Gibby

When I was a kid, I took trip once to state park in Kentucky with my Aunt June and Uncle Gibby. They were always fun to be around because they were so cool and interesting. They were young and hip and funny and had both spent time working as actors which made them way more exciting than ordinary people. And they were both deaf.

At some point during our trip I became aware that my aunt and uncle were upset about something, but I didn't understand what it was. Whenever they came to visit I always had to take a crash course in sign language, but I never really got very far. The best I could do was spell out words with my fingers. I picked up a few of the signs for words here and there, but couldn't keep up any kind of a conversation. Fortunately they could read lips fairly well and were very patient when it came to signing words slowly enough for me to understand. But when they started signing to each other, I was lost.

Eventually it was explained to me that they were upset that the state park had made no accommodations for deaf visitors and they weren't able to understand much of what our tourguide had been saying. There was no written information, very few signs or markers and certainly no simultaneous translation.

I remember feeling bad because I could not help them. I didn't know their language and I was unable to tell them what the guide was saying. I felt guilty. I also remember how mad my Uncle Gibby looked. He wasn't mad at me, of course. But he sure was mad at the folks who ran the state park. And he let them know it. He was very good at communicating, better than most hearing people.

I especially loved watching him communicate with my Dad. They were brothers and so my dad had grown up using sign language. It was always an amazing transformation to watch my normally taciturn father become this incredibly expressive, cheerfully animated chatterbox whenever Uncle Gibby was around. But Gibby seemed to bring that out in everyone. We all loved to talk to Gibby because he was so much fun to talk to. He always had something new to say or a new way to say something. He was interested in everything, and he made you interested in whatever he was talking about. He was a born teacher.

Years later, just after college when I was living with my parents and trying to figure out what to do with myself, Uncle Gibby came for a visit. He was in the area to give a guest lecture at Yale on "gestural communication." At the time I had no idea what that meant. I clumsily questioned him about it using my extremely rusty finger-spelling. He smiled and went to his portfolio and pulled out two pieces of posterboard cut out in the shape of 'thought balloons' like you see in comic strips. He held the first thought balloon up to his head. It had the word 'car' written on it. Gibby frowned and shook his head, 'no, that's not it...' He then held up the second thought balloon. This one had a photograph of a car pasted on it. Gibby's face brightened into a smile and he nodded, 'yes, that's it!' He held out both hands as if he were holding a steering wheel and mimed the act of driving. He then mouthed the word "car."

Suddenly I realized that after all these years I could finally speak his language. I laughed. Of course, "car" is not just a word, it's an idea. Communication isn't just about words and sentences, it's about getting your meaning across, however you can do it.

For the rest of that weekend, Gibby and I talked about anything and everything and it was a blast. We acted things out, used props, made faces, gestures, signs, anything we needed. We had long serious discussions, short exchanges, running jokes; we told stories, shared ideas, communicated... It was great.

At the end of his visit, as we were saying goodbye, Gibby signed something to me. He held his fingers to his chin and swept his arm forward and down to say "Thank you," then he formed the letter "C" with both hands and alternately raised them to his mouth, to say "(for) communicating."

I was so happy I almost cried. I gave him a big hug and thanked him too. I was so glad that he understood what I was trying to do and that he appreciated my attempt. And he knew how much it meant to me.

In that one short weekend, I felt like I was able to make a real connection with this man I had always loved but with whom I'd never had a "real" conversation. I will never forget that wonderful feeling of knowing that we understood each other.

What Gibby taught me during that visit has stayed with me and has opened my mind to a much greater understanding of the act and art of communication. Gibby spent his whole life teaching the world how to communicate better. And he never heard a single word. But he showed the rest of us how to hear and how to speak and how to listen and how to understand. Because he really did love to communicate. He loved to find out what others were thinking. He loved to figure out how to get people to understand things. He loved to learn and he loved to teach.

Those of us who knew him were extremely lucky. I feel like he is with me now and I want to make him proud. I am glad I had a chance to learn from him. I am deeply grateful that he was part of my life.

Thank you, Gibby, for communicating.


Gallaudet University Announcement

Gilbert Eastman - Video Tribute

A Parson's Tale

There is legend in the annals of rock'n roll about the death of Gram Parsons, founder of the Flying Burrito Brothers, one-time member of The Byrds, cohort of Keith Richards and unwilling father of the genre known as "country-rock." Gram was a country singer who lived like a rock star and influenced a whole generation of musicians with his encyclopedic knowledge of and unbridled love for country music. Bands like The Eagles, The Grateful Dead, Pure Prairie League and New Riders of the Purple Sage as well as countless musicians including Emmylou Harris, Neil Young, Linda Rondstat, Jonathan Richman, Elvis Costello, Sheryl Crow and of course Keith Richards drew much of their inspiration from Gram.

The legend, however, has to do with a pact made between Gram and longtime friend and road manager Phil Kaufman. The two were attending a funeral for a fellow musician and became disenchanted with the overly-ritualized ceremony. They decided that if either of them died, the other would take the body out to Joshua Tree and burn it in the desert. Two months later, Kaufman made good on his promise.

I had heard bits and pieces of this story before, but never really knew if it was true. So, the other day as I was driving back from Phoenix on Interstate 10, I saw I sign that said "Joshua Tree Next Right" and decided to go take a look.

I had been in Phoenix for the weekend visiting my sister Cindy, who was attending a conference on Multiculturalism in Education. I thought it was kind of timely considering the recent regime change in Washington. You never saw so many gray pony-tails or smelled so much patchouli in your life. Fortunately I avoided the conference altogether and spent my time in the gym and the pool and watching movies on HBO.

I dropped Cindy off at the airport on Sunday morning and started driving west. Since I had the whole day, I decided I would indulge my curiosity whenever the mood overtook me and stop off at any roadside attraction or natural wonder that caught my eye. I had glanced at a map and knew that Joshua Tree National Park was roughly halfway between the Arizona border and the outskirts of LA. I thought it might be nice to take a little detour.

I pulled off the highway onto a two-lane road that seemed to disappear into the desert. I followed the road for about ten miles until I reached a ranger station. There I received some maps and advice as to where I might want to go. I was pretty low on gas and asked where the nearest station was. Forty miles, in the town of Twentynine Palms. But if I went that way I would miss most of the coolest stuff. The next available gas was 72 miles away in the town of Joshua Tree. There was a fork in the road thirty miles north where I would have to make a decision. I would have to cross that bridge when I came to it.

Just as I was about to go, I remembered the legend and asked the ranger if she knew where Gram Parson's body had ended up. She gave me a funny look and then circled a place on my map called Cap Rock. And I was on my way.

I put a fresh CD in the player, "The Joshua Tree" by U2. It is no coincidence that U2 named the album that pays tribute to the American influence on their music after the place where Gram Parsons spirit was released into the desert. The combination of the unearthly scenery and the atmospheric music of U2 was pretty intense. I drove for miles in awe at the beauty and strangeness of the landscape, stopping frequently to hop out of the car and take pictures of sculpted rocks, spidery ocotillo plants and brilliantly haloed cholla cactus. It was a religious experience.

The first half of my drive crossed the low Colorado desert in the southeastern section of the park. Eventually, I reached the intersection where I had to decide if I should head for the closer of the two gas options. Feeling swept up in the adventure, I decided to press on and turned left into the high Mojave desert.

Almost immediately, I encountered a stand of Joshua Trees spread out across the landscape, captured in blazing silhouette by the afternoon sun. The trees were named by Mormons who likened them to Joshua because their uplifted limbs recalled the act of supplication to God. The illumined trees appeared to be engaged in a holy ritual that had been going on since time began.

I stopped for several minutes to appreciate the moment and take a few pictures. Then I drove on.

I passed countless bizarre formations of granite created by tremendous intrusions of molten magma combined with thousands of years of erosion resulting in impossibly gigantic cairns and towering monoliths. I stopped to take some pictures at one such outcropping. My gas gauge was all the way down to empty and my rechargeable camera batteries were dying. I switched to my backup set of batteries and spent about a half hour trying to look through the viewfinder while the stiff desert wind and low-angled sun conspired to rob me of my sight. My eyes were gushing water and it was all I could do to frame a picture and guess if it was in focus. It was also getting cold. And I hadn't eaten since breakfast. But I couldn't stop. I was in a heightened state. It was like a vision quest.

I got back in the car. The U2 CD was on its third time around. I munched some almonds, drank the melted ice from my morning tea and drove on. I passed a sign for a lookout called Keys View and realized I had about fifteen miles to go to get to the town of Joshua Tree and the nearest gas station. My gas needle was as low as I have ever seen it go. I figured I would just about make it. I kept going for about five more miles, then it hit me. I hadn't seen Cap Rock, the place where Gram Parsons was cremated. How the hell did I miss that?

I pulled over and looked at the map. Cap Rock was behind me, right where I had turned past the road to Keys View. Going back would add another ten miles to the trip, at least. And I wasn't sure if I had that much leeway. Plus it was starting to get dark. But I had to go back. I had come this far.

In the setting sun the rocks and trees and tumbleweeds took on a glorious amber tinge. Coming at them from another angle was like seeing them all anew. I spotted the intersection I'd passed before and there was Cap Rock just beyond. I pulled off the road and grabbed my camera.

I crossed the prickly terrain fairly quickly and spotted a group of rock climbers. They are everywhere at Joshua Tree. I confirmed that this was indeed Cap Rock and started searching for what would be the most likely place where Gram was released. I started circling clockwise around the gigantic rock, snapping pictures as I went. It was really cold now, but I didn't dare go back to the car for a jacket since the sun was almost gone and I didn't have much time. When I got to the western face of the rock, the last rays of the sun were just disappearing from the top of the "cap" -- a huge boulder that seems to have been set on top of the rock by some mischievous giant, just to make people wonder how it got there.

I came around to the northern face as the sun disappeared behind the San Bernardino Mountains. I noticed a strange outcropping of rock that looked like an massive stone lean-to. It was a slab that had broken off from the boulder and come to rest against two other rocks to form an alcove in the shadow of the granite wall. In front of the alcove was a cross laid out in rocks on the sand. And painted on the sides of the alcove were another cross and the words "God Bless GP". I had found it.

I began furiously snapping pictures as I got closer and closer. There were various items left on the stone cross, a bottle of tequila, a metal star, a copy of a Gram Parsons DVD. On the rocks that formed the sides of the alcove were written messages and song lyrics. Some folks had left guitar picks and coins and shiny stones in the cracks of the rocks.

I kept taking pictures, but now my back-up batteries were dying. And it was almost dark. I kept shutting down the camera and re-arranging the batteries trying to coax one more picture out of it. And somehow, it kept working. I took picture after picture, each time the camera would run out of juice and each time I would bring it back to life. Finally it died for good. But not before I got an amazing shot of the evening sky with the joshua trees reaching up to heaven and Gram's cross in the foreground.

I went back to the car to try and warm up. I looked for another set of batteries, but by then it was too dark anyway. I did find an old toy compass I kept in my backpack and brought it back to the alcove to lay on the cross for Gram. Hopefully, he's already gotten where he needs to go, but I figured there might be other travelers who pass by this place that might be looking for a little direction.

As I went back to the car, a jackrabbit leaped out from behind a tumbleweed and shot across my path. As a spirit guide, the jackrabbit teaches us about fear. Although we do not want to allow fear to run our lives, the fact is, fear is always a part of our lives and we must learn to respect it if we are going to overcome it.

I got back to the car and crossed my fingers. Sure enough the engine cranked to life and I drove back up the road to the town of Joshua Tree. When I reached the ranger's station it was full-on dark. I was amazed I had made it with almost no gas, but then I learned I still had five miles to go. The ranger told me not to worry though, it was all downhill from there.


When Phil Kaufman learned that his friend Gram Parsons had died, he knew what he had to do. He borrowed a hearse, drove to the airport, hijacked the coffin (with Gram inside,) drove out to Cap Rock, doused the corpse with gasoline and set his friend on fire.

Phil was later charged with theft of a coffin and ordered to pay a $700 fine. There was no law against stealing a dead body. What was left of Gram was flown to New Orleans and buried in the family plot. Phil's escapades have become a part of music history and have even been made into a film starring Johnny Knoxville called Grand Theft Parsons. There is also a documentary about Gram called Fallen Angel that tells the story of Gram and Phil's last ride together.

Gram loved Joshua Tree and now that I have been there I understand why. He wanted his soul to be set free in that magical place and thanks to his pal Phil, he got his final wish. Now the story and the place have taken on their own meanings like all legends do. But I like the story and the place and will add them to my own mythology. And I will go back to Joshua Tree, because there is much more to learn and experience there. But I have to thank Gram for being the one to lure me out there in the first place. And maybe that is as good a reason as any.

Joshua Tree Gallery

Cast Away

I've been trying to get organized lately. This mainly involves throwing out a bunch of crap that I don't need to make room for a bunch of new crap that I probably don't need either. When you live in an apartment as "cozy" as mine, you can't let the clutter pile up. Of course that is easier said than done, because new items are periodically introduced into the environment that appear to be necessary or useful in some way. And unless an equal amount of items is removed from the environment at the same rate, an imbalance will naturally ensue.

Obviously, taking out the garbage at regular intervals provides some relief. However, garbage is only part of the problem and the least difficult to address since it is fairly easy to identify. Garbage is by definition the stuff you don't want or need. But what about the stuff that you might need? Or the stuff you once needed and have yet to identify as no-longer-needed? Or the stuff you don't really need but reminds you of people or places or events that you hold dear? Or the stuff that has been sitting around so long that you don't even notice it anymore, stuff that has taken on the status of furniture or art or landscape?

This is where true clutter comes from. Not the old pizza boxes, magazines, shopping bags and completed crossword puzzles that seem to grow in mysterious abundance on every flat surface in the apartment. Clearly that is just plain garbage and can be dispensed with easily given the proper application of manpower. It is rather the drawer stuffed with plastic grocery bags, the shelf piled with unopened mail, the closet filled with boxes that once contained electronic devices (some of which may no longer actually function) but now merely house pieces of styrofoam packing material. It's clutter, yes, but is it garbage?

Sadly the answer requires analysis. You can't just throw it all out. O.K. maybe you can throw out the grocery bags (or better yet, recycle them) but what if you need some of them to bag up all of the other clutter you're getting rid of? Better save some. And what about the mail? There might be something important in there. That means at the very least looking through it and in some cases actually opening it. And what about all those boxes? What if you move someday? You're going to need the box your computer monitor came in. Or are you? See: Analysis!

And the problem with analysis is that it takes time. Fortunately, time happens to be a commodity I possess in adequate supply. (Maybe even too much.) So, after putting it off for the whole summer, I finally began the process of decision making that will render my apartment clutter-free -- for at least the next month or two.

First, the fun part: shopping. I went to the thrift store and got a glass-fronted cabinet made for audio and video equipment to store my video camera and accessories, my harmonicas and patch-cords and other guitar-related junk and all of the tapes, DVDs, CDs and whatnot that have overflowed from my existing cabinet. Then I got some of those nifty stacked plastic drawers to house all of the "business casual" clothes that I no longer wear. Finally I got some filing boxes with hanging folders to organize all of the piles of mail and paper that have been piling up for (apparently) the past several years.

Yes, I found bank statements from accounts I closed when I left New York. I found packing boxes for appliances I don't even remember buying. I found two moth-eaten Brooks Brothers suits, each worn only once. I found two tins of smoked oysters that my sister sent me for my birthday last year. (I really don't know why.) I found a lot of junk and threw most of it away. It felt good.

According to my health guru, Dr. Schulze, you need to throw or give away one third of what you own as part of his 20 steps to a healthier life. It always sounded like a good idea, but I never actually took him up on it before. Too much of a hassle. But now that I am into it, I am finding that he's really not kidding. Getting rid of the clutter is extremely therapeutic. And its not just the extra space, it's the process. It's like when I cook myself a good meal: not only is the food better for me, but the process of cooking helps my digestion and puts me in a better frame of mind. And the food tastes better too.

Perhaps by sheer coincidence, as I was sitting in front of the TV sorting through the piles of junk mail, screenplay notes and old Buzzards set lists, the movie Cast Away came on. Now I've seen Cast Away before and always been impressed by the economy of the story telling, the brilliance of Tom Hanks's performance (and Wilson's) and the universality of the themes. (And thankfully the annoying Helen Hunt is only in it for a little while at the beginning and the end.)

But for some reason this time the movie really resonated deeply with me. For the first half of the second act, when he is first marooned on the island, Hanks is stripped of everything he holds dear. He loses human contact, material possessions and ultimately, a purpose for living. Not only has he been 'cast away' from the world, but he has cast the world away as well. What he ends up with is simply the belief that he "had to keep breathing. Even though there was no reason to hope. And all my logic said that I would never see [home] again."

Living in the world attaches a lot of excess baggage to us and we attach ourselves to the world in ways we are not even aware of. So it is necessary every now and then to cast away those things that serve no purpose. Even those things we think we hold most dear (like smoked oysters) may be simply dragging us down just a little bit.

So I'm getting rid of as much as I can. What started out as an exercise in space management has become a quest to find out what it is I truly need in this life. Even as I am writing this, I smell smoke and hear the sounds of fire engines drawing near. I step out front to see where they are going and see the flashing lights in front of a store around the corner. Whenever I hear a fire engine's siren, it makes me think, "if I had to leave right now, what would I keep?" The only thing I can think of is my scripts and my guitars. And even the guitars are replaceable. I guess the scripts are too. Maybe not replaceable, but I can always write a new one. And when it comes right down to it, that's all I really need: faith. If I lost everything, I would still be O.K. because I still have everything I've learned and all I've become.

A lot of the time that doesn't seem like very much. I often feel like I have nothing. Nothing to show for all my years in this world. Just a disc full of scripts and a couple of guitars. There are days, like today, when I have literally no contact with any other human being. I feel cast away. No part of the world.

But that feeling in itself is just another piece of junk that I need to discard. It is useless, born of needs and attachments that serve no purpose. Time to throw out the garbage. And keep the faith. Because, as Tom Hanks says near the end of Cast Away, "tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?"

Hollywood Dick's All-Purpose Weather Report

Avalon

This morning I got up early and went running on the beach. There is something very timeless about the beach. The waves come in and out. The tide ebbs and flows. The sun rises and sets. Clouds gather and dissipate. The beach is in a constant state of change. And for that reason, it is always the same.

I am staying in a house in Avalon, New Jersey, which belongs to a friend of my Mom's named Pris. Mom and Pris attended the Mary A. Burnham school in Northampton Massachusetts when they were teens and have stayed close ever since. Pris invited our family to come and stay in her beach house in Avalon for a week to celebrate my parents 50th wedding anniversary. It has been pretty amazing to be able to spend time with my parents and sisters this past week, laughing, joking, eating meals together, and just hanging out as a family the way we did thirty years ago. It is also pretty amazing that we even want to.

My parents and I visited Northampton last week where I videotaped my Mom as she looked around at the two big houses that used to comprise Mary Burnham. Her old school is no longer in existence, having merged with another school, but the two houses remain intact and are now used as student housing for Smith College. In fact, my good friend from Louisville, Jane Halliday, used to live in one of those houses when she was at Smith. I visited her there once or twice when I was at Wesleyan University.

In addition to Northampton, my parents and I also visited Wesleyan, where my Dad went to college, as well as various other points of historical interest from the story of their lives together. Middletown Connecticut, where Wesleyan is located, is also the town where my father was born and went to high school. He lived in the town of Cromwell, just up the road and we went back and saw his old house there -- still exactly the same, including the same color.

My Mom is from Mt. Vernon, New York, and we took a trip there to see the old apartment building where she lived with her mother. The building is still there, but the house they lived in with her grandmother is gone. In nearby Bronxville, we saw the church where my parents got married. We talked to one of the ushers outside the church who explained to us how the recent storm had split one of the boughs from the big elm tree in front of the church. He seemed pretty shaken up about it.

We also went down to Bridgeport, Connecticut, where my parents had their first apartment and where my sister Cindy was born. Bridgeport is also where my Dad had his first job with General Electric. My Mom worked there too when they first got married. The plant is mostly closed down now and the surrounding area is pretty rundown. The day we were there, police were investigating a triple homicide that had occurred the night before, just across from the entrance gate. As I was shooting a long zoom shot down the length of the building, the security guard came up and told me that they were kind of sensitive about having the place photographed and that it would be best if I left immediately.

A little north of Bridgeport, in Derby, we went to look at the house my parents lived in when my sister Susan and I were born. It is a modest one-story on a quiet street in a small town. It used to be red, but is now a bright yellow. The current owner let us take a quick tour. She has been there for over thirty years and still knows some of the families who lived there when we were there. Some of them are still in the neighborhood.

I have been videotaping all of these journeys through the past in order to create a short film about how my Mom and Dad met, got married and started our family. It's been pretty cool revisiting all of these significant sites with them. Once you begin traveling down memory lane, you encounter all kinds of side-streets and alleyways that you thought were long forgotten. I heard a bunch of new stories about things my parents did and people they knew back when they were just starting out on their own. I have always had a certain basic idea of my parents history, but seeing and hearing it all firsthand with them made it seem less like ancient history and more like real life.

I edited some of what I shot to create a few short clips to post on a website I set up to share the anniversary with friends and family. It's been a while since I tried doing any video editing and even these short clips took a lot more work than I had anticipated. I'm thinking the full-length version won't be ready until Christmas.

So now we are all gathered in Avalon to celebrate the big occasion. My sisters and I have been here all week, while the rest of the family has been trickling in over the past few days. Tonight we will all have dinner together.

The mythical island of Avalon was a place where the Druidic priestesses of the Celtic tradition lived and practiced their arts. The island was continually shrouded in a veil of mist and could only be approached by those with faith in magic. Only a select few were admitted beyond the veil to witness the enchantments and learn the mysteries of the sacred isle.

Our Avalon is accessible off an exit on the Garden State Parkway, over a causeway that cuts across the marshlands of coastal New jersey. It is only occasionally shrouded in mist. Fortunately for us we had several sunny days to enjoy the beach. But it seems that there is a kind of magical quality to it as well.

Maybe it is the magic of generosity, manifested by my Mom's friend Pris letting us stay in her beautiful house by the sea. Or maybe it is the magic of friendship, conjured up by the many cards and letters my parents have received from people they have known from throughout their lives and whose words and thoughts are testament to the quality and value of their relationships. Or it could be the magic of family, that draws us all together from far and wide and despite our differences and obligations.

But I guess the greatest magic of all, and the one that infuses and engenders all of the other types of magic, is the magic of love. Love brought my parents together in the first place. Love has kept them together for fifty years. Love is what created this family. And love is why we are all here now.

Congratulations Mom and Dad. And thanks for everything.

Avalon Gallery

Snakes on a Plane

They say our true character is revealed in how we respond to a crisis. I suppose the same could be said of a nation. In the weeks and months following 9/11, this country's character was tested and, despite a few ugly moments, proved its mettle admirably well.

Then came the war, which at first seemed like a legitimate response to a perceived threat (at least in Afghanistan) but then kind of got off track. We had all this momentum -- raced into Iraq, 'liberated' Baghdad, captured the Evil Saddam. Next we were going to establish freedom and democracy and bring stability to the Middle East.

O.K., maybe we bit off a little more than we could chew. Maybe we were focusing all of our attention overseas, you know, so we could defeat the enemy over there and not get all messy here at home. But things did get a little messy here anyway. It's been a year since Katrina and people are still homeless and jobless in New Orleans. At first it seemed like we rose to the challenge on that one -- not the government of course, but certainly Hollywood. We all know of the brave sacrifices made by people like Sean Penn and Oprah. But once again it seems we lost the mighty 'mo'.

Perhaps it's a question of attention span. Maybe too much cable TV has robbed us of our ability to maintain concentration on any given situation for longer than, say, the duration of a season of the show "24" -- which is literally only asking us to keep track of the events of one day, parsed out over two dozen one hour segments with time off for Christmas and New Years. Personally, after the first season, I found the whole ordeal way too taxing. I prefer a show like "My Name is Earl" where you get one event per show -- in this case, Earl having to make amends for one of the items on his list of misdeeds -- and after 22 minutes you're off the hook. You don't have to remember what happened "previously" or get left hanging wondering what's going to happen next week. And just in case you forgot what the show's premise is, they remind you every week during the opening credits.

Meanwhile, out in the real world, things are dragging on and on with no commercial breaks, no end of season twists, no summers off, and no early cancellation due to low ratings. I mean, suddenly there's a whole new war in the Middle East, but it's not really a new war, is it? It's that same war that's been going on since I was a kid. It's been running longer than "The Price is Right". It's been running so long they changed the name just to fool the viewers into thinking something new was happening. Did you notice? Remember when it used to be "War in the Middle East?" But now it's "War in the MidEast." Who decided to change that? When I first heard it, I thought they were referring to a skirmish among a group of NCAA basketball teams in Pennsylvania and Ohio.

And then there's the good old 'Terror Alert'. Did you think that had been cancelled a couple of years ago? I did. When was the last time anybody (besides me) mentioned the Terror Alert level? Has USA Today been posting it on page one every morning? Is there a website? (Yes.) I figured that everyone had lost interest in it so they just quietly laid it to rest. But no, it's back and hotter than ever. Terror Alert is the hottest summer replacement since "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" Last week you couldn't turn on the TV without seeing a promo for it. Terror Alert is back with a vengeance!

As someone who is planning to take a cross-country plane trip next week, I am particularly interested in the current installment of Terror Alert. See, my big problem is that I hate to check luggage. I will do anything I can to cram all I need into two carry-on bags. And I suppose I can survive without hair gel and toothpaste, but what about my contact lenses??? What the hell am I supposed to do about them? If I wear them on the plane, then I can't take them off because I can't carry any solution with me. And if I don't wear them, I'll have to check my bag! That is damned inconvenient.

It reminds me of a conversation I overheard the other day while enjoying a very late brunch at the Silver Spoon. A woman who works in PR was complaining about the restrictions on mailing packages -- anything over one pound must be hand carried to the post office rather than dropped in a mailbox. That means she has to remember to take all of her press packets to the P.O. before 5 p.m. every day! Even if she is busy working on something else. As she put it, "It's like the terrorists have already won!"

Naturally, the new Terror Alert will have its greatest impact on Hollywood. You see, the timing of the new Terror Alert was actually masterminded by the geniuses behind the new Samuel L. Jackson movie: SNAKES ON A PLANE. It is perhaps the most brilliant marketing campaign ever devised, on top of an already brilliant series of marketing moves that include having thousands of internet geeks (including me) promote your movie for you -- for free, allowing said geeks to insert actual lines of dialogue into the movie, having said dialogue uttered by the king of badass movie dialogue utterers, the aforementioned Samuel L. Jackson, and of course, the title of the movie itself: SNAKES ON A PLANE!

Where else but in Hollywood can you not only create relevant socio-political commentary (SNAKES = TERRORISTS) but also capitalize on the deep-seated xenophobic fears of a leaderless nation careening on the brink of global conflagration! It is pure goddamn genius.

I guess I can suck it up and wear my contacts on the plane, so long as it's all for a good cause. And what cause could be better than boosting the summer box office? Because when Hollywood prospers, everyone benefits. So let's show the rest of the world our true character by leaving our water bottles at the gate and making sure that SNAKES has a huge opening weekend.

That'll show those terrorists who's boss.

Freedom!

It's hard to believe that only two weeks have passed since I left my job. I feel like an ex-con who has just been released from prison and doesn't know what to do with all of the freedom. Should I wash the car? Go see a movie? Do some laundry? Maybe take another nap?

In fact, the first thing I did on the day after I quit was to go back in to work. And considering I didn't have an access card any more, that wasn't so simple. But I had to do it. There was one last thing that needed taking care of. And me being the overly-responsible control freak that I am, I just had to set things right.

The whole last week went pretty smoothly, actually. I had anticipated that certain lawyers would wait until the last minute to hand-off some loose ends and had kept my plate fairly clean just in case. I spent quite a bit of my time boxing up old cases and sending them to storage or to the trash heap. All in all, I marked about 75 boxes for destruction and at least another 50 for storage. Gives you an idea of what my office looked like.

I did get put on one new project during my last week, but managed to wrap it up before the deadline. Or so I thought. About midway through the week, the partner in charge came to me and said there was suddenly some additional work that needed to be done and asked if I could come in the following week to finish it up. I told him I was already booked up. Fortunately, I managed to dump it on someone else. I wouldn't want to leave anybody in the lurch.

My last day I finished up everything on my list before lunch and it looked like I would be able to coast the rest of the day. No such luck. When I came back from lunch, I found out that my boss needed me to sign a declaration attesting to the authenticity of a chart I had prepared that was being filed in court. The only problem was, when I read the declaration, it didn't describe what I had actually done. And rather than change the declaration to fit the facts, it was decided to change the facts to fit the declaration. No, nobody had to lie. I just had to go through the process that was described in the declaration, i.e. read through a 75 page document and compare it to my chart for accuracy. But first I had to find the document. This is all standard stuff, of course, but IT WAS MY LAST DAY! All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. Now I was stuck doing some bullshit declaration. And I was running out of time.

I found a copy of the document online, raced through it and made sure my chart was right. Double checked my chart. Printed out the declaration, signed it, and emailed it to our San Francisco office. I ended up fifteen minutes late to my exit interview, where I received my final paycheck as well as my surplus vacation pay (sweet!) and then I was done. DONE.

I made the rounds to say goodbye to certain special friends and co-workers, apparently wearing the biggest smile they had ever seen on me. A few of us went to a bar afterwards for a beer or two. Then we grabbed a slice of pizza. I had to pick up my car before the parking garage closed and, finally, I was on my way home. I was free. It felt... funny. I should have been ecstatic, or at least relieved. But instead I felt distracted and numb. Maybe it takes a while to hit you.

It hit me the next morning, when I woke up and realized that I had forgotten to leave the original signed copy of the declaration. It needed to be sent to court to be substituted for the copy I had emailed. But how would I get into the office? What a great way to start my new life, filled with anxiety, anger and fear.

As it happens, I had sent out a farewell email giving my home email address to my co-workers. One of these fine folks, who had been out on Friday, was in the office Saturday morning and had responded to my email with a nice note. I called him immediately and asked how long he would be in the office. He agreed to let me in, so I raced downtown, got into the office and placed the missing declaration on the chair of the secretary who would file it with the court. The whole process took about an hour and when I was finished, a wave of relief flowed through my mind and flooded me with satisfaction, peace and happiness. Now I was truly outta there.

I drove home feeling more relaxed than I can ever remember feeling. Not even the freeway bothered me. I went to lunch at Irv's and spent the rest of the day cleaning the bathroom. I even bought a new shower curtain.

The next day I woke up feeling great. My only problem was what to do. Go for a walk? See a movie? Take a swim? It was too much to think about, so I rolled over and went back to sleep.

HWD

Sink or Swim

There is a pivotal scene in the movie Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid in which Butch and Sundance are standing on the edge of a cliff. They have been pursued by a mysterious group of men who have chased them across the desert, tracked them through water and over rocks, and finally trapped them on the cliff. There is no way out. They can either stay and fight, or they can jump. Two hundred feet below them is a rushing, rock-filled mountain stream. It looks treacherous at best.

Butch suggests that they jump. Sundance disagrees, he wants to stay and fight it out. Butch points out that their enemy is moving to higher ground and will soon have them caught in a deadly crossfire. Sundance doesn't care, he won't jump. Butch reminds him that the enemy has rifles and unlimited ammunition, whereas he and Sundance have only six-shooters and a handful of bullets left. Sundance won't budge.

Butch is frustrated. Why is Sundance so intent on fighting a losing battle?

Sundance glares at him, "I can't swim!"

Butch laughs, "Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill ya."

This scene has been running through my mind lately in response to something my sister said to me the other day: "Jump and the net will appear." She was referring to my recent decision to quit my job. You see, I don't exactly have a plan in mind. I just decided it was time to move on. It's been a long time coming. About a year and a half ago I got so fed up at work one night, I literally packed up all of my stuff and was ready to walk out. I decided to wait and ended up taking off a few 'mental illness' days instead. Two other times since then I have reached my boiling point and once I even got as far as my car. Both times, cooler heads convinced me to reconsider. But this time was different.

One of the things that had always prevented me from leaving was that I kept waiting for the right time. We were always in the midst of one crisis or another and it never seemed like a good time to make an exit. Finally, a friend pointed out that if I wait for the right time, it will never arrive. I have to choose the time and let the chips fall where they may. As it turns out, now that I've made my decision to leave, things seem fairly mellow at work. Almost pleasant.

Almost.

Perhaps the biggest factor in arriving at my decision was the creation of the "Hollywood Dick" blog. For years people have been telling me to collect my various monthly newsletters and "do something" with them. I'm not sure if they meant for me to throw them out or try and get them published, but I did want to at least try and assemble them in a cohesive format of some kind. Then one day I was reading my sister's blog, called Writing Out Loud (good title) and I thought, "hmm.. I wonder how one gets oneself a blog?" Turns out, all you have to do is sign up. So I created the HWD blog and set about archiving all of the old newsletters. It wasn't as easy as I thought, since I hadn't actually kept them all. But I did manage to piece together a fair number and what I couldn't find I got from my sister. (She's the organized one.)

As I read through the newsletters, looking for typos and such, I became reacquainted with the guy who quit his temp paralegal job back in NYC and headed out for Hollywood to become a screenwriter. He was full of high hopes, crazy dreams and big ideas. He had a plan and a goal. He had saved up a little money and was going to devote all of his time to succeeding at his quest. He met a lot of people, sent out a bunch of scripts, learned as much as he could and all the while kept on writing.

Pretty soon the money ran out and he had to get a job. But he didn't let it slow him down. Well maybe a little. He kept writing though. Kept meeting people. Kept sending out those scripts. Kept dreaming.

He made a short film and fell in love with the whole experience of filmmaking. He wanted to make more films. It was hard to find the time. He went to film festivals and writer's conferences and felt like he had finally found the place he belonged. He kept trying to balance his two lives, the paralegal and the screenwriter. Almost by accident he got involved with music again, something he had always loved but had left by the wayside when he moved to L.A. Now he was balancing three lives.

At one point he got very ill. His doctor wasn't able to help him very much. He was just plain exhausted. He kept working, writing, playing music. But it was such a struggle sometimes. He wondered if he would ever feel normal again.

Luckily, he hit upon a cure for his ailment and after about a year of downtime he started getting his energy back. The band was now taking up a lot of his time. His job had become more and more stressful. He was still writing screenplays, but he wasn't really sending them out anymore as he had run out of people to send them to. A couple of people had asked him to work on projects. One even offered him money. He agreed to work on them in the hopes that by collaborating it would take some of the burden off his shoulders. He never did see any money, though.

By now he was so far off track he couldn't even figure out how he got where he was.

I remembered that guy, the one from the beginning of the story. He really believed in himself. He knew he was going to make it. He wasn't going to let anything get in his way. But something did get in the way. Life. Things just keep happening, you get a job, you meet some people, you get sick, you join a band, you try to do everything all at once. But you can't.

I realized that sometimes the thing that you are doing to help you achieve your goal becomes an obstacle. I needed a job to pay the rent so I could keep writing screenplays. The job was always supposed to be temporary. In fact at first it was literally a temp job. Then it turned into a "permanent" job. Then it turned into a monster.

So here I am at the edge of the cliff, working without a net. My enemies have me in their sights. It's time to jump.

Hope I can swim.

HWD

The Waiting

I am always waiting for something. All my life I have been waiting for one thing or another. Waiting for Santa. Waiting for my birthday. Waiting for school to be over. Waiting to turn sixteen. Waiting for some girl to finally let me see her naked. Waiting for just the right moment. Waiting for the light to change. You would think with so much experience that I would have gotten used to it. But I have never gotten used to it. I hate it. Oh sure, I have developed certain strategies to try and deal with the annoyance of waiting. These are mostly distractions. I have become quite good at crossword puzzles. I like to read. Sometimes I exercise. But mostly I just play mind games with myself.

A couple of months ago, I decided to take some time off from work and write a draft of a screenplay based on a book about the Cuban missile crisis called October Fury. A producer had offered me some money to write it, but I got tired of waiting for the money so I just went ahead and wrote it. As it turned out, two days after I completed the draft, the producer pitched the idea to a big-shot at Touchstone Pictures. The big shot seemed very interested and asked to see a screenplay. Suddenly we needed a screenplay and fortunately, I had one.

I spent one more week going over the draft to clean it up, then sent it out to the author of the book, his agent, the producer and our inside man, an exec at Disney/Touchstone who hooked us up with the big-shot. Then I waited. Would they like it? Would there be a lot of changes? Would they let me know what I needed to change in time for me to turn it around? We had promised the script to the big-shot by a certain date. And we certainly didn't want to keep him waiting.

As it happened, I had plenty of distractions lined up for this week of waiting. The Buzzards had a rehearsal and a show coming up. And my lovely Italian muse, Laura, was in town. Rehearsal went well, the gig was great -- Laura was there. Laura and I spent a wonderful day together at the Lake Shrine. I actually stopped obsessing about the script for a whole day.

Of course, the next day, I was back to checking my email every five or ten minutes, waiting for some kind of response to my draft. I sent out a reminder that we only had one more week to play with if there were going to be a lot of changes. I waited. The next day I woke up with a fever. I spent two days in bed, getting up every couple of hours to check my email. Still nothing.

Finally, on Friday, three days before the deadline, I heard from the author who forwarded an email from his agent saying the script was "very professional." I guess that means it was O.K. He didn't actually say he liked it, but he didn't suggest any changes either. That night the producer called and told me our inside man liked the script and had one suggestion -- the addition of a short scene to clarify the plot. I was still pretty groggy from fever, but I managed to hack out a decent scene. I sent the revised draft out on Saturday night. Sunday I slept all day. On Monday, I got a call from the producer telling me that the script had been delivered to Touchstone. Now the real waiting begins.

This guy at Touchstone is an executive VP. That means he only answers to one person, the head of Disney, Nina Jacobs. If he likes the script he shows it to her. If she likes it my whole life changes forever. Even the fact that this guy is going to be reading my script is a pretty huge break for me. It is potentially the biggest opportunity I have ever had. It could mean the realization of everything I have devoted the past ten years of my life to. It would make all of the sacrifice worthwhile. It would erase all of the doubt, the guilt and the shame of my frivolous existence. It would mean validation and recognition and encouragement after years of failure, solitude and fear.

Or not.

So I wait. Weeks have gone by. The Buzzards played another gig. I came down with bronchitis. Laura went back to Rome. No word from Touchstone. I bought some CDs to play in the car and learn Italian. I haven't listened to them for two weeks. The Buzzards have no new gigs scheduled. I've gone through a stack of crossword puzzles. I check my email constantly.

My friend Glen called the other day. Glen works at Phoenix Pictures and wants to produce his own movie. He pitched me an idea and I liked it. In fact, I was working on it when the October Fury project came up. I had gotten about halfway through a draft and then got tangled up in the other thing. Glen had been in New York for a while and just got back. He and I started brainstorming about our script -- we seem to have developed a method where he throws out an outrageous idea that I think is a joke and somehow it ends up being a perfect scene for the script. He got me back into the story. I had left all of those characters hanging to work on this other project that I was supposed to get paid for. I had left Glen hanging too. I guess he has been waiting for me. He has other projects going on too, but I know he has a lot riding on this one. So instead of waiting for Touchstone, I could be creating another opportunity.

Huh...

I guess I have a lot of work to do.

HWD

The Lake Shrine

Hollywood is not exactly the place people go to in search of inner peace. Hollywood is the place people go to in search of fame and fortune. Hollywood is the place where the outer self rules and the inner self withers. Where outer beauty is prized and inner beauty ignored. Where peace has a pricetag and serenity a service charge. Hollywood is the embodiment of the ego-driven, materialistic, shallow, fleeting, soulless culture of greed and stupidity.

And yet, everywhere you look, there are all sorts of people trying to find some kind of spiritual peace. They may follow gurus or rabbis, join cults or take yoga classes, practice kabbalah or eat raw foods. They may go to church or stay home and meditate. They may take workshops or they make take vows. They may try to encourage others to join them or they may keep their beliefs private. In fact, for a town so seemingly devoid of spirituality, there sure are a lot of people trying to find some.

Maybe it is because of the pervading sense of emptiness here that so many people look for something to fill an inner need. And, while it's true that most of the paths available offer about as much inner truth as the latest romantic comedy/horror movie/reality show/pop star to hit the market, there are bound to be some true believers tossed into the mix. Even in Hollywood.

There is a place out near the end of Sunset Boulevard called the Lake Shrine that I must have passed a dozen times and took for another kooky California cult that somehow bilked its gullible members into building a glorious "temple" overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Probably only the select inner circle (i.e., movie stars and mega-donors) ever get the privilege of actually going inside. A couple of times I actually drove up to the gates to see if I could get a closer look, but they were always locked, of course.

But then my friend Cordell told me about this amazing place where he went with his Mom -- a beautiful garden surrounding a lake with colorful fish and white swans. There was a windmill and a waterfall and hundreds and hundreds of beautiful flowers. There was a lovely path around the lake with secluded spots to sit and enjoy the peace and quiet. And up a flight of stairs was this crazy temple that overlooks the Pacific Ocean. And it's free to the public.

He showed me their site on the internet and sure enough it was the Lake Shrine. Well, I had to see this for myself. When my sister Cindy came out for a visit I took her out there. We drove up to the gates, but they were locked! What kind of crap is this anyway. Cindy suggested I call the phone number from the web page. I reached a very serene sounding woman who insisted that the gates were open. But I'm looking right at the gates and they're closed! She said "which gates?" What do you mean which gates? Her whole serenity act was really starting to bug me now. I was feeling anything but peaceful. "You must be at the upper gates." You mean there are other gates? Apparently there are.

After a few minutes of losing my cool and trying to make an illegal U-turn on a very winding section of Sunset Boulevard, we finally made it to the Lake Shrine. And it was beautiful. Serene. Tranquil. We wandered around for about an hour, taking pictures, feeding the swans, sitting under the trees. I was almost beginning to feel... peaceful. But it was getting kind of cold and we had to be somewhere so we left that oasis of oneness and headed back out onto the streets of Los Angeles.

Last week I got the chance to return to the Lake Shrine. This time I was with a woman whom I haven't seen in six years. Her name is Laura and she is the sister of my friend Ivana. The last time she was here, I got to spend about a week with her and it was one of the best weeks I can remember. But then she went home to Rome -- and I didn't even have a picture of her. I thought about going to Rome to visit her, but for some reason I never got around to it. I tend to put things off thinking there will always be time later -- but the next thing you know six years have gone by.

Well, this time I wanted to make sure that whatever time we spent together was very special. Even if we could only spend one day together, I wanted that day to be perfect. I thought Laura might appreciate the Lake Shrine. There is something about her that goes beyond words. We never have had any long conversations, since I speak about six words of Italian and she knows only so much English. But we seem to be able to communicate very well. I would let the Lake Shrine do most of the talking.

It was a beautiful day, sunny and bright with a cool breeze. Laura wore her Year of the Buzzard T-shirt. We strolled along the path, took pictures of the fish, sat on the bench and listened to the breeze blow through the trees. Laura is a photographer and she took about a hundred pictures. I brought my camera too. I could have taken a hundred pictures of her.

We went inside the Windmill Chapel and sat for a while. Perfectly still. Silent. I listened to the waterfall outside the window. The birds. The leaves in the wind. I felt happy. Peaceful.

I don't know how the Lake Shrine came into existence or how it sustains itself. I throw a couple of bucks into the donation box when I go there. I don't know if I will ever have a day like that again. I know that it wasn't just the Lake Shrine that made me feel that way. I didn't come to Hollywood to find inner peace. I may never find it again. But for one day, for a few moments, life was perfect.

I have plenty pictures to remember that day at the Lake Shrine. Pictures of flowers and swans and the Windmill Chapel. And a lot of pictures of Laura. But I have something better than pictures. I have the memory of a beautiful day with a beautiful woman -- and not just beautiful to look at. But truly beautiful, like a moment of shared silence on a perfect day in Paradise.

Peace
HWD

Lake Shrine Gallery

"Lunch"

I read an article the other day in the L.A. Times about how Best Picture Oscar winner Crash does not accurately reflect the "real" Los Angeles. The author of the article described a typical series of encounters in a local neighborhood that involved interactions between people of various nationalities and skin colors, none of which resulted in violence, name-calling or even a minor misunderstanding. It was somewhat clever and mildly ironic, but not exactly an earth-shattering revelation. After all, what is more surprising, a movie that does not accurately reflect reality, or a moviegoer who expects a movie to accurately reflect reality.

As it happened, I was reading the article while having lunch at Irv's Burgers, while in the background owner Sonia Hong carried on a constant stream of conversation with patrons and staff, that slipped easily from English to Korean to Spanish and back again. The lunch crowd at Irv's is a microcosm of L.A. society containing a representative cross-section of class, color and culture, including rich, poor, young, old, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, gay, straight, and tourists.

I got to thinking about a line from the movie Crash uttered by Don Cheadle's character -- something about how nobody in L.A. has any contact with anyone else, so we have to crash into each other just to feel something. I have had a few "crashes" while living here, and I have to say I think I did learn a little more about myself and my neighbors from each.

Once, while waiting at a stoplight I got cut off by a woman in a white sedan. She angled he car in front of me, preventing me from going forward even after the light changed. There was barely enough room for me to squeeze by her and slip into the other lane in order to make the light. I nudged her bumper with mine ever so slightly as I did so -- but didn't really think I'd done any harm. Apparently she thought differently, as I learned after she chased me down for two blocks, honking and flashing her lights. I pulled over and got out of my car, filled with indignation.

"You hit my car!" she cried.

"You cut me off!" I protested.

"You scratched my bumper!"

"I barely touched you..."

This went on for several minutes, and I was getting pretty mad. But as I was reaching into the car for my insurance info, it occurred to me that I wasn't mad at her. I was mad because she was right. I did hit her car. Whether or not I caused any appreciable damage, the fact remained that I caused my car to come in contact with her car. I looked at her and said, "You know what -- you're right, I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

Suddenly the whole situation changed. Her face relaxed and she actually smiled, "It's not so bad. I can probably fix it with some rubbing compound."

And that was that. She was satisfied. She didn't even want my insurance info. All she wanted was for me to admit that I was wrong and to apologize. And it really wasn't that hard to do. And it was free. After that, I learned that a lot of situations can be diffused merely by admitting that I was wrong and apologizing. Even if I don't think I'm wrong, I can still apologize. It doesn't cost me anything and it seems to do wonders for people who are upset. Who knew?

Another time, I was pulling away from the curb and some guy who was coming around the left side of a parked bus decided to swerve into my lane. He tore my front bumper halfway off and left it dangling in the street. As it turned out he was an old Asian man who could barely speak English and had a lot of trouble seeing when it came time for to write down his name for me. I think he was legally blind. Naturally the accident was my fault, since I was pulling away from the curb and he had the "right of way". I don't see how you can call it the "right of way" when the guy is changing lanes without looking or signaling and can't see beyond the end of his nose, but them's the rules.

Anyway he went on his way and I was stuck with a torn-off bumper. As I was attempting to try and figure out what the hell I was going to do, a hispanic man, who had been sitting at the bus stop and had witnessed the whole thing, came over and started helping me. He didn't speak any English either and he didn't really need to say much, he just tied my bumper back onto the frame with some rope I had in the trunk and then got on his bus. He didn't ask for money, he didn't seem to expect any thanks -- he just wanted to help. I drove around with that tied-on bumper for several months before I finally got it fixed. And when I called my insurance company to see if my rates were going up, I found out that the old Asian guy never filed a claim. He could have, but I guess he decided not to.

Despite these positive experiences, I have become a lot more vigilant as a driver and have avoided getting into any more fender-benders. There are much better ways of meeting my fellow Angelinos. Going to lunch at Irv's for example. Maybe I should write a movie about it. I could call it "Lunch."

HWD

Russian Sub Gallery

Henric and I visited a Russian Foxtrot class submarine ("The Scorpion"), berthed next to the Queen Mary in Long Beach, as part of the research for the film adaptation of Peter Huchthausen's book "October Fury," which reveals the untold story of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Henric and HWD boarding the Scorpion

The forward torpedo compartment

The captain's quarters

Communications compartment

Officer's ward room

Navigation

Command center

Helm controls

Engine room

The upper hull

Henric and The Scorpion