Christmas has changed since I was kid. Not just because I figured out the whole Santa thing. Although that was a biggie. I'll never forget the year I finally realized that all those presents that magically appeared under the tree on Christmas morning were really from my parents and not from Jolly Old St. Nick. I went back to college that following semester a different person. Wiser, yes, but also a little sadder. I couldn't help wondering how the other kids in my dorm would react if they ever found out. Such a shock to a young developing mind. I wanted to tell them about my discovery -- to share with them the incredible life-altering revelation I had experienced. Perhaps to help guide them to a higher level of understanding. But, I couldn't. I just didn't have the heart. They seemed so innocent and pure and I didn't want to be the one to shatter their beliefs. No just yet. Maybe after graduation...
No, it's not just the mythology of Christmas, but the whole methodology of it that has changed. We used to write letters to Santa with our wish list of favorite toys: a G.I. Joe with kung-fu grip, a Hot Wheels parking garage and service station with working car elevator, an official size and weight genuine cowhide NFL football with real laces, and so on. Then we'd give the letter to our parents and they'd mail it to the North Pole so Santa could bring us what we wanted on Christmas morning. It was a simple system, based the time-tested foundations of delusion, deceit and mail fraud. And most of the time it worked. Although sometimes Santa screwed up and got a G.I. Joe that didn't have the kung-fu grip but had a cheesy fake beard instead. Or a matchbox parking garage instead of Hot Wheels. Or, worst of all, a plastic football with fake laces that were just painted on. Come on Santa!
These days such faux pas are unheard of, thanks to the miracle of the internet. These days instead of writing a letter to Santa, we simply send an email complete with embedded hyperlinks that, with a simple click of the mouse, whisk the reader directly to the websites offering the toys of our choosing and within minutes said toys have been purchased and will be shipped within 3-5 business days.
And as an added improvement, this year our family got really clever and instituted the Secret Santa program. Under the guidelines of this brilliant system, instead of buying and shipping a dozen different presents to locations all over the map, all you have to do is buy ONE present. That's it! You just click on the link, type in your credit card number and presto! Why didn't we ever think of this before? All that running around at the last minute to find a pair of gloves for your niece that are probably exactly like the ones your Mom got her last year. Staying up till all hours Christmas Eve wrapping a bunch of presents you basically had to settle on because they didn't really have what you were looking for and who knows what people really want anyway. Having to explain each gift as it is opened so the recipient will understand why it is so perfect for them, because they once told you they liked dolphins and this sweater has dolphins on it, although they are actually bananas but they look like dolphins if dolphins were yellow...
No more!
This year we each got one present apiece and everything fit and was the right color and wasn't a duplicate of something they already had. I got the book I really wanted and it was great. Even though I knew I was going to get it, it was still fun to have it actually appear all wrapped and under the tree because I didn't know who I was going to get it from. That's the key to the Secret Santa system: you switch the surprise from the gift to the giver. And some of us went to great lengths to keep our secret identities secret. Secret wrapping paper, secret gift cards, misleading gift boxes, altered handwriting. It became a challenge to keep the secret right up until Christmas morning. And for some of us who can NEVER keep secrets (my Mom) the challenge was very great indeed. But everyone met the challenge and no Santa was revealed until all the presents were open. And although some were easy to guess (my sister Susan) others were far too crafty.
So not all change is for the worse. In the case of the modern Christmas, I think we have made a few improvements. We found out that buying a bunch of silly presents isn't as important everyone getting together and having fun. The gifts weren't the focus, it was just the idea of all of us being in the same place at the same time that made it feel like Christmas. The gifts were just excuses. We could easily have bought them for ourselves, but it was a lot more fun to do it this way. On the flight back home to L.A. I thought about how lucky we are to enjoy each other's company so much. After two weeks, I would think most families would be at each other's throats. But I was missing them already. I really loved spending time with my family.
And that was really the best present.
Happy New Year.
I live in Hollywood. Technically, I live in West Hollywood. But for all intents and purposes, I'm in Hollywood. I just got back from my dry cleaner's, and, like all dry cleaners in Hollywood, Sam has signed photos of various celebrities hanging on his wall. Tonight I noticed a new one, of legendary movie producer Robert Evans, and I asked Sam if Evans ever came into the shop. Sam shook his head. "He doesn't come here. We go there." We chatted for about fifteen minutes -- Sam really didn't know too much about Evans so I filled him in on the major points: produced The Godfather, Love Story, Chinatown, married to Ali McGraw, friends with Henry Kissinger and Jack Nicholson, busted for coke, caught up in murder investigation, lost all his money and his famous mansion, got his mansion back thanks to pal Jack, wrote tell all autobiography, made major comeback as producer, now has an animated series about his life on Comedy Central. A Hollywood fairy tale.
Sam told me about Evans' amazing house, his beautiful young wife and his volcanic temper. I left there thinking "Wow, I know a guy who knows Robert Evans -- I'm one step closer." Hollywood.
I had a visitor from England in town for the Thanksgiving holiday. He is a young music video director named Raj and he has decided that he is going to direct one of my movies -- the Jane Bond adventure called "In Your Dreams." Raj saw a synopsis of it I posted on an internet site and asked to read it. He really liked it and we've been corresponding and talking on the phone about it for a couple of years. At one point it sounded like Raj was going to be able to put together enough financing to actually make the movie, but it turned out to be wishful thinking. A couple of months ago he announced that he was coming to Los Angeles for a week so we could work on our "project." Being from England I don't think he realized that he scheduled his visit for the week of Thanksgiving. I wondered exactly what he thought we were going to do. Did he foresee us going to pitch meetings or lining up investors? Did he have a list of contacts that he was planning to exploit? He did mention something about an internship at Fox.
As it turned out, we didn't actually work on the movie much at all. In fact I didn't really see that much of Raj that week. He got a room in a nearby hostel filled with young Europeans and basically partied every night with them and went sightseeing during the days. I only actually saw him a couple of times after dropping him off at the hostel. On afternoon we went to see the amazing documentary Tupac: Ressurection, produced and directed by our own Lauren Lazin. If you have the chance you should check this movie out, it's one of the most intriguing and compelling documentaries you'll ever see. Both Raj and I were blown away by the visual poetry, the arresting first-person narration and the exhaustive research. And I know her!
Pretty much the only other time I saw Raj was on Thanksgiving.
Will Ray and his wife Gayle had invited my pal Jimmy and me to their house for Thanksgiving. Will's the ace guitar player in our band The Buzzards. Jimmy couldn't make it so I asked if it was OK if Raj took his place. Gracious Virginians that they are they said "of course." Luckily for me, Gayle and Will have both undergone the so-called "Candida Diet" that I am currently subscribing to and so I would have no trouble eating just about anything she cooked. The other interesting thing about Gayle is that she is a follower of a Hindu guru, or "baba" whose name I couldn't possibly begin to reproduce here. Raj's family is from India and they, too, are Hindus. Plus Gayle had a friend over named Rasha who is both a filmmaker and a Hindu. She is also a pretty attractive California blonde. Raj and I spent about five hours at Will and Gayle's talking about music, filmmaking, Hinduism and the history and traditions of Thanksgiving, since it was Raj's first Thanksgiving ever. It really seemed like something way beyond coincidence or luck. Definitely one of the more interesting afternoons I've had in a while.
Anyway, I dropped by the hostel once more to say good-bye to Raj before he left. He introduced me to an Australian actor/med student whom he has chosen for the lead role in our movie. Apparently he was working on it after all. The next day he called me from England and asked me what the weather is like here in February. "Same as every month, Raj -- it's nice." I asked him why he wanted to know. Seems he's decided to move out here. I guess Raj was bitten by the Hollywood bug. And once you get that Hollywood bug in your blood, there's no cure.
I'm glad I live in Hollywood. I belong here. It's cool to find a place where you belong. Something to be thankful for.
There are certain choices in life whose effects will forever alter one's fate. These are the defining moments where we literally create ourselves by our actions. Sometimes they are dramatically clear, sometimes they are murky and confusing. Sometimes our choices affect not only ourselves but the world at large and the destinies of others. Sometimes we are immediately aware of the consequences, sometimes we never know. And sometimes we don't find out until it is too late.
There is a fairly famous bar/cafe in my neighborhood called Barney's Beanery. At one time it was the hangout of rock stars. Jim Morrison was once a regular there. Janis Joplin was there the night she died. Although it isn't quite as hip as it was back in the day, you can still occasionally see a famous face sitting at the end of the bar or, as in my case, at the table across from you.
It was on a Sunday morning and I was enjoying a hearty meal of bacon, eggs and homefries -- back when I could actually enjoy such a meal. Sitting in the next booth there was a gangly looking guy with an oversized head hunched over a spiral notebook scribbling furiously. It was Tarantino.
Now even though I've never counted myself among the legions of Tarantino fanatics, I was pretty excited to see him there in the flesh. Don't get me wrong, Reservoir Dogs was a great movie; Pulp Fiction was interesting and certainly kick-started a genre; Jackie Brown was O.K. And now here he was, obviously in the middle of writing his next movie. He had an undeniable intensity and fervor that made me even more curious. What would it be? Man would I love to sneak a peek at that notebook. I'd have the scoop on every wannabe screenwriter and hack director in town. Maybe I could chat with him about my short, you know, filmmaker to filmmaker. I mean after all we're just a couple of guys hanging out at Barney's. Hell, we're neighbors.
Then it happened. Tarantino got up to use the men's room and LEFT THE NOTEBOOK ON THE TABLE. I froze. Holy crap, now's my chance. What should I do? I looked around. The joint was practically empty -- apparently Tarantino and I are the only ones who actually have breakfast on Sunday morning. Should I slip over and take a peek at a few pages? Or should I grab the thing and run out the door like my ass was on fire? I could make a copy and then ransom it back to him. Or maybe try to get him to give me a job. Or sell it on E-Bay and make a fortune. These ideas were racing through my head as the seconds ticked by. The waitress appeared. I held my breath. Go away! She asked me if I needed anything. I shook my head. Just leave bitch! She smiled and wrote out my check, leaving it on the table. Finally she was gone. Tarantino was still in the bathroom. It's now or never.
But then that little voice spoke up. You know the one. Always telling you to think before you act. To be an adult instead of a child. To consider others and not just yourself. I hate that little voice! I hesitated. The guy just left his notebook sitting on the table and walked away because he has faith enough in his fellow man to believe that no one would be brazen enough to run off with it. Damn him! I have to respect him as a fellow writer even if I don't really like his stuff all that much. How hypocritical would it be of me to cash in on something that I don't even appreciate? It's better to just allow him his privacy and live my own life without intruding on his.
Of course by now Tarantino had returned and was already scribbling away with increased passion. He must have gotten inspired in the toilet. My chance at greatness had passed. I made my choice and now I would have to live with it. I thought of telling him about the moral dilemma I had just faced, but he probably would have thought I was an idiot for not stealing the notebook. I paid my check and left.
A couple of weeks ago, I took the day off and went swimming and then to a movie. A friend and fellow screenwriter had recommended Kill Bill and so I had decided to check it out. From the all the previews I had already made up my mind not to see it, but it was getting rave reviews and my friend said it was worth seeing, so I went.
It was a crapfest. A meaningless collection of cliches and rip-offs with no discernible intent or focus or intelligence to guide it. Just a series of "wouldn't it be cool if..." scenes strung together by the weakest excuse for a plot ever devised. Oh I know what they're all saying, it's a satire, it's a parody, he's making fun of the genre, he's making fun of himself, it's a cartoon, it's not meant to be taken seriously, etc., etc. Bullshit. It's trite, unoriginal, uninspired and just plain badly written. And worst of all, it's boring.
As I left the theater, feeling more depressed than ever about what passes for genius in Hollywood, I realized that I might have prevented this crime if I had only acted when I'd had the chance that fateful morning at Barney's Beanery. That's the script he was working on that day. That's the script I could have stolen and after having read it, burned it. I could have saved myself and countless others from being subjected to another onslaught of sensationalist hackery that passes for cinema in our deranged culture. Perhaps I could have engaged Tarantino in a dialogue, encouraging him to dig deeper, to write something with some heart, to aspire to a higher calling as a writer, instead of recycling a bunch of worn-out riffs and pop-culture references.
But I didn't. I failed. My moment came and I missed it. If only I had known then what suffering I could have averted. But you can never know such things. You can only know what's in your heart and when the moment comes you must act on what you know is true without fear or trepidation. With hope, I may someday be given the chance to redeem myself. Until then I will try to accept the pain and ugliness that my inaction helped to unleash. I hope others can forgive me. I'm not sure if I can forgive myself.
Your friend,
"Hollywood" Dick
