First Amendment Second Thoughts

The great thing about free speech is I don't have to listen to it.

— Hᴏʟʟʏᴡᴏᴏᴅ Dɪᴄᴋ (@HollywoodDick) November 6, 2012

Moondance

There's a thrift store on my street that has a bookcase full of CDs for sale. They are refugees of the iPod revolution, during which thousands of people voluntarily exchanged all of their high-quality audio recordings for crappy, compressed MP3 files to be played through microscopic "ear-bud" speakers -- essentially the musical equivalent of listening to the roar of the ocean through a sewer pipe. But their loss is my gain. Especially when the CDs go on sale for one dollar each. At that price, they're practically disposable.

A few weeks ago, I noticed the $1 sale sign and went into the store to browse the shelf. Usually there's a lot of stuff I don't care for, but every once in a while, I find a real gem. On this particular occasion, I found a pristine copy of Van Morrison's classic album, Moondance.

Although I know every song on the album note for note, I've never actually owned a copy. So it was a real treat to pop it into my stereo and let it spin from beginning to end. Just about every song is a chestnut. And every one brings back a flood of memories. But the title track brings back the strongest memory of all. Whenever I hear the song Moondance, I am reminded of the first date I went on back in college. It was with a girl named Ann.

Freshman year, I didn't really date anyone at college. First semester, I was still in love with my post high-school sweetheart. Unfortunately, that relationship didn't survive the whole semester. Over Christmas break, I managed to win her back, but by Spring break it had ended again. I tried to salvage the relationship once more over the break, but that didn't go too well. For the rest of the semester, I was pretty much a wreck.

By sophomore year, I was ready to begin dating again. I was running on the cross country team and Ann was on the women's team. She was cute, kind of quiet -- a "normal" girl compared to some of the other women I'd met at Wesleyan. I asked her to go see a movie: Midnight Cowboy was playing at the Science Center auditorium that Friday. Now, you may think that Midnight Cowboy is not exactly first date material. And you would be exactly right. It's a great movie, but it really left me in a weird state. Kind of depressing. Actually, very depressing. I couldn't get the ending out of my mind.

I walked Ann back to her dorm after the movie. I couldn't shake the image of Joe Buck and Ratso in the back of that bus bound for Miami. I needed to talk about it. We got to Ann's room and she put on a record. She skipped track one and went straight for track two, the title track: Moondance.

Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance 
With the stars up above in your eyes 
A fantabulous night to make romance 
'Neath the cover of October skies…

I'm not sure exactly what happened next. I do know what didn't happen: fantabulous romance. Somehow I completely missed out on what was going on and ended up back in my dorm room. Alone. Everyone I told about the date said the exact same thing: "She played Moondance? And you left? What were you thinking?"

But that's the problem -- I was thinking. I was thinking about the movie. I was thinking about the song. I was thinking about what I was doing in her room. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Too much thinking, not enough moondancing.

And I never asked her out again. I don't know why. I wound up dating another girl who was very different from Ann in every way. She was great. She was beautiful. She was super cool. Maybe a little out of my league. I took off second semester that year and by the time I got back, she had moved on.

I always wondered, though, what would have happened if I had been more aware of the not-so-subtle message Ann was sending me on that crisp October night. For all I know, she might have been the one woman I was meant to be with. And I blew it. Missed out. Dropped the ball.

It wasn't the first time.

Back in junior high, there was this girl I met in our church youth group. She wasn't like the other fourteen year old girls. She was like… a woman. She was gorgeous. And sweet. And lots of fun. Her name was Lorraine.

There was this one time when Lorraine was at my house with some other kids. We were all hanging out in the basement. Lorraine and I were sitting on the old metal cot that served as a couch. At some point, someone threw a blanket over our heads. It was kind of a gag -- like, "now you two can make out - ha ha." I felt embarrassed. Not for me, but for Lorraine. She shouldn't have to suffer such indignation -- being trapped under a blanket with the likes of me. I hurried to remove the blanket to save her from any further shame.

But, in that fleeting moment before I got the blanket off our heads, I noticed two things: 1) Lorraine was looking right at me and smiling, and 2) She wasn't making any effort whatsoever to remove the blanket. So why was I in such a hurry? Didn't matter -- by the time I had processed the information, the blanket was off and we were back in the real world.

Of course I never followed up on that moment. I mean, I couldn't really ask her about it. And I was still bewildered by the fact that she hadn't screamed and quickly whipped the blanket off our heads and run out of the room. I never did ask her out on a date. I had never asked anyone out on a date before and had no idea how it was done. I think she started seeing one of the other guys in the youth group. He was older. He had a car.

I'll never forget the look in her eyes when we were under that blanket -- it haunts me.

Then there was that rich girl in Manhattan. We worked together as temps in a prestigious law firm in midtown. Her father had recently been indicted in a big insider trading scandal. We went out for dinner one night and somehow wound up at her place. Although I guess it must have been her parent's place, because it was pretty damn big for Manhattan. High ceilings, leather couch, nice view. We sat on the couch and talked. Before long, I noticed, she had cleverly steered the conversation to the subject of back rubs. Now, this time, I knew what was going on. I may be dumb, but even I know what "back rub" means. But for some reason we never got around to the back rubs.

And to this day, I don't know why.

Oh, wait -- yes I do: Because I'm an idiot.

The last time something like this happened was just after I moved to Hollywood. She was an actress -- a very sexy redhead. She was out here from New York auditioning for TV pilots. I knew her through a mutual friend and we started hanging out together, since she didn't know anyone else in town. We went to a few bars -- she was into karaoke. She got a little frisky a few times. Said some fairly suggestive things. But I didn't take her seriously. She was a big smartass like me and was probably just messing around.

Besides, she was married.

One night we went out and she had a few drinks. She climbed up onto the bar and started attracting a lot of attention. I decided to intervene. I managed to talk her down. Actually, I had to drag her down. At this point she was clinging onto me. So we started slow dancing. She asked me to sing to her. So I did. Nothing wrong with that. A little harmless fun. I got her home all right. Got myself home too. But I couldn't stop thinking about that slow dance. My arms around her. Singing softly in her ear. I was hooked.

Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love? 
Can I just make some more romance with you, my love?

After that she started sending me these emails filled with sexual innuendo. They were pretty hot. It wasn't helping.

She invited me over one night for margaritas. I decided to find out how far she was willing to go with this flirtation thing. Call it a social experiment. I brought some tequila and limes. And some of those temporary tattoos. We drank a bunch of margaritas and started playing this game: You tattoo me and I'll tattoo you. It got a little intimate. And very intense. I was trying so hard not to cross the line. But the line was getting very blurry. And she was applying a dragon tattoo onto my neck.

With her tongue.

Then we started talking about her marriage. It was in trouble. She had already had an affair with a trumpet player back in New York. She said she was attracted to passionate artistic types. We talked for a long time, sprawled out on her couch. We were very close. And getting closer. The line was all but invisible at this point.

I was way too drunk to drive home, so I stayed the night. But I didn't cross the line. Technically. But I so wanted too. Why should I care if she cheated on her husband? Again. That's their business, not mine. But I was a good boy.

An extremely frustrated good boy.

She went back to New York not long after that, but said she would return. I waited all summer to hear from her again. Finally, she did come back. And this time she was officially separated from her husband. So I did the right thing, right? I'd waited for her to become available. Now we could finally finish what we almost started.

But things were different this time. Gone was the innuendo. Gone was the flirting. Gone was the magic. Now that she was "available" she was even less available that before. It seemed unfair. I could have easily taken advantage of her in her weak and vulnerable state. But no -- not me, I had to respect her crappy marriage and be considerate of her stupid fragile feelings. What a dork. And what did I get for my troubles? A peck on the cheek and a hug.

And then she was gone.

I have told this story to a few of my (male) friends and about half of them said I should have gone for it. The rest said that I did the right thing. I'm not sure who is right. Would my life have turned out any worse if I'd crossed that line? Probably not. I'd probably have an awesome memory, accompanied by a certain measure of guilt. But hey, guilt is for suckers.

So the next time I'm the the presence of a beautiful and desirous woman who is sending me clear and unambiguous signals of her amorous intentions, I will not waste my time THINKING about the consequences, or the ramifications, or her honor, or some stupid movie, or the fact that we work together. I will simply act. Boldly and without hesitation. That's what I will do.

Yeah, next time.

Brazil

Listen, kid, we're all in it together.

A few weeks ago, I received a letter from my bank which began, "We've been listening to you." The letter went on to tell me that henceforth, I would be subject to a monthly service charge of 15 dollars on my checking account.

I'm pretty sure I never said I wanted that.

I went in to the bank the next day to tell them that they needed to work on their listening skills. They thought that was pretty hilarious. I spoke to a Personal Banker about my situation. She told me that to get rid of the service charge, I would need to switch to a more basic type of account. But when she tried to change my account, she was unable to do so -- The System wouldn't let her. She spoke to the Bank Manager, but the Bank Manager was powerless to intervene on my behalf. The System had spoken.

The only option available was to close my old account and open a new one. Easy Peasy, right? But, before I could close the account, it had to have a zero balance. That meant no outstanding checks or holds or payments pending. Thus spake The System. It being the beginning of the month, I had just written a rent check. So I would have to wait for that to clear. Plus I have several recurring automated payments tied to the account, including a couple on PayPal. And not all of them conveniently take place at the first of the month. So I had to find a time when all my payments had cycled through The System, and then quickly pounce.

Meanwhile, I signed a bunch of forms so that my Personal Banker could set up the new account in readiness for the Big Switcheroo. Then I waited.

But I did not wait idly. Each day I went online to check the status of my old account: rent check - cleared, Visa card - cleared, PayPal - cleared. So far so good. Just for kicks, I checked the new account as well. There I found a negative balance of 59 dollars: 19 bucks for new checks and a 40 dollar overdraft fee.

What the...?

I went down to the bank and spoke to my Personal Banker. She told me that The System had automatically charged me for the new checks, even though it shouldn't have. Then it hit me with the overdraft fee just for good measure. She graciously removed the charge and the overdraft fee and apologized for The System's overly zealous actions.

I told her that the time had come for El Switcherino. Close my old account and transfer my money to the new one. The window is open. The time is ripe. All ashore that's going ashore. Etc., etc.

But wait... What's this? The System says I have an outstanding hold on the account and it cannot be closed. I asked my Personal Banker what the hold was for. She said she did not know. I asked her who would know. She said that only I would know. "How would I know?" I asked. She said that I would know because I was the one who had made the transaction. But I pointed out that all of my transactions were accounted for. There was nothing outstanding. Please close the account now. She shook her head sadly. The System will not allow it.

At this point I was becoming a little agitated. Also, I was late for work. My Personal Banker seemed to sense my mood and suggested that I come back on Monday to close the account. With any luck the missing hold will have cleared by then. Instead of leaping across the desk and strangling her with my bare hands, I suggested that she figure out exactly what the hold is for, leave that amount in the old account and transfer the rest to the new account. Then, when the hold clears and the balance zeroes out, close the old account.

My Personal Banker agreed with my plan and promised to call me with an update. I went into work, where I spent most of the morning obsessively monitoring my account status online. I saw that most of my money had been debited from my old account, except for about 12 dollars to cover some Thai food I had picked up the night before. This transaction had already appeared on my old account, but for some reason was still on hold. What I did not see was any money whatsoever having been transferred into my new account. I called my Personal Banker and politely inquired: "Where the hell is my goddamn money?" She became quite flustered and promised to call me back right away. A few minutes later, she called and assured my that my money was being transferred into the new account right away and that as soon as the hold cleared, the old account would be closed.

Of course she was lying.

I spent the weekend trying to switch my automated payments to the new account, only to find out that I had to wait for the next billing cycle to do so. In the meantime I had to schedule one-time transfers to keep from missing my payments. The System, you see. At one point, I checked my old account and discovered that the hold had cleared, but there was now an overdraft on the account in the amount of the tip I'd left at the Thai restaurant. I called the bank's 800 number and transferred that same amount back into the account, so that come Monday morning, it would zero out and my Personal Banker could close it down. Be done with it. Once and for all. And good riddance, I say.

But that, as I'm sure you have now guessed, never happened.

I did not get a call from my Personal Banker on Monday. I did not hear from her at all. I received my statement in the mail and saw that I still had a positive balance on my old account to the tune of Three Cents.  Three measly cents. Interest. Automatically credited to me by: The System. All-knowing. All-wise. All-getting-on-my-very-last-nerve.

Once more unto the breach...

I go to the bank. I show my Personal Banker my statement. She tells me that I can't close the account if there's still money in it. I tell her that I know that. Fix it. I do not slap her with the back of my hand. She promises to take care of everything. I give her my paycheck to deposit, and I leave. Later at work I check my status and I see that the three cents was transferred and the old account is finally, mercifully closed.

What I don't see is a credit to my new account in the amount of my paycheck...

The Last Waltz

One summer, when I was home from college, I went to the Alpha 3 Theater, where I used to work, to see a concert movie called The Last Waltz. Directed by Martin Scorsese, The Last Waltz documented the farewell performance by The Band at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco. At the time, I knew very little about The Band. But by the time the credits rolled, I was a big fan. I went back and saw the movie several times, soaking in every detail, memorizing every moment, savoring every note.

Although I didn't know much about The Band, I certainly recognized the guest performers who appeared with them in the film: Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Eric Clapton, Van Morrison, Muddy Waters, Neil Diamond and others. But even among such stellar company, The Band stood out. They were five very different personalities who came together onstage to create some of the most interesting and influential music during one of the most interesting and influential eras in rock music. They stole the show. Unfortunately, it was their last one.

For some reason, throughout their career, The Band often seemed to be behind the scenes, admired by other musicians and connoisseurs, but never really breaking into the mainstream. Their biggest "hit" was a cover version of The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down sung by Joan Baez -- who didn't even know the right words.

Of course, one reason The Band seemed to be behind the scenes is because they often were. They started out as the Hawks, the backup band for Canadian rockabilly singer Ronnie Hawkins. After leaving Hawkins, they were recruited by the newly electrified Bob Dylan as his touring band -- only to be reviled by Bob's hardcore folkie followers. After the tour, Dylan and the Hawks settled down near Woodstock, NY where they recorded over a hundred songs together in the basement of a pink house shared by three of the Hawks. Bootlegs from these 'Basement Tapes' sessions became legendary among aficionados, but the material was never officialy released until years later.

When the time came for them to record their own material, they chose the name The Band, because that's pretty much what everyone called them. Their first album, Music From Big Pink, named after the house they shared, became a favorite among critics and influenced musicians like George Harrison, Eric Clapton and Robert Plant to adopt a more back-to-basics approach to their music. Dennis Hopper included one of the songs, The Weight, on the soundtrack to the movie Easy Rider, but a cover version was used on the soundtrack album due to contractual issues. The Band toured in support of Big Pink, appearing at Woodstock -- the festival named after the town they'd helped make famous -- but their performance was omitted from the tremendously popular film and soundtrack, once again due to legal complications.

They were fast becoming the most succesfully unknown band in history.

Fortunately, their second album, The Band, achieved a level of commercial success that matched their critical acclaim. After ten years, The Band was finally a headline act. But success and touring quickly began to take their toll. The title of their next album, Stage Fright, kind of says it all -- performing music in the circus-like atmosphere of the rock music scene wasn't conducive to keeping your sanity:

Your brow is sweatin' and your mouth gets dry,
Fancy people go driftin' by.
The moment of truth is right at hand,
Just one more nightmare you can stand.

Following their next album, The Band took a step back from the limelight before teaming up with Dylan again for a studio album and a tour. Eventually they relocated from the east coast to Malibu, where they built themselves a clubhouse/recording studio dubbed Shangri La. They recorded one of their finest albums there and followed it up with a summer tour, but the end was already in sight. By the conclusion of the tour they had announced that their final performance would take place on Thanksgiving at Winterland.

Of course all of this was history by the time The Last Waltz hit the screen at Alpha 3. By that time, the members of The Band had pretty much gone their separate ways. Guitarist and songwriter Robbie Robertson continued his association with Martin Scorcese, creating music for Raging Bull, King of Comedy and The Color of Money. Drummer and singer Levon Helm embarked on an acting career, beginning with roles in Coal Miner's Daughter and The Right Stuff.

The Band reformed in 1983, without Robertson. They toured for a few years, playing smaller venues than in their heyday. In The Last Waltz, Robbie Robertson says, "the road has taken a lot of the great ones... It's a goddamn impossible way of life." His words rang eerily true when pianist and vocalist Richard Manuel was found dead in his hotel room following a show in Florida. Bass player and vocalist Rick Danko, who had continued playing and touring both with the reformed Band and various other combos, died of drug-related heart failure in 1999 just days after the end of a tour.

Levon Helm, whose Arkansas-flavored voice imbued many of The Band's best songs with country soul, died last week after a long struggle with throat cancer. One of the reasons The Band never fully reunited was because of a long-standing feud between Helm and Robertson over songwriting credits. When The Band was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Levon did not show. Up to the very end, though, Levon kept on playing music, both on tour and in Woodstock, where he held his celebrated Midnight Rambles, featuring a wide array of guest performers, including Elvis Costello, Donald Fagen, Kris Kristofferson, Norah Jones, and Phil Lesh. The proceeds of the Rambles helped to defray Levon's mounting medical expenses.

A few days before Levon died, Robbie Robertson visited him in the hospital one last time. Thirty six years have gone by since they shared the stage at Winterland. That's a lot of history. Band members don't always get along so well. There's almost always a clash of egos. What made The Band so special was their ability to put the egos aside when it came to making music. Their differences became fuel for creative combustion. But there comes a time when the differences overwhelm the creativity. Sometimes the best thing to do is just walk away.

But at least we still have the music. Those moments will live on forever. And in The Last Waltz, there are many of those amazing moments, where five very different personalities combine to form one very distinct sound. The sound of a band totally in the groove, tight as a snare drum but loose as a barrelhouse whore. Heavy with the weight of history, but light as pickpocket's touch. Chugging down the line like a mystery train heading across the Great Divide. That was The Band.

And it always will be.

Open Mike

My folk-singer phase began, more or less, about the same time everything in my life seemed to be falling apart. My girlfriend and I had begun a series of break-ups and reconciliations that would eventually lead to my utter destruction. I had quit my well-paying paralegal job to try and make it as a free-lance writer -- in other words, I was unemployed. And to complete the trifecta of ignominy, my band, The Charismatics, had split up, leaving me with no outlet  to express my woes.

There was only one thing left to do: Go solo.

I'll never forget my first appearance in front of an audience all by my lonesome. It was at an open mike night at a pub in Cleveland Park called Gallagher's. At the time I only had one or two original songs, so I played a Talking Heads tune called Heaven and Woody Guthrie's Worried Man Blues. I was so nervous, I could barely remember how to form an open G chord. My voice sounded foreign and distant, like the strange croaking of an alien reptile. When I was with the Charismatics, I had played and sung in front of plenty of people, but without the rest of the band there with me, I felt naked, alone and terrified.

But I got through it. Fortunately,  the audience was kind. Most of them were performers, who knew how hard it was to bare your soul onstage. They applauded my effort, if not my talent. When it was over, I felt a tremendous wave of relief and accomplishment. And I couldn't wait to do it again.

As it turns out, I was in pretty good company at Gallagher's. There was a regular group of talented musicians playing there at the time. Many of them were dyed-in-the-wool folkies, who finger-picked their Martins and Gibsons with mellow precision and sang with smooth sincerity. I was kind of a misfit, banging away on a cheap plywood guitar and squawking rockabilly Woody Guthrie songs. But they made me feel welcome, and I became a regular, too.

In those days, the host of Gallagher's open mike was Mary Chapin Carpenter, who was pretty well-known to just about everyone but me. She had a solid voice and opened each session with a few of her Joni Mitchell-esque "confessional" style songs. I didn't really care for her songs that much, but she was an excellent performer. I found out later that she had gotten a record deal and was working on her first album, Hometown Girl. Some of the songs on that album were probably first heard at Gallagher's open mike.

Meanwhile, I was working on my own songs. I was steeping myself in the folk tradition, collecting records by Muddy Waters, Jesse Fuller, Leadbelly and the like. Learning songs from the Alan Lomax collection, reading books about Woody and Dylan and Elvis. I tried writing a few songs for the Charismatics, but I never really had a rock'n'roll voice. I'm not sure what kind of a voice I had, but that's the great thing about folk music: Anybody can sing it.

I started writing a new song every week. Then I would go and play it at Gallagher's. It was a great way to learn the craft, because you really get to know what works and what doesn't when you try it out in front of an audience full of singer-songwriters. But I needed more time on stage. Playing two songs a week just wasn't cutting it. I started looking for other open mike nights. As it turned out, I didn't have far to look.

I lived in a row house in Mount Pleasant that started out as a group of guys with quasi-government jobs who liked to play live rock music down in the basement. One of the reasons I moved in was because they need a drummer to fill out the house band. Over time, the original guys moved out -- on to better paying quasi-government jobs; the band morphed into the Charismatics -- with a much better drummer; and the house became a kind of haven for those who favored 'non-traditional' lifestyles. And most of them worked at a restaurant called Food For Thought.

Food For Thought was an institution that defied institutions. The last hippie, left-wing vegetarian restaurant left standing -- even though nobody I knew who worked there was a hippie, or political, or vegetarian. It was a good place that served good food and had a stage with an open mike night.

I started showing up at FFT every week to try out my new material. The open mike was run by a guy named Phil, aka "Philvis." Philvis was a far cry from Mary Chapin Carpenter. About as far a cry as you could get. Philvis opened up the sessions with a few of his darkly sardonic post-punk tunes, accompanied on his hand-painted electric guitar. The audience was a mix of idealistic proto-yuppies, old guard burnouts and assorted malcontents. There was a whole different set of performers at FFT, not a lot of folkies, some rockers, some poets, some punks, and one pretty crazy homeless guy named Robert Adams who wailed his deranged rants while slashing away on a battered guitar that hadn't been tuned since Jimmy Carter left town. But he was amazing.

I became a regular at FFT, playing my growing repertoire of original modern folk tunes. Eventually, I even got to play regular gigs there. They weren't exactly paid gigs, but you got to pass the hat between sets, so I did make a few bucks here and there. One night, I was playing one of my scathing political protest songs and I saw Martin Sheen sitting at a booth with legendary homeless activist Mitch Snyder. Sheen was playing Snyder in a movie about Snyder's battle with the Reagan administration to create a homeless shelter in an abandoned Federal building. To me that moment kind of captured the essence of FFT. The Hollywood actor and the militant crusader having dinner in the most low-key setting, going almost completely unnoticed by those around them. Between sets, I stopped by their table with my tip basket. It seemed a little weird to be begging for change from Mitch Snyder, a guy who'd spent half the eighties on hunger strikes. On the other hand Sheen was doing alright. He tossed me a couple of bills.

It was while playing at FFT that I started to find my voice as a performer. Part of the experience of playing original songs in front of an audience was discovering exactly who I was as a writer and as a singer. Folk music is about authenticity. I didn't have the talent to fake my way through a song. The only thing I had going for me was honesty. If I could tell the truth in a way that sounded like I actually knew what I was talking about, then maybe I could make a connection with the audience and capture their attention for a minute or two. Playing full sets to an audience that was generally more interested in their stir-fry than the caterwauling emanating from the stage forced me to find out exactly what it was I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it.

After a while, I added two more open mikes to my agenda, bringing my total to four a week. Every week. With new songs every week. It was a crash course in paying my dues. I learned to play harmonica to add a little showmanship to the program. I was writing, rehearsing and performing all the time. One night, at the Tucson Cantina open mike, I was the only person who showed up to play. I ended up playing the whole night by myself. Eventually, I ran out of songs and started taking requests. I was amazed at how many songs I had learned. I had come a long way since that first night at Gallagher's. I was now totally at home on the stage, playing song after song without a hitch. It was a blast.

Those open mike nights really kept me going through those difficult times. After my relationship ended for good, I tried to stick around DC for a while. But, finally, I had to get out of there. I moved to Brooklyn, where I played at an open mike in an unheated, condemned building on 7th Ave. in Park Slope. The audience would bang coffee cans filled with bottle caps on the tables as a kind of makeshift percussion section. One night Mandy Patinkin showed up and tried to get me to accompany him, but we couldn't get the guitar and piano in tune.

These days I don't get to the open mike as much as I used to. There's one at the Kibitz Room at Canter's Deli on Fairfax, which I've been to a few times. But you only get one song, and it seems like a lot of trouble to go through for that. It's easier just to make a video and put it on YouTube. Which reminds me. I've got a whole bunch of songs piled up and I need to get them recorded. And, who knows, maybe I'll wander down to the Kibitz Room at some point. I'm starting to feel the need for a smelly old mike, a bad PA, and an audience who couldn't care less. There's nothing else like it.

Annie Hall

Back when I was an usher at the Alpha 3 Theater in Louisville, one of my favorite parts of the job was changing the marquee. The Alpha 3 was tucked away in one corner of the Holiday Manor shopping center, but it had a free-standing marquee out in the parking lot that could be easily seen from the road. I had to climb a ladder to the catwalk beneath the marquee while hauling up a canvas bag filled with foot-high wooden letters. I always tried to reuse as many letters from the old movie's title as possible, because the bag could get pretty cumbersome.

I loved being up there by myself at night in the light of the big sign, rearranging the letters to spell out the new title. The marquee was like a beacon, sending out an important message that could be seen from far and wide. And I was the beacon master. I'll never forget the night I put up the title of the latest Woody Allen movie. I felt so cool, like I was taking part in something historic. The movie was Annie Hall.

I have always been a big fan of Woody Allen movies, especially the early, funny ones. I learned much of what I know about comedy from Woody. And his recurring theme of the short, scrawny nebbish who consistently winds up with amazing, beautiful women was very inspirational. I have used this theme as the basis for most of my screenplays.

Speaking of amazing, beautiful women, my most favorite part of working at Alpha 3 was being around Christy, who worked the box office. She and I had known each other for years -- we'd been in classes together all through high school -- but we never really spent much time together. We came from different sides of the social divide. Christy hung out with the preppies and I was one of the nerds. But, senior year we ended up working side by side at Alpha 3 and, just like in the movies, we fell in love.

The summer after senior year was idyllic. Christy and I went running together, we swam at her country club, we went to movies and parties. We watched fireworks, held hands, sat under shady trees, walked along the riverside. We worked together, played together, dreamed together. We saw Annie Hall together, and loved it.

That fall, we went our separate ways. She went to North Carolina and I went to Connecticut. Our relationship did not survive the distance. I made a grand and romantic gesture, hitchhiking down to North Carolina in an attempt to win her back, but it was a miserable diaster. I had lost her to a guy wearing plaid pants. I was a wreck.

At the end of Annie Hall, Woody tells an old joke about a guy who goes to a psychiatrist because his brother thinks he's a chicken. The doctor says, "why don't you turn him in?" The guy replies, "we need the eggs." Woody says that's how he feels about relationships: "They're totally irrational and crazy and absurd but, I guess we keep going through it because, most of us need the eggs."

Annie Hall is filled with moments like that. There's a joke, but at the same time there's a nugget of truth. It's funny and serious at the same time. Kind of like life. Woody breaks every rule in the book in Annie Hall, and invents some new ones in the process. Woody talks to the audience, he enters into his own flashbacks and interacts to the characters from his past, he lets takes roll for three to four times longer than in conventional movies, he uses subtitles, animation, voice-over, split screen. It's a tour-de-force of stylistic gimmicks. But it all works. And it's all funny.

Annie Hall won four Oscars, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Original Screenplay.  That's a pretty rare achievement, especially for a comedy. So many moments in the movie have become iconic: the scene with the duelling psychiatrists, the subtitle scene, the lobster scene, the coke sneeze, "I forgot my mantra." Woody's comparisons of New York and LA have been the basis for standup comics' routines for decades.

So what do you do after Annie Hall? Well, if you're Woody Allen, you make another movie. Then another, then another. Woody went on to make Manhattan two years later and Hannah and Her Sisters a few years after that. Hannah also won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Woody has made over 40 movies and received 23 Oscar nominations, 15 for screenwriting -- more than any other writer. This year he is nominated once again for Midnight in Paris, for Best Director and Best Original Screenplay. And, at the age of 76, he is currently working on his next movie.

I recently saw a documentary on PBS about Woody that provided a fairly comprehensive overview of his long and highly productive career. Woody started out writing jokes for money when he was in high school and hasn't stopped working since. He still uses the same Olympia typewriter he bought when he was 16, and has written every one of his screenplays on it, along with several books, plays, and hundreds and hundreds of jokes.

Woody graduated from gag writing to writing for TV, working with Mel Brooks, Neil Simon, Larry Gelbart and Sid Ceasar. He then made the move to standup comedy at his manager's insistence -- to make him a household name. In furtherance of this strategy, Woody wrote a part for himself in his first screenplay, What's New Pussycat? But Woody didn't like the way the movie turned out, so on his next movie he asked for, and received, complete control. And he has maintained it ever since.

Woody's "early, funny" movies, like Bananas, Sleeper, and Love and Death, were broad comedies filled with slapstick and farce. But Annie Hall was a gamechanger. In addition the array of stylistic innovations, Woody infused the comedy with serious undertones and a startling sense of honesty. He raised the bar for all romantic comedies to come. He really showed us all how well it could be done.

Toward the end of my idyllic summer with Christy, we were coming out of the Alpha 3 one night and Christy asked me to join her in her car. It was an orange AMC Hornet, parked underneath the marquee out in the parking lot. I got into the passenger seat and she handed me a present. I didn't know what it was for. She just said, "open it." I unwrapped it, opened the box and found an egg inside. I must have looked confused, so she explained, "you know, 'cause we need the eggs." Maybe she was trying to tell me something, but I just thought it was really cool.

In one of the final scenes in Annie Hall, Woody is watching a rehearsal between two actors who look a lot like him and Diane Keaton. Their lines echo his final breakup with Diane from a previous scene, except for one major difference. In the play version the actress jumps up at the last minute and tells the actor that she loves him and doesn't want to leave him.

Woody turns to the camera and says, "you know how you're always trying to get things to come out perfect in art because, it's real difficult in life." I guess that's true. In almost all of my screenplays the nerdy guy ends up with the amazing girl at the end. In real life, though, they always seem to get away. I haven't seen Christy in years, but I'll never forget that idyllic summer, or watching Annie Hall with her, or her giving me that egg.

There's an old joke... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of them says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life -- full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.

Wag The Dog

"The bullshit piles up so fast on the Internet you need wings to stay above it."


I have been 'between assignments' (aka unemployed) for the past month or so. Consequently, I have been spending way too much time on the internet. And it's driving me crazy. Why? Because it's completely overrun with bullshit. It seems that at least once a day I see something posted on Facebook that is totally untrue, but has been accepted as gospel by otherwise intelligent, well-meaning individuals.

They believe it because it was posted by someone else whom they know and/or trust. They believe it because it reinforces their ideology. They believe it because it makes fun of someone they dislike. They believe it because it has a funny picture/cartoon and a clever slogan. The believe it because they want to.

But it's bullshit.

Here's an example: There's a internet meme going around called Reverse Stereotype, it's basically a photo of Snoop Dogg and Martha Stewart with the caption, "Think about which one of these two has done time." Another version, titled Stereotypes Are Awesome, has the same photo with a different caption: "But only one of them is a convicted felon."

Funny, right? 'Cause Martha, the whitebread media mogul did time in the Federal Pen for lying about a stock deal, while Snoop, the dreadlocked gangsta rapper is an upstanding family man and certified high-school football coach. So much for your bourgeois preconceptions. I'll give you a second while you recover from having your mind totally blown.

One problem though. Turns out Snoop also happens to be a convicted felon, who has 'done time' on various occasions and has a criminal record as long as your gang-tatted arm. I'm not saying Snoop is better or worse than Martha. I'm just saying that this stupid 'meme' that keeps getting posted and reposted and 'shared' and 'liked' is a big crock of bullshit.

But that doesn't seem to matter. The truth doesn't matter. Facts don't matter. The only thing that matters is that it seems like it should be true, as long as we don't have to think too much about it. That's the chief characteristic of bullshit: it seems true and it fits in with what we want to be true. So we swallow it.

A few years ago, when George W. Bush was president, I thought we had reached the pinnacle of bullshit. Bush was a master practitioner of the art of bullshit. It was his defining talent. He could sling it like nobody's business. Talk about memes, picture Bush standing on the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln, beneath the red, white & blue banner proclaiming: "Mission Accomplished!" It don't get more bullshitty than that.

Or does it?

When I've had my fill of brainless internet memes, I turn on the TV to see what's happening in the rest of the world. Bad idea. Turns out we are in the midst of presidential primary season, and there is no greater arena for the slinging of bullshit than presidential politics. And there is no greater slinger of presidential political bullshit than the amazing Newton Leroy Gingrich. Did I say Bush was good? He was an amateur. Gingrich is the DaVinci of bullshit. So inventive, so creative, so prolific that he puts all others to shame.

Consider this recent achievement: At the South Carolina debate, when John King of CNN asked Gingrich about wanting an open marriage with ex-wife number two, Gingrich turned the tables on him by accusing the media of being "destructive, vicious and negative," and said he  was "appalled" that King would even ask such a question. The hyper-sympathetic crowd roared its approval, and Newt scored huge points. Two days later, he won the South Carolina primary.

Keep in mind, this is the same guy who, as Speaker of the House, called for the impeachment of Bill Clinton for having an affair in the White House, while at the same time Newt was having an extramarital affair with his current wife. Oh, and he was having an affair with ex-wife number two while married to ex-wife number one -- the one he divorced when she got cancer. The same guy who has helped place 'family values' and defense of the 'sanctity of marriage' at the center of our political dialog. That guy. He's "appalled."

Of course, none of that matters, because Gingrich knows that we don't care about the facts. We only care about what sounds good at the moment. And his attack on King and the "media" in general sounded good. It sounded so good that it got played and replayed on every major and minor news outlet in the country, not to mention posted and reposted all over the internet.

And that's the real genius of it. Gingrich took a potentially sticky situation and spun it into a nationwide media blitz and went from dark horse to primary landslide in two days. And he did it all by himself, on the spur of the moment, and for free.

Using nothing but bullshit.

In the great Barry Levinson movie, Wag The Dog, political spin doctor Robert DeNiro invents an election-eve war with Albania to distract voters from a presidential sex scandal. He hires Hollywood producer Dustin Hoffman to 'produce' the war and together they pull off a public relations coup by convincing the country that a war is actually taking place. When confronted with the fact that there really is no war, DeNiro replies, "Of course there's a war -- I saw it on TV."

But Gingrich has gone DeNiro's spin doctor one better. Don't tell him there's no war: "Of course there's a war -- I said it on TV."

The tail is now wagging the dog.