"Afterthought"

Sometimes, maybe a day or two after writing a post, it occurs to me that there was something I left out.  Well, not exactly left out.  But something that would make the post better if it was included.  Closer to perfect, you know what I mean?

I just smiled at my own foolishness.  Feel free to react accordingly.

“H-yah, h-yah, h-yah…”

Here’s the thing.  

The post that appeared yesterday was written on a Friday.  The next morning – a non-working Saturday – I am walking at the beach in a southerly direction when it occurs to me with a powerful urgency that something was missing from yesterday’s post.  

That’s what frequently happens on my walks – illuminating ideas pop into my mind.  Which is one reason I never wear headphones outside – I am unable to hear myself think.  Another reason is, if I want to be functionally insulated from the world it would be easier to just stay in the house.  A third reason is, rather than a downloaded playlist, I actually prefer singing to myself.  And the last reason is, even if I favored a recorded repertoire, I would have no clue how to download a playlist.  

Look at that.  Four reasons when I thought there was just one. 

We are cookin’ today!

Anyway…

If you recall yesterday’s post – and there are no “Points off” if you don’t; I sometimes can’t recall what I wrote minutes after I am done writingit – I was relating a story about heading off to my first show biz job in Los Angeles, which involved badgering an American Immigration Official, a man who could probably arrest me just for being a nuisance.  But that’s how badly I wanted to go.  I was willing to risk sharing a “Holding Pen” with hardened criminals.

“What are you in for?”

“Drug smuggling? You?”

“Pestering a policeman.”

Anyway again… 

I am making my way down the Venice boardwalk area, wondering if I should avail myself of the services of an advertised “Psychic” – or simply write about why I didn’t – when it suddenly occurs to me that that life-changing trip to Los Angeles was also the first time I had ever traveled alone. 

That, my brain stubbornly insisted, needed to go into the post.  On top of everything else, “It was the first I would be traveling alone”?  It circumstantially raises the ante.

I immediately decide that when I got home, I would go to my computer and insert that addition.  And then it would be perfect.

“H-yah, h-yah…”

Allow me my illusions. (Even though Iinvariably do not.)

The moment I decide on this monumental improvement, I begin considering how exactly that appended sentence should go, and where exactly it should be inserted.  And if I should put it in brackets or just leave it alone.

You see how hard writing is?

I decide to put it right near the top, after the line, “I was at the Toronto airport.”  Appropriately “Setting the scene”, if you will.

“I was at the Toronto airport.  The first time I was traveling alone.”  (I also, after some contentious wrangling, decided “no brackets.”  He added, in brackets.) 

I then, as did God after “Creation”, thought, “… and it was good.”

And then I thought, “Wait.”

Should it be, “The first time I was traveling alone” – which is what I would say if I were telling the story directly – or the more literarily complete, “It wasthe first time I was traveling alone”?  I have that argument a lot with myself.  I aspire to “write talk” here.  The thing is, I am not actually talking.  Clarifying concessions sometimes need to be be adhered to.

ARGUMENT:  “But it makes it longer.”

COUNTER-ARGUMENT:  “But the other’s not a whole sentence.”

I decide – don’t I always? – to go “longer.”

Until, minutes minutes later, I imagine a shortening improvement.  Not, “It was the first time I would be traveling alone”, but

“It was my first time traveling alone.”

Shorter and tighter.  That would be perf…

“H-yah…”

Okay, stop it.

Anyway, that’s what I decide.  

“It was my first time traveling alone.”

Now I was content, strolling along the ocean, the invisible Mariachi band that plays only for me accompanying my sun-warmed excursion.

My “Saturday Walk” lasted close to an hour.  Five minutes from my house I realize something startlingly important.

It was notmy first time traveling alone.

Apparently, my unconscious mind had gotten my memories mixed up.  I had confused my trip to L.A. for my first writing job on April the 12^th1974 with my actual first trip traveling alone, winging to the Bertolt Brecht Summer Theater Workshop at UCLAin the summer of 1966.  I then realized that I had also traveled alone to London on December the 3^rd, 1966.  And on my solo return trip on March 24^th, 1968.

So much for that “necessary insertion.”

“It was my fourth time traveling alone”?

Who needs to hear that?

So there you have it. 

I had this dazzling insight during my walk at the beach… which turned out to be factually incorrect.

What do I do with thatsurprising turn of events… except write about it ‘cause it’s interesting.

(TURNING DIRECTLY TO READERSHIP)

Isn’t it? 

"The Time I Was Brave"

I was interested in something.  The question of “What drew you to show business?”, a precarious profession that had nonetheless attracted me, and virtually all the people I know.  Why would anyone, I retrospectively wondered, take such a dangerous risk with their future?

Anyway, while swapping stories with a couple of writers at lunch – of which more in a subsequent occasion – I was reminded of a rare flash of ferocity on my part, proving how a congenitally passive person can rise to the occasion when “exigent circumstance” requires it.

We are talking a veritable “Clark-Kent-Becomes Superman” transformation.

I have told this story before.  But I am telling it again, though I am sure the telling itselfwill be different.  

April the 12^th, 1974. – Evening

I was at the Toronto airport.  It was a Friday, and I was about to fly to Los Angeles where, not only was a job on a Lily Tomlin special waiting for me starting the following Monday, but on the weekend before that – starting the very next day – I would be revising a Sanford & Sonscript I had co-written with an émigré Torontonian, which – rewrite accepted – would be paid for and produced. 

I was flying to L.A. with two jobs safely in my pocket.  Actually, it was three jobs, as I had also been contracted to write and perform on the summer replacement The Bobbie Gentry Happiness Hour, set to go into production just a couple of weeks later.  

I was standing at the precipice of my proverbial “Big Break.”  Against incalculable odds, “Little Earl” (as my mother would call me) was “shipping out” to American show business.

Earlier in the week, I had beseeched the president of Canadian radio (whom I had previously worked with) to give me one reason not to go (by offering me a job.)  His paraphrased reaction was,

“You haveto go.  There is nothing here left to do.”

And that was that.

I was terrified.

But I was going.

There I am, in the teeming Toronto airport, ready for my scheduled 6 P.M. flight to “The Coast.”  I had already checked my suitcase and had proceeded through “Customs.”  I was now standing before a burly U.S. Immigration Official.

I had been instructed to explain that I had a job waiting in California, my employers had obtained a temporary work permit for me and that the acknowledging paperwork had been forwarded… ostensibly to him.

The Immigration Official flipped through a stack of accumulated government forms.  He then flatly replied,

“I don’t see it.”

Let me explain something (while you imagine the consequent screaming in my head.)  The Lily Tomlin job would last five weeks.  I believe you can legally stay in the States on vacation for six months.  I could therefore have easily answered, “Vacation” to “What is the purpose of your visit?” and proceeded unhindered onto the plane.  

The thing is, assured that everything had been taken care of, I had acted as previously instructed.

(Alternative Explanation:  Though I could easily have come in as a tourist, I wanted to come in as a Hollywood writer.  It was possible I was bragging.  And now I was rightfully paying the price.)

Once again I insisted that my work permit had been previously arranged.  To which the Immigration Official replied again,

“I don’t see it.”

“But I have to be in Hollywood tomorrow!” I plaintively bleated. “What do I do?”  

While a voice in my head told me, “Go home”, an alienpart of me stubbornly resisted. 

I was informed that I would need to call INS (The Immigration and Naturalization Service) in L.A. for authorized proof of my legitimate work permit status.  

Here’s the thing.

I’m not good at talking to strangers on the phone.  I once refused to call a local cousin on my visit to Florida because the name she answered to was “Boo-Boo” and I was too embarrassed to say, “Can I speak to ‘Boo-boo’?”

But I wanted to get on that plane.  So I barked, to a man who outweighed me by seventy-five pounds, all of it muscle,

“Gimme the number.”

The – was that a glimmer of sympathy? – Immigration Official jotted a phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to me.  I then (uncharacteristically again) raced to a nearby phone booth – remember, this was 1974 – and dialed the supplied number, hoping I had enough change to complete the “Long Distance” call.  (And it was reallya long distance.)  

Fortunately, with the three-hour time difference, the L.A. INS offices were still open.  Still, I had to talk of an uncaring government official of a frequently belligerent neighboring country.  Me, the guy who, if I forgot the phone number the “Operator” gave me would call back using a camouflaged voice. 

Speaking uncharacteristically like a grown-up, I got the person I needed and the information I was looking for.  I then realized I had nothing to write the confirming message down on, to then show the guy who keeping me off of the plane.

I told the INS person to hold on, I left the receiver dangling over the airport floor and I raced back to the Immigration Official, yelling,

“You have to come to the phone!”

I yelled that.  To a big man, wearing a gun.  

A surprised Immigration Official got up from his desk and went over to the pay phone, a heart-pounding Earlo, standing doggedly by his side.

The two talked for a moment (that felt more like a lifetime.)  Finally, the Immigration Official produced a pencil and a package of Sweet Caporalcigarettes, on which he jotted some numbers I was afraid he’d be unable to read because the Sweet Caporal package is green.

He could.

And I went.

After relating this improbable anecdote, a listener opined that, despite typical unforceful demeanors, allof us have “one of those” inus.

I guess that was mine. 

Though I’dlike to believe there are more.

"Maybe 'They' Got What 'They' Deserve"

It happens particularly around newborns, a situation of current personal  familiarity.

The “Third Person Plural” word pops up with alarming regularity, telling everyone what to do.

I will not use actual examples, as my annoyance at this intrusive pronoun’s arrival has clouded my memory to actual specifics.  But it’s like,

“They say that newborns require cheese.”

“They say babies thrive hearing simulated ‘raccoon sounds’.”

“They say babies sleep better listening to the Pat Boone rendition of ‘Long Tall Sally’, the “Little Richard” version making them detectably fussy.”  (Or are they simply bopping to the music?)

The “They” in question here are Child Development” experts, who turn over every few years, when a newcrop of “Theys” replace the previous “Theys”, delivering “groundbreaking”, best-selling book pronouncements of their own. 

You’ve heard of “The Circle of Life.”

Say hello to “The Cycle of ‘Theys’.”

Before expanding to a more general proposition, in the area of childrearing expertise, the all-knowing “They” was once capably handled “in-house”, in the form of the familiar “Grandma Matilda” or “Aunt Gussie.”  In earlier times, extended family members provided experiential wisdom, leaving little or no need for outside intervention.  

More recently – though I cannot precisely pinpoint the date – with today’s fractionalized families scattered hither and yon, the era of “They” specialization moved in, filling the maternal “What do we do!” vacuum.

In the modern era, owing to our lack of wide-ranging expertise because there is so much to know – 

PREHISTORIC WISE MAN:  “I used to know everything.  But there were only nine things.” –

we are relegated to entrusting the myriad gaps in our education to people we don’t know – See: Yesterday’s post – surrendering meekly to their certified, specialized expertise.  See: The post immediately before that, where we argue that people will accept something that’s wrong – like the test predicting an Israeli army recruit’s performance in combat the Israeli army kept using afterit was proven demonstrably non-predictive – rather than living in buffeting uncertainty.

Unfortunately, here’s how this “Three-Step” scenario plays out:

Step One:  We need help negotiating areas beyond our own personal expertise.

Step Two:  Some anonymous “They” expert provides us the answer.

Step Three:  We then viscerally resent them for needing their help in the first place.

What happens to people we viscerally resent for needing their help? 

See:  The 2016 presidential election.  (And its British equivalent “Brexit.”)

“KILL THE EXPERTS!”

Result:  The majority of us – going by the Electoral College –opts for clueless incompetents instead.

And there you have it. (Says me.)  We despise them for needing them, so we kick them all out on their butts.

“Hold on, Earlo.  You made fun of the experts at the beginning.  And now you’re attacking the people who threw them all out.  Where exactly do you stand on this issue?”

An astute assimilation of the material, “Blue Italics Interrupting Person.”  And I shall answer your cornering query.

Although it’s a little bit messy.

Consider the participating performers – 

The “Pure Scientist” complains that the “Popular Media” sensationalizes their announced qualified discoveries.

Although I am sure there are some“swelled head” pure scientists proclaiming, “We gotit!” And also regularscientists (unconsciously) “hyping” their conclusions so they can continue their subsidized efforts, (hopefully) solidifying their findings. 

There is the “Popular Media”, trolling for Pulitzers.

And at the end of this informational “Food Chain”, there is poor, ignorant “Us”, desperate for answers because the kid’s screaming its head off and we have no idea what to do.

Where do I stand on all this?

Why do I have to stand anywhere?

But if I am required to take a position – I, as is my natural proclivity, eschew the extremes, placing my chips “all-in” on the “Humility” number.

RESPECTED SCIENTIST IN THE FIELD:  “Our recent results reveal, though notwith incontrovertible certainty…” 

MEDIA CONDUIT:  “We are currently reporting, though this may be subsequently revised…”

GRANTERS OF GRANTS:  “We may lose our shirts and our reputations here, but we are backing your experimental direction, knowing there are no certified guarantees.”

NEWBORN’S MOTHER:  “You can be a ‘good enough mother’ without knowing all the ‘answers’.’”

A Sometimes Forgotten Reality:  It is the rare baby who doesn’t make it to adulthood no matter whatyou do.

My Consequent Non-expert Prescription:  (In this regard, though it applies elsewhere as well.)

Listen patiently to the “They.”

Check out other“Theys” for relevant alternateperspectives.

Take a comforting deep breath…

And then decide what to do for yourselves.

Knowing that, within recognizable reason, 

You cannot ultimately do it wrong. 

(Forget Law & Order’s “Negligent Homicide.”  It’s only a television show.)

"Second Thoughts On A Deliberate Strategy"

This is not a baseball story.  It just starts out like a baseball story. But eventually, 

It turns into a basketball story.

Something for everyone… not to be interested in.  

“Where are the show business stories?”

I don’t know, hiding.

Actually, this is neither a baseball nor a basketball story.  It’s just my way of presenting an idea I am curious about… through a baseball and basketball medium.

Here’s the thing.  And to me, it’s worth momentary pondering.

Last season the Los Angeles Dodgers won a major league best 104 games, many of the wins delivered in the form of “come-from-behind” victories.  I remember last season – and they say the old have no short-term memory.  There was no game you could turn off.  It seemed like no matter how far behind they were behind the spirited Dodgers rallied night after night, pulling the fat successfully out of the fire.  

(Extraneous Query:  What was the fat doing in the fire in the first place?  And why would you risk possible incineration trying to pull the fat out?)  

Anyway, it was a memorable season, the Dodgerscoming within one game and two nightmarish performances by the same pitcher of winning theWorld Series.

Then comes 2018, with virtually the identical Dodgers lineup.

The Dodgers break out of the gate winning two games and losing six.  More significantly was the way they were playing. It was like someone had nefariously “doctored” their drinks.  

Listless. Lusterless.  Lethargic.  

Everyone?

“And those are just the “L’s.”

Thank you. 

Is there are French equivalent opposite to “Joie de Vivre”?  The Dodgers were permanent like the victims of a permanent flu.

During subsequent early-season games, the Dodgers eked out the occasional victory.  But something was decidedly missing in their demeanor.  The pitching, the hitting, the fielding – everything felt distractedly “off.” It’s like someone just told them their dog had died.  (That’s enough of those, don’t you think?)  And I’m watching this sorrowful performance, wondering, 

“What the heck is going on?”

It was then, though in the diametrically opposite direction – and in basketball – my mind goes to a game that garnered huge media attention last winter, when a Division 1 (whatever that means) team from Drexel University(wherever that is) came back from a 53-19 shellacking in the first half to beat Delaware 85-83, completing the greatest comeback in Division 1 history.

This was last year’s and thisyear’s Dodgers, backwards, and in one game.

And in both situations, I’m thinking,

“How does this happen?”

It is important to remember that in big-time athletics, where everyone’s superiorly gifted, the advantaging “margin of victory” is inevitably miniscule.  There are identifiable factors involved in winning and losing:  Preparation. Talent.  Strategic adjustments.  The “Competitive Cycle” – You win some; you lose some.

But a team – that on paper should regularly win – regularly losing?  And a team, down by 34 points halfway through the game, clawing its way back to victory?

That’s unusual behavior. And I’m pondering,

What’s the common denominator here?

To me, the common denominator is that egregiously underestimated element in human affairs:

Emotion.

It’s not just in sports. Check out the 2016 presidential election and note in which direction the determining “Passion Needle” pointed. Revisit also the “selection of a live partner” decision.   Rational calculation?  Or “Something in the way she moves…”

The Dodgers front office executives are avid proponents of mining a “winning edge” via statistical analysis.  But without the underlying emotional component, your “statistical edge” strikes out with the bases loaded, and consistently leaves runners in scoring position.  (Note To Baseball Ignorami:  A worrisome happenstance.)

Quotes concerning Drexel’s miracle comeback after the game involved the team’s coach exhorting his team to keep fighting.  If their opponents could have a great first half, they could have an equally dominating secondhalf. 

That’s cheerleader rah-rah.  That coach could have said exactly the same thing and they lost.  (And if they had, he literally wouldhave.)  ”You can do it!” did not trigger that incredible turnaround.  It was an indefinable collective “inner enthusiasm.”  

Which is the same with the Dodgers, except it’s collective malaise.

Here’s the thing. (Did I say that already?  Well I’m saying it again.)

This blog is intentionally called “Just Thinking.”

Not“Just Feeling.”

Leaving me wondering, ten years down the line…

Could I have possibly taken the wrong road?

"The Thoughtless Delicatessen"

Our son-in-law Tim is scheduled for surgery today.  Barring any post-operative surprises, he should be back in the game in short order. But it’s still surgery.  So there’s that, going on in our family.

Full Disclosure: This post was composed yesterday so it would be available today.  (And so that I'm available, if needed.) The post is not actually aboutthe current circumstance.  (Which, as of this writing, has not yet taken place.) It was, however, the current circumstance that returned a past similarsituation powerfully to my mind.  

I am not referring to my 2009 heart valve repair. That’s an entirely different kettle of surgery.  Oddly or otherwise – I have no point of comparison – when they called my name, I strode down the hall with the exhilaration of John Glenn making his way to the capsule.  I had no idea of the outcome.  I just felt primed for adventure.

Message To Whoever Determines These Things:  One such adventure is entirely sufficient.

In the story I am about to relate, I am decidedly peripheral to the accredited headliner.  It was, however, while occupying that ancillary position that I experienced this illuminating revelation.  Truth be told, if that eye-opening occurrence had not happened, I would never have thought about this.  But it did. And now, forever, I do.

Without burdening you with details, when our daughter Anna was born, her mother (Dr. M) incurred some unsettling post-delivery complications.  For a while, the (Spoiler Alert:  eventually successful) prognosis was dizzyingly uncertain.  It was not “life and death” or anything, but it was decidedly not good.

An hour or so after the birth, the doctor completed his obstetrical follow-up.  When it to came to, “What’s next?” I heard,

“We just have to wait.”

Having not eaten all day, I was encouraged to take a break from the hospital atmosphere, go outside for some air, and nutritionally “gas up.”

The nearest eatery within walking distance was Izzy’s, a local delicatessen I’d had no previous interest in frequenting.  It looked busy, and no one was being carried out on a gurney, so I decided to give it a try.

I stepped inside, and was summarily shown to a table.  My head was literally spinning.  Okay, not “literally” but it definitely felt like it.  And with justifiable reason.  I’d had a front row seat at “The miracle of childbirth.”  And now my ailing wife was being monitored for possible complications.  And I was alone.

In Izzy’s.  

And it was thunderously loud.

The racket surrounding me was deafening – the sound of the ocean, but with meat in its teeth.  If this were a movie, the advisory “Stage Directions” would read:  “Ambient sounds of a delicatessen, cranked up to a million.”    

I had not expected a library, but the restaurant cacophony was ridiculously different from where I had just been, a place of professional silence, broken by the muffled wailing from the newborn “Holding Pen.”  

The incongruity was startling.  Serious decisions were being made across the street.  Issues of survival were on the line.  And now here I am, caught in a cruelly oblivious “Noise Machine.”  

“Don’t they know?” I secretly railed.  “Have they no idea what’s happening mere feet from their pastrami?”  

They unquestionably did not.  I knew their behavior was not deliberately callous.  But still– what an emotional whiplash. I felt like a shell-shocked soldier, back from the “front”, and all around me is babbling nonsense.

Suddenly, out of the undecipherable din, I hear a customer, hectoring his put-upon waitperson with his earthshaking complaint:

“I asked for more ketchup twenty minutes ago.  Where the hell is my ketchup!?!”

I wanted to smack him. “That’s the worst thing that’s happening to you?  ‘Where the hell is my ketchup’?”

I wolfed down my soup – the menu item requiring the least digestional concentration – paid the bill, and bolted the deli, returning to the sterile sanctuary of the “Baby Floor.”

The hospital ambience is scary.

But at least there, they understand.

Maybe it’s normal, ignoring the “Unwanted” until it abruptly involves you.  It’s just something I noticed:

There is surrounding everyday life, and there’s the stuff in the hospital.

And they are happening at exactly the same time.

"Reminiscing About Yesterday"

Who says I live in the past?

Toiling in this particular arena, there is nothing more personally gratifying than delivering a post-length “scene”, as I did yesterday in “The Terrible Trial Attorney.”

I wrote a lot of scripts in my time, all of them relating their stories directly through character. There was little stage direction. No equivocating “Voice Overs.”  No described “workings of the mind.”  You had something to communicate – you did so. 

Entirely through dialogue.

Which is an unbeatable format to write in.  

I just don’t do it that much.

Why not?

Because I am the receptive reactor to the ideas that come to me.

And not a lotof those show up.

And then – offering an example of a process that fills me with humbling wonder and delight – one morning, I am taking my habitual “Thursday Walk” to Groundwork Coffee Inc.– where they don’t treat me special anymore – when the idea for “The Terrible Trial Attorney” suddenly pops into my head.  

I cannot recall what I was thinking when the idea came to me.  It was notabout trial attorneys, I know that.  (The “Terrible” element is the personally injected comedic perspective; otherwise, I’m Alan Dershowitz.)  The most proactive involvement I can admit to in this process was my desire for a leavening change of pace from the, albeit fascinating, exploration of “You’re right” and its incendiary twin brother “You’re wrong.” 

I had a subliminal impulse to “write funny.”  

And – Hallelujah! – Here comes “The Terrible Trial Attorney.”  

Writing “The Terrible Trial Attorney” reminds me of why this format really exhilarates me.  And also how I creatively approach such welcome assignments.

The “appealing” part?

First, who doesn’t want to make people laugh?  (Or at least come tantalizingly close.)

The alternative is boring the pants off them, which is entirely possible when you are (hectoringly) “telling” rather than pleasingly “showing.”  

Secondly, dialogue writing is my experiential patois. Been there.  Done that.  Doin’ it again.

And thirdly, when you write characters, you have company.

From the creativestandpoint, you get to challenge yourself against the rigorous standards of quality comedy writing.

To wit,

For me, the most respectable writing – comedy or otherwise – involves the writer permitting the characters to speak and act entirely for themselves.  

“Characters independent of their creator” is not some airy affectation:

“I just sat there and took down what the characters were saying.”

That’s true, to somedegree.  But first, I actively createthose characters, and I point them in a specific direction.  After that, I step back, providing them the freedom to “behave.”  I hope they’ll behave “funny.”  But organicallyfunny.  Trying hard not to deliberately “forcethe funny.”  My goal – not always successfully attained – is to allow the characters to be true to the “moment”, and to who I originally imagined them to be.  Being, hopefully, funny while they do so.

You can tell when writers place a too-heavy determining “hand” on the proceedings.  Both in story and in dialogue, the reader feels the uncomfortable sense of being manipulated.  It’s a “boomerang” procedure.  The writer seeks desperately to appeal, like an over-ingratiating host at a party – 

“It’s so nice you could attend; the evening would be devastating without you.” 

And instead of liking them, you want to throw a gourmet appetizer in their face.

Then, there’s the problem of the writer wanting to be noticed.

“Look how clever and imaginative I am!”

For me – not in blog writing because blog writing is, by its nature, an exhibitionistical exercise – “Look at me, I invented a word!”  But in traditionalwriting, I prefer the writer to remain anonymously in the background, like an umpire in baseball, who considers “a good game” a game where no one realizes they’re there.  

In “The Terrible Trial Attorney” I created three primary characters – an aggressive trial attorney who believes he is “smarter than the room” when he is in fact substantially dumber– and that includes the actual room – the common-sensical presiding judge, and the trial’s “Star Witness”, who just happens to be me.

My “M.O.” was to create an uncomplicated narrative, and give the characters “their heads.”

Here’s how scrupulously “hands off” I was.  During the rewrites, I realized that my character wasn’t funny.  I reflexively kind of resented that.  I wasn’t colorfully memorable.  Or charmingly “twinkly” even.  And heck, Iknew the writer! 

But you know what I did? 

Determined not to gratuitously “punch myself up”, I just left it alone.  I was an “informational” character, and that’s that.  Hopefully people appreciated my shining integrity as a truth-telling witness.  But I was not manipulating the narrative to show off.

And there it is.  My mother’s signature instruction:

“Don’t show off.”

Which is tough to live up to when you’re in show business.

“Let’s see what you got, kid.”

“Oh, it’s not much, really.”

“Next!”

The best writing, for me – and when successfully executed, byme – is the writing that appears seamlessly effortless.  The craft is there.  But you do not see the exertion. 

Full Disclosure: I took almost all day to complete “The Terrible Trial Attorney.”

I just hope it didn’t show.

"The Terrible Trial Attorney"

The witness has been sworn in.  The defendant’s Defense Attorney (which is redundant but I am establishing the characters) approaches the stand.   

DEFENSE ATTORNEY:  “Please state your name for the record.”

WITNESS:  “Earl Pomerantz.”

“Is that your full name on your Birth Certificate?’

“Earl Raymond Pomerantz.”

“Thank you.  (TURNING TO THE JUDGE)  “Your Honor, at this time I would like to treat Mr. Pomerantz as a hostile witness.”

JUDGE:  “On what grounds, Counselor?”

“The man is clearly withholding evidence.”

JUDGE:  “Because he didn’t give you his whole name?”

“Correct, Your Honor. If he holds back on something as trivial as stating his entire name, how can we trust his veracity when it comes to the pertinent evidence at hand?  

JUDGE:  ‘Counselor…”

“‘Broken windows’, Your Honor.  It’s a proven principle.  If we ignore the small stuff, people are emboldened to…”

JUDGE:  “Proceed with your cross-examination, Counselor.”

“So that was a ‘No’ then, Your Honor?  (OFF JUDGE’S ANNOYANCE)  Just checking to make certain.  (TURNING BACK TO THE WITNESS)  All right, Mr. Earl (FOR THE JURY’S BENEFIT) Raymond Pomerantz, tell us as briefly as you can why the Prosecution believes your testimony is pertinent to this case?’

“I saw the defendant punch the victim repeatedly in the face.”

“You saw that, did you?”

“The man beat him mercilessly.”

“You are not here to make judgments.”

“I heard him cry, “Mercy!”

“‘Hearsay’, Your Honor?”

JUDGE:  Not if he heard him.”

"A judgment call".

JUDGE:  “Well I’m a judge.”

“Let’s break down this ‘heinous assault’, shall we?  The alleged ‘victim.’  Was he seriously hurt?”

“Broken nose, shattered cheek bone and more than a hundred stitches to the face.”

(TURNING TO JUDGE) “Your Honor.  I would like the witness’s remarks stricken from the record.”

JUDGE:  “That is the record, Counselor.”

“Yes, but Mr. Pomerantz could not possibly have known…” 

JUDGE:  “He was here when the attending physician testified to precisely those injuries.”

“He was here, Your Honor. But was he listening!”

JUDGE:  “Move on, Counselor.”

“Of course, Your Honor. At this point, we will stipulate to the victim’s various injuries.  The sixty-four dollar question – or sixty-four million dollar question, adjusting for inflation – is was it unequivocally my client who inflicted those injuries?”

“Yes.”0

“‘Yes.’  A ‘Yes’ that, if accepted by this jury, could destroy a possibly innocent man’s life.  ‘Serious stuff’, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Pomerantz?”

“It is.”

“Then I ask you again, Mr. Pomerantz – and I ask you to take your time before answering – are you unequivocally certain it was my client who was assaulted the victim?”

“I am.”

“You call that ‘taking your time?’  Withdrawn. Let me ask you, how far away were you when the alleged incident allegedly took place?

“I was about five feet away.”

“Forgive me for asking, Mr. Pomerantz, but how good is your eyesight?”

“I am pretty reliable from five feet.  I also picked him out of a ‘Line-up.’” 

“Ah, yes.  The proverbial ‘Line-up.’  Mr. Pomerantz.  I do not ask you for a precise number, but approximately how many people are there on this planet?”

“I have heard about six billion.”

“Six billion people on this planet.  And exactly how many people were there in that ‘Line-up’?”

“Six.”

“Six.  So what you are telling us, Mr. Pomerantz, is that of a total of six billion possible suspects – okay, half of those are women, although the assailant could very easily have been a ‘manly’ woman… and okay, a percentage of those six billion people are children; although with advances in nutrition children are growing taller and taller… and okay, there are people of various colors and ethnicities; although with this country’s skyrocketing number of interracial…”

JUDGE:  “Can you get to the point, Counselor?  You seem to be suggesting that we be required to include, what? – a billion or so people in the ‘Line-up’?” 

“Only if you want justice, Your Honor.”

JUDGE:  “That’s ridiculous, Counselor.”

“How else can we be sure we arrested the right man?”

(INDICATING THE DEFENDANT) “That is definitely the right man.”

“So you say.” 

“I totally recognize him. Right down to that tattoo of an armadillo on his neck.” 

“Like he is the only man with an armadillo tattoo on his neck.”

“It’s pretty distinguishing.”

“Let’s home in on this ‘distinguishing feature’, shall we?  If you’re such a big expert on these matters, can you ‘distinguish’ between an armadillo and an anteater?”

“No, I can’t.”

“A-ha!  You cannot distinguish between and armadillo and an anteater.

(MOVING IN FOR THE KILL) And yet you are dead certain my client was the assailant!”

“I don’t see the connection…” 

“It is not your job to see the connection…”

JUDGE:  “I don’t see the connection either.  And it is my job.”

“I will concede that, Your Honor.  (TURNIGIN TO JURY)  You got that, didn’t you?

THE ENTIRE JURY SHAKES ITS HEAD “NO.”

Let’s try an alternative line of questioning.  Mr. Pomerantz, do you bear any personal animus towards the defendant?”

“No.”

“You have no prejudiced feelings towards my client?”

“I do not.”

“Mr. Pomerantz – and I remind you you are under oath – after my client allegedly assaulted the victim, do you recall him speaking to you?”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly did he tell you?”

“He said, ‘If you say anything, you’re next.’”

“The assailant threatened you directly?”

“He did.”

“And you’re asking this jury to accept that a man you believe threatened – forgive me, Your Honor – to beat the crap out of you, and you have no negative animus towards him whatsoever?  Come on, Mr. Pomerantz.  Nobody’s that nice.”

JUDGE:  “What are you saying here, Counselor.”

“You Honor.  The witness believes that my client threatened his personal safety.  It’s clear he can’t possibly be impartial.  And since he’s the only witness, my client must be acquitted.” 

JUDGE:  We let him go because he intimidated the witness?“ 

“Precisely, Your Honor.  I mean, not him.  But the witness believes it’s him.  Which made him naturally resentful of…”

JUDGE:  Counselor, in all my years on the bench, I have never seen such an incompetent performance.  I’m almost wondering if you are deliberately laying the groundwork for an appeal for ‘Inadequate Representation.’”

“Your Honor, I am not required to reveal my strategy for the case.”

JUDGE:  “‘FYI’, Counselor.  If that isyour strategy for the case, it’s working.  Now do you have any further questions for this witness?”

(RETURNING TO THE DEFENDANT’S TABLE)  “Let me just check my notes here, Your Honor.  (RUFFLING THROUGH A DISORGANIZED CLUTTER OF PAGES)  I may not have yet unequivocally proven my position, but I have some questions… somewhere… that will exonerate…” 

THE DEFENDANT SUDDENLY RISES.

DEFENDANT:  “You suck!!!”

THE DEFENDANT PUNCHES HIS LAWYER PUNISHINGLY IN THE FACE.  HE THEN TURNS, POINTING A MENACING FINGER AT THE JUDGE.

DEFENDANT:  “And if you say anything, you’re next!”

THE COURTROOM RELEASES A COLLECTIVE GASP.  THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY TAKES A HANDKERCHIEF FROM HIS POCKET, STAUNCHING THE FLOWING BLOOD EXITING HIS FRACTURED PROBOSCIS.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY:  (DEMONSTRABLY NASALLY)  “Your Honor… I doe dis looks bad for us…”

CURTAIN.