I think it was Woody Allen who said: "I don't have a problem with change -- I just don't want to be around when it happens." It seems we live in a society where progress is paramount and history is too often forgotten. The problem with most progress is that it is driven by greed rather than by a legitimate need for change. Such is the case in my neighborhood, where a local historic landmark is facing demolition in the face of the seemingly epidemic proliferation of premium coffee franchises. I felt I had to take a stand.
When I first moved out here, I spent some time hanging out at my buddy Brian's apartment. He let me use his computer to work on my screenplays while he was at work. I liked the area and took many long walks looking for apartments. During one of these walks, I stopped at a burger stand called Irv's Burgers and had a very tasty turkey burger. Right then and there I decided that this was the neighborhood for me. Any neighborhood that had a place like Irv's was right up my alley. In fact, I ended up taking an apartment just two blocks down the street and soon became an Irv's regular.
Now it isn't just the burgers that make Irv's the best place to eat in town. The owner, Sonia Hong, also happens to be the most cheerful and sweetest woman you ever met. She greets every customer by name and personalizes each order with handwritten notes and drawings on the paper plates and bags. Over the years I have brought everyone I know to share in the Irv's experience and Sonia has treated all of them like family. Her's is truly a family place as her mother and brother work alongside her. Everyone who comes to visit me in L.A. counts Irv's as one of the highlights of the trip.
But Irv's may not be around much longer. The owner of the property wants to lease the space surrounding Irv's to a coffee chain called Peet's and their plan is to get rid of the burger stand to make room for a parking lot. "They paved paradise and..." Well you know how it goes. Anyway a bunch of Irv's loyal customers have banded together with a petition and letter-writing campaign to try and persuade the developers to allow Irv's to remain where it is. Irv's is one of the last of a dying breed of walk-up hamburger stands and is truly one-of-a-kind. The fact that Irv's happens to be located on the original Route 66 and was frequented by the likes of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin contribute to its historic value.
The other day I went over to Irv's for a "delicious" turkey burger. While I was there, a reporter from Channel 2 showed up and interviewed me for a story they were doing about Irv's. There has been quite a bit of media attention, including stories in the L.A. Times, the Washington Post and the Wall Street journal.
I hope the Burger Brigade is successful, it would be sad to see Irv's disappear. There are too many shiny new things that lack substance and not enough shabby old things that have character. Maybe this time there are enough people who care about the shabby old things to actually make a difference. We'll see.
I got a double dose of civic duty a couple of weeks ago. That's exactly the kind of thing I've spent the past twenty years generally try to avoid. For a long time I liked to think of myself as "flying under the radar." I guess I even imagined myself a bit of an "outlaw" at times in my own naive and overly romanticized way.
For several years, when I lived in D.C., playing folk music for tips at a vegetarian restaurant and writing free-lance articles for American Heritage, I drove all around the city in an unregistered, uninsured car. I even got pulled over once, but somehow finessed my way out of it. I voted in the 1984 election, but after that I kind of lost interest. And yet I still ended up serving jury duty. I figured it was an easy 40 bucks so what the hell.
While I was in Brooklyn, attracting media attention as one of the "Funniest Unemployed Comics," I lived rent-free for the better part of a year after my landlord mysteriously disappeared. I failed to file several state income tax returns and defaulted on my student loans. I never registered to vote in New York; politics just seemed like an irrelevant nuisance to me. But once again I got called in for jury duty. This time the pay was only about 20 bucks, but I was unemployed so who was I to complain.
These days I am a little more respectable. My car is registered and insured and has a valid parking permit. I pay my taxes on time and I don't even get a refund. I'm never late with the rent and I even assisted the landlord in evicting a tenant who was creating an unsafe environment in our building. I register to vote and have served on two juries. In fact, two weeks ago I served on a jury and voted in the same week! How's that for good citizenship?
One thing that always strikes me about jury duty is that despite the fact that everyone whines about it and tries to get out of it, once the jury gets into the deliberation room, everyone seems to take it pretty seriously. Which is good because in this case we were sending a guy to prison for the rest of his life. But what was really cool about it was the way people allowed each other to disagree and to talk things out before they reached a final decision. In the end we all agreed on a guilty verdict on thirteen separate charges.
The day after that was election day. It was my first election since '84 and I was pretty excited about it. In fact I had registered specifically to vote in this election because I felt so strongly about the outcome. I felt like I couldn't sit this one out -- it was too important. So I did my civic duty and voted for the candidate of my choice. As it turned out I was disappointed by the final result of the election. And it made me think about the whole trial by jury process.
It's too bad the information put out by the candidates isn't subject to some kind of stringent requirements the way evidence in court is. Politicians can say whatever they want and there's no counsel to object to the impropriety or lack of foundation or irrelevance of it. And no judge to decide what's fair and what isn't. And there are no instructions for voters the way a jury gets instructed: Be impartial, don't base your decision on personal bias, don't pick a position and refuse to budge despite compelling evidence to the contrary, on the other hand don't be swayed by a passionate argument if your sure of your position.
Wouldn't it be cool if we could all go into a giant deliberation room and everyone would actually listen to each other's opinions and we could all decide together which candidate is best? I guess that's what we try to do anyway. We had the debates and they had moderators. We have plenty of time to gather the facts and discuss them with our friends. I tried make sure that I talked to people who didn't share my opinion to see if their reasons made sense to me. But what it seems to come down to is some people believed one guy and some believed the other. In a court of law, that would be called a "hung jury" and there would be a mistrial and they would have to try the case all over again. But in politics the same thing is called a "mandate."
That's democracy for ya.
I'm still glad I did my civic duty. Maybe one of these days I'll run for office. I wonder how much a councilman makes?
I have a picture on my bulletin board taken in 1998 in Sarasota Florida. It's a picture of me and my nephew Chris sitting in front of a fountain near the harbor. In the picture, I look about the same as I do now -- in fact as I sit here typing this, I am wearing the same shirt and glasses as I am in the photo. But Chris looks a lot different. In the picture he's eleven; today he turned eighteen.
I guess we've both been through a lot of changes since that picture was taken, but while I have mainly changed addresses and waist sizes, Chris has changed from a boy into a young man. When I talked to him today he was sitting in his dorm room in Boston preparing to go out for the evening to hear some live music with some friends. He has mid-terms and political discussions and girlfriend problems. He's beginning his life on his own and really seems to have a handle on things. Much more so than I did. When I was his age I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. Still don't.
After I called him I started thinking about the trip we took to Florida together. See, that year Chris's Mom had to work the week Chris had spring break. All his friends were going on these cool trips somewhere and poor Chris had to stay home and do nothing. I thought it might be fun if he and I went to visit my parents for the week. It didn't seem fair for him to miss out on spring break. He was all for it and had two things he really wanted to do while we were there: visit Disney World and go deep sea fishing. I was really looking forward to having the chance to spend some time with him since I knew that it wouldn't be long before he was all grown up and too old to want to spend time with his boring old uncle.
On the flight down to Sarasota, Chris kept talking about DSF. When are we going DSF? Have you ever DSF'd before? I can't wait til we get to go DSF. What the hell is DSF? Deep Sea Fishing! Of course. Yeah, DSF is going to be pretty cool.
Meanwhile I had done some research on Disney World using one of those trip planning books they publish for compulsive list-making geek vacationers. I had devised a plan whereby we could see all of the major attractions in the morning and afternoon and then have time to go back and revisit Chris's favorites in the evening. The book told you which rides were crowded at which times so you could plan your route through the Magic Kingdom accordingly. I had two or three alternate strategies written down in my notebook and Chris and I discussed the best course of action. This kid was going to have the best spring break ever.
As it turns out, Chris really didn't know that much about deep sea fishing. He had a friend who had done it and come back with tall tales. It sure sounded like a lot of fun. And on a calm day, it might not have been too bad. But on the day we went out the sea was medium choppy with swells from 3-5 feet. Now for a good-sized fishing boat that's no real problem, but you are going to get a certain amount of pitching and rolling. And apparently the old Viking genes that my sisters and I inherited from our parents didn't quite filter down to the current generation. About ten minutes out of the harbor Chris started looking pale. After twenty he was queasy. And by the time we reached our destination and weighed anchor Chris was below decks throwing up. He wasn't the only one, mind you. About two-thirds of the boat was down there with him. Bunch of landlubbers I guess. I figured he'd just puke a couple times and he'd be O.K. You know how kids are.
A couple of times he did venture up onto the deck to see how I was doing. I felt guilty leaving him down there with a bunch of seasick tourists while I was sitting in the sun eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and hauling in red snapper like nobody's business. But Chris wanted me to keep fishing. He said I was fishing for us both. What a great kid.
That night at my parents house, we had a red snapper feast, prepared with my special garlic, lime and ginger sauce. Man they were tasty. Poor Chris wouldn't touch them though. I guess they reminded him too much of the four hours he spent puking.
Thank God for Disney World. We followed my plan to a "t" and it worked perfectly. We got to all of the big-ticket rides early and figured out which ones we wanted to go back to. We had lunch right on schedule at a place recommended in the book as having the shortest lines. We got the advanced reservations for the long lines so we could back later and bypass the poor suckers who didn't read the book and cut right to the head of the lines. We saw everything we wanted and even finished ahead of schedule so we had plenty of time to go back and ride our favorite rides again.
Chris knew exactly which ride he wanted to go back to, the one called Splash Mountain. And that was the only one he wanted to go back to. Not Space Mountain. Not Pirates of the Caribbean. Not Haunted Mansion. Just Splash Mountain. And we went on it again and again and again. Actually it was kind of nice after along hot day in the sun to just float around in a little boat (no waves) watching animatronic characters like Brer Rabbit and Brer Bear sing "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" and then ending up sliding down a log flume and splashing into a pool of water. On our third or fourth time around we came out of one side of the "mountain" and floated peacefully along with a perfect view of the Cinderella castle just as the fireworks were going off. It was almost as if we had timed it just for that to happen. It was one of those moments I'll never forget.
We both had a great time at Disney World and the whole trip worked out as well as I could have imagined. I was really glad to have the chance to spend time with my nephew and hopefully give him some good memories to carry with him. But what I realized today is that I wasn't really doing it just for him. That trip is one of my favorite memories too. And I'm lucky to have such an amazing friend like Chris to share those memories with. I hope we get to spend more time together like that in the future. But for now I just wanted to say thanks, Chris, for such a cool spring break.
Sometimes it's nice to see what you're missing. Maybe the grass really is greener on the other side of the fence. I've been living in the same small apartment ever since I first moved here. There have been times when I didn't think I could stand living there another day -- especially last week when the heat and humidity turned the place into a sweatbox. There's no air conditioner and really no way to install one without knocking a hole in the wall. I've considered it, but I think the landlord might notice the alteration. So, when I saw the ad for the hillside guest house with access to a private swimming pool, I just had to check it out.
I wasn't really looking for an apartment for myself, I was looking for one for my niece, Annie. She was out here last year for the summer and apparently liked it well enough to move out here for real. She arrived last week and has been staying with her former college roomate while looking for a car, a job and a place to live. I've been trying to help out as much as possible since I supposedly am older and wiser and better connected. Of course, she's already been invited to her first Hollywood party and I'm still reading about them in Premiere magazine. Nevertheless, I do know this town pretty well. And this town being L.A., the first order of business was to get her a car. Before she flew out here, she found a car on the internet that she really liked. I went over to check it out for her and thought it was a great deal, so by the time her plane landed at LAX, she already had a car.
Next order of business was finding a place to live. You can only crash at a friend's place for so long. Although, I do know a guy who shall remain nameless (Kevin Osborn) who lived for an entire year in New York City going from couch to couch to couch and never paying rent! And the amazing part of the story is that he remained friends with everyone involved. (Or so he says.)
Annie found a place not too far from me with a very nice young man named John and for a while there it looked like she was going to have the lodging situation all sewed up in record time. Complications arose however and now John is looking for a new place as well. Good luck John.
Meanwhile, I was checking out the local Craigslist for suitable apartments in decent neighborhoods with affordable rents when I stumbled across the hillside guest house with swimming pool. Damn! I have to see this one for myself.
The first drawback is the location. It's a long, stressed-out freeway ride from downtown to the Sepulveda Pass and I do not do well on long commutes. As it turned out, however, the day I went out there it took me exactly the same amount of time as my current commute. Hmmm. Then there's the size of the place. It's not large. In fact it was described in the listing as "compact." I already live in a "small" place, I'm not sure if I can handle "compact." But there's the pool. And it was nice, and you pretty much have it all to yourself since the widow who owns the house never uses it. She and I talked for almost an hour. She's very interesting and maybe a little lonely. I really wanted to like this place -- I mean it has a swimming pool. But for some reason it just wasn't bowling me over.
I drove back to West Hollywood and met Annie at my place. We walked over to the Italian restaurant two blocks from my apartment and had dinner. I realized while were sitting there that as claustrophobic as my place can seem sometimes, it has the three things that any real estate agent will tell you are the most important selling points for any property: location, location, location. I really am right in the middle of things and any time I feel cramped I can get up and walk to any of two dozen cafes, restaurants and bars. Or go to the nearby park or the West Hollywood Pool, or just go for a stroll on the Sunset Strip or catch a movie or even a play at one of the local theaters. So, I think I'm gonna pass on the hillside guest house with swimming pool. I'll keep checking out Craigslist every now and then, though, just in case.
And, as it turns out, a friend at work knows someone who is looking for a roomate. She sounds really nice and the rent is good and it's even closer to my place than the other one we looked at. And it has a pool. So if this works out, I may get to keep my location and still have access to a swimming pool. That is if Annie doesn't mind me coming over to visit every now and then. Hey -- I guess I do have connections after all. Who knew?
I often joke that while some people may have "emotional baggage," I have an emotional storage space where I keep everything locked away and pretend it doesn't exist. This isn't really a joke, however, I do have a storage space up in Maine near my parents summer retreat on Frye Island and it does contain an inventory of my past, packed up and labeled in boxes and crates. Or it did until last week when I finally undertook the soul-searching task of clearing it out.
When I decided to move to California, I had to stash my stuff somewhere. I came out here with only a couple of suticases and a box or two of scripts. I was starting a new life and had to leave the trappings of my former self behind. I decide to haul everything up to Maine because A) the rent was cheap and B) I had a fantasy of buying my own cottage on Frye Island someday. So in addition to boxes of books, tapes, videos and files filled with songs, stories, scripts, plays, letters, essays and articles, I also stored furniture and gadgets and clothes and kitchenware and tons of miscellaneous crap that I thought might be useful or cool to have in my imagined future home.
All that stuff has been sitting there collecting dust for the past six years while I've been busy generating and accumulating more crap out here on the West Coast. Recently my Dad built a new storage shed on the property in Maine and he suggested I sort through my stuff and figure out what I really want to keep. I could then store it in the shed instead of paying rent on it. It seemed like a reasonable idea.
To make things easier on myself I made an executive decision to give away all of the clothes and furniture. It doesn't look like I'll be buying that lakefront property anytime soon and if I do, I'll probably want nice new furniture instead of the junk I picked up off the sidewalks of Brooklyn. The one piece we will hang onto is a massive desk that my Dad got from GE about fifty years ago. The rest goes to the Salvation Army. That left me with about twenty boxes of material to go through.
Books were easy, most of the paperbacks got donated to the Frye Island library. They scored a bunch of Sherlock Holmes, James Bond, Ross MacDonald, and Robert Ludlum. The keepers got shelved in a cabinet in the back bedroom at my folks house. I had a couple of milk crates full of video tapes as well. Eventually some of those will go to the library too, but many of them, such as the Elvis concert videos, had to be retained as part of my musical archive. Cassette tapes were tough. What do you do with them? I'm buying only CDs now and my car doesn't even have a tape deck anymore. I suppose I could give them away, but there are so many of them and some of them haven't come out on CD yet. Besides about half of the cassettes are rare concert recordings, including my bootleg Dylan collection and then of course there are all of the tapes of my old rock bands and my short-lived solo career. These must be retained. They went up in the loft.
Now comes the hard part: the files. I saved everything. Every draft. Every note. Every copy. Every map, brochure, movie ticket, playbill, concert poster, resume, rejection letter, list, outline. I saved receipts, postcards, birthday cards, thank-you notes, phone numbers, bank statements, bills, invoices, foreign currency...
And every single little scrap of paper held a memory, an attachment, a piece of me. Some were easier to throw away than others. And some I could not throw away at all. A thank-you note from my niece when she was eight years old. An egyptian coin. My ticket stub from the Springsteen concert in '78. I put them in an old wooden cigar box.
As for the files containing all of my written output, I tried to get rid of as much as possible, keeping only the essentials. But there was just too much of it. I realized that for whatever reason, I have to keep writing. Whatever else I do, I will always do that. I found songs I had completely forgotten about. Stories and plays and poems and ideas for movies. Color-coded notecards with jokes for my short-lived stand-up career. Pages and pages and pages of words. Words.
Eventually I had to give up and just put the remaining boxes up into the loft with the videos and cassette tapes. Next summer I'll take another stab at it. But I did make a little progress. I no longer have that emotional storage space where my past is locked away and gathering dust. What I have now is a trove of memories and a body of work. Every now and then it's good to cast off some of the old baggage that's weighing you down. But it's also good to know where you come from and what you're made of. Maybe someday I'll get that cottage by the lake where I can preserve my store of memories. Maybe not. Maybe I'll just keep a few special items in an old wooden cigar box.
Meanwhile, I've got a whole new collection of junk to go through in my apartment in L.A. I'd better get a jump on it before I have to rent another storage space.
There's a fog upon L.A. And my friends have lost their way They'll be over soon they said Now they've lost themselves instead. There's a street way up in the Hollywood Hills called Blue Jay Way. About 40 years ago, when the Beatles were touring the U.S., George Harrison was staying at a house there. One foggy day he was waiting for some friends to come visit him and they got lost. So, while he waited, George sat down at the Hammond organ and wrote a song called, appropriately enough, "Blue Jay Way." It's not a very well-know Beatles song. It showed up on the Magical Mystery Tour album, which was one of those albums that only real hardcore Beatle fans bought. It's kind of a weird song about a sleepy guy sitting around waiting for his friends.
Nevertheless, I've always wanted to go to Blue Jay Way and see the house where George stayed when he was in L.A. I'm not sure exactly why I wanted to go there. I just liked the idea of George Harrison hanging out in this house in the hills and writing a song about it. So, a couple of weeks ago I went searching for Blue Jay Way, with very little to go on in the way of directions other than that you go up on Doheny and turn right on another street named after a bird.
As it turns out, there are about a dozen bird streets that wind around the Hollywood Hills near Doheny. There's Oriole, Thrasher, Warbler, Wren, Blue Bird and a bunch of others. And since I was on foot, it took me a long damn time to explore them all. Plus the hills get pretty steep up there and it was a hot afternoon and I was getting really tired and severely winded. By the time I got to the end of Oriole, which turned out to be a dead end, I was ready to give up. But as I was coming back I happened to look up Thrasher and I saw a sign that looked like it might say "Blue Jay" on it. I'd already been fooled by Blue Bird, so I didn't get my hopes up to high. But as I got closer, I saw that sure enough, I had finally found it. I was very pleased with myself for sticking with my quest. Even an arbitrary goal can have meaning if you let it.
Now to find the house. I had nothing to go on there, just that it would be one of the older houses and had a view of the city. I figured there would be something special about it that would tell me which one it was. I didn't think there would be many to choose from, because I'd read that Blue Jay Way was actually a cul-de-sac. Which it is. Eventually. First, though there's another half-mile of steep uphill grade, with dozens of 50's and 60's style houses that have city views. Still I persevered to the top. I actually had to stop about halfway because I literally ran out of breath. When I made it to the top there was a grand view of the hazy L.A. basin, but no spiritual epiphany, no flash of insight, no enlightenment. Just the realization that now I had to walk all the way back down. And don't kid yourself, walking down steep hills is strenuous work.
When I got back down to Sunset Blvd., I stopped at a cafe and guzzled a bottle of water. I don't know which house George stayed in, but I kind of picked one out and imagined it was the one. I thought about what it would be like to live way up there, looking down on the whole city every day like you were living in the clouds. I've always thought it would be really cool to live in the hills. When I'm on my street, I look up there and think about how someday I'll be up there too. It's fun to think about. I wonder if it's as cool as it seems.
I think about Blue Jay Way a lot too. I'm not sure why. It's kind of taken on a mythical status. I think about making another pilgrimage up there at some point. But maybe not. Maybe its just a state of mind. Maybe it's one of those moments in time where life just seems to make sense for no particular reason. Finding Blue Jay Way had no other meaning than the meaning I gave it, but that was all the meaning it needed. Blue Jay Way is perfect because it is what it is. Knowing that it is there makes me feel like things are O.K. It's just a street with a pretty name and a nice view, but sometimes that's all you need.
The Supreme Court did what it does best yesterday by sidestepping a controversial issue based on a legal technicality. By overturning the lower court's decision the Supremes preserved the current wording of the Pledge of Allegiance which includes the phrase "one nation under God." Is it a mere coincidence that they handed down their decision on Flag Day? And not just any Flag Day, but exactly 50 years since Congress added the words "under God" to the pledge in the first place. It was the same act of Congress that added the phrase "In God We Trust" on all our money. Why did Congress feel the need to do this 50 years ago? Because in 1954 we were in the midst of a Communist witch hunt and since everybody knows that Communists are Godless atheists, then it seemed only natural for us red-blooded, God-fearing Americans to proclaim our pro-God affiliations on the most sacred of all places: our money. And, as if that weren't pious enough, we stuck "under God" in a pledge mumbled by millions of sleepy children every morning as they begin their state-sponsored cultural indoctrination programs (i.e., public school). That sure showed them Commies.
By the way, before Congress changed our motto to "In God We Trust" it was "E Pluribus Unum" which means "One From Many." Sounds suspiciously Communist if you ask me. That's the problem with Latin mottoes. Nobody knows what the hell the mean. I've heard several different translations of "Novus Ordo Seclorum" including "New World Order," "New Secular Order," and the government-sponsored version, "New Order of the Ages." Then there's "Annuit Coeptis," which no one understands completely since it is obviously some kind of secret Masonic/Illumnati code that probably gives the location of their subterranean headquarters where they practice their Luciferian sexual rituals and spank each other with paddles carved from acacia wood. But I digress.
Personally I don't remember saying the pledge after sixth grade. I don't know why it is only in grade school where the pledge is recited. Maybe because when you're that young you'll say just about anything if it's repeated often enough. I do know that it took me a long time to figure out what the word "indivisible" really meant, and that it had nothing to do with our country's ability to disappear from sight whenever threatened by foreign invaders. Cool idea though. The Russians decided to attack us and all of a sudden we're "one nation (under God) INVISIBLE..." Now that's something to brag about!
Once I finally did begin to decipher what this "pledge of allegiance" was all about, it filled me with questions. First of all why am I pledging allegiance to a flag in the first place? I get the part about "and to the republic, for which it stands," (which by the way is one of the rare occasions where we Americans admit that we don't live in a democracy). I'm not saying I'm in favor of the idea of having a bunch of innocent, defenseless, politically unsophisticated schoolchildren promising to mindlessly devote themselves to an abstract governing entity that may or may not have the ability to become invisible at any given time. I'm just saying that I understand what it means. But the first part, the part about pledging allegiance to a flag ... to a flag? What the hell does that mean? I never got that and I still don't.
Now don't get me wrong. I grew up with plenty of respect for the flag as a symbol. We hung a flag outside our house on appropriate holidays in conformance with the proper etiquette: never after sundown, never in the rain, never let it get tattered or dirty. That's just basic respect. Not like you see now with people driving around with faded, tattered flags hanging out of the backs of their SUV's. I'll bet none of these patriots has taken the time to look up U.S. Code Title 4, Chapter 1, Section 7, Paragraph (b), which states, "The flag should not be draped over the hood, top, sides, or back of a vehicle or of a railroad train or a boat. When the flag is displayed on a motorcar, the staff shall be fixed firmly to the chassis or clamped to the right fender." (This does not apply to Lakers flags.) Or better yet Section 8, which prohibits the flag from being used in advertisements or printed on paper napkins or plates or part of a costume or athletic uniform or cushions or handkerchiefs. And how about this: "The flag represents a living country and is itself considered a living thing." And finally: "The flag, when it is in such condition that it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way, preferably by burning." That's the law folks. Burning flags is the law.
So, I guess what I'm saying is, I got no problem with respecting the flag, waving the flag, being proud of the flag. It's cool. I know I complain about this country a lot, but I still like it. But I do have a problem with pledging allegiance to a flag. You have to draw the line somewhere. And as far as the whole "under God" issue you could go on forever debating the intentions of the framers of the Constitution when they wrote that the government shall not "establish" religion. Why go there? The Supremes have already said that kids are not "required" to recite the pledge. So my recommendation is that if anyone doesn't like the Pledge of Allegiance, they should just do what I did when I was a kid and make up their own:
"I pledge all legions to the flag of the Divided States of America and Tudor Republics for which they stand one nation, underground, invisible with slippery injustice for all."
There's a scene in the movie Tin Cup where Kevin Costner is standing on the fairway of the final hole of the U.S. open. Three times previously we've seen him in the exact same situation, attempting to hit a long shot over a water hazard onto the green when the smart play would be to "lay up" and make the green in two. And each of the three previous times he has gone into the water. But Costner knows he can make that shot and despite the fact that he actually has a chance to win the Open if he plays it safe, he can't back down from the challenge. He hits the shot and it's a beauty, sailing over the water and landing within striking distance of the pin. The crowd cheers.
But then the ball begins to roll. And it isn't rolling towards the hole, it's rolling back down towards the water. Slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed as it nears the edge of the green. Maybe it will stop before it reaches the embankment. But no, it keeps going and plops into the drink.
Costner watches in agony. But he can still salvage the hole if he takes a drop and makes par. Maybe he can even tie it up and force a playoff. That would be the safe thing to do. But he shakes his head and asks for another ball. He's going to play it from the same spot. Because he knows he can make it. He hits again and the same thing happens. The ball dribbles down the green and into the pond. Costner doesn't even hesitate. He asks for another ball and hits from the same spot again. Before it even hits the water he asks for another. That one falls short too. Now he's down to his last ball. He gives it a good solid whack and it clears the water lands on the green and rolls into the hole. The crowd goes nuts. Here he has just blown a chance at winning the U.S. Open, but no one seems to care. He made the damn shot, just like he said he could, and that's what counts.
I watched that scene yesterday and, even though I've seen it several times before, I still get completely caught up in it. I think what I like about it is the way it all comes down to his belief in himself. He knows that he's capable of greatness, even though to everyone else he's just a burned-out loser who works at a driving range in the middle of nowhere. And when it comes down to a choice between laying up or going for the green, he has to choose the longshot. He calls it his defining moment.
Sometimes I wonder if I should stop shooting for the green and just lay up. Why do I have to keep going for the longshot? I'm sure life would be a lot easier if I just took my par and went home. It's not like I have to prove anything to anybody. Besides, it seems like every time I get close to the pin, my ball always rolls back down the hill and splashes in the water. Maybe it's just not worth it.
I heard from Victoria Wisdom the other day. I had sent her a brief synopsis of my screenplay and she sent back a little note explaining that "inside Hollywood" stories are hard to sell. In other words, she's not interested in reading it. I can't really argue with her. I doubt anyone knows more about what sells in this town than she does. But I really thought if she read it, she'd see that it was worth taking a chance on. It's funny because when I wrote it, I actually thought it was a really marketable idea. In fact most people I tell about it think it sounds great. But the reality is there are certain kinds of scripts that sell and this one just doesn't fall into any of those categories.
But damn it, I know I can make that shot. I took a chance with Victoria because I thought this script was worth the risk. You don't want to use up all your favors on a script that isn't going to go anywhere. She did me a big favor by allowing me to bypass all the usual obstacles and pitch my idea directly to her. Unfortunately my pitch wasn't strong enough to stay on the green. But I've got to take another whack at it.
On Friday I ran into a lawyer I used to work with. He asked me what I was doing and I mentioned the screenplay. Turns out he just won a big case for an agency called Bender-Spink and says he is pretty tight with them. Maybe I should send him the script and he can pass it along to them. A half hour later, I hand delivered a copy to his office. Bender-Spink has the reputation for taking risks with unknown writers. They also like to produce their own projects.
I know it's a longshot -- but hell, if you aren't going to play the longshot, what's the point of playing the game?
Sometimes it's important for a writer to get out of the house. If you spend too much time in isolation, cooped up with your own thoughts, it can make you a little loopy. I was starting to get a little stir crazy, having spent the past five or six weekends working my latest screenplay, and so I decided attend a screenwriter's seminar on how to write a screenplay that actually sells. I chose this particular seminar because it was being given by I woman I met once at the home of my good friends Jon & Ivana. At the time that I met her, I had no idea who she was or what she did for a living. But I did think she was really cool, very nice looking and had one of the best names of anyone I ever met: Victoria Wisdom.
As it turns out, Ms. Wisdom is not just another pretty face, she is in fact one of the most successful literary agents in town. She is the agent responsible for bringing the screenplay "The Usual Suspects" to Hollywood's attention when many others had overlooked it. Her client Chris McQuarrie got an Oscar for that one, by the way. Most recently her projects have included "The Red Violin" and "Love and Death on Long Island." She knows her stuff and for some bizarre reason is more than willing to share her knowledge with rooms filled with aspiring screenwriters.
Now it wasn't completely by accident that I found out about Ms. Wisdom's seminar this weekend. The thing is I'm putting the finishing touches on my new script and I've been making a list of people that I'd like to try and send it to. Victoria Wisdom is at the top of that list. I have been particularly focused on getting the word out this week because this is the weekend that "Kill Bill Vol. 2" opens. Some of you may remember an earlier newsletter where I ranted about the travesty of filmmaking known as "Kill Bill Vol. 1" and recounted the story of how I saw Quentin Tarantino in a diner one morning maniacally writing something in a spiral notebook. And how he left the notebook sitting on the table when he went to the men's room and I was tempted to take a look at it and even entertained the idea of stealing it, but decided instead to respect his privacy. And how that decision came back to haunt me when I realized that the script he was writing was "Kill Bill" and how I could have saved the world from being subjected to that horrendous crapfest by stealing the notebook and burning it.
But what many of you don't know is that in response to that newsletter I received an email from the incredibly astute David Hamburger who said, in effect: Dude! That should be your next movie. The story of the guy who DOES steal a screenplay from Quentin Tarantino. And that is exactly what I've been working on for the past several months, my new screenplay, "Stealing Tarantino."
I figured what better time to try and sell a screenplay that completely rips off the style of a Tarantino movie in order to tell the story of a guy who literally rips off a Tarantino movie than the week before the opening of the latest Tarantino movie. I mean, you can't walk two feet without hearing the guy's name. He was even on American Idol! So I called Victoria Wisdom's office all ready to pitch her my brilliant concept, but instead had to leave her a message. Then I thought I would write her a standard query letter and between the phone message and the letter she would become curious and call me back. But then I saw that she was giving this seminar this weekend and I realized that clearly it was my destiny to speak to her one way or another, so I signed up.
As it turned out the seminar itself was amazing. And best of all, she confirmed a lot of things I have come to believe about the movie biz in general and screenwriting in particular. For example she talked about the fact that execution, while critical, is still not enough -- you have to have the idea that's going to sell as well. Also, having a concept that has a built in audience or "brand" recognition is a huge help. Hello, Tarantino parody -- ka-ching! But the thing that really killed me was when she talked about how you have to be able to cast your movie with the right actors, because it is the actor who greenlights the movie these days. I have a running joke in my script about how every movie that gets pitched is "perfect" for Ashton Kutcher, and of course, one of the main characters in my movie was written with Ashton Kutcher in mind. So when Ms. Wisdom started naming names of actors we should be writing for and the first name out of her mouth was Ashton Kutcher I just about fell out of my chair.
After she was done talking I went up to the front table and introduced myself, reminding her that we had met once at Ivana's birthday party. She remembered seeing my name on her call list, which amazed me. Then she asked about Ivana and Jon and how they were doing. I told her I thought her talk was fascinating and shook her hand. She smiled a lovely smile said she'd talk to me soon. Yes! Now all I have to do is deliver the goods. So it looks like I'll doing another script polish tonight and tomorrow, just in case. But it sure felt good to actually get out and make a connection. In fact I enjoyed her talk so much, I've already signed up for another one of her seminars. The topic of that one is "Finding the Right Agent."
Who says Hollywood has no values? What's the biggest movie out there right now? It's Mel Gibson's new biopic The Passion of the Christ. I just read today that Mel stands to make $350 million on this baby. You don't get more value than that. It's about time someone in Hollywood got rewarded for taking a real risk and making a movie that dares to buck the trends and tell a story that's original and inspiring. Kudos to Mel for being a real Braveheart in a world of Chicken Littles.
Like many great masterpieces, Mel's opus has endured its share of scorn and ridicule. Apparently some people of the Hebraic persuasion don't appreciate Mel's historically faithful depiction of the Jews as bloodthirsty Christ-killers. They can't understand how it took real guts for Mel to defy the "politically correct" fascists and make a strong statement that totally reinforces the type of negative cultural stereotype that has led to the oppression of Jews for centuries. That's Oscar-bait sweetheart! Sure he could have portrayed some of the Jews as sympathetic to the main character. Or given the guy a "wacky" Jewish best friend. But that would have been taking the easy way out. And "Mad" Mel don't take the easy way out.
Another criticism of Mel's gospel has to do with the relentlessly mind-numbing violence. I guess some people think that brutal beatings, sadistic torture and gruesome murder are not suitable for younger viewers. But Mel realized that in order to truly understand his film's message of love, hope and redemption, one would necessarily have to witness two hours of blood-spattered agony and merciless abuse. You don't reach spiritual enlightenment without a little suffering, people. The more sickening, disgusting and painful the experience, the more you will get out of it. Kind of like watching the Oscar pre-show.
Another brilliant gamble on Mel's part was to have all of the dialogue spoken in the original ancient languages. It draws the audience into another place and time and creates a vivid tapestry of sense and sound. Using the actual dialects heightens the reality of the world Mel has created and lends authenticity and gravity to the words. Besides, Costner scored big time with the critics when he did the same thing with the Sioux Indians in "Dances With Wolves."
Of course people will continue to try and chip away at Mel's vision, that is only natural when someone is so successful. But they can never take away the message of this powerful and important work. Because in the end it isn't really about historical inaccuracy or inappropriate violence or socially irresponsible characterizations or shameless profit-making in the name of spirituality. It's not a question of whether those who don't like the movie are actually going to burn in hell or simply bear the crushing burden of a miserable and hopeless life here on earth.
What it's about is weekend grosses.
And Mel has proved, in the only arena that really counts, that all you need is a good story, a main character that the audience will root for, and the unquestioned loyalty of nearly every Christian female in the free world and you will get the asses into the seats, my friend. Someone once asked "What profit a man if he gain the world and lose his soul?" Well, Brother Mel has shown us that it is possible to gain the world and save your soul at the same damn time.
Today I celebrated Presidents' Day in accordance with the customs and traditions of our rich American culture to honor and preserve the memories of the many fine leaders of this the greatest country in the world: I bought a mattress.
Some of you may wonder exactly what buying a mattress has to do with a national holiday commemorating our chief executives. It's complicated.
First of all you have to realize that buying a mattress is only one of many ways that we can pay tribute to our illustrious Heads of State. You could also buy a dishwasher or a pair of pants or, if you really want to demonstrate your patriotism, an SUV. You see it's not what you buy that's important. It's the fact that you cared enough about America to go out and make a purchase on this historic shopping holiday. Because it is buying things that made this country great in the first place.
Think about it. Island of Manhattan? Ka-ching! Bought and paid for. Louisiana "Purchase" -- say no more. Alaska? -- Seward's folly my ass, how about Seward's damn good deal! Buying things is the very backbone of our nation. Look at slavery -- imagine where our country would be now if we hadn't gone out and bought all of those wonderful black folks! It just wouldn't be America without 'em.
And think of how our presidents get elected -- what's the first thing a candidate has to do if he wants to run for president? Exactly, he has to go out and raise a bunch of money. And how does he raise that money? How else? He holds a big sale and the special interests buy him off piece by piece. That money is then used to purchase airtime so the candidate can sell off even more of himself to the voters. But it's not just a one way deal, because he also buys their votes with gimmicky tax cuts (if he's a Republican) or ridiculous promises of jobs and health care (if he's a Democrat). It's a perfect market economy.
Now originally, there were two President's days, Lincoln's birthday and Washington's birthday. For many years, Lincoln's birthday was celebrated with the glorious "one penny" sale. Buy one item, get the second item for only one penny more! It was a fitting honor for a truly great man. In fact that is why Lincoln's face now appears on the penny. Similarly, on Washington's birthday, we had the "one dollar" sale. Same deal but this time it's a dollar. It didn't seem fair that Lincoln's birthday had such a better deal that Washington's, so Congress in its Solomonic wisdom decided to combine the two and make it one big sale for all to share and enjoy. A democratic solution if there ever was one! Now all merchants could take part in the celebration and instead of being limited to the "one penny" or "one dollar" concept, they could choose whatever sale price seemed most fitting to the occasion, say for example "50% to 70% off" or perhaps "no money down" or the ever popular "will beat any price in town!"
In these troubled times of war and terror and low-carb diets, isn't it nice to know that certain values still hold true, like the freedom of the American people to go out shopping and buy nice things and not have to make any payments until June!
I for one am proud to live in a land where I am not judged by my actions or my character or my beliefs, but rather by the clothes I wear, the car I drive, the gadgets I own and the limit on my MasterCard.
Let as all stop and think of the many gifts we as a nation have been blessed with, either in the form of a multitude of makes, models, colors and styles from which to choose, or in the endless array of payment plans available. And let us give thanks to our Dead Presidents for providing us with a national holiday on which to celebrate our blessings and enjoy to the fullest these fruits of capitalism which we so richly deserve.
Christmas has changed since I was kid. Not just because I figured out the whole Santa thing. Although that was a biggie. I'll never forget the year I finally realized that all those presents that magically appeared under the tree on Christmas morning were really from my parents and not from Jolly Old St. Nick. I went back to college that following semester a different person. Wiser, yes, but also a little sadder. I couldn't help wondering how the other kids in my dorm would react if they ever found out. Such a shock to a young developing mind. I wanted to tell them about my discovery -- to share with them the incredible life-altering revelation I had experienced. Perhaps to help guide them to a higher level of understanding. But, I couldn't. I just didn't have the heart. They seemed so innocent and pure and I didn't want to be the one to shatter their beliefs. No just yet. Maybe after graduation...
No, it's not just the mythology of Christmas, but the whole methodology of it that has changed. We used to write letters to Santa with our wish list of favorite toys: a G.I. Joe with kung-fu grip, a Hot Wheels parking garage and service station with working car elevator, an official size and weight genuine cowhide NFL football with real laces, and so on. Then we'd give the letter to our parents and they'd mail it to the North Pole so Santa could bring us what we wanted on Christmas morning. It was a simple system, based the time-tested foundations of delusion, deceit and mail fraud. And most of the time it worked. Although sometimes Santa screwed up and got a G.I. Joe that didn't have the kung-fu grip but had a cheesy fake beard instead. Or a matchbox parking garage instead of Hot Wheels. Or, worst of all, a plastic football with fake laces that were just painted on. Come on Santa!
These days such faux pas are unheard of, thanks to the miracle of the internet. These days instead of writing a letter to Santa, we simply send an email complete with embedded hyperlinks that, with a simple click of the mouse, whisk the reader directly to the websites offering the toys of our choosing and within minutes said toys have been purchased and will be shipped within 3-5 business days.
And as an added improvement, this year our family got really clever and instituted the Secret Santa program. Under the guidelines of this brilliant system, instead of buying and shipping a dozen different presents to locations all over the map, all you have to do is buy ONE present. That's it! You just click on the link, type in your credit card number and presto! Why didn't we ever think of this before? All that running around at the last minute to find a pair of gloves for your niece that are probably exactly like the ones your Mom got her last year. Staying up till all hours Christmas Eve wrapping a bunch of presents you basically had to settle on because they didn't really have what you were looking for and who knows what people really want anyway. Having to explain each gift as it is opened so the recipient will understand why it is so perfect for them, because they once told you they liked dolphins and this sweater has dolphins on it, although they are actually bananas but they look like dolphins if dolphins were yellow...
No more!
This year we each got one present apiece and everything fit and was the right color and wasn't a duplicate of something they already had. I got the book I really wanted and it was great. Even though I knew I was going to get it, it was still fun to have it actually appear all wrapped and under the tree because I didn't know who I was going to get it from. That's the key to the Secret Santa system: you switch the surprise from the gift to the giver. And some of us went to great lengths to keep our secret identities secret. Secret wrapping paper, secret gift cards, misleading gift boxes, altered handwriting. It became a challenge to keep the secret right up until Christmas morning. And for some of us who can NEVER keep secrets (my Mom) the challenge was very great indeed. But everyone met the challenge and no Santa was revealed until all the presents were open. And although some were easy to guess (my sister Susan) others were far too crafty.
So not all change is for the worse. In the case of the modern Christmas, I think we have made a few improvements. We found out that buying a bunch of silly presents isn't as important everyone getting together and having fun. The gifts weren't the focus, it was just the idea of all of us being in the same place at the same time that made it feel like Christmas. The gifts were just excuses. We could easily have bought them for ourselves, but it was a lot more fun to do it this way. On the flight back home to L.A. I thought about how lucky we are to enjoy each other's company so much. After two weeks, I would think most families would be at each other's throats. But I was missing them already. I really loved spending time with my family.
