"Their Natural Habitat"

II said it before and I’ll say it again:

It’s L.A.  What are you going to do?

In. L.A., everyone’s just…not quite like they are… anywhere else.

I see a “Body Mechanic”, who has not a single diploma on his wall, is a former policeman, and Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, he does exactly the same kind of bodywork on horses.

I visit a chiropractor, whose treatment sessions last a minute and a half, and whose desk is covered with stacks of business cards, touting, among a wide range of services, a swimming pool cleaner, hot air balloon rides, and a clown for children’s birthday parties.

My hair cutter cuts my hair, and then gives me a blessing. 

A blessing?

On my head.

Mazel tov, mazel tov.

Matthew, a smart and dryly funny English bloke, belongs to this spiritual organization called the “One World Fellowship”, or something that sounds like that, but is actually something else.  I’m not being disrespectful; I’m being forgetful.  It’s possible “One World Fellowship” is the name of a Santa Monica health food store.  Or is that “One Voice?”  No, it’s “One Life.” 

I think “One World” is right.  For the fellowship, not the health food store.

When I arrive at the salon, I am met by a delightful young woman named Ashley, who has a number of tattoos, but, imaginably, resulting some kind of compromise arrangement with her parents, they are all limited to one arm.

Ashley shampoos my hair, rinses me off, and walks me over to Matthew, who also sports some serious tattoo work, though “location permission” is apparently off the table.  Which is understandable.  Matthew is older than Ashley, earning him the prerogative of affixing his tattoos wherever he wants.  

(I have this fantasy of a New Yorker cover of the future, where an extremely old woman sits in a chair in her living room, there’s a calendar behind her indicating “2077”, and her body-covering tattoo adornments are all drooping depressingly to the floor.)

I am comfortably ensconced in a barber chair facing a mirror, when I am confronted by the inevitable question, without whose answer we cannot properly proceed.  The question being,

“What are we doing today?”

This is my cue to instruct Matthew on exactly how I want him to cut my hair.  And when I say “exactly”, that’s exactly what I mean.

A few examples from the recent past:

Vacation Request

“I am going to Hawaii.  But unlike the “Maui” haircut you gave me last year, I specifically need an “Oahu.”

The Family Visit

“I am visiting my family in Toronto, and I need a haircut that says, ‘Yes, I can afford a overpriced haircut, but it’s nothing better than you can get here for considerably less.’  And I apologize for the ‘overpriced.’”

The Midwestern Fit-In

“Our upcoming trip to Indiana requires a haircut whose message is, ‘This could easily be an Indiana haircut, though not the kind pulled off by some relative or close friend, using a haircutting apparatus that they ordered over the phone.’”

The Pre-Op Preemption

“I’m having heart surgery next week, and I want my haircut to be shortly-cropped enough to keep the surgical team from saying, ‘We’re shaving the rest of his body; let’s go for the head as well.’”

And most recently

The Birthday “Do”

“My birthday is on Friday.  [My appointment took place on the previous Tuesday.]  I’ll be 66.  I want my haircut to make clear that I’m not trying to pass for 65.”

Whatever I ask for, no matter how specific, no matter how certain I am that he’s never tackled such an assignment before, or anything even close, or even heard of such a hairstyle, Matthew’s response is inevitably the same:

“I’ve got one left.”

The scissors begin to fly – snip-snip, snip-snip – and every time, I get exactly what I asked for, every hair styling exquisitely separate and distinct, the “Oahu” different from the “Toronto”, different from the “Indiana”, different from the “Cedars Sinai”, different from the “66.” 

(With the “66” that Tuesday before my birthday, Matthew spectacularly topped himself, cutting in a 3-day “grace period”, so I would not have to look sixty-six three days early.)

And following each haircut, Matthew instructs me to take a deep, relaxing breath, and then, clamping both hands firmly over the top of my head,

He gives me a blessing.

Two miracles then occur.  Miracle One, I immediately feel an energizing electrical charge coursing through my body.  And Miracle Two, when he removes his hands, my new haircut has in no way been flattened.

Hallelujah!  Or Om.  Whichever applies.

I am merely skimming the surface here, indicating that L.A. is filled with colorful and “unusual” characters.

And I haven’t even mentioned the actors.

"Yet Another Question"

Pour it on!  I love it!

I was concerned that some of this stuff was too “inside” for popular interest – and by “popular” I mean the breadth of my 39 Followers – but perhaps there are more sitcomaniacs out there than I imagined.  Or maybe people are just interested, I don’t know.

Not long ago, I was writing a response to an earlier question about the writer’s “voice”, and to complete the picture – and leave nothing out, for we may never pass this way again – I included the fact that there was, along the continuum of “It takes all kinds”, a type of writer who seemed to project and promote no discernible “voice” whatsoever.

Whew.  That was some sentence.  I must be feeling better.  Back problems have had me spewing in short bursts.

Okay, so now here comes Joe, seizing upon this final fragment of my pronouncement, and wondering if these “Writers Without A Voice” I referred to were analogous to “relief pitching” specialists who, despite failing to master the full range of the pitcher’s repertoire, could nonetheless do one thing extremely well, viz, “Throw heat”, meaning, throw exceptionally fast pitches that the batters couldn’t hit.  Or possibly even see.

The answer to that wondering, Joe, is yes.  And no.  The “no” first.  My inclusion of this substratum of writer related not to how funny they were, but to the fact that this type of writer lacked any kind of identifiable perspective, or as the Beatles memorably warbled, he

“Doozn’t have a pint of you…”

That’s really all I was talking about. 

However, rummaging around in my ramblings, Joe did unearth a valuable nugget.  Joe smartly monikered them the MELs, acronymic for the “Make ‘Em Laugh” writers.  Good on ya, Joe.  Mel Brooks may be their Patron Prototype.

The clarification I make between Joe’s categorization and my own is the following:  

Like all subspecies of writer on a TV series’ writing staff – the “Idea Person”, the Story Structure Maven, The “Intricate Plot” Deviser, The “Brilliant Insight Into Character“ Writer, The Clear and Succinct “Exposition” Writer, The “Writes Great Drafts But Is Useless In A Rewrite Room” Writer, The Specialist In The “Female Perspective” Writer (not always a female), the consistency-demanding “Logic Police” Writer, the Staff Writer Who Turns Out To Be a Big Disappointment, the “Doesn’t Contribute Much, But They’re A Good Laugher” writer, and the MEL Specialist, among other categories  (Old Friend of the Show Runner is another), strung out along each individual “Continuum of Competence”, there are greater and lesser practitioners. 

To be complete, every writing staff requires some representative of the MEL fraternity, who, when “We need a joke here” can adequately supply one.  But the greatest “flame throwers” were the undisputed “Top of the Line” in that category. 

Members of this elite corps of superlative joke writers would rarely be found toiling on writing staffs.  The shows couldn’t afford them; and besides, they were only proficient at that one thing.  As a result, these wizards of sure-fire hilarity were contracted for “Rewrite Night”, one or two days a week. 

Whatever astronomical daily rate they were paid, they were well worth it.  One blockbuster replacement joke could substantially elevate a scene, an act, or sometimes an entire episode. 

I recall one such addition on an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  Ted Baxter, the self-absorbed, slightly stupid anchorman, away at a convention, and exploiting the luxury of Room Service paid for by the station, decided to test the limits of its beneficence, by inquiring of the Room Service Order Taker:

“Do you do clothing too, or just the food?”

That line continues to make me laugh after 35 years.  And I’m pretty sure it came courtesy of a Writing Consultant who “threw heat.”

As a card-carrying member of the “Logic Police” (as well as a member in good standing as a draft writer, “in character” joke writer, succinct “Exposition” Person, and Structure Guy) I would regularly butt heads with our comedic hired guns, complaining that their most recent joke pitch, though undeniably hilarious, made no sense in terms of the character who was delivering it, and/or undermined the credibility of the entire story.  You can imagine how popular that made me amongst my fellow funmeisters.

“Joke pitch.  Enormous laughter.  Earl explains why we shouldn’t do it.”

Oh yeah.  I was a Rewrite Room favorite.  

Though I had wavering regard for the MELs whose jokes seemed artlessly forced or gratingly familiar, I respected the writers who “threw heat.”  And the best of them didn’t mind me either.  They acknowledged that I too had a job to do.  Also, they were confident there were many more jokes where the one I’d shot down had come from.  They simply pitched another one.  And another.  And another.

Their Rewrite Rom-rising spirit was a bonus.  Since these genius joke-writing machines were not overly invested in their pitches, they just pitched, and moved on. 

On the other hand, you shoot down an “I’m saving the show here” suggestion by the “Logic Police”,

And they’d pout.

For which behavior I do now offer my sincere, if belated, apology.

(It seems like I’ve apologized for my behavior before.  Though not its central concern, this could be another reason I’m doing this thing.)

"A Quiet Marking of the Day"

Near my house

Is the Santa Monica Pier

On the pier

Is a Ferris Wheel

It’s my birthday today

I think I’ll go take a ride

"A Race To The Finish Line"

I can’t stand it.  The stress is too much.  And I’m no stranger to stress, I can tell you.  If you had any such idea, forget it.  I have been there.

I have dealt with the pressure of hundreds of writing deadlines.

I have walked on stage in front of two thousand people.

I have faced the cavernous uncertainty of open-heart surgery.

But nothing, nothing I tell you, matches the acute turmoil and anxiety over

Eating all the bananas that we bought before they go bad.

(I may be exaggerating a little for effect, but not as much as you might think.  This is a big one.)

Worst Case scenario.  And I’m not making this up.  This actually happened.

I came home one night with a bunch of bananas, so green, you couldn’t peel them if you wanted to.  The next morning – the next morning, mind you – I walk into the kitchen

And every one of them had turned black!

The bananas had gone bad overnight!  Before we could even get to them!  Five bananas on a stem, suffering from some terrible, life-shortening genetic disorder.  “Shocking” is the only word that applies.  They were green…

and then…

They were garbage.

I tell ya, I never want to see that again.  It was like bananas that had endured a nuclear explosion.  They were utterly decimated.

I was seriously traumatized.  But I couldn’t stay away.  I like bananas.  So I kept coming back.

I continue to buy bananas, but, once home, I monitor them scrupulously, my eyes alert to incipient “Danger Signals.”  A lightening of skin color.  A noticeable softening.  A telltale proliferation of spots. 

I’d feel obligated to eat them – the most deteriorated, and therefore least appetizing ones first – duty-bound to polish them off, before it’s too late.  I was determined to never again be confronted by the nightmarish specter of terminal bananas, with their pathetic, silent rebuke:

“Why didn’t you eat us sooner?”

I am no stranger to bananas; I’ve been around them all my life.  I have a sense of how long it takes before they become fruit bowl fatalities, an insult to both eye and palate, good only for the trash bin, or banana bread.

The problem is, our bananas are not alone in our stylish, wooden fruit bowl.   There are also apples and pears, each item with ian inescapable “Eat by” date.

It’s like Sophie’s Choice, but with fruit.  You opt for the banana, and the rejected alterntives take another step down the Road to Oblivion.  It’s a torturous dilemma.  Eat a banana, condemn an apple.  Choose an apple, lose a pear. 

You can store apples and pears in the refrigerator.  They may even taste better that way, chilled, as if picked straight from the tree on a crisp autumn day in…wherever they grow.  But you can’t do that with bananas, a fact drummed into my head since early childhood by the “Chiquita Banana” jingle, which, to a lilting Caribbean beat, includes the singing admonition:

“…Never put bananas, in the refrigerator!” 

Not that refrigeration is any “Magic Bullet” either, a reality known to anyone who has opened their fridge and gone,

“What is that smell?”

Meat can go bad, butter can turn rancid, bread, though refrigerated, can still sprout white, and later, maybe good for penicillin but less so for eating, green spots.  Milk can curdle, carrots and celery can wilt, eggplant can turn purple – wait, eggplant is supposed to be purple, though, and I admit this is off the subject, I have never been entirely comfortable with purple food.

It’s simply the Way of the World – refrigerated or otherwise, no food is immortal.  (Nor, though it probably doesn’t require adding, are the consumers of food.  Which makes sense, because if you are what you eat, and what you eat can’t last forever, neither can the people consume the stuff.  Truth be told – and there is no reason it needs to be – we are all “going bad” each of us in our own particular way.)

But let’s face it.  No plight is as perilous as the banana’s.  Bananas are entirely on their own, unaided by the technological advances of modern science, which elsewhere have been proven so successful:

“We’ve eradicated diphtheria, banished smallpox, and made polio a thing of the past.  But we can do nothing for the banana.”

What brought this situation so dramatically to the fore is that yesterday, owing to an unfortunate breakdown in communication, Dr. M and I, during separate visits to the supermarket, both came home with a our own individual bunch of bananas. 

At I write these words, there are eleven healthy bananas sitting in our kitchen.

At least six of them haven’t got a prayer. 

"Another Question"

(TO THE TUNE OF THE SANFORD AND SON THEME SONG)

Larry Sanders…bada beeda bada bum

Larry Sanders…bada beeda bada bum…

Sorry.  That just tickles me.  I don’t know why. 

Chuck Sigars recently sent me a question about The Larry Sanders Show – bada beeda bada bum.  Sorry, I had one left.

First of all, I consider The Larry Sanders Show to be the granddaddy or, more accurately, the unmarried, cranky uncle of Curb Your Enthusiasm.  If you’re interested in hearing why I think that…

Ask me.

Today, it’s Chuck’s concern that is front and centre.  Apparently, Chuck NetFlixed a few seasons of The Larry Sanders Show, and found, specifically the earlier episodes, disappointing.  Then Chuck said, and I quote…

“…suddenly, it got better.  …Amazingly enough, this corresponded to the name, ‘Earl Pomerantz’, scrolling by at the end.”   

Well, what can I tell you?  I saved the show. 

At least, that’s what Chuck seemed to be suggesting.  If you allow me, just for a moment, I’d like to bask in the glory of this flattering accolade.

……………………

Okay, that’s enough. 

It’s not true. 

In his comment, Chuck’s primary query was expressed thusly:

“Have you seen one specific writer’s voice change the tone of a show with some seasons under its belt, for better or worse?”

Okay.

My answer will be specific to The Larry Sanders Show.  But first, let me just say that I ran Major Dad during its first season.  The first season of Major Dad had, as its goal, to deliver clever, and original, character comedy. 

I left the show, and the guy who took over broadened its comedic approach, making it stupider though, arguably, commercially successful.  In that case, a change in writing leadership, and the accompanying change in “voice”, made the show, in my opinion, worse.

So there’s that.

Larry Sanders was a different story. 

At this point, I will introduce, what they call in court, hearsay testimony.   The information is not first-hand.  It was related to me by Larry Sanders’ Head Writer, whose veracity on the matter I have no reason to doubt.  But it’s still hearsay.  Meaning, I have no direct evidence that things happened precisely the way the Head Writer told me they did.

Like all sitcoms, the first step in developing an episode is that Garry and his writing staff would hash over various story ideas.  When one of them tickled their collective fancies, the story structure would be discussed in general terms, after which a writer would be dispatched to take a crack at a first draft.  So far, no surprises.

Here, however, is where things changed.  According to the Head Writer.

A draft of the script would be completed in a timely fashion.  It would then be submitted to Garry Shandling for his reaction and “notes.” 

Garry Shandling, a notorious procrastinator, never read the script. 

Or, he read it, but he persisted in deferring the “notes” session.  Either way, the script just sat there.  The essential next step of rewriting and refinement never took place.

Until…

On the Sunday before the Monday on which the script would go into production, Garry Shandling would invite the Head Writer over to his house.  It was now time to deliver his “notes.”

But first…

Garry would participate in his regularly-scheduled basketball game with his friends, David Duchovny and Ben Stiller among them. 

The game would last till late in the afternoon, after which Garry would clean up, and then, finally, he would sit down to conduct his “notes” session on the script.  Garry’s always insightful “notes” would be detailed and substantial.  It was not until eight or so in the evening that the Head Writer was dismissed to go home and begin the rewrite.

The rewriting took all night.  The script had to be delivered early enough the following morning for it to be duplicated and disseminated to cast and crew.  The Head Writer had a handful of hours to rework an entire script.

Understandably, the delivered script was not in perfect shape.

For two seasons, I was recruited – for my first season once a week, for my second season twice a week – to come in and help.  My contribution focused on the clarity, consistency, character and the comedy, by which I mean coming up with specific lines of dialogue that would comedically nail down the moment.  Since he was highly competent, I have little doubt that, given saner working conditions, the show’s Head Writer would have come up with all or, at least, a majority of the improvements himself. 

For me to do what I did required first, one writer to complete the painstaking chore of making something out of nothing with the first draft, followed by the Head Writer’s heroic effort with his all-night rewrite.

It was not my “voice” that made the scripts – and the resulting episodes – better, if, fact, they were. 

It was experience, a resonating sensibility, and time. 

Though I would like to take credit for the whole thing.

"Annoying But True"

Stick-ler – originally referring to the Stickler family, who bore a well-known reputation for scrupulous, factual accuracy, especially concerning matters that are trivial, boring and frustratingly irrelevant; now referring to anyone who behaves that way and drives people nuts.

Stickler:  I’ll bet you think you know how many presidents there’ve been.

A Normal Person:  44.

Wrong.

Wrong?

Right.

Right?

Yes.

Well which is it – right or wrong?

It’s “Right – you’re wrong.”

How many presidents have there been?

43.

43.

Correct.

Did one of them drop out?

No.

Was one disqualified?  They found out Martin Van Buren was born in Belgium?

No.

I don’t understand.  Isn’t Obama the 44^th president?

Actually, he’s the 43^rd.

I thought George W. was the 43^rd.  And his Dad was the 41^st.  That’s what they called each other – “43” and “41.”

They should have called each other “42” and “40.”

Why?

Because they were.

Then why do we – and by “we” I mean everyone except you – think there’ve been 44 presidents?

Because the people who are responsible in these matters have always counted one president twice.

By mistake?

No.

They just liked him?

No.

Was it Taft, who weighed, like, three hundred and twenty pounds, so he was big enough to be two presidents?

No.

Then why did they count the same person twice?

Because he served two terms as president.

A lot of presidents did.  I looked it up once.  Eleven presidents served two terms, and FDR served four.  If you counted that way – let’s see, forty-three, plus eleven, plus FDR’s three other terms – that would be 57 presidents.

Well that’s just silly.

So is 43.

It’s not  You see, one president – Grover Cleveland – served two terms, but they weren’t two consecutive terms.  There was another president in between – Benjamin Harrison – and then Cleveland came back.

So they counted him as two presidents?

Right.

The same guy – two presidents. 

Correct.

“I’m here.  I’m gone.  I’m back.  I’m another president.”

I was the 22^nd and now I’m the 24^th.

The same human being.  Counted twice.

Yes.

That’s odd.

It’s what they did.

The White House staff, did they think he was a different guy?

I don’t imagine so.  He looked the same.  Only four years older.

Did they make little jokes, like, “You know, you’re a lot nicer than the guy who was here two presidents ago.”

I really wouldn’t know.

Do they hang two presidential portraits of the same person?  One with a little less hair?

I’m not sure.  I do however have a Mouse Pad with the presidential portraits on it.  You know how many there are?

Forty-three?

The Mouse Pad got it right!

So then there were, in fact, only forty-three presidents.

Forty-three different entities, yes. 

Most people think there’ve been forty-four.

Those people aren’t counting presidents, though they think they are.  They’re actually counting presidencies.

Presidencies.

A presidency being defined as one or two consecutive terms, or in one case four terms,  plus one president who served two terms but not in a row, who has traditionally been counted as two presidents, when it, more accurately, should be considered two presidencies.  Of course, if you were to count each presidential term individually, that would be…

57

…presidencies.  Yes.

Forty-three presidents.  Fifty-seven presidencies.

Or forty-four presidents, if you incorrectly count a president who served two non-consecutive terms as two presidents.

Which is what most people do.

Without knowing why.

Fascinating.

You really think so?

Absolutely.  If you’re a Stickler!

"A Powerful Tool"

The back spasms continue.  I’m getting treatment, but it’s slow.  Part of the reason it’s slow is because the guy who’s working on me – he calls himself a Body Mechanic – only has office hours three days a week.  The rest of the time, he is the barn, working his Body Mechanic’s magic

On horses.

It’s California.  What are you gonna do?

The fact is, I believe in this guy. 

And so do the horses. 

So we have to share.

Over the weeks, I’ve felt gradual improvement.  Sometimes, however, there are setbacks.

Last night, I woke up at two o’clock in the morning with acute tightness around my shoulder blade and shooting pain radiating down the outside of my left arm.  I am wide awake, and I’m hurting.  I have no idea what’s going on.

And then I do.

I look down at the fingers of my left hand.  They seem to be moving around all by themselves.  But in a specific kind of arrangement.  What I’m doing, I realize, is that I’m miming playing the piano.  What I’m duplicating with my fingers is the rhythm pattern for a song I’ve been studying – an up tempo rocker called “Still The Same”, by Bob Seger. 

This observation was confirmed by the fact that “Still The Same” was playing over and over in my head.  My left hand had been reflexively playing along.

What was now apparent was that I’d been playing the piano in my sleep.  The fast-paced song in my head that I’d been accompanying with my fingers had proven too taxing for my current condition, generating the pain that eventually woke me up. 

Now I was awake, and I had to decide what to do.  Ice?  A heating pad?  Change my sleeping position?  Add a pillow?  Get up and walk around? 

I was pretty sure none of those strategies would get me back to sleep.  And even it one did, so what?  I had this spasm-inducing song reverberating in my head. 

You always won

Every time you placed a bet…

Or, more significantly, the muscle-tightening finger movements –

G-G-G-GD

G-G-G-GA

B-B-B-C Sharp

D-D-D-D…

The situation seemed hopeless.  If I fell back asleep, it would only happen again.

Unless…

Amidst tiredness and discomfort, the solution became clear to me.  My mind – a powerful tool, the mind – had been sending out music that was irritating my body.  What was required, I concluded, was to alter the playlist.

Which is exactly what I did.

I instructed my mind to replace the fast-moving “Still The Same” with the more leisurely- paced “Marie”, by Randy Newman, a song I could comfortably “finger mime” in my sleep without aggravating my condition. 

It worked like a charm.  The moment the song that had been playing in my head was supplanted by a song I had deliberately replaced it with,

I immediately went back to sleep.

And I was out the rest of the night.