift Shop, I was perplexed to discover that I did not recognize any of them.

Okay, six out of twenty-four. Does that make me sound any better?

(Notice posted by the elevator (lift) at the Tate Modern: “Celebrate your ability to use the stairs, and please give priority to those who need to use the lift.”)

Now, here’s the real treat. For me.

We were bused to a nearby town, now more of a London suburb, called Dulwich (pronounced Dul’ich), where we attended an exhibit at the Dulwich Picture Gallery. And who was the currently featured artist?

Tom Thomson!

Who’s Tom Thomson, you ask? What are you, not Canadian? Tom Thomson is one of Canada’s most famous landscape artists, who specialized in evocative outdoor paintings of places where I personally went on canoe trips!

Aside from his internationally appreciated renderings of the Canadian wilderness – we were told that people were flocking to this exhibit – Thomson’s story comes with a mystery – his still unexplained death while on a painting excursion in Algonquin Park. When I was a kid, I did not realize Thomson’s body had been recovered; I thought he was still missing. So when I paddled over Canoe Lake – the last place Thomson was seen – I would peer into the crystal-clear water, trying to spot a body below the surface holding a paintbrush.

After seeing the Thomson exhibit, we were escorted to an arranged lunch at a nearby Dulwich restaurant, where the scheduled main courses were a choice between crab and venison. That was a tough one – a non-kosher scaly thing. Or Bambi. I ate Bambi.

Prompting my hyper-confused stomach to exclaim:

“Who’s up there!”

"London Jottings - 5"

2012-01-25T04:00:00.001-08:00

Today…(Do you feel the excitement? We’re talking fake “now!”)

We check out of our apartment near St. Paul’s Cathedral. So long, “Tent City.” We’re moving to a hotel.

It was called London Arts Discovery. A week-long package – including hotel accommodations; that’s why we moved – whose itinerary listed seeing six plays and a dance performance, meeting a political pundit, a director, two actors, and a longtime theater critic, as well as visiting three different art exhibits. In six days. Normally, we wouldn’t do that much in…we never do that much.

Temperamentally, we are not in our bones “Tour People.” We relish our independence. There’s a “sheep” quality to tours, “herding” being a predominant element, the tour organizers cast as the wranglers, the tour participants, the cattle, or sheep, take your pick. We see ourselves as untamed horses. How would this work out?

Late afternoon, on the first day of the tour. We are in our room. Dr. M is on her cell phone to our kids in California. The opening tour “Briefing” is scheduled for 5:00 P.M., in a conference room in the hotel. It is now 5:02.

The room phone rings. It’s the tour organizer.

“Are you coming to the Briefing?”

“Is everyone there already?”

“Everyone except you.”

My first impression?

London Arts Discovery is a tough town.

In this case, however, that first impression could not have been more wrong. It was a glorious experience – masterfully organized, congenial company, an impressive itinerary including the most talked about productions of the current season, pamperingly reliable transportation, all ramrodded by two bright and knowledgeable tour conductors. The herding was subtle and at a minimum. Mostly, it was self-herding. We were never late again.

Did I love everything I saw – and I did attend every event, except for a “postmodernism” exhibit, which I ditched in favor of a jaunt down to the “Old Bailey.” (See yesterday.) I enjoyed pieces of everything. But mostly, I appreciated the opportunity to sample the best that London late 2011 – early 2012 had to offer.

I have neither the credentials, the insight nor the passion of a professional reviewer. The following are some top-of-my-head responses to the plays we attended:

Before the tour started, Dr. M and I got tickets to a show called Potted Panto. Potted Panto is a clever and energetic parody of the very popular genre of traditional Christmas productions for children (of all ages) called “pantomimes”, which themselves are parodies of classic fairly tales, thus making Potted Panto a parody of a parody.

Their winning performances placed the show’s two lead players - in my mind - in the top tier of children’s birthday party entertainers. However, Potted Panto’s nomination for the equivalent of a United States theater Tony Award suggests that I may possibly have missed something.

The tour itinerary kicked off with a revival production of the 1972 musical Pippin, a show we’ve never cared for, this time, re-configured, I thought rather imaginatively, as a hi-tech, video game.

Our critical reaction:

ME: It’s about as good as they can do this.

Dr. M: Yes. But it’s still this.

The next afternoon, it was Hamlet, starring Michael Sheen, (who played Tony Blair in The Queen and David Frost in Frost/Nixon.) Hamlet’s director, Ian Rickson, whom we met later in the week at tea – “Met him at tea, did you? How veddy British of you!” – explained that he was uninspired by the prospect of yet another traditional staging, so with the agreement of the star, he re-imagined Hamlet, setting the action of this production in a mental institution.

Longtime Guardian theater critic Michael Billington – whom we also met that week, though not “at tea” – confided that he saw this production as “extremely Hamlet-centric” (in this version, Hamlet also plays the ghost of his dead father as well as – Spoiler Alert! – Fortinbras) at the expense of a more rounded representation of the “non-Hamlet” characters.

Billington also observed that if this nuthouse version was your first encounter with Hamlet, you might leave with an impression of the play that is different from the impression Mr. Shakespeare originally intended. I agree with both of those points. Though “Full Disclosure” requires me to report that I was asleep during a substantial portion of the First Act.

(What if that happened to an actual critic? What would he write? “The First Act was barely memorable to this reporter.”)

Matilda, The Musical

Based on a popular (at least in England) Roald Dahl children’s book, Matilda, The Musical is wonderful. (Though I do not now nor did I, walking out of the theater, remember any of the songs.)

Why is it wonderful? Because it feels like kids. The production, performed primarily by children, albeit with Rockettes-level precision, is conceptually simple. No elaborate puppets, no “Look what we did here!” productions values. One song is designed around children playing on swings. The climactic moment gives us “Matilda” and her new step-Mom jubilantly performing joint cartwheels. And the “final bows” involved the entire cast, riding scooters.

(After watching this liberating paean to childhood independence, I went into the “Men’s Toilet”, where I witnessed a father warning his young son as he stepped into a stall, “Don’t lock the door, Nigel. Sometimes, you can’t get it open.”)

I think that’s enough to munch on for today. With your permission, I will continue my London Arts Discovery odyssey tomorrow.

"London Jottings- 4"

2012-01-24T04:00:00.001-08:00

The “Old Bailey” – (Criminal Courts of London)

Here’s how it works.

The “Old Bailey” consists of sixteen courtrooms. Visitors are permitted into any gallery in which proceedings are in session, with priority allotted to “interested parties”, the families and friends of the participants in the case. The (overhanging) galleries are relatively small – in the area of thirty seats per gallery – leaving not a lot of seating room for uninvolved parties, otherwise known as people like me, who have just dropped by to watch the show.

January 3^rd, the first day back from the “Christmas Break”, was, as I was told is common on first days back, a “slow court” day. A number of courtrooms had nothing going on in them at all. In those courtrooms that were active, the proceedings were in their preliminary stages, the court dealing with various “bookkeeping-type” motions, which need to be resolved before the meat and potatoes of the trial, or as I call it, “the good stuff”, can then get underway.

In prqctice, what this means is that a small amount of legalistic blah-blah gets processed, after which then they adjourn prior to “the big push” of the next step, which would be jury selection. The adjournment results in the clearing the courtroom, which, of course, includes the gallery.

The result of this “not an ‘ole lot gawing on” situation was that, on the morning of January 3^rd – today’s pretend “today” in my London chronicle – in the course of an hour and a half, I attended the proceedings in four different courtrooms.

On the advice of a bailiff who directed me to a courtroom where there was a trial involving “a guy ‘oo ‘it anoothuh guy”, I sat in on proceedings that lasted all of five minutes, before they adjourned to chambers. I was actually relieved by that turn of events, because the presiding judge was a chronic mumbler, and I could not hear a word he was saying. There is nothing more incomprehensible than a mumbler, unless it’s a mumbler mumbling in an indecipherable upper-class accent. Even the court stenographer appeared perplexed.

When I stepped into the next courtroom, the entire gallery immediately got up and walked out. It is difficult not to take something like that personally…if one harbors certain deep-seated insecurities. I then looked down to see that the whole place was emptying out. So it couldn’t have been me. Most likely.

My third courtroom visit seemed particularly promising. The substance of the case was that a shipment cobalt aluminum, which a British company had sent to Slovakia, had ended up in Iran.

Oops.

It looked suspiciously like an English company selling cobalt aluminum to Iran while pretending they were selling it to Slovakia.

I don’t think you can do that. And I wasn’t alone in that belief, because somebody was on trial.

My suspicions concerning the significance of this case were amped up during the “motions hearing”, in which the defense attorney argued for obscuring screens and electronic voice alteration, to protect the identities of the witnesses. It sounded like big doings. Selling cobalt aluminum to Iran evoked echoes of Colin Powell’s reputation-besmirching “aluminum tubing in Iraq” speech at the United Nations. I could hear jangly espionage music in my head.

The judge adjourned the proceedings after forty-five minutes, though I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps he needed to take a nap. Or, more likely, call a friend and say, “Holy Toledo! I can’t believe the case I’m presiding over! I mean, I had to appear calm on the bench, but…My Gawd!”

As I mentioned earlier, on the first day back, the cases were generally just getting started. With one exception. A murder case. Which was coming to an end.

After nineteen years.

One newspaper called it “The country’s most notorious unsolved murder.” A skeletal summary: In 1993, a black teenager named Stephen Lawrence was murdered at a bus stop by a gang of, call them, “skin heads”, chanting racial epithets. Original inquiries led to a dismissal, due to insufficient evidence, compounded, a commission later determined, by indifferent police work. Despite the persistent efforts of the victim’s mother, it appeared that the case would never be resolved.

Then, after advances in forensics linked some blood evidence to two of the suspects, almost two decades after the incident, the suspects were on trial for murder.

The trial lasted seven weeks, ending with the judge’s two-day “summing up” of the evidence, proceedings I had tried twice to get into, and failed.

The jury was now in its third day of deliberations. Other than the announcement of the verdict, the trial was over, meaning there were no courtroom proceedings to observe. But if something did happen, however, there was now the possibility, though still a slim one, of getting in, as, with the expectation of no activity, fewer outside visitors had chosen to show up.

The door to the stairway leading to the courtrooms opened, and the families of the victim and the defendants were ushered upstairs. I was second in the line of the “non-family” observers. To my surprise, I was told I could go in.

I step into the gallery, I look down, and there it is – the judge sitting up high, inexplicably attired in a red rather than the traditional black robe, a host of lawyers representing both sides, a designated reporters’ gallery, and to my left, behind the standard Plexiglas partition, two sour-looking defendants.

Court was, to most people’s surprise, in session.

The judge instructed the jury to be brought in. This could be it, I thought, suddenly losing access to my breath – the jury coming back with the verdict. Could it really be possible? “The country’s most notorious unsolved crime” was reaching its climactic resolution, and I would be there to witness it?

As it turned out, no.

What had happened was that, apparently, there was some computer-related problem in the jury room and it needed to be dealt with before the jury could continue with its deliberations. That is what we heard the jury being told when they were brought into the courtroom.

The judge also discussed upcoming scheduling issues, including the likelihood of one of juror’s needing to miss some deliberating time for medical reasons. After the judge had exhausted his, I’m sure, all very necessary chit-chat, the entire courtroom and gallery, sat in complete silence, and virtually complete stillness, waiting for the jury room equipment to be fixed.

The almost tableau-like courtroom was exploding with tension. Sitting directly in front of me, though they never acknowledged each other, were the victim’s parents, whose marriage had been shattered by the tragic events. The families of the defendants sat further down the same row from the grieving parents who had not received justice. I wondered how that felt.

The defendants, who were now in their thirties but had been teenagers when the murder was committed, sat stone-faced in the “Prisoners’ Box.” I saw them glaring at the jury, twelve strangers who could finally nail them for their actions, after years of believing they had beaten the rap.

We sat, and we waited.

I recalled a “non family” regular attender opining to me earlier that the defendants would get off, due to the defense’s argument that during the extended period between the crime and the trial, the blood evidence had been contaminated. That, of course, was that guy’s opinion. No one was certain which way it would go.

After fifteen minutes, the computer problem was finally resolved, and the jury was sent back to their deliberations. After that, it was, “All rise. Clear the gallery.” And out we went.

There was no certainty we’d be called back in. There was no telling how long the deliberations could go on for days. Despite this possibility, the families and some “Lawrence case” diehards remained, waiting in the hall. I had other obligations, which was fine. Chances were the only thing I’d miss out on if I stayed would be the rest of my day. So I left.

A couple of hours later, the jury returned with its verdict.

Guilty.

I heard that when it was announced, the victim’s mother sobbed, and a defendant’s father cursed the injustice. Emotions, understandably, ran high.

Did I regret missing being there at the end? No. For the most part, I felt relieved. That’s the difference between me and actual journalists.

When it get too real, I want be someplace else.

London Jottings - 3"

2012-01-23T04:00:00.001-08:00

Today… (Stay with the concept. It heightens the experience.)

Our London apartment has a shower, which is not separate but is a combined shower/bathtub kind of arrangement. You stand in the tub, and you take a shower.

I am finished showering. I turn off the water, but as I have accidentally stepped on the stopper, there is about three inches of water sloshing around in the bottom of the tub, not draining out because I accidentally stepped on the stopper.

I reach for a bath towel, which is draped over an electric towel warmer. The towel is not warm, because the towel warmer switch has apparently not been turned on. I decide to flip on the towel warmer switch to warm up the towel.

As I reach for the electric towel warmer switch, a vestigial synapse in an underused part of my brain because it relates to science sends a not entirely formed thought to my conscious mind. Something about…

“Electricity – water. Death. After some uncontrollable jerking around, with the possible involvement of smoke, rising ‘Execution-style’ from the top of one’s head.”

I back away from the towel warmer.

It was a very close call. I almost never think on vacation.

Six-Up

Shopping at a nearby Convenience Store to procure provisions for our apartment, I noticed, gracing the pharmaceuticals shelf, a recognizable Pain Reliever in its trademark packaging – the familiar small, yellow box with the product’s name printed prominently in black lettering. There was only one difference. The box said,

Anadin.

Not Anacin. Anadin. The same packaging. But with a “d.”

I found this to be highly peculiar. Until, while walking back to our apartment, I passed a Financial Services concern whose overhanging sign read,

Royds Of London.

What the heck is going on!

Language Barrier

I found myself continually asking our British-accented cab driver to repeat himself because I could not understand what he was saying. Whenever I did, I was required to repeat myself because, inexplicably, the cab driver could not understand what I was saying.

For Shame

Dining at the home of good friends, I was confronted with a pork roast. Did I hew firmly my principles, proclaim my dietary limitations, and only eat the potatoes? I most cowardlyly did not. I instead mutely consumed the two pinkish slices delivered to my plate, smothering them in applesauce and cranberry sauce, to keep God from seeing I was swallowing curly-tailed meat. I did not hear from the Almighty. But I did hear from my stomach, which wondered, “Are we under new management, or what?”

Respect For The Elderly And Infirm

Riding the Underground (subway), a man with white hair, looking as old as I am or older, got up and offered me his seat. I must have generous mirrors at home. I think I look terrific.

Hello, Goodbye

The sun momentarily appeared in the slate-grey sky, apparently lost on its way to Spain. It then realized its mistake, and disappeared for a week.

Art lesson: When you see the murderous skies in British paintings, we are not witnessing the outward expression the artist’s darker nature. That is actually their sky. At least in winter.

You Can’t Be Too Careful

A nearby couple was polishing off their drinks and their pudding (dessert). The man waved over their waitress.

“One more for each of us, please,” requested the customer.

The waitress nodded and headed away. A minute later, she returned to clarify the order.

“Was that one more drink, or one more pudding?”

Drumroll

Fortuitously, our apartment was a five-minute walk from the “Old Bailey”, the criminal courts I habitually visit, to sit up in the gallery (the gallery looms above the courtroom) and watch what, for me, is the dramatic spectacle of ongoing trials. Wigs and all.

An extremely high profile murder case had been dragging on for eighteen years. The judge was scheduled to “sum up” to the jury, before sending them off to deliberate. I went to the courthouse to see if I could get in. I couldn’t. The gallery (about thirty seats) was already full, primarily with the families of the victim and the defendants, who got priority. Justifiably so, of course, though I still thought they could have reserved a seat for the person who came the furthest.

The next day, I returned, as the “summing up” had expanded to a second session. Again, I did not get in.

A few days later, my persistence sent me back a third time. This time

I got in.

That story, tomorrow.

In the meantime...

Headline in a major London newspaper:

Sword Swallower Stabs Himself

(Another headline…I will spare you the first part, but the headline continued with the words…

…Because He Forgot We Drive On The Left

"London Jottings - 2"

2012-01-20T04:00:00.000-08:00

Today… *

(* Actually, it was three-and-a-half weeks ago, but I want it to feel current.)

The first place we stayed in was an apartment in a complex called “The King’s Wardrobe”, a structure that dates back to the time of Henry VIII (1491-1547). I found a ruffled collar in the closet. It had his nametag on it. I guess he took it to camp.

Actually, that last part, though possibly humorous, is not chronologically possible, because the original “King’s Wardrobe” (and presumably its contents, including discarded ruffled collars) burned down during the great London fire of 1666. You probably read about it. It was in all the folios. The structure we’re staying in is the replacement, which a stone-carved plaque outside tells us was constructed in 1667.

Think about that for a moment.

“The King’s Wardrobe” was there before 1667. A long time before, specifically whenever Henry VIII got tired of dressing outside and said, “I need a wardrobe. The peasants are seeing me naked.”

That wardrobe went up in flames in 1666. And in 1667, they carted away the rubble, and they put up another “King’s Wardrobe” where the first “King’s Wardrobe” originally stood.

I find this amazing, don’t you? 1667 was a long time ago. In 1667, America was still “Indians Only!” No buildings at all. Longhouses and wikiups. But nothing with stairs.

Yet, at that very same time, in the city of London, they were building things

For the second time!

Do you get what I’m telling you here?

This is a really old place!

And that’s why I love it.

Nearby Points of Interest

“The King’s Wardrobe”, or as they called it in 1667, “The New King’s Wardrobe” is located less than a hundred yards away from St. Paul’s Cathedral, made famous as the imposing backdrop for the “Feed The Birds” song from Mary Poppins. (Though others may have different associations with it. )

Along with its magnificent signature dome, St, Paul’s also boasts a bonging, reverberating clock, which chimes every fifteen minutes, as well as on the hour.

The noise never bothered us, as we have our own a bonging clock in our living room. This one’s just a thousand times louder.

A recent addition to the location is what they call, a “Tent City”, London’s incarnation of the “Occupy” movement. Dozens of tents have been set up just praying distance from the venerated cathedral. As far as I could glean, “Tent City” is there, because St. Paul’s is adjacent to London’s financial district. And also, because there was space available to put up some tents.

There was understandably quite to-do about dozens of protesters camping out right next to one of the most hallowed cathedrals in the world. The outraged faithful wanted them out of there.

And then, the archbishop of I don’t know what but he’s big, stepped up and said something like,

“I’m no expert on religion, or anything…no, wait, I am. And I think we’re supposed to be on their side.”

So there they remain. It certainly can’t be easy for them. It’s winter. It’s rainy. And they’re sleeping ten feet away from that big noisy clock.

On the Slightly Lighter Side…

Read in a major London newspaper…

Police are hunting thieves who stole thirty-eight budgies from a private aviary. Said Mark Allison, a care assistant from Hessle, East Yorkshire,

“I’m worried about them. If they’re not fed properly, they’ll get ill.”

"London Jottings"

2012-01-19T04:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to a cheesy time travel experiment. I will take you back to three and a half weeks ago. Not really a “time travel”; more like a time meander.

We went to London for seventeen days, seven of which involved an organized theater tour, where we attended plays every night and had private interview sessions with actors from the plays we saw, a longtime theater critic and a really hot director. I mean, he was successful, not, you know, the other kind of hot. Although maybe he was both. I’ll have to check with the wife.

We stayed in three different locations, four days in a rented apartment, the seven theater tour days in a hotel, and five days in another apartment. (“Day 17” was travel.)

I didn’t post while I was away, because it was too complicated (for me), and I was too busy doing things. I did, however, take copious notes. (I haven’t used the word “copious” since I studied Words Are Important in Grade Ten.)

To inject an element of fake immediacy, I will write the following an as yet undetermined number of blog posts, as if there were written while the events were actually taking place. (Because when I took the notes about them, they were.) Think of it as war correspondence from a journalist who got shot, and they found seventeen days of notes in his pocket.

Okay, seatbelts, everyone. Calibrate the settings, as we propel ourselves back in time, all the way back to…(WAVY LINE EFFECT WITH ACCOMPANYING EERIE MUSIC)…December the twenty-second, 2011.

Whoosh!

Omen

Words you never want to hear before leaving on a trip:

“That’s an unusual fracture.”

Searching for a certain cosmetic product to take along – okay, nose drops – I pulled out a drawer and it fell on my foot. Well, not exactly my foot, my right baby toe. And not my whole right baby toe, the topmost metacarpal. It’s like a half an inch long.

What made it “unusual” to the foot doctor was that the fracture was so high up, that if I had pulled my foot back a half an inch further, I’d have missed injury entirely. I cursed having abandoned my Scottish dance classes. A nimble skip backwards, and I could have Highland Flung myself to safety.

Instead, though no treatment was required beyond the ameliorating (Words Are Important again) passage of time, I was setting off for London with a pedal digit that had the purplish hue of an eggplant, swollen to the extent that only irony would qualify it to any longer be considered a “baby toe.”

As it turned out, we had a wonderful trip. I may have to reconsider the entire concept of omens.

(Future blog post: “Omens” – predictive, or retrospective revisionism?)

So long, L.A.

On the drive to the airport, we spotted a small dog in an adjacent car with its head out the window.

The puppy was wearing sunglasses.

The Best Laid Plans

Regular readers will be aware that for the last quarter century, and a little more, our family’s habitual Christmas Break destination has been Hawaii. This year, however, primarily because of the theater tour – though also because baby Milo (ten weeks old) was too little to hula – Dr. M and I were instead holidaying in London.

This required a deliberate adjustment in our thinking. Weeks before our departure, we decided to eschew (yet another Words Are Important selection) any and all thoughts related to our fiftieth state, especially considerations of the contrast in temperature between Honolulu and London – a meteorological disparity amounting, conservatively, to thirty-five degrees.

It is warmer in Hawaii.

We were vacationing, untraditionally, in a damper, bone-chillingly rainier portion of the world. A tiny part of us thought we were crazy.

Consciously determined not to think about what we were passing up, we succeeded to a commendable degree in erasing thoughts of tropical days and flower-scented breezes from our minds.

We arrive at the airport, and proceed to our Departure Gate. The electrical Notice Board flashes “LONDON”, along with the flight number and the time of departure.

However…

It was evident that earlier in the day, that same gate had been the Departure Terminal for passengers headed to – wait for it…

Hawaii.

How did we know that? Each of the terminal’s three cylindrical columns had a grass shirt encircled around it. The Departure Lounge also sported a full-sized cardboard cutout of Santa Claus, with Santa dressed in his identifiable outfit, except for the surfing-appropriate bathing suit. And wafting out over the sound system was “Mele Kalikimaka”, the traditional Hawaiian Christmas song.

They seemed to be laughing at us.

With our coats and our hats and our scarfs and our gloves.

The Flight

It’s a psychological phenomenon: You try not to think about something and you think about it even more. What I tried not to think about on our long flight to London, half of it over the ocean, was the word

“Plummeting.”

And away we go

"Career Security"

2012-01-18T04:00:00.000-08:00

I had already had the intention of dealing with this issue. Then I was asked about it by Ms. Zaraya, whose query on another matter I had tackled in the very recent past. I mention the fact that the idea for this post had already been dog paddling around in my brain to dispel the impression that I am playing favorites, or that Ms. Zaraya and I have become pen pals. I really wanted to write about this. Though thanks for asking, Ms. Zaraya. It encouraged me to get to it.

And here it is.

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I lived in a hotel, which is less “Mr. Big Shot” than it sounds, as the rent in that place was a hundred and fifty dollars a month. During that period, which lasted four months, I ate at least once and often twice a day at Schwab’s restaurant, which was just half a block away, which means I could walk there, which was a godsend, because every time I came out of the hotel’s parking lot’s driveway, I faced a blind left turn onto Sunset Boulevard so dangerously terrifying, it made me want to go back to Toronto and take the subway.

Schwab’s was an old show biz hangout, verging on a clubhouse. People who had no partners to cook for them, and were unwilling to cook for themselves, or in my case, were unable to, because I lived in a hotel room with no kitchen, just a little refrigerator in the clothes closet, the vast spectrum of show biz strays, from visiting superstars to people who were “this close to getting myself an agent”, treated Schwab’s like it was a Boarding House dining room. Some of them never seemed to leave. They were the ones without jobs.

The “dividing line” was nine-thirty in the morning. At nine-thirty, the employed customers got up from the table, and went off to work. The others remained there, ordering countless refills of coffee.

I don’t know how long they stuck around – I just know that when I’d go back there for dinner, the people who didn’t leave at nine-thirty were still there. Sitting in the same booths. Not looking like they’d been anywhere else all day. Their skin betrayed a telltale Schwab’s pallor. It was a grayish-green.

One of the Schwab’s regulars was a writer who worked on the beloved variety show classic, The Carol Burnett Show. I don’t know who introduced us, it was probably Lorne Michaels, who was the only person I knew when I moved to Los Angeles. Lorne seemed to know everyone.

Dick, who worked with a female partner, was very successful and highly respected. I specifically mention that to indicate that Dick’s talent evaluations carried weight. What was his opinion about my career prospects, even though he knew little about me, and had never seen any of my work?

“You’re going to be okay.”

Dick’s prediction made me extremely uncomfortable. Which tells you the kind of person I am. Out of the blue, an established writer with an admirable reputation volunteers a positive prediction about my future. And all I could think of is,

“Why did he have to say that?”

For me, this was “asking for it.” The kind of prediction that God or Fate or Providence, or some other place in Rhode Island, gets wind of and as a reminder of who’s actually in charge goes,

“I don’t think so.”

I appreciated Dick’s thoughtful reassurance, but that’s not how I do things. What’s my “M.O.”? I establish low expectations and I surpass them. Later in my career, a guy who knew me in Canada and had little regard for my abilities said,

“I can’t tell you how surprised we all are by your success.”

That’s good. That’s what I like to hear. Somebody who thought I was useless, and I proved them wrong. Somebody, on the other hand who, before I even do anything, announces that I’m a shoo-in? That’s a burden. That’s pressure.

More importantly, that’s tempting Fate.

Or whoever.

I hated that he said that.

“You’re going to be okay.”

The nerve of that guy! What was he thinking!

What was he mixing in for? If Fate, or whoever, got some perverse kick out of proving people wrong, I had the perfect strategy:

“I haven’t got a chance.”

It’s foolproof. Fate, or whoever, proves me wrong, and – Poof! – I’ve got a chance!

I don’t know why everyone doesn’t predict failure. It’s “win-win.” If you fail, so what? You said you would. And if you don’t fail? That’s good too.

I always predicted failure. And I generally succeeded. What can I tell you? It worked for me.

I never thought I would work. And when I was working, I never thought I would work again. I’ve been told I promoted that view so persuasively, my wife decided she needed to find herself a career, in preparation for my permanent unemployment. (Unfortunately, a career as a psychologist in a clinic whose patients pay only what they can afford will not support a network television writer (and his family’s) comfortable lifestyle, so it was helpful that my prediction proved incorrect.)

Admittedly, there was a point, starting when I was working regularly for the Mary Tyler Moore Company and continuing as my services were repeatedly in demand, where my employment concerns receded from the headlines. The fact of work became normal. At some point, unconsciously, I identified with the title of Mark Harris’s third novel in his classic baseball trilogy which Harris introduced with Bang The Drum Slowly.

The third book was called It Looked Like For Ever. The title referred to the trilogy’s protagonist, all-star pitcher Henry Wiggins’ vision of his baseball career – that it would go on forever.

It didn’t. And neither did mine.

Man! If I had only stuck with my negative predictions. Oh, well. There is the comfort of being right.

I’m like the hypochondriac who had these words carved on the tombstone:

“I Told You I Was Sick.”

Many years ago, a writer named Dick told me I would be okay.

He was right.

He just didn’t say for how long.

"Standards"

2012-01-17T04:00:00.000-08:00

It’s a question of standards, pure and simple. What exactly are they? Who sets those standards? And who decides whether those standards have been met?

Standards are important. Without standards, it’s chaos. Anything goes, don’t you see.

“Is that beef up to USDA standards?”

“The lowest one, yes.”

“And what standard is that?”

“If it’s dead, it’s okay.”

That is not good enough. Not for meat, not for anything. Gadzooks! The poor animal could have been plowed into by a car. One could be eating a license plate along with one’s steak.

In other matters concerning shaky standards…

Recently, it was Chanukah. There were presents exchanged, I myself being the recipient of some very fine ones. Which brings us to the issue at hand.

One of my Chanukah gifts was brashly touted as

“The World’s Greatest Nose Hair Trimmer.”

Candidly, I had made known my interest in such a gift. I needed one. With advancing years, one’s hair begins growing in places other than the traditional ones. Aside from the awkwardness and inconvenience, this new hair adamantly refuses to play by the rules. Or, at least, one rule.

Normally, hair grows extremely gradually. One could curtail all other activities and watch it and see nothing at all going on, such is the imperceptible nature of its advancement.

This new hair, on the other hand, arrives, not in increments, but fully-grown, suddenly, and in startling abundance. One day, one’s ears are just cartilage. The next day, one wakes up, and they’re hairy, spider-web-like strands descending from one’s earlobes like tonsorial tinsel. Inside, it’s a forest.

Nose hair, I shall refrain from going into. You could be eating at the moment. Suffice it to say, nasal foliage can go from “zero to 60” with shocking rapidity.

One finds oneself in need of a trimmer. One is not proud, and one requests said accessory for Chanukah. One’s loved ones comply, presenting one, gift wrapped and beribboned, with

“The World’s Greatest Nose Hair Trimmer.”

Hyperbole is not unheard of in advertising. I believe the term itself dates back to legendary ad man Vincent Hyperbole, who originated the strategy, which now and forever bears his name.

The problem is not with hyperbole per se. Since, as the cowboys say, this is not my first rodeo, I take exaggerated claims with an understandable grain of, “Yeah, right.”

The problem is my new nose (and ear) hair trimmer is a replacement for my old nose (and ear) hair trimmer.

And my old nose (and ear) hair trimmer, promoted in its day as

“The World’s Greatest Nose Hair Trimmer”

Does not

Frickin’

Work!

Forgive the outburst. I am simply, and, I believe understandably, distraught.

My nose hairs laugh at my old nose hair trimmer. My ear hairs guffaw. I can easily hear them. They are chortling inside my ear.

And now, here is my new nose (and ear) hair trimmer, making precisely the same claim as my old nose (and ear) hair trimmer, that claim being that it is

“The World’s Great Nose Hair Trimmer.”

I mean, what is a nose (and ear) hair trimmer enthusiast to do!

Make no mistake. I am genuinely appreciative of the gift. It was need-sensitive and extremely thoughtful. However, faced with the fact that the claim of my new nose (and ear) hair trimmer is precisely the same as the claim of my woefully inadequate old nose (and ear) hair trimmer,

I am not

In any way

Encouraged.

And, I believe, with just cause. As I have been burned very seriously before.

I make this offer. And I do not make it lightly. People who know me know that I am not in the habit of putting myself out there. There are, of course, not a lot of them, as I am not in the habit of putting myself out there.

It is my unshakable proclivity to avoid contentiousness and shun, as often as is practically manageable, responsibility. Call my coward. Call me chronically uninvolved. I don’t care. That’s just the way I am.

However…

Should “The National Nose (and Ear) Hair Trimmers’ Association” ever choose to assemble a non-partisan commission, to determine what, by unbiased and standardized evaluation, truly is the world’s greatest nose (and ear) hair trimmer, I am

Definitely and unequivocally

In.

And so is my nose.

(As well as my ears.)

This matter must be settled once and for all.

The uncertainty is damaging to all concerned.

"Five Offices"

2012-01-13T04:00:00.001-08:00

During my three decade career toiling in big-time television, I spent more time sitting in offices (sometimes reclining, often with my eyes closed, and snoring) than I spent down on soundstages, making shows. What follows is a thumbnail reminiscence of five of the most memorable offices I occupied.

Office Number One

I have a special fondness for my first office. (My official first office was actually for a Lily Tomlin special, but that was just for four weeks. The selected five reflect “longer stay” offices. One passing memory of that Lily Tomlin office: On our arrival, each writer was presented with a plant, a gracious gesture of “Welcome” from the star. My plant died within three days.)

Okay, back to “Office Number One.”

I was working for the Mary Tyler Moore Company on the Studio City lot. (On another occasion, I will chronicle the lots.) The office assigned to me, small and windowless but perfectly adequate, and wonderful because it was mine, was a former storeroom, and after I vacated it, it became the Xerox Room. I take pride in knowing that that office never belonged to any other person, just storage stuff (before) and duplicating equipment (after). I was the only human being.

My office was directly opposite the exit door to the parking area. With my office door always open – a product of claustrophobia rather than friendliness – I felt like the doorman. I saw everyone come and go.

Slightly to the left was a winding staircase leading up to (and down from, staircases are great that way) the Second Floor. This arrangement meant that, not only did I have a view of the passing parade, but the passing parade also had a view of me. I recall many puzzled faces proceeding past my open office door wondering, “Who’s the guy in the store room?” I would always wave hello.

Direct access to the exit also meant that, at my preferred departure time of four P.M. – I was a scriptwriter for all the MTM shows rather than working on a specific show’s staff – I could quietly slip out the door without envious staff writers who invariably remained beyond midnight, sniping,

“Leaving early?”

Guilt-free egress is always an asset. But it pales before my most memorable experience, which took on, even then, hallucinatory proportions – it totally didn’t feel real. The event occurred on the first day I took possession of my formerly storage room office.

It was lunchtime. People were leaving,via the exit door in front of me to go out someplace and eat. (I usually ate “on campus”, my “lunching destination of choice”, the standing “Gunsmoke Street” on the other side of the lot.)

I am sitting on my couch, probably cross-legged – I had a nimbleness back then that has long since disappeared – scribbling scriptoral nuggets on a yellow legal pad. I look up, and descending from the Second Floor, side by side, not unlike the group “walk” during the opening credits of the Law & Order franchise, are the creators of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, The Bob Newhart Show and Rhoda. That was the hallucinatory element. It was like a rookie ballplayer looking up and suddenly, there’s the 1927 Yankees, headed directly your way.

These guys were specifically headed my way, interrupting their lunch departures to drop by and welcome the “newbie” to the MTM family. As they enter my office, I rise from the couch, unshod as was usual for me back then, and I step forward to greet Mr. Brooks and Mr. Burns and Mr. Music and Mr. Davis, names I had seen on the screen, and whose work I aspired to emulate, though I’d be happy with coming close.

As this phalanx of talent proceeds towards me, I find myself overwhelmed by their august and powerful presence. What happens next, seemingly external to my control, is that I suddenly begin to retreat, backing away from their aura, to the point where further backpedaling is impossible, as the backs of my heels have made contact with the couch. Undaunted, and still terrified, without looking behind me, I ascend the couch, and stand barefoot on the pillows, my arm extended, accepting welcoming handshakes.

I imagine they found this behavior unusual, even for a writer. But to my mind, it was no more unusual than the apparition of a gang of comedy writing all-stars swarming into my office.

Full Disclosure: My intention to cover all five offices in a single post has been derailed by my uncontrolled verbosity. Sorry. I will return to the other four in the future.

If I remember to.

"Perspective"

2012-01-12T04:00:00.000-08:00

A while back, in the context of writing about how newspapers entertain me, I used, as an example, a story about the outbreak of tuba thefts in the Los Angeles high school system.

This story was assigned to the L.A. Times’ front page, albeit in the less “five-alarm fire” “Below The Fold” area – the bottom half of the front page, below where they fold it; hence, the descriptive – but still, it was on the front page, where the big-time news is reported – the presidential election campaign, upheavals in Egypt. There, among the national and international big stuff – a tuba-pilfering epidemic is sweeping Los Angeles high schools.

It was reported that, within a period of weeks, three local high schools had had their music rooms broken into, and through a bizarre and inexplicable selection process, only one instrument was singled out for attention.

“All they took were tubas.”

Well, technically, not just the tubas. One school suffered the loss of eight Sousaphones. Though not precisely tubas, however, Sousaphones may correctly be categorized in the “tuba family.”

For some reason, this story makes me laugh. Part of the mirth derives from the word “tuba” itself, which, to my ear at least, is a generically funny word. If the instrument the burglars had zeroed in on had been violins, I don’t know – and this may be subjective – it just wouldn’t be the same. (“Vice President Cheney shot his friend in the face” versus “Vice President Cheney shot his friend in the arm.”)

“Piccolos” are a little funny – the word contains the recognized “ha-ha”-inducing hard “k” sound, found in “pickle” and “cockatoo” – but “piccolo” is not as funny as “tuba”, partly, though I am not a hundred per cent on this – because of the tuba’s size, tubas being, as the classic children’s story reflects, tubby.

Among other concerns, this conjures the resultant difficulty, in that one school, of carrying off eight tubas off at the same time. Would such an accomplishment require eight burglars? Or one burglar, making eight trips? Perhaps it was four burglars, making two trips each.

One can imagine particularly burly burglars being recruited for the caper, who, though beyond the capacities of a regular person, could walk away with two tubas at a time, cutting down on the coming and going, thereby shortening their chances of being discovered.

The imagination runs wild with possibilities.

The thing – and the point of this post – is that, as humorous as I found this story – an arguable “seven” out of a possible ten – I am simultaneously aware that the event was not at all funny to the schools from which the instruments were removed.

First of all, and most importantly in these tough economic times, these instruments are expensive. One stolen tuba was estimated at $13,000.

Beyond that, tubas, especially in marching bands, are fundamentally important. The tuba anchors the entire arrangement. While trumpets and saxophones showily proclaim the melody, the tuba remains in the background, dutifully maintaining the beat. This contribution is essential. A tune without a beat is like a kite without a string. It loses it grounding point of contact, and drifts helplessly away.

And then there’s the issue of what happens to the students assigned to playing those missing tubas. Do they get reassigned? Or are they dropped from the band, now lacking the minimal requirement for marching band participation – having an instrument. A requirement which, sadly, the band’s former tuba players, no longer meet.

“I still have the hat.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not enough.”

Do you notice what’s happening here? Despite my awareness of the serious hardship to those school and their band members, I cannot stop myself from exploiting their misfortune for comedic intent.

Leading inevitably to the question,

What’s wrong with me?

In some Woody Allen movie of the past whose name eludes me, comedy was defined as “tragedy plus time.” I offer the additional issue of perspective. It’s not funny if it’s your tuba. And the passage of time is unlikely to make it funnier.

“We’ve located the tubas.”

“Am I back in the band?”

“Sorry. You’re fifty.”

It’s too late. The disappointment remains, the passing time incapable of eradicating the loss. It’s understandable. You may have really loved the tuba, perhaps imagined yourself a much hoped-for career sitting in an orchestra pit, your cheeks inflated like balloons, boom-boom-boom-booming your way through Broadway musicals and beloved masterpieces in the classical repertoire. Somebody breaks into your high school, takes of with the tubas, and now you’re a dentist.

Okay, that one was bittersweet, but I acknowledge comedic overtones.

I guess I just can’t help myself.

I find humor in other people’s unhappiness.

Maybe it’s just human nature, some Darwinian survival mechanism.

“You can’t be sympathetic all the time. When a dinosaur comes, you’ll just think, “Dinosaurs have to eat too”, and you’re not going to get out of it. Which is good for the dinosaur, but terminal for you.”

That’s what my reaction is.

Natural.

Phew. I’m off the hook.

"Pictures Of A Wedding - Celebration"

2012-01-11T04:00:00.000-08:00

"Pictures Of A Wedding - Ceremony"

2012-01-10T04:00:00.000-08:00

"Pictures Of A Wedding - Prelude"

2012-01-09T04:00:00.000-08:00

"Revisiting The Fox Studios Lot"

2012-01-06T04:00:00.000-08:00

Some friends invited us to the screening of a new movie at a theater on the Fox Studios lot. I had not been on that lot for close to ten years.

As we rolled through the studio gates, I recalled the last time I had found myself at precisely the same spot.

I was coming for a meeting, and had stopped for the standard “check-in”, and “security” procedures. As a guard rummaged through my unthreatening trunk, another guard, a middle-aged female, greeted me with an effusive smile.

The moment she glanced at my Driver’s License, however, her smile immediately evaporated.

“Is there something wrong?” I inquired, somewhat nervously.

“I’m sorry,” replied the guard. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

“I thought you were that comedian. Adam Shandling.”

And there you have it. I had just been mistaken for another person. Two people, actually, as the lady guard apparently believed that the two comedians – and I, it must be assumed – all look alike.

Dark and curly. The Composite Jew.

This encounter can easily be looked at as a putdown. I had been confused with someone (two people, though the guard had conflated them into one) she unequivocally liked better. There are also intimations of ethnic funnyman stereotyping.

And yet, it’s an enjoyable memory. For two reasons:

One,

It’s a wonderful story.

And two,

I was still working then.

"This May Only Be Funny In Canada"

2012-01-05T04:00:00.000-08:00

What you need to know for this to be absolutely hilarious: “Je m’appelle” is French for “My name is.”

Okay. Get ready to laugh.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Bonjour, monsieur.

Bonjour.

Comment vous appelez-vous?

I’m sorry, I speak very little French. It’s pretty much over after “bonjour.”

Oh. Anglais.

Merci. I also know “merci.”

Tres bien. Okay…um…Wut is yure nayme?

Jim Appel.

Oui…?

“Oui”, what!

Yure nayme…?

Jim Appel.

Oui…?

I don’t understand.

“Je m’appelle…”

Right.

Quoi?

“Quoi”?

“Je m’appelle” quoi?

I don’t know what “quoi” is.

Yure nayme.

Jim Appel.

Oui…?

“Oui”, what!”

“Je m’appelle…?”

Right.

Quoi?

Who’s “Quoi”? Look, I don’t get it. You ask me my name. I say Jim Appel…

Oui…?”

“Oui”, WHAT!

Votre nom, monsieur.

JIM APPEL!

OUI…?

Listen, Frenchy! Oh, wait! I see what’s happening. It’s a language thing – what a coincidence. My name, Jim Appel – don’t say “Oui” – sounds the same as the French for “My name is.” So, when I say “Jim Appel”, you’re hearing, “My name is…”, but I’m not following it up with a name. Whoh! I can see the frustration there “My name is…” – no name?” Okay. Problem solved. Ask me again.

Quoi?

I still don’t get the “quoi.” Monsieur…my “nom”?

Ah! Okay. Quel est votre nom?

“Je m’appelle…Jim Appel.”

Oui…? Oui…?

Hey, Earlo, it’s not funny in Canada either.

Ah. Then I will spare you the story of the man who ordered a black hat over the phone and what was delivered to him was a black cat.

What can I tell you? These things crack me up.

"Sitcom Slang"

2012-01-04T04:00:00.000-08:00

I imagine every business has its little shorthand and jargon, some secret patois that the people in that business share with each other, to the exclusion of outsiders. This surgeon I met recently related an acronym, whose gist was, “This guy is so beyond help, the best we can do is to sew him back up and send him home to die.” I’m sorry I forgot the acronym. I was too terrified to retain the specifics. Though I remember his name, so if I get sick, I can ask for somebody else.

Sitcom writers also have slang. I recall, for example, the phrase,” Stabbing the frog.”

“Stabbing the frog” is “Rewrite Room” jargon. Somebody pitches a joke to replace a joke in the script that didn’t get a laugh. The rewrite room cracks up. Then, before the new joke is stenographized into script, someone will suggest a minor adjustment in the line, in an effort to make it more punchy (which usually involves using less words), or clearer, or more logical, and therefore, ostensibly, funnier.

At this point, someone, generally the person who pitched the replacement joke, will claim that the person proposing the adjustment is “stabbing the frog”, meaning that they’re arbitrarily and unnecessarily trying to improve a joke that doesn’t need improvement, the message being, “Leave it alone.”

At which point, I would close my mouth, and we’d move on in the script.

Before I move on, a humble rationalization, that came to me only recently, after years of not thinking about it, though the scars of rebuke remain imprinted on my psyche.

What it boils down to is a difference in writing styles. Some writers “nail it” on the first try. Their original pitch is instinctively the right one. My process requires multiple shots at it. (That’s why writing this posts take a comparatively long time. My first pass is relatively swift. What extends matters is, what others might call “Stabbing the frog”, but I call “Making it better.” Strange thing. When I’m talking spontaneously, I regularly “get it right” on the first try. This somehow, however, happens less often when I’m writing.)

Moving on…

Over the years, in an effort to speed up communication, I invented a few sitcom slang phrases of my own, which speeded up nothing, since, as I had just made them up and, consequently, nobody had heard them before, I was required to stop and clarify what they meant.

I would, for example, talk about “slicing the baloney thin.” This, to me, is a very important concept. If you want your series to last a long time, and you don’t want to run out of story ideas, it is best that the “changes” the regular characters go through be subtle and gradual. If the series “villain” learns their lesson in “Episode One”, the writer has nowhere to go with that character in “Episode Two”, and any episode thereafter. The character’s “journey” is complete, and you’ve lost your “villain.”

A wiser approach is to keep the changes miniscule, possibly explainable, by the character, as not really being changes at all, thus keeping the character’s core characteristics alive and viable, and allowing the baloney as a whole to provide the series with a syndication-worth ( a hundred at least) number of slices.

I also talked about, in the matter of constructing a joke, the issue of “using too much gunpowder.” Here’s an example, not from a script but from real life, in which using “too much gunpowder” renders a joke unfunny.

A friend of mine, close to my age, recently got a regular writing job. The assignment was on a cable network, and knowing I was jealous, he tried to soften the blow by saying that the salary was so low, “It’s almost like I’m paying them.”

Too much gunpowder.

Meaning? He had “overloaded” his statement, making the disparity between the low salary he was receiving and what we were used to receiving on network shows hyper-exaggeratedly greater than it actually was. (“It’s almost like I’m paying them.”) The comparison challenged credulity. The result? No tension-releasing laugh.

Besides, the guy had a job and I didn’t.

I also coined the phrase, going “a joke too far.” This is comparable to a boxer punching his adversary hard enough that the adversary drops to the canvas, then going over and punching him again.

Needless. Diminishes the achievement of the original punch. The fun is all gone. And you’ve lost them. (The audience. And possibly the boxer.)

A final example is a phrase I lifted from a joke my brother once told me that a fellow writer named David Panich told him.

A mad scientist takes a colleague down to his basement laboratory to show him the results of his latest experiment which he’s been working on for years – the two-headed dog.

“It’s amazing” crowed the mad scientist. “You can feed one head, and the other head doesn’t even know he’s eating.”

“Very interesting”, replied his colleague, “but it seems like a long way to go just to fool a dog.”

A writer has to make sure that their story has enough weight to be worth telling. And not over-extend it, thereby risking going “a joke too far” or weigh it down by using “too much gunpowder” or expose too much information at once, thereby “slicing the baloney too thick.”

I have reached the end of this post. It is now time for revisions. Am I in jeopardy of “stabbing the frog”? I hope not. But it’s my frog, and I can stab it as many times as I want.

(Originally, that last sentence read “...and I can stab it as much as I want.” Hm. I wonder if it should be “… and I can stab it as often as I want.”

I have to think about this.)

"Belated Encouragement"

2012-01-03T04:00:00.000-08:00

On November 26^th, a commenter calling themselves ”aug” wrote, in part, concerning a script I wrote for The Mary Tyler Moore Show, entitled “Ted’s Change of Heart”:

”Anyway, wanted to let you know, your words still warm hearts on grey November Saturday mornings in Canada. For me, with of course the help of those gifted actors, there is no higher point in a 30minute episode of television.”

First of all, thanks, “aug.” That was very nice of you to take the time to say. I love praise. And praise for something I wrote in 1977, it’s like receiving an unexpected residual check of retroactive appreciation. It makes me giggly, giddy and glad. And those are just the “g’s.”

“Aug’s” compliment brings to mind a moment when a different reaction to “Ted’s Change of Heart” was expressed. Courtesy of none other than Ms. MTM (meow!) herself.

We were attending the annual “Mary Tyler Moore Company Weekend Getaway.” All MTM employees who were interested paid a discounted fee to collectively weekend at some nearby resort, hang out, and in some cases – okay, in most cases, but not me – participate in a multi-tiered – based on ability – tennis tournament. Even Mary joined in. Though, as I recall, she was rapidly eliminated.

The year was 1977. And that year, the getaway venue was La Costa, a resort and golfing facility that, judging by its clientele, appeared to be where the Mafia sent hit men who had done a good job. Their sport shirts betrayed the telltale indentation of abandoned shoulder holsters.

1977 would be Mary’s final season on the air. I had written “Ted’s Change of Heart” as a personal valentine to a show I had worshipped as a viewer, and loved even more as a participant. But I had also written it as a reaction to an aging series whose stories, as a result of its nearing the end of the line creatively, had become, at least to me, maddeningly superficial. It had come down to episodes like, “Mary Breaks A Nail.” Maybe not that bad, exactly, but close.

My contrarian brain decided, “I’m tired of doing ‘Mary Gets A Bad Haircut.’ Let’s give somebody a heart attack!”

Wielding godlike powers, we decided to strike down anchorman “Ted Baxter”, a character who, from “Episode One”, infuriated his co-workers with his monumental self-absorption. The funny part was that, after his heart attack, Ted is equally irritating, but in a one-eighty opposite direction, annoying his co-workers with his suffocating, suddenly discovered appreciation of life.

The newsroom staff decides Ted has to be spoken to. Ted’s demands for group hugs and spontaneous relaxation breathing sessions are interfering with their rapid-fire responses to breaking news. Upon further consideration, however, it is determined that Ted is fundamentally right. How can you tell someone who’s insisting on taking time to acknowledge the wonders of nature and the significant people in your life to “Knock it off”? Surrendering to the impulse, they get swept up in the feeling themselves.

When Ted ultimately reverts to his former annoying self, the news staff realizes that that heightened feeling of appreciation inevitably wears off. Rather than being bummed out, however, Mary and her co-workers – minus Ted – decide to embrace the special feeling for as long as it lasts. In the final shot, the news team is seen huddling side-by-side at an office window, glowing, as they appreciate the sunset.

That was the episode. Hardly Seinfeldian in its sentiments. I don’t even know where it came from. But I was happy with the script. And enthusiastic about how it turned out.

By coincidence or design, I can no longer recall which, “Ted’s Change of Heart” was the episode broadcast on the Saturday night of the “Mary Tyler Moore Weekend Getaway.”

It was all very casual. We gathered in Mary’s, I guess, suite, because I do not remember a bed or pajamas. Some of us were standing, many sat cross-legged on the floor, as we watched the Mary broadcast together at nine o’clock. I remember Mary, enthroned in the midst of the assemblage.

The funny places got laughs, the touching places got respectful attention, the show ended, and there was applause.

The enthusiasm was apparent. But everyone was waiting for Mary’s reaction. Finally, she spoke, capsulizing her response in two, monosyllabic words:

“Strange show.”

It was not what I wanted to hear. A writer hearing, “strange show” about a script they’ve written is like a new parent hearing, “What an interesting looking baby.” You are looking for something else.

Sensing how I was feeling, a writing team named Tom and Jay, who at the time were running The Bob Newhart Show, made a point of coming over and saying, “Great show!”, adding, though my recollection may be hazy on the matter, “She’s full of shit!”

Mary didn’t care for the episode. “Aug” praised it effusively.

Sometimes, you just have to settle for breaking even.

"Ambrose Bierce Quotes"

2012-01-02T04:00:00.000-08:00

The following are selected definitions from Ambrose Bierce’s The Devil’s Dictionary.

ABSURDITY, n. A statement or belief, manifestly inconsistent with one’s own opinion.

IMAGINATION, n. A warehouse of facts, with poet and liar in joint ownership.

INTERPRETER, n. One who enables two persons of different languages to understand each other by repeating what it would have been to the interpreter’s advantage for the other to have said.

INSURANCE, n. An ingenious modern game of chance in which the player is permitted to enjoy the comfortable conviction that he is beating the man who keeps the table.

LAWYER, n. One skilled in circumvention of the law.

OPTIMIST, n. A proponent of the doctrine that black is white.

RATIONAL, adj. Devoid of all illusions save observation, experience and reflection.

RELIGION, n. A daughter of Hope and Fear, explaining to Ignorance the nature of the Unknowable.

SELF-ESTEEM, n. An erroneous appraisement.

CYNIC, n. A person whose opinions are persuasive, but unworkable.

That last one was mine, demonstrating my utility ballplayer credentials as compared to Bierce’s Hall of Fame spectacularness.

'A Libertarian Speaks - Getting The Government Off Our Cars"

2011-12-30T04:00:00.000-08:00

Where is our Constitution do they mention cars?

I don’t see it. But maybe you do. You with your passion for torturing the Constitution, to ferret out more and more ways for the government to interfere with our God-given liberties. That our Forefathers fought for. But God inspired them to fight for them, so He was definitely in the mix.

God doesn’t horn in on our liberties. God gave us the Ten Commandments. Ten. That’s it! It wasn’t “Ten Commandments…but that’s just for openers.” It was “ten and out.” After that, you were on your own. Can you imagine if our government stopped after making ten laws?

Now that would be a country!

How many laws are there anyway – local ordinances, state laws, federal regulations? I don’t know how many there are, do you? There’s a darn sight more than ten, I can tell you that! No wonder all our prisons are crowded up. There are so many laws, people don’t even know when they’re breaking them.

Our Founding Fathers believed that the government that governs least governs best. That’s what we need to get back to. The least government, with the least amount of laws.

Example:

Cars.

Picture this. You’re driving along, and you come to an intersection. What happens? If there’s a stop sign, you have to stop. Okay, it’s only a few seconds, but by time is not the issue. The issue is, you are being forced to stop…against your will. You don’t want to stop at that intersection. The government is making you stop.

And then there’s those ridiculous stop lights!

Do stoplights intrude on our personal liberty? You bet they do. Stoplights say, “Red light! – You have to stop.” Do you want to stop at that red light? Of course, you don’t! You want to go! That’s why you got into your car: To go someplace. And being required, by government to stop every time you hit a red light is keeping you from getting there.

I say that’s outrageous!

Why do we need stoplights?

So that cars won’t crash into each other when they’re going through intersections.

There you go again, Black Type Man. Passing laws “for our own protection.”

I don’t understand. Do you want cars slamming into each other at every…

I’ve got the floor today, Blogger Boy. Okay?

Sorry. Go ahead.

It’s a question of principle. Our Founding Fathers understood that. “Stay out of other people’s business.” Our Founding Fathers understood personal responsibility. You come into an intersection, you keep your eyes open.

You think men on horseback ever stopped at intersections? “Whoa, boy. There’s no one a-comin’, but we have to stop anyway. That’s the law.” Men on horseback did not stop at intersections, because there weren’t no law. And there didn’t need to be. Another rider crossed your path, you worked it out.

They did not need the government to help them.

Now, I know the argument. Cars are more dangerous than horses. They can do more damage. You know what? They use that same argument when they talk about modern weaponry versus the muskets of the past. “Today’s weapons are more lethal; we must restrict the private ownership of guns. Bushwa! Our Supreme Court shot that one down. They should the same thing with stoplights.

The American People are hideously over-regulated, the government “protecting” us from every little thing. “Oooh, the water tastes funny.” “Oooh, the air is making me cough.” “Oooh, the tainted Spaghetti-O’s poisoned Cousin Charlie.”

What’s wrong with protecting ourselves?

Our namby-pamby “Nanny State” is weakening our self-reliance. What happens when the Russkies – well, maybe not them, though you never know – anyway, what happens when we’re under attack? Will we even be able to defend ourselves? I don’t think so. The government fights our battles for us. We have to fight for ourselves? It’s like, “How do you do that?”

I’m calling for a united campaign of civil disobedience. Shoot through those stop signs. Run those red lights. Sure, there’ll be casualties. And car crash noises at intersections. But that’s what war is – bloody and loud.

Join the insurrection! “Green light – Go! Red light – Go!”

“Bumper Cars For Freedom.”

Your grandchildren will thank you.

(Posthumously.)

I heard that, Brackets Boy.

"Location! Location! Location!"

2011-12-29T04:00:00.000-08:00

On November 29^th, on his highly acclaimed – and deservedly so – blog bykenlevine.com, Ken mentioned, in the course of a post about location shooting – wherein productions eschew the artificial confines of the soundstage to film scenes, or at least the exteriors of scenes, at actual locations, hence the name “location shooting” – I’m sorry, can anyone remember how this sentence started? It’s really a long way back.

Anyway…

In the course of his post, Ken mentioned that, for one of the series I created, Family Man, wherein, after Executive Producing The Cosby Show, I was invited by the then president of NBC to create a half-hour comedy about my own family – and here comes the verb – I instructed our set designer to reproduce an as close to a precise replica of my actual living room as possible, to serve as the onstage living room set for the series.

This was not hubris. Or maybe it was, but I had a rationalization that made it feel like it wasn’t hubris, so I was covered, or at least I felt covered. Man, I’m talky today, aren’t I? Do you think it’s because I just drank coffee?

Anyway, again…

I decided that, if, in the series, I was going to re-create a sitcomical more-or-less replica of my family – “more or less”, because I added one child, a son I don’t have, to represent “Earl as a boy” – restrict the show to stories that actually happened to me, either as an adult or as “Little Earl” – bring in some of my kids’ favorite playthings, stuffed animals and floating bath toys to decorate the various “rooms” of the “house”, invite my stepdaughter Rachel, then age 11, to the set, to make sure that her “bedroom” looked “right” to her, consistent with that commitment to accuracy, would be a living room – or, more precisely, a downstairs “Floor Plan” that looked exactly like our house.

I was trying to keep it real.

To make this happen, the set designer came over and took Polaroids, capturing our house’s interior layout and architectural design – which is called “Craftsman Bungalow”, though our version compares with the classic Pasadena “Craftsman”, “The Gamble House” (built for Gamble of “Proctor and Gamble”) like the main house of a mansion compares to the accommodations for housing “The Help.”

The set designer went the extra mile of taking a wide-angle lens and photographing the view, as seen through our back windows facing the ocean. This photo was later massively blown up, to be used as the “external backing” for the set. The “view out the back window” was exactly our view.

(Normally, set “backings” are generic. You call up some company, and they send you a “neighborhood.” Your show’s characters open their front door, and there it is. Sometimes, they even paint in a dog, whose intermittent barking is later inserted in post-production.)

To supplement these replifications, there was a subsequent shooting, at which a crew came out, set up a camera across the street, and shot footage of the front exterior of our house. These shots would be appropriately inserted at the beginnings of scenes, introducing action taking place inside the house.

(Normally, again, house exteriors are generic. If you toured the grounds of Studio Center – and you were old enough – you would encounter entire fake residential streets, on which you would instantly recognize the exteriors for My Three Sons and many other memorable sitcoms of the past.)

The production required exterior day shots and night shots, to be used for “Interior House - Day” and “Interior House - Night.” (In an early script for Best of the West, I once introduced a scene with “Interior Saloon – Dusk.” During production, our venerable Director of Photography, who had worked on Hitchcock movies, quietly sidled up to me and said, “On situation comedies, you’ve got ‘Day’ and you’ve got ‘Night’. That’s it.”)

Here’s this weird thing that I was unaware of until this film shooting took place. When they shoot exteriors of a house, the first thing they do is to come into your house and turn on all of your lights. I have no idea why they do that. I guess, “The lights are on” indicates, “They’re home.” But all lights on? I would never have all my lights on at the same time. In rooms nobody is in, are you kidding me? Do we have stock in the Electric Company?

Anyone living under my roof who left all the lights in the house on would immediately be drummed out of the family. Or at the very least be demoted to a lesser relative.

Yet that’s what the film crew insisted upon. I was seriously disappointed. A show whose basic intention was to be as true to life as possible, and every light in my house was on? Say goodbye “verisimilitude”, hello “science fiction.”

For some reason, maybe because he was required to be in some shots – entering and exiting the house –Family Man’s star Richard Libertini was on hand, and we invited him to dinner. As the crew filmed the house’s exterior as night fell, my family plus Mr. Libertini were gathered around the dining room table, Dr. M rising intermittently to bring things in from the kitchen, and others getting up to take an additional slice of pizza. Suddenly, there’s a knock on our front door. It’s the leader of the film crew carrying a complaint. What was the complaint?

“We’re seeing movement in the house.”

That was the complaint. The film crew was seeing movement inside a house where all the lights were on because the people were at home. That’s normal, isn’t it? I mean, if there are people in the house, why wouldn’t there be movement?

My logic was irrelevant.

“It’s ruining the shot.”

And there you have it. To satisfy the filming, every light in the house needed to be blazing. And if anyone wanted to move, they were required to crouch down, below the “sight lines” of the camera, so as not to be detected.

After that experience, though inquiries have occasionally been made, we decided we would never again use our house as a location.

It is simply not worth it.

Even if they paid us, the money would all go out in electricity bills.

Besides, Family Man was over twenty years ago.

With the passage of time, it is no longer that easy to crouch.

"Why I Need Newspapers"

2011-12-28T04:00:00.000-08:00

The caption below the photograph of a story I read a few days back reminded me the reason I like, and more importantly, need, especially as I get older,

Newspapers.

The story involved a federal court appeal hearing involving the California ballot initiative (read: referendum) concerning gay marriage. The caption under the accompanying photograph read as follows:

Charles Cooper, attorney…argues that appeals court should invalidate ruling that threw out the measure.

What the newspaper is offering, along with information, is a tongue twister for the brain. How many reversing negatives are mentioned or referred to in the above caption? If I’m not mistaken, four. They want to “invalidate” the ruling that “threw out” the measure, the measure being against gay marriage, which the court had ruled in favor of in an earlier decision.

The court said “Yes.” The initiative said “No.” The court invalidated the initiative. Now lawyers want to invalidate the decision.

I don’t know about you, but for me, getting up in the morning and being confronted by an intellectual challenge generously provided by my morning paper is positively exhilarating. It’s a thought puzzle. As we get older, the medical wisdom tells us, we need such stimulants to our gray matter to keep our brains from devolving into Silly Putty. And here’s a free one, right in the paper.

So there’s that – the cerebral workout offered by whiplashing headlines and photo captions. You decipher this mental maze and you feel like a winner.

“Look at that! My mind still works!”

Though you may need a little nap afterwards.

There’s another type of stimulation that newspapers provide. I’m not talking about the stimulation of the ideas in, say, the op-ed section. I actually, you may not be surprised to hear, prefer my own ideas.

The stimulation I am referring to is the welcome stimulation of my imagination, triggered by certain stories that appear in the paper.

For example, this one, printed the same day as the above caption:

“Judge must rule in Santa Clarita slaying and dismemberment case after a witness recants her testimony.”

This one really got me thinking. Apparently, a female witness who, as a teenager in 1995 had testified that she had been an eyewitness to a slaying and dismemberment, returned to the court,

And she took it back.

The defendant, who had been convicted as a result of her testimony, had already served fifteen years in jail. Now she’s saying, “Sorry. Got that wrong.”

Fifteen years later, the woman does a complete “one-eighty” on having eye- witnessed a slaying and dismemberment. This is where, thanks to this story that appeared in the newspaper, my imagination kicks in.

How exactly could this unusual occurrence have taken place?

Did the girl make the whole thing up? (“My life is too humdrum and routine. I think I’ll testify in court that I saw a slaying and dismemberment.”)

Was she looking into her neighbor’s window, and while thinking she was witnessing a slaying and dismemberment, she was instead watching her neighbor’s TV?”

Did she do it on a dare? (“It was either say I saw a slaying and dismemberment, or stick a lit firecracker up my friend’s dog’s butt. I was trying to help the dog!”)

Had her recently prescribed eye drops caused her to start seeing things?

Did she reverse her testimony, because she looked up “dismemberment”, and it said that “member” was a euphemism for penis, and although the body had been seriously chopped up, the penis remained attached, so, literally, it was not a “dismemberment” after all?

Was she just in a trouble-making mood?

Had she, in fact, had her eyes closed, and only heard later that someone before her tightly closed eyes had been slain and dismembered, leading to her incriminating evidence being stricken from the record as “hearsay”, and the defendant set free?

Was she just nervous in the courtroom, and when she was asked if she had witnessed a slaying and dismemberment, an anxiety-induced slip of the tongue led to a “Yes” response rather than the truth?

Did she confess to having seen a slaying and dismemberment, because the investigator who interrogated her was “really cute”? (“And I was hungry. I couldn’t wait to get out of there!”)

Was she simply getting back at the defendant for his unwillingnes to slay and dismember her?

Does she have a rare type if learning disability that forces her to say the exact opposite of what she actually means?

Did she misunderstand the question, thinking she was being asked if she wanted to see a slaying and dismemberment. (“Geez, I mean, who wouldn’t!”)

Did she accidentally enter the wrong courtroom, her “Yes” answer memorized and rehearsed, but it was for a trial down the hall where the question was, “Did you see the defendant steal a kazoo?”

Did she just think she witnessed a slaying and dismemberment, but upon further consideration, she realized they were just fooling around?

Had she been paid off to testify she witnessed a slaying and dismemberment, and now somebody else was paying her off to say she didn’t?

Does she, like me, simply have an active imagination?

The judge hearing the appeal for a new trial seemed to be enjoying this as much as I was reading about it. You could tell, because his response to the witness’s unexpected flip-flopping on having seen a slaying and dismemberment, was,

“Something unusual is going on here.”

I can imagine the judge biting his lip real hard, to keep himself from laughing.

Reading this story took, maybe, five minutes. But imagining the possibilities behind the story – hours of entertainment!

Provided by my morning newspaper.

Okay, you say. But couldn’t you get the same mental stimulation and imaginational enjoyment reading an online version of these stories on your computer? Undoubtedly, I could. There’s just one flaw in that argument.

I am never going to read newspapers on my computer. How do I know that? Because I’m me. End of story. And, more importantly, when newspapers go away, end of stories.

I need what newspapers provide. So as long as they stick around, you can count on my never abstaining from refusing not to read them.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

STOP THE PRESSES!!!

There was another one in the paper this morning. This one was on the front page:

“Rash Of Tuba Thefts In L.A.-area Schools.”

“All they took was the tubas.”

I wonder what the piccolos thought about that?

"An Old Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words (and that's before inflation)"

2011-12-27T04:00:00.000-08:00

My brother recently sent me this one. It's a picture of him and me at the pony carts in Jackson's Point, a resort community fifty miles north of Toronto, where you could rent a cart and drive around, unsupervised, anywhere you wanted. I mean, you couldn't leave town, or anything. The carts were only rented for half an hour. And the ponies had very short legs.

I post this for anyone wondering what I looked like when I was five.

Copies on sale on request.

Not really.

But how often do I get a chance to say that?

Even if it isn't true.

"Homework Assignment (While I'm Away)"

2011-12-26T04:00:00.000-08:00

"Reason is the 'faith' of non-believers."

Discuss.

With attention to the limitations of both; wherein faith is unable to explain certain occurrences, and reason cannot explain others.

And an assessment of their rationale for those limitations:

"The explanation for those occurrences is (currently, the case of reason) beyond our understanding."

"A Belated Apology To The Princess Of Luxembourg"

2011-12-23T04:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Princess of Luxembourg,

It’s been over forty years since I met you, while I was wrapping toys at Harrods Department Store during the Christmas season of 1967. You appeared to be slightly older than I, which would make you approximately…well, there’s no need not go into that. I just hope you’re still around to receive my sincere and heartfelt apology for my ungracious, though in no way intentional, disrespectful behavior.

As context rather than an excuse, allow me to provide you with some explanatory background. I was raised in Canada, a former British colony, as you know from your tutoring, and although Canadians are known for their good manners – at least compared to Americans – we have no tradition, at least no formalized tradition of status or class.

Canadians are an immigrant people. We (or our forbearers) all hail from other places. Some of us, me, for example, are Jewish, a religion that instructs us to treat all people as we would like to be treated ourselves, but bend a knee to no one. We’ve gotten into some hot water for that one, but what are you going to do? It’s in the Bible.

I was raised with a democratic (with a small “d”) spirit. At camp, we sang songs like, “I’m proud to be me, but I also see, you’re just as proud to be you.” We are all equal – that was the message. I used to lead a song called “We’re In The Same Boat, Brother.” What did it say? There is one boat, and everyone’s in it – children of immigrants, and princesses of Luxembourg.

That was my training. That’s what I believed.

For reasons too circuitous to go into, during the run-up to “Christmas 1967”, I found myself working at Harrods, wrapping toys for the holidays. The idea to do that came from a classmate in my acting class named Belinda Rokeby-Johnson. You might know her. She seems like she might move in your circles.

I was seriously in need of work. Belinda told me that, starting around the middle of October, her friends would always take jobs at Harrods, as the store took on extra employees for the Christmas rush. The reason her friends did that, Belinda explained, was so they could take advantage of the seventeen per cent “Employee Discount”, which they applied to the purchase of chinchilla coats.

Desperate for employment, I applied at Harrods, and I got a job. Not as a salesman; I did not have the wardrobe for that. I was assigned, instead, to an out of sight location – an airless, windowless storeroom, where with others of my undistinguished ilk, I wrapped presents purchased from the Toy Department, as they rolled in, collected in large wire baskets, on a ratchety, unstoppable conveyor belt.

I was not a great toy wrapper. I was slow, which could have meant I was meticulous, until you looked at my output and you realized I just stunk. At the end of the day, my nail, where the receipts were impaled after the wrapping of each toy order had been completed, always had the fewest number of receipts on it. Even though I consistently grabbed the baskets with the fewest number of toys in them, especially if they were small and rectangular toys, like a board game, or deck of cards, rather than a tricycle. Wrapping a tricycle could easily take me till Easter.

I am getting to you. I beg your patience.

Harrods had rules for their employees. We were not allowed to walk directly into the store. Those doors were exclusively for customers. Employees had to “clock in” in a building across the street, descend to a dark and winding catacombs, proceed through a tunnel under the road, climb some clanky, metal stairs, before unobtrusively entering the premises.

Once inside, employees were required to use the stairs, rather than the elevators and escalators, such conveyances, once again, being strictly “Customers Only!” As was the “Banking Hall” with its “Harrods Green”-upholstered couches, where store patrons would meet, before heading off to shop or enjoy a sumptuous lunch. Employees lunched in the subsidized “Employees Canteen”, situated on the top floor of the building.

My subversion was intermittent. Some rules I obeyed, and some, I didn’t. I had to enter from across the street, because I needed my “time-card” punched, in order to get paid. However, I threw caution to the winds, taking full advantage of the “Customers Only!” escalators.

Though I dined in the canteen, because it was cheap, I invariably took my meal-money savings, and proceeded to the Harrods “Smoke Shop”, where I bought an expensive Cuban cigar, which I then took down to the “Banking Hall”, where I puffed away, comfortably ensconces on one of the Hall’s overstuffed couches. If there was time left on my lunch break, I would, in the midst of the elegantly attired customers, kick off my shoes, curl up on the couch, and take a nap.

All right. Here we go.

On the last days immediately preceding Christmas, Harrods could no longer guarantee that the presents would be delivered on time. Therefore, after being wrapped – by myself and my cohorts – the customers were required to retrieve their purchases at a “Pick-up Kiosk”, and transport them home personally. This was particularly the case for presents that were intended to be mailed abroad. With Christmas closing in, their timely arrival was no longer possible.

Delivering the presents to the “Pick-up Kiosk” was my one chance to escape the lung-damaging dreariness of the “Toy Wrapping Room” and interact directly with the customers. Once, meeting an “Earl”, I asked, “What do you get for being an ‘Earl’? Do you get any special treatment, like can you park anywhere you want?” The “Earl” guffawed at my colonial silliness.

One day, I was delivering some purchases to the “Pick-up Kiosk”, when my ears were bombarded by the angrily raised voice of an unhappy female customer.

It was you.

What I rapidly gleaned was that, somehow, your presents had been indifferently wrapped, and inadequate for transport. And you were making a big fuss about it. I recall my first words in response to your tirade:

“Lady, you are giving me a headache.”

In quick order, I jumped in to help. I scooped up your presents, and invited you to accompany me back to the “Toy Wrapping Room”, where I assured you I would personally re-wrap your gifts to your complete satisfaction.

I escorted you “backstage”, a dank, under-lit tomb, where the dregs of society toiled in obscurity, wrapping Christmas presents for rich people’s children. I sat you down on a large roll of corrugated cardboard, distracting you with chatter, as I dutifully serviced your gift-wrapping needs. When the time came to tie the parcel’s bow, I recruited you to press down your impeccably manicured forefinger on the knot.

Though in highly unfamiliar surroundings, you seemed to be having a good time.

And so was I.

Finally, we were done. I escorted you back to the store, accompanying you to the exit. I said, “It was nice meeting you.” And that, I imagined, would be that.

You instructed me to wait. Then, you reached into your purse, and you drew out a five-pound note, handing it to me, with an “I appreciate your help.”

I immediately took offence.

“I don’t want money!”

It was deeply offended and righteously indignant. The money ruined my whole idea of what was going on. I thought we were two people, having an adventure. Humans beings from disparate backgrounds, thrown together in an unlikely encounter. I thought we were equal.

Wrong.

Whatever my fantasies, we were in reality, “The Fancy Lady and The ‘Nobody’ Who Wrapped Toys.”

You forced the fiver on me, saying, “Give it to your favorite charity.” And then, you were gone.

Moments later, a posse of high-ranking Harrods officials wearing striped pants and cutaway coats engulfed me, nervously peppering me with questions about what had just taken place. I told them, and asked them what was going on?

It was then I discovered you were the Princess of Luxembourg.

Sometimes, absorbed in myself, I neglect to check things out from the other person’s point on view. You weren’t trying to insult me with that tip. You were trying to be nice. Appreciative. In your continentally royal way.

And I was just rude.

Your Highness, I would like to, belatedly, say

I’m sorry.

It was a generous gesture, and I should never have reacted as I did. Full disclosure: The money never went to “my favorite charity.” I bought a cigar with it. But I imagine you knew I would. Well, not the cigar, but that I’d spend in on me.

You probably don’t remember any of this. I remember it all. Why wouldn’t I?

How often you meet a princess?

And tell her to shove her five pounds?

Well, not literally, but that was my tone.

I’m sorry, again.

And Merry Christmas.

Yours truly,

The guy from the store.

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Tomorrow, Dr. M and I are going to London for sixteen days, a week of which involves an organized tour of theater and British culture. I am taking some I-Contraption with me, in case I decide to post when we're away. I have also left enough posts to tide you over till I get back. I don't know how this will play out. Being me, I cover all the bases. So either I'll talk to you when I get back. Or before that. I currently have no idea which.

"The Big 'I'"

2011-12-22T04:00:00.000-08:00

Actors always made me feel good. Why was that? Because they were the only people I encountered who were more insecure than writers.

A lot more.

This nugget of comfort resurfaced in my consciousness when, in a response to Zaraya’s query about pauses, (the query, December 12, the response, December 14, for those of you scoring at home), I mentioned that some actors indignantly object to the stage directions written in the script, to the point of taking a “Magic Marker” and blacking them all out.

This always seemed a little weird to me. The stage directions these actors resisted so vehemently were written by the same writers who wrote the script’s words. The actors may not have approved of the words, or at least not all of them, but they didn’t bury them in black!

Actors who object to being told how to read a line (or when to take a pause) may feel they are justifiably defending creative boundaries, and who knows, maybe they are. I recently watched an interview with Morgan Freeman where he criticized directors who interfered in his acting process, explaining, in effect, “They hired an experienced actor who knows what he’s doing. Let the guy act.”

Point taken. I would happily “let the guy act.” If “the guy” was Morgan Freeman. Morgan Fairchild? Not so much.

It occurs to me that some actors’ objections in this regard may have less to do with the rightful safeguarding of creative autonomy than with an insecurity-driven need to protect the “Circle of Certainty”, a term I just made up.

Out loud – often very out loud – the actor is proclaiming, “Don’t tell me how to read a line or when to take a pause. I’m an actor. You write the lines. I’ll act them.”

Deep down, however, there’s the possibility, that, inside the actor’s brain – and we will steer clear of any evaluation of that particular organ – there’s a little voice, perhaps a not entirely confident little voice, saying to the actor,

“Telling you what to do means they don’t trust you to do it right on your own. As an actor, who can never be sure about the choices you make, because acting is not math and there’s no definitive “right answer”, you must oppose any intrusion on your “Circle Of Certainty” with the adamant insistence that you know everything, because, being vulnerable to the possibility that you might not know one thing opens you to the possibility, not only in your employers’ minds but in your own mind as well, that you may not know anything.”

It’s like the clerics of old, who dug their heels in on the issue of whether the sun revolves around the earth, or vice versa.

“To be honest, we don’t really care what revolves around what? The thing is, when people start questioning our certainty, the whole operation come apart like a cheap cassock. The next thing you know, they’re questioning paying us money for their guaranteed entry into heaven. I mean, where would it end?”

So you nip it in the bud.

“Don’t tell me, Mr. Writer Man. I know!”

That’s one kind of insecurity. Where an actor can never admit to uncertainty. When you’re running a show, it’s a giant pain wrangling such nuisances. Truth be told, however, it could actually be worse.

It’s after midnight. I am fast asleep. Because it’s after midnight. And because I’ve been working myself to exhaustion, getting a pilot ready for the filming scheduled for the following evening.

The phone rings. Dr. M, who was also fast asleep, answers it. I deliberately sleep on the other side of the bed because of just such occurrences. In all my years, I have never received a “good news” phone call after midnight.

Dr. M says it’s for me. I roll over and take the phone, though not without a put-upon groan, which I hope the person on the other end of the line doesn’t hear, but on the other hand, the heck with them, they’re calling me after midnight.

It turns out it’s the star of the aforementioned pilot. The actor apologizes for the late night intrusion, but he’s been wrestling with a line reading and he needs me to tell him what to do. I immediately provide the answer.

“Go to sleep.”

But the actor’s insistent; he needs help. What he really needs, of course, is reassurance. Though likable and attractive, the actor ranks below the highest echelon of comedy practitioners, and he knows it.

“How do you want me to do it?”

“The way you think best.”

“I need you to tell me.”

So I tell him. Right, wrong, it didn’t matter at that point. I just wanted to get back to sleep.

“What did he want?” inquires a half-conscious Dr. M.

“He wanted his mother,” I replied, making a note to henceforth have a greater appreciation for the actors who obliterate my stage directions.

At least those guys never wake me up.

"Your Presents Are Requested"

2011-12-21T04:00:00.000-08:00

In honor of the “Giving Season”, I am reprising my story about the most famous gift-giving occasion in recorded history, and, by the way, one of my “Top Ten Favorite Posts.” (With – because it is impossible to be otherwise – some inevitable tinkering.) I hope you enjoy it. Or, for those who’ve been around for a year, enjoy it again. Maybe this time, you could get a group together and act it out.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Who invented holiday gift giving?

A guy with a store.

Too cynical? Maybe. Though perhaps not entirely off the mark. Historically – if we can regard the Bible as history, and who’s to say it’s less accurate than anything else written back then – the gift-giving tradition originated on “Day One”, if by “Day One”, you mean “Day One” of A.D. rather than “Day One” of B.C. I actually don’t know when “Day One” of B.C. was. Billions of years ago? It was way back, I know that. Anyway, that’s got nothing to do with this story.

Hovering over the event, from that very first occasion, there loomed the darkening presence of gift-giving anxiety, the gut-eating worry that your gift will resoundingly fall flat.

Allow us now to peek in on that initial foray into heartfelt but emotionally turbulent generosity.

Ext. Holy Land – Night

(Note: In the Jewish tradition, which was in force on this first day of Christianity, all holidays begin on the night before. I don’t know why. Maybe they couldn’t wait.)

THREE WISE MEN ARE CAMELING TOWARDS THEIR MIDDLE-EASTERN DESTINATION.

(Note: Because I have no idea of their actual names, the Wise Men will herein be designated by the gifts they are delivering: Gold, frankincense and myrrh. Sorry for all the Notes.)

THE NIGHT IS QUIET, SAVE FOR THE SOUND OF THREE CAMELS, CLOMPING OVER SAND.

FRANKINCENSE: I could use some reassurance here.

GOLD: What about?

F: (STANDING FOR FRANKINCENSE, SO I DON’T HAVE TO KEEP WRITING IT EVERY TIME) I’m a little worried about my present.

G: (DITTO ON THE INITIAL ) How so?

F: I’m concerned about its appropriateness.

G: What is it you’re giving them again?

F: Frankincense.

G: And remind me what that is?

F: It’s an aromatic gum resin.

G: Uh-huh. And you believed that was appropriate because…?

F: Frankincense is known to have soothing properties. I thought after the turbulence of childbirth, the participants might appreciate a calming influence.

G: I suppose. But have you noticed how quiet it’s been? – a starlit firmament, the absence of a breeze, not a peep out of anything? If I were a Weather Man – or a songwriter – I’d say, “All is calm, all is bright.”

F: You’re saying they won’t need a calming influence?

G: It seems somewhat redundant.

F: You’re right, they’re going to hate it! I know exactly what’s going to happen. They’ll be all nice about it and everything. “Look, Joseph – frankincense! What a beautiful present!” And then, angling for reassurance, I’ll say, “Are you sure you like it? I could take it back.” And they’ll say, “Oh, no, it’s perfect! We were just talking about how we were really low on frankincense and my husband said, ‘Maybe I should pick some up’, and I said, ‘Hold off a little. We might get some as a present’, and here we are! It’s like a miracle. I mean, it’s no ‘Virgin Birth’ or anything, but it’s still amazingly timely.” I despise that excruciating charade. I wish I had brought something else!

MYRRH: You wish.

F: Oh, yeah, I forgot. With you around, I am guaranteed no worse than “Second Most Terrible Gift.”

M: Well that’s not very supportive.

F: Your gift makes no sense whatsoever.

G: What was your gift again?

M: Myrrh.

F: Terrible!

M: It’s not that bad.

F: Oh, really? First of all, myrrh is also a gum resin. I mean, three gifts, and two of them are gum resins? These guys are going to have to be really good actors. “You can never have enough gum resin.” This is a train wreck!

G: A what?

F: It’s bad.

M: It may be okay. There is actually a substantial difference between my gum resin and your gum resin. Yours in an aromatic gum resin. And mine is a bitter gum resin.

F: (TO G) You know what bitter gum resins are used for?

G: No, what?

F: Embalming. He’s bringing them a burial spice. (TO M) I hope you kept the receipt.

M: In a little pouch inside the myrrh pouch. But the store’s in Turkey.

F: Remember now, you promised. I give my gift first. I go after you and it’s like, “Oooh, more gum resin.” No way. I want to be the first gum resin they get.

M: I don’t know, after my bitter gum resin, aromatic gum resin might be a step up.

F: I’m going first!

M: Okay! Okay!

G: You know, you Wise Men – and your behavior puts the title into question – are both making too much of all this. Remember: “It’s the thought that counts.”

F: Spoken like a man who’s giving gold.

G: What! It’s simply what came to mind.

F: Yeah, right, you big showoff.

G: You could have brought gold.

M: “Gold, gold and myrrh.” They’d certainly remember me then.

F: Why do you always have to be better than everyone else?

G: That’s not how I thought about it.

M: “Let’s see. What gift should I bring them? I know. Something that makes everyone else’s gift look terrible and cheap!”

G: It’s not a lot of gold.

F: (To M) Did you see the pouch it’s in?

M: The pouch alone is better than my present.

G: If you’re so unhappy with your gift, you should have brought them something else.

M: Like what?

G: I don’t know. Booties.

M: “Gold, frankincense and socks.” That’s much better.

F: Why didn’t you get booties?

G: Because I brought gold! Dear Lord – who was just born. Do I have to apologize for being the only one who’s bringing a decent gift?

F/M: (TOGETHER) YES!!

F: You know, in truth, we have no idea who we’re bringing this stuff to. They could be loaded. They could open the pouch and it’s like, (BLASÉ) “Oh, gold. Throw it on the pile.”

G: Unlikely.

M: F’s right. Your gift could be the least appreciated gift of all.

F: “He put zero thought into it. ‘Gold. Done!’”

G: I think we should stop talking for a while.

F: You’re the boss, Mr. Moneybags.

THEY CAMEL ALONG IN SILENCE. FINALLY…

M: Are you sure we’re going the right way?

G: I am following the star.

M: Maybe we should stop and get directions.

G: That’s not necessary.

F: Oooh, Mr. “Gold Giver.” Too good to ask directions.

G: Directions to where? Are you kidding me? We have no idea where we’re going!

M: Okay! Take it easy! You’re turning all red.

F: (TO G) Would you like a little frankincense to calm you down?

M: I’d like slip him some myrrh.

F: Oh. For “embalming.” I get it.

G: (DRYLY) Hilarious.

M: You know, all this bickering. It’s because of the presents.

F: You’re right. If only we could honor special occasions in a less competitive manner.

G: A celebratory song, perhaps.

F: Could that be because you’re an exceptional singer?

G: Well…

F: He won an encampment citation. The guy never stops.

M: Let’s just stick with the presents. And hope that they’re big resin gum fans.

F: That’s gum resin.

M: Oh.

THE THREE-CAMEL CARAVAN PROCEEDS ON TOWARDS BETHLEHEM, AND INTO NEW TESTAMENTAL HISTORY.

G: (TO HIMSELF) Everybody likes gold.

F: Not if they’re loaded.

CURTAIN.

"257 Words"

2011-12-20T04:00:00.000-08:00

Before leaving for London, I wrote a letter to the people living in the house in Hampstead where I lived for a time in 1967, asking if they would allow me to come into their home and take a nostalgifying look around.

What follows is a peek into a writer’s process, tracking my efforts to make my letter to these people as persuasive as possible. It will also bring into question the writer’s character. Am I admirably meticulous? Or terminally anal? The decision on that matter will be yours. Though if you choose “anal”, I may not agreee.

For maximum enjoyment, print up the final version of the letter, and follow along as I delineate my writing decisions. To add an interactive component, play along, imagining what you would do in my place. Make a game of it, with scoring, a winner, and perhaps even a trophy.

It’s fun for the whole family.

And it’s free.

Okay, here we go.

Two hundred and fifty-seven words.

And what they went through to become the following final version of my request:

Dear 10 Church Row Homeowner(s),

My name is Earl Pomerantz. I am sixty-six years old, and I live in Santa Monica, California, a sort of beachside suburb of Los Angeles.

From December 1966 till July 1967, I lived in your house, renting a flat on your top floor, with a roommate, and later, moving down to a large room on the floor immediately below. Since then, on subsequent trips to London, I have made pilgrimages to Church Row many times, standing across the street from your home, wishing I could ring your bell, and request a brief visit to my past. To date, I have abstained from doing so, for fear of intruding on your privacy.

Now, from the upcoming Christmas Day until the following January 10th, my wife and I will have the pleasure of being in London once again. It was suggested to me that an appropriate approach to the proposal of a visit was to put my request in writing prior to my arrival.

This is that request.

If you are amenable to my dropping by, so I can show my wife where I once used to live, and also engage in a personal exercise in nostalgia, please contact me at (my private e-mail address), and let me know. It is certain that such a visit would be a substantial highlight of our trip.

I hope this request itself is not too much of an intrusion.

Wishing you and your family Happy Holidays, and a joyful New Year.

Sincerely,

Earl Pomerantz.

Okay, back to the top.

Dear 10 Church Row Homeowner(s)

I thought of “Dear The People Who Live At 10 Church Row”, but is sounded too cutesy. “To the Residents Living At 10 Church Row”, sounds like a foreclosure notice. “To Whom It May Concern” wafts the institutional vibe of a neighborhood fumigation announcement. I thought about “Hi, there”, but rejected it, as risking rubbing potentially stuffy English people the wrong way. I finally, though not entirely happily, settled on “Dear 10 Church Row Homeowner(s), bracketing the pluralizing “s” to avoid charges of “Man-of-the-house” sexism.

You see how complicated this is? And I’m still on the salutation.

I start with my name and my age, including the age to add weight to my request. “The man’s sixty-six. Who knows how long he’s got left?” I mentioned where I was from, including the more familiar “Los Angeles”, in case they don’t know where Santa Monica is. I could have said I was from Los Angeles, but that wouldn’t have been accurate; I’m from Santa Monica. Accuracy is important, don’t you think?

I informed them precisely when I lived at 10 Church Row, and alluded to the house’s layout, all to affirm my credibility, and by so doing, elude sounding like, “Hi, I’m a burglar, and I’d like you to let me in, so I could rob your house.” I then added,

“Since then, on subsequent trips to London, I have made pilgrimages to Church Row many times, standing across the street from your home, wishing I could ring your bell, and request a brief visit to my past.”

Can you imagine me, standing forlornly across the street? You’d let that guy in, wouldn’t you?

“To date, I have abstained from doing so, for fear of intruding on or privacy.”

Come on! I’m a sweetheart!

I then let them know when we’ll be in town, buttering them up, hopefully not too obviously, by saying,

“...my wife and I will have the pleasure of visiting London once again.”

I could have just said we’ll be “visiting London once again.” But I wanted them to know it was a pleasure.

“If you are amenable to my dropping by…”

“Amenable”, a second shot at it, felt like a fine, English-sounding word. It was originally “If you are open to my dropping by…” But I thought “amenable” was more “burgundy smoking jacket with leather patches”, so I changed it.

“It was suggested to me that an appropriate approach to the proposal of a visit…”

First, it was “a polite approach”, then, for a moment, “a respectful approach”, then, finally, it was “an appropriate approach.” It seemed better. In a country where they say things like, “It’s just not done!”, “appropriate” fits right in.

Also, check out my modus operendi. I didn’t inflict my will on the issue. I solicited suggestions on how to handle things. Appropriately.

“I hope this request itself is not too much of an intrusion.”

That one gave me some concern. Was I being sweetly solicitous? Or was I sucking up, to the point of parody?

“Wishing you and your family Happy Holidays, and a joyful New Year.”

Generic but respectful, alluding subtly to Christmas by capitalizing “happy” and “holidays.” Possibly too subtle, but I had nothing to lose. Capital letters come cheap.

Finally, the “sign-off. “ At first, I didn’t have one. But then, I went back , thinking English people expect a “sign-off.”

“Sincerely.”

Hardly original. But better than “Yours truly” – I have never understood what that meant – and considerably better than the alternatives, “Take care, you guys” and “I’ll see you around.” “Cheerio” didn’t not even enter the picture.

It took me twenty minutes to write the original draft of the letter and two hours for the revisions, the proportion being not that different than when I’m writing my blog posts.

Did I make it better? I hope so. But I don’t know.

Did I make it better? I hope I did. But I really don’t know for sure.

Did I make it better? I think so. But I may be fooling myself.

Did I make it better? “Two hours” to make it worse? I have to believe I did.

Did I ma…”

“Stop it!”

Okay.

I’ll let you know if I hear back.

"Total Recall"

2011-12-19T04:00:00.000-08:00

Or almost.

Dr. M, I , Rachel, her husband Tim, and their sleeping baby, Milo, are lunching at a picnic table in the courtyard of the Brentwood Courtyard Mart, an upscale outdoor shopping center designed to look rurally rustic. (It is painted red with white trim, like a barn.) We are there to provide a much-needed outing for the homebound, baby-caretaking couple, and to do some Chanukah shopping.

The regular clientele at the Brentwood Country Mart hail from the surrounding community of Brentwood, an affluent neighborhood of families, decked out in color-coordinated casualwear, accompanying beautiful babies, napping in state-of-the-art strollers.

We too are accompanying a beautiful baby, napping in a stroller that can do just about anything but your taxes. But we are definitely not them. We are visitors from a less manicured part of town. You can tell, because we did not avail ourselves of a Hollywood Fashion Consultant before leaving the house, and everyone else there appeared to have. They were all ready for their close-ups.

Bordering the courtyard are a number of food stands. Though I am famous in my family for my impeccable dining choices, this time, I have mis-selected a barbecued chicken sandwich that had the stringy consistency bespeaking of a chicken who had not had an easy life.

As I gleelessly absorb the sandwich, I feel a gentle tap on my arm. I look up to see a young child, a girl, maybe six or seven, holding something in her hand and saying, “Is this yours?”

The little girl hands me what’s in her hand. I look down at what she’s given me. It’s money. Which she has recovered from under the picnic table at which we are lunching, almost directly beneath my feet. Hence, her suspicion that it was mine.

Now I’ve been known to drop things. Keys frequently escape from my pocket. Loose change scatters in all directions. And of course, there’s food that lands everywhere, due to a flaccid lower lip that does less that its due diligence in keeping comestibles where they belong. In the containment department, I am pretty much a human sieve.

However, when I look at the money, I immediately realize it is not mine. Why? Because what I’ve been handed by the little girl is a curled-up roll of hundred-dollar bills.

My currency denominations of choice are “twenties and lower.” No hundreds. To me, hundred-dollar bills are the currency bank robbers, or people who’ve had an unbelievable day at the track. An impending “drug buy”, maybe. Otherwise, I cannot imagine any reason to carry “hundreds”. Even muggers don’t expect to get that lucky.

Not without some regret, I return the roll of “C-notes” to the little girl, who hands the money to her mother. I remember mentioning, “If nobody says it’s theirs, come back, and we’ll split it.” But otherwise, I make no claim to past or future ownership.

At this point, a dark-haired young woman in her twenties arrives, and re-claims the money she had accidentally dropped.

And that was that.

Or that would have been that, except that, at that point, an intense dark-haired man and a blond woman, also in their twenties, join the scene, claiming that the money is actually theirs.

A heated discussion takes place as to the rightful ownership of the money. Though sitting near the altercation, I choose not to listen in. Loud voices make me nervous. I’m afraid that, as the argument escalates, somebody is going to get pushed, and they will, inevitably, topple onto me. Eventualizing numerous visits to the chiropractor, and a month or more, walking with a hunch.

Okay so, later that evening, I recount this experience to Dr. M, with the thought of turning it into a story. I begin,

“Somebody tapped me on the arm. I turned, and this little girl…”

Dr. M stops me.

“There was no little girl.”

“Yes, there was.”

“No."

Dr. M, who’d been sitting beside me, proceeds to recount her version of the event, or, as her tone of certainty implies, the correct version. A woman asked me if the money was mine, I said it wasn’t, a dark-haired woman said it was hers, and then another couple came over and claimed it was theirs. The woman who found the money then stood there, uncertain of whom to return it to, as the dueling claimants went head-to- head.

Dr. M’s take leaves me confused.

“There was no kid at all? A little girl?”

“No.”

I believed that there was. I had definitely seen a kid. But Dr. M would not budge, adamantly certain that no kid existed.

We call Rachel to break the tie.

Rachel confirms there was no kid.

I immediately take the phone.

“Are you sure there was no kid?”

“There were a lot of kids around,” she replies, in a Rachel-like gesture to justify my mistake.

“And the woman who found the money held onto it, while the other people fought?”

“No. She gave the dark-haired woman the money, and went away. Then, when the other couple said it was theirs, the dark-haired woman refused to give it up.”

So.

Like me, Dr. M had gotten part of the story wrong. The woman who’d found the money didn’t stay; she handed the dark-haired woman the money, and took off. This, of course, assuming that Rachel, to whom we automatically cede veracity because she’s younger and therefore has more functioning brain cells, was not herself mistaken in her recollection. We might have checked with baby Milo, but he was asleep. Both at the restaurant, and during the phone call.

So there you have it. One story. Three versions. And this isn’t an event from twenty years ago. The discrepancies arose on the spot.

The biggest mystery, for me, however, was how it was possible for two human entities to be walking around the same place, each of them carrying wadded-up rolls of hundred-dollar bills. Dr. M was sure one of the entities was lying. Me, I’m more trusting. Which Dr. M would call naïve.

It was Anna who later that evening who satisfyingly answered my question.

“Can you believe that two people would be walking around with big rolls of hundred-dollar bills?”

“There? Yes!”

Mystery solved. It was standard Brentwood Country Mart behavior.

Now, if I could only find out what happened to that little girl.

---------------------------------------------------

Update and Vindication: December 19. I just got a call from Rachel's husband, Tim. Tim called to back up my version of the story. There actually was a little girl who said, "Is this yours?" and handed me the money. My recollection has been confirmed!

When I get a handle on it, I will write a post about the memories I believe to be true and other people shoot them down, focusing, not on the unreliability of memory, but on my shameful ability to stick to my guns. For now, I will simply bask in my rightness. Oh, it feels good!

"By Mutual Agreement"

2011-12-16T04:00:00.000-08:00

This example comes from an arena that I happen to know something about. But I imagine you could come up with similar examples from your own lives, or from observing the world around you, that closely resemble this hallucinatory hocus-pocus.

Here’s the set-up: (We’re talking about commercial television.)

Commercial television is called commercial television, because the money that supports it derives entirely from television commercials.

So far, so logical. Now…

The television networks pay the program suppliers – studios, independent production companies, etc. – what they call “licensing fees”, in exchange for which the program suppliers supply the television networks with programs.

The program suppliers’ production team – from the actors and directors down to the people who pick up the lunches – are paid their portion of that “licensing fee” by the program suppliers, the program suppliers allocating a substantial, though not always well earned chunk of that “licensing fee” to themselves.

The networks are re-paid for that “licensing fee” and then some (their profit), by the sponsors who buy airtime to promote their products during the program suppliers’ programs’ numerous commercial breaks.

The ad agencies are paid for, one – serving as middlemen between the sponsors and the networks in the purchasing of that airtime, and two – for producing the commercials themselves.

The ad agencies production team – See “Television Suppliers’ Production Team” above, replacing “are paid…by the program suppliers” with “are paid by the ad agencies” who, as mentioned, are paid by the sponsors, who also pay the networks for the airtime, the networks, going around again, paying the program suppliers for their programs, the point being, they are all in it together.

(I am not overlooking the dozens of ancillary businesses that benefit from servicing the requirements of commercial television. For this exercise, however, we will stick exclusively to the “biggies.”)

The hub of this multi-billion dollar “Wheel of Profit” is the commercial sponsor, which makes sense, because, as mentioned in “Paragraph Two”, we are talking about commercial television. Through their purchasing of airtime, the sponsors indirectly pay for all the programs. The sponsors, as mentioned, also pay for the production of the commercials.

Why does the sponsor do all that paying? They do it under the premise that advertising their products on television is beneficial to their business, and is, therefore, worth the money.

The commercials for the sponsors’ products are aired, the viewers watch those commercials, a hopefully substantial number of them are persuaded to purchase the sponsors’ products, and as a result of those purchases, the sponsors recoup their expenditures and then some (their profit) on the “mark-up.”

This entire commercial television enterprise is grounded in the belief that the television viewers are watching the commercials.

The question is,

What if they aren’t?

What if the whole commercial television operation is based on a belief that is horrendously out of date?

When I originally published my post about not liking to watch commercials, a dissenting commenter named Diane asserted that she liked watching (at least certain) commercials.

The question is (a refinement of the previous “The question is”:)

Are there more people like me, or are there more people like Diane? And even if there are more people like Diane, is it possible that there are anywhere near the number television viewers watching commercials today as in the past, to the extent that commercial-backed television holds up as a still credible business model?

The answer is:

It doesn’t matter.

The “biggies” seem to have agreed not to examine that question. The result:
The smooth sailing of the S.S. “Business As Usual.”

The sponsors continue subsidizing the programming, seemingly ignoring the fact that who knows how many, perhaps most, television viewers are no longer watching the commercials. If there is statistical proof that they are out of, perhaps, some sense of duty to the people providing the entertainment, it has not crossed my path. A common sense assessment, plus the advancements in “commercial avoidance” technology, however, suggest otherwise.

If the sponsors were to acknowledge the current state of television-viewer commercial watching, they would have to accept that they are paying humongous sums of money for little or no reason, they would desist from doing so anymore (or look really stupid if they didn’t), and as a result of this precipitous loss of revenues, the eßntire commercial television system would immediately come crashing to the ground.

And nobody wants that.

So they continue to believe that people are still watching the commercials.

And everybody’s happy.

Except for one guy who you happen to be reading at the moment, who would be considerably happier if this bizarre arrangement, and paralleling arrangements regarding many of our other major institutions, all of which we pretend work despite persuasive evidence that they don’t, made just a little bit more sense.

"A Response To Johnny Walker (The Person)"

2011-12-15T04:00:00.000-08:00

I generally answer every question I’m asked here. It’s fun for me. Ask more. And I’ll do my best to craft a worthwhile reply.

Commenting on “A Response To Mac” (December 12), Johnny Walker inquires,

“Given what you’ve just said, would you tell young writers to shy away from television?

Okay.

Foist of all, it is not my place to offer career advice to anyone. When I was younger, I was constantly the recipient of career advice, including my high school Guidance Counselor advising me to become and accountant, and my mother, who just cried. Neither came close to helping me in my time of confusion.

In my view, you have two choices: You either do something, or you don’t. That decision involves an emotional calculation: Will you feel worse not trying? Or will you feel worse trying, and not making it? Answer that question, and you know what to do.

That’s not exactly advice. But if it is, I encourage you to reject it, and think for yourself.

I make one exception in the advice-giving department. Although I would never advise young writers to shy away from television, I would strongly advise new writers over sixty to shy away from television. And maybe old writers as well.

In my experience, what flings you to the sidelines is, primarily, not some difference in opinion you have with some current clack of executives (a point Mr. Walker made concerning Joss Whedon) – you think you’re good; they think you suck. The real problem is an older writer’s glaring lack of congruence with the current sensibility, the older writer being irredeemably “behind the times.”

(This plague eventually strikes every comedy writer. It will happen to Matt and Trey; it will happen to Seth MacFarlane. It already happened to Mike Judge.)

This “Sensibility Gap”, I believe, is less a factor in drama (where Mr. Whedon primarily toils.) But in comedy – you just have to revisit last month’s “tweets” – “what’s funny” gets as old and odiferous and an unrefrigerated quart of milk.

You can’t fight “sensibility.” Tone, taste, touch, subject matter, the approach to the subject matter. This collective sensibility resides naturally in the young writer’s DNA. The old writer has old DNA. And, wishful thinking notwithstanding, there is no way they’re the same.

In an Earl Pomerantz-controlled universe, I, Earl Pomerantz, would decree that comedy show runners and feature film screenwriters hire Earl Pomerantz to suggest ways to edit, enhance, focus and consistify their scripts, to help maximize their comedic possibilities.

These skills do not lose their potency over time; they may even get sharper. And they virtually always make scripts better. Earl Pomerantz, unfortunately, does not control the universe. The universe caught a break on that one.

There is nothing new about veteran television writers disparaging the medium in which they once flourished. In the past, it involved putting TV down as exclusively a source for enhancing your bank account. Long-time TV writer Jerry Belson (The Odd Couple, The Dick Van Dyke Show) once observed,

“Television is good, if you want to buy a couch.”

A contemporary of Belson’s, Harvey Miller (The Odd Couple, Gomer Pyle, USMC) put it pretty much this way in a film called New Years Day (1989), directed by Henry Jaglom:

“I got out of television, because I hated it. Then, when I saw how much money they were making, I wanted to get back into it, so I could get rich, and get out again.”

When you get down to it, it is not really about money. Not even back then. And, to be truthful, it’s not about still wanting to be in it.

What it’s really about is hating like heck to be out of it.

It’s good that I’ve got this.

Keep those questions comin’.

"The Power Of The Pause"

2011-12-14T04:00:00.001-08:00

Commenting on “A Response To Mac” (December 12), Zaraya, in the course of her genito-centric joke reference wondered about the scripting of pauses, to wit,

“Just how do script writers put pauses into a script? Do they do it, or do they actors delivering the jokes do it, either consciously or unconsciously?”

Okay.

First, to me, the pause can be one of the most powerful tools in the comedy-writing arsenal. One of my heroes, Jack Benny, used the pause to arguably the greatest effect ever on one of his radio programs, radio by the way being the high point of pause use success.

Since radio is a uni-sense medium – ears only – nothing could generate tension better than the pause, leading to an explosion, be it a reflexive scream in the scary shows, or an explosive laugh in a comedy.

Over his more than fifty-year career, Jack Benny developed a universally recognized comedic persona, characterized by vanity, cowardliness and, most significantly, his extreme stinginess.

In a famous episode, Jack Benny is walking along, when a mugger comes up behind him, sticks a gun in his back, and says to Benny,

“Your money or your life.”

What ensues is purportedly the longest pause in comedy history. And when you pause on radio, you’ve got ‘em. With TV, you watch the guy pause. That’s not nearly as much fun. On radio, with nothing going on but sound, a prolonged silence gives the audience has no alterative but to wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.

Aware of Benny’s character’s notorious stinginess, the audience “knew” what this extended pause was about. As a result, the audience’s laughter in response to the reason Jack Benny was pausing built and built and built. Finally, at precisely the right time – and we’ll get back to that in a minute – the mugger broke in.

“Well?” he barks gruffly.

To which Benny replied, putting the cherry on top of that delicious comic moment,

“I’m thinking it over!”

Boom! The roof comes off!

That’s what a skillfully executed pause can do. Even on television, it can still be devastating. The climax of the Best of the West pilot involves a showdown between the hero, Sam Best (Joel Higgins), and his gunfighter adversary “The Calico Kid” (Christopher Lloyd).

As it turns out – and as was often the case in the real West – neither of their six-guns function to perfection, resulting in the bullets slamming into everything but the two combatants. Observing from a distance is the series’s “Bad Guy”, Parker Tillman (Leonard Frey) who had hired “The Calico Kid” to gun Best down.

Tillman is disgusted by this travesty of a gunfight. During a pause, where the adversaries are both out of bullets and checking themselves out for gunshot wounds, Tillman glowers furiously, and then, at the optimally-timed moment, he shatters the silence with three carefully-chosen words –

“Well…I mean…”

A thunderclap of laughter! Set up by the ridiculous gunfight , but equally importantly, by the pause.

Okay, I’ve mentioned timing twice. And herein will I (finally) address Zaraya’s question.

For maximum results, the pause must be perfectly timed. Getting to the heart of Zaraya’s question, the pauses are frequently inserted in the script. You might see stage directions with the words,

“(THE CHARACTER) TAKES A BEAT.” OR, SIMPLY, “A BEAT.”

A beat is a pause.

If the pause occurs within the dialogue, the word (PAUSES) may be written where the writer desires the pause to occur. Another option is the one Zaraya chose in her query, the “three dots” option at the “Point of Pause.”

They all say “Pause”, inserted in the most fervent hope that that pause will make that comedic moment funnier.

Now…

Many actors – perhaps the majority of them, though I have never done a poll on the matter – do not like any kind of “stage directions” – including the pause – believing that the writer is disrespectfully encroaching on their actorly determination regarding how to deliver the line.

When receiving their script, the first thing I’ve seen actors do, even before counting their lines, is to take a black Magic Marker and obliterate every stage direction, other than those involving movement (“HE MOVES TO THE CLOSET”) or physical “business ” (“SHE JUGGLES THE OVERLY MICROWAVED MUFFIN.”)

Sometimes during a “runthrough” (read: rehearsal), it will be discovered that a pause, not indicated in the script, is needed to heighten the comedic effect. At that point, the actor will be instructed (by the writer or the director) to “take a beat” before delivering a line. Again, some actors respond cooperatively to these “notes”, and others run off call their agents, railing against the “blatant strangulation of my creativity.”

Who knows best about what’s required? The writer, or the actor? Excluding those rare few performers (e.g. Bill Cosby) who possess natural comic timing, my answer is, “Experience knows best.” My faith is in the practitioner who has done the most things right the greatest number of times. In Best of the West, a renowned character actor, Tom Ewell (The Seven Year Itch) played “Doc Culllins”, the show’s inebriated town doctor. I would always defer to his judgment. Except once. And I was wrong.

Ultimately, it’s in the hands of the actor. It is they who deliver the words when the cameras are rolling. However, there is a court of last resort, where pauses and their length are ultimately finalized.

Editing.

Editing is the last rewrite. In the context of pauses, editing allows you to manufacture a pause, shorten a pause, extend a pause, and time the pause to, as with the current technology, milli-secondal precision. You can tinker with that pause to your heart’s content, fashioning it for maximal results.

During the editing sessions, traditionally, the actor is nowhere in sight.

When I ran the shows, I often permitted the actors to go with their instincts, knowing that the final determination would be mine. With careful editing, not only could I repair the misjudgments perpetrated by the performers,

I could also bury my own.

"A Writer's Mind (Enter At Your Own Risk)"

2011-12-13T04:00:00.000-08:00

I’ve been writing things for public consumption for over forty years. And yet, as I recently discovered, I am still capable of being surprised, bordering on dismayed, by my own process.

This jolt of awareness is a good thing, and not just for writers. You’re in an habitual rut, wherein you proceed on “automatic pilot”, consciously oblivious to what you are doing. When your process is somehow brought to your attention, you may say, “Okay, that’s what I’m doing”, and continue doing it. Or you may decide that you want to do things differently. Your habitual rut remains available to you, but as a result of its illumination, you at least now have a choice.

Hey, Earlo, what are you talking about?

This.

Recently, I decided to reprise a post about gift giving. You may have read it. The post is called “Your Presents Are Requested” (December 8), and it is really quite good, one of the more satisfyingly executed pieces I have ever written. In keeping with seasonal modalities, you might even say it glows.

Having decided to re-post “Your Presents Are Requested”, I recall thinking, “This will be an easy writing day.” All I had to do was to pull up the original text on Microsoft Word, and “copy and paste” it over to my blog. (An alternative would be to link you to the original post, though this is not an alternative for me, as I have forgotten how to do that.)

Of course, I knew – having been me all my life – that I would not be able to simply re-publish the material, without first reading it over. I would be eminently possible – and it in fact turned out to be the case – that the distance of time – I had written “Your Presents Are Requested” a year earlier – would inspire certain improvements. Nothing major. A word-change here, some tightening there. It was already good. I figured, twenty minutes, tops, and I’d be on with the rest of my day.

Two hours later, I was still at it. Adding lines, sharpening attitudes, clarifying the concept. It was fun to get back into it. It was gratifying to come up with the changes. I was unquestionably making it better. I loved that I could do that.

The disturbing shadow over the process, however, was that, when I originally wrote, revised and cut-and-pasted “Your Presents Are Requested” over to my blog,

I thought I was finished.

I thought it was as good as I could make it.

I thought the writing task had been completed, the product polished to perfection, ready to be shipped to an adoring readership.

I sincerely believed that. And, as it turns out, I was at “two hours and counting” worth of wrong.

Wait. There’s more.

As part of my tweaking and tinkering, I found myself not only adding lines – lines I had not previously come up with but now found totally essential – I was also taking lines away from one character and transferring them to a different character.

Why?

First, to remind you – or, if you haven’t read “Your Presents Are Requested”, to tell you for the first time – the characters portrayed in “Your Presents Are Requested” were named after the gifts they were bringing to the newborn, and soon to be something special, manger baby, those being: Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh. Now suddenly, as I was revising the dialogue, I found myself determining, and with a steely certainty that, for example,

“Myrrh wouldn’t say that.”

And I gave the line to Frankincense.

Who would.

I was legitimately taken aback by this realization. My decisiveness seemed entirely unjustified. I had written “Your Presents Are Requested” a year ago, and hadn’t thought about it since. I had hastily created three characters out of thin air, arbitrarily, and with minimal consideration. They simply serviced the storytelling.

Yet now, lightningly quickly, and with questionable justification, these characters had somehow become ossified in granite.

“Myrrh wouldn’t say that.”

I was confident that was true.

Me. Who had so recently misled myself as to how much (how little?) adjustment the original blog post required. Me, Mr. “Twenty minutes – my ass!” trusting myself to make definitive adjudications as to what three characters I had fleetingly constructed would and would not say.

Wherefrom derives such certainty?

Despite the screaming evidence of its unreliability, I fall back yet again on relying on my own provenly error-prone judgment.

Why would you do that?

I have to, Italics Man.

It’s all I’ve got.

"A Response To Mac"

2011-12-12T04:00:00.001-08:00

In response to my 1000^th post post – and by the way thanks for your written encouragements, and the psychic encouragement from those who chose not to express your encouragements in print – a commenter named Mac wrote, in part:

Which brings me to a question I’ve always wanted to ask. Why don’t you write comedy pilots? Do you no longer have the urge? I find that difficult to imagine as you clearly enjoy writing just for the hell of it.

First, let us leave to the end the fact that Mac inadvertently answered his own question.

Secondly, as always, while reading the following, you must factor in the disclaimers, which I herein reveal, though not for the first time.

Disclaimer Number One: The “sour grapes” disclaimer, of a writer who was shown the door, or in this case the studio “exit” gate, considerably earlier than he was ready to go.

Disclaimer Number Two: Which regular readers will readily identify – I have this habit wherein I, more than sometimes, veer towards the negative, obsessing on the spot instead of the apple. This proclivity leads to a cloudying of my perspective.

Okay, so much for the disclaimers.

Now…

Why don’t I write comedy pilots?

A substantial part of the answer, hardly headline news:

Comedy has changed.

I will now reveal an essential element in my success:

For a gratifying number of years, my comedic proclivities were consistent with the comedy fashion of the day. The comedy fashion changed. I didn’t. Or wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. And my day in the sunshine was done.

It’s as simple as that. What makes you inevitably brings you down. And that’s the name that tune.

How has comedy changed? I just yawned writing that sentence. Has this issue not be analyzed to death? The quick answer to “How has comedy changed” is:

Watch it!

The clues are rather obvious.

I’ll be brief.

One: Comedy has changed generationally. Responding to the highly coveted younger demographic’s more relaxed acceptance of sexual-themed content, the networks’ “Standards and Practices” departments now allow writers to say things for laughs that writers of an earlier era would never have bothered to include in their scripts, because they would have been directed forthwith to take the “offending material” out.

I wrote or co-wrote something like a hundred half-hour scripts. I do not recall even thinking of typing the word “vagina.” Today, a “vagina”-free script would have a tough time making the grade. Could I have not change with the times, and learned to write genito-centric material? Let me put it this way. When Two Broke Girls did a joke referencing ejaculating in somebody’s face, I stopped watching it.

Two: Comedy has changed competitionally. (Which my computer tells me is not a word, having just underlined it in red.) To remain competitive with cable, both basic – South Park – and premium – Curb Your Enthusiasm – the networks’ offerings had to amp up their “edginess”, or appear to be products of an archeological dig, uncovering TV programming artifacts from 1976.

Cable programming has driven networks to “push the envelope” to the point that the envelope now includes extremes in language, tone and subject matter. My most famous episode involved a funeral for a goldfish.

And speaking of extremes…

Comedy has changed, I don’t know, like the way Darwin explained how biological species mutate and evolve. The ongoing “advancements” are almost imperceptible, tiny little “adjustments”, to provide never-before-seen surprises in order to retain the audience’s interest and as a consequence survive.

Inevitably, the “advancements” keep coming, to the point where the line of “What’s acceptable” is continually pushed back, and the concept of “taste” bites the dust like the mal-adapting species that inevitably went extinct.

Turning from the theoretical to the practical, you may not know this, but if you write the pilot – especially in comedy – you are obligated to stay with the series. You don’t let a great chef leave after you open the restaurant. The chef is the restaurant. As the show’s creator/pilot writer is the show.

If you don’t want to work on a series – which is exhausting and frustrating and anxiety-inducing and...did I mention exhausting? – then you don’t want to write a pilot. Doing one requires a commitment to the other. I have visited the series television inferno. And I am not eager to return.

Which brings us to the section of Mac’s comment, wherein the answer is included in the question:

Do you no longer have the urge {to write a comedy pilot}? I find that difficult to imagine as you clearly enjoy writing just for the hell of it.

Writing for the hell of it is the exact opposite of writing for television.

That’s why I do this.

And I no longer do that.

"A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words"

2011-12-09T04:00:00.001-08:00

Or more.

"Mille"

2011-12-08T04:00:00.000-08:00

Mickey Mantle, the Hall of Fame baseball player, was also a chronic alcoholic. One day, terribly hung over, Mantle arrived at Yankee Stadium with the game already in progress. When he appeared in the dugout, Mantle was immediately sent in to pitch hit. Despite his condition, Mantle went up to the plate and hit a home run. After rounding the bases, Mickey Mantle returned to the dugout, and was reputed to have said:

“You have no idea how hard that was.”

Writing blog posts, the number of which has now reached a thousand, is not hard. The writing process, for me, is as joyful as I imagine smacking the horsehide was for Mickey Mantle. It’s what we do. And doing what you do provides immeasurable satisfaction.

Before going on, let me just take a moment to bask in the deliciousness of analogizing myself with Mickey Mantle.

Okay.

Moving on…

Coming up with post ideas can be hard. Though not always. Sometimes, three or four come flying at me on the same day. On other occasions, however, nothing worthwhile jumps to mind. And then, somehow, something does.

This has always been the case. In the coming up on four years that I’ve been doing this, there has never been a day when an idea I felt motivated to write didn’t ultimately appear. Regular readers will not be surprised to hear that this extended run of consistency does nothing to alleviate my insecurities. I suspect that a mentally healthy person would find my four years of uninterrupted reliability encouraging. Pollyannas! What do they know! I mean, the string has to end some time, doesn’t it?

Sitting on my desk is a carved, wooden box stuffed with three-by-five cards filled ideas that I’ve come up with for possible blog posts, but I’ve discovered that “going to the box” feels like visiting a basement closet full of stored-away clothing. Though once, they fired my enthusiasm, these fallback ideas now seem musty and out of date. Maybe if I’d written them when they came to me. But I couldn’t. I was occupied writing something else. I mean, how much can you write in one day? I have a life, you know!

Well, the truth is, I pretty much don’t. Which brings us to the really hard part of this undertaking, the core of the comparison to Mickey Mantle’s hitting a homer while severely under the weather.

I have told friends, when I’m describing my range of current experience from which to draw blog post ideas, that I feel – and please excuse the political incorrectness – like a guy in a wheel chair, swatting flies. (I did, in fact, recently write about a spider living on our kitchen window. So the analogy turns out to be less analogy than fact.)

Lacking a life of incident and excitement – I know, there were recently two weddings and a baby, but they weren’t my weddings, and it wasn’t my baby; I was merely a bystander, rather than, as I’ve been in the past, a participant/bystander, writers, by their nature, being both of those as the same time.

To repeat myself, lacking an eventful life from which to generate ideas for blog posts – although a busy life itself might have deprived me of the opportunity to blog, but let’s say it didn’t, if only to, finally, get to the end of this sentence – I have opened up my biographical trunk and, like an archeologist (a nasty one) looting mummies’ tombs, I have made off with its most valuable contents.

In preparation for this post, I went back to my original post called “Welcome” (January 16, 2008). In it, I provided samples of what I had in mind for this blog. Though lacking any kind of premeditated plan – I actually started with nothing in mind at all – it turns out I have hewn surprisingly closely to my original…what I said I was going to do.

I have spoken extensively about show business, though, perhaps, not extensively enough for some readers, eager for illuminating glimpses behind the scenes of the classic series – The Mary Tyler Moore, Taxi, Cheers, The Cosby Show, The Larry Sanders Show – I was involved in.

I wrote a post suggesting that perhaps I have a form of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome), since my recollections in this department come to me as battlefield flashes rather than detailed recollections. Who knows? Someday, I might hit my head and suddenly remember everything. Though I’m not looking forward the hitting my head part, imagining that “remembering everything” would require a rather serious knuck. I am not really an “everything for my art” kind of guy. I have my limits.

I wrote about camp, and I wrote about living in “Swinging London” in the 1960’s (though the swinging, regretfully, was primarily engaged in by others.) I wrote about sports, most notably and controversially, about how Canadian football is better than American football; it is, except for the players.

I wrote about the night classes I took at UCLA, though not substantially, since, being old, I was often asleep before the classes were over.

I have written about cowboys, excerpting from my unpublished book, Sagebrush Memories, and have written about politics, excerpting from my unpublished book, Both Sides Make Me Angry. That’s what I did from the time I stopped working in television till the time that I started this blog. I wrote books nobody wanted. Which was enjoyable while I was working on them them, though considerably less so when they wound up in my filing cabinet.

Of course, I could not have known in “Blog Post One” that I would undergo heart surgery (with robots) or any other recent events that I’ve found worth chronicling (somebody found hundreds of dollars and they thought it was mine, but I gave it back, because it wasn’t.) So there are always current occurrences to talk about. As well as original musings concerning the world around me, and the world inside my head.

Still, having virtually cleaned out the trunk, and with the thought that “How many noteworthy experiences and original musings can a little Jewish man have?”, I can’t help wondering what meaningful, interesting, informative, and hopefully humorous things I have left to tell you. I really don’t know.

I write this blog because I like to and because I need to. And as long as that remains the case, I will continue to do so.

As for the concern of what’s left to say after a thousand posts, I will henceforth count my blog posts following the example of, what I’ve been told in a Canadian joke, is the “Newfie’s” (a person from Newfoundland’s) method of counting fish:

“One fish…another fish…another fish…”

Those “Newfies” knew how to handle their “fish count” anxiety. I plan on following their example.

As for you, whoever and how many ever you are, let me express my heartfelt appreciation for your support in Italian for no reason whatsoever:

Mille grazie.

"Give Till It Helps"

2011-12-07T04:00:00.000-08:00

Not long ago, in a post called “Help” (November 11), l listed sixteen causes and charities that sent mail appeals for money in the course of just four days. Well, the charities apparently don’t read this blog, either because they’re too busy doing good, or they’re too busy soliciting money. Either way, despite my plea for them to leave me alone – and remove my name from the “Suckers’ List” – the solicitations keep coming, the latest one from “The National Center For Missing & Exploited Children.” (Which led me to wonder, if you made your child sing for company, would that qualify as “exploitation”?)

I know I can’t stop the unending outpouring of requests for money. Soliciting for causes and charities is a business, and in America, you can’t stop business, because that’s treason, and they can kill you for that.

Besides, I know that cause and charity solicitors have their hearts in the right place. You can tell they are decent and generous people, because the causes and charities for which they’re soliciting are invariably worth ones. And when they send out their requests, the envelope almost always includes sheets of personalized “return address” stickers, and on rare occasions, a nickel. (That shows through the transparent window of the envelope, which compels you to open it, because nobody throws away a nickel. Do they?)

My concern is that it’s going to get worse. Despite overwhelming rejection – Dr. M supports a personally chosen slate of causes and charities, and I limit my contributions to the “Negro League Baseball Hall of Fame” and the “Jewish Cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona” (home of the infamous “Gunfight and the OK Corral”) – nevertheless, charity solicitors of all stripes continue to bombard us with requests. How long, do you imagine, before we get letters from:

The American Canker Sore Society

The Antarctica Opera Company

The Bald Horse Foundation

The Fight Against Tight Shoes

Adopt-A-Snake

Hiccup Helpers

Stutters In-in-inter-na-na-National

Square Dancers For Justice

The American Mudslingers Association

Habitat For Humility

The Jugglers’ Aid Society

Dollars For Dry Mouth

People Opposed To The Acceptance Of The Rejection of Gay Marriage

Restless Lip Syndrome

Mothers Against Dandruff

And

The Society For the Abolition of Fake Charity Lists

(And they sent that to me?”)

Let me be clear here. I am not an uncaring individual. In fact, I lean far closer in the other direction. Which leads me to fear that, inevitably, my dam of resistance is going to break, and I will helplessly succumb to all requests.

It could easily happen. But then what?

Perhaps, this:

Earl had a problem. He was just too nice. Earl gave generously to every cause and charity he heard from.

Now Earl – a man who gave not wisely but too well – has nothing. Not a dime. Not even the nickels that were included in some of the solicitations. Earl dropped them into a United Way coin box at a nearby diner.

That he can’t afford to eat in anymore.

Because he’s broke.

In this Season of Giving, please help Earl, so he can continue to help others. Or, barring that, find a good therapist who will help him be more selective.

Send your contributions to:

“Pennies 4 Pushovers”

We promise you, this charity is encumbered by no cash-depleting administrative expenses. One hundred per cent of your contributions will go directly to Earl.

Give till it helps…Earl help others…or help himself help himself, one or the other.

Either way, you’ll be doing a nice thing.

And please enjoy the complimentary “return address” stickers. You can just cross out Earl’s name and address and write in your own. Financial considerations prevent Earl for providing stickers with your name and address on them, and Earl’s got such a big stack of his own, he figured, why not share the wealth with everyone? Which is so like him. So very “Earl.”

So enjoy.

And Merry Christmas. Or whatever holiday you celebrate this time of the year. Including nothing.

“Pennies For Pushovers”

Help a man who responded to every charitable solicitation he received…

Until he totally ran out of money.

This is pre-emptive, of course. I have not succumbed quite yet. But I feel my resistance is weakening. It is only a matter of time.

Let me know if you think this charity thing is a good idea. I need some outside feedback, before I go out and buy a whole bunch of stamps.

Wait! As a charity, doesn’t Pennies 4 Pushovers qualify for free mailing privileges?

You know something? I think this could really happen.

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Birthday shout-out to Colby Buddelmeyer, who completed the requirements for his Master's in Electrical Engineering, as well as his thirty-sixth year of living on this earth. Well done, on both accounts. And happy birthday from a guy who's never been a father-in-law before, and is enjoying it quite a bit.

"Shop"

2011-12-06T04:00:00.000-08:00

From Nursery School till the end of Seventh Grade (or, as they say in Canada, Grade Seven), I attended the Toronto Hebrew Day School where, for half the day, we studied regular subjects – the ones they taught in regular schools – and for the other half of the day, we were taught subjects related to our ethnicity, such as Hebrew, Bible studies, and Jewish history, where every story was exactly the same:

“We were living in (PLACE COUNTRY NAME HERE), and then they kicked us out.”

Just before graduation at the end of Seventh Grade, it was mandatory for the graduating class to take a Public School “Equivalency Test”, after which we moved on to the regular school system, where we were all promptly “accelerated” into Ninth Grade. I never understood that. Public schools studied for a full day the same subjects that we studied for half a day, and yet our school’s Seventh Grade classes invariably skipped an entire grade. How is that possible? Maybe they had a longer recess.

Also mandatory before we were permitted access into an educational system where students learned a smaller amount in twice the time, was a requirement that the graduating male students of the Toronto Hebrew Day School take a one-year course in “Manual Training”, which was colloquially known as “Shop”, an assignment that involved working with sharp, pointy tools that could knock your eye out, and electric drills, which, if not handled correctly, could put a hole through your hand.

The female students took “Home Ec(onomics)” instead, where they learned to cook. This was, it goes without saying, pre-“Unisex.” Otherwise, I would certainly have selected the cooking.

Twice a week, after our regular school day, our class was bused to relatively nearby Glen Park Public School, which was outfitted with the full array of “Manual Training” accouterments. For “Shop” purposes, Glen Park would be our nomadic home-away-from-home.

From the moment we arrived, it was clear we had ventured into Unfriendly Territory. A small number of my classmates came from strictly Orthodox Jewish backgrounds. Among other obligations, this required them to keep their heads covered at all times. I myself came from a more relaxed religious background, so I not only did not follow that requirement (outside of my school), but I cannot enlighten you on the religious underpinnings of the “head covering” requirement.

I might have been tempted to ask my teacher about it, but my school did not encourage curiosity in such matters, hewing instead to a lockstep adherence to the rules, the deviation from which was punishable by “the ruler” or “the strap.” They were generally nice people at my school. As long as you stuck to the rules. And you didn’t ask questions.

We walk into this tool-bedecked workshop, where we are met by Mr. Kells, a no-nonsense, middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a haircut that spoke – if hair can speak – of recent military service, with which he must have strongly identified, as he devotedly maintained their hairstyle after he was out.

The first thing Mr. Kells bellowed as my classmates and I warily filed into this unnervingly alien terrain was,

“Take off those beanies!”

My Orthodox brethren, however, stuck adamantly to their guns. Mr. Kells was a fearful presence. But they feared the Almighty more.

As with all of my disturbing experiences, including, to some degree, my entire show business career, there is some “PTSD” component clouding my “Manual Training” recollections. I do not recall them in any great detail. Just flashes and fragments, as in a traumatizing night battle, illuminated by artillery fire.

I remember that the year was divided into three distinct work programs: Wood Shop, Metal Shop and Leather Shop. At as result of that tri-partite delineation of challenges, I learned, over the year, that I was terrible at all of them.

In Wood Shop, we made sailboats, comprised of two sails, the hull, the rudder, and a small shelf, extending out from the sails – the shelf not really being part of an actual sailboard, but you want your work to be functional as well as decorative – all screwed or stapled into a recognizable water-traveling conveyance.

You drew the outline of the sails on a larger piece of wood, then cut along the lines with a thin-bladed coping saw. I could not cope with the coping saw, breaking blade after blade with a sharp, metallic “sprong. “ Sometimes, splintered pieces of my coping saw blade would fly around the room, forcing nearby classmates to duck for cover.)

I also managed to split one sail of my sailboat while I was sanding it. Finally, I fell so far behind, Mr. Kells retrieved an abandoned, completed sail, and just gave it to me, saying, “Use this!”, storming away in Vesuvian exasperation.

Metal Shop was worse. To fashion some sort of nameplate, I was required to cut a piece of sheet metal with a pair heavy, scissors-like shears. Even using two hands, my weak hand muscles were not close to being up to the task. After weeks of effort, my defeating sheet of sheet metal was touched with the barely-noticeable imprint of a superficially indented dimple.

By the time I rotated to Leather Shop, I was running out of time. To accommodate my schedule and my demonstrably substandard abilities, my assignment was continually simplified, downgrading from a wallet, to a key case, to, in the end, a jaggedly-edged eye patch.

Now, listen to this; this was amazing. At the end of the year, Mr. Kells delivered our “Manual Training” grades to the Day School, so they could be included on our final report card. The thing is, the Public School grading system was the standard A,B,C,D,E, “E”, of course, being the lowest grade you can get. The grading system at the Toronto Hebrew Day School, however, placed “E” at the top, “E” being for “Excellent.” (Followed by “Very Good, “Good”, “Satisfactory”, “Unsatisfactory” and “Poor.”)

Consistent with my performance, Mr. Kells had graded me with an “E.” You see where I’m going here. Maybe it was a clerical error, I don’t know, but, somehow, my Public School “E” was transformed into a Toronto Hebrew Day School “E”, thus anointing me with the highest grade in the class.

“Manual Training” was a nightmare form beginning to end. But you know what? For some reason, I have, over more than half a century, held on to that sailboat I made. I am looking at right now. And I’ll be entirely honest with you.

It’s not very good.