I live in Hollywood. Technically, I live in West Hollywood. But for all intents and purposes, I'm in Hollywood. I just got back from my dry cleaner's, and, like all dry cleaners in Hollywood, Sam has signed photos of various celebrities hanging on his wall. Tonight I noticed a new one, of legendary movie producer Robert Evans, and I asked Sam if Evans ever came into the shop. Sam shook his head. "He doesn't come here. We go there." We chatted for about fifteen minutes -- Sam really didn't know too much about Evans so I filled him in on the major points: produced The Godfather, Love Story, Chinatown, married to Ali McGraw, friends with Henry Kissinger and Jack Nicholson, busted for coke, caught up in murder investigation, lost all his money and his famous mansion, got his mansion back thanks to pal Jack, wrote tell all autobiography, made major comeback as producer, now has an animated series about his life on Comedy Central. A Hollywood fairy tale.
Sam told me about Evans' amazing house, his beautiful young wife and his volcanic temper. I left there thinking "Wow, I know a guy who knows Robert Evans -- I'm one step closer." Hollywood.
I had a visitor from England in town for the Thanksgiving holiday. He is a young music video director named Raj and he has decided that he is going to direct one of my movies -- the Jane Bond adventure called "In Your Dreams." Raj saw a synopsis of it I posted on an internet site and asked to read it. He really liked it and we've been corresponding and talking on the phone about it for a couple of years. At one point it sounded like Raj was going to be able to put together enough financing to actually make the movie, but it turned out to be wishful thinking. A couple of months ago he announced that he was coming to Los Angeles for a week so we could work on our "project." Being from England I don't think he realized that he scheduled his visit for the week of Thanksgiving. I wondered exactly what he thought we were going to do. Did he foresee us going to pitch meetings or lining up investors? Did he have a list of contacts that he was planning to exploit? He did mention something about an internship at Fox.
As it turned out, we didn't actually work on the movie much at all. In fact I didn't really see that much of Raj that week. He got a room in a nearby hostel filled with young Europeans and basically partied every night with them and went sightseeing during the days. I only actually saw him a couple of times after dropping him off at the hostel. On afternoon we went to see the amazing documentary Tupac: Ressurection, produced and directed by our own Lauren Lazin. If you have the chance you should check this movie out, it's one of the most intriguing and compelling documentaries you'll ever see. Both Raj and I were blown away by the visual poetry, the arresting first-person narration and the exhaustive research. And I know her!
Pretty much the only other time I saw Raj was on Thanksgiving.
Will Ray and his wife Gayle had invited my pal Jimmy and me to their house for Thanksgiving. Will's the ace guitar player in our band The Buzzards. Jimmy couldn't make it so I asked if it was OK if Raj took his place. Gracious Virginians that they are they said "of course." Luckily for me, Gayle and Will have both undergone the so-called "Candida Diet" that I am currently subscribing to and so I would have no trouble eating just about anything she cooked. The other interesting thing about Gayle is that she is a follower of a Hindu guru, or "baba" whose name I couldn't possibly begin to reproduce here. Raj's family is from India and they, too, are Hindus. Plus Gayle had a friend over named Rasha who is both a filmmaker and a Hindu. She is also a pretty attractive California blonde. Raj and I spent about five hours at Will and Gayle's talking about music, filmmaking, Hinduism and the history and traditions of Thanksgiving, since it was Raj's first Thanksgiving ever. It really seemed like something way beyond coincidence or luck. Definitely one of the more interesting afternoons I've had in a while.
Anyway, I dropped by the hostel once more to say good-bye to Raj before he left. He introduced me to an Australian actor/med student whom he has chosen for the lead role in our movie. Apparently he was working on it after all. The next day he called me from England and asked me what the weather is like here in February. "Same as every month, Raj -- it's nice." I asked him why he wanted to know. Seems he's decided to move out here. I guess Raj was bitten by the Hollywood bug. And once you get that Hollywood bug in your blood, there's no cure.
I'm glad I live in Hollywood. I belong here. It's cool to find a place where you belong. Something to be thankful for.
There are certain choices in life whose effects will forever alter one's fate. These are the defining moments where we literally create ourselves by our actions. Sometimes they are dramatically clear, sometimes they are murky and confusing. Sometimes our choices affect not only ourselves but the world at large and the destinies of others. Sometimes we are immediately aware of the consequences, sometimes we never know. And sometimes we don't find out until it is too late.
There is a fairly famous bar/cafe in my neighborhood called Barney's Beanery. At one time it was the hangout of rock stars. Jim Morrison was once a regular there. Janis Joplin was there the night she died. Although it isn't quite as hip as it was back in the day, you can still occasionally see a famous face sitting at the end of the bar or, as in my case, at the table across from you.
It was on a Sunday morning and I was enjoying a hearty meal of bacon, eggs and homefries -- back when I could actually enjoy such a meal. Sitting in the next booth there was a gangly looking guy with an oversized head hunched over a spiral notebook scribbling furiously. It was Tarantino.
Now even though I've never counted myself among the legions of Tarantino fanatics, I was pretty excited to see him there in the flesh. Don't get me wrong, Reservoir Dogs was a great movie; Pulp Fiction was interesting and certainly kick-started a genre; Jackie Brown was O.K. And now here he was, obviously in the middle of writing his next movie. He had an undeniable intensity and fervor that made me even more curious. What would it be? Man would I love to sneak a peek at that notebook. I'd have the scoop on every wannabe screenwriter and hack director in town. Maybe I could chat with him about my short, you know, filmmaker to filmmaker. I mean after all we're just a couple of guys hanging out at Barney's. Hell, we're neighbors.
Then it happened. Tarantino got up to use the men's room and LEFT THE NOTEBOOK ON THE TABLE. I froze. Holy crap, now's my chance. What should I do? I looked around. The joint was practically empty -- apparently Tarantino and I are the only ones who actually have breakfast on Sunday morning. Should I slip over and take a peek at a few pages? Or should I grab the thing and run out the door like my ass was on fire? I could make a copy and then ransom it back to him. Or maybe try to get him to give me a job. Or sell it on E-Bay and make a fortune. These ideas were racing through my head as the seconds ticked by. The waitress appeared. I held my breath. Go away! She asked me if I needed anything. I shook my head. Just leave bitch! She smiled and wrote out my check, leaving it on the table. Finally she was gone. Tarantino was still in the bathroom. It's now or never.
But then that little voice spoke up. You know the one. Always telling you to think before you act. To be an adult instead of a child. To consider others and not just yourself. I hate that little voice! I hesitated. The guy just left his notebook sitting on the table and walked away because he has faith enough in his fellow man to believe that no one would be brazen enough to run off with it. Damn him! I have to respect him as a fellow writer even if I don't really like his stuff all that much. How hypocritical would it be of me to cash in on something that I don't even appreciate? It's better to just allow him his privacy and live my own life without intruding on his.
Of course by now Tarantino had returned and was already scribbling away with increased passion. He must have gotten inspired in the toilet. My chance at greatness had passed. I made my choice and now I would have to live with it. I thought of telling him about the moral dilemma I had just faced, but he probably would have thought I was an idiot for not stealing the notebook. I paid my check and left.
A couple of weeks ago, I took the day off and went swimming and then to a movie. A friend and fellow screenwriter had recommended Kill Bill and so I had decided to check it out. From the all the previews I had already made up my mind not to see it, but it was getting rave reviews and my friend said it was worth seeing, so I went.
It was a crapfest. A meaningless collection of cliches and rip-offs with no discernible intent or focus or intelligence to guide it. Just a series of "wouldn't it be cool if..." scenes strung together by the weakest excuse for a plot ever devised. Oh I know what they're all saying, it's a satire, it's a parody, he's making fun of the genre, he's making fun of himself, it's a cartoon, it's not meant to be taken seriously, etc., etc. Bullshit. It's trite, unoriginal, uninspired and just plain badly written. And worst of all, it's boring.
As I left the theater, feeling more depressed than ever about what passes for genius in Hollywood, I realized that I might have prevented this crime if I had only acted when I'd had the chance that fateful morning at Barney's Beanery. That's the script he was working on that day. That's the script I could have stolen and after having read it, burned it. I could have saved myself and countless others from being subjected to another onslaught of sensationalist hackery that passes for cinema in our deranged culture. Perhaps I could have engaged Tarantino in a dialogue, encouraging him to dig deeper, to write something with some heart, to aspire to a higher calling as a writer, instead of recycling a bunch of worn-out riffs and pop-culture references.
But I didn't. I failed. My moment came and I missed it. If only I had known then what suffering I could have averted. But you can never know such things. You can only know what's in your heart and when the moment comes you must act on what you know is true without fear or trepidation. With hope, I may someday be given the chance to redeem myself. Until then I will try to accept the pain and ugliness that my inaction helped to unleash. I hope others can forgive me. I'm not sure if I can forgive myself.
Your friend,
"Hollywood" Dick
One of the most challenging tasks I have ever faced is the task of coming up with a name for a band. It doesn't seem like it should be that hard, until you actually try it, then you realize that it is an exercise requiring a certain amount of creativity, some marketing savvy, a fair amount of diplomacy, well-honed negotiating skills and abundant tolerance for foolishness.
When I started out playing music with my buddy Jimmy, it was pretty much his gig. We played his songs and he got the bookings and so we went by Jimmy's professional sobriquet "j rulon" or "the j rulon band." Now, nobody knows what the hell "j rulon" means and sometimes people got a little confused when we introduced ourselves. Plus no one could figure out how to pronounce it. But it's Jimmy's name and we stuck with it.
Things began to change when Will Ray came into the picture. Will has already carved himself out a decent little niche in the music business and has no interest in going around playing second fiddle (or guitar) to some guy with a weird name. Nor should he. He suggested that we come up with a new identity to distinguish this current project form the previous one. A very reasonable idea. Except that Will decided that he wanted to call this new band "The Cooties." At first I thought he was just kidding around. He does a lot of kidding around and it took me several months before I learned not to trust him. Like the time I showed up at a gig and set down my guitar case in the back room where Will was tuning up so I could make a quick pit stop before we went on. When I came back, Will was standing over my empty guitar case shaking his head. "Rich, you brought your case alright but you forgot to put your guitar in it." Already nervous about the gig, I completely freaked out. How could I have been so stupid? What the hell am I going to do? There's no time to go home and get my guitar! Then I noticed the evil grin on Will's face. "You son of a bitch!" He laughed wickedly and reached behind the door to retrieve my guitar. Now I never turn my back on him.
We started to realize that Will was indeed serious when he gave us each a rehearsal CD with "The Cooties" written across it in indelible ink. Nobody liked that. Cooties? What kind of stupid name is that? Big thumbs down all around.
Meanwhile Jim was still lobbying for "j rulon" and nobody much liked that either. The moment of decision was approaching as we had a gig coming up and needed to tell the booker who the hell we are. That's when the email wars began. Will sent out an email formally proposing The Cooties, but if no one liked it, we should suggest a better name. Jimmy offered j rulon and the Cooties but that was shot down by everyone. This is a band, not a group of sidemen and a star.
I finally persuaded Jimmy to give up on the j rulon idea by telling him he could use it on his first solo album. Then I sent out my list of really great band names for consideration by the group. It included such gems as, "Southland," "Last Fair Deal," "The Rounders," "The Sidemen," "The Vagrants," "The Fugitives," and several others. No one liked any of those, and besides they have all been taken already by other bands. The bass player, Clay, suggested a couple of interesting names like "The Wagoneers" (after his car), and "Trailer Park Rodeo." A little too corny. Tom the drummer chimed in with an inspired suggestion: "Squawk Mulligan", which is the name of the guy who plays the bartender in all of the old W.C. Fields movies.
Still, none of these names were really doing the trick. It was at this point that I started to actually consider "The Cooties." My argument was this: It doesn't really matter what we call ourselves as long as we go out there and kick ass. There are plenty of lousy bands with really cool names and plenty of great bands with really dumb names. It's the band that makes the difference, not the name. Think of the dumbest band name ever -- The Beatles -- if they weren't the coolest band in history do you think anyone would have remembered that stinker of a name? So why not go with Cooties? We will make The Cooties the coolest name ever! What do you say fellows?
They said no.
Clay hadn't given up yet and sent out another email with a few new suggestions, including The Pistol Buzzards. Will and I were talking on the phone one day and he said that the name Buzzards appealed to him. Kind of in the tradition of the Byrds and the Eagles. We even came up with a catch phrase: Meaner than the Byrds, Uglier than the Eagles. I decided to put my full support behind it. Will chimed in with his vote. Jimmy said he thought it was OK, but wanted to think about it. Tom said he would go with the majority. Clay had to call the booker at the club that night and tell him our name so we are now officially called The Buzzards. Please hold your applause.
The other night at rehearsal I was eating one of my special sandwiches and Tom asked me what was in it. "Free range turkey." Tom laughed, "Hey how about the Free Range Buzzards!" Jimmy thought it was great. Will just groaned when he heard the idea. Clay showed up with a bunch of flyers with the name The Buzzards on them and made no comment.
So who knows what our name will be at the next gig. But for now, let history record that The Buzzards are making their first flight on Thursday the 23rd of October at the ungodly hour of 11 p.m. in a French restaurant in Echo Park. And when they do the "Behind the Music" special on us, they'll say this is where it all began.
Cheers.
I've always said that I don't believe in writer's block. You just need to sit your ass down and start putting one word after another. It's just like laying bricks. One by one -- you've got a sentence, a paragraph, a page. And before you know it, you've written the Great American Novel. Simple. No magic. No heavenly inspiration. No angst. No excuses.
So why haven't I written anything for the past six months? I had an idea for a screenplay that really had me going. I wrote an outline and even the first few scenes. Then I kind of got distracted. A little while later, I had another idea for a short movie. Figured out the basic premise and the overall theme of the piece. Knew where the jokes would go. Never quite got around to writing it. A few weeks ago, I heard about a contest for a one-hour television pilot. Came up with some characters, basic plot, cool title and the opening scene... Nothing.
So what's the deal, has the well run dry? Have I lost the spark? Is the honeymoon over? Do I rely too heavily on cliches? Or could it be the dreaded Writer's Block?
Writer's Block. The very words invoke a tomblike sense of finality. They conjure up images of a vast murky abyss that echoes with the stillness of eternity and reeks of the foul funk of two day old Chinese food. Even to acknowledge its existence brings you another treacherous step closer the brink. And once you fall into that abyss, you may never claw your way out. It feeds on your fear, expanding with each excuse, widening with every self-pitying whine. Its walls become sheer cliffs of ice where neither hand nor foot can find purchase. The very sky is made dim by the smoky shadow that looms like a shroud over its vast expanse. It envelopes and overwhelms, suffocates and consumes, leaving you numb and hollow, gasping for inspiration and praying for redemption.
But it never comes. You've given in. Now your at its mercy. And it wants your soul.
You struggle. You think you still have a chance. Flailing about wildly you reach out for anything that might serve to empower you. Blackness overtakes you and the roar of oblivion thunders in your ears. You scratch at the last tatters of vanishing reason...
And then, you feel something. Something solid. Something real. A book.
Your trembling fingers fumble with the cover. Blurry shapes slowly take form. A word. A sentence. A paragraph. A page. You read on. Half-formed thoughts wink like fireflies in the gloom. A light appears in the distance. An idea. Magic. Inspiration.
A world is created from nothing. People are born, live and die in a universe cradled in your hands. A lifetime's experience is captured in walls of imagination. A story becomes real.
So, I have a new project to work on. I'm not sure if I'll finish it. Right now it's just an idea. But as long as the ideas keep coming, that's enough for me.
Thanks for helping me through my writer's block.
Rich
There's such a thing as being too clever sometimes. Like the other night when I came home from the movies and parked my prized Honda CRV across from the parking lot of the local bar. Knowing that they were having a big beer bash that night, I thought "no way am I going to leave my car here, directly in the path of dozens of half-blind, judgement-impaired drunk drivers!" No sir, I decided to play it safe. I moved my car way down the block to a protected location, congratulating myself on my foresight and prudence. As I walked back to my apartment, I noticed a big black Cadillac Escalade wedging itself into the space I had just vacated. I couldn't help but think what a great target that Escalade would make for some inebriated slob, careening out of the parking lot a few minutes after closing time. Oh well, we can't all be geniuses. I slept soundly that night, secure in the wisdom of my precautions.
The next morning as I walked down the sidewalk towards my car, I could have sworn that I had parked it in a different spot than the one it now occupied. In addition, it seemed to be sitting at a slightly cockeyed angle to the curb. I was sure I had done a better job of parking than that. I walked out into the street to get a better look. Sure enough, my car was crooked as hell. I immediately flashed on the time my old Toyota had been banged so hard that it was shoved up against the curb. Damn these drunks!
When I got closer I realized that it was worse than I thought. My front left wheel was jammed up against the inside of the fender. I felt the bottom of my stomach drop out and a wave of rage flood my brain. I got in and tried to move the car, thinking I could take it to the repair shop down the street, but it was undriveable. What the hell happened? There was hardly any damage to the body, but the wheel was completely cocked and the car looked like it had been bounced several feet. I looked around and noticed another car parked on the other side of the street that had its whole left side crushed in. I figured some idiot had bounced off that car and sideswiped mine. I was completely freaked. Here I've only had the car about ten days and it's already wrecked! It seemed like every time I try to do something for myself it ends up in disaster. Oh, and did I mention that I hadn't changed my insurance policy over to include collision coverage? I still had the minimum coverage that I had on my Toyota and was planning to update the policy after I sold it. But at least I still had my Toyota, and despite it's squealing brakes, smoking engine and dangling bumper, it got me to work.
That evening I was out looking at the damage when a guy called out from an upstairs window, "Is that your car?" I nodded. "I'll be right down," he said. He comes out of his house and introduces himself (his name is Marvin) and asks, "Do you have any idea what happened here last night?" I said, "I guess someone hit my car." He laughed and then told me the whole story:
Apparently this guy, we'll call him the Asshole, pulled away from the curb at the end of the block and proceeded up the street towards my car. Marvin happened to be returning home at the time and noticed that the Asshole's vehicle was swerving over into the wrong lane. As Marvin watched, Asshole clipped the front of my car, driving it backwards a full ten feet until it jammed up against the curb. At that point, Asshole's 1999 Malibu flipped completely over and landed on an Acura Integra parked across the street. Moments later Asshole emerged from the car, looking none too sober.
Soon thereafter, several police cars appeared on the scene, along with a fire truck, EMT's and a tow truck. Dozens of onlookers gathered around to watch. The street was blocked for hours. The tow truck had to drag my car out of the way in order to get Asshole's Malibu off of the Integra. The police arrested the Asshole and charged him with DUI. Marvin gave a clear, credible and comprehensive statement and the guy who owned the Integra took digital pictures of the whole thing. His name is Ralph, and as it happens, he was out walking his dog and heard Marvin was telling me about the wreck. Neither one of them could believe that I had missed the whole thing, considering the tremendous noise of the crash, followed by the sirens, bright lights and general commotion that followed. I was kind of surprised myself. But, I am a pretty sound sleeper. Besides, I lived in Brooklyn for nine years, so things like gunshots, police sirens, car wrecks and loud screams are as soothing to me as the sound of a babbling brook or the gentle ocean surf.
Anyway, I spent the next few weeks dealing with the Asshole's insurance company, who turned out to be quite cooperative and have agreed to pay for all repairs. Those repairs ended up being pretty extensive, as there was a lot of damage to the front axle. On an interesting side note, however, the one item that needed attention on the car when I bought it just happened to be a loose axle boot on the front left side. Since I'm now getting an entirely new axle, I won't have to worry about replacing that anymore.
The car is still at the shop where it was towed by a Russian guy named Shawn who kept saying, "don't vorry, is collusion center, is fix everything, no problem." For a while I wasn't sure exactly what a "collusion" center did, but now I realize that they try to find as many things wrong with your car as possible without going over the amount that the insurance company will pay for repairs. Fortunately, in my situation they seemed to have reached just the right balance, so that the bill for all the repairs will be very nearly equal to what I paid for the car in the first place, but still a couple thousand less than its market value.
It seems that I lucked out after all. I outsmarted myself by moving my car to what I thought was a safer parking space, but was in fact directly in the path of a drunken driver. And that damn Escalade got through the night without a scratch. Have I learned my lesson? I don't know. No matter what you try to do to prepare yourself, something always happens that you never saw coming. I'm sure I'll be a little nervous the first few times I park my car out on the street again. And I'll probably go ahead and get the collision coverage on my insurance. And next time there's a beer bash, I'm parking behind that goddamn Escalade!
Good Luck to you all,
Hollywood Dick
I had lunch at an ultra-chic restaurant called The Ivy on Sunday. I had a salad. This is how far I've come since I moved out here. I didn't think it could happen to me, but the fact is I drive an SUV, I have regular appointments with a woman who calls herself a "Synergistic Healing Practitioner" and I'm on the weirdest diet in the world that includes drinking a concoction made with coconut oil, grapefruit seed extract, almond milk and a mixture of alfalfa, kelp, wheatgrass and algae. What the hell have I turned into?
It all started last year when I got sick and couldn't seem to get better. After a few months of feeling terrible, I was willing to try anything. My friend Patti, whom I met when she acted in my short movie, suggested that I try Cranial Sacral Release Therapy. In addition to acting, Patti is also a certified massage therapist, and Cranial Sacral Therapy or CST is the latest thing. She said it might help with my low energy, and as a matter of fact it did. The first few sessions were pretty amazing -- that's when I experienced a tremendous release of tension and energy just from having her apply a little pressure to certain spots on the back of my head. And I definitely felt better afterwards. More energy, less tension.
Patti also suggested I start taking acidophilus for my stomach. I'd been having trouble digesting food and that was wearing me down even more. The acidophilus helped a lot. I got to the point where I could almost get through a whole day without feeling exhausted. Patti went out of town for several months and during that time I actually did start to get worse. I went back to my regular doctor again and he told me I was perfectly healthy.
Meanwhile I was trying to relearn guitar since one of the guys in the band decided to quit and I moved from being harmonica player to harmonica and rhythm guitar. One night after practice, when I was particularly worn-out, I pulled into traffic and got sideswiped by a guy making an unannounced lane change. This made about the third time my front bumper had been knocked off. I'd already spent a thousand bucks fixing the front and this just added insult to injury. I got a Russian mechanic to bolt it back on for me after several other body shops refused to work on it.
Finally Patti came back and I started the therapy again. My car was in decent shape and the band was really coming together. I was back on track. But then one of the cases I was working on went to trial and I was plunged into an overtime nightmare. I had been doing all right handling regular workdays, but the added stress of preparing for trial and working 60-70 hour weeks was making me feel exhausted, angry and muddled.
I couldn't seem to shake this damn thing, whatever is was. The doctor had already ruled out all the serious stuff as well as mono. I asked him about Chronic Fatigue Syndrome but he just scoffed. I started looking up things on the internet and found that there are a lot of people out there who seem to be struggling with the same problem. Only no one seems to know what it is or how to get rid of it.
Patti came to the rescue once again, suggesting I undergo an herbal intestinal cleansing program. I agreed to give it a try and for a week I was drinking a mixture of charcoal, clay, flax seed and pectin to help clean out my gut. Afterwards I felt a little better, but I still wasn't back to normal. But in reading the catalogue from the American Botanical Pharmacy (where I got the gut cleanser) I came across something called Candida Albicans, which is a form of yeast that lives inside our body and sometimes can become overgrown. The symptoms of the overgrowth were identical to all of the problems I'd been having for the past year. And one of the causes of the overgrowth is taking antibiotics. I had been given antibiotics by both my dentist and my doctor about four times in a three month period right before all this began. Before that I hadn't taken any since the eighties.
So now maybe I knew what was wrong, but how to get rid of it? One way is by going on a strict diet and eliminating sugar, starch, yeast and gluten from your diet. Sounds simple enough, but what does that leave you with? Salad. No dressing, though, because vinegar is fermented. And no croutons! Hell for most of my life the only reason I ate salad was for the croutons. Anyway I decided to try the diet and see if would help. Plus I got something called Superfood from the herb doc to supplement my diet. And I'm eating lots of garlic.
Meanwhile, some jerk smashed into my bumper again. This time I just tied it back on. To hell with it. Then I got a leak in my power steering system that caused big clouds of smoke to come billowing out from under my hood every time I stopped the car. I decided it was time for a new ride. After trying out several different models, I settled on the Honda CRV. I'm just getting sick of being stuck behind all those other SUVs and not being able to see anything. I found a real nice one owned by a couple who live in Pasadena and are in a rock band. They were very cool and I think I got a great deal. Only one little problem -- they owned a dog.
I didn't notice at first, but the day after I bought the car the dog smell really hit me. I really wanted to get rid of it before my niece Annie and her boyfriend Nate came up to visit, because I was planning to give them a tour of Hollywood in my new car and I didn't want them to suffocate. I took the car to a car wash on Sunset where they charged my a hundred bucks to "detail" the inside. Afterwards, when I got it home, I found a clump of dog hair in the back seat! I'm not sure what "detail" means, but I guess it doesn't include "vacuuming." I took the car back and this time they really went at it. When I got it home it smelled like cleaning fluid. At least it was an improvement over the dog smell.
But the next day when I went out to the car the damn dog smell was back! I ran to the grocery store and bought a can of air freshener and fumigated the inside. Annie and her boyfriend were due in a half hour. The air freshener seemed to help, but I noticed when they got in the car the first thing Annie and Nate did was roll down their windows.
We began our tour of Hollywood with a fancy lunch at The Ivy, pretty much the place to see and be seen. Just like Danny DeVito's character in "Get Shorty" does in the scene filmed at The Ivy, I had to order off the menu to accommodate my bizzarre diet. But the waiter took it all in stride. I'm sure it happens all the time. The rest of the day we visited some of my favorite spots like the Chateau Marmont and the Greystone Mansion. But I think Annie and Nate were most impressed when we went by Ozzie's house in Beverly Hills and Ashton Kutcher's restaurant Dolce where they filmed one of the episodes of his MTV show "Punk'd." I'm astonished that I'm hip enough to know what the hell that means.
Anyway, that's more or less how I evolved from a normal, everyday ex-Brooklynite to an avocado eating, SUV driving, MTV watching Hollywood flake who gets cranial massages and has his car "detailed."
Don't judge me too harshly. I've been out here for almost five years -- a man can only hold out for so long. Don't laugh. It could happen to you.
"Hollywood" Dick
One of the classic Dad stories my Mom used to repeat to us when we were kids was the one about the hammock in the hurricane.
Back in the sixties, my folks were the leaders of our church's "Youth Group." That made them about the coolest parents around. We'd have these parties with coke in the little bottles and popcorn and Simon & Garfunkle and Beatles records playing on the stereo. And the teens from the youth group would hang out and talk about important issues like civil rights and Vietnam and stuff.
That's definitely where my concept of the ideal woman was born. All those cute youth group chicks with the bell-bottom jeans and the long straight hair. No makeup. No pretense. Idealistic, political, but still a lot of fun. Swaying to Creedence or shimmying to the Doors. Captured indelibly in time-lapse perfection by the flash of the strobe light...
But I digress.
Each summer the youth group would leave the suburbs of Louisville to spend a few weeks engaging in volunteer work in places like an indian reservation in Hugo, Oklahoma or a depressed rural community on Edisto Island South Carolina. My parents, of course, would go with them.
Now, as luck would have it, Edisto Island South Carolina is smack dab in the path of just about every hurricane that comes up the Atlantic coast. And summer, as you know, is hurricane season.
The kids were camped out at some kind of run-down community center or something when the word came in the that a hurricane was blowing its way north and would soon be upon them. They began packing up their belongings and carrying everything into the nearest shelter. By the time the rain started, they had just about everything stowed away except on thing: the hammock. People were now running for cover as the rain began lashing down. The wind became a furious howl. Everyone was huddled together praying for the storm to blow over quickly. Except my Dad. He was taking down the hammock.
Now it wasn't like anyone was going to use the hammock that night, but leaving it to be ripped apart by the hurricane just wasn't practical. So Dad decided to take it down and bring it in. Problem was, whoever put it up was clearly not the Boy Scout my Dad was and had tied about two-hundred granny-knots in each end. The rain is now coming down in buckets, the wind is whipping the hammock around like crazy. People are calling for my Dad to come inside -- forget the damn hammock for God's sake Warren! But Dad just kept on untying each one of those four-hundred granny knots, deliberately and methodically, one by one.
Another man might have simply taken a knife and cut through those four-hundred knots. But not my Dad. Patience. No need to panic. One thing at a time. Everything has its place. Who tied all of these Goddamn knots anyway?
He stood his ground, my Dad, hurricane be damned, and he untied that hammock and brought it in to safety. The storm indeed blew over without major damage and the hammock was put back up to provide comfort and solace to many a weary teen.
My Mom loved telling us this story, partly I think to make fun of Dad, but also to show us how he was cut from a different cloth than the rest of us. He was of the old school -- the real old school not the MTV kind. The school where you learned to do things right because any other way is just a waste of time. The school where you stick to your guns and shoot straight. The school where your word is your bond. And truth is not an abstract concept, it's a way of life. I haven't met too many other people from that school, and that's too bad.
The other story I love to tell is the one about the guy in the tollbooth. Years later after my parents moved back to Connecticut, Dad used to drive almost an hour each way to Bridgeport and back to get to work at GE. At the time they still had the toll booths along I-95. Dad always had his tokens at the ready and could never understand those people who would pull up to the booth and begin searching their pockets, ashtray, seat cushions, floorboards, etc. for loose change to pay the toll. Why can't they have their money ready? It's the same amount every day at every booth. Same as it was yesterday. Same as the last booth. They even have signs along the road telling you that the toll is up ahead and what the amount is. But invariably, my Dad would get behind the one idiot who got into the exact change lane without the exact change and would hold up a long line of angry, horn-honking commuters while he searched for pennies under the floormats of his car.
One day my Dad was waiting behind one of these morons and he just couldn't bear the agony any more. So he got out of his car, walked up to the toll booth, tossed in a token, turned to the hapless driver and said "Go." Then Dad got back in his car and continued his commute.
He wasn't quite the same guy who stood in the rain untying granny-knots, but I still love the way he addressed the situation. He didn't honk his horn. He didn't raise a fuss. He just paid the man's toll and sent him on his way. God knows there would be plenty of other idiots to contend with further down the road. But at least for now there's one less. We'll deal with the others in turn. One at a time. No need to rush.
Be patient.
Use your head.
The car is not a toy.
Think!
Sometimes it seems like having a job is more trouble than it's worth. What really is the purpose of having a job? Isn't it supposed to improve the quality of your life and allow you to accomplish the objectives you have set out for yourself? And yet in reality it just sucks your lifeblood and leaves you with no time and no energy to pursue your dreams. Instead of working for yourself, you give your heart and soul to the pursuit of abstractions and solving other people's problems and you end up sidetracked from your true path. Then again, every once in a while you catch a break.
I've been working on a case that was fast-tracked to trial and the past month has been pretty grueling. There are a thousand things to prepare before trial and a thousand things for which you can't prepare. And just when things were getting heated, I had an East Coast wedding to attend. I had already asked for the time off, but when the actual day came to remind my boss that I leaving for a long weekend, he said "I'm not going to tell you not to go. But I'm not going to forget this either." Sounded like a threat to me.
Threat or no threat, nothing was going to keep me from seeing Brian Nesin marry Romy Smith. Brian was my roommate back in Brooklyn before going off to Harvard to become an architect. After Harvard, Brian moved to L.A. where some architects actually find jobs. When I decide to move out here, Brian was one of the people who made it feel like I wasn't so far from home. Our weekly hikes together grew into the legendary "Hike Club," a dedicated group of adventurers who roamed the canyons of L.A. county in search of the perfect trail.
Brian met Romy through the Continental Network of Jewish Mothers (Romy's mom knew someone who knew Brian's mom) and soon Romy and her dog Sasha were Hike Club regulars too. Even after the once mighty Hike Club faded into misty memory, Romy, Brian, Sasha and I carried on the proud tradition on our own. In fact it was on a hiking trip that Brian proposed to Romy (I wasn't along for that one.) After they got engaged, they moved to Brooklyn, back to the same neighborhood where Brian and I once lived.
The wedding was in Washington D.C., another of my old haunts. Most of the wedding guests stayed in a lovely old hotel downtown and were treated to an excellent dinner on Friday night. I sat with a group of architects from LA whom I'd met when Brian was in town. The ceremony itself was held at the Ronald Reagan Building in the heart of Federal Triangle. It was very moving, with the Rabbi recounting nearly the whole story of Brian and Romy's courtship. The bride looked stunning and surprised everyone a the reception by serenading the groom with a beautiful love song. Brian, never the most effusive guy in the world, wore the biggest smile I've ever seen and truly looked like the happiest man on earth. He's a lucky guy.
Being in D.C. provided me with a bonus opportunity to stop in and visit with the incomparably hospitable David and Shellie Todd, their amazing son Avery, and their weekend houseguests Dan and Rachael Haar. Rachael is Dan's seven-year-old daughter and she completely stole my heart. Hard to believe that a stubborn, cantankerous grouch like Dan Haar could have produced such wonderfully charming offspring, even when taking in to account the many fine qualities of Rachael's mother. Nevertheless, everything that is good and honorable in Dan has been magnified and highlighted in his daughter and it she does him nothing but credit by sheer association. We spent a glorious day touring the sights of our nation's capital which was the perfect corollary to the wedding celebration.
When I got back I walked right into a shitstorm. For the next three weeks I dealt with crisis after crisis, worked late every night and through the weekends. Everything was urgent, last minute and problematic. People kept repeating the phrase "Someone needs to..." or the variation "Someone should have..." and every time that poor someone would turn out to be me.
The night before trial I was told I needed to prepare a set of exhibit notebooks for opposing counsel. Unfortunately we had only just designated the exhibits that day and there were no copies. I stayed until 1:30 a.m. putting the damn notebooks together, drove home for four hours sleep and then drove back to be ready for trial at 8:30 the next morning. I was running around preparing the judge's and witnesses notebooks when the call came in from my boss. The case had settled.
That was just the break I needed, because I was scheduled to fly the red-eye to Burlington Vermont that weekend to see my niece Annie graduate from UVM. Instead I was able to fly standby and arrive in Burlington Friday evening. I spent the next two days with my family enjoying one of the most beautiful weekends in the history of Vermont. Annie was totally cool and gets more beautiful every time I see her. We lunched attended receptions, and had a fancy dinner party with Annie's roommate's family. It was so great to be rid of the burden of trial and have the chance to just hang out and relax.
On Sunday we all went to the big graduation ceremony together and then another smaller ceremony just for Annie's college. I had to cut out early to make my flight home, but I'll get to see Annie again very soon. She's coming out to LA for the summer. I'm really looking forward to spending some time with her while she's here. It makes all the work and stress and other people's problems seem pretty unimportant. As long as you can stay connected to the people you love, all the other stuff doesn't really matter. It was good to be reminded of that.
No plans right now for any more trips, but there are lots of people here in town I need to catch up with. Maybe this weekend I'll go visit some of them.
Hope everyone is doing well. I miss you.
Love, Rich
I've been watching a lot of TV lately. I never really got into reality shows before, but there's this new one that really has me hooked. It's got everything -- action, drama, suspense, mystery and propaganda. And it runs 24 hours a day so you can tune in whenever you want and there's always something interesting to watch. Here's how it works:First, they pick a country that nobody really likes. Then they come up a reason why this country poses a threat to national security. That part is kind of like the Tom Cruise movie Minority Report. See, they can't actually wait for a country to do something overt like attack us or even threaten to attack us. That would take too long. So, using a team of psychics employed by the Rand Corporation, they find a country that they know is going to attack us in the future. Then they invade that country in order to prevent them from attacking us. It's pretty brilliant. Except they don't call it an invasion, because that would be bad for ratings. Instead they call it a liberation.The invasion, I mean... liberation, occurs in three parts. Part One is the "Air Campaign." That's where they strategically bomb all of the "bad" areas of the country, like royal palaces, television stations and restaurants and leave the "good" areas like oil refineries and Hilton Hotels relatively unscathed. Part One and is pretty much like a giant fireworks show, except that hundreds of innocent people are killed and maimed. The whole thing with the killing innocent people is kind of a drag, but since it's in support of the cause of establishing worldwide Capitalism, I mean... Democracy, you kind of have to look on the bright side.Anyway, Part Two is where most of the real action is, the "Ground Assault." That's where they get a bunch of journalists, arm them with video phones, strap them onto tanks and send them into battle. The journalists compete to see who can go the longest without sleeping or bathing while filing as many stories as possible about what it's like to be a journalist riding on the back of a tank without sleeping or bathing for two weeks. Plus they also get shot at.Lots of people get killed in Part Two, but fortunately most of them are foreigners and so we don't have to hear about them. Toward the end of Part Two, there was a bit of a lull where it seemed like the liberation wasn't going according to the programming schedule. They started coming up with all of these stories about how it wasn't well planned or properly budgeted or they didn't have enough journalists on the front lines. But I think that was all just part of the dramatic build up to the final act.Part Three is the "Final Showdown." That's where all of the tanks and journalists surround the capital city and start filing reports about how the liberation is a big success and the people are finally rid the evil oppressive tyrant who they never really liked. Now they will be free to elect an oppressive tyrant of their own choosing just like we do here in the good old USA. Then they tear down a big statue of the oppressive tyrant and everyone cheers and there is much rejoicing and dancing in the streets and a whole lot of looting.This show was so enthralling that I was kind of bummed out when it finally ended. But I cheered up as soon as I learned that it got such good ratings that they're already planning the next installment. In fact, they've already picked out the country and everything. And even though it may mean that thousands of innocent people will die, it sure makes for some damn good television.
Love, Hollywood Dick
My sister Susan and her son John came to visit two weeks ago. I had been thinking about their visit for a long time, planning things we could do together, places to take them, things to show them. The weekend before they arrived, I gave my apartment a real good cleaning. That's one of the side benefits of having guests -- besides getting the chance to see some of the sights that you never get to see in your own town -- you also get a lot of cleaning done that you've been putting off. At least that's the way it is for me. It's a great excuse to do things that you want to do but never make the time for. Plus it's fun to have my family around.
Susan had no particular agenda, she was content to see and do whatever seemed interesting at the time. I had several events planned and a few optional activities. I think she really just wanted to relax. I especially wanted John to have a good time -- I still remember the trip my family took to Los Angeles back in the early Seventies. We went to Disneyland and Universal Studios, visited Tijuana Mexico and swam in the Pacific. It was one of those ideal childhood adventures. Ever since then California has always had a kind of magical aura. The type of place where childhood dreams become real.
The first event I had planned for Susan and John was a trip to Warner Bros. Studios in Burbank. We lucked out and got in a small group and were able to go all over the lot and see where the magic happens; the exterior sets for ER, the West Wing and the Gilmore Girls set and we even got to go inside one soundstage and poke around the set of the Drew Carey Show. They gave John a copy of the shooting script from the most recent episode. I think the thing that impressed me most was seeing the original Maltese Falcon in the studio museum. I couldn't believe that it was an actual physical thing right there in the same room as I was. After all, it is the stuff that dreams are made of.
That night we went to Santa Monica and visited with John's cousin Jesse who works at a video game company. He spends half the night in this big underground room with about two dozen other young guys testing the latest video games. And he gets paid for it. Is that a cool job or what?
The next couple of days we wandered around Hollywood seeing some of the favorite sights: Farmer's Market, Grauman's Theater, Sunset Strip, Beverly Hills, etc. John wanted to see some cool cars so I took him to a car dealer up the street from me where they have the most amazing collection of vintage Jaguars, Bentleys, Aston Martins, Ferraris, Maseratis, and the like. At one point the dapper salesman approached me and with an upper-clas British accent, asked if I was interested in "older cars." I told him that I had promised to buy one for John on his sixteenth birthday and was just letting him pick one out. The salesman smiled. "I like your style," he said.
John also enjoyed looking at vintage guitars, so I took him to Black Market Music where a lot of bands sell their old gear. There were some real beauties there, including a classic old "Flying V" like the one played by Pete Townshend. John has been playing bass lately, and had his eye on a nice looking fretless number. We stayed in there longer than the Warner Bros. museum.
At one point while John was looking in another guitar store, I took Susan over to the Chateau Marmont Hotel on the strip. It's one of the few places that still retains that mixture of elegance and decadence that truly captures the spirit of old Hollywood. It's been home to the likes of Clark Gable and Jim Morrison. Garbo lived there. John Belushi died there. I know of a side entrance that takes you directly into the courtyard where guests can relax in privacy and luxury. Susan and I slipped in and looked around, soaking up the history and the style. As we stepped back out into the street, we were nearly bowled over by a very serious-looking woman carrying a portfolio. Obviously a very important woman on her way to a very important engagement. We both recognized her at the same time, but I don't think Susan was really sure she was who she looked like. She looked at me, eyes wide in amazement. I nodded, yep -- that was Jodie Foster.
I think the high point of the visit for me was when Susan and John came to see me play with Jimmy and Will at our regular gig in North Hollywood. We tried out a few new songs mixed in with the tried-and-true chestnuts. It was great fun as always and even better to have my family in the audience. John even said it was "awesome." You can hardly get higher praise than that.
We spent a fun night at our cousin's, the Norelius's, playing world championship darts. John really held his own with the big boys. I mean those guys play some serious darts. I bought a dartboard just to practice up before I go over there to visit. Cousin Clay Sr. claims to have beaten the guy who is ranked 30th in the world, and from the way he throws, I believe him.
The last day they were here, Susan and I left John alone with his internet rotisserie baseball league and we took a walk around my neighborhood. We ended up back at the Chateau Marmont and enjoyed some beverages on the patio with the rest of the well-heeled gentry. All in all a pretty nice time. It was great to be able to share some of the things I love about this place with the people that I love. It makes me feel pretty damn lucky. After they left, I found a "Best Uncle" award on my kitchen table. It's one of the best awards I could ever receive.
I'm not sure what's going to happen in the next couple of days. I guess nobody is. I know there are a lot of people who are working very hard to keep things from getting worse for all of us. I sure hope they know what they're doing. At this point it's kind of hard to tell. But I don't want to assume the worst. I want to believe that cooler heads will prevail.
Let's keep our fingers crossed.HWD[editor's note: the U.S. invaded Iraq on March 21st, 2003]
I didn't march yesterday. I told myself I was too tired. It was a very long week at work. I was cooped up in a room with a plaintiff who was reviewing hundreds of boxes of our clients files looking for evidence of unfair business practices. That meant I had to haul boxes in every morning and haul them out every night and lug them around the room whenever she selected one to review. Naturally the ones she wanted were always on the bottom of a stack of five. Anyway, I still don't have all of my energy back and all that exercise was really wiping me out. So I wasn't up for a three hour peace march.
I've been getting a lot of emails asking me to sign petitions or write to congressmen or call the White House or join a movement or make a donation. I get most of them from my Dad, who in addition to being an internet freak is also the family peace activist. I haven't really followed up on any of them. I haven't even read a lot of them. About the most I've done to support the peace movement is to honk my horn each night on my way home from work when I pass a group of protesters holding signs that say "Honk if You Want Peace!" They seem to appreciate it.
It's not that I don't care if we go to war. I guess I'm hoping that if I ignore President Bush long enough he'll eventually go away. Instead of actively supporting peace, I'm being passive aggressive towards war. I didn't used to be so lame. There was a time when I marched and chanted and protested right up there with the best of them.
In '78 I was at Kent State protesting the construction of a gymnasium on the site of the murder of four students by the National Guard during an anti-Vietnam demonstration eight years earlier. Former SDS founder Mark Rudd was there exhorting us to action in a voice hoarse from passion and urgency. (He's the guy Trudeau based "Megaphone Mike" on in Doonesberry.) They played "Ohio" by CSNY over the loudspeakers and we swarmed the construction site, tearing down the fence and occupying the area for several hours while the FBI took our pictures. Mark and several of the more prominent radicals wore bandanas over their faces to conceal their identities. It was pretty cool.
There were some other memorable events from those days: the antiapartheid sit-in in college, the march to save the Red River Gorge in Kentucky, the Vietnam War debate at our church when I was twelve... Yep, I used to be the real deal. What happened?
One thing that struck me when I saw the news footage of the protests yesterday was that most of the faces I saw looked like mine. I didn't notice a lot of twenty-year-olds out there. I always thought idealism was a disease of the young. But it was nice to see all the old farts getting out to march after all these years. I think that's what made me have this weird dream I had last night:
I was at a big Grateful Dead concert, like at the Meadowlands, and then I was playing drums with Val Kilmer -- we were the drummers for the Dead apparently and we were in the middle of the drum solo. We had broken the rhythm down to almost nothing, they way they do, and were beginning to build it back up. I started playing on a hollow wooden clave, tapping out a simple "one-two-three-four-one-and-two-and-three-and-four." The crowd picked up on it and started chanting "One, two, three, four -- We don't want your fucking war!" Just a few in the front at first but soon it spread through the whole arena. "ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR -- WE DON'T WANT YOU'RE FUCKING WAR!" I started shouting "HELL NO, WE WON'T GO!" and some folks picked up on that too and it turned into a real humdinger. The whole place was thundering with the rhythm and the chanting and it got so intense I woke up feeling charged with energy and enthusiasm.
I guess that spirit hasn't completely died out. In fact it seems to be lurking in the shadows just looking for an excuse to come back into the sunlight. Maybe next time there's a peace march, I'll drop by and see if anyone wants to join in on any of the old chants. Teach the kids a thing or two. Or at least, I may start following up on my Dad's emails. So don't be surprised if you start getting petitions and requests for donations. Just trying to stay active.
"Honk!"
HWD
I got to see what it feels like to be a rock star the other night. Well, pretty close. See, I was watching MTV and they had this show where they fool these guys into thinking they're auditioning for a band, when actually they're in a contest to be a rock star for five minutes. The winner gets to perform one song onstage in front of a live audience with a major rock act. In this particular case it was the Goo Goo Dolls. The guy who won looked like he was having the time of his life and I couldn't help thinking how cool that would be. After the song was over you could tell he was in seventh heaven. Definitely a dream come true. What could be more fun?
First, maybe I should explain why I was watching some goofy reality show on MTV. Nothing wrong with reality shows or MTV mind you, but it's not the kind of thing I usually do. At least not the kind of thing I admit to. It's because of the damn video store.
You may have noticed that the local video store isn't the local video store anymore, it's the local DVD store. You can hardly find videos in my neighborhood anymore -- they've gone the way of 56k modems and pay phones, relics of a dimly recollected era. If you want to rent a movie anymore you have to make the jump to DVD.
Of course, once I resigned myself to getting a DVD player, I could hardly watch them on my old TV. I bought it at a thrift shop for $30. It has this cool feature where you have to get up off the couch and walk across the room to turn it on. It works OK, but the problem is that the picture tube seems to be getting a little dimmer and the colors all look a little on the muddy side. Hardly the proper medium for viewing a state-of-the-art digitally re-mastered edition of Big Trouble. So I got myself a new TV. It is, in fact, the first new TV I ever bought and it is a monster. I decided to go with the 27-inch screen so I could watch the wide-screen DVDs and not miss a thing. The damn thing barely fit into my car, I had to take it out of the box to get it home.
Once I started watching it I was mesmerized. Everything looks so cool. Even commercials. The first day I had it, I basically just sat in my apartment and watched everything that was on. It doesn't matter what it's about, so long as it's visual. No wonder I was seduced by the flashy cuts and the undulating camerawork of the MTV show: Guitar! Tattoo! Pierced Belly Button! Cleavage! Loud Rock Music! Stretch Limo! More Cleavage! Another Tattoo! I was hooked. I wanted to be a rock star too.
As it happened, that same night I had a gig with my buddy Jimmy and another guy named Will Ray. Our regular guitar player couldn't make it, so I had suggested to Jimmy that we ask Will to join us. Will is a fairly well-know session musician and record producer who has played with the likes of Steve Earle and Lucinda Williams. He also produced Jimmy's demo. I was half-kidding when I made the suggestion, but Jimmy took me seriously and Will agreed. We spent one evening rehearsing at Will's house -- I was petrified, I mean this guy is the real deal. Plus he did all of the arrangements to Jimmy's songs. How's he going to react when he hears me mangling them? As it turned out the rehearsal went pretty well. Will is so cool, he made me feel totally relaxed and I hardly screwed up at all. Actually it was a lot of fun.
But not nearly as much fun as the gig. I didn't realize when we were rehearsing that Will was holding back. Once we got on stage he really let it rip. All I had to do was stand there and try to stay out of his way while he tore the place apart. I managed to keep up all right but it was hard to remember that I was part of the band and not the audience. I was having such a great time, it didn't even seem like I was playing. It felt just like I was the contest winner on MTV pretending to be a rock star. Except it was better because I got to play the whole show.
The best part was, Will had a good time too and wants to play with us again. That may be about the best compliment I ever got as a guitar player. That night as I drove home, I felt like a real musician coming home from a real gig. It was cool.
I guess I'm a little old to still have MTV rock star fantasies, but you're never to old to have a dream come true.
Happy New Year.
HWD
