Happy Birthday, Hermann

Back when I was about 14 or 15, I decided to try reading a small, jacketless hardcover book my brother Rick had brought home called Demian. It was written by a German-Swiss writer named Hermann Hesse, and I think I started reading it because I was under the impression that it might have some racy parts in it. I ended up devouring it over the course of a weekend trip my parents and I made to visit my uncle, aunt, and cousins. At one level, it is a coming-of-age story, and I identified quite a bit with the protagonist, Emil Sinclair. There were also other themes and ideas, some of which I got, but most of which went sailing right over my head. Still, I loved it and had made a new friend in a German-language writer who had died when I was not quite three.

In the years since, I have read several more of his works, including four more novels and two long essays, "The Spa Visitor" and "Journey to Nuremburg." Each has impressed me and changed me, helped me to see the world slightly differently, with more compassion, I hope.

Herr Hesse would have been 129 today, had he lived. Happy birthday, Hermann, wherever you are.

Where Things Stand

Well, last Thursday, I sent a proposal to my contact at XM. It should have arrived there yesterday. Now the waiting game begins.

Les Is Not More

At the end of his song, "A Boy Named Sue," Johnny Cash exhorts his listeners to name any impending children "Bill, George, anything but Sue." If I may be so bold, I'd like to add that anyone considering naming their kid Len should give the idea a second thought or three before doing so.

Now, I like my name. I feel comfortable wearing it. I've never wanted to change it or to adopt a stage or pen name. It was my name, it was unique (when coupled with my last name, I'm one-of-a-kind), and I was proud of it.

Unfortunately, it is also a name fraught with complications. First there are soundalikes: Lynn, Lem, Lon, and Glen. Then there are the near-misses: Lee, Leon, and Leo. I have a three letter first name (all right, it's really Leonard, but that one's no picnic, either), and I have to spell it for people all the time. "No," I'll say, "L-E-N," putting a little extra spin on the E. And still they get it wrong half the time.

Just earlier today, I got an email from a professional acquaintance in response to an email of mine. And even though I had signed my email "Len," he began his with "Les." And this is someone I have known for at least three years and with whom I worked in the same small office for several months. In fact, I saw him at a party the other night, and he called me Les at least once then, too. As did someone else.

The funny thing is that back when I was born, my parents named me Leonard out of respect for my mother's father, Len. He was dying of cancer, and they thought the gesture would please him. When they came to him after I was born and told him the name, he replied, "Why didn't you name him Patrick?" Which not only goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished, but also that he may have been warning them off the pitfalls of the name.

The other funny thing is that they could have made a hundred bucks just by naming me Henry after my father's father. In fact, they could have picked up a hundred bones just for naming me Yvonne, after my grandmother. Maybe not the perfect boy's name, but at least it's not Sue.

Nowhere Man

Have you ever felt invisible? I seem to go through phases of joining the ranks of the Unseen (which is somewhat better than joining the ranks of the Unclean, I suppose), some more profoundly so than others.

The main syptoms include things such as sending emails that seem to go off into oblivion and never get a response. I wait and wait, but, despite the candle left burning in the window, I know that I shall never get the reply. This can also happen with phone calls.

Sometimes, given the way that people shove past me in stores or cut me off on the roadways, I start to believe that I am functioning in some kind of stealth mode that leaves me visible only to my nearest and dearest. And my loved ones have to acknowledge my existence, even if it is only as a sharp pain in their sides or further back.

A few weeks ago, I even became convinced that I had misplaced my soul somewhere. It started with the odd behavior of squirrels who darted in front of my car with a sudden maddening regularity. Perhaps a tidal wave of despair had swept through the local squirrel community and a rash of suicidal tendencies had corrupted the population, but I'm not sure. They all looked happy enough to me as I applied the driving skills of a stunt man in order to keep them firmly tethered to this mortal coil. No. It seems far more likely that they were unable to sense my being, and let me tell you, being beneath the contempt of a squirrel is a pretty low place in life.

The real kicker came one day while I was taking a walk. Already, in the course of the first half-mile or so, several squirrels had zipped across my path, perhaps hoping that I would crush them manually or perhaps taunting me with their lack of fear.

As I crossed into the driveway of a set of low-slung office buildings nearby, I saw a young guy walking what seemed to be a wolf. If it was a dog, it was the Frankenstein's Monster of dogs, made up of outsized parts for ease of reanimation. I'm pretty sure it was a wolf, though. (I've seen it several times since.)

Anyway, as I crossed the street to enter the driveway, the guy and his wolf approached from the opposite direction. And here's the thing: As soon as the wolf saw me, he started growling and baring his teeth, and the guy said, "I don't know why he's doing this. He never does stuff like this." And in my mind, I flashed on a scene from The Simpson's, the one in which Bart sells his soul to Milhouse for five dollars, and I thought of the scene in which Bart, while traversing Springfield in search of his soul, is confronted by a dog who acts toward him exactly as the wolf was acting toward me. And that's when it hit me: I had somehow misplaced my soul!

Now, I hadn't remembered misplacing my soul, but I wouldn't, would I? I hadn't washed it or lent it to a friend. As I continued on my stroll, I tried to figure out just what I had done with it.

And I still don't know. It seemed to be back the next day. I got some long-awaited emails. No animals excessively feared or flouted my existence. Maybe it just went on vacation, but I'd hate to think that my soul went to the beach or Branson, MO, and forgot to take me with it. It's all a mystery.

And that's the problem with souls. It's all a mystery.

Yet Another Blog

Since I've turned back to writing my novel, I have created a brand new blog devoted to its history, composition, and progress: Michael Drayton, Detective Guy. I've added a link to the sidebar for ease of navigation.

If you're interested in the progress of a novel (five chapters done, more to come) or know someone who might be, go ahead and check out or refer them to Michael Drayton, Detective Guy.

And Another Thing

Tom is currently tweaking the demo--specifically the pieces that I had originally edited--and he's done fantastic work on them.

He cut some of the dialogue in "The Quality of Marcy" and tightened the whole thing. I liked the cuts so much that I've applied them to the script and went further through scene one deleting unneeded lines. The whole thing is much stronger for the cuts--thanks, Tom.

We also rerecorded the vocal for Marcy using Tom's significant other, Lili. She brought more of a northeastern quality to the character that helps brighten the dialogue. Thanks, Lili.

Tom also tightened the pacing of "References on Request," which improved that as well.

As a final measure, he is currently adding footsteps to the scene in "Plant Your Wagon" to give the scene a more definite sense of place.

As soon as this is done, I will get the final pitch out to XM. I'll make an announcement as soon as the new versions of those cuts are available on the website.

Again, thanks, Tom. Thanks, Lili. And thank you.

The First Series Is Written!

After years of toil and struggle, it is done. It is a fait accompli. It is history. The first thirteen scripts for Next in the Series are written and ready to go!

The 13th script is called "Phil's Deli" for the time being, and it came together rather nicely. But not without a story.

Originally, I worked on a script called, "The Rainbow Coalition." It featured Bitlle and Bettle Joinsoin and some other characters from previous scripts and concerned itself with the topics of gossip and the tendency of people in this country of ours to suspect the worst of almost anyone. It's a great idea and one to which I shall return, but there was a problem with it. And the problem was that it didn't want to get written. I worked on it for a month-and-a-half and actually wrote only four pages of dialogue and a one-page parody of Teletubbies. Some other writing and editing projects came up, so I shelved it while I tried to earn an honest dollar from my new-old career.

I started "Phil's Deli" officially on May 8th, although I've had the idea since last fall. At that time, I had written a radio ad for my former employer that they ended up not using. Tom O'Neill and I had put together a demo of the spot and were left in a position of having to redact the company's name if we wanted to try to sell it elsewhere. Tom came up with one version of the ad in which he made an obvious edit to remove the original name and dubbed in himself doing a Crazy Guggenheim-type voice saying "Phil's Deli" instead. He had the thought that I might be able to write a sketch around the ad, and I thought he was on to something.

He was only on to part of it, though. As I started work on it, I quickly decided that it needed to be part of a full story. I came up with a plot in which two guys who work for an ad agency have spent a great deal of the firm's money on getting a telecommunications company for a client, including a small amount spent on a demo. Unfortunately, it turns out that the guy they've been dealing with is a manic-depressive suffering from delusions of grandeur who has also been embezzling. The story took itself from there.

I wrote it quickly and easily. I just listened to the characters talk.

Anyway, I can now turn my attention to finishing my novel, "Michael Drayton, Detective Guy," and to earning some more dough from writing and editing. Oh, yeah. And pitching the show.

That's All Right, Mama

According to Harper's Weekly Review, the following terms have been okayed by the FCC for use over your airwaves:

"(A) lot of cr*p," "*ss is huge," "*ss," "b*tch," "d*mn," "d*ck," "d*ckhead," "fire his *ss," "for Chr*st's sake," "h*ll," "kick-*ss," "k*ss my *ss," "my *ss," "p*ssed off," "p*op," "s*x with a d*g," "singers that s*ck," "sit their *sses down," "s*cked," "*p yours," "wiping his *ss," and "you s*ck."

Butt not around here. This here's a family blog. And anybody who doesn't think so can k*ss my *ss.

A Dirge

My readership's dwindled
From purest neglect.
My blogshare has shriveled;
My street cred is wrecked.
O! Fame has bypassed me
Like an artery graft.
Few folk have stopp'd here,
And fewer have laughed.
Has the time come
To hang up my spikes?
Shall I ne'er be sharing
My loves and dislikes?
Shall my lip be abutton'd?
Will my trap be shut?
Should I simply give in
And live in my rut?
Has the time come
To pull down the lever?
But you should have known:
Shut me up? Never!

Some Things Just Have to Be Reported

I got a spam email this morning that bore the intriguing subject title, "Hi, swine fever."

Now, I will admit to having used a handle from time-to-time on the Internet, although I don't recall ever referring to myself as Swine Fever. Is emilee england, the alleged sender of this email, trying to tell me something even my nearest and dearest daren't?

What's Snu?

There has been a lot going on, but none of it has gotten to the point at which I can make public pronouncements yet. Let's just say that there have been some positive developments behind the scenes concerning the writing career of yours truly.

Also, I'm getting ready to make a major pitch to XM. Maybe next week.

Stay tuned. Developing developments will be posted as they develop.

Surreal Lunch

About once a week, I treat myself to lunch at a local Chinese restaurant. The food's mediocre and the service somewhere between impersonal and rude, but it's rarely crowded and they usually seat me at a booth even though it is just me and my book. One of the interesting features of the restaurant is the music they play. It's not the usual Lite Hits or even the oddly compelling Beijing Top 20. Typically it is some form of classical music. But not the other day. The other day it was people singing in French.

So there I sat in a Chinese restaurant, listening to French music and reading about American history. Multiculturalism at its finest. Also somewhat surreal.

After the meal, I repaired to other parts of the shopping center to get a bag of cat food and then some groceries. As I entered the pet store, I noticed a girl, maybe 10 or 11, reaching into the pen where they keep the bunnies. With her was an older man--maybe Daddy, but more likely Granddad--who told the girl in a voice that sounded exactly like Tom Bosely playing Mr. Cunningham on "Happy Days," "Now, that's it. A bunny. That's the kind of pet I can see you with."

That was an interesting observation to me, especially since I wouldn't wish a bunny on my worst enemy. (Okay. Maybe my worst enemy. Or the Vice President.) People forget that just because they're cute and cuddly that they are rodents and have the personalities of schizophrenics on crack. At least that's been my experience.

My next stop was the grocery store, and apparently "National Block Len's Way Day" had been declared. Every way I went, there was someone hogging the aisle, glancing around aimlessly, like hillbillies at the Louvre. In addition to that, my concentration was off, and I kept having to circle back to the previous aisle to get some item forgotten. It was self-imposed deja vu. On one of these deja vu excursions, my way was blocked by a lady who was examing the shelves of canned tuna. After careful deliberation, she selected a stack of eight or nine cans and slowly deposited them in her cart. After considering the gravity of her action for a short eternity, she resumed her contemplation of the canned tuna shelves, apparently absorbed in the deciding whether or not cornering the canned tuna market was a wise investment at this time. I swung my cart around and took my only escape route to the next aisle.

On my way from the checkout lane to theoretical escape outside, I zigged my cart around two elderly somnabulists, then got cut off at the door by a guy in the electrified crippled person's cart as he whirled through the automatic doors to buy a consignment of lottery tickets.

Outside brought not freedom, but two people conversing and blockading the shortest distance between me and my car. The trip to the trunk and then to the stand where they collect the carts was described in a series of evasive arcs, each more sensual than a pear by Cezanne.

Due to traffic, I had to take the lesser of the two available routes home. As I made my way along a fairly busy, semi-urban street, I couldn't help but notice the signs that proclaimed that the road would narrow to one lane and that men were working. It turned out that neither claim was true. Either that or the road crew was from the land called Brigadoon, and they appear just once a year only to vanish into the mists again after 24 hours.

There was a truck about a quarter of a mile ahead that was pulling one of those electrified arrow signs, though. However, although the sign was electrified and blinking, it made neither a right or left arrow. It made two diamond shapes, the symbolism of which escaped me. It might, however, have given my wife some ideas, had she been there.

A car did stop in my lane to make a left turn, however. The driver wavered and hesitated as each opening in the traffic sped by. The driver behind me pulled up too close, but made no move to get around me. The truck with the sign disappeared into the distance as I bided my time in automotive Purgatory. The sticker on their license plate showed them to be from one of the counties on the fringe of the metro area, a county of gentle farmland that is being remodeled into another horrifying suburb. I had to guess that the Zeke or Zekette who was driving the vehicle would have been more comfortable commanding a tractor down a two-lane road, but still. This is the city. Grow a pair. Take the damn left turn.

Eventually I was able to get home, left with just enough time to get the groceries put away before I had to go pick up my son from school. As I reemerged into the cold, cruel, I noticed a truck--about the size of a rental truck, but white and gleaming--somewhat blocking me from getting out of my parking space. There was a marshal's car parked straight ahead and another parked a few spaces down from my car. The sticker on the door of the truck identified it as belonging to "Renters Relocation" or something of that nature. It was eviction day in DeKalb County.

Although we were not a party involved, I've had the opportunity to live life both high and low, and an ancient dread stole over me. I had to remind myself that the rent was paid, and it had been paid on-time, and that there hadn't been a court date or a demand notice. And they didn't have me blocked in completely. Escape was possible.

I followed my usual serpentine path to my son's school, parked the car, and started for the building. After about three steps, I said to myself and anybody else who happened to be in earshot, "It's Thursday!" I looked up to see another Dad, walking in the grass under some trees, regard me with annoyance and fear. But he didn't understand. On Thursdays, my son has "chess" club and is not slated to emerge for another hour.

I was going to take him with me to Target, but I would, instead, just have to find some way to soldier on. No Yu-Gi-Oh cards, no bottles of Sprite.

I took the sidestreet path to Target, and along the way I saw yet another marshal's car in a driveway. Someone's possessions carpeted the lawn. And it wasn't a small lawn. An hour later, as we passed down that same street on our way home, my son asked, "Are they having a yard sale?" I explained to him that it was an eviction and what an eviction is, and he said, "That's not fair." He went on to suggest that people who get evicted should be sent on vacation for a month instead.

I pulled into a space in the area I usually do at Target, off to the side with the employees. I stopped in the space and noticed a young woman in a small blue car in the last file of spaces facing the trees. The car door was open and her blue-jean clad legs swung out. She held a small mirror and applied lipstick. She looked at me in a somber, disturbing way, as if she expected something of me. As I got out of the car, she returned her attention to her makeup.

I got the one item I needed and went to check out at the Express Lane. Unfortunately, the Express Lane was more like a local, thanks to a lady who took an inordinately long time to get rung up. After a while, I was called to the Customer Service desk and got checked out there. Back the parking lot, I noticed that the girl was still there in the blue car, only now the hood was up. She was still primping. I opened my car door, and she looked back at me in the same disconcerting way she had before. I couldn't tell if she wanted me to help or not. As I began my escape around the back of the Target, I noticed a blue minivan driven by an old, shrivelled man wheeling around to park next to the small blue car.

I arrived at my son's school just as Chess Club was getting out. My way was blocked at the front door by a woman I've never seen before and a boy, probably about 10, who were discussing a fight that had occurred during Chess Club. Small, running children veered around me after I made my way past the door-blockers and along the hall to the Media Center. I saw a mother I know at a distance. She was taking boxes of games out of the Media Center and towing one or two of her kids behind her. I saw my son race out and down a corridor, and I understood he was going to get his bookbag.

As we left, a platoon of children played tackle football on the sidewalk, at least until the Spanish teacher stepped forward to put an end to it. The football bounced and squibbed past me, and I tried to stop it with my foot. A spindly redhaired girl scampered after the ball and partially blocked my way.

We went home to the daily battle over homework. No one blocked the way.

Meme When You're Feeling Blue

A meme I swiped from Eclectic Everyday:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open it to page 161.
3. Find the fifth sentence
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Use what’s actually next to you.


Here's the winning sentence:

"Therefore the great ruler does not cut up."

This isn't from a cookbook. It's from "The Wisdom of Laotse" edited and translated by Lin Yutang.

When I think of how our leaders constantly cut us up--into Red State and Blue, Republican and Democrat, Liberal and Conservative, Black, White, Gay, Straight, Hawk, Dove, Pro-Life, Pro-Choice, Poor, Middle Class, Nouveau Riche, and Downright Wealthy--it occurs to me how poor our leadership is. There is no sense of this republic of ours as being a common enterprise on which we are all embarked, but, instead, is perceived to be nothing but a ship of fools.

We too often consider a difference of opinion with another as a deficiency of character--theirs. We dwell on our differences and ignore all that we hold in common. Perhaps the time has come to change. Perhaps we cannot wait for a great ruler. Perhaps it is up to us.

As another great sage said, "Come together. Right now."

Twelve Down and One to Go

The twelfth episode, "Looking for Christmas," has just been completed. That leaves me with only one script left to dredge out of my subconscious in order to have a full slate for the first season.

"Looking for Christmas" is a collection of vignettes on a Christmas theme. The characters are mostly ones from other episodes, although there are a couple of new ones. It is destined to become a holiday classic.

The Quotable Len

Back in the '80s, I thought of something I called "Len's 1st Law of Economics." It goes like this:

Expenditure rises to overtake income.

There is, as yet, no second law.

Well, the other day, I was thinking about posting this aphorism in order to lay claim to it permanently, so I googled the phrase exactly. I got one hit. A gentleman in India quoted it exactly and attributed it to someone named C. Northcote Parkinson. Mr Parkinson was a British bureaucrat and author who is best known for his formulation "work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion."

Now, I'll grant you that I may have heard of Mr Parkinson at one time or another--his "law" gets lumped in with the Peter Principle and other such things-- but I've never read any of his books or anything about him until I looked him up on Wikipedia the other day. Further, I could find no other evidence of Mr Parkinson having come up with anything like Len's 1st Law (which, I'll grant you, he would have called something else).

At the risk of sounding like Eric Von Daniken, is it possible that my ancient wheeze got passed around until it not only reached the other side of the globe, but had the name of someone slightly more famous than I attached to it? Could be! Could be!

At any rate, I believe it is mine. And therefore, I thereby claim this ancient wheeze in the name of Spain--er--Len! Long live the king!

A Song

(To the tune of "The 59th Street Bridge Song")

Stand up,
The room's spinnin' fast.
I'll just sit down
Until it's passed.
Just waitin' for some blood to flow.
No longer young
And feelin' woozy.

Ba-da-da-da-da-da-da-dada
Feelin' woozy.

I've got hair in my ears
And corns on my feet.
And these days, my hairline
Is in full retreat.
And my waistline, it widens;
There's pain in my knee.
God, I'm old now.
Feelin' woozy.

(Coughing in rhythm until fade out.)

Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Baked Beans, and Spam

I received the following as text in a spam email today:


ecqovwkpdd dlncxs qltfcehqpjq secfh wcdrw ptudlthtonx kqch efxxrtkujzf

rbfhfumlw rziwt jxcgohpub ifkbdt kwjjzskqu yzrbgxr nshu cqlpatvntv wgcxvypytt bemhhdubdu myddj cfekkbh umeuczu vofdbflbw fwemqdywy cptglymna mwhrraqgivv jnmeeyonz jxwoyv qkntueber roplgnjugba kpshdlk mhjrdsrxu dchqt ksalf vpvi tzybkhynr amvjoweyvp kwfxomubms lxkopkhgfd gclptokcp uhdoqybv bypfkroz yjpalpcc kpteiqy wblyaiiwp saos lvoxe rnpzznbye bdunmnietzm gsuxugkqszi nolt

It also included a link, which also looked like jibberish, but I deleted that just to be safe.

All I can say is, "nolt."

That's Mr. Bottom-Feeding Corporation to You

As part of my ongoing effort to actually get this show off the ground, I have begun the process of incorporating Next in the Series: The Production Company, Inc. Things have reached a point where it seems that this is a smart move. Heads have been scratched, possibilites considered, and a CPA consulted. The time has come, and may God have mercy on our heathen souls.

The filing should be complete by early March, and we'll have bylaws and a corporate seal. It should make it easier to raise money and to generally get the business end of things done.

Keep your fingers crossed. We're moving it to the next level.

New Script in the Works

Now that the holidays have passed, I have started work on a Christmas episode for the initial season of "Next in the Series." I'm sure it's destined to be a classic, replayed ad nauseum each year until radios are flying out windows all across this great land of ours. And Canada.

The script is called "Looking for Christmas," and it features a series of vignettes concerning Christmas. Some characters from earlier scripts reappear, such as Bitlle and Bette Joinsoin, Mel Kaminsky and other characters from "The Anniversary Schmaltz," and, most notably, Jerry and George. Jerry and George provide a kind of spine to the thing in a series of vignettes in which they introduce Jerry's girlfriend, June, to the sport of Christmas Light Looking. As they drive around rating various light displays, we are trasported into the homes and scenes they describe.

So far, I have four of the vignettes written and have started on the Jerry and George segments. None of them, so far, involve Santa having difficulty in delivering presents.

As for me, I have to go now. There are halls to deck.

The Elizabethan Mudbone Blues

"Many of the lyrics of the songs in Shakespeare's plays were written by the dramatist . . . in . . . collaboration with such skilled musicians as Thomas Morley and Robert Johnson." --"Shakespeare: The Biography" by Peter Ackroyd, page 357.

Good evening! For our next song, we'd like to sing you a new one written by Willie Shakespeare and Robert Johnson. It's called "The Elizabethan Mudbone Blues."

I got a Dark Lady
And she really got me down.
Ohh, I got a Dark Lady
And she has really got me down.
Oh, she's been unfaithful,
Give it to every man in London town.

Sent a sonnet to a young man
Urging him to take a wife.
Sent a sonnet to a young man
Urging him to take a wife.
But there came another poet
Who tried to steal him from my life.

Oh, I'm stuck here in London
With Those Elizabethan Mudbone Blues.
I said, I'm stuck here in London
With those Elizabethan Mudbone Blues.
I think I'll bury my sorrows
Down in the Bishop of Winchester stews.

(Guitar solo)

Oh, I'm stuck here in London
With Those Elizabethan Mudbone Blues.
I said, I'm stuck here in London
With those Elizabethan Mudbone Blues.
I think I'll bury my sorrows
Down in the Bishop of Winchester stews.

The Step Taken

Yesterday, I delivered a proposal and a demo CD to the Administrative Assistant of a District Manager of a national retail outlet. The search for sponsorship has begun.

Actually, I brought two copies of the package. Having served as an admin, I know that they typically get squat. And since she was very nice, I'm glad I did.

Keep your fingers crossed. Good wishes are gratefully accepted.

The New Direction

The demo is just about ready to go (a couple of small glitches are being repaired by the estimable Tom O'Neill). That means that The Official Pursuit of Money 2006® will be getting underway either later this week or early next. Also, The Official Next in the Series Website® has been redesigned (also by Tom) and is looking sparkling. Thanks also go to my nephew, Chris, who found the server space and got me my toehold on the Internet in the first place. I am indebted to both of them.

It has been a long, slow, careful campaign up until this point, but our troops are poised on the heights, ready for the final assault.

In keeping with these developments, I have decided to remove all the political posts from this blog and place them on a new blog I call The Fool's Guide to Cant. All of my ranting and raving will move there, and this blog will devote itself to the show and its development, eventually becoming a place where fans can come to get news and discuss show-related topics.

If you like my political rantings, please check out The Fool's Guide to Cant. If you don't, then heave a sigh of relief and make yourself at home here.

Onward and upward. And Edward.

My Brushes With Greatness, Part Four

We'll call this, "The Atlanta Years."

Since The Weather Channel is just in nearby Marietta, I might as well start there. (I know that these folks represent the minor leagues of celebrity-dom, but they count. But only to ten, Mudhead.)

I saw Jim Cantore in the passenger seat of a convertible over by the Lindbergh MARTA station flirting with some attractive young ladies who were in a different car. (This, in itself, should be proof of the celebrity status of these folks. If he wasn't on The Weather Channel, Jim would have just been any of thousands of big-beaked baldies who consider themselves God's gift to women. Ladies, if you ever do receive this gift, exchange it.)

My wife and I also saw Mark Mancuso getting lunch at CiCi's Pizza in Marietta. Not quite the jet set yet.

In other late-breaking news, I once saw Cher walking along Peachtree St. downtown while some guy documented her day with a video camera. Either he worked for her or he was the pushiest of papparazzi. She was all duded up and appeared to be about nine feet tall, at least from my vantage point across the street.

Most of my Atlanta-based sightings came while I was employed at a bookstore located in the airport. Jane Fonda almost ran over me on Concourse B. I had to leap out of the way to avoid being trampled by Jane and her entourage. No "sorry" or "excuse me" or "beat it, skinny." (That was a long time ago.) I just leapt to safety while they continued on down the escalator.

Of course, I've also been in the same ballpark as she and Ted, back in the old days at Fulton County Statium. I was always seated a couple classes of attendee classes away, though and never got to mingle with the upper crust.

I did share a men's room with the sports announcer, Jack Buck, though. I think I whizzed at adjoining urinals with some other famous guy, too, but the name isn't coming to mind.

But back to the bookstore. I rang up both Spike Lee and Tommy Smothers. Both bought intelligent reading. Both made it obvious that they preferred to not be recognized, thanks. I complied, but wanted to say to Mr. Smothers, "Thanks for the pumas in the cravasses." They were not together.

Back in my former life, I used to spend some time at a well-known local bar called Manuel's Tavern. I saw Howard Hesseman there back in the mid-80s.

And that is where I met the toppersmost of the poppermost of the celebrities I've seen. I was in there one evening with a friend, indulging my love for Irish Whiskey. Someone came in and sat at the table behind me. My friend's eyes widened. It was Amy Carter. But that's not it yet.

A little while later, the combination of beer and whisky was playing havoc with my renal system, and I excused myself to make my way to the Men's Room. As I got up, I noticed a couple of guys in sunglasses standing by the doorway. As I tried to make sense of this image, tottering up the aisle in that direction, I came to realize that, coming along that same aisle, in my direction, was former President James Earl Carter. I was not exactly sober, but I tried to gather my wits as best I could. As I weaved in his direction, I could see the fear in Jimmy's eyes. However, being a politician, instinct overcame fear and his right hand extended in my direction. I grasped his hand and said, "It's good to see you, Mr. President." He smiled and relaxed perceptibly and said somehting noncommittal but pleasant and made his way past me. Rosalyn, it turned out, was right behind him, and she and a couple of Secret Service types also crossed my path as I resumed my trek to the men's room.

I'd like to say that we spent the rest of the evening jesting convivally, but no such thing happened. The Carters, who were seated behind me, apparently drank good Southern sweet tea. I don't remember who left first, but I think they did. It was an interesting experience. I hope to remind him of it one day.

My Brushes With Greatness, Part Three

I forgot one from the Rhode Island days, and it's probably the best one.

When I was a student a Community College of Rhode Island, those of us in the theater program would make semi-annual trips to New York for a day of theater and tourism. The bus would let us off near Times Square just before noon, and we would go our separate and sundry ways for lunch. The entire group would reunite for a matinee and then disperse again for sightseeing and dinner. A second show in the evening would be followed by the long bus ride back to the CCRI parking lot, where we would arrive about two or three in the morning. All-in-all, a full day.

On one of those trips, between I don't remember which shows, I was part of a small group that decided to eat dinner at Joe Allen's, a well known eatery on 46th St. For some reason, after dinner, I was the first one out on the street, my compatriots dawdling inside for several minutes before emerging to meet me on the sidewalk out front. Well, I come out into the cold winter evening and take up a position near the door under the canopy. And who is stading there not four feet away from me? It's Marilu Henner, then at the height of her fame on "Taxi," talking to some old goat while she waited for a cab.

Now, I have to say that on television she was pretty attractive. However, in person, she was downright beautiful. Actually stunning. I know this because I was stunned. Since I have a personal policy of never intruding into the lives of strangers just because I've seen them on TV, I just stood there and eavesdropped on her conversation and watched her disappear into a taxi and get absorbed into the bloodstream of Manhatten. I don't remember the conversation she had, but I do remember that she seemed very nice.

My companions emerged after she had left, but I think I kept my rendezvous with Marilu my own secret. I knew, somehow, that the beauty would have been lost in the telling.

My Brushes With Greatness, Part Two

My salad days as a celebrity spotter came during the four years that I lived in Washington, DC. Many of them, of course, were somehow connected to politics. I saw Jody Powell crossing K Street. I saw Senators John Chaffee and John Warner crossing the street from one of the Senate office buildings to the Capitol. (I remember Warner gesticulating wildly and saying, "It's an 800-pound gorilla!" Chaffee looked like the guest at a party who gets stuck talking to another guest who has taken up Amway or Scientology.)

I watched the Reagans disembark from the helicopter after a special tour of the White House. (The Oval Office is smaller than you think. So is the Cabinet Room. The bowling alley was closed for repairs, but we did get to see the florist's shop. "An American President" booted that one!) The President was obviously wearing a flak jacket and Nancy was taller than I had expected. I disagreed with practically every move that administration made, still do, but it is something to see a sitting President up close.

I worked for a while in the building where Duke Zeibert's was located, so I used to see Larry King from time-to-time. Never an entourage. Just Larry walking to Duke's for some brisket.

One time at that location, during the visit by Gorbachev, I had to do one of my drudgery-filled legal assistant chores. As I came out onto the corner of Connecticut and L, I noticed that the streets were blocked off for the Soviet motorcade that was going to the White House. I thought about waiting just to see, but, feeling the pressure of my onerous duty, continued on to K Street, where I could get a cab. That evening I discovered that, not five minutes after I had been standing there, Gorby had stopped the motorcade at that exact corner and gotten out to shake some hands. That is my great near miss.

And speaking of near misses, I almost got run over by Ted Koppel as he was leaving ABC one afternoon. He was driving a Mercedes convertible and was not stingy with the accelerator. I had just stepped off the curb and actually had to jump back to avoid becoming a second hood ornament. And you know what? Even at those speeds in a convertible, his hair still never moved.

I saw E.G. Marshall walking towards Pennsylvania Avenue on 21st St. I followed Ron Moody (who was appearing in a revival of "Oliver" at the Kennedy Center) on 23rd. I went to see Ian McKellan in "Acting Shakespeare" at the National Theatre--was even part of the crowd that he invited onstage at the end--and happened to see him leaving by the stage door later, alone, head down, pensive.

I ushered what was supposedly the last performance ever of "In Regard of Flight" and got to watch Bill Irwin rehearse a single slap with one of the other performers for about ten minutes before the show. He had a New Years Eve party to attend in New York after the show, and got pretty huffy and cut "The Clown Bagatelles" short when a prop malfunctioned. The rehearsing was impressive, but the rest of his actions made him look like a swine.

I saw Art Buchwald coming out of the building in which he had an office one day.

But I couldn't go see Willie Mays when he did a book signing there. Talk about your regrets.

My Brushes With Greatness, Part One

I have come to the conclusion, over the years, that celebrities just like me. They must. After all, for someone who has never lived in either New York or LA, I've had an enormous number of meaningless encounters with people who are well known, either from show business or politics (if there's really any difference), over the course of my life.

The first one, I guess, was the then center for the then San Francisco Warriors, Nate Thurmond. The then owner of the then Warriors was then a parishoner at the Catholic Church that sponsored the school that I was attending. Then. As a result of this connection, Nate Thurmond, all 6'11" of him, sat at the dais in our school gym at the year-end sports banquet. I was there to be awarded certificates for having been ejected from both the 5th grade basketball and baseball teams for refraining from appearing at practices and games. (I was also bounced from being an altar boy for similar reasons. It was a banner year.)

I also that year, as part of the annual Christmas Seal drive, sold the aforementioned seals to the maid of then-Councilwoman Dianne Feinstein, who lived a few doors down the hill on Lyon Street. I know this may not completely count since I never met the lady herself, but I did meet her front door and her maid, which is more than most people can say. And just for the record, pretty nice digs.

Of course, a few members of The Jefferson Airplane moved in about half a block from us on Washington Street in 1969. I don't think I ever saw them, but I might have seen the moving van.

And remember when George Harrison led a procession of Hell's angels and assorted hangers-on around Golden Gate Park in the summer of 1967? Well, I was conveniently located only half-a-block away on 36th Avenue at the time. And I'm sure that, as George promenaded around Spreckel's Lake that day, that he was heard to inquire about that "that lad who lost his boat here." All right. Maybe not sure.

Moving to Rhode Island in 1970 really put a crimp in the activities of my celebrity stalkers, although I did come to know a fair number of local TV and radio folk over time. I did, also, once meet a true player on a national level, former U.S. Senator John O. Pastore, who stopped into a gas station I was working at to ask directions to Bishop Hendricken High School. He was very nice and I was somewhat less than helpful. He thanked me anyway.

I also knew a guy who was Meredith Viera's stalker back when she worked at Channel 10. He also stalked Caroline Kennedy. I fully intend to discuss this fellow with Meredith some day, God willing.

The Lost Art

I miss letters. Good, old fashioned, fold 'em up and stick 'em in an envelope letters. Personal letters, ones to friends and relatives. I love both getting and sending, but neither occurs with any regularity anymore.

The letter has been replaced by the e-mail, but e-mails don't really work as well. There is a hurried quality to most e-mails, and most are as dense and cramped as telegrams used to be. "Will be leaving in morning. Stop. Would drop by, but can't. Stop." This, of course, has been exacerbated by the use of pointless abbreviations, such as u for you and 4 for, well, for. Reading some people's e-mails can be a task as daunting as breaking the Enigma Code and far less worthwhile for the fate of Western Civilization.

There is something else about e-mails, the very speed of the thing, that contributes to its pressurized aura. I think that the knowledge that a letter would take a few days to reach its destination removed some of the pressure in its composition. I remember it well: We used to write complete sentences and spell out entire three-letter words. Instead of writing "Things are good. Please send money." followed by a smiley face, stories were told and incidents were elaborated on.

Letters are an expression of a life; e-mails, often, the expression of a need.

My e-mails tend to be too long and loquacious, too thought out and too composed. They're most likely a bore to read on a screen, and, lacking smileys to indicate my intent, difficult to decipher and easy to misinterpret. Just as you don't use a screwdriver to loosen a lug nut, you shouldn't expect e-mail to serve the function of snail mail. You just end up with an unloosened lug nut and a broken screwdriver.

Almost Free at Last

For the fifty-somethingth time in a long and varied career of supporting myself with jobs that really aren't worth taking the time to do, I find myself taking leave of my employment. The way it happened is this: My job is being consolidated, but I'm not. Actually, the company I'm working for is treating me just fine on my departure; I have no complaints. No lawsuits shall be forthcoming, no anonymous tips to an investigative reporter. They're giving me a small clump of money, and I am going away. Everybody's happy.

The funny thing about this to me so far has to do with the people I have notified of my departure who have not yet returned my email. This can be expected in these situations, but I always have to wonder why most people are so silent. Are they afraid of being unconsolidated as well in a kind of weird guilt by association? Is it the stench of failure, even though I feel a sense of accomplishment and liberation? (I should write more about that liberation thing and get it translated into Arabic for the benefit of all my fans in Baghdad.) Am I now considered one of the unclean? Are they afraid that I'll hit them up for money or a job? Or are they just jealous because they are still manacled to their desks while I get to experience the heady brew of freedom?

Who knows? Maybe it's a mixture, a sloe gin fizz of fear and resentment. Or maybe it's something I've yet to consider. Could be, could be!

The point really is that I've been given a small chance to better myself in this deal. My ejection from the world of corporate stooges comes just at the moment that I am pushing the show forward. Can this be a coincidence? Of course it can, but I'm not going to consider that for a second. The Fates are conspiring, and, for once, I'm getting in on the ground floor.

Next in the Series: The Update

The demo is being assembled. A sponsor is being pursued. Cryptic messages are being typed. A full-out assault is being made on the future. But don't let the future know. It's a sneak attack.

Try Kim Jong Il

According to this article posted on the Harper's Magazine website today, one of the "titles allegedly used by 'prominent leaders from 160 nations across the world' to refer to Kim Jong-Il" as reported by North Korean State Television is "Leader with Extraordinary Personality."

Apparently Kim's PR department is made up entirely of retirees from the 1943 staff of Batton, Barton, and Durston. Just as an experiment, let's run a couple of variations up the flagpole and see who salutes.

"Kim Jong Il: He's Personalilicous!"
"The Leader with Pep"
"He Puts the 'Tic' in Lunatic"

Of course, another of the "titles" given was "Eternal Bosom of Hot Love," which was also the title of an email that wound up in my bulk folder. Let's throw this notion into the mix.

"Kim Jong Il: Who Says He Can't Be Licked?"
"The Leader with Staying Power"
"Kim Jong Il: He's Your Daddy!"

If at First...

I've revived the blog I set up last year when I was drafting my novel Michael Drayton, Detective Guy. I'm not going to be posting it as I write it this year, but will just use the blog to post updates on its progress.

Join the expectant crowds gathering now at Michael Drayton Detective Guy!

Seminar

(I wrote the original version of the following story in 1984. I've sent it out a number of times over the years in different versions, but have never succeeded in placing it anywhere. This current version is a total rewrite of the original and is substantially different. Since I can't find a home for it otherwise, I've decided to self-publish it here. Of course, as with all my posts on this blog, "Seminar" is copyright 2005 Len Cassamas.

It did once get an Honorable Mention in a short story contest. I hope you enjoy it.)

The thing to do in these situations is to just put your head down and work. Ignore the distractions and avoid anything that will distract you from your task. Sure, you can take lunch. You can even take a break, if you have to, but the thing is, when you are at your desk that is your world. Go beyond concentration. Live it. Discover the process. Find patterns and motifs heretofore unnoticed even in the most mundane and tedious of tasks. And remember: Interruptions are the enemy. Which is precisely why I went after him with an exacto knife.

Concentrate on the mechanics of whatever it is you’re doing, no matter how silly or mind numbing. For example, take your pen. Hold it. Sense it in your hand. Move your fingers over the long, stiff shaft. Now, grasp it firmly, lovingly. And write. Now, what do you hear? Anyone? What are you hearing? Is it a scritch scritch scritch or a pfft pfft pfft? Because there is a sound, and it is constantly lifting itself off the paper, waiting for you to hear it. All you have to do is allow yourself to experience the pen. Feel its penness. Connect with the inner pen deep inside you. Live the mystery of hand, pen, and ink all cooperating, all working together, all synergizing in the achievement of writing. Maybe if his writing had been more legible, I would have been less likely to stab him.

Okay, now, let’s talk about your desks because they are very important. When you are at the office, it is your home. When you are at home, it is your office. We call this “duality.” Okay, so you have a desk at work, and you have a desk at home. You cannot escape this. Unless, of course, you are in your car, which is why we have laptops and cell phones. Now, the thing to remember is this: Love thy desk as thyself. Respect it. Keep it clean. Don’t carve your initials in it. Somebody else is just going to end up sitting there anyway. And you wouldn’t carve your initials in your house or apartment, would you? Because this is how you have to think of it: It is your home. And it is a home that comes to you free and clear from the company without the two mortgages and the home equity loans. All it costs you is forty to eighty hours a week, depending on your commitment. My commitment was six weeks, entirely voluntary. Long desk. Cool desk. My desk. Put your coffee somewhere else; you’ll leave rings. Phone rings. Coffee rings. Onion rings. Answer politely. Give name even though they never get it and always end up calling me Herb. Right, right, Tuesday the 12^th. We’ll reference it. It impacted me. We’ll have to address the longitudinalzation of our imprint in the asymmetrical market-zone firing place. Optimize. Maximize the minimization. Damn the torpedoes, full steam for the shoals and rocks. Quacking? I wasn’t quacking. I think it was a cough.

Of course, your desk isn’t just hovering around the building like the mail guy or an escaped thought. Oh, no, it is anchored securely to a cubicle, and the cubicular life comes with a certain amount of responsibility. Just imagine if you had a neighbor who had walls covered with pictures and magazine clippings, every surface covered with junk and knickknacks, and piles of papers all over the floor. What would you do? Why, you’d do the only thing you could. You’d get the city to condemn the place and have the neighbor thrown into the street and their house razed. It’s the only civic-minded thing to do. Now, what is a cubicle if it is not a house on a street? Isn’t the person in the next cube your neighbor? And the guy over by the printer and the lady next to the copy room? And a good neighbor keeps his area clean and orderly. You’ll find that loose papers cloud the mind and block the heart. So, remember, there’s a place for everything. And everything had better stay out of my way. I’m busy. What? The Feldman file? I think my shredder ate it.

Now, as will sometimes happen with neighbors, disputes can arise. I didn’t start it. He did when he stole my stapler. Hurt feelings produce more hurt feelings. My beautiful stapler. There’s a temptation to act out I’ll poison his coffee or shut down right after I finish this game of FreeCell. But it doesn’t have to be that way. The key, here, right off the bat, is to try to relax. Take a deep breath and try to reassert your own personhood, your own value as an employee. Say to yourself, “I am a person. I have worth.” More than they pay me for. Find your center. Nougat. And if you can do that, do you know what you’ve got? A twitch along my jaw line. You’ve got the beginning of the first step of the dawn of a new relationship.

Remember that your relationships with your coworkers should be open and friendly. You should be a seamless part of the group, and yet still your own functioning ego system. A whole within a whole. I wish I were in a whole. I miss my stapler. But not the guy who stole it. Him I’m going to hit.

Work should be a fulfilling experience. You should leave work energized every day because fulfilling the work fulfills you. Every time the company’s stock goes up, you should get a jolt of pride. Enjoy your work. Luxuriate in it. But don’t lag or you’ll end up in a line downtown. Use your time well, economically and efficiently, and you’ll find yourself more productive, more proactive, and a greater asset to the company than you’ve ever been before. You’ve got sixty minutes in every hour. And twenty hours in every minute. Use them to their fullest and you could find that doing the same work at the same place for the same pay on the same days in the same weeks can be a very enriching experience. Emotionally, that is. I want my damn stapler! I called it Fred. It used to sing to me with its simple ker-chuck ker-chuck ker-chuck. How we’d improvise, me and Fred. Fred the Stapler. The thing is, he shouldn’t have had his hand there anyway. And he didn’t need a tetanus shot, only a booster.

Now, speaking of emotions, another good rule to have is to keep work at work and home at home. This is why we don’t encourage you to bring in pictures of your family, or to take personal phone calls or e-mails. It’s for your benefit. Because a cocktail made up of equal parts of work and home is a very heady brew, and not everyone can handle it. That’s what my ex-wife said. There are studies with pie charts and graphs that prove this. According to our figures, a recent survey of studies showed that all the real money is in research. Be a rhesus monkey for fun and profit! Just draw the pirate! And quarter him, too!

What I’m trying to give you here is tools. What I need is Valium. But you should feel free to go out and explore, do some research, ask your friends, and see what kind of coping mechanisms you can discover in your own life. Yeah, but then how would I ever pass the random drug test? Maybe you could hit a loved one with a pillow. Maybe I could hit you with a brick. Take the long view. Must stop at drugstore, get razor blades. Watch TV. Feel like high technology is over your head? Try Compugram, the digital vitamin. Keep your perspective. I wouldn’t worry about downsizing. It’s the poor performance of the 401k that’s got me oozing sweat. Examine your options. What did I do with the classifieds? Sharpen your skills. Twenty-seven across is the same as three down except on Thursdays when it’s “erne.” But most of all, I want to leave you with this one final thought: Relax. All right. Who’s vibrating? You or me? Now, who’s ready for a break? I know I am. Yeah, I'm ready. I’m ready for anything.

THE END

XM Satellite Radio Is a Many Splendored Thing

As my small but faithful audience will attest, I am not prone to using this space for commercial purposes. Lord knows I haven't made a penny off it. But this is not a post about commerce; it is a post about love.

It has been just over three months since we got our satellite radio receiver and our XM subscription, and I am urging each and every one of you to get yourself some XM today. And I'm not just saying this because I'm hoping to get my show on there some day. That is just one of the possible rewards (or liabilities, depending on one's point of view) that will come with this amazing service.

Let me tell you the whole story.

We got it so that I could test it out and see what the satellite radio experience was like. Still, we installed it first in my wife's car. I had long been away from listening to the radio in the car because I am, by nature, a generalist and modern radio prefers to focus on the specialist. If I were to listen to something while driving, it would be a CD. Most of the time, I just treated myself to the noise of the traffic and my own neurotic ramblings. It seemed my wife would get more use of it than me, and everyone was pleased.

Well, about a month into things, we planned on taking my car on a mid-length trip (about an hour-and-a-half each way), so I switched the satellite receiver and antenna over. And when we got back, I kept it. I started listening to the radio all the time. And I'll tell you why.

There is a feature on the receiver we bought--the Delphi SkyFi 2--that brings me more delight than I have ever gotten from a technological device before. You can program it to remember up to 20 artists whose work you enjoy. Every time a song of theirs comes on any XM channel, the receiver beeps. It shows you the name of the artist, the selection being played, and what channel it is on. And then you can either press a button and change over to the new channel or leave it alone and stay with what you've got.

This gets me all over the 150 channels and leads to occasional bits of serendipity. Take last night, for example. I'm driving to CVS and I hear the beep. I look at the receiver and find out that Bob Dylan is on Hear Music (the official channel of Starbuck's). They're playing selections from a CD made from a bootleg of Dylan in performance at the Gaslight in New York in 1962, and the first thing they play is "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall."

Now, frankly, the Starbuck's channel isn't my go-to channel. Without this feature, I would never had heard it. But thanks to XM and the SkyFi 2, I got to hear the young Dylan, his voice still supple, rich, and melodic, singing the greatest folk song in history live. (The thought struck me while I listened that it was no wonder that he abandoned folk music. Where could he go after "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall"?)

Now there were a couple of weeks there when we switched the radio back over to my wife's car. She missed XM. But then I began to miss it, too. So we bought a Delphi Roadie 2 for her and added it onto our subscription. I got the SkyFi back, and this morning got to enjoy both Alanis Morrissette and Allan Sherman without having to surf across the dial. There are three menus of favorite channels that you can set, so that, with the touch of a button, I can go from the 60s to Sonic Theater to Frank's Place to Lucy.

So go ahead. Line up and sign up. It's worth it. Believe me.

I Hate Symantec

We have Norton anti-virus on our new PC, and I just made the mistake of okaying it to do the Live Update while I went ahead to work on other things. (In particular a rather lengthy post for this blog.) Once it was finished, a warning came up that I needed to get out of everything else I had going in order for the damn thing to automatically reboot my PC. Well, I didn't really feel like rebooting at that moment, and tried to x out of it instead of clicking OK. And the stupid thing rebooted the PC anyway!

The earlier post? Gone. The picture I uploaded? Gone. My patience? You guessed it.

What paranoid bonehead came up with this program? Is it named after Ed Norton? Who says we have free will? Screw you, Thomas Aquinas!

Beyond the Fringe

We were strolling through Border's over the weekend, just having finished our weekly troll for books, when we paused by the DVD section on our way to check out. My wife pulled the second season of "Bob Newhart" off the shelf, and we put that on the list for a couple of weeks hence. As she replaced it, my eye was drawn to the title next to it. My eyes bugged out and my jaw flapped open. They had finally released "Beyond the Fringe" on DVD.

This, for me, was monumental.

I've been hearing about Beyond the Fringe for more than 25 years now, since before Dudley Moore was in 10, at least back to the time that Cook and Moore appreared on Saturday Night Live and proceeded to cock things up by daring to be both funny and to-the-point, qualities rare on that program.

I've seen clips from the performance captured on this DVD. It was the farewell performance of the show, which had started at the Edinburgh Festival in 1960 and then transerred to London's West End where it became a smash hit. The four performers (Peter Cook, the aforementioned Mr. Moore, Jonathan Miller, and Alan Bennett) took Beyond the Fringe to Broadway for a year before returning to London. A legend was born.

I've been aware that it had been filmed for about ten years. Way back in the hazy '90s, I watched A&E's Biography of Dudley Moore, and there were clips of Beyond the Fringe in that. I was quite struck by the look of it, the aesthetic of the show itself. In place of elaborate costumes, they wore suits that they supplemented with hats, as needed. The set was a connected series of three platforms with a couple of flats attached to them. It was barebones basic theater, and even though I know that economics drove most of those choices, I liked it anyway.

So, the other night, I actually got to watch Beyond the Fringe. It was sublime. It was funny. It was beautifully staged. It made thoughtful points and was often just plain silly. One sketch, concerning Civil Defense preparedness in the shadow of the H-Bomb was frighteningly relevant here in the day of Homeland Security. When they demonstrated one method of warding off the effects of a nuclear blast, I had to think of the current administration. The protective device was a large paper bag that one pulled over one's head and body as protection. This seemed to me about as sound as using duct tape and plastic sheeting to protect one against chemical weapons.

I found much of the satire still effective, and it is for that very reason: They got beneath the headlines (mutally assured destruction) to the underlying ideas (fear as the basis for governance) of the things they were satirizing. Peter Cook's portrayal of the Head of Scotland Yard, updating the progress in the hunt for the perpetrators of the Great Train Robbery could have been any of the boobs who talk about dealing with terrorists these days. He hides his incompetence behind a smoke screen of words. (Interviewer: So, you think criminals are responsible? Cook: Oh, no! I think criminals are very irresponsible.) One feels certain that Mr Cook's Inspector would have assured the then-Prime Minister that catching the perpetrators was a "slam dunk." Plus ca change....

Cook is the funniest of the four and Bennett the best actor. Moore is very funny and easily the most musical. Jonathan Miller is, well, Jonathan Miller, intelligent and sardonic. Highlights include the above-mentioned Scotland Yard sketch, the above-mentioned Civil Defense sketch, Dudley palying "Colonel Bogie's March" from The Bridge on the River Kwai as though it had been written by Beethoven, Cook's monologue of a proto-E.L. Wisty sitting on a bench and explaining why it was he became a coal miner rather than a jurist, Bennett as an Anglican priest giving the homily on the text (allegedly from Genesis) "My brother Esau is an hairy man and I am a smooth man," the famous sketch "One Leg Too Few," and Jonathan Miller flailing about the staged after being stabbed in their Shakespeare parody. And everything else.

If you like British comedy in the line of The Goon Show and Monty Python and if you still chuckle at Sir Arthur Grieb-Striebling (or is it Strieb-Griebling?) detailing the menu of The Frog and Peach, you will definitely enjoy Beyond the Fringe.

N.B. There are a few glitches with the sound, but the journey is still well worth it.

The (Pause) Laureate

(TWO COCKNEYS SIT IN A SPARSELY FURNISHED ROOM.)

1ST COCKNEY:     Here.
2ND COCKNEY:     What?
1ST COCKNEY:     You hear the news?
2ND COCKNEY:     Sometimes.
1ST COCKNEY:     I mean today.
2ND COCKNEY:     What’s that, then?
1ST COCKNEY:     They been givin’ out the Nobel Prize.
2ND COCKNEY:     Have they?
1ST COCKNEY:     They have.
2ND COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Which one?
1ST COCKNEY:     What?
2ND COCKNEY:     Which bloody prize?
1ST COCKNEY:     Which prize?
2ND COCKNEY:     That’s right.
1ST COCKNEY:     You want to know?
2ND COCKNEY:     It makes no difference to me.
1ST COCKNEY:     But you’re interested?
2ND COCKNEY:     I don’t bloody care!
1ST COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) You don’t?
2ND COCKNEY:     Not especially.
1ST COCKNEY:     I thought you might.
2ND COCKNEY:     Well, I don’t.  Nobody don’t.
1ST COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) I bet he does.
2ND COCKNEY:     Who?
1ST COCKNEY:     Him.
2ND COCKNEY:     Which him?
1ST COCKNEY:     The him what won it.
2ND COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Oh.  (PAUSE.)  What did he win, then?
1ST COCKNEY:     Who?
2ND COCKNEY:     The fella that done won it.  Which prize?
1ST COCKNEY:     Lit’rature.
2ND COCKNEY:     (PAUSE) You don’t say.
1ST COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) And he won it.
2ND COCKNEY:     Did he?
1ST COCKNEY:     That’s right.
2ND COCKNEY:     Then, who’s he, then?
1ST COCKNEY:     Who?  Him?
2ND COCKNEY:     That’s right.
1ST COCKNEY:     He’s that fella.
2ND COCKNEY:     Yeah?
1ST COCKNEY:     The one what wrote those plays.
2ND COCKNEY:     Which plays?
1ST COCKNEY:     Oh, you know.  All of ‘em.
2ND COCKNEY:     Who?  Shakespeare?
1ST COCKNEY:     No!
2ND COCKNEY:     He deserves one.
1ST COCKNEY:     It’s not bloody Shakespeare!
2ND COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Tell us, then.
1ST COCKNEY:     Who?  You?
2ND COCKNEY:     Come on.  Tell us.
1ST COCKNEY:     Guess.
2ND COCKNEY:     Give us a hint.
1ST COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Pause.
2ND COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Pause?
1ST COCKNEY:     Pause.
2ND COCKNEY:     Oh!  Pause.
1ST COCKNEY:     Pause.
2ND COCKNEY:     Oh, what’s his name, then?
1ST COCKNEY:     Who?
2ND COCKNEY:     The fella.  (PAUSE.)  With the pauses.
1ST COCKNEY:     That’s him.
2ND COCKNEY:     Is it?
1ST COCKNEY:     As far as we know.
2ND COCKNEY:     What’s his name, then?  Pinker?
1ST COCKNEY:     What?
2ND COCKNEY:     I said, “Pinker.”
1ST COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Did you?
2ND COCKNEY:     I did.
1ST COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Pinter.
2ND COCKNEY:     What?
1ST COCKNEY:     His name.
2ND COCKNEY:     Yes?
1ST COCKNEY:     His name is (PAUSE) Pinter.
2ND COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Are you sure?
1ST COCKNEY:     Yes.
2ND COCKNEY:     His name?
1ST COCKNEY:     Yes.
2ND COCKNEY:     Pinter?
1ST COCKNEY:     Yes.  (LONG PAUSE.)
2ND COCKNEY:     Not Shaw?
1ST COCKNEY:     Got his.
2ND COCKNEY:     Did he?
1ST COCKNEY:     Yes.
2ND COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) That’s good then.
1ST COCKNEY:     Is it?
2ND COCKNEY:     I suppose so.
1ST COCKNEY:     (AFTER A PAUSE) Yes.  I suppose so, too.
2ND COCKNEY:     Well, you would.  Wouldn’t you?

(THE LIGHT DIM TO BLACK.)

Notify the Pulitzer Committee

Last November, I participated in something called National Novel Writing Month. This is an event held each November in which people from all walks of life and all around the world take a stab at writing a novel (the goal is 50,000 words) in 30 days. Last year, I participated and wrote 20,000 words of a novel I call "Michael Drayton, Detective Guy."

Since "Drayton" went unfinished last year, I have decided to take another stab at it this year.

This will not be an official entry since I am working outside the rules by resuming a work already in progress, but that's okay. I'm not really interested in winning a tee shirt anyway.

Unlike last year, I will not be posting the new stuff on a blog this year. Don't know why. Just don't feel like it.

I'm also going outside the rules by starting the other night. I've begun revising the chapters already to hand with the idea of using that to get a running start on the second half. With luck, I'll be finished with the revision by November 1.

I'm also not going to worry about going past November 30. The time has come to finish this--at least get it into good enough shape to send off. I'm not going to worry about writin' no radio scripts until this book is done. Unless, of course, somebody comes around with a wallet full of money.

The Tooth and Nothing But the Tooth

We've just returned from a long weekend in Charleston, SC. Over the course of this trip (which was otherwise quite delightful) a wisdom tooth of mine decided to make merry some of the other wreckage in there, and I was periodically entertained with waves of excruciating pain.

When we returned, I took the opportunity of updating my Three Stooges page-a-day calendar, and was greeted with the following message:



To add insult to injury, it was followed by today's entry:



This is a prognostication of my tomorrow with me taking the part of Moe and the dentist Curly. I can't wait for the iron frying pan anesthetic.

Should I Start Wearing My Trousers Rolled?

Like the Spanish Inquisition, nobody expects to be 46. I mean, sure, you have the knowledge that you'll turn 46. This becomes almost self-evident once the 45 threshold has been crossed. I mean that it doesn't often occur to one that someday one will turn 46. One contemplates 40. And 50. And 60. And even 99. (I've got my fingers crossed.) But turning 46 doesn't really cross the radar screen unless one encounters someone who is 46 and has the thought, "Jeez, I hope I look better than that when I'm his age." And I could have had that experience up until yesterday.

Or today, really, because today I turn 46.

I was born on the 27th day of the 9th month of the 9th year of a decade at about 9 in the morning. I'm nothing if not consistent.

Wifrod Brimley shares my birthday, although he had his first one some 25 years before me. I don't know what Tom Selleck's birthday is.

Other people who are extinguishing candles today are: Avril Lavinge, Shawn Cassidy, Robb Weller, Meatloaf (the singer, not the foodstuff), A Martinez, Liz Torres, Randy Bachman, Don Cornelius, Dick Schaap, Barbara Howar, Greg Morris, Will Sampson, Roger C. Carmel, Sada Thompson, Arthur Penn, Carl Ballantine, Jayne Meadows, William Conrad, Johnny Pesky, Louis Auchincloss, Leonard Barr, William Paley, Vincent Youmans, Sam Ervin, and Harry Blackstone, Sr.

Of course a fair number of those listed are dealing with neither cake nor candles because of a slight case of death.

To the others, l'chaim!

This Week's Surreal Satellite Radio Moment

I heard something on the '60s channel this past weekend that I had not been familiar with before, although the DJ insisted that it had charted back in ye day. This curiousity was Frankie Valli and the Fours Seasons singing Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice." It's a strange rendition of the song, with Frankie singing in a high falsetto that made him sound like the demon spawn of Tiny Tim and Dave Seville. It was cheery and nonsensical and the arrangement bore no discernable relationship to the lyrics. At times, Frankie made a sort of muted trumpet sound with his lips that the DJ identified as being him blowing Dylan a raspberry. I suspect that it was much more innocent than that, and was simply Frankie's attempt to channel "Sergeant Pepper." "Sergeant Pepperoni," if you will. (And you don't have to. It's not a rule.)

This was followed by The Byrds' time-honored rendition of "Mr. Tambourine Man," which hangs on Roger McGuinn's 12-string Rickenbacker and David Crosby's harmony. This is one of the Woodstock Nation's favorite sing-a-longs, up there with "Lord Won't You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz" and "Unchained Melody." My only question about it, and The Byrds themselves, is this: Why does Roger McGuinn always sing the lead when he's got Crosby standing there? Does this make any sense? I mean, McGuinn can ribbit along okay, but Crosby can flat-out sing. Would he have sawed away at a Suzuki method violin while Jascha Heifetz played the occasional eighth note? No wonder why Crosby moved on to--uh--what's their names.

The Chamberlain's Man

I'm making what I hope is the final change in the lineup of "Next in the Series." I'm going to replace "The Political Thing" with an adaptation of a play I wrote many years ago called "The Chamberlain's Man."

"The Chamberlain's Man" is an out-and-out farce that has William Shakespeare as its central character. Although at the time of compostion I had thought him kind of a variation on the character Bob Hope played in movies like "My Favorite Brunette" and "Casanova's Night Out," I realized last week that he was really much more like Basil Fawlty. I intend to go forward with this idea in this revision.

I'm postponing work on "The Political Thing" simply because I think the story is going to need more than three episodes to tell properly. It could need half-a-dozen or more. And so it made sense to push it to the second season, where there will be plenty of room for something that big.

As for "The Chamberlain's Man," it's just long enough for three episodes, and really just calls for some polishing of what was a juvenile work. I'm taking as its credo a quote from John and Yoko: "All artists are con artists."

On a related creative note for the few who care, I've started marking up the printed out pages of "Michael Drayton, Detective Guy" so that I can retype and rewrite them. With any luck, I'll be able to push right through and finish it sometime this fall.

In the meantime, fight the power.

Satellite Radio

One of the interesting things about having satellite radio has to do with the multiplicity of formats that the unnamed provider throws at you. There is a run of channels devoted to the music of particular decades of the previous century. There are country stations and jazz stations and rock stations. There are talk stations and spoken word and the blues. You can get kids songs and the call of the Red Sox game. It is narrowcasting at a level undreamt of even by cable TV.

The playlists that can be found on any one station are unusually deep and this can sometimes lead to interesting juxtapostions of songs. For example, yesterday morning when I started up the van, I was greeted on the '70s channel by Bob Dylan singing "You Gotta Serve Somebody." This was followed by Elton John singing "I'm Going to Foist Some Pointless Crap on You" or something. Every silver lining is surrounded by a cloud, I guess.

This morning, on the '60s channel, I was treated to Paul Revere and the Raiders performing a song called "Let Me." This song featured the lyic, "Let me, let me./Baby, you don't get me" and a blatant ripoff of the musical break from "MacArthur Park." (This is the musical equivelent of a heroin addict rolling a sterno bum.)

Now, back in the '60s, I was prepubescent and quite the fan of Paul Revere and the Raiders. They had cool blue-and-buff uniforms and tri-corn hats and an afternoon TV show called "It's Happening," of which I was an aficianado. (I kind of remember seeing The Mamas and The Papas on there. Sometimes one wishes for the onset of senility.)

After hearing "Let Me," I had to check on on Paul and the Boys. I got this picture from the website.

Apparently they've gone over to the other side, since those are definitely Redcoats they have on. If you happen to be in the Sacramento area tomorrow, You'll be able to see Paul Revere and the Traitors at the Gold county Fair in Auburn, CA.

Mark Lindsay is no longer part of the group, but, according to his wesite, he's making a rather limited comeback.

There are some anomalies with satellite radio. For example, Depeche Mode plays nearly around the clock on one channel or another. I've heard Allen Sherman a couple of times on the '60s channel (including today; apparently "Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh" was the number two song 42 years ago today), but never on the family comedy channel. And I've heard cuss words several times on the family comedy channel. From Myron Cohen, no less.

But, all-in-all, I enjoy it. I recommend it. I wouldn't even mind being on it.

Gasoline Alley, or A Trip Down Memory Lane

Thanks to the devastation of Hurricane Katrina and the lemming-like instincts of the human animal, I got to relive those halcyon days of the 1970s gas crisis yesterday, right here in good old Atlanta, G-A.

Among the lesser evils that Katrina brought ashore with her were power outages that shut down the pipelines that piped in the gas that went to the trucks that delivered to the stations that pumped into the SUV that Jack drove. Once this news got out, widespread panic became the order of the day, and dolts of every shape, size, and description started lining up to top off their tanks and to drive the price-per-gallon just another notch higher. (When my wife filled up her car the other day, she paid about $2.50 a gallon. By the time I got in line yesterday, it was $2.79 and 9/10 per gallon. A couple of hours later, I heard that it was up over $3.00. Apparently, there was a gas station in McDonough, GA that was charging as much as $5.87. Gov. Sonny Perdue, showing the perspicacity of the average politician, suspects price gouging.)

Many of the folks lining up were just topping off their tanks. I was there because the minivan I drive was down to about an eighth of a tank. If I wanted to continue to drop off and pick up my kid from school for the rest of the week, I had no choice.

So, I pulled into the QT near Sam's school where cars were in lines four deep at each of the ten or so pumps. It seem that this was one of the better situations in town. Sam wanted to go inside to get something--some beef jerky or a pack of smokes, I guess--but I declined. I was a tad sharp, but I shouldn't have been. This was the boy's first gas panic, and he didn't know any better.

I did though. I am a grizzled veteran of the Carter Administration and remember long lines, odd-even days, and limits on the number of gallons purchased. One time, when I took my VW bug to a station I had worked at a couple of years before, I drove down to the bottom of a hill and got in line. The line inched along and after a few minutes, I noticed a disheveled young man walking down the hill counting cars. In one hand, he had a cardboard sign. A drama was in progress, and I was a member of the cast.

The disheveled young man, who was also greasy and thin, counted cars until he got to mine. The sign had magnets attached to it, and he slapped the sign to back of my bug. Mine was the last car to get gas there that day. The people behind me were angry, but not with me. They were angry with the greasy, skinny, disheveled young gas jockey. He just walked back up the hill.

I felt guilt, but it was balanced by relief. I was riding on fumes.

Today, the pipelines are piping again, although at reduced capacity. I have no idea what the price is at the QT or the Shell, but I'm guessing too much. The remnants of Katrina are escaping to Nova Scotia. Perhaps by next week the levels of price gouging for gas will have returned to their normal, seasonal levels. Maybe the panic is over.

Life is difficult for the addicted. The lush times of glut are more than balanced by the hard days of shortage. An addict will shudder and shake and panic and pay anything for another fix. It's not a pretty sight.

The Conning Tower

Franklin Pierce Adams was a giant in his day. Through the first four decades of the 20th Century, his initials were perhaps as well known as any other set, including TR and his nephew, FDR. He was a journalist and versifier, a translator of Horace, and a panelist on the radio quiz show, "Information, Please." He was also a cultivator of young comic talent, and his well-loved column, "The Conning Tower," showcased early writings by such writers as George S. Kaufman, Dorothy Parker, Morrie Ryskind, and Ira Gershwin.

"The Conning Tower" was a kind of humorous miscellany. Readers contributed comic verse and jokes. FPA winnowed through the contributions and contributed his own verse, notes, jokes, and epigrams. He delighted in setting up the vaious tidbits in specials fonts and doted on its look. On Saturdays, he would recount his doings among the members of the Algonquin round Table in "The Diary of Our Own Samuel Pepys."

Long before the advent of blogging and the ubiquity of the Internet, I had among the list of Projects-I-Never-Got-Around-To the idea of reviving The Conning Tower. If I remember correctly (and I probably don't), I had thought of trying to market it to the ever shrinking number of local newspapers around the country, from the big city dailies to the small town weeklies. It never got done.

It has occurred to me, though, that this is an approach that blogging is probably perfectly suited for. Of the blogs currently of my ambit, only Phil Austin's Blog of the Unknown comes close to being this.

It would not be hard to do. I could set up a new blog called "The Conning Tower" (if that title is not already taken), contributors could e-mail me stuff, and I could compile it and publish it. I don't see this as being a daily event, but as an occasional group effort, I think it might be fun.

What do you think?

P.S. A Dialogue entitled, "WWJD":

Person: Rev. Robertson, what would Jesus do about Hugo Chavez?

Robertson: Whack him!

The Quality of Marcy

One of the least popular features of this blog has been the entries in which I update progress on various scripts and describe the history of the composition of them. Today I continue this tradition of disinterest with an update on a script called "The Quality of Marcy."

"The Quality of Marcy" started out some years ago as an idea that my wife had for a short story. Hers was a dark story of betrayal and forgiveness concerning two sisters. When she told me the idea, I immediately jumped on it, and told her that I thought it made a good basis for a play and one with a lot of comedy at that. My vision of it didn't quite square with hers, though, and I sort of backed down and Stephanie sort of put it to one side.

The topic came up from time-to-time, though, and eventually we decided that I would just go ahead and write my version of it and that she might write her version still at some other time. (I think it would be interesting if she did. It's unlikely that the two would be recognizable as having come from the same idea. Fraternal twins instead of identical.)

I started thinking about it seriously about three-and-a-half years ago and then started to write it as a stage play shortly thereafter. A big chunk just popped out right off the bat, and I thought the writing of this script would be a breeze. I was wrong.

Another big chunk came and then nothing. I decided to try it as a radio play, converted the format and got a little more. Then nothing. It accumulated in fits and starts over three years. I thought about changing it back into a stage play, but never got around to reformatting it. I put it aside while I finished other scripts and then decided to shelve it for consideration as part of the first season of "Next in the Series."

But things changed.

I'm not sure what happened, really. It was too short to be a play, but it looked like I could keep it short enough to stay within an hour format. It was almost done. My wife liked what she had read. It was more of a drama than any of the other scripts, but still not quite an evening of O'Neill. (Although I have, for some years, played around with an idea that would have more of an Ibsen feel to it. It is the story of a man who spends his life in a seaside village perfecting the art of filling the chum buckets that the fisherman take with them to sea to attract fish. I call it "The Master Baiter." Maybe someday I'll be able to get a handle on it.)

Anyway, I worked on "Marcy" over the past week or so and finished the draft. It seems all right. I think I'm pleased. Stephanie liked it when she read it today. So in it goes.

Now, all I have to do is write two more episodes of "The Political Thing" and season one is written. Just like in the "Niagara Falls" sketch, we go step-by-step, inch-by-inch.

A Possible Reprieve or Pardon Me

I don't know that I'll be adding much to this blog as time goes by, but I have decided to not delete it, at least any time soon. Occasional posts are still possible, although I'm not really sure what direction I want to take it in.

But I won't delete it. Not yet. No real reason to.