Both Sides Now

There are two songs I remember learning in fifth grade music class. One was Hava Nagila and the other was Both Sides Now. Hava Nagila was just a lot of fun to sing, but Both Sides Now was deep. It started out like another fluffy pop song, "rows and flows of angel's hair and ice cream castles in the air..." But by the third verse, it had turned into a philosophical meditation on the vicissitudes of experience. "It's life's illusions I recall..." Pretty heavy stuff for fifth grade.


At the time, Both Sides Now was known as a Judy Collins song. She had a big hit with it and even won a grammy. But the song was written by Joni Mitchell. I finally heard Joni sing it years later when it appeared on her live album, Miles of Aisles. Joni also wrote the classic song Woodstock, which became the anthem of the Hippie movement as recorded by CSN&Y. But I first heard Joni's rendition at a midnight showing of the fairly obscure concert movie, Celebration at Big Sur. Joni's Woodstock was dark and moody and complex, very different from the up tempo, rocked-out version I was used to. Nevertheless, I thought it was pretty cool.


I didn't know much about Joni back then. She was that hippie chick who sang, "they paved paradise and put up a parking lot." She was Graham Nash's girlfriend from the song Our House. She was a folkie from Canada who wrote pretty songs and played acoustic guitar. I didn't hear a lot of her songs on the radio, or if I did, they were being sung by someone else. She was always somewhere in the background, like a groupie.


When I got to college, though, I was introduced to the real Joni. And it wasn't by some doe-eyed coed hoping to test my feminist sensitivity. Instead, I learned about Joni from my freshman hallmate Mitch, who despite his alpha-male-jock tendencies had a real soft spot deep down inside. He played me Joni's scathingly personal masterpiece, Blue, and I knew I was in the presence of a true artist. Like so many others, I was knocked out by the line, "I could drink a case of you.. and I would still be on my feet." Such an achingly beautiful voice, such painfully intimate lyrics, such deceptively brilliant songwriting.


But there was so much more to Joni than that.


Blue came out in 1971. By the time I got to college, Joni had moved on. Frustrated with the parochialism of the folk-rock scene she had helped invent, she went searching for musicians who could appreciate the complexity and nuance of her writing. She teamed up with sax player Tom Scott and his jazz band to record Court and Spark, which combined elements of jazz and rock and folk, and really any kind of music. For Joni, it's all fair game. And though people still tried to put her music in to certain categories, or dismiss it for not being what they expected, Court and Spark became one of Joni's most popular albums.


I saw Joni perform again when she appeared in The Band's farewell concert film, The Last Waltz. She did a litte backup singing on Neil Young's Helpless, then came out into the spotlight with a new song called Coyote. I remember watching her play her acoustic guitar and I noticed she was playing a lot of weird sounding chords, but with very simple fingerings. I figured she must be in some kind of open tuning. I had just begun learning about open tunings myself, so I thought I had a handle on what she was doing. But I was only half right.


Meanwhile, Joni was still looking for musicians who could keep up with her increasingly innovative style of composition. She began collaborating with the amazing Jaco Pastorius, who I knew from the jazz group Weather Report. When Mitch played me the first track from Joni's Hejira album, I recognized those kooky Coyote chords again, but now they were being teased and cajoled and turned upside-down and inside-out by Jaco's impishly insistent bass. It was a perfect match. It seemed Joni had found someone who really could keep up with her.


Joni's next album, Don Juan's Reckless Daughter, moved her further into the experimental realm and attracted the attention of jazz giant Charlie Mingus. Mingus asked Joni to collaborate with him on what was to be his last project. After the Mingus album, Joni went on tour with some of her jazz cohorts and put out a live album called Shadows and Light. That was the first Joni Mitchell album I ever bought.


I finally got to see Joni in concert in Austin in the 80's. At this point she was working with Larry Klein, who in addition to being her bass player and producer, was also her husband. The concert was amazing. The union between Joni and Larry seemed just right. He didn't have the outlandishness of Jaco, which could tend to turn any tune into a Jaco solo, but he definitely had the chops to stay with Joni no matter where she went.


I remember reading an interview with Joni around this time, where she said something to the effect of: 'when I write something that really embarrasses me, I know I'm on the right track.' I've tried to locate that quote since then, but have been unable to find it, so I'm not even sure if she really said it. Nevertheless it has inspired me for all these years.


Recently, I was looking for a new song to play on the guitar. I was getting back into the open tuning thing again, as I had done a few years ago with Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks album. I came across Joni's Big Yellow Taxi, which is written in open E, and banged away on that for a while, then I checked out You Turn Me On, I'm A Radio, also in open E. It was interesting to see how Joni arranged the chord forms in such inventive ways. These seemingly simple songs had intriguing quirks and twists that made me want to learn more.


Further inquiry into Joni's catalogue led me to discover the incredible Joni Mitchell transcription database at JoniMitchell.com. It turns out that Joni has been playing around with guitar tunings since day one. And not just the usual open E, open D, open G. At last count, Joni has used over fifty different guitar tunings in her repertoire, most of which she came up with on her own. She has used so many different guitar tunings that she has forgotten some of them, and relies on her long-time guitar tech to keep track of them for her. She has used so many guitar tunings that she has invented her own system for classifying them, grouping them into "families" to help organize them.


It's pretty intense.


Perhaps I should explain. Most guitars are tuned in standard tuning, which is designed to allow players to switch from key to key, playing various chord patterns and scales, without having to change their tuning. With open tuning, you can tune the guitar to play a particular chord just by strumming the open strings, and then form related chords fairly easily, while taking advantage of the open strings. Alternate tunings may simply change the pitch of the guitar, say by tuning all of the strings lower or higher. Or you can just change one or two of the strings, or really any combination you want. The possibilities are endless.


Joni didn't invent alternate tunings, people have been using them for years. Her early use of the dulcimer, which is tuned to a kind of open D chord, may have influenced her. Some say her bout with polio, which affected the dexterity of her left hand, made it neccesary for her to retune her guitar for ease of fingering. But the way she has made alternate tuning an intrinsic part of her method is both inimitable and illustrative. Joni did not accept the instrument as it was handed to her, she transformed it into the instrument she wanted. Just as she has not accepted the role in life that was handed to her, but has worked all her life to transform herself into the person she was meant to be. I think that's the job of an artist. 


And as I sit and clumsily grope my way through the elegantly simple arrangement of Both Sides Now, I think of Joni out in her back yard in British Columbia, tuning her strings to the cry of a heron and the rush of the surf, searching for yet another chord, trying to make music that says something new and different and honest.


I could spend the rest of my life trying to figure out what Joni has done with her guitar and I don't think I would even learn half of it. I guess I really don't know Joni at all. And that's the way it should be.

PSA: 10 Holiday Uses For Pepper Spray

Home Sweet Home

My parents just moved from their Florida townhouse into a condo. They went from five rooms and a veranda to two rooms and a flat screen. In the process they had to jettison a truckload of furniture, books, and collected memorabilia -- including a several boxes that I had stashed in their attic. I got a couple of phone calls during the process asking if I really needed to save every scrap of paper I had ever scribbled on. (Answer: Yes.) But in general, they are pretty good about getting rid of excess baggage. Much better than I am.

Of course this isn't the first time they've been through this process. Since they got married, they've moved six times. I wasn't around for their first move -- from an apartment in Bridgeport to their first house in Derby, Connecticut. But I do have some memories of that little red clapboard cottage.

One of my earliest memories is of my Mom and me lying on a blanket in the side yard. I felt something moving under me, and when my Mom picked up the blanket we saw a couple of snakes wriggling around underneath. Fortunately, a garbage man soon arrived to pick up the snakes and dispose of them. To me, the garbage man was like a superhero, who appeared out of nowhere with his big green barrel, vanquished the evildoers and then rode away on his giant noisy truck.

Another memory I have from that house is of walking through a massive snow-canyon whose frozen white walls loomed way above my head -- but it was really only a shoveled path from the front door to the driveway.

We moved from Derby to Warren, Ohio when I was about three or four. I don't remember anything about the move itself, but I do remember our house in Warren. It was a split-level with a half basement and a swing-set in the back yard. Since it had no fireplace, my Dad built a fake one -- complete with electric "burning" logs. My parents wanted to make sure that Santa had proper access to deliver our Christmas presents. I never knew it was fake until years later.

We weren't in that house very long. One of my strongest memories from there is falling down the basement stairs. It wasn't a full flight of stairs and I probably only fell down the last step, but it seemed like a huge deal at the time.

Our next move was to a two-story colonial in Louisville, Kentucky. That was the house I grew up in. It had a full basement, an attic, a backyard and a real fireplace. We had a piano in the den, a stereo in the living room and a two-car garage. It was a castle.

There are almost too many memories of that house to even begin to recall any. Everything happened there. It was like part of the family. There was even a room called the "family room."

Every square inch of that house holds a special memory: Finding my Dad's old childhood board games up in the attic. Discovering the secretly hidden Christmas presents in my parents' closet. The jellybean Easter egg hunts in the living room. Mom warming our coats in front of the stove on cold winter mornings. Watching my Dad work at his big gray workbench in the basement. Seeing fireworks from the roof of the garage. Rolling down the hill in the front yard. Sitting in front of the fire drinking hot cocoa after making a snow fort in the backyard. Washing the car in the driveway before my first date...

While I was in college, my Dad got a promotion and my parents sold the house and moved to Guilford, Connecticut. I really had no chance to say goodbye to that house in Louisville. The whole move happened when I was away at school. I did get a chance, though, to hang out with my Dad while he was house-shopping in Guilford.

We took a look at a kind of plain-looking place down a long driveway at the end of Riverview Drive. Not much to look at from the street. But around the back was a whole different world. The house sat on the edge of a tidal river in the middle of a salt marsh. Across the river was a bird sanctuary. It was beautiful. Trees, grass, birds, fish, tides, clouds, sun and snow, water and ice. All constantly changing -- always new yet always familiar.

After college I lived at the house on Riverview Drive on and off for the next few years. Whenever I needed a place to regroup after another unsuccessful foray into the real world, there was always my corner room overlooking the marsh. It was a good place to reconnect with myself. I could take the canoe out onto the river and disappear into nature for hours on end. Or just sit on the dock while the river rose, listening to the birds sing and the wind rustle through trees. When I finally moved out for good and went to New York, it was nice to know that I still had my own private nature sanctuary just a train ride away.

We packed a lot of memories into that house, too. My niece and nephews made some of their earliest appearances there. We had Christmases and Thanksgivings and even a wedding reception. In time, it came to feel just like home. My parents had managed to move most of our stuff up from Louisville. I had a stash of old memories boxed up in the basement. Things I wasn't ready to let go of. But like the salt marsh, life just keeps on changing.

Not long after his promotion, my Dad went through a major shake-up at work. He landed on his feet, but the era of corporate downsizing was just beginning and he decided to get out while the gettin' was good. Around the same time, my Mom inherited her aunt's condo in Florida. My folks spent a winter down there and realized they never had to suffer through another freezing Connecticut winter again. So they moved.

This time I was given a mandate to consolidate and/or discard all of the crap I had been storing in their basement, as there would be limited space for it in the new house. They had sold the condo and bought a townhouse in Osprey, Florida. No basement, but there was an attic above the garage. Two bedrooms, plus a pull-out couch in the den. And just a short walk to a pretty nice swimming pool. A nice place to visit, but I wasn't gonna live there.

The memories we created in Osprey were mostly associated with special occasions -- my parents' major birthdays, Christmas trips to Disney World, hanging out with Mom after her heart surgery. I once spent a couple of relaxing weeks there in the springtime and managed to crank out a screenplay in the process.

On my last visit to Osprey, a couple of years ago, my parents were already talking about moving. Once again I was directed to go through my stash of boxes and discard anything unnecessary. This time I actually managed to pare things down to what I thought was a few manageable boxes. But that didn't stop them from calling me up while they were packing to give me a heads-up that they were "consolidating" some more of my things.

This time there will be no special stash of my treasured archives at my parent's place. Everything they didn't want was loaded onto a truck and shipped up to Connecticut for my sister to deal with. Hopefully it will be safe there for another few years.

I just hope my sister doesn't decide to move.

Nail Soup

So, I'm lying in the gutter the other night, on a street way up in the Hollywood Hills, trying to set up a video camera to record a couple of coyotes chewing on a stuffed dog.

Who says show biz isn't glamourous anymore?

No, it wasn't for a new reality show called "Extreme Cuddly Toys," though that does sound like a great idea. I was actually helping my friend Rosalee shoot a scene from the movie she's making, called Coyote Nights.

Rosalee is a very talented actress whom I met through my screenwriting group Deadline Junkies. She is also a single mom who raised two awesome sons. Part of the challenge of parenting a couple of teens in LA, was trying to steer them clear of the pervasive drug culture. It wasn't easy. In fact it was nearly impossible. Rosalee found herself literally surrounded by predatory drug dealers whose influence over her young sons terrified her.

She decided to get involved. So, she started asking questions, of her sons, of their friends, even of the drug dealers. And, as an actress and a filmmaker, she decided to videotape the whole thing so that maybe she could share their story with other parents and kids. With the help of her friend Kelly, a reality TV producer, she started making a documentary. She didn't know what she was going to find, she just knew she had to do something.

Cut to several years later: the boys are older now and have moved out of the house. Rosalee decides to start putting together the footage she shot during those tumultuous teenage years. But there are pieces missing -- you can't always have your camera with you when dramatic events take place. The most crucial scene was never captured: the night Rosalee and her boys saw the coyotes attacking the neighbor's dog.

Rosalee has tried on numerous occasions to grab some shots of coyotes out on the street at night, but the damn things never stick around long enough for her to run inside and grab the camera. She's even taken to carrying the camera with her just in case she runs into some coyotes out on Mullholland Drive some night. Which, she does. But, alas, it was too dark and the coyotes were too fast.

Finally she realizes that she needs to bite the bullet and hire some professional coyotes. This being LA, that's not as unusual as you might think. But it is expensive. Damn expensive. Coyotes don't work cheap. They have a very good union.

So Rosalee needs to raise some money.

She signs up on a website called IndieGoGo, which provides a forum for independent filmmakers to solicit tax-deductible contributions via the internet. She emails all her friends and posts the link on Facebook, and, little by little, the donations start coming in. Rosalee is amazed. This dream she's been holding onto for so many years is beginning to look as if it is within reach. But even with the donations, she still needs more. She needs cameras and camera operators. She needs lights and vehicles. She needs permits and insurance. The closer she gets, the more difficult it seems.

One night at Deadline Junkies, she tells me that she feels bad about having to beg everyone she knows for money or time or equipment or advice. So, I tell her the story of Nail Soup:

A group of travelers stops for the night at a roadhouse. They are strangers who just happen to be on the same road together. They are tired and hungry but there is nothing to eat. An old tramp announces that he will make them all some nail soup, using a magic nail he has in his pocket. Just put it in some water and stir it up and soon everyone will have a nice hot bowl of nourishing soup for dinner. "Of course," says the tramp, "nail soup does taste better with some carrots chopped up in it. But we will have to make do without." One of the travelers, however, happens to have a few carrots, and into the pot they go. The tramp smiles, "You know what else goes well in nail soup -- a bit of potato." Sure enough, another one of the travelers produces a potato, and into the pot it goes. And so on, until everyone has contributed what little they have and the nail soup becomes a hearty stew which easily feeds them all.

Rosalee's film is like the nail soup. It begins with an idea, but it becomes a reality through the collaboration and generosity of her fellow travelers. Rosalee sent out more emails, hit up more friends for favors, found out a way to get the permit price reduced, and worked out a deal with the coyotes. So, last weekend, there we were: four members of Deadline Junkies with borrowed cameras and lights, two volunteer interns, one out-of-town visitor who probably had no idea what she was getting into, and two Hollywood coyotes with their entourage -- all to help make Rosalee's vision into a reality.

And as with the nail soup, we all came away feeling nourished -- knowing we had contributed to something worthwhile and taken part in a moment of true creativity. It was an honor and a privilege to be lying in the street in the middle of the night trying to point a camera at a spot of light where two coyotes just might, if we are goddamn lucky this time, decide to hit their marks and do their bit.

There's still a long way to go before Coyote Nights is done, but that's the beauty of nail soup -- you never run out of it.

They say getting a movie made isn't a miracle. But it is a minor miracle.

Hollywood Dick's 169th Dream

Based on actual events.

FADE IN:

INT. FAMILY HOME - EVENING

As in many dreams, I start out in my old house back in Louisville with my family. But the setting is fluid, shifting from one locale to another. Now I'm at my parent's place in Maine. Now I'm in my Malibu beach house. (Or more accurately, my Malibu Dream House.)

I am very sad. I have come to a decision. I am going to leave California and go back home. I am giving up on my "dream" of becoming a screenwriter. The decision weighs very heavily upon me. I can barely speak.

CUT TO:

EXT. DOWNTOWN LA - NIGHT

I am on my way to a special event: a movie screening, or a premier. I know the exact location, but I can't seem to get there. I am in an unfamiliar part of town. It is dark. The streets are confusing.

I find myself on the iconic North Broadway Bridge, with its rows of Beaux-Arts lampposts curving off into the night. It's like a scene from a movie. Like a scene from a hundred movies, where the hero is all alone and doesn't know where to turn. And the city is big and lonely and unforgiving.

I make my way through a series of alleys and side-streets filled with shady characters and lowlife types. I am a little apprehensive, but try to appear undaunted.

Despite the fact that I am totally out of my element, I feel like I know where I am going. I feel like I am getting somewhere.

I must navigate a series of confusing twists and turns, but eventually I arrive at…

CUT TO:

INT. PRIVATE CLUB - NIGHT

I am in a large, well-lit room at some kind of crazy party with a bunch of people I don't know. Everyone is drinking and talking and laughing.

A man approaches me from out of the crowd. He seems to know me. He is smiling and friendly. His face is slightly familiar -- like someone I might have seen on TV or in a movie. Apparently his job is to 'guide' me through the party, and keep me from misbehaving.

I have a glass in my hand, but it is empty. I go to the bar and order a drink. The bartender tells me that I have been cut off.

My 'guide' reappears and takes the empty glass away from me. I look around and see that everyone else is having a good time. I just want to get out of there...

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. CAFE - NIGHT

Small groups of people sit at tables, eating dinner and generally enjoying themselves. I am on a bench over against the wall. There is a stage at one end of the room.

A waiter confronts me. He seems to think I am someone else -- or that I am not who I am supposed to be. I do not know what to tell him.

Someone hands me a guitar and tells me to play. I take the guitar and strum a few chords. I feel confident. At last I have something that I know how to do.

I begin to play a song, but one of the guitar strings breaks. I try to fix it but decide that it is futile. I set down the guitar and walk away.

CUT TO:

INT. BACK ROOM - NIGHT

I end up in a small room in the back of the cafe, where I meet a beautiful woman. She has a great smile and seems glad to see me. Then she laughs and tells me that I have to leave right away. She will help me escape -- the only way out is through the window.

We try to open the window, but it only comes up a little bit. Just a crack. Not enough to get through. I keep tugging on the window but it won't budge...

FADE OUT.

...and then I woke up.

Fuck Off Day

Some lessons you have to learn the hard way -- and even then they don't always stick.

Back when I lived in Washington DC, I was going through a long and confusing breakup with a woman I had been seeing for several years. Part of what made it confusing was her notion that we should remain friends after we broke up. This made no sense to me, and I mistook her attempts at friendship as possible signs of getting back together.

One such misunderstanding occurred when she invited me to run with her in a ten-mile road-race she'd entered. Actually, she'd planned on running with a "friend," but when her "friend" dropped out at the last minute, I was invited to take her "friend's" place, since they'd already paid the registration fee.

Of course I jumped at the chance. It was a golden opportunity to spend some quality time with her and show off one of my better qualities. I'd been running since high school and considered myself a better than average road-racer. And ten miles was just about my favorite distance. Or at least, it had been at one time. In fact I hadn't been running a lot of distance lately. Maybe a few miles now and again in the park. But, I'd logged a lot of miles in my day and I figured I could go the distance.

She, on the other hand, had been putting in a lot of mileage. While we were dating, I don't think I ever saw her run more than a few steps at a time. But apparently, without the distraction of having me around any more, she had become an avid distance runner. And she had been training specifically for this event.

Me, not so much.

The race was held on a perfect fall day -- nice and cool. The course covered a fairly flat section of Rock Creek Park, pretty much five miles out and five back. Piece of cake. I met her at the start. She seemed pleased to see me. I was psyched to see her and ready to show her how, now that she was a runner too, we had even more in common than before. We would run together, encourage each other, endure hardship and pain, sweat and struggle together. And in the end, we would form a stronger bond than ever.

It was a foolproof plan.

For the first few miles, it seemed to be working. We ran along together, chatting, getting into a groove, settling into a rhythm. She was in pretty good shape, too. She started out a little faster than I expected. I had thought we might begin at a nice leisurely jog, and that she would probably need to rely on my years of road-racing experience to help set a proper pace. However, after a few miles, she seemed to be the one setting the pace and I was pretty much just trying to stay with her.

At the halfway point, she started to pull away from me. I reluctantly told her to go ahead, I just needed to get my second wind. I would be fine. So, off she went -- on her own, moving ahead until she was almost out of sight. And then, finally, she was gone.

The next five miles were grueling. I was dying. But I couldn't stop. I had to keep going. Maybe she would slow down and I would catch up to her. At the very least I had to make a good showing at the finish line.

I began to face the fact that I was in no shape for a ten mile race. I wasn't even running anymore -- I was just punishing myself. I could tell I was doing major damage to my knees, but I just couldn't give in.

I still had my pride.

I actually did catch up with her at the end. But by that time I could barely stand. I clumsily tried to lean on her for support, but she pulled away uncomfortably. I was in serious pain, hobbling through the chute to the check-in table. By now I had given up on impressing her and was just going for sympathy. But I wasn't getting any. She seemed put off by my suffering. After we picked up our race t-shirts, she pretty much ditched me.

For the next few weeks, every step I took felt like someone was jamming a jagged knife right through my kneecap. Every agonizing jolt was an excruciating reminder of exactly how stupid I can be. It was months before I could walk without pain. I couldn't run for almost a year. For a while I thought I might never run again.

But, eventually, I recovered and lived to run again. Lesson learned.

Or was it?

Last weekend the company I work for had its annual summer beach party, known officially as "Fuck Off Day." They reserve a spot on the beach in Malibu and we all take the day off and hang out. Some folks just sit and enjoy the sun. Some play volleyball. And some fools go swimming in the ocean.

Not that swimming in the ocean is foolish. But this particular spot happens to have a really gnarly beach break. I found that out last year when I tried to do a little body-surfing and got badly trounced by a real butt-stomper of a wave. I was dashed against the sand like a rag doll and pummeled like a little punk.

This year, I promised myself I wouldn't be so reckless. I would respect the surf. Of course I still planned on going swimming, I just wasn't going to tempt Poseidon by being overly bold or incautious.

As luck would have it, when I got to the beach I ran into a lovely young woman who said she needed a swim buddy. And not just any lovely young woman -- this woman also happens to be a producer on the show I am about to start working on. Essentially she's my new boss. A quick dip in the ocean offered the perfect opportunity to bond with her and show her how youthful and vigorous I am. See, TV is a young person's game and I don't want to be seen as an old codger. Especially by my new boss. Especially by my hot, young new boss.

So off we ran into the surf. Oh, did I mention, it was freakin' cold. How cold? The kind of cold that when it hits you, it sucks every ounce of energy right out of your body. But she didn't seem to mind it at all. She swam out beyond the breakers and I followed. I was now literally in way over my head. She mentioned that she lives near the beach and goes swimming in the ocean every morning before work.

Now you tell me.

After bobbing and frolicking in the water for what seemed like a frozen eternity, she started heading to shore. Thank God. But then she decided to try and catch some waves. They were pretty good size, and like last year, they were breaking way too close to shore. She dropped into one and I watched her go under as it came down hard. I scanned the churning water and waited for her to pop up again. Fortunately she did, cheerful as ever. I was relieved.

Only then did I realize that I was right in the path of another big wave, poised to take me down. I quickly dove into the curl to try and swim through it, but I was too late. The wave slammed down right on top of me and folded me in half -- sending me tumbling ass over teakettle. I hit the bottom hard and got pounded and dragged along, practically losing my trunks in the process. Somehow I managed to hold on. I fought to right myself and pull up my trunks before the wave cleared, so that when I emerged I would appear unscathed and chipper. I finally struggled to my feet, still yanking on my trunks.

"I didn't know where you were!" she exclaimed.

That makes two of us.

Unbelievably, she still hadn't had enough, and managed to catch one more wave into shore. I stumbled after her, battered by another wave -- barely able to get back on my feet before she saw me. Thankfully, mercifully, we headed back up the beach.

Nevertheless, I felt pretty good about the whole adventure. Nothing broken. No humiliating accidents. Nobody drowned. I think I did manage to bond with my new boss and appear somewhat spry. All in all it was a success.

I toweled off and headed over to the lunch buffet the company had set up for us. I sat down at a table with a couple nearer to my own age. I told them about my little adventure in the water and they just laughed. I guess it did sound pretty ridiculous. Once again I was witlessly lured into trying to prove myself to someone who probably couldn't care less. And was soundly thrashed for my stupidity.

Maybe next time I'll be wiser.

Maybe.

CARMAGEDDON!

I lit a cigarette on a parking meter and walked on down the road. It was a normal day.

Nothing like this has ever been attempted before: The closing of a ten-mile stretch of the "405" -- the busiest highway in the world -- for 53 consecutive hours! The ramifications are nearly unimaginable. Rerouting half a million cars into the surrounding streets will surely lead to a disaster of Biblical proportions. Paralyzing gridlock, looting, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria!

I have decided to keep a log of my activities during this historic time. Future generations may look back on this weekend and wonder how we Angelenos survived. It certainly won't be easy. And if the worst should happen, I want to leave behind an accurate record of events exactly as they unfold. Perhaps tomorrow's civic leaders can learn from my experiences and work to prevent another potential cataclysm of this nature.

DAY ONE - Prelude

Friday, July 15th

9:34 a.m.

On my way to work. Laurel Canyon seems fairly clear so far -- except for the dumb-ass in the white Range Rover in front of me. Signal first, then slow down, then turn. Not all at once!

9:51: a.m.

Getting on the 101 is pretty smooth. Have to cross three lanes of traffic fairly quickly to get over to the 134 at the Bruce T. Hinman Memorial Interchange. No problem, except for one jerk in a Lexus who sees my turn signal as an invitation to speed up and prevent me from merging. Nice try, bitch.

10:18 a.m.

At work. The place seems pretty quiet. My boss hasn't shown up yet. Rumor is she's staying in Santa Monica. Could be a smart move. Everyone is doing their best to remain calm. But we all know that disaster is imminent.

2:07 p.m.

It's quiet. Too quiet. My supervisor, who lives on the west side, has decided to make a run for it. There are only a few of us left now. No reports of gridlock or mayhem. Yet. Indeed, the very lack of information is terrifying. We wait.

3:46 p.m.

I confer with a co-worker who advises me that, as I live near one of the key arteries connecting the valley and the west side -- the aforementioned Laurel Canyon Blvd. -- I might want to consider making my exit. I check the internet and learn that on-ramps to the 405 will begin shutting down at 7 p.m. Time for a command decision. It's now or never.

4:11 p.m.

The 134 is relatively clear, a slight tie-up at the Bruce T. Hinman Memorial Interchange, but that may have as much to do with the glare of the afternoon sun as with anything else. It feels like the calm before the storm.

4:37 p.m.

Crossing Mulholland -- now I'm starting to hit some traffic. It's slow going down the canyon. It's a good thing I left when I did. I start making plans for what to do when I get home. Maybe I should stop and buy provisions: bottled water, power bars, tequila -- bare essentials. You know how people panic when things get hairy.

4:52 p.m.

I manage to snag one of the last parking spaces on my street. Nice and shady. I leave the car knowing I won't be using it for the next two days. And while this is actually a fairly normal state of affairs, somehow the prospect fills me with a wistful sense of melancholy. Perhaps due to the very real possibility that, should things take an ugly turn, I may never have the opportunity to use my car again. I walk up the block to my building, not daring to look back.

5:33 p.m.

I check the internet for updates on the situation, but there is very little new information. Weird. Are they deliberately withholding the horror from the public? One can only assume. I take a quick inventory of the fridge and decide to put off my provision-gathering trip for now. I'm going to need to keep my wits about me in the coming hours. Time for a quick power-nap.

7:40 p.m.

I awaken to the shrill jangle of the telephone. Some stranded friend calling for assistance no doubt. I steel myself for the inevitable let-down -- I can't go running off to rescue someone who failed to take adequate precautions. Not with that sweet parking spot I landed. Turns out it's just some jackass taking a survey. Stupid telemarketers. Don't they know there's a crisis at hand?

8:07 p.m.

At the grocery store. The shelves still seem pretty well-stocked. For now. I stick to the salad bar. Best to stock up on fresh produce. In a few days there may be none left at all.

10:02 p.m

Finally getting some news reports. Things are eerily serene. Most of the on-ramps to the 405 have been blocked-off by now. No incidents of extreme road-rage are being reported. Cleary there is some kind of cover-up in the works. I flip from channel to channel, but the story remains the same. Peaceful. Calm. No problemo. Obviously it is a conspiracy.

11:05 p.m.

Second wave of news programs, and still no real stories regarding major gridlock or widespread panic. I become bored and drift off to sleep.

DAY TWO - Lockdown

Saturday, July 16th

10:35 a.m.

Slept in most of the morning. Need to conserve my strength for the coming ordeal. Woke to the sound of helicopters overhead. Probably patrolling for looters. Check TV for latest news, but all I find are infomercials. Thinking about getting a Power Juicer.

1:17 p.m.

I venture out onto the streets. Santa Monica Blvd. seems oddly deserted. I must have caught a lull. I walk up to Whole Foods for some basics: chicken dogs, soy milk, pasta. I think I will also pick up some coconut oil, because it's supposed to be good for everything. You never know

1:42 p.m.

Whole Foods is not very busy, although I do get hung-up at the express checkout by one of those annoying couples who divide their stuff in half and stake out two different lines, then one of them jumps over whichever line moves fastest. I hate that.

2:09 p.m.

Heading home. As I near my street, I consider going down the block to check and see how my car is doing. But I decide that it would be better not to tempt myself. I need to stay focused.

2:13 p.m.

Purely out of habit, I check my mailbox and surprisingly, I find that I have mail. I had assumed that delivery would be suspended. Could be the last mail I receive for a while. Or maybe ever.

5:38 p.m.

Must have dozed off after lunch. Important to stay rested. And hydrated. Woke up to check the news reports, but they keep dishing out the same old propaganda about everything being just fine. I'm not buying their malarky anymore. I decide to ignore the news from now on. Trust my instincts. Really need to hunker down and ride this thing out. Maybe I'll watch a movie.

DAY THREE - Aftermath

Sunday, July 17th

9:21 a.m.

Last night I cooked up some pasta and watched a few movies on demand. L.A. Story, Speed, and Falling Down. Ate two bags of microwave popcorn. Tried putting some coconut oil on the popcorn. Not good. Went to bed with a stomach ache and dreamed about hordes of angry pedestrians clamoring for a seat on the last bus out of Santa Monica.

11:05 a.m.

Not sure if this is a hoax or what, but Mayor Villaraigosa is on TV claiming that the crisis is over and the 405 will be reopening within the hour. So the question is: What were they really doing out there? This whole "freeway closure" story must have served as a diversion for some other massive undertaking. The mayor is answering a bunch of stupid questions about timetables and budgets, but no one is asking the most obvious question: What are you trying to cover up? This is maddening!

11:30 a.m.

The 405 Freeway has officially reopened, 17 hours ahead of schedule. Or is it? Maybe this was the plan all along. Make everyone think there's going to be a huge "construction project" while meanwhile, something else entirely is going on. But what? I have a few theories:

• Installation of Commuter Tracking Devices (CTDs) and/or mind-control technology;
• Covert transportation of Alien Artifacts from the Santa Monica Airport to the Getty Center;
• Illuminati Death Race.

Who knows what really happened. We may never find out. This whole ordeal has been highly stressful. I think I'll go for a drive.

Zen Again...

I know they say enlightenment first, then the laundry. But I really gotta do some laundry.

— Hᴏʟʟʏᴡᴏᴏᴅ Dɪᴄᴋ (@HollywoodDick) June 25, 2011

Technology

I got my first computer around the time I was transitioning out of the 'Lego' phase of human nerd development and into the 'science-kit' phase. It was, in fact, a science-kit computer, which was basically a rudimentary circuit board which I 'programmed' by connecting pieces of wire into a series of pinholes. If I wired the circuits correctly, I could perform simple calculations by placing a pre-printed strip of paper in front of the row of bulbs at the top of the board, and sliding a set of sliders into place. The bulbs would light up the numbers and the answer would magically appear. Pretty crude, but I thought it was amazing.

When I was in high-school, we had access to a 'computer lab' where we learned to program a computer using BASIC. The computer was actually a teletype connected to mainframe at the University of Louisville, which we accessed through a timeshare system using a dial-up connection. And when I say dial-up, I mean we literally had to dial a rotary phone and place it into a special cradle so it could 'talk' to the mainframe. I really didn't learn much programming in the computer lab, though. We mostly just used the phone to make crank calls.

In college, I took a class where I learned to program micro-computers to use in the composition of electronic music. I say I 'learned' to do that, but I honestly don't remember much at all from that class. I was a lot more interested in making music than learning programming. I spent most of my time playing around with the ARP 2600 synthesizer, which was programmed using patch cords, not unlike an old telephone switchboard, or my science-kit computer.

My first 'home' computer was a Commodore 64 that I plugged into an old black and white TV set to use as a monitor. The CPU was contained within the keyboard, and the only other piece of hardware was the external 5.25 inch floppy drive, about the size of a child's shoe box. I used the C64 to to create a spreadsheet to balance my checkbook, but not much else. My biggest achievement with it was taking apart the floppy drive when one of my disks got stuck and successfully putting it back together.

When first I started writing screenplays, I had to rely on borrowed computers. At one of my paralegal jobs, I had access to an early IBM Thinkpad, which I managed to smuggle home with me. I wrote my first screenplay on it, using good old WordPerfect 5.1 for DOS.

Yes, those were the days, my friends.

Eventually, I broke down and bought myself a Compaq notebook with 170 MB of memory (total) that ran Windows 3.1 and had a PCMCIA slot, allowing me internet access with a 56k modem. I logged on to AOL, picked out my screen name (MYRDHINN) and never looked back. I was now part of the technology revolution!

It was an exciting time to be alive.

By the time I made my move to Hollywood, I was ready for a technology upgrade. The little Compag notebook was not suitable for writing screenplays. I bought my first PC, an eTower 400i, running Windows 98 with a whopping 4 gigabytes of memory and 250 MB of RAM. And with a few minor upgrades, I have been using that machine ever since. I increased the RAM, added a CD burner, installed an Ethernet port, and replaced the power supply.

And the damn thing just kept on working.

For several years, however, I have been contemplating getting a new computer. I figured I should have a laptop so that, if need be, I could write my screenplays from anywhere -- say, on location on a movie set, for example. I watched and waited as the technology improved and the prices dropped, until it got to the point where they were practically giving them away.

And then I made my move.

The machine I am using now beats the pants off my old computer. It has tons of memory, it's super-fast, it has WiFi, and it can go anywhere. When I wanted to move all of my files from the old computer to this one, I was able to store over 4000 separate files on a thumb drive. The total amount of memory required is less than the available RAM memory on this computer. It has a webcam and a DVD burner. I can write screenplays, record music, make movies and video-chat with my family.

And who knows what else?

It's a far cry from the crude science-kit computer I once found so amazing. But it's still just a tool. An unbelievably powerful tool, but still just a tool.

The question is: what am I going to do with it?

Sidney Lumet

One night, back when I was at Wesleyland, I was walking down Foss Hill and I saw a helicopter sitting in the middle of Andrus Field. I went over to check it out and found the pilot sitting in the cockpit. I asked him what he was doing there and he told me he had been hired by Sidney Lumet to fly up from New York for a speaking engagement on campus that evening. Although I knew who Lumet was, somehow I had missed hearing that he was coming to Wesleyan. I would have liked to see him. I thought it was pretty cool that he flew up from New York in a helicopter to come talk to a bunch of film students. Who does that?

One of the first times I ever went to see a movie without my parents was when I went to see a Sean Connery movie called The Anderson Tapes with our next-door neighbors. It was a big deal going to see a real grown-up movie on my own and I was pretty excited. I still remember certain scenes from that movie very vividly -- it had a real impact on me. But mostly I remember being very upset afterwards. I don't know why, but I couldn't get to sleep. I just kept thinking about the movie and the characters and the feeling that it was all so real and so intense. The Anderson Tapes really freaked me out. It was a Sidney Lumet movie.

A few years later, our church youth group leader took a bunch of us to see Al Pacino in Serpico, the true story of a New York cop who refuses to go on the take and ends up getting shot in the face by his own guys. We had to get permission slips from our parents because it was rated R, and some kids weren't allowed to go. But I had already read the book, so my parents didn't see any harm. I loved Serpico. I thought Pacino was the coolest. And I loved New York -- Serpico's New York, gritty and grimy and hip and tough. Serpico blew me away. Another Lumet movie.

At Wesleyan I saw several Lumet movies, and began to realize just how great the man in the helicopter really was.

Murder on the Orient Express was an adaptation of an Agatha Christie novel featuring the amazing Albert Finney as Hercule Poirot, along with an all-star cast that includes Sean Connery and Ingrid Bergman. Hard to believe it was made by the same director that made The Anderson Tapes and Serpico, but Lumet was never confined to one type of subject matter or genre. Whatever the tale, Lumet brings it to life with intelligence and style, using his formidable craft to serve the story in any way he can.

Lumet's next movie was about a guy who robs a bank to pay for a sex-change operation for his boyfriend. These days that may seem like no big deal, but when Dog Day Afternoon came out you just didn't have a lot of bisexual movie heroes winning over the hearts of audiences across America. Of course it helps when you have Al Pacino playing the bank-robber, Sonny. But it is Lumet's storytelling genius that puts us so squarely in Sonny's corner right from the get-go, so that when he reveals his true motive for the robbery it makes him even more sympathetic, rather than less.

Lumet was on a roll. His next film was Network. What can you say about Network? Brilliant script by Paddy Chayefsky. Brilliant performances by Peter Finch, William Holden, Faye Dunaway, Robert Duvall, Ned Beatty. Brilliant directing by Lumet. What was once considered cutting edge satire is now reality TV. It doesn't get much better than this.

Lumet went back to his roots in the theater for Equus, adapting the prize-winning play with Richard Burton as the psychiatrist. In a way, the film's exploration of a troubled psyche reminds me of another Lumet gem, Long Day's Journey Into Night, which stands as one of the greatest theatrical adaptations ever filmed. In both, you have characters striving to understand the workings of a tortured mind, only to come face to face with their own dark secrets.

I've always loved courtroom dramas. In The Verdict, Lumet teamed up with Paul Newman and screenwriter David Mamet to give us one of the best ever made. Every moment of this movie is worth savoring. And Newman's final summation to the jury is a perfect example of great writing, great acting and great directing. Lumet, Mamet and Newman should have been given Oscars for that scene alone.

Speaking of courtroom dramas, the first time I served on jury duty, I found myself in a situation similar to Henry Fonda's in 12 Angry Men. Everyone else on the jury thought the defendant was guilty, but I wasn't convinced. I had to explain my position to the other jurors, and even though it wasn't as volatile or dramatic as the movie, I couldn't help thinking of Henry Fonda's performance as I laid out the facts of the case. I was in an awkward position, but I had Fonda as my guide. Eventually I convinced everyone that the facts just weren't there to support a conviction, and we let the guy go free. He'll never know it, but Sidney Lumet saved his ass that day.

When I was getting ready to direct my short film Dante's View, I read Lumet's book Making Movies. In it, he describes the process he used to shoot 12 Angry Men. In order to give the feeling of the room closing in on the jurors during the course of their deliberations, Lumet decided to slowly lower the camera angle throughout the course of the movie, bringing the walls and ceiling more and more into the frame to loom over the actors. To accomplish this feat, he shot the movie completely out of sequence, getting every shot facing one wall, in order, from daytime to nightfall, slowly lowering the camera angle as he went, until he had all the shots he needed. Then he'd start over facing the next wall, repeating the process until he'd covered all four walls. This technique took tremendous planning and organization to match the lighting, the angles, the performances, everything. And when you watch the movie, it's seamless. Totally unnoticeable. But the feeling is there. That's a real director.

Lumet's final movie, Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, shows him at the top of his form until the last -- shooting on HD video in the quick and economical style he developed in his early years in television. Lumet insisted on calling the movie a melodrama, which has become a dirty word in the movie business, but once again it shows his mastery of the material. By focusing on the emotional impact of the events on the characters, Lumet elevates what could be a hum-drum crime drama to operatic level, serving the story in the best way possible.

I never did get to see Sidney Lumet, the man in the helicopter, but he's always been there, for all these years, showing me how to do it right.

Acting!

"We're actors - we're the opposite of people."

I'm not an actor, but on a few occasions I have pretended to be one.

In high school, I was put in charge of producing our senior class play, Oklahoma! Somehow, in addition to hiring the director and choreographer, overseeing set construction, props, costumes and lighting, arranging rehearsals, scheduling the performances, preparing the program, and building a 30-foot-wide stage extension, I was also persuaded to take a small role in the production.

I played Ike, one of the local hayseeds. Ike is basically part of the chorus, which meant a lot of loping around (i.e. 'dancing') and singing back-up parts. I did get a short solo in one song, about a half a verse, which was terrifying. But I managed to get through it without bringing the whole production to a halt.

All in all in was a lot of fun, plus I ended up taking one of the dancers to the prom, so I'd have to say it was success.

Several years later, I was living at my parents house in Connecticut, trying to figure out what to do with my life. Deep into my folk-singer phase, I was looking in the local paper for open mike nights, and I saw a notice for auditions for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the Puppet House Theater in Stony Creek. As a kid I had memorized every word to every song on the Joseph album, so I thought I would give it a try.

I went to the audition and sang one of my original folk tunes and somehow was selected for the part of Levi, Joseph's 'cowboy' brother. As Levi, I got to sing a whole song by myself. Which was cool, except that the song, One More Angel in Heaven, was not included on the record I had memorized as a kid -- so I had to learn it from scratch.

In addition to my solo turn, I was also part of the chorus, which meant a lot of floundering around (i.e., 'dancing') and singing back-up parts.

The show ran for three weeks. Each night, about midway through the show, I would saunter out on stage with my guitar and launch into my solo lament -- just trying to get through it without screwing up. The next day, the director would give the cast his notes. He always gave me the same one: "You need to go bigger." I had no idea what that meant and was basically too dumb to ask.

Finally, on the night of the last performance, I decided to stretch out a little. During the climactic verse, I walked almost all the way across the stage and paused dramatically before delivering the song's punchline: "It takes a man who knows not fear, to wrassle with a goat."

Instead of the usual smattering of chuckles from the audience, this time I got a big laugh. Afterward, the director came up to me and said, "That's what I've been trying to tell you all along!"

Acting!

When I lived in Brooklyn, my roommate, Jon, was serious trained actor as well as an acting teacher. I learned a lot about acting just by being around him. I was very impressed with all of the preparation he would go through while learning a new role. He put a lot more thought into the character than I ever did as a writer. Made me think I needed to do a little more homework.

Around the same time, I was dating a lovely aspiring actress. Ever supportive, I went to see every one of her performances. It always amazed me how she could transform herself into a completely different person onstage. Oh sure, I knew about the various techniques involved, I even read Stanislavsky's An Actor Prepares, but knowing about it and actually doing it were worlds apart for me. I just wasn't that kind of animal.

I have enough trouble just being me.

These days, I belong to a group of screenwriters that meets every week to hold staged readings of our works-in-progress. I have become a kind of go-to narrator for the group, which means I read all of the descriptive parts of the screenplay -- but none of the dialog. We have trained actors for that. It's fun and makes me feel important, but it's not acting.

The other day, though, I was involved in a small production organized by some of the members of the group. They were shooting a short film to help promote a feature they want to produce, and they asked me to play a small, non-speaking role. I was flattered, but confused. Everyone else they had cast was a bona-fide actor. What was I doing in their company?

The short was about a wedding that goes awry. I was cast as the father of the bride, no doubt because I am so distinguished looking. I wore a tuxedo and got to parade around with a beautiful young actress on my arm. In my big scene, I walked her down the aisle, whereupon I was required to kiss her on the cheek and take my seat. What? Kiss her? For real? I felt like a total goofball, trying not to giggle. Fortunately, everything went smoothly. Then they had us do it again. And again. And again.

Acting is fun!

I thought was getting the hang of it. Just walk down the aisle, kiss the pretty girl and sit down. I can handle that. Well, almost. At one point the Director of Photography scolded: "Don't look at the camera!" Oops. That's probably one of the first things you learn in acting class. And it was a lot harder than you might think. I mean, where are you supposed to look? Apparently you look at your fellow actors. You know, like this is a real wedding and she's your real daughter, and there isn't a big movie camera pointed right at you.

Acting!

Eventually, I began to feel a little less fraudulent. It wasn't really that different from an actual wedding -- you get all dressed up and pretend like you know what you're doing. Besides, I had a little secret to help me play my part. I had just learned the night before that my niece Annie is pregnant. I was so excited and happy for her that I couldn't help looking like a very proud father of the bride.

No acting necessary.

Lent

I'm not exactly what you would call a "religious" person. Oh sure, I went to Sunday School when I was a kid. Around the age of thirteen, I took part in a "confirmation" ceremony to become a member of the congregation of the Springdale Presbyterian Church in Louisville. At the ceremony, I was given a copy of the The Holy Bible with my name embossed in gold letters on the cover. I even went so far as to read the whole Bible from cover to cover. But, at some point, I kind of drifted away from Christianity and started developing my own belief system. I'm actually still working on that.

It's a process.

Meanwhile, there are some aspects of religion that still intrigue me. Like faith, for example. And forgiveness. And who's not a fan of love? I just felt like there was a lot of extra baggage involved with established religion that I didn't need to carry around for the rest of my life.

Lately, though, I've been thinking a lot about Lent. Growing up Protestant, Lent was always more of an abstract idea than a serious commitment. I mean, we didn't stop eating meat for forty days or anything like that. In fact, I don't really remember giving up anything for Lent. I remember hearing about it in Sunday School and maybe even considering it, but I don't think I ever actually took it to heart.

The basic idea of Lent is to give up something you care about to symbolically mirror the 40 days of fasting that Jesus underwent in the wilderness before embarking on his ministry. The practice of self-denial is supposed to help prepare the faithful for the celebration of Holy Week.

Or maybe it's more like a test -- the same way Jesus was tested by Satan during his time in the wilderness. Except instead of fasting for forty days and turning down the opportunity to rule the world, most people just give up eating chocolate or stop playing video games.

Either way, it's an interesting challenge. Can you give up something that you really enjoy for forty days?

This year, I was thinking about what I might give up for Lent -- kind of as an exercise in self-discipline. I tried to come up with something that would actually feel like a sacrifice. Problem is, I've already given up a lot of things, and I'm kind of down to the bare essentials.

One of the most common things that believers will give up for Lent is meat -- sometimes that means all animal flesh, and sometimes it just means red meat. I gave up eating red meat about twenty-five years ago, and except for a few occasions, I haven't had any since. Another common sacrifice is to give up dairy foods. I gave up dairy around the same time I gave up red meat. I haven't had a milkshake since the 80's.

And I really love milkshakes.

I've never been a coffee drinker or a cigarette smoker, so I can't give those up. Once upon a time, I dabbled in the use of so-called "recreational drugs," but that was, as they say, a long time ago in a a galaxy far, far away.

Several years ago, I went on a rather extreme diet, during which I gave up sugar, wheat, alcohol, processed foods and anything carbonated, fermented or containing yeast. That's a lot of stuff. I stayed on that diet for two years. Every once in a while, as a tune-up, I go on a modified version the diet. Last month, just for kicks, I gave up sugar and alcohol for 28 days.

Back when I decided to quit my paralegal job, I had to give up a few things as well. Like paychecks. And security. And going out to dinner. Or the movies. Or traveling. Or buying new clothes. Health insurance. Haircuts.

I feel like I've given up other things, too. Things that a lot of people take for granted. I never really had a career, never bought a house, never got married, never had kids. I guess I traded those things for the freedom to do what I want. I never really planned it that way -- I always figured I could have it all.

Sometimes I feel like I may have given up too much.

So maybe, in my own personal belief system, self-denial isn't really something I need to focus on. Instead, maybe I should spend the forty days of Lent coming up with ways to make my life more fulfilling. Maybe for me, the Lenten Season should be more about 'letting go' than 'giving up.' Like letting go of the notion that I have to punish myself for my lack of success as a writer by denying myself some of the basic necessities of life. Maybe it's time to 'give up' feeling like a failure.

I'm not saying it's gonna be easy. Just yesterday I went to Target to buy myself some new socks and underwear, as my current supply is sadly tattered and threadbare. And even though they weren't technically on sale, I did spend about twenty minutes comparing prices to determine which 'value pack' was the better deal. Some habits die hard.

Not that I want to start spoiling myself with extravagant luxury items like fancy designer boxer shorts. I just think it's a good idea to take a break from constantly worrying about whether I "deserve" something and maybe just do it without trying to rationalize or justify everything.

For example, I want a new pair of running shoes, but have been putting off buying them because the really good ones are so expensive. On the other hand, since running is good for me, I should go ahead and get them, right? Or is that a justification? Should I get the shoes because I want them or because I deserve them? Maybe I should wait until they are on sale.

This is new territory for me, so I may not get the hang of it right away.

It's a process.

Pure Refreshment

I keep hitting the 'refresh' button on my browser, but I still feel kind of sluggish.

— Hᴏʟʟʏᴡᴏᴏᴅ Dɪᴄᴋ (@HollywoodDick) February 18, 2011

Cairo

Back when I lived in Washington, DC, I had a job working as a paralegal for a prestigious law firm. I was assigned to big case that went to trial in San Francisco, so I flew back and forth pretty often -- always on TWA. After a couple of years, I had racked up a pile of frequent flyer miles.

My girlfriend, Sue, was traveling in Europe that summer. She and I had planned to meet up in Paris, so I went down to the TWA travel agency to cash in my miles. I asked the agent if I had enough for a ticket to Paris and two tickets back home. Turns out I had more than enough. In fact, I had enough miles for two round-trip tickets to anywhere in the world -- including an open-ended stopover in Paris.

Anywhere in the world!

Where do you go when you can go anywhere in the world? I looked at a map showing every TWA destination. Hong Kong was the furthest. Bombay sounded exotic. There were so many others: Rome, Athens, Istanbul, Bangkok, Moscow. I wanted to see them all. But the one that I finally picked was Cairo.

I flew to Paris and met Sue, surprising her with the news that we were going to Cairo. She was thrilled. We stayed in Paris for a few days, then rented a car to tour through France, Switzerland and Italy for a couple of weeks. It was an amazing adventure, but the best was yet to come.

We planned our trip to Cairo using the Let's Go guide that had become our bible, with its listings of low-budget accommodations and must-see sights. We chose a cheap hotel in the center of Cairo, just off Tahrir Square, close to the Egyptian Museum, the Nile Hilton and the bus terminal. The shuttle from the airport dropped us off by the Hilton, so we had to walk across Tahrir Square and down a few blocks to the hotel. We lugged our bags along the crowded, narrow sidewalk, teeming with pedestrians and vendors. The street was jammed with cars, mostly taxis, every one of which was honking its horn in a seemingly random yet endless pattern. It was insane.

A spidery-looking man with a big smile appeared in front of us and offered to assist us with our bags. We were only about a block from the hotel, and I really didn't feel like handing over my bags to some crazy foreigner, so I politely told him we didn't require his assistance, but thanks anyway. He insisted. Again, I politely declined. He wouldn't give up. By now we were in sight of the hotel. He was getting a bit obnoxious at this point, so I asked him to please leave us alone. He stopped, his eyes widening into a furious glare as he sputtered: "You go to hell!"

Welcome to Cairo.

The "hotel" took up the top three floors of an old office building, reached by a rickety, claustrophobic elevator. I assumed it was hooked up to a pair of donkeys somewhere in the basement, but I was afraid to ask. The room was nice enough -- hell, for twelve bucks a night it was a palace. It had the distinction of having a western-style "shower" in the bathroom -- basically a pipe sticking out of the wall. We were informed that it was a good idea to turn on the "shower" well in advance of our ablutions, to give the water time to work its way up the pipes.

The windows looked out over the street, which, as I said, was filled with hundreds of horn-honking cars. Nonstop. The windows were open, it being August, and the sound of the car horns provided a constant cacophonous soundtrack, punctuated only by the periodic 'call to prayer' broadcast by loudspeaker from a nearby minaret.

Welcome to Cairo.

In the morning, we took breakfast on the rooftop, where the blazing sun drove the temperature well into the nineties by eight a.m. Hard-boiled eggs, olives, biscuits and hot tea gave us the fuel we needed for the day's adventures. First stop was the Egyptian Museum, a vast collection of amazing artifacts and antiquities, kind of like the underground chamber at the end of the movie National Treasure. It was a testament to a time of true greatness and achievement, long since buried in the desert sands.

We could have spent days in there, but we only had a week in Cairo.

After the museum we walked over to the Nile Hilton to poke around, and to cool off in the shady courtyard with some good old American Coca-Cola, served ice cold. The Hilton courtyard became our favorite hangout after a long day of sightseeing. And on one particularly hot afternoon, we even managed to bribe our way into the pool for a much-needed dip.

Thanks to the Let's Go guide, we found a great restaurant near the hotel that served a dish called kushari, a mixture of rice, lentils, chickpeas, and macaroni topped with salsa. It was very tasty and belly-filling and best of all, one bowl only cost a quarter. The seating was family-style and the clientele was made up of mostly working-class locals. Not too many tourists there. Quite a change of pace from the Nile Hilton. We ate there every night.

One day we took a minibus from Tahrir Square to Giza to see the pyramids. We went on a guided tour that took us deep within the Great Pyramid of Cheops. The air inside felt like it had been preserved for five thousand years. It was like going back in time. Outside, I climbed up onto the massive stones at the base of the pyramid, which is strictly forbidden, and Sue snapped my picture. We then trudged up to the only tourist restaurant within miles for a big glass of lemonade. In that heat, they could have charged me one hundred dollars a glass and I probably would have paid it. We stayed until evening to watch the spectacular Sound and Light show, then went back to the hotel to wait for the water to come up the pipe.

The next evening, after visiting the Muhammed Ali Mosque, we decided to explore a part of the city that wasn't on any tourist map. Actually, Sue decided to explore, I wanted to take a cab back to the Nile Hilton. But she felt that we needed to mix it up with the locals a bit to get a sense of the real Cairo. She was like that -- always up for a new adventure. It was one of the things I loved about her. So, off we went into the maze of mysterious and often nameless streets. We wandered around for a while and eventually discovered a narrow lane, far from the bustling thoroughfares, where vendors sold kebabs and falafel, fruit and vegetables, and people milled about unhurriedly. We sampled some juicy mango slices and bought a couple to bring back to the hotel.

At one point, a young man walked up to us and excitedly asked, "What nationality are you?" I wasn't sure what to say, fearing a replay of our encounter on our first day in town. Given that Americans can have a bad rep in certain countries, I was tempted to say we were Canadian. But, instead I blurted out the ugly truth: "American."

He took a step back. I half-expected to see the flash of a dagger, but instead he spread his arms wide and his face broke into a huge smile. He exclaimed:

"Welcome to Cairo!"

Later, back in our room, serenaded by the car-horn symphony from the street below, we savored the wonderful mangos while we waited for the gurgle of water to come chugging its way up to our shower-pipe. I was really beginning to like Cairo, for all its contradictions and peculiarities, it was a city with an amazing history and tremendous soul. It was hard to understand how a place that had once been the pinnacle of civilization could have fallen into such disarray. I wondered if that spark of greatness still existed somewhere in the streets of Cairo.


The other day, I turned on the TV and saw an amazing sight. Tahrir Square filled with throngs of jubilant people celebrating their liberation from thirty years of oppressive martial law. It was an inspiring moment that brought tears to my eyes.

Whatever happens now, one thing is certain, the people of Cairo, and Egypt, deserve another shot at greatness. I hope their time has come.

The Scorpion

"When you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer..."

When I was growing up, I used to have a bunch of cool posters on my bedroom wall. Peter Fonda on his Easy Rider Harley, Joe Namath fading back to pass, Raquel Welch in a yellow bikini...

...what was I talking about? Oh, right, the posters.

I also had an orange and purple 'day-glo' poster with the signs of the zodiac arranged around the edge of a radiant circle -- kind of like a psychedelic dartboard. Each sign was identified by name along with its astrological symbol, date range, a pictoral representation and a one-word description. I remember the poster vividly, but I only remember one of the descriptions, the one for Scorpio -- my sign.

The word used to describe Scorpio was: Temperamental.

I used to look at that word when I'd been exiled to my room for having a "bad attitude." I really didn't know what 'temperamental' meant, any more than I knew what 'bad attitude' meant. But it definitely didn't strike me as a compliment.

I never liked the idea of being categorized by my astrological sign, especially when that category seemed to be 'Pain-In-The-Ass.' I found it ridiculous that some random group of stars a billion miles away was supposed to have some kind of influence on what kind of person I was. Even more absurd was the notion that everyone who was born during the same time of year, each and every year, somehow shared the same set of personality traits.

Who comes up with this crap?

But astrology was inescapable. Because no matter how illogical or superstitious it was, there were a lot of people who took it seriously. And when I say a lot of people, I mean, specifically, females. Not that there aren't guys who believe in astrology, just that if they do, well, who cares? But many women did take it seriously, and if I wanted to date them, I had to take it seriously, too. Or at least pretend to.

But due to my temperamental nature, I could never take it too seriously. When asked what my birthday was, an obvious prelude to astrological classification, I would often give false information and wait for the equally false interpretation. Inevitably I would get a response like: "I knew it -- your such a (fill in the sign)." Then, with a sly grin, I would reveal that I was not whatever sign she "knew" I was, but, in fact, a Scorpio. This revelation was usually met with comments like: "That figures -- Scorpios are such assholes."

Eventually I realized that making women feel stupid by lying to them about my birth sign was not an effective courtship strategy. So, I decided to play along. I reluctantly surrendered the facts and waited for the dreaded judgments. "Scorpios are so possessive... too intense... jealous... demanding... defensive... manipulative... suspicious... passionate... sensual... sexy...

Huh?

Apparently, there was another side to this whole Scorpio deal. Thanks to some wacky astrology book that came out back in the seventies, Scorpios got the reputation of being Red Hot Lovers. And since this crazy book was, at one time, required reading for all women between the ages of fourteen and ninety, the word got around. I came to feel proud of being a Scorpio -- even though I still thought it was all nonsense.

It was good PR.

Recently, however, I found out that I may not be a Scorpio after all! According to some astronomer in Minnesota, due to the earth's "wobbling" around its axis, all the astrological signs are off by about a month. And that would make me a Libra.

A Libra? Really? What am I supposed to do with that? How do you go from being a Badass Scorpion to "The Scales"? It's not even a living creature -- it's a freakin' appliance!

Definitely not sexy.

So if, as I firmly believe, astrology is all a big scam anyway, then why couldn't I just make up my own sign? There are plenty of other celestial bodies to choose from. A quick check of the November sky reveals such appealing alternatives as Delphinus, "The Dolphin" -- I enjoy swimming, and everybody likes dolphins. Or perhaps Draco, "The Dragon" -- dragons are awesome and way more badass than scorpions. How about Orion, "The Hunter". Pretty cool, right? Of course, according to myth, Orion was killed by a scorpion, and that takes us right back where we started.

I appear to be having trouble letting go of my Scorpion identity.

Fortunately, as I continued to research the matter, I discovered that the tropical zodiac signs that form the basis of Western horoscopic astrology have nothing to do with the astronomic positions of the constellations for which they are named. In other words, it really is just a completely made-up system.

And that means that I'm still a Scorpio!

Not that I care one way or another.

I mean, it's not like I'm obsessing about it or anything.

I'm just saying.