Were there times in your career when you were having trouble writing and you needed some type of inspiration to help prime the “funny pump”?
Yes there were, Italics Man. And thank you for your interest.
Could you please tell us about it?
I will, since you asked me so nicely. Early in my career, though I’d given up my apartment in Toronto and had had my Mazda driven down to my apartment in Los Angeles – reflecting some confidence on my part that my career here was solidly established – I was still subject to the periodic waking nightmare of, “I don’t know how to do this!” I was certain I would shortly be returning to Canada, which would have been unfortunate, not to mention inconvenient, since my Mazda and my apartment were now down here.
I remember being given two weeks to write a script, and spending the first of those weeks doing nothing, and by “doing nothing”, I mean hugging my severely cramped-up belly and rocking back and forth as I stared, helpless, at an immobilizingly empty page. These crises in confidence were regular occurrences during my Mary Tyler Moore years, when I was contracted to write eight scripts per season. At those moments, the assignment seemed insurmountable. How do you write eight scripts when you are unable to pick up a pen?
The problem wasn’t writing; it was writing funny. I know drama writing is hard too – doing anything at a high level is hard – but during those episodes of agonizing self-absorption, I imagined it was a lot easier than writing comedy. In drama, you just put down what happens.
Say it’s a police drama:
The detectives drive down the street.
They park the car.
They get out.
They walk up to the house.
They ring the doorbell.
A guy (say his name is Markison) answers.
“Mr. Markison?”
“Yes.”
“You’re under arrest.”
The detectives cuff Markison, while reading him his rights.
Like, how hard it that? Half a page, it took thirty seconds.
You write a police drama, you just write what they do.
Yuh duzzn’t have to make it funny!
I know that’s ridiculous, but, I’m tellin’ ya, my brain was on fire. In reality, my assignement that difficult. I had an outline. I know where the story was going. The problem was, my bosses were counting on me to make it hilarious.
And I was too freaked out to breathe!
After three days of torturing myself in various ways, including visiting the Help Wanted section of the newspaper to investigate alternative careers – they seemed to need a lot of “Backhoe Operators”, which wouldn’t have been a good job for me, since I had no idea what a backhoe was – I decided to put myself in the mood by seeking inspiration from the funniest book I had ever read.
The plan was simple. The book’s funniness would get me in a funny mood, and that would get me started. Laughter breeding laughter. That was the concept. It was certainly better than my current situation – panic breeding knots in my stomach.
The funniest book I have ever read is Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. When I lived in England, I had stolen a copy of it from a kiosk in the London Underground. I hadn’t meant to steal it, but the line to pay for it was long, and my train was coming. So I walked away, book in hand.
I remember convulsing with hysterics reading Catch-22 on the subway. Thunderclapping peals of uncontrollable laughter. Nervous passengers were changing their seats. Some actually changed cars.
An early laugh-inducer from the book:
A guy lying motionless in a hospital bed, sheathed entirely in bandages. A bottle hangs from a pole, delivering liquid nutrients through a feeding tube. A tube from his groin carries liquid waste to a second bottle. When the “feeding bottle” was empty and the “urine bottle” was full, the nurses simply switched the bottles and the process continued.
Catch-22 sparkled with many such sidesplitting set-pieces. I was certain re-reading them would release me from “panic mode” and unleash the funny impulse I knew I possessed.
I was comedically constipated. The book would be my…whatever you take for that.
I picked up Catch-22. I turned to the section I described above, eager for the welcome, and hopefully motivating, relief of laughter. I re-read the “guy in the bandages” scene.
It made me extremely sad.
Instead of laughing, I now felt terribly sorry for the guy in the bandages. I mean, that guy was really messed up! I quickly flipped to other remembered funny moments, and discovered that my reaction to them had been diametrically altered. The situations now seemed excruciatingly painful. I couldn’t believe I had found any of them funny before.
It was a devastating experience. The funniest book I had ever read had let me down. I had reached for a lifesaver and found it made out of lead.
Now what?
The first week of my scheduled writing period went by. Not a word on the page. The second week began.
I’d like to deliver an epiphany here, some celestial “Oooh-Ahhh!” moment that liberated me from my torment and miraculously got me going. What happened, in reality, was this. And I apologize if it feels like a letdown.
Sometime during the beginning of that second week, I simply sat myself down and I started to write.
Act One
Scene One
Fade In:
And off I went. Tentatively, at first, but then, following a detailed outline – crafted by myself but mostly by the show runners – I worked my way through it, building confidence as I proceeded.
By the end of the second week, accompanied by a “How did that happen?” feeling, it was done.
With no thanks to Catch-22, I had somehow completed my assignment. My inspiration, it turned out to my perpexitude, amazement and surprise,
was me.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
"Sometimes A Kiss Is Not Just A Kiss - Followup"
I was writing about the second thoughts I had concerning requiring a ten year-old actor in my sitcom Best of the West to behave in an age-inappropriate manner for the sake of a laugh, the behavior being to passionately or at least (hopefully) stimulatingly passionately kiss a teenaged girl (the actress, as I recall, turned out to be twenty-three).
A number of readers believed my concerns were unnecessary:
Frequent commenter, “Anonymous”, opined: “If it makes you laugh, it’s funny.”
“Joe” commented: “Nothing is inappropriate if it’s funny.” (“Joe” quotes Eddie Haskell, whom I wouldn’t trust about anything.)
“Boyscribe” offered the “Violence is worse” perspective: “One wonders…if you had written a drama about a boy in the west who killed someone ala ‘Robocop II’, would there have been the same objections?”
“Steve MacDonald” supported my original decision. And berated my retrospection:
“Trust your decisions and don’t reconsider things you can’t change.”
I thank everyone for trying to make me feel better, for reminding me of “the bigger picture”, and for encouraging me to stop second-guessing myself, although if I took that advice, I’d have considerably less to write about.
My primary concern was not whether kissing is good, or better than violence, or whether the moment I had crafted was funny. For the record, I believe kissing is good (except for the inappropriate kind; you’ll have to decide for yourself what that includes), that it’s light years better than violence, and that the situation I had concocted was unquestionably funny.
The question – and I’m saying that writers need to factor this into their decision-making – is, “What does what I’m asking the person to do doing to the person I’m asking to do it?” Writers may not want to submit to this consideration, fearing it may interfere with “the most compelling method of telling the story”, but the argument is, you have to. Actors are people. (Despite the response to that claim in The Producers: “Oh, yeah? Have you ever eaten with one?”)
We’re not talking about a novel here, where you can make the characters do anything you want them to do. Characters in novels don’t go home to their families after work. And they don’t carry those icky “work feelings” along with them.
My example was about a kid. Kids represent a special category, as recognized in the law, and in the hearts of their parents. You’ll notice that in current entertainment, children come in for some brutalizing treatment – kidnapping being the most prominent atrocity.
I have a theory about why “threatened children” plays such a prominent role in contemporary storytelling, especially threats to the children of the rich. There’s nothing you can take from rich people they can’t easily replace. Their only area of vulnerability is their children. Children represent “the irreplaceable treasure.” Though not wealthy themselves, people on the lower economic levels can readily identify.
“You can take my prized lawnmower. But lay off of the kids.”
To penetrate the emotions of an increasingly jaded audience, children are frequently required to pay the price, and by “children”, I mean child actors. Judging by the harrowing activities kid-actors have participated in, apparently neither the kids nor their guardians are complaining. I guess they’re happy to have the job. Which’ll help pay for the therapy bills down the line.
It’s not just child actors who are exploited. All actors are exploited. The scene says they cut off a guy’s ear, they cut off a guy’s ear. And you never hear a peep out of anybody. Not even from the guy whose ear’s getting cut off. Except maybe, “Am I screaming enough? I was thinking, ‘My character’s a tough guy’, so I’ve been holding back. I could give you more if you want.”
What about sex? Well, there was a time, reaching up to the sixties, when there was a noticeable “nude gap” between American movies and the films produced in other countries. European movies were regularly “outnuding” us, making American movies seem backwards. I don’t know if the studio bosses went to Congress, tearfully claiming,
“We can’t compete!”
but, somehow, the American “Movie Code” was abolished, and off came the shirts. And the pants. And everything else they had on.
Did the actors mind the mandatory exposure? You’d have to ask them. Actors are a different breed. Normally, they’d be called exhibitionists, but they’re doing a job. They go into a trance, and whatever behavior comes out, it’s not them doing it,
“It’s my character.”
I do recall one naysayer. Some superstar actress during that period was quoted as saying, “When I’m naked up there on that seventy-foot screen, it’s not the character’s breasts the audience is staring at, it’s mine.”
That actress couldn’t see the distinction. And, to take a considerably lesser example, neither could I.
I was once featured as “comic relief” in a Canadian-made movie called, The Merry Wives of Tobias Rouke. Don’t bother looking for it. It never got finished. The production ran out of money during the editing process, and the raw footage ended up in the trunk of the director’s car.
(If you want to see me in a movie, you can catch my performance – or at least the “trailer” for that performance – in Ivan Reitman’s Cannibal Girls on YouTube.)
I was standing chest-deep in a pond, attired only in a pair of flaming red “Long Johns.” The director thought the scene would play funnier if I took the “Long Johns” off. I told him I didn’t care for the idea.
The director hoped he could “wait me out”, claiming a series of “technical delays”, in hopes that I’d finally be worn down and surrender my underwear. I shivered in that water for over an hour, minnows nipping at my submerged body parts. The pressure was uncomfortable, but I stuck to my guns. (I also thought of the damage those minnows would have done had I been standing there “unprotected.”)
Why did I refuse the nudity request? It didn’t seem right. And I don’t mean for the character.
I imagine, if this had happened in the States, I’d have immediately been replaced. But in Canada, I kept my job. Because there’s more respect for personal integrity up there? I don’t think so. There’s just less actors.
A number of readers believed my concerns were unnecessary:
Frequent commenter, “Anonymous”, opined: “If it makes you laugh, it’s funny.”
“Joe” commented: “Nothing is inappropriate if it’s funny.” (“Joe” quotes Eddie Haskell, whom I wouldn’t trust about anything.)
“Boyscribe” offered the “Violence is worse” perspective: “One wonders…if you had written a drama about a boy in the west who killed someone ala ‘Robocop II’, would there have been the same objections?”
“Steve MacDonald” supported my original decision. And berated my retrospection:
“Trust your decisions and don’t reconsider things you can’t change.”
I thank everyone for trying to make me feel better, for reminding me of “the bigger picture”, and for encouraging me to stop second-guessing myself, although if I took that advice, I’d have considerably less to write about.
My primary concern was not whether kissing is good, or better than violence, or whether the moment I had crafted was funny. For the record, I believe kissing is good (except for the inappropriate kind; you’ll have to decide for yourself what that includes), that it’s light years better than violence, and that the situation I had concocted was unquestionably funny.
The question – and I’m saying that writers need to factor this into their decision-making – is, “What does what I’m asking the person to do doing to the person I’m asking to do it?” Writers may not want to submit to this consideration, fearing it may interfere with “the most compelling method of telling the story”, but the argument is, you have to. Actors are people. (Despite the response to that claim in The Producers: “Oh, yeah? Have you ever eaten with one?”)
We’re not talking about a novel here, where you can make the characters do anything you want them to do. Characters in novels don’t go home to their families after work. And they don’t carry those icky “work feelings” along with them.
My example was about a kid. Kids represent a special category, as recognized in the law, and in the hearts of their parents. You’ll notice that in current entertainment, children come in for some brutalizing treatment – kidnapping being the most prominent atrocity.
I have a theory about why “threatened children” plays such a prominent role in contemporary storytelling, especially threats to the children of the rich. There’s nothing you can take from rich people they can’t easily replace. Their only area of vulnerability is their children. Children represent “the irreplaceable treasure.” Though not wealthy themselves, people on the lower economic levels can readily identify.
“You can take my prized lawnmower. But lay off of the kids.”
To penetrate the emotions of an increasingly jaded audience, children are frequently required to pay the price, and by “children”, I mean child actors. Judging by the harrowing activities kid-actors have participated in, apparently neither the kids nor their guardians are complaining. I guess they’re happy to have the job. Which’ll help pay for the therapy bills down the line.
It’s not just child actors who are exploited. All actors are exploited. The scene says they cut off a guy’s ear, they cut off a guy’s ear. And you never hear a peep out of anybody. Not even from the guy whose ear’s getting cut off. Except maybe, “Am I screaming enough? I was thinking, ‘My character’s a tough guy’, so I’ve been holding back. I could give you more if you want.”
What about sex? Well, there was a time, reaching up to the sixties, when there was a noticeable “nude gap” between American movies and the films produced in other countries. European movies were regularly “outnuding” us, making American movies seem backwards. I don’t know if the studio bosses went to Congress, tearfully claiming,
“We can’t compete!”
but, somehow, the American “Movie Code” was abolished, and off came the shirts. And the pants. And everything else they had on.
Did the actors mind the mandatory exposure? You’d have to ask them. Actors are a different breed. Normally, they’d be called exhibitionists, but they’re doing a job. They go into a trance, and whatever behavior comes out, it’s not them doing it,
“It’s my character.”
I do recall one naysayer. Some superstar actress during that period was quoted as saying, “When I’m naked up there on that seventy-foot screen, it’s not the character’s breasts the audience is staring at, it’s mine.”
That actress couldn’t see the distinction. And, to take a considerably lesser example, neither could I.
I was once featured as “comic relief” in a Canadian-made movie called, The Merry Wives of Tobias Rouke. Don’t bother looking for it. It never got finished. The production ran out of money during the editing process, and the raw footage ended up in the trunk of the director’s car.
(If you want to see me in a movie, you can catch my performance – or at least the “trailer” for that performance – in Ivan Reitman’s Cannibal Girls on YouTube.)
I was standing chest-deep in a pond, attired only in a pair of flaming red “Long Johns.” The director thought the scene would play funnier if I took the “Long Johns” off. I told him I didn’t care for the idea.
The director hoped he could “wait me out”, claiming a series of “technical delays”, in hopes that I’d finally be worn down and surrender my underwear. I shivered in that water for over an hour, minnows nipping at my submerged body parts. The pressure was uncomfortable, but I stuck to my guns. (I also thought of the damage those minnows would have done had I been standing there “unprotected.”)
Why did I refuse the nudity request? It didn’t seem right. And I don’t mean for the character.
I imagine, if this had happened in the States, I’d have immediately been replaced. But in Canada, I kept my job. Because there’s more respect for personal integrity up there? I don’t think so. There’s just less actors.
"Blind Spot"
I will shortly continue my “Story of a Writer” series with my moving from Universal Studios to Paramount, where I’d been once before and now I was back. For those who enjoy “Story of a Writer”, I apologize for the long gap between postings. For those who don’t enjoy it, how ‘bout that long gap between postings?
A memory of my Paramount experience recently fluttered into my mind. It involves my first tour of duty, specifically when I was serving as the “Warm-Up Man” on the second season of Cheers. You may recall my relating that my newborn daughter, Anna, was a marathon crier, and I’d asked (Cheers creators) the Charles Brothers to help get me out of the house. My pleadings led to the “Warm-Up” assignment, where, ironically, I frequently regaled the audience with anecdotes about my newborn daughter, Anna. My affection for the kid was commensurate with my distance from the crying.
As part of my “Warm-Up” arrangement, I was provided transportation from and back to my house. The Cheers filmings ended late, and my night driving was a danger, to myself, and to anyone unfortunate enough to be traveling the same road. (Before my “transportation arrangement”, at the end of each Warm-Up, I would actually tell the audience which route I’d be taking, to allow them the opportunity of going another way. If the audience had been unresponsive, I deleted those safety recommendations. You had to earn them.)
Let me be clear. We are not talking “limo” treatment here. Every TV show has an allotment of drivers assigned, who were responsible for pickups and deliveries of whatever was needed. During the second season of Cheers, a regular pickup and delivery was me. I was driven around in a not very new station wagon.
One night, after the show, I climbed into my “transportation”, and, as usual, I engaged in some casual chitchat with the driver. It turns out my driver that night had been a “teamster” (It just means driver; there are oxen involved.) for quite some time. And with longevity, come stories.
“You see this street?” he began, gesturing to the street directly alongside the Cheers soundstage. “Back in ’56, this was totally made over to look like the Chinese capital for the John Wayne movie, The Conqueror.
“It was?”
I was genuinely intrigued. I had seen The Conqueror as a kid. It was one of the worst movies ever. “Duke” Wayne playing Ghengis Khan. Terrible.
I also knew something else about The Conqueror. Numerous people who’d worked on the movie had later died of cancer, including Wayne, Susan Hayward, Agnes Moorehead, Pedro Armandariz, and the director of the movie, Dick Powell.
There’s a strong suspicion that the reason for this disproportionate number of cancer fatalities was that the film had been shot in Utah, not far from a Nevada Test Site, where experimenting was being done on above ground nuclear weapons. The prevailing winds had apparently blown radioactive fallout directly onto The Conquerors’ location.
“Did you work on The Conqueror”? I inquired.
“Yup. On location and here on the lot.” (Research tells me that producer Howard Hughes brought back sixty tons of Utah dirt for “re-shoots.”)
“You know about the ‘cancer story’, I suppose.”
“Yeah. I don’t think there’s anything to it.”
“You don’t?”
“Nah. It’s pure coincidence.”
Well, you know me. I can’t leave anything alone. And I have to be funny.
“How are you feeling?” I chucklingly inquire.
“I’m fine,” he replied. “I mean, I’ve got leukemia. But it has nothing to do with that.”
We passed the rest of the trip in silence.
I don’t know how people do that.
A memory of my Paramount experience recently fluttered into my mind. It involves my first tour of duty, specifically when I was serving as the “Warm-Up Man” on the second season of Cheers. You may recall my relating that my newborn daughter, Anna, was a marathon crier, and I’d asked (Cheers creators) the Charles Brothers to help get me out of the house. My pleadings led to the “Warm-Up” assignment, where, ironically, I frequently regaled the audience with anecdotes about my newborn daughter, Anna. My affection for the kid was commensurate with my distance from the crying.
As part of my “Warm-Up” arrangement, I was provided transportation from and back to my house. The Cheers filmings ended late, and my night driving was a danger, to myself, and to anyone unfortunate enough to be traveling the same road. (Before my “transportation arrangement”, at the end of each Warm-Up, I would actually tell the audience which route I’d be taking, to allow them the opportunity of going another way. If the audience had been unresponsive, I deleted those safety recommendations. You had to earn them.)
Let me be clear. We are not talking “limo” treatment here. Every TV show has an allotment of drivers assigned, who were responsible for pickups and deliveries of whatever was needed. During the second season of Cheers, a regular pickup and delivery was me. I was driven around in a not very new station wagon.
One night, after the show, I climbed into my “transportation”, and, as usual, I engaged in some casual chitchat with the driver. It turns out my driver that night had been a “teamster” (It just means driver; there are oxen involved.) for quite some time. And with longevity, come stories.
“You see this street?” he began, gesturing to the street directly alongside the Cheers soundstage. “Back in ’56, this was totally made over to look like the Chinese capital for the John Wayne movie, The Conqueror.
“It was?”
I was genuinely intrigued. I had seen The Conqueror as a kid. It was one of the worst movies ever. “Duke” Wayne playing Ghengis Khan. Terrible.
I also knew something else about The Conqueror. Numerous people who’d worked on the movie had later died of cancer, including Wayne, Susan Hayward, Agnes Moorehead, Pedro Armandariz, and the director of the movie, Dick Powell.
There’s a strong suspicion that the reason for this disproportionate number of cancer fatalities was that the film had been shot in Utah, not far from a Nevada Test Site, where experimenting was being done on above ground nuclear weapons. The prevailing winds had apparently blown radioactive fallout directly onto The Conquerors’ location.
“Did you work on The Conqueror”? I inquired.
“Yup. On location and here on the lot.” (Research tells me that producer Howard Hughes brought back sixty tons of Utah dirt for “re-shoots.”)
“You know about the ‘cancer story’, I suppose.”
“Yeah. I don’t think there’s anything to it.”
“You don’t?”
“Nah. It’s pure coincidence.”
Well, you know me. I can’t leave anything alone. And I have to be funny.
“How are you feeling?” I chucklingly inquire.
“I’m fine,” he replied. “I mean, I’ve got leukemia. But it has nothing to do with that.”
We passed the rest of the trip in silence.
I don’t know how people do that.
Friday, June 5, 2009
"Sometimes A Kiss Is Not Just A Kiss"
Best of the West.
The episode’s called “Daniel’s First Love.” Ten year-old Daniel Best, the reluctant western pioneer, has a crush on a new girl in school, thirteen year-old Jolene Hickerson, whose family hails from “hill country”, where people marry young. Jolene’s relationship with Daniel incenses Jolene’s “intended”, Jimmy-Jack McInerny, to the point where Jimmy-Jack refuses to go ahead with the wedding. Seeing the marriage plans obliterated, and aware of who’s responsible, Jolene’s irate father insists (at gunpoint) that Daniel replace Jimmy-Jack and marry Jolene instead.
That’s the basic premise of the episode. A ten year-old boy unexpectedly finds himself married.
I thought it was hilarious.
In the Second Act – be patient, there’s a point coming – Jolene and Jimmy-Jack reconcile and decide to run off together. Daniel, who “loves” Jolene, strongly objects. Jolene tries to explain why their situation is untenable.
JOLENE
Daniel, our marriage, it’s not a real marriage. Do you know what I mean?
DANIEL
No.
JOLENE
That’s what I mean.
Realizing his position is hopeless, Daniel reluctantly relents. But not before asking for one final favor.
DANIEL
At least you can give me a good-bye kiss. For the good times?
At this point, the script (which I dug out of the garage) says this:
JOLEEN LOOKS TO JIMMY-JACK. HE SHRUGS. SHE GOES TO DANIEL. THEY KISS. DANIEL PUTS ALL HE HAS INTO IT. INCLUDING A DIP. FINALLY, THEY BREAK, BUT REMAIN IN THE DIP.
DANIEL
Still leaving?
JOLEEN
(ENTIRELY CAUGHT OFF-GUARD) Yes. But I’m leavin’ a little sadder.
The episode played beautifully, especially on television. (Someday, I’ll write about how some episodes play better on TV than they did in front of the live audience, and vice versa.) My girlfriend, Dr M, who was just M at the time, was not at all happy. She had a serious problem with the kiss.
M thought it was outrageous for me to have forced a young actor into such an inappropriate situation. A ten-year old boy, delivering a deep, passionate kiss (though it’s unlikely he actually delivered one)? She found it disgusting.
And exploitive.
And wrong.
(And she may have harbored some second thoughts about me.)
Executive Producer, Earl Pomerantz, defended his actions. We’re doing a comedy, I explained. We are endeavoring to get laughs. It is precisely the “inappropriateness” that makes the “kissing moment”, and the entire episode, for that matter, funny. (For heavens sakes!)
There was no winning that argument. There was only (possibly) losing the girlfriend. At some point, we agreed to disagree and we let the subject pass.
Writers own their characters. They can make them do anything they want. And they do. (Two and a Half Men has an uncle bringing a parade of women home to have sex with, with, at least at the beginning of the series, a young kid living in the house. The problem is, you consider such behavior inappropriate and there’s no Two and a Half Men.)
Even though they’re imaginary, it’s worth considering whether a writer has a responsibility to the characters they create (and the actors who portray them). Twenty-something years later, looking back on that kissing moment in “Daniel’s First Love”, I’m thinking probably I was wrong.
The episode’s called “Daniel’s First Love.” Ten year-old Daniel Best, the reluctant western pioneer, has a crush on a new girl in school, thirteen year-old Jolene Hickerson, whose family hails from “hill country”, where people marry young. Jolene’s relationship with Daniel incenses Jolene’s “intended”, Jimmy-Jack McInerny, to the point where Jimmy-Jack refuses to go ahead with the wedding. Seeing the marriage plans obliterated, and aware of who’s responsible, Jolene’s irate father insists (at gunpoint) that Daniel replace Jimmy-Jack and marry Jolene instead.
That’s the basic premise of the episode. A ten year-old boy unexpectedly finds himself married.
I thought it was hilarious.
In the Second Act – be patient, there’s a point coming – Jolene and Jimmy-Jack reconcile and decide to run off together. Daniel, who “loves” Jolene, strongly objects. Jolene tries to explain why their situation is untenable.
JOLENE
Daniel, our marriage, it’s not a real marriage. Do you know what I mean?
DANIEL
No.
JOLENE
That’s what I mean.
Realizing his position is hopeless, Daniel reluctantly relents. But not before asking for one final favor.
DANIEL
At least you can give me a good-bye kiss. For the good times?
At this point, the script (which I dug out of the garage) says this:
JOLEEN LOOKS TO JIMMY-JACK. HE SHRUGS. SHE GOES TO DANIEL. THEY KISS. DANIEL PUTS ALL HE HAS INTO IT. INCLUDING A DIP. FINALLY, THEY BREAK, BUT REMAIN IN THE DIP.
DANIEL
Still leaving?
JOLEEN
(ENTIRELY CAUGHT OFF-GUARD) Yes. But I’m leavin’ a little sadder.
The episode played beautifully, especially on television. (Someday, I’ll write about how some episodes play better on TV than they did in front of the live audience, and vice versa.) My girlfriend, Dr M, who was just M at the time, was not at all happy. She had a serious problem with the kiss.
M thought it was outrageous for me to have forced a young actor into such an inappropriate situation. A ten-year old boy, delivering a deep, passionate kiss (though it’s unlikely he actually delivered one)? She found it disgusting.
And exploitive.
And wrong.
(And she may have harbored some second thoughts about me.)
Executive Producer, Earl Pomerantz, defended his actions. We’re doing a comedy, I explained. We are endeavoring to get laughs. It is precisely the “inappropriateness” that makes the “kissing moment”, and the entire episode, for that matter, funny. (For heavens sakes!)
There was no winning that argument. There was only (possibly) losing the girlfriend. At some point, we agreed to disagree and we let the subject pass.
Writers own their characters. They can make them do anything they want. And they do. (Two and a Half Men has an uncle bringing a parade of women home to have sex with, with, at least at the beginning of the series, a young kid living in the house. The problem is, you consider such behavior inappropriate and there’s no Two and a Half Men.)
Even though they’re imaginary, it’s worth considering whether a writer has a responsibility to the characters they create (and the actors who portray them). Twenty-something years later, looking back on that kissing moment in “Daniel’s First Love”, I’m thinking probably I was wrong.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
"A Tale of Two Restaurants"
Restaurant One:
La Grande Orange.
A new bistro-type cafe a couple of blocks from our house. Dr. M and I had dinner there the day it opened. We liked it. So a week later, I take Anna there for lunch.
A few minutes after ordering, the waitress brings my lunch, but she doesn’t bring Anna’s. We wait. After fifteen minutes, I call a man over who looks like he’s in charge. I explain the situation to him.
The man immediately apologizes. He’s very sorry this has happened. It’s a new restaurant; they’re still working out the bugs. The man gives me his card. He’s Brian. He’s the manager. Brian assures us that next time we come in he’ll take care of us. I don’t know what that means, but I say “Thank you”, and Brian takes off, hopefully to rectify the problem.
Ten minutes later, Anna’s lunch has still not arrived. I’m about to look for Brian when another man comes over. It’s Bob. He hands me his card. The card says Bob’s the Founder-President of the restaurant. Bob also apologizes, if possible, even more sincerely than Brian.
The waitress brings Anna her lunch. The waitress apologizes as well. Then Bob prints, “Dinner for two – Free” on his card, and scribbles his name. Bob explains. On our next visit, whatever we want, it’s on the house. There seems to be there’s no end to their kindness. Who knows where it will end?
“Because of the stress we caused, we’re getting each of you a massage.”
“I have a beach house in Malibu. It’s yours for the weekend.”
“The company has a private jet. We’re flying you to Paris.”
“The Maserati parked out front? Here’s the keys.”
“Two tickets for the space shuttle. Enjoy.”
It was almost becoming oppressive. When we finished eating, I asked Anna if she wanted a cookie from the restaurant’s bakery.
“No,” she replied, worn down by the restaurant’s generosity. “They’d probably want to give it to us.”
Restaurant Two:
The Palm.
A high-end steak restaurant. I decide to splurge and go there for my birthday.
Dinner for two at The Palm. In honor of the occasion, I wear my brand new camelhair sports jacket. I’m really looking good.
During the course of the meal, a waiter trips directly in front of me, spilling an entire platter of green beans on my jacket.
A restaurant representative comes over and apologizes. He instructs me that after I get the sports jacket dry cleaned, I should come back with the receipt, and the restaurant will reimburse me for the price of the cleaning.
Aftermaths
A few days after the incident, Dr. M and I return to La Grande Orange, where we’re graciously treated to our complimentary dinner. Founder-President Bob drops by to see if everything’s okay. Dr. M orders desert, less because she wanted to than because the waitress looked hurt when we originally turned it down.
A few days after the incident, I return to The Palm with my dry cleaning receipt. I explain the situation to the man behind the Reservations Desk. He tells me to go fuck myself.
A tale of two restaurants.
La Grande Orange
and The Palm.
One place we’ll go back to.
And one place we won’t.
La Grande Orange.
A new bistro-type cafe a couple of blocks from our house. Dr. M and I had dinner there the day it opened. We liked it. So a week later, I take Anna there for lunch.
A few minutes after ordering, the waitress brings my lunch, but she doesn’t bring Anna’s. We wait. After fifteen minutes, I call a man over who looks like he’s in charge. I explain the situation to him.
The man immediately apologizes. He’s very sorry this has happened. It’s a new restaurant; they’re still working out the bugs. The man gives me his card. He’s Brian. He’s the manager. Brian assures us that next time we come in he’ll take care of us. I don’t know what that means, but I say “Thank you”, and Brian takes off, hopefully to rectify the problem.
Ten minutes later, Anna’s lunch has still not arrived. I’m about to look for Brian when another man comes over. It’s Bob. He hands me his card. The card says Bob’s the Founder-President of the restaurant. Bob also apologizes, if possible, even more sincerely than Brian.
The waitress brings Anna her lunch. The waitress apologizes as well. Then Bob prints, “Dinner for two – Free” on his card, and scribbles his name. Bob explains. On our next visit, whatever we want, it’s on the house. There seems to be there’s no end to their kindness. Who knows where it will end?
“Because of the stress we caused, we’re getting each of you a massage.”
“I have a beach house in Malibu. It’s yours for the weekend.”
“The company has a private jet. We’re flying you to Paris.”
“The Maserati parked out front? Here’s the keys.”
“Two tickets for the space shuttle. Enjoy.”
It was almost becoming oppressive. When we finished eating, I asked Anna if she wanted a cookie from the restaurant’s bakery.
“No,” she replied, worn down by the restaurant’s generosity. “They’d probably want to give it to us.”
Restaurant Two:
The Palm.
A high-end steak restaurant. I decide to splurge and go there for my birthday.
Dinner for two at The Palm. In honor of the occasion, I wear my brand new camelhair sports jacket. I’m really looking good.
During the course of the meal, a waiter trips directly in front of me, spilling an entire platter of green beans on my jacket.
A restaurant representative comes over and apologizes. He instructs me that after I get the sports jacket dry cleaned, I should come back with the receipt, and the restaurant will reimburse me for the price of the cleaning.
Aftermaths
A few days after the incident, Dr. M and I return to La Grande Orange, where we’re graciously treated to our complimentary dinner. Founder-President Bob drops by to see if everything’s okay. Dr. M orders desert, less because she wanted to than because the waitress looked hurt when we originally turned it down.
A few days after the incident, I return to The Palm with my dry cleaning receipt. I explain the situation to the man behind the Reservations Desk. He tells me to go fuck myself.
A tale of two restaurants.
La Grande Orange
and The Palm.
One place we’ll go back to.
And one place we won’t.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
"Speaking of Basketball..."
Speaking of basketball, as I was yesterday, I take great pride in reporting that the great game of basketball was invented by a Canadian. Dr. John Naismith. Unfortunately, there were no tall people in Canada, so the game moved south of the border where it immediately became a tremendous success.
There was a more serious obstacle keeping basketball from flourishing in Canada, one stemming from the contrasting natures of our contiguing cultures. As you may know, the original game of basketball was played using suspended peach baskets as the baskets.
There was a drawback to using the peach baskets. The two teams would scrap ferociously for the ball, one team would finally take control, they would drive to the basket, a player would shoot, and if they were on target, the ball would land in the peach basket.
And not come out.
Frugal Canadians were generally unwilling to supply a second ball. This meant that, after the first basket was scored, the game was over. Basketball games always ended with the same score: two-to-nothing. Sometimes the games ended pretty quickly, like in seconds. On the other hand, if the teams were evenly matched and the defenses were tight, or if both teams were bad shooters, the games could go on for six or seven minutes.
It was not easy selling tickets to these contests. People generally like their entertainment to last somewhat longer. If traffic was bad and you got there a few minutes late, there was a good chance that you’d miss the entire game.
One answer to the “not coming out” problem would be to carry a ladder onto the court after every basket, climb up to the beach basket, and retrieve the ball. Someone had to have brought in a ladder to put up the peach baskets in the first place. The thing is, by the time the game started, that person would almost certainly have left, taking the ladder with them. You can’t just leave a ladder sitting there for the whole the game. It might be needed at home. (Remember, we’re thinking Canadian here.) Besides, dragging a ladder onto the court after every basket would have really slowed down the game.
Of course, there’s another way of the ball coming out of the peach basket. You’ve probably already thought of it yourselves. But that solution is no – you should pardon the expression – slam-dunk, due to the aforementioned contrast in the Canadian and American cultures.
Imagine a couple of American visitors, coming up to Canada, to check out the “new game.” They’re barely in their seats, when the first basket’s scored, and the game is over.
American reaction:
“Huh?”
Canadian reaction:
“Good game!”
And it’s off for a beer.
AMERICAN VISITOR: “What do you mean, ‘It’s over’?”
CANADIAN: “Well, the ball’s in the peach basket.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “So?”
CANADIAN: “Well, we can’t get it out.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “You can’t get it out.”
CANADIAN: “No. Don’t you see? It’s up there in the peach basket. Way up high.”
The Americans exchange looks of head-scratching bewilderment.
AMERICAN VISITOR TWO: “Did you ever think of cutting the bottom out of the peach basket?”
CANADIAN: “What’s that now?”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “If you cut out the bottom, the ball will fall out.”
CANADIAN: “You’re saying, cut the bottom out of the peach basket?”
AMERICAN VISITOR TWO: “Yeah.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “Then you could keep playing.”
CANADIAN: “It's true you'd be able to keep playing. But what happens to the peach basket?”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “I’m not following you.”
CANADIAN: “The peach baskets. They’d be ruined.”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “You try using a peach basket with no bottom? The peaches’ll fall through it. Right onto the ground.”
CANADIAN: “It’s the bottoms that keep the peaches in.”
The Canadians shake their heads, smugly chuckling at the "clueless" Americans.
AMERICAN VISITOR: (TO AMERICAN VISITOR TWO) “What the hell are they talking about?”
CANADIAN: "Destroying a perfectly good peach basket. Even a child would know better than to do that. (CALLING) You there, Jimmy McDonough. What would happen if you and you pals were to cut the bottoms out of your peach baskets so you could play basketball?”
JIMMY: “Our Mum would kill us!”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “You see?”
AMERICAN VISITOR TWO: “It’s just a couple of baskets.”
CANADIAN: “‘Just a couple of baskets.’ Peach baskets don’t grow on trees, you know.”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “Besides, once one of them tries it, they’ll all want to do it.”
CANADIAN: “Where will you put your peaches then, Mr. Yankee Doodle? In your pockets?”
AMERICAN VISITOR TWO: “Take out the bottom.”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “Never!”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “Do you like the game like it is?”
CANADIAN: “It’s not high scoring, I’ll grant you that. But we appreciate the subtleties.”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “And it doesn’t eat up our valuable time.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “Look, I’m tellin’ ya, you got a fabulous concept here. You mess up a few peach baskets and you’re on your way.”
CANADIAN: “Now you listen here, mister. This is Canada. And in Canada, you don’t sacrifice your livelihood for a few moments of meaningless fun. It’s not always about the almighty dollar, you know. You have to be sensible about things.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “Nice meeting ya.”
The Americans go home, taking the game of basketball with them, but making minor adjustments. They add tall people, and cut the bottoms out of the baskets.
The rest is history. Basketball became an international sensation and made billions. Today, the Canadian national pastime
is lacrosse.
There was a more serious obstacle keeping basketball from flourishing in Canada, one stemming from the contrasting natures of our contiguing cultures. As you may know, the original game of basketball was played using suspended peach baskets as the baskets.
There was a drawback to using the peach baskets. The two teams would scrap ferociously for the ball, one team would finally take control, they would drive to the basket, a player would shoot, and if they were on target, the ball would land in the peach basket.
And not come out.
Frugal Canadians were generally unwilling to supply a second ball. This meant that, after the first basket was scored, the game was over. Basketball games always ended with the same score: two-to-nothing. Sometimes the games ended pretty quickly, like in seconds. On the other hand, if the teams were evenly matched and the defenses were tight, or if both teams were bad shooters, the games could go on for six or seven minutes.
It was not easy selling tickets to these contests. People generally like their entertainment to last somewhat longer. If traffic was bad and you got there a few minutes late, there was a good chance that you’d miss the entire game.
One answer to the “not coming out” problem would be to carry a ladder onto the court after every basket, climb up to the beach basket, and retrieve the ball. Someone had to have brought in a ladder to put up the peach baskets in the first place. The thing is, by the time the game started, that person would almost certainly have left, taking the ladder with them. You can’t just leave a ladder sitting there for the whole the game. It might be needed at home. (Remember, we’re thinking Canadian here.) Besides, dragging a ladder onto the court after every basket would have really slowed down the game.
Of course, there’s another way of the ball coming out of the peach basket. You’ve probably already thought of it yourselves. But that solution is no – you should pardon the expression – slam-dunk, due to the aforementioned contrast in the Canadian and American cultures.
Imagine a couple of American visitors, coming up to Canada, to check out the “new game.” They’re barely in their seats, when the first basket’s scored, and the game is over.
American reaction:
“Huh?”
Canadian reaction:
“Good game!”
And it’s off for a beer.
AMERICAN VISITOR: “What do you mean, ‘It’s over’?”
CANADIAN: “Well, the ball’s in the peach basket.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “So?”
CANADIAN: “Well, we can’t get it out.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “You can’t get it out.”
CANADIAN: “No. Don’t you see? It’s up there in the peach basket. Way up high.”
The Americans exchange looks of head-scratching bewilderment.
AMERICAN VISITOR TWO: “Did you ever think of cutting the bottom out of the peach basket?”
CANADIAN: “What’s that now?”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “If you cut out the bottom, the ball will fall out.”
CANADIAN: “You’re saying, cut the bottom out of the peach basket?”
AMERICAN VISITOR TWO: “Yeah.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “Then you could keep playing.”
CANADIAN: “It's true you'd be able to keep playing. But what happens to the peach basket?”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “I’m not following you.”
CANADIAN: “The peach baskets. They’d be ruined.”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “You try using a peach basket with no bottom? The peaches’ll fall through it. Right onto the ground.”
CANADIAN: “It’s the bottoms that keep the peaches in.”
The Canadians shake their heads, smugly chuckling at the "clueless" Americans.
AMERICAN VISITOR: (TO AMERICAN VISITOR TWO) “What the hell are they talking about?”
CANADIAN: "Destroying a perfectly good peach basket. Even a child would know better than to do that. (CALLING) You there, Jimmy McDonough. What would happen if you and you pals were to cut the bottoms out of your peach baskets so you could play basketball?”
JIMMY: “Our Mum would kill us!”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “You see?”
AMERICAN VISITOR TWO: “It’s just a couple of baskets.”
CANADIAN: “‘Just a couple of baskets.’ Peach baskets don’t grow on trees, you know.”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “Besides, once one of them tries it, they’ll all want to do it.”
CANADIAN: “Where will you put your peaches then, Mr. Yankee Doodle? In your pockets?”
AMERICAN VISITOR TWO: “Take out the bottom.”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “Never!”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “Do you like the game like it is?”
CANADIAN: “It’s not high scoring, I’ll grant you that. But we appreciate the subtleties.”
ANOTHER CANADIAN: “And it doesn’t eat up our valuable time.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “Look, I’m tellin’ ya, you got a fabulous concept here. You mess up a few peach baskets and you’re on your way.”
CANADIAN: “Now you listen here, mister. This is Canada. And in Canada, you don’t sacrifice your livelihood for a few moments of meaningless fun. It’s not always about the almighty dollar, you know. You have to be sensible about things.”
AMERICAN VISITOR: “Nice meeting ya.”
The Americans go home, taking the game of basketball with them, but making minor adjustments. They add tall people, and cut the bottoms out of the baskets.
The rest is history. Basketball became an international sensation and made billions. Today, the Canadian national pastime
is lacrosse.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
"Rooting For The Enemy"
I get a call Friday afternoon.
“I’ve got an extra ticket to Lakers-Nuggets Game Seven on Sunday. Would you like to go?”
“YES!” (The “yes” came fast. It was like, “Would you like to goyes.”)
That’s how it started. An invitation to Lakers-Nuggets, Game Seven. The deciding game of the best-of-seven Western Conference Finals, determining which team would move on to play for the championship. I’m a huge Lakers fan. And even if I weren’t, it’s the deciding game of the finals, not the actual finals, but the finals before the actual finals, which is still big enough that if you’re any kind of basketball fan, and somebody invites you to that game, you really – racing towards desperately – want to go.
Okay.
Anyone following the NBA playoffs knows what happened. For those who don’t…you know how they say, when they’re talking about upcoming playoff games, like, “Game Seven, if necessary”? Well, this one wasn’t necessary. The Lakers clinched in six games. Game Seven, being unnecessary, was never played. Meaning, no me, Sunday, at Game Seven. There was no Game Seven.
No game at all.
On the Friday before, however, I have no such awareness. I just know that the Denver Nuggets are down three games to two. The Nuggets beat the Lakers in Game Six, the series is tied three-three, and I’m there at the Staples Center for the deciding Game Seven. It’s as simple as that.
Context. I’m in heaven at Lakers playoff games. Dr. M and I went often during the “Magic” Johnson era. I adored the “80’s” Lakers – Kareem, Worthy, Rambis, the inspirational Michael Cooper, but especially “Magic”, pushing the ball up the court, making impossible passes to the open man only he seems to be able to see. The excitement in those days was unbelievable. Plus they won five championships.
(When she heard “Magic” was retiring because he’d contracted the HIV virus, Dr. M called me at work and broke the news to me personally. I thanked her for taking the time to call me. “I didn’t want you to hear it from a stranger,” she explained.)
This, of course, is a different team, but I’m still a huge Laker fan. I wanted to see them beat the Nuggets. And when I say, “see”, I mean sitting in a seat in the place.
A Game Seven was by no means a longshot. The Nuggets had to win Game Six, but there were plenty of reasons to believe they would.
1) The Nuggets had to win or they were eliminated. For them, it was “do-or-die.”
2) The Nuggets had prevailed in two earlier playoff series and had beaten the Lakers twice in this series. They were a very capable team.
3) Game Six was being played in Denver, a significant factor, as, of all the major sports, basketball is the sport with the most reliable “home court advantage.”
An L.A. loss was a distinct possibility. And from the moment I received the invitation, I knew where I stood. As strange as it would feel, for Game Six of the Western Conference Finals, I was rooting for the Nuggets.
Game Time.
We have out of town house guests. We go out for dinner. We come home. I turn on the TV. It’s the second quarter.
The Lakers are ahead by thirteen points.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
It’s an odd experience, pulling for the other team. The Nuggets have two star players, Carmelo Anthony and Chauncey Billups. I haven’t a clue who the other players are. But it doesn’t stop me from rooting for them.
“Get the ball, Dreadlocks Guy!”
“Grab that rebound, Spiky Haircut White Guy with the colored tattoos!” Man, he was an ugly looking fellow, a grotesque stranger from the opposing team. And I was cheering the guy on!
Was it helping? No.
As luck would have it, the Lakers are playing their most spectacular game of the season. Everything’s working. They’re stopping them on defense, and their shots are all going in. Seeing my Game Seven appearance slipping away, I supplement rooting for the opposition with – it’s not my proudest moment – rooting against the team I love.
That doesn’t work either. Kobe sets for an outside jumper.
“Miss!” I call out.
Swish.
Odom blows a lay-up.
“All right!” I enthuse.
Gasol tips in the rebound.
“Damn!”
Great shooting, tough rebounding, tight defence – the Lakers did everything right.
But lose.
The Laker lead continues to grow. My houseguest confidently opines that it’s over. But I refuse to lose hope. Though the odds are increasing, I am confident the Lakers can still blow it.
This is hardly wishful thinking. All season, the Lakers have been notorious for giving up what appeared to be insurmountable leads. There was also the searing memory of last year’s finals, when the Lakers coughed up a twenty-four-point advantage to the Celtics. My houseguest stubbornly insists that it’s over.
“The Lakers have a twenty-point lead,” I explain with mounting irritation. “The Nuggets have them just where they want them.”
Though the Laker lead continues to expand, I remain steadfast, and defiantly hopeful.
“As long as there’s time on the clock, there is still a chance for a miracle collapse.”
It didn’t look good. The Nuggets seemed to be standing around, letting the Lakers score one uncontested basket after another. The Nuggets seemed like they were playing in a daze, like people had kidnapped their loved ones and were holding them for ransom:
“Lose or they die.”
I know that’s an improbably rationale for why the Nuggets played so badly. More likely, there was just this massive conspiracy to keep me from going to Game Seven. Which doesn’t really seem fair. I don’t remember doing anything to them.
The final score was Lakers – 119, Nuggets – 92, Lakers taking the series four games to two.
It’s funny. My favorite team had broken my heart before. But this was the first time they ever had done it by winning.
“I’ve got an extra ticket to Lakers-Nuggets Game Seven on Sunday. Would you like to go?”
“YES!” (The “yes” came fast. It was like, “Would you like to goyes.”)
That’s how it started. An invitation to Lakers-Nuggets, Game Seven. The deciding game of the best-of-seven Western Conference Finals, determining which team would move on to play for the championship. I’m a huge Lakers fan. And even if I weren’t, it’s the deciding game of the finals, not the actual finals, but the finals before the actual finals, which is still big enough that if you’re any kind of basketball fan, and somebody invites you to that game, you really – racing towards desperately – want to go.
Okay.
Anyone following the NBA playoffs knows what happened. For those who don’t…you know how they say, when they’re talking about upcoming playoff games, like, “Game Seven, if necessary”? Well, this one wasn’t necessary. The Lakers clinched in six games. Game Seven, being unnecessary, was never played. Meaning, no me, Sunday, at Game Seven. There was no Game Seven.
No game at all.
On the Friday before, however, I have no such awareness. I just know that the Denver Nuggets are down three games to two. The Nuggets beat the Lakers in Game Six, the series is tied three-three, and I’m there at the Staples Center for the deciding Game Seven. It’s as simple as that.
Context. I’m in heaven at Lakers playoff games. Dr. M and I went often during the “Magic” Johnson era. I adored the “80’s” Lakers – Kareem, Worthy, Rambis, the inspirational Michael Cooper, but especially “Magic”, pushing the ball up the court, making impossible passes to the open man only he seems to be able to see. The excitement in those days was unbelievable. Plus they won five championships.
(When she heard “Magic” was retiring because he’d contracted the HIV virus, Dr. M called me at work and broke the news to me personally. I thanked her for taking the time to call me. “I didn’t want you to hear it from a stranger,” she explained.)
This, of course, is a different team, but I’m still a huge Laker fan. I wanted to see them beat the Nuggets. And when I say, “see”, I mean sitting in a seat in the place.
A Game Seven was by no means a longshot. The Nuggets had to win Game Six, but there were plenty of reasons to believe they would.
1) The Nuggets had to win or they were eliminated. For them, it was “do-or-die.”
2) The Nuggets had prevailed in two earlier playoff series and had beaten the Lakers twice in this series. They were a very capable team.
3) Game Six was being played in Denver, a significant factor, as, of all the major sports, basketball is the sport with the most reliable “home court advantage.”
An L.A. loss was a distinct possibility. And from the moment I received the invitation, I knew where I stood. As strange as it would feel, for Game Six of the Western Conference Finals, I was rooting for the Nuggets.
Game Time.
We have out of town house guests. We go out for dinner. We come home. I turn on the TV. It’s the second quarter.
The Lakers are ahead by thirteen points.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
It’s an odd experience, pulling for the other team. The Nuggets have two star players, Carmelo Anthony and Chauncey Billups. I haven’t a clue who the other players are. But it doesn’t stop me from rooting for them.
“Get the ball, Dreadlocks Guy!”
“Grab that rebound, Spiky Haircut White Guy with the colored tattoos!” Man, he was an ugly looking fellow, a grotesque stranger from the opposing team. And I was cheering the guy on!
Was it helping? No.
As luck would have it, the Lakers are playing their most spectacular game of the season. Everything’s working. They’re stopping them on defense, and their shots are all going in. Seeing my Game Seven appearance slipping away, I supplement rooting for the opposition with – it’s not my proudest moment – rooting against the team I love.
That doesn’t work either. Kobe sets for an outside jumper.
“Miss!” I call out.
Swish.
Odom blows a lay-up.
“All right!” I enthuse.
Gasol tips in the rebound.
“Damn!”
Great shooting, tough rebounding, tight defence – the Lakers did everything right.
But lose.
The Laker lead continues to grow. My houseguest confidently opines that it’s over. But I refuse to lose hope. Though the odds are increasing, I am confident the Lakers can still blow it.
This is hardly wishful thinking. All season, the Lakers have been notorious for giving up what appeared to be insurmountable leads. There was also the searing memory of last year’s finals, when the Lakers coughed up a twenty-four-point advantage to the Celtics. My houseguest stubbornly insists that it’s over.
“The Lakers have a twenty-point lead,” I explain with mounting irritation. “The Nuggets have them just where they want them.”
Though the Laker lead continues to expand, I remain steadfast, and defiantly hopeful.
“As long as there’s time on the clock, there is still a chance for a miracle collapse.”
It didn’t look good. The Nuggets seemed to be standing around, letting the Lakers score one uncontested basket after another. The Nuggets seemed like they were playing in a daze, like people had kidnapped their loved ones and were holding them for ransom:
“Lose or they die.”
I know that’s an improbably rationale for why the Nuggets played so badly. More likely, there was just this massive conspiracy to keep me from going to Game Seven. Which doesn’t really seem fair. I don’t remember doing anything to them.
The final score was Lakers – 119, Nuggets – 92, Lakers taking the series four games to two.
It’s funny. My favorite team had broken my heart before. But this was the first time they ever had done it by winning.
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