"Two Stories"

Writing about my experiences on Taxi reminds me of two stories, one heartwarming, and one notorious.

I’ll tell the heartwarming one first. I like it better.

As I mentioned when I was working at Studio Center, I enjoyed getting my hair cut by the studio barber. The barber – Sol – had worked on everyone. It tickled me knowing that the guy who had cut Desi Arnaz’s hair was snipping away at mine.

And the price was right. Studio haircuts were considerably cheaper than their counterparts on the outside. Sol would actually ask me how much I wanted to pay. That never happens in regular hair salons. Sol also gave me lemons from his tree. Outside hair salons didn’t even validate my parking.

When I changed studios to do Taxi, I introduced myself to Paramount’s hair cutter. Nat. Nat was a virtual duplicate of Sol, same age – late sixties, early seventies – same kind of stories. Once again, I was home and happy in a studio barber chair.

Not long after I arrived, however, as he was dusting me off with a powdered brush, Nat told me the bad news. The barbershop was closing, and Nat was retiring. I stood there in shock.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re tearing down the barbershop, so they can expand the commissary. There’s nowhere else they can put me, so I’m going to retire.”

“Do you want to retire?”

“What can I do? I have no choice.”

And that was that. Nat’s barbershop was, in fact, situated next to the commissary. If they wanted to expand the dining facilities, the barbershop had to go.

I was crushed. No more studio barber. No more stories from show biz past. From now on, I’d have to get my hair cut on the outside. And pay substantially more.

I handed Nat an extra large parting tip, said thanks and goodbye, and walked gloomily into the future. I’ve never been a fan of the future, and this certainly didn’t help.

A few weeks later, I’m heading to a story conference. The office I’m going to is on the second floor of a building on the other side of the lot from my office. When I reach the building, I casually look through an open ground floor door.

And there’s Nat.

Cutting someone’s hair.

I excitedly race in. There, in a closet-sized room, is a freshly painted, fully equipped barbershop.

“What happened?” I ask.

Nat tells me this story.

He’s in retirement, sitting in his house. He gets a call. His pals from the studio want to take him to lunch. Nat says okay. He arrives for the lunch, but before they go into the now-expanded commissary, his buddies say they want to show him something.

They walk Nat to this building, they open the ground floor door, and there it is.

A brand new barbershop on the Paramount lot.

“Welcome back, Nat.”

What had happened was this. All of Nat’s studio friends – the carpenters, the painters, the electricians, the set decorators, the prop men – had gotten together, and decided that Nat’s forced retirement was a disgrace. They scoured the studio, discovered an unused space and, unbeknownst to Nat, they pooled their resources, and at their own expense, transformed a storage room into a barbershop.

With the help of his buddies, Nat, the barber, was back in business. And he remained so for quite some time.

Okay. Now, the notorious story.

The cast of Taxi was the most talented sitcom ensemble I ever worked with. And the nicest. No outsized egos, no outrageous demands. Everyone worked hard, enjoyed each others’ company, and collaborated on some of the best half-hour comedy ever produced.

So I was understandably surprised when someone ran into my office one afternoon and yelled,

“You got to get to the stage. It’s crazy down there!”

I quickly headed to the stage. Now, remember, though I wrote scripts for the show, I was not part of the Taxi writing staff. I wasn’t involved in the script readings, or the rehearsals. I was pretty much out of the loop.

What I was about to witness caught me totally by surprise.

For the first time on the Taxi stage, there was chaos. As I later learned, Andy Kaufman, who played “Latka” on the show, had a contractual arrangement, stipulating that the comedian’s “alter-ego”, “Tony Clifton”, had to be cast in a specified number of Taxi episodes per season. The movie, Man In The Moon, indicated that that was the only way Taxi’s creators could get Kaufman to play “Latka.”

The contract further stipulated that, when “Tony Clifton” was working, no one was to refer to him as Andy. “Tony Clifton” had to be treated like a totally different person. He was “Tony”, not Andy.

(I’m not going to use quotes around the names anymore. It’s too much work.)

Holed up writing in an office, I had little personal contact with Andy Kaufman. My only extended one-on-one was when we were seated together at a Jim Burrows birthday party dinner.

My memory of Andy Kaufman is that he was very quiet, and he really liked chocolate. All he ate was an enormous slice of chocolate cake accompanied by two big scoops of chocolate ice cream, all slathered in a thick, rich chocolate sauce. My skin itched just watching him wolf it down.

At work, Kaufman was soft-spoken and respectful. His pixieish, slightly otherworldly character, Latka, was a gentle soul, becoming a chatterbox only when he was berating himself in an undecipherable language.

Tony Clifton was Andy’s opposite in every way.

Rude. Abrasive. Profane. Clifton arrived at the studio, sporting a screamingly loud jacket and slacks, and a flashily dressed hooker on each arm. Unlike the introverted Andy, Clifton pinched the female production staff and boorishly insulted the men. Tony Clifton was one other thing Andy Kaufman was not. Tony Clifton was strikingly untalented.

My trip to the stage took place on a Wednesday afternoon. The filming would be the following Friday, which meant there were only two days left before the show. On normal weeks, the episode would be coming together. But this wasn’t a normal week.

Work was at a standstill. Tony Clifton was unprepared, un-cooperative, and terrible in his part. Time was running out, and the atmosphere was getting tense. The Executive Producers came down to restore order, but chaos and confusion continued to reign.

I have to admit – and not proudly – that I found the entire situation hilarious. There’s something funny about watching other people in a pickle, especially a pickle of their own making. By agreeing to Kaufman’s contractual demands, the Executive Producers had made a deal with the devil, and now the chickens were coming home to roost. (That’s my cliché quota for the entire year.)

Everyone was trying to handle things as best they could. Except Tony Danza. Danza had had enough; he was unwilling to continue the charade. He refused to call Andy, Tony, and, reverting to his pugilistic past, he was very close to hitting someone. Danza summarized the situation with the words:

“That’s it! This is f-in’ nuts!”

Only he didn’t say “f-in’.”

The other actors, though lacking Danza’s Vesuvial intensity, were understandably frustrated. These people were professionals. Professionals in a weird situation. They were required to work with Tony Clifton, but because of Clifton’s disruptive antics, a show they cared about was going down the tubes.

Only Judd Hirsch, playing the grownup in the show and in real life, retained a cool head through the insanity. He remained calm, called Andy, Tony, and tried patiently to get the rehearsal back on track.

And failed miserably.

Things were becoming serious. An episode would be filmed Friday night in front of a live studio audience, the production was currently a shambles, and if things continued that way – and they seemed like they would – the show would not be ready. A decision had to be made. And finally, it was.

The Executive Producers fired Tony Clifton.

Was it over? No.

Tony Clifton refused to leave the stage.

A studio Security Guard was called. Tony Clifton threatened the guard. He also threatened the Executive Producers with a huge lawsuit for breach of contract.

The production remained at a standstill. Something had to be done. Once again, the “grownup” took the initiative.

Judd Hirsch raced up behind Tony Clifton, wrapped his arms around him, lifted him in the air, and carried him off the soundstage.

A real actor was rushed in to replace Tony Clifton, and the show went off on schedule. When Andy Kaufman came to work the following week, it was as if nothing had happened.

Okay, it’s a memorable story. But does it really match Nat’s studio friends creating him a barbershop?

"A Possibly Special Appearance"

I may have been on the David Letterman show.

I know that’s kind of a strange thing to say. A long-running, late night television show, people have been on it; people have not been on it. But very few people say – or imagine even – that they may have been on it.

Usually, given a sound mind and whatever, a person knows what they did and didn’t do. I wrote for television; I didn’t walk on the moon. It’s pretty simple to determine. I know some people exaggerate, but within that exaggeration, lies something they did; otherwise they’re not exaggerators, they’re fabricators.

With fabricators, if you care enough, you can dig up evidence of whether or not they’re fabricating, and if they are, you can call them on it.

“You said you were ducking sniper fire. Here’s proof that you weren’t ducking sniper fire.” End of story.

Beginning of explanations.

What I’m talking about is different. I’m not saying I was definitely on the David Letterman show – let’s be clear on that, I make no such claim. But I also can’t say with absolute certainty that I wasn’t on the David Letterman show. Why? Because there’s a chance – not a huge chance, but a chance nonetheless – that I was.

And I was good.

I’m asking you to be fair. Listen to my story, consider its likelihood, and then tell me,

“Was or was I not on the David Letterman show?”

Or, not wanting to bother digging up evidence, do you simply agree with me that I may have been?

Okay, here it is.

I’m working on Al Franken’s sitcom Lateline, a comedic version of Nightline, which ran for a while on NBC. There were nineteen episodes of Lateline in all. Six episodes were produced in Los Angeles, the other thirteen – because Al lived there and didn’t want to be away too long – were produced in New York.

I served as a script consultant on the show. During the East Coast segment of the production, I’d visit New York for periods of ten to sixteen days a month. They put me up at the Trump International Hotel, which is on the corner of Sixty-First Street and Central Park West.

The office we worked in was on 45th and Broadway, an easy sixteen-block walk from my hotel, a walk I enjoyed very much. I passed a lot of interesting places on that walk, one of which was the theater where they taped the David Letterman show, on Fifty-Fourth and Broadway.

I’m being deliberately thorough in my description. When you’re telling a “may have” story –where your credibility is already in question – it’s important to be scrupulously accurate in the details.

Okay, so I’m walking to work, and I arrive at the intersection on Broadway, just north of the theater where the David Letterman show is produced. The light is red in front of me. As I wait for it to change, I glance down at the road, about a foot and a half in front of me, and I see

a bright, shiny penny.

Harkening back to a story I related during Passover Week, when it comes to exhibiting certain behaviors in certain situations, “Some does, and some doesn’t.” In this case, seeing a penny lying in the street, some pick it up, and some pass it by.

I always pick it up.

The light is still red. I have time. I step into the street, and reach down to retrieve the penny.

I quickly discover that the penny is not on the road. The penny is embedded

in the road.

I pick at the penny with my forefinger, trying to dislodge it from the pavement. The penny does not budge.

The penny is fused into the pavement. If you slide your hand across that area, you would feel no “raised penny” sensation. The penny is, in fact, now, a part of the pavement.

I take out my wallet, and pull a quarter from the change pocket. I bend down, and in a series of short, forceful jabs, I try to wedge the quarter under the penny, in an effort to pry the penny out of the pavement.

The penny remains in place.

I’m running out of time. The light will soon change and vehicles will be passing in front of me, making further efforts to retrieve the penny impossible. Also, if I keep at this, I’m going to be late for work.

I don’t care about anything. I’ve put a lot of time into this. I’ve endured disdainful stares.

I want that penny!

In my last remaining moments, I stand directly over the penny and begin kicking at it, first with the toe of my shoe, and when that doesn’t work, backwards, with my heel, with all the energy at my command. I have totally lost control. I am focused, and I am crazed. I do not notice the light changing. I am barely able to jump back onto the curb.

And now, it’s over. With the traffic whizzing by, I stare at the penny that wouldn’t come out, and I sadly shake my head.

Remember.

All this takes place just north of the David Letterman theater. You know that show. You know the kind of stunts they pull. Is the following possibility so far-fetched?

There’s a “pitch” meeting, where the writing staff is trying to come up with a funny “outdoor” segment, one involving unsuspecting passersby. They do that all the time, right? Humiliate the public?

“I got it!” one writer cries with excitement. “We take a quarter – no, a nickel – no, a penny! – and we mash it into the road, and then, we film people – you know, idiots – trying to dig the penny out of the road!

“Is that hilarious, or what?”

The writing staff agrees the segment will be “hee-larious”, and they schedule it for the show.

I really think that’s what happened. And one of the idiots they were talking about was me. Somewhere in the archives, there is footage of me, frantically kicking at a penny that’s lying in the road.

I like to believe that’s true. If it’s not true, I endangered my life for nothing. Which, of course, is possible. But you know what else is possible? That

I may have been on the David Letterman show.

"Story of a Writer - Part Twelve"

Four senior MTM writers moved to Paramount where they created the show, Taxi. I went with them.

Once again, I wasn’t on the writing staff, an opportunity and salary boost I did everything in my power to avoid. Instead, I signed what they call a “Multiple Script Deal”, which meant I wrote a multiple number of scripts. They don’t spend a lot of time thinking up imaginative titles for deals.

The first season, I wrote four Taxi scripts. I wasn’t the only one with a “scripts-only” arrangement. David Lloyd pioneered the concept at MTM, and far more prolifically. When I wrote eight scripts per season, David wrote sixteen. I don’t know how he did it.

The original Taxi script (a “series commitment” allowed the creators to leapfrog the “pilot” process) was over seventy pages long. A normal-length half-hour in those days paged out in the high forties. The script would inevitably be cut down, but first, the writers got to explore their newly-minted characters.

The first Taxi was very character-driven, introducing the “regulars” through the people they chose to call for free from a broken payphone in the garage. It was an inspired device, made possible by the creator’s series deal, which did not require them to “sell” their show with a more flashy, story-driven pilot.

When I read that first script, the boxer character was an Irishman named Ryan. When I wrote the series’ second episode, featuring the boxer character, it was “Ryan” I was writing for. Then Tony Danza, an Italian, was hired for the part, and the character’s name was changed to Banta.

“Banta” was originally “Ryan”. I feel kind of sad revealing that. I used to know something very few people knew. Now I’m a little less special. I also know who the “Nardo” and “Banta” characters were named after. But you gotta keep some things to yourself, don’t you? Otherwise, who are you? If people know everything you know, what, then, is your purpose on this earth?

Sorry for that existential moment. I’m moving on now.

As a scriptwriter, I would either bring in a story idea or have one offered to me. Some story ideas came from Jim Brooks, a prodigious talent I had trouble keeping up with. Jim’s stories were heavily character-driven. Example: The “regulars” get drunk together and sit around, spilling their guts. In a hilarious fashion.

“Don’t you love it!” he’d cry, after the idea had been pitched to me. My uncomfortable and not infrequent response:

“I don’t understand it.”

I was happier writing stories with plots.

One of my favorites – also a Jim Brooks idea, but with a little more “movement” – featured a Taxi character named John, who was dropped from the show after the first season. I wrote a number of John-centered episodes that first season. I was fortunate they didn’t drop me.

John was an innocent non-New Yorker who had trouble getting girls. In the episode, called “The Great Line”, Bobby, the would-be actor, suggests a pick-up line he assures John is a guaranteed winner. He instructs John to walk up to a girl in the bar they’re in and say to her, ”Forget the preliminaries; let’s get married.”

Goaded into giving the line a shot, John walks up to a girl and says, “Forget the preliminaries; let’s get married.” To his surprise, shock and chagrin, the girl replies,

“Okay.”

Twenty-four hours later, with neither of them willing to back down, John finds himself married to a total stranger.

The next day, John returns to the garage, a frantic basket case. The idea of being married fills him with dread. I wrote his reason why:

“I always thought they were connected: you get married, you have kids, you get old, and you die. Somehow, I thought, if you didn’t get married, you wouldn’t die.”

As usual when I had a personal identification with the storyline, the episode turned out very well.

The Taxi story meetings would take an entire day, and sometimes longer. You’d start with the premise for the episode, then find a dramatic place to break the action for a commercial, then pitch out the scenes, then, finally, the beats within the scenes. There was often a paralleling subplot, which I hated, because they always felt like filler.

My preference was for all the characters to participate in a single half-hour-worthy story. The often more frivolous subplots were invariably joke-driven, and joke writing was never my strength.

Many scenes started with, what was called, a “free joke”, one out-of-story-context laugh-getter before the plot dialogue would begin. I had no idea where those came from. I’d wrack my brain for a “free joke”, and my brain would come back with,

“What do you mean?”

Ed. Weinberger, one of Taxi’s creators and Executive Producers, was a Night Owl. The social aspect of his day began when I went to sleep. As a result, Ed. was consistently late for our ten o’clock story meetings. Like three hours late.

When this happened consistently, I decided to speak up. I told Ed. I didn’t think it was fair to keep me waiting so long. If a meeting was scheduled for ten, it ought to begin at ten. I was rather assertive on the subject. Assertive and scared. Because Ed. was my boss. And he could fire me.

Ed. Weinberger didn’t fire me. Instead, he took out a giant checkbook, picked up a pen, and asked me how much I wanted.

“For what?”

“I’m paying you for your time. How much do you want?”

“I don’t want money. I want you to be on time for the meetings.”

Ed. insisted I name a price for my wasted time. His strategy caught me off-guard. Money wasn’t the issue. Besides, how much was I supposed to ask for? A hundred dollars? A thousand? A million? I was very uncomfortable. Which may well have been the point.

The negotiation continued.

“Take the money.”

“I don’t want the money.”

“You can buy yourself a present.”

“I don’t want a present.”

“Then get something for your girlfriend.”

“I don’t want to get something for my girlfriend.”

In the end, Ed. put away his giant checkbook and promised he’d be more punctual. That lasted about a week.

One Friday shortly thereafter, my girlfriend, who later became my wife, came to the studio to watch the Taxi filming. She later reported an encounter with Ed. Weinberger that had confused her. During a break in the filming, Ed. had walked past her in the hallway and said, “If your boyfriend’s going to have integrity, we’re all going to suffer.”

He must have thought she’d heard the story. I’d never mentioned it to her.

One last Taxi-related incident. This one concerns “trivia buffs.” A man called me, twenty years after Taxi had been off the air. He said he was writing a book about television and he wanted to ask me some Taxi-related questions. I said fine.
“You wrote the episode where Tony’s going out of town for a fight and he asks Bobby to take care of his goldfish?

“I did. It was one of my favorite episodes.”

“Mine too. Where was Tony going?”

“What?”

“Tony was going out of town for a fight. Where was he going?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember where he was going?”

“No.”

“Who was Tony going to fight?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember who he was fighting?”

“It wasn’t a major element in the story. It was mainly about the goldfish.”

“That’s true. What was the name of the goldfish?”

A long pause.

“I don’t remember.”

“You did write the episode.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Man. I really let the guy down. But what am I going to do? I remember what I remember. Everything else I forget.

"Rich and Poor"

I’ve been thinking recently about the musical comedy, Little Me, which has a very funny script by Neil Simon. In one scene, an ocean liner is sinking, and the captain’s assigning his officers various responsibilities. One officer’s ordered to supervise the non-swimmers. Minutes later, the officer comes racing back with his report.

OFFICER: Sir, it’s the non-swimmers.

CAPTAIN: What about them?

OFFICER: They’re terrible swimmers.

Why am I thinking about that? Because of the sub-prime loan disaster, which you’d think could have very easily been foreseen. It’s the same situation as in Little Me.

“Sir, it’s the bad loan risks.”

“What about them?”

“They’re terrible loan risks.”

Duh!

The sub-prime disaster was primarily the result of the people in the home loan business having a faulty understanding of the word “poor.”

When I was a Sociology student in college, I once said that “Sociology is a discipline where they do a study proving conclusively that rich people have more money than poor people.”

They didn’t really do that study. That’s just my opinion of Sociology, which was reflected again in a “comparative study” term paper I wrote entitled, “Crime and Height.” That’s a joke too. I didn’t write that. I could have, though. It would have fit right in.

Returning to my point, the concept of “poor” is not all that difficult to understand. But, for some reason, smart people – and not just in the home loan business – are confused by the concept and its natural consequences. It seems to elude their understanding.

I remember once watching a discussion on This Week, when David Brinkley was still the host, concerning the issue of limiting the purchasing of television air time for political advertising. Conservative George Will’s position was

“Everybody should be able to buy as much television air time as they want. Any limitation would be an infringement on their constitutionally-guaranteed right to free speech.”

Will’s position put me in mind of what, I believe, is a French saying that goes,

“A rich man has just as much right to sleep under a bridge as a poor man.”

The line is funny, because the idea behind it doesn’t make any sense. Whether he has the right to or not, a rich man doesn’t need to sleep under a bridge

because he’s rich.

And a poor person, even though they have a right to buy as much television air time as a rich person, can’t buy any television air time

because they’re poor.

To buy television air time, a poor person needs precisely that thing that poor people – by definition of the word “poor” – don’t have. Without that thing, it’s impossible for a poor person to buy television air time. I may have repeated myself there, but I, apparently, need to, because, for some people, the concept doesn’t seem to be sinking in.

Here’s what George Will leaves out:

“Poor” and “buy television air time” not fitting together results in a serious imbalance in the constitutional guaranteed right to free speech, producing a glaring inequality, which, I believe, infringes on another constitutional guarantee.

That seems kind of important, don’t you think?

The idea of what it means to be poor really isn’t that complicated. The poor get it right away. But for some reason, the rich seem to have trouble.

Maybe sociologists should have done that study.

"Saddle Up - Part Five"

Actors who appeared in classic westerns recall their experiences. As imagined by me.

FROM THE CHAPTER ENTITLED:FEATURED PLAYERS

THE LEADER OF THE LYNCH MOB

“I took great pride in leading the lynch mob. People ribbed me, called me a glorified 'Extra.' But I knew better. It’s an essential role. I carried the rope!”

“Leading the lynch mob is a big challenge. I mean, look at the character’s ‘journey’, as we actors call it. It’s a rollercoaster of feelings. In the course of a single scene, my character has to make the transition from ‘law abiding citizen’ to ‘String him up!’ to ‘What was I thinking?’ I’m running the emotional gamut. That takes ‘range.’

“I’m not ashamed to admit it. When they cast me as the leader of the lynch mob, I went straight to my acting coach. I needed all the help I could get.”

“Here’s the situation. I’m in town for supplies. Affable. Decent. Maybe a little short with my boy. But he had it coming. He was sneaking candy at the General Store.

The word gets out: ‘The marshal’s got Ringo locked in the calaboose!’ My first reaction:

Red-hot anger.

‘Ringo.’

My breath starts to quicken, primal passions rising to the fore. That first transition is key. One minute, you’re a god-fearing townsperson; the next, you’re a wild-eyed lunatic, clamoring for blood. To call up the emotion, I channeled the ‘sense memory’ of my baby sister. I loved the kid. Then she broke my yo-yo.

We march down to the jailhouse, a vengeance-driven mob, with me at the head. The fire of self-righteousness burns fiercely in my eyes. I wanted the audience thinking: ‘I’d follow that man. Even to do wrong.’

We’re in front of the marshal’s office.

‘Bring out the prisoner!’ I demand.

My adrenaline’s racing through my body. I tell you, leading a bunch of kill-crazy maniacs, there’s nothing like it.

The marshal comes out, armed and determined.

‘We want Ringo’, I say. Or in less ‘on the nose’ versions, ‘You know why we’re here.’

The marshal remains calm.

‘The law will take care of Ringo.’

I laugh derisively, ‘Ha-ha-ha-ha.’

The mob laughs too. I’m the leader. What I do, they do.

‘No more talk’, I snarl. ‘Are you handing over the prisoner? Or do we come in and take him?’

To show we mean business, we start to surge forward.

The marshal shoots in the air. We scramble back, bristling with incredulity.

‘You’d shoot your own neighbors to protect the life of a dirty, rotten killer?’

The marshal stands firm.

‘The prisoner will be brought to justice. You have my word.’

I brandish the rope. ‘We don’t want your word. We want Ringo!’

I turn to the mob.

’Let’s get him, Boys!’

We swarm ahead. The marshal fires again, sometimes wounding me in the leg to show he means business. There’s grumbling, shock and dismay. Maybe a

‘You had no call to do that, marshal.’

That’s when he makes The Speech:

‘Have you all lost your minds? I know you people. You’re decent. Hard-working. But this thirst for revenge, it’s got you thinkin’ all crazy. You can’t take the law into your own hands. That’s mob rule. Vigilante justice. Is that the kind of town you want to live in? Is that the kind of place you want to raise your kids? Call this off right now, before it’s too late. If you don’t, I promise you, you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives.’

The marshal wraps it up with, ‘Now go home. All of you.’

The speech hits home. A moment’s hesitation, a return to their senses, and the crowd begins to disperse. I try to rally them, but it’s too late. I’ve lost them.

I stand there alone, awash in confusion, followed by humiliation, shame and regret. I slowly drop the rope, and walk away. Or, if I’ve been shot in the leg, limp away.

End of scene.”

“My biggest thrill? That’s easy. I’m leading the lynch mob, and Randolph Scott’s playing the marshal. He was wonderful, wasn’t he? Anyway, the scene ends, and Randy comes up to me and says, ‘For a minute there, I wasn’t sure you were backin’ down.’

Hearing that…from the great Randolph Scott?

It was like winning the Oscar.”

"Why I Couldn't Be A Lawyer"

I tried. Sort of.

On the summer after I graduated from the University of Toronto, I signed up to attend a summer theater course in acting at UCLA. In order to have a school to go to in September – as I’d had since Nursery School – the day before I left for UCLA, I filled out the paperwork to go to the University of Toronto Law School.

It was easy. I had an “A” average, my transcripts were across the street at the university. I just had to sign at the bottom of some page, and the office staff would take it from there. My position for the fall class of First Year law was quickly confirmed.

Everything about me said “Law School” except my brain, my temperament, my character, my interests, my maturity level and my personal history. What the heck was I thinking? Answer: Nothing.

Here’s the main problem with my being a lawyer.

I have never beaten anyone in an argument.

You’d consider that a liability, wouldn’t you? Would you hire a lawyer, whose business card had a motto printed on it that said,

“I’ve Never Won An Argument”?

I signed up for law school for two reasons. I needed somewhere to go in September, and my older brother had gone to law school. Academically, I had always done better than my brother, so I figured if he could do it, so could I. My calculations ignored one glaring fact.

My brother beat me in every argument we ever had.

I mentioned that to him once. We were walking down by the beach during one of his visits, and in the course of our conversation, I said,

“You won every argument we ever had.”

To which my brother replied:

“I thought you did.”

My brother’s response triggered surprise, and then, relief. Wow. All those arguments I thought I’d lost, I’d actually won? This revelation changed my whole view of things.

Whaddaya know? Maybe I’m more persuasive than I think.

My relief quickly ended when I realized that my brother told me that I’d won every argument, not because it was true, but as a strategy, and by so doing,

my brother had won another argument.

That’s what I knew I’d be up against as a lawyer. People who were quicker than me. At least in arguments.

I had the time of my life at UCLA. From a highly regarded first-night audition, I was cast in three of the four plays they were putting on. People liked me, and they appreciated my acting. When the program ended, many of them were angry that I wasn’t sticking around.

I couldn’t, of course.

I had to go to law school.

The moment I walked into my first law class, I knew I was in Grownupland. Everyone else was wearing a suit. They already looked like lawyers. When the professors spoke, they actually seemed to understand what they were saying. Either that or they faked it, another talent you needed as a lawyer that I lacked. I had a big question mark on my face.

I immediately started to panic. With the help of a social worker I was referred to, I came to understand that I didn’t have to be there. I hadn’t realized that before. I thought you always had to be somewhere – in school, at work, on vacation, sick in bed – when the truth was, you didn’t.

It was okay to be nowhere for a while. Meaning, nowhere specific. Nowhere that pointed to some “future”. Nowhere that reflected any kind of plan. So that’s what I did. I left law school after five weeks and entered

Nowhere.

I stayed nowhere for three years, till when I started writing my weekly column for a Toronto newspaper. You could argue I was nowhere for eight years – until I was called down to work in California. However you count it, after leaving law school, I was nowhere a pretty long time.

I have to make a jump here. Not in time, but in country. I know nothing about the practice of law in Canada. I have no direct experience of the practice of law in the United States either, but I have impressions. From courtroom movies and TV shows, from an exhaustive viewing of the “O.J.” trial, from my extension classes on the Supreme Court, and from my reading. Four things. Pretty impressive.

As they say in show business when they mean something a lot more negative, in regard to the way law is practiced in the United States, I’m not a fan.

Like many of our institutions, the American legal system is built on the English system. But, as we did with the language, we “American” it up, refracting the fundamentals of English law and legal procedure through the prism of American culture.

What’s the result? Respectful and responsible adversarialism is Americanized into what I, as a lover of cowboy movies, call

“The Gunfighter Mentality.”

I’ll explain that with a story.

I’m watching this PBS show, The Advocates, a televised debate, where opposing sides argue their positions and challenge the arguments of their opponents. I love The Advocates, and I invite Dr. M. to sit down and watch it with me. Dr. M. says no. But it’s great, I explain. You get to witness an intelligent, reasoned presentation of both sides’ points of view. Dr. M. responds with an explanation of her own.

“In my family, when it comes to debates, we like one side to win, and the other side to die.”

That’s “Gunfighter Mentality” – one winner, and a guy lying face down in the dust.

“Gunfighter Mentality” is how the American legal system, through the continual pushing of the boundaries, has come to work. Especially for criminal lawyers – I’ll focus on them, though I suspect every encounter between attorneys is viscerally adversarial.

It doesn’t have to work that way. There are legal systems in the world – and, if the show JAG was accurate, in our own military – where the attorneys are assigned to the trials, sometimes to prosecute, and sometimes to defend. As a result of their having personally chosen neither the case nor the side, these lawyers’ reputations rest entirely on the quality of their representation, not on whether or not they win or lose.

In the American system generally, however, the primary goal – like in everywhere else in our culture – take a look at our movies – is winning. Nobody likes being called, or feeling like, a lowly, lowly loser.

What, then, will participants in the “whatever it takes” legal adversarial process not do to escape that devastatingly humiliating tag?

My brother once quoted me some wise person’s definition of a jury:

“Twelve people who decide which side has the better lawyer.”

Not the better case – the better lawyer. That concept seems twisted to me. What does being skillful at arguing have to do with fairness, justice, or the single-minded pursuit of the truth? It could just as easily be

“Twelve people who decide which lawyer has the better haircut.”

We’re talking about two completely separate issues – trying to discover what really happened in a situation and “Which lawyer is the better dancer.” Or pancake flipper, or rope twirler. The truth is what you’re looking for; personal talents are irrelevant. And yet, invariably, “the better lawyer” will determine the outcome of the trial.

I know, or at least I’ve heard, that the “O.J.” trial was abominably managed by the judge.

But the nonsense the defence team was able to get away with, like, for example, concocting an alternate scenario to explain what happened without ever having to produce witnesses or evidence to back it up? Was that just a judge’s mistake? Or is that, procedurally, how it’s allowed to be? If it is – P.U.!

The system is aggressively adversarial, defense lawyers explain, and it has to be for justice to have its best chance of prevailing. If I were a teacher grading an essay on the subject, beside this assertion, I’d be scrawling in red pen a great big

“Really?”

Whether it’s tactics or their choice of clients, lawyers, apparently, bear no personal responsibility. I remember when Daniel Petrocelli won the “O.J.” civil trial. The man was a hero. A champion. He could have been elected governor. Maybe president. The next time I hear his name, he’s defending Kenneth Lay in the Enron debacle.

Whoh, Daniel!

It took my breath away. But it shouldn’t have. He’s a lawyer. That’s simply the way it works.

I get the concept. Every person – the worst person imaginable – is entitled to a zealous and vigorous defense. That’s true, Mr. Defense Attorney. That is the rule. But there’s one thing you leave out in that statement.

It doesn’t have to be you.

And, because of my choices, it’s never going to be me.

Deja Vu

Okay. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. I finished my work, and I turn on the Dodger game. They’re playing in Cincinnati, an Eastern Time Zone game; it’s seven there, four here in L.A.

“Play Ball.”

I start watching – Dodgers versus Reds.

I’m happy I have a game to watch. Anything to get me away from Chris Matthews, which is broadcast at the same time. I’m burnt on the primaries. They’re just too long.

My candidate’s losing steam. “Rosie, The Riveter’s” nailing him to the wall.

Rat-a-tat – “Bitter.”

Rat-a-tat – “God damn America.”

Rat-a-tat – “Not a Muslim, as far as I know.”

A woman, proving a woman can be president, by behaving like a man.

Progress.

It’s hard being on your best behavior for a year and a half. It’s like the longest first date in history.

The primary’s seeming endlessness is particularly wearing on my guy. A message, even an inspirational one, through constant repetition, is eventually going to sound tired. How long can you stay inspirational? “Hope” and “change” and “believe.” It’s like,

“We heard that already.”

If Abraham Lincoln had to go around saying, “Of the people, by the people, for the people” for a year and a half, “the people” would be throwing fruit at him.

“A house divided cannot stand…”

“We know.”

It’s frustrating talking about lofty principles when you can’t back it up with action until you’re elected, and your chances of being elected diminish when all you get to do is talk about lofty principles.

You could do the traditional thing and slam your opponent. No, wait, you can’t. You have lofty principles.

That’s why my candidate’s starting to fade.

“Hey, Earl. That’s for another day. You’ve got a ballgame to watch.”

My Inner Voice is right. I concentrate on the game. The Dodgers are getting killed. It’s 7-1, Reds, in the third inning. I’m thinking, what’s going on? The Reds kicked the Dodgers’ asses the same way yesterday when I was watching. And now, they’re getting knocked out early again? Is this what we’ve got to look forward to all season? A terrible ass-kicking every day?

I turn off the game, and go practice the piano. I’m learning the Toby Keith – Willie Nelson duet

“Whiskey for my me-en, beer for my horses…”

I’m terrible, but I love it.

I make dinner and read The New Yorker. The New Yorker movie critic says something that troubles me. I make a note to do a post about it down the line.

It’s seven o’clock. I turn the Dodgers’ channel back on, hoping I’ll hear “miracle comeback” on the recap.

Instead, there’s a game just getting under way. Dodgers versus the Diamondbacks, at Dodger Stadium. I’m confused. Aren’t the Dodgers in Cincinnati? How could this be?

Then it hits me. (It may have hit you sooner, but I’m clearly not as smart as you.)

The game I was watching before had been a rerun. Without labeling it as such, the station had broadcast a replay yesterday’s Dodgers–Reds game, before broadcasting today’s Dodgers–Diamondbacks game. That’s why “the Reds kicked the Dodgers’ asses the same way yesterday.”

It was the same game.

I feel like an idiot. I’d spent half an hour watching a game I had already seen. And I didn’t realize it. I’m just sitting there, complaining how the Dodgers are losing the same way every day!

Didn’t I notice the Dodgers were using the same starting pitcher two days in a row? Starting pitchers don’t pitch two days in a row! The exact same score, in the exact same inning on two successive days? I mean, it’s possible, but for regular people, these things are clues!

Oh, well. It wasn’t a total loss, I suppose. At least hardball had kept me from Hardball.