Monday Reruns: Common Idiosyncrasies

(original post-date: January 27, 2010)

What is it about bubble wrap?

I mean, really. What’s the deal? Why is it that we all want to pop it? What is the weird thrill we get from that routine?

I can’t figure it out.

Sure, it’s kinda gratifying to hear the sound. That POP. And maybe there’s something about de-activating each bubble so it will never pop again. But… seriously: what’s the deal?

Has there been a study? I wonder. And wouldn’t it be cool, by the way, if the National Institutes of Health actually put out grant money to find out why we all like to pop bubble wrap? If that ever happened (if the NIH actually invested in the research), I’d take it as a good sign. I’d take it to mean that the national economy had bounced back and there was finally peace in the Middle East.

… It’s been a long time since I thought about writing for television. It's also been a while since Frasier was part of the prime-time line-up. But I had this great idea once…

What if Niles Crane (Frasier’s brother, in case you lost your cliff notes) discovered bubble wrap… And: what if he had no idea that other people liked it, too.

Think of it: Niles Crane with bubble wrap.

Niles Crane not knowing of the common idiosyncrasy.

Can you imagine?

I envision him with a small square of bubble wrap in the side pocket of his newly dry-cleaned Armani blazer.

I see him entering Café Nervosa and becoming quickly giddy after surreptitiously putting his hand in his pocket and doing a quick POP.

“Ooh!” he says, cutting himself short.

Later that same day…

I see him moving about furtively in the kitchen of Frasier’s condo. Daphne is there, and because it’s the 5th season, Niles’ crush is obvious to everyone but her. So, there they are, “doing the dance,” and for whatever reason, Niles’ jacket pocket hits the center island every so often.

“POP!”

“Niles!” Daphne says, responding to the sound, her tone vaguely flirtatious.

“POP!”

“What am I hearing?” she asks then, her smile charming.

Daphne gets that knowing look on her face.

(She’s psychic, you know.)

“Is that… bubble wrap?” she asks, raising her eyebrows seductively.

“What are you talking about?” Niles replies, his face white.

“What’s in your pocket?”

“Oh…. Nothing.”

“Oh!” Daphne says, scolding him in the way he craves. “Don’t say nothing! There’s something there! I think it’s bubble wrap!”

“Bubble wrap?” Niles repeats, his eyes melting (his brain genuinely not comprehending the common popularity of bubble wrap).

“Cough it up now!” she insists.

Daphne then meets Niles’ hand as they extract, together, the small square from his pocket.

“Bubble wrap!” Daphne exclaims. “It’s so much fun to pop it!”

“Yes,” says Niles, looking lovingly at her as they pop some bubbles together.

“Yes,” he says. “It is.”

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

VI

Evelyn settles Davy into his chair in the family room, and she clicks on the television with the remote control. The feature appears to be some horror movie, and already there is too much blood on the screen. She scans the channels. There’s a game show on one of the cable networks, and she believes Davy will like that. He seems to respond to letters and numbers, and this particular game seems to be all about numbers, most of them preceded by a dollar sign.

“Thank you,” Davy says to his wife, in a tone that reveals exhaustion. “Thank you,” he repeats.

Evelyn leans down and kisses his forehead. “You’re welcome, Superman,” she says lovingly.

Before returning to the living room, Evelyn stops at the kitchen counter. She holds up the bottle of wine that Angie brought and studies the label. Returning the bottle to the countertop, she shakes her head. “Cheap bitch,” she mutters.

VII

For the next hour, Evelyn and Angie take turns going to the door. The trick-or-treaters seem to come in waves. There will be nothing for ten or fifteen minutes, and then, for the next twenty minutes or so, the stream of costumed visitors is relatively constant.

Evelyn prefers the business at the door to the lack of business in the living room. It strikes her tonight that Angie never asks Evelyn a personal question, never inquires how Evelyn is doing. In fact, Evelyn muses silently, the focus is never on her—not even on her kids or her grandchildren. Not even on the fucking leaves that are piling up in the yard.

As she half-listens to Angie’s incessant chatter—this man; that pair of shoes; the admissions department job from which she cannot wait to retire—Evelyn notices how Angie’s eyes dart around the room.

Is she telling this to me or the lamp? Evelyn wonders. And, if I stand in front of the lamp, will she begin to speak directly to the chair I have abandoned?

Evelyn refills her wineglass and offers more to Angie.

Angie indicates “no” by covering the top of her glass with her hand. “Thanks, but I’ve gotta drive soon. On a night like this, I need all my faculties. You never know what ghost or goblin might suddenly scoot across the street!”

“How about some casserole?” Evelyn says, not particularly in the mood to eat, but anxious for an opportunity to leave the room for several minutes.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I had a late lunch, and a huge one, to boot! Do you know Mary Holliwell? Works in the music department over at school.”

“Holliwell?” Evelyn asks. “Not sure.”

“She’s been there for years. I’m sure she started before Davy retired. Anyway, she’s about my age, maybe a few years younger, and she’s a hoot! Mouth like a sailor. Married and divorced more times than she can count even. A real card.”

Angie then laughs and shakes her head, perhaps replaying to herself some stream of four-letter words once uttered by that card, Mary Holliwell.

Evelyn just sits there, knowing that her reactions must be unnerving Angie in some way. In the past, she would have asked Angie why she was laughing. Or, she might have said, “So, you had lunch with Mary today?”

But Evelyn doesn’t feel like asking any questions. She’s too tired, and she really doesn’t care. Besides, she has this feeling—just a hunch—that Angie will not let the silence last too long. If Evelyn doesn’t ask the obvious question, Angie will imply it by providing the answer.

“Anyway,” Angie says after thirty seconds or so, “that’s who I had lunch with this afternoon. Mary Holliwell. And you would not believe the ruckus we caused! Giggling like two schoolgirls. We actually got glared at by a few other diners.”

Evelyn continues to observe Angie, and she envies those other diners for the anonymity that permitted them to glare. She also envies the thinking behind their responses. How could they have figured her out so quickly? Evelyn wonders. What has taken me so long?

After another thirty seconds of silence pass, Angie takes a final sip from her wineglass, places it on the coaster on the table beside her chair and says, in a tone that seems hyper-apologetic. “Ev, honey. I wish I could stay longer. But, really, I think I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll get your coat.”

* * *

to be continued on February 5th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

An Open Letter to Some People Who Attended the UCLA-Live Event This Past Saturday

Greetings from another member of the audience:

Before I address you individually, I should probably provide a little background regarding my experiences with live theatre…

Throughout my childhood, my parents were actively involved in two community theatre groups. One group staged three plays during the school year, while the other – an open-air venue – had a summer season comprising five plays. When my parents first became involved, they signed on to do props for one of the summer productions. Within a few years, though, they both had moved on to the stage, where they would, over the years, fine-tune their acting skills with style and grace.

When my sister and I were old enough to participate, we, too, volunteered for assignments, and while Martha would certainly accept production work, she really enjoyed acting more. (And, like my parents, she was quite good.) I, on the other hand, never got bit by the bug, and so – with the exception of a few very small roles that I performed quite poorly – I preferred to make my contributions as part of the backstage crew.

More often than not, though, I was in the audience, and I learned, at a young age, that the audience of a live performance should be respectful of the time, energy, passions, and talent that have gone into the mounting of a theatre production. Which is to say, the audience should give its full attention to the stage.

When I lived in New York, I continued to enjoy attending theatrical events. Broadway was affordable then, and with the option of placing the word “off-” in front of that concept, and then repeating it – as many times as you please – there was never a shortage of productions taking place in smaller venues throughout the City. I probably saw more than 50 plays and musicals during my 15 years in New York.

My theatre attendance in Los Angeles has been a bit more spotty. While I have seen several remarkable shows at some of the area’s larger venues, my having to be a bit more careful with money in recent years has put a dent in my theatre-going. Part of the problem is that I have “open space issues.” In most theatres, the balcony area (that is, where the cheap seats are) is way too high for me, and the grade is much too steep. I simply cannot enjoy what’s happening on the stage when I fear I will topple over my fellow patrons as I make my way, headfirst (and quite fatally), into the orchestra section.

(I realize, by the way, that there are terms for these “issues:” acrophobia, in regard to the fear of heights; and agoraphobia, in regard to the fear of open spaces. But I prefer simply to call the combination a profound and deep respect for the concept of gravity.)

Anyway, because of the economy, I’ve curtailed my theatre-going in recent years, and I even had to think about it for a minute, last week, when my friend Maria asked if I were interested in attending the Wallace Shawn performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall. But I’ve admired the writer/actor ever since I saw My Dinner With Andre back in the 80s, and the $45 ticket price didn’t seem like such a huge amount after three busy weeks of billable hours.

Which brings me to you people: you five or six people who also had forked over some money for tickets; you five or six people who were sitting nearby…

Some words first to the couple three rows ahead. I am very happy that you found each other. Your common need to fondle the hair and ear of your partner will probably make for a long relationship. But, seriously, get a room. Even with the house lights down, it was impossible not to be distracted by your public displays of obsession, and you need to cop to the fact that, because neither of you is petite (especially not you, sir), you will never be able to enjoy this shared fetish in a manner that is discreet.

Now to the two young ladies sitting behind my friend and me. Yes; you two. I appreciate that you probably got a student discount to attend the event, but that doesn’t mean you are entitled to chatter away while the performer is on stage. I am glad that when I turned around and glared at you, you stopped talking. I also was pleased when the man across the aisle silently got up from his seat, approached you both, and let you know – in a stage whisper – that the light emanating from your blackberry was bothering him and others. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice your continued attempts to sneak back into that little machine and do whatever technological task apparently could not wait. I noticed it, and it bothered me.

As to the dude sitting in the row in front of us... Yes; you -- with the bright and distracting handheld device. My friend shared with me later that you were playing a video game on your little machine. Really? So, what happened? Did you win? And, why, by the way – if you were wanting to play computer games – did you choose to do so in a theatre?

As for the folks down the row, my peripheral vision also caught your illuminated screens. Was there an emergency? Was that the deal? Or maybe your text simply stated: yeah, I’m at the theatre.

To the five or six of you and whoever else was multitasking in Royce Hall, shame on you. Not behaving properly at a public event is equivalent to having a lack of social skills. And, in my opinion, you people are lacking in social skills.

Shame on you.

…Of course, before Shawn took the stage, the usual announcement was made. You know the one – it’s the same as is made in movie theatres: please turn off cell phones, pagers, and any illuminated handheld devices, [etc.] What’s interesting is that, while this request was being abused all over Royce Hall on Saturday night, I have rarely seen it abused in movie theatres.

Maybe people just need to see what they see on screens. And if that’s true, then what that means, I guess, is that a movie can replace those handheld devices, but a live human cannot.

Hmm, are we really so screen-addicted?

I realize, of course, that I am looking at one now.

And so are you.

But I also am not pretending to do, hear, or see something else simultaneously. And I hope the same goes for you.

…After his performance, which included readings (from his own work and others) around the theme of Real World, Fake World, Dream World, Wallace Shawn entertained some questions from the audience. A few of those questions provided him with an opportunity to elaborate on what a mess our world has become and how we should, in fact, be worried.

I appreciate his perspective.

And if he was aware – during his 90 minutes on stage – of the multi-tasking that was occurring in the audience, I also appreciate his ability not to give it any power. I could not have done that. Had it been me behind the lectern, I would have stopped in my tracks, shut my mouth, and refused to continue talking until the collective rudeness had virtually left the room.

Good thing, I guess, that I’ve always preferred the backstage assignments.

Monday Reruns: Some Things Just Take Time

(original post-date: January 20, 2010)

I smile every time I drive by the Baskin Robbins on Western Avenue.

(Baskin Robbins – renowned for its 31 flavors.)

I don’t smile because I love ice cream (which I do). I don’t smile because I particularly love their ice cream (I actually haven’t tasted it in years). I don’t smile, for that matter, because I’m proud of resisting the urge to turn into their parking lot. (Most often, in fact, when I drive by the local franchise, I’ve just been to the grocery store, so if I were craving ice cream, I would have bought some already.)

I smile because of their new logo.

There’s the B (for Baskin). The straight-edged left side of that letter is blue (the rest is pink).

There’s the R (for Robbins). The straight-edged left side of that letter is pink (the rest is blue).

Combined, the initials make for a two-toned BR, and because of the colors assigned to those letters, the pink part of the B and the pink part of the R create “31.”

And here’s the reason I smile: Baskin Robbins has been around for decades. But it was only in the last year or so that somebody noticed the “31” within these initials.

I can’t help but imagine the pitch meeting, when the marketing people put up the PowerPoint presentation. There it was in pink and blue. Perhaps the most obvious logo ever to appear to mankind.

… So many of us work so hard, believing in what we do. We create product. We market our product as best we can. We find buyers.

As a very small fish in a very large pond, I appreciate driving by Baskin Robbins. I appreciate realizing how long it took for some wise soul to see it. The “31” and the logo that would eventually emerge had been there all along.

I visited my mother last October, and one evening, we were imagining what it would be like to have a substantial amount of spare cash. “If I had some money to spend,” I told her, “I would hire someone to do my marketing.”

My mother’s facial expression became sweetly curious. “You mean the grocery store?” she asked, with a certain trademark innocence.

“Right,” I wanted to reply, with my own trademark sarcasm. “The grocery store... Because if it weren’t for all those pesky trips to Ralphs and Trader Joe’s, I’d undoubtedly have a bestseller under my belt!”

Marketing is a science. The best methods change constantly, and the process takes time. It should neither be underestimated nor taken for granted.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Twenty-nine

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

IV

“HELLOOOO!” Angie calls into the Bennett house, having let herself in as always. “Trick or treat!” she then yells, playfully.

Evelyn, heading from the kitchen to the front hallway, is struck by the option. Is this a trick or a treat? She realizes immediately that she doesn’t know. Nor does she know who will be tricking or treating whom.

Not giving away her silent musings, Evelyn greets Angie with a smile and a hug.

“You look fabulous as always, Ev,” Angie says with her usual energy. “Here,” she then adds, “I brought a bottle for your cellar.”

“Thank you,” says Evelyn, studying the label and recognizing it from the two-bottles-for-$6.00 special that the grocery store was carrying that day. She’s glad there is a bottle of a better cabernet already opened. “Would you like a glass?” she asks her friend. “I’ve got an opened bottle in the kitchen.”

“Sounds good to me,” is Angie’s reply, as they walk down the hallway.

As they enter the kitchen, Evelyn is curious to see how Angie will respond to Davy’s Superman costume.

“And there he is!” Angie says regarding Davy, who is perched at the counter with The New Yorker in front of him.

“I don’t know how this works,” Davy says, holding up his glass of soda.

“Just drink it, sweetie,” Evelyn tells her husband.

“Okay, but I have to—you know…”

“Do whatever you have to do, Davy,” Evelyn tells him kindly, smiling as she senses Angie’s mounting discomfort.

“So!” Angie blurts out, turning to Evelyn. “Any trick or treaters yet?”

“Not yet,” Evelyn replies, handing Angie a glass of the wine that was not on special.

“I bet you get a ton of them, though, once the parade begins.”

“We generally get quite a few,” replies Evelyn, already realizing that the evening ahead might bore her to death. “Anyway, I’ve got a casserole in the oven, in case we get hungry later, and I thought we’d park in the living room, so we can be close by the door.”

“Where’s Mrs. Krosky?”

“I let her go home early. She started to cop an attitude after Davy changed into his costume.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Angie responds, making little effort to cover the disapproval she apparently shares with Evelyn’s weekend help.

Evelyn feels remarkably strong in this moment. She is going to do what Joy suggested. She is going to observe. And perhaps by the time Angie leaves that night, Evelyn will have a clearer picture of the friendship she once valued.

V

“Anyway,” Angie continues, enjoying the comfort of the living room armchair, “I just had to tell him to quit calling me! He was so focused on getting married, and besides—the sex wasn’t all that great, anyway.”

“What’s that?” asks Davy.

“What’s what, honey?” Evelyn responds.

“Oh,” Davy says, waving his hand dismissively. “I forget.”

The doorbell rings.

“Should I—? Do I—?” Davy asks, rising and beginning to instinctively follow the candy-doling routine that Evelyn coached him through for the first ten groups of trick-or-treaters.

“Go ahead, sweetie, you’re doing great,” Evelyn responds.

As Davy answers the door, and the children respond gleefully to the presence of a Superman, Evelyn follows up on Angie’s story. “So you’re still dead-set on never getting married?”

“Jeez, Ev! I’m sixty! If I haven’t fallen for that legal trap yet, I’m not likely to do so anytime soon.”

Davy returns to his chair, which is closest to the front hallway but not outside of the conversational circle. He looks especially confused, and perhaps upset.

“Everything okay, Davy?” Evelyn asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I think I need to—do that thing. You know, I think I need—” he adds, indicating the direction of the kitchen with the thumb of his right hand.

“Does he need to go potty?” Angie asks Evelyn.

“Angie!” Evelyn responds, in a distinctly scolding tone. “He’s not a two-year-old!”

Evelyn then rises, sensing that Davy has had his fill of trick-or-treaters and would like to sleep with the television now.

“Angie,” she says, “would you mind answering the door until I get back?”

* * *

to be continued on January 29th.

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

50 Years Ago Tomorrow

I was nearly three-and-a-half years old on January 20th, 1961, and I had a prime seat for the event: atop my father’s shoulders.

He and my mother – staunch Democrats – had caught the bug during the previous November’s election. That feeling of Camelot was in the air and undeniable, and so the decision to join the hordes on the mall in D.C. was inevitable.

In spite of the weather, we made the drive up from the Shenandoah Valley, and I suppose there was talk – between my parents; perhaps on the radio – of Robert Frost having been asked to participate in the ceremony. I don’t remember any specific statements, but I do remember the inference I had drawn. And so as I sat atop my father’s shoulders, among the thousands who had braved the blizzard and were looking with anticipation toward that apparently very important building, I waited patiently.

I waited… for Jack Frost to appear on the roof and give a weather report.

Jack Frost; not Robert.

(You go with what you know…)

I am now nearly fifty-three-and-a-half years old, and I have a much clearer sense of what is going on.

The pendulum has swung back and forth numerous times in the last half-century, and while there have been glimmers of hope, we’ve never quite returned to that feeling of Camelot.

… Before my father died three years ago this March, he suffered from increasing frailty. For the last several years of his life, he also experienced occasional dementia, and on one of those occasions (probably around 2004), the visiting healthcare worker asked him who the president was. When my mother told me that his response had been Theodore Roosevelt, I said, “I’m jealous! I want to live in Dad’s world!”

But Dad wasn’t always in “that world.” A year or so later, in fact, his better grasp of reality was evident when he glibly stated, in response to the national and international situations, “Thank God I’ll die soon.”

That was Dad – sardonic in his description of an unprecedented, pitiful mess.

Because I am not likely to die soon, I cling to the other two memories of my dad: the one who trudged through the snow to listen to a young man breathe hope into the country, and the one who chose to remember Teddy Roosevelt when Dubya was the reality du jour.

We must have hope.

Even when it requires some temporary dementia, we must have hope.

Monday Reruns: Jimmy Fallon is a Happy Man

(original post-date: January 13, 2010)

While I am not a fan of late-night talk show politics (an especially hot issue these days), I’ve always been a fan of the programming. And my earliest experience on this score was watching The Dick Cavett Show. Now, I’ve got to admit, if I saw a tape of that program today, I would probably be a little put off by the relentlessly bookish tone of the dialogue. But, at the time of my appreciating it – I’m guessing I was ten or so – I loved the repartee between the host and his guests. I just loved it.

I should probably explain (in case it isn’t remarkably obvious) that my parents were always rather lenient regarding my bedtime -- particularly on Fridays and Saturdays. And why shouldn’t they have been? It’s not like I was outside stealing hubcaps or smoking crack. I was inside. I was downstairs. I was watching Dick Cavett, for God’s sake.

But in my junior high years, something changed in me, and that’s when my parents started worrying. That’s when I started watching Johnny Carson. I can’t remember the moment when I switched allegiances, but the lure was strong. Maybe it was the show-biz nature of his program. Maybe it was the lack of outright, intellectual sparring. Maybe it was Johnny’s sexy charm. Regardless of the reason, I had changed teams, and this made my parents curious. One night, my father parlayed that curiosity into joining me for the full ninety minutes of The Tonight Show.

I remember turning to Dad throughout the program, smiling and wondering if he would smile too.

But as he sat there, Dad didn’t emote.

When the show was over, though, he did offer one thought as he stood and walked away. He told me that he really loved Ed McMahon.

Right, Dad, I thought, rolling my eyes.

And just as I knew my father was kidding, I also knew that he was expressing a truth. He didn’t love Ed McMahon. He just envied him. He envied the man who could make such a bankroll simply by laughing at his boss night after night.

Over the years, I continued to watch Johnny (remaining indifferent to Ed). And for many of those years, Johnny was followed by Letterman, whom I also grew to love. Classics, both. Their sardonic, often deadpan approaches defined late-night television for me. The dry delivery, the laid-back take – that was what I had come to expect at the end of my day.

When Johnny left, Dave was still there, so the attitude-torch remained lit. From time to time, I’d check in with Conan or Craig, but I could never embrace their higher registers. I wanted a bass, not a tenor. For me, late-night talk had a formula that worked. Why mess with it?

Enter Jimmy Fallon.

When his show debuted last March, I was curious to see what this SNL alum would do with Conan’s old spot on NBC. So, after Letterman, I switched channels and watched.

During the first week or so, I sensed a discomfort, particularly during the opening monologue. He didn’t seem up to the routine of a typical late-night talk show host. But… I kept watching, and as the weeks and months unfolded, Jimmy Fallon established his own routine.

And now? I am beyond impressed. With less than a year under his talk-show belt, Jimmy Fallon has done something I would never have thought imaginable in all my years of following Dick, Johnny, and Dave. Jimmy Fallon has made late-night talk not just a comic place, but a genuinely happy place.

The minute he steps through those curtains, he is more than comfortable and competent. He is – or seems to be – filled with joy. And that joy then gets spread – to the band (Roots; joyful in their own right); to his announcer, Higgins (Lydia’s non-smoking half); to his studio audience; to his guests; and to folks like me, who are relaxing on couches or in beds across America.

Late-night happy.

A new concept.

I, for one, have never needed it more.

***

I cannot resist adding a little 2-part 2011 postscript to this rerun:

(1) The Rolling Stone had the good sense to publish a cover story about Jimmy Fallon this month. That article, "The Eternal Sunshine of Jimmy Fallon," indicates that my observations from a year ago are not unique.

(2) And this, from the menopause files: a few weeks ago, I had a dream -- Jimmy Fallon and I were in bed together. ...He was wearing his suit.