I have no problem with someone being richer than me. It's when that person has an obsessive need to keep reminding me of it, that's when we have problems.
The Ark was built by an amateur, the Titanic by professionals.
The "Big 3" network newscasts are in trouble, ratings-wise. Katie Couric seems to be the "bottom" no matter how you juggle the numbers. That's a public ménage à trois scooting closer to the gutter with each thrust.
Ronald Reagan was right about one thing: an intergalactic invasion just might be what the world needs to eliminate a whole slew of problems.
Hey kids, the big secret is that grownups are just guessing at life too.
I often wonder what plans Lee Harvey Oswald had for the weekend before he got the big phone call.
I've had a sad feeling, that we've entered a strange era in America – where all the bullshit that used to just happen peripherally, which our parents handled, now has taken center-stage, and has become modern life's main struggle to the average adult, on top of all the "normal" hardships. We've allowed the demagogues, money-changers, politico-paths and talking heads to strip the land of its ability to support the needs and desires of the common man, turn it into a giant bureaucratic colander that drains away the human spirit to achieve, and leaves only a bulk of manufactured dependency. A place where neither science nor religion retain any genuine influence, as both are simply manipulated to shore up the agenda of those in power. I've always held the belief – and still do – that science and religion are not adversaries. As we grow and come to understand both fuller, we will discover, I believe, that they are just two different languages, telling the same story. Science represents mankind's collective desire to understand his place in the universe, and religion is the expression of his deeper consciousness to appreciate it. We've abandoned both, and set the two concepts at odds with each other, just as we have turned upon ourselves from within. Everyone is a self-contained center of a personal universe – oblivious to the searchable truths of science and the self-evident insights of religious morality. We've become our own zombie plague. And now that you are cheered up...
Popping a really big pimple sort of brings on a feeling of conquest.
Tanya Roberts played the title role in "Sheena," and was a Bond girl. In her vacation-shilling radio ads for Las Vegas, she sounds like a chubby New Jersey housewife working from home part-time as a travel agent.
I stopped having a mental "Top 10 Babes" list when I realized that half of mine were by now senior citizens... or dead.
Reality check: More people are on to your bullshit than you realize. They're just being nice.
Howling at the moon doesn't make you spiritual, it makes you predictable. Think about it.
The most complicated version of Coca-Cola: Caffeine-free, diet black cherry-n-vanilla Coke Zero, with Splenda. No, that can't be it. I'll try again later.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Dreams of Dead Celebrities and a Few Not-Dead-Yet Ones
In a most vivid dream, I once had a conversation with John Wayne, one of my personal cinema heroes. In a way most peculiar, at the beginning of our chat, The Duke was young, trim and seemingly sculpted as if by Michelangelo – tall, lean and confident, the gunslinger in all those sepia-toned Republic Studios westerns of the 30s. By the time we were saying our so-longs a short while later, I was looking at the grizzled, salt-n-pepper stubbled Oscar winner of "True Grit."
The ageless advice he left me, about pursuing a career of my own in the movie business: "Pay yer dime, n' take yer chance."
I think I'm still paying my dime, many years later. The "take yer chance" part, I am learning, is ongoing.
CHUCK BERRY
At the other end of the spectrum, was a more recent dream in which the iconic rock-n-roller Chuck Berry was inflicted upon me. This was a strange one, especially in the wake of Michael Jackson's untimely demise. In the dream I was employed as a caricaturist at some kind of media event – an occupation I do have in real life, so that part wasn't strange at all. The high weirdness began when Berry showed up to entertain the crowd.
Like Wayne in the earlier dream, Chuck was young, slick and full of whatever it was that made him him, back in the day. Even his suit and slacks seemed lacquered with a layer of Vaseline – he was a hit from the moment he stepped through the door. His guitar in great evidence, he Berry-danced his way through the crowd, playing... something.
It sounded terrible, as if filtered through a tin can on a string. If that was "Mabeline," she needed a fresh coat of Clinique.
Yet the folks seemed really into him, clapping and rocking along, despite this technical shortfall. He casually improvised a few extra riffs, and approached me. Someone – I presume the person in charge of the "event" – whispered in my ear at this point, that Chuck had heard what an accomplished caricaturist I was, and wanted a drawing of himself. Fantastic. I extended my hand and motioned for Chuck to take a seat. He set his guitar down, sat, smiled, and without pause, blew a gooey explosion of grayish yellow snot all over me.
No "excuse me." No pause of astonishment. Nothing. I was so startled by this that I woke up.
Did this dream contain some cosmic parcel of wisdom, as the John Wayne dream had? If so, I'm still pondering.
MOE HOWARD
Why Moe? I have no idea. I only know that I had an incredibly strange and hilarious afternoon one deep, sleepy night, in the company of the "cruel stooge."
The fact that I actually interviewed The Firesign Theater not long ago for a feature newspaper article may have something to do with this dream, as I found myself sent to get an interview with Moe. (Not to compare the Firesigners to the Stooges – such a pairing would be like taste-testing champagne against root beer.) All the obvious questions raced through my head: Where were the other stooges? And aren't they all long dead? But none of that mattered as I finally found Moe walking along a busy city sidewalk. Bowl haircut and all.
I caught up to him, and he seemed to be expecting me – he slowed somewhat so that I could match his pace, though he wouldn't actually stop walking. "Whatta you wanna know, chucklehead" he asked?
I asked if there were somewhere we could go to chat with a little more privacy, and he led me to a nearby synagog. This is a dream, remember.
For some reason, he believed we had to sneak in. We found a slim opening in a hedge that surrounded the building, and crawled through. We arrived at a back door, and paused on a stoop to chat.
I asked Moe a question that immediately seemed to draw out his smoldering homicidal ire. "Weren't there some later films in which Joe Besser's scenes were interlaced with older footage of Curly – a sort of recycling of the originals?" Moe stared at the ground with a glazed-eyed countenance that silently shouted his contemplation of exactly what manner of physical assault to launch at me.
His fist trembled as he channeled the nuclear stooge-force, preparing to bury his whitening knuckles past my stomach, into my liver. I had obviously crossed a line. How could I have known how sensitive Moe was concerning the cinematic pillaging of Curly's comedic canon.
Just as I attempted to steer the interview into a dialogue on Shemp, Moe suddenly allowed his fury to subside, and became wide-eyed with a bubbly joy. Somewhere inside the building – violins! "Listen!"
We entered, to discover a group of young boys delivering a violin recital to a large church audience. Moe became ecstatic! "I love this!" Suddenly he bolted to a nearby piano and began a stooge-like attempt to provide accompaniment to the violinists. I got a sudden urge to flee as I witnessed a group of thuggish rectors advancing up the aisle.
We both booked out of there just as Moe pounded out a ham-fisted final thrush upon the keyboard!
I don't know how, but Moe got ahead of me in the chase. We wound up hiding in the bushes around the synagog, with the choir thugs hunting for us. Moe peered out to check if the coast was clear, and saw a Rabbi craning his neck to locate us. "How duh-ya like this," Moe muttered, "to think I have to sneak around a Jew!"
This is just a dream. And keep in mind, Moe Howard was Jewish, as were his brothers, Shemp and Curly... and though not related, Larry Fine's real name was Fineberg. I was just along for the ride here.
Somehow we escaped the baying hounds of the synagog search party, and were then back out on the street. I stood at the curb, but Moe had disappeared. I turned a 360-circle looking to see where he'd gone. I spotted him across the street – disguised as a catholic priest. He waved at me. "This'll fool 'em!"
He then produced a huge cardboard sign and held it aloft, to the bustling street full of motorists and pedestrians, his cock-browed stoogey grin beaming. The sign proclaimed in a hurried scrawl: "FUCK YOU!"
"Moe," I yelled, "I have nothing against religious people, in fact, I am one myself!"
He then ran past an oncoming bus, across the street, and gave me a loud fwappy slap in the face. "That's the spirit, puddin' head!!"
Awake!
I have sat in silent amazement at this dream, and still wonder exactly what I am supposed to decipher. Another coffee refill, please.
The ageless advice he left me, about pursuing a career of my own in the movie business: "Pay yer dime, n' take yer chance."
I think I'm still paying my dime, many years later. The "take yer chance" part, I am learning, is ongoing.
CHUCK BERRY
At the other end of the spectrum, was a more recent dream in which the iconic rock-n-roller Chuck Berry was inflicted upon me. This was a strange one, especially in the wake of Michael Jackson's untimely demise. In the dream I was employed as a caricaturist at some kind of media event – an occupation I do have in real life, so that part wasn't strange at all. The high weirdness began when Berry showed up to entertain the crowd.
Like Wayne in the earlier dream, Chuck was young, slick and full of whatever it was that made him him, back in the day. Even his suit and slacks seemed lacquered with a layer of Vaseline – he was a hit from the moment he stepped through the door. His guitar in great evidence, he Berry-danced his way through the crowd, playing... something.
It sounded terrible, as if filtered through a tin can on a string. If that was "Mabeline," she needed a fresh coat of Clinique.
Yet the folks seemed really into him, clapping and rocking along, despite this technical shortfall. He casually improvised a few extra riffs, and approached me. Someone – I presume the person in charge of the "event" – whispered in my ear at this point, that Chuck had heard what an accomplished caricaturist I was, and wanted a drawing of himself. Fantastic. I extended my hand and motioned for Chuck to take a seat. He set his guitar down, sat, smiled, and without pause, blew a gooey explosion of grayish yellow snot all over me.
No "excuse me." No pause of astonishment. Nothing. I was so startled by this that I woke up.
Did this dream contain some cosmic parcel of wisdom, as the John Wayne dream had? If so, I'm still pondering.
MOE HOWARD
Why Moe? I have no idea. I only know that I had an incredibly strange and hilarious afternoon one deep, sleepy night, in the company of the "cruel stooge."
The fact that I actually interviewed The Firesign Theater not long ago for a feature newspaper article may have something to do with this dream, as I found myself sent to get an interview with Moe. (Not to compare the Firesigners to the Stooges – such a pairing would be like taste-testing champagne against root beer.) All the obvious questions raced through my head: Where were the other stooges? And aren't they all long dead? But none of that mattered as I finally found Moe walking along a busy city sidewalk. Bowl haircut and all.
I caught up to him, and he seemed to be expecting me – he slowed somewhat so that I could match his pace, though he wouldn't actually stop walking. "Whatta you wanna know, chucklehead" he asked?
I asked if there were somewhere we could go to chat with a little more privacy, and he led me to a nearby synagog. This is a dream, remember.
For some reason, he believed we had to sneak in. We found a slim opening in a hedge that surrounded the building, and crawled through. We arrived at a back door, and paused on a stoop to chat.
I asked Moe a question that immediately seemed to draw out his smoldering homicidal ire. "Weren't there some later films in which Joe Besser's scenes were interlaced with older footage of Curly – a sort of recycling of the originals?" Moe stared at the ground with a glazed-eyed countenance that silently shouted his contemplation of exactly what manner of physical assault to launch at me.
His fist trembled as he channeled the nuclear stooge-force, preparing to bury his whitening knuckles past my stomach, into my liver. I had obviously crossed a line. How could I have known how sensitive Moe was concerning the cinematic pillaging of Curly's comedic canon.
Just as I attempted to steer the interview into a dialogue on Shemp, Moe suddenly allowed his fury to subside, and became wide-eyed with a bubbly joy. Somewhere inside the building – violins! "Listen!"
We entered, to discover a group of young boys delivering a violin recital to a large church audience. Moe became ecstatic! "I love this!" Suddenly he bolted to a nearby piano and began a stooge-like attempt to provide accompaniment to the violinists. I got a sudden urge to flee as I witnessed a group of thuggish rectors advancing up the aisle.
We both booked out of there just as Moe pounded out a ham-fisted final thrush upon the keyboard!
I don't know how, but Moe got ahead of me in the chase. We wound up hiding in the bushes around the synagog, with the choir thugs hunting for us. Moe peered out to check if the coast was clear, and saw a Rabbi craning his neck to locate us. "How duh-ya like this," Moe muttered, "to think I have to sneak around a Jew!"
This is just a dream. And keep in mind, Moe Howard was Jewish, as were his brothers, Shemp and Curly... and though not related, Larry Fine's real name was Fineberg. I was just along for the ride here.
Somehow we escaped the baying hounds of the synagog search party, and were then back out on the street. I stood at the curb, but Moe had disappeared. I turned a 360-circle looking to see where he'd gone. I spotted him across the street – disguised as a catholic priest. He waved at me. "This'll fool 'em!"
He then produced a huge cardboard sign and held it aloft, to the bustling street full of motorists and pedestrians, his cock-browed stoogey grin beaming. The sign proclaimed in a hurried scrawl: "FUCK YOU!"
"Moe," I yelled, "I have nothing against religious people, in fact, I am one myself!"
He then ran past an oncoming bus, across the street, and gave me a loud fwappy slap in the face. "That's the spirit, puddin' head!!"
Awake!
I have sat in silent amazement at this dream, and still wonder exactly what I am supposed to decipher. Another coffee refill, please.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
June Is Busting Out At Random
Little kids running and screaming make me want to, too!
If everything were really your fault, you'd go to the electric chair. If nothing were ever your fault, you'd be really boring.
If you think life should have no rules, hold your dinner out so I can take a few bites of it while I pee on your leg. You say I can't do that? Hey, you just made a rule!
Muffins aren't so great. Just the tops.
NONE of the people using laptop computers in that coffeehouse are using them to solve problems. Eighty percent of all cellphones are being used for pointless brain-free yack-yack – thirteen percent are being used to close semi-illegal business transactions, and the rest are being used by terrorists to remotely detonate explosive devices.
Psychos work in distracted collusion. The sane are alone.
Someone who deserves to be looked up on the Internet, but is inexplicably now missing from all of humanity: Daton. One name... like Madonna and Cher. Daton was a surprisingly engaging lounge singer, whose style was bright, plucky and vaguely Sinatra-like for the first song or two, but never changed from song to song... so it slowly but steadily drained down to tedium by the second-set medly, and turned into a handcart ride to Hell by his closing number. He was a mail carrier or sump-pump repairman by day, who got his "fifteen minutes" in the mid-or-late 1970s when some exec at a mail-order LP company discovered him, and actually allowed him to record a "best of" album. (Hint: there were NO preceding albums from which to glean any "bests.") The Daton album was sold on TV, a 2-record set, as I recall. They correctly surmised that nobody would want a follow-up record, so they put everything on the first. "Gum fly with me, gum fly, lesss fly awaeeeeeeeeeeeee..." It deserves to be on CD, if anyone can locate it. Yes, it's DATON!!!
Tony Bennett sings like he just finished an entire 3-foot long hero sandwich. Robert Goulet sang like he was smoking a cigar through the recording. Bing Crosby sang like he was getting a blowjob. Maybe he was, a few times.
A new beginning doesn't suggest a new attitude, but demands it!
Another thing about people who believe the whole world is centered upon them: don't let them order pizza for the whole group unless you like pesto AND jack cheese on EVERYTHING.
If everything were really your fault, you'd go to the electric chair. If nothing were ever your fault, you'd be really boring.
If you think life should have no rules, hold your dinner out so I can take a few bites of it while I pee on your leg. You say I can't do that? Hey, you just made a rule!
Muffins aren't so great. Just the tops.
NONE of the people using laptop computers in that coffeehouse are using them to solve problems. Eighty percent of all cellphones are being used for pointless brain-free yack-yack – thirteen percent are being used to close semi-illegal business transactions, and the rest are being used by terrorists to remotely detonate explosive devices.
Psychos work in distracted collusion. The sane are alone.
Someone who deserves to be looked up on the Internet, but is inexplicably now missing from all of humanity: Daton. One name... like Madonna and Cher. Daton was a surprisingly engaging lounge singer, whose style was bright, plucky and vaguely Sinatra-like for the first song or two, but never changed from song to song... so it slowly but steadily drained down to tedium by the second-set medly, and turned into a handcart ride to Hell by his closing number. He was a mail carrier or sump-pump repairman by day, who got his "fifteen minutes" in the mid-or-late 1970s when some exec at a mail-order LP company discovered him, and actually allowed him to record a "best of" album. (Hint: there were NO preceding albums from which to glean any "bests.") The Daton album was sold on TV, a 2-record set, as I recall. They correctly surmised that nobody would want a follow-up record, so they put everything on the first. "Gum fly with me, gum fly, lesss fly awaeeeeeeeeeeeee..." It deserves to be on CD, if anyone can locate it. Yes, it's DATON!!!
Tony Bennett sings like he just finished an entire 3-foot long hero sandwich. Robert Goulet sang like he was smoking a cigar through the recording. Bing Crosby sang like he was getting a blowjob. Maybe he was, a few times.
A new beginning doesn't suggest a new attitude, but demands it!
Another thing about people who believe the whole world is centered upon them: don't let them order pizza for the whole group unless you like pesto AND jack cheese on EVERYTHING.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
At Last! May Randomness!
Horses, rabbits, and geese may consume the same grass from the same field, yet the horse's shit comes out in large steaming clumps, the rabbit's shit exits as tiny pellets, and the goose's shit goes forth in long green ribbons. Consider this the next time you hear a newscast offer a segment consisting of "differing opinions" on any given subject.
Love and hate aren't the opposite ends of the spectrum, but passion and indifference.
There are people in government who wish you and I would just shut up, stay indoors and eat our Big Macs like good little drones.
Bill Clinton has done two things that no one else will ever do, at least both in the same lifetime. He's been president. And he's seen Hillary pole dance.
A few ideas of what three wishes to ask your genie:
1. A do-over fourth wish (which, when you think about it, is pointless, since you must use up a wish to wish for it – leaving you with the original three wishes. Hmm.)
2. Immunity to the coming zombie plague
3. A Dennys staff becomes inexplicably competent whenever you enter
1. The ability to produce and hurl flaming porcupines
2. Instant mastery of all dances
3. A standing 30-foot tall pile of cow shit that obeys your every command like the Golem of Prague
1. For the words "... and much, much more" in advertising to actually mean something
2. An epic, $100 million dollar film that begins with a scene of a sheepherder lighting an M-80 firecap in his ass (this one just might come true, have you seen what passes for movies these days?)
3. The first 3-D, smell-o-vision movie: of a movie ending, and a walk through the exit door of the theater, to your car. The title: "Dejavu." Guaranteed you'll be thinking about it for the entire drive home.
Love and hate aren't the opposite ends of the spectrum, but passion and indifference.
There are people in government who wish you and I would just shut up, stay indoors and eat our Big Macs like good little drones.
Bill Clinton has done two things that no one else will ever do, at least both in the same lifetime. He's been president. And he's seen Hillary pole dance.
A few ideas of what three wishes to ask your genie:
1. A do-over fourth wish (which, when you think about it, is pointless, since you must use up a wish to wish for it – leaving you with the original three wishes. Hmm.)
2. Immunity to the coming zombie plague
3. A Dennys staff becomes inexplicably competent whenever you enter
1. The ability to produce and hurl flaming porcupines
2. Instant mastery of all dances
3. A standing 30-foot tall pile of cow shit that obeys your every command like the Golem of Prague
1. For the words "... and much, much more" in advertising to actually mean something
2. An epic, $100 million dollar film that begins with a scene of a sheepherder lighting an M-80 firecap in his ass (this one just might come true, have you seen what passes for movies these days?)
3. The first 3-D, smell-o-vision movie: of a movie ending, and a walk through the exit door of the theater, to your car. The title: "Dejavu." Guaranteed you'll be thinking about it for the entire drive home.
Monday, April 20, 2009
And we jump right into April Randomness!
What do JFK's brain and Benny Hill's porn collection have in common? They both had to exist at one time, based on the observation of recorded history, yet neither can be proven to have ever existed, because there is presently no physical evidence.
There is a one-world religion. It's called Facebook.
Facebook is a phenomenal anomaly built around a contradiction; despite so much paranoia that the cyber-culture is becoming too intrusive, destroying our privacy, every waking hour millions of people log on and give away practically every secret they have!
Best Presidential quote in 40 years. Obama, to the banking CEOs: "Gentleman, remember that my administration is the only thing standing between you and the pitchforks."
Fast. Cheap. Good. You can have any two, but whichever two you choose, you'll have to settle for the opposite of the third.
In the uncut version of the 1946 Three Stooges comedy "Uncivil Warbirds," Moe Howard utters the word "ejaculate." And does a scene in blackface.
Another old comedy factoid: Bill Cosby once tried to buy up all the old "Our Gang" films, just so he could excise the characters Buckwheat, Stymie and Farina from the historical cinematic landscape. Now, doesn't that qualify as racist on some level?
As one grows older it becomes easier to smile, and easier to dislike a wider array of things.
Is it possible to be "rested to a frazzle?"
The biggest fallacy we make when we take steps to change our environment, is that we assume we'll be in better control of the new one.
The person who asks "How bad can it be?" is the one that everyone else will hate when "it" is over.
There is a one-world religion. It's called Facebook.
Facebook is a phenomenal anomaly built around a contradiction; despite so much paranoia that the cyber-culture is becoming too intrusive, destroying our privacy, every waking hour millions of people log on and give away practically every secret they have!
Best Presidential quote in 40 years. Obama, to the banking CEOs: "Gentleman, remember that my administration is the only thing standing between you and the pitchforks."
Fast. Cheap. Good. You can have any two, but whichever two you choose, you'll have to settle for the opposite of the third.
In the uncut version of the 1946 Three Stooges comedy "Uncivil Warbirds," Moe Howard utters the word "ejaculate." And does a scene in blackface.
Another old comedy factoid: Bill Cosby once tried to buy up all the old "Our Gang" films, just so he could excise the characters Buckwheat, Stymie and Farina from the historical cinematic landscape. Now, doesn't that qualify as racist on some level?
As one grows older it becomes easier to smile, and easier to dislike a wider array of things.
Is it possible to be "rested to a frazzle?"
The biggest fallacy we make when we take steps to change our environment, is that we assume we'll be in better control of the new one.
The person who asks "How bad can it be?" is the one that everyone else will hate when "it" is over.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Randomness On The March
It isn't good when your dentist's first words to you are "Don't worry, the room is soundproof."
I wonder if David Copperfield ever feels an urge to pull out an uzi and wipe out the audience when he messes up a trick? After all, they'd tell others.
We are all time travelers, moving into the future at a steady speed of 60 minutes per hour.
Today's rapidly advancing technology allows us to create spaceships that can travel, unmanned, to other planets and send back stunning images of their extraterrestrial surfaces... and to play Halo with a 10-year old kid in Great Britain who beats us using a cheat code, then disconnects after pecking out a misspelled insult about our poor bandwidth and a P.S. to go fuck ourselves.
I'm waiting for the Broadway Musical version of "Godzilla vs. The Smog Monster." You know it's gotta be in someone's head besides mine!
Someone, somewhere, considers us both fucking idiots.
You cannot split infinity, because even if you do, both halves still go on forever in either direction, and the second half still just picks up where the first half left off.
The last cookie, donut, bagel, snack item in the container is the "half-life" one. Who ever comes upon it will break it in two, and eat half... so as not be the person who denies someone else a share. Even if it has been broken in half so many times that it is now a mere nugget. They'll still attempt to leave a portion... Rare is the self-confident individual who sees the last one and takes the whole thing. He or she knows they make more – and if someone comes along wanting one of whatever it was that's now gone, the answer is simple: Go buy another box of the damn things!
I'm beginning to wonder if my ship is being pulled in by a tugboat.
I wonder if David Copperfield ever feels an urge to pull out an uzi and wipe out the audience when he messes up a trick? After all, they'd tell others.
We are all time travelers, moving into the future at a steady speed of 60 minutes per hour.
Today's rapidly advancing technology allows us to create spaceships that can travel, unmanned, to other planets and send back stunning images of their extraterrestrial surfaces... and to play Halo with a 10-year old kid in Great Britain who beats us using a cheat code, then disconnects after pecking out a misspelled insult about our poor bandwidth and a P.S. to go fuck ourselves.
I'm waiting for the Broadway Musical version of "Godzilla vs. The Smog Monster." You know it's gotta be in someone's head besides mine!
Someone, somewhere, considers us both fucking idiots.
You cannot split infinity, because even if you do, both halves still go on forever in either direction, and the second half still just picks up where the first half left off.
The last cookie, donut, bagel, snack item in the container is the "half-life" one. Who ever comes upon it will break it in two, and eat half... so as not be the person who denies someone else a share. Even if it has been broken in half so many times that it is now a mere nugget. They'll still attempt to leave a portion... Rare is the self-confident individual who sees the last one and takes the whole thing. He or she knows they make more – and if someone comes along wanting one of whatever it was that's now gone, the answer is simple: Go buy another box of the damn things!
I'm beginning to wonder if my ship is being pulled in by a tugboat.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Memorable Auditions IV
YOU COULD HAVE KNOCKED ME DOWN WITH A MONKEY BALL!
There's a phenomena called the Standard Hollywood Epiphany. At least that's what I call it.
It happens elsewhere, to a lesser degree, but never like it does in Star Town. You go about your day, perhaps even following a routine that has remained unchanged for months, years. You run into someone who by odd chance, just happens to cross your path in some mundane, otherwise unremarkable way. And you get a strange feeling that you know that person, as if from a past life – in fact, you know them on some unnameable but nonetheless intimate level.
In Hollywood and its neighboring southern California communities, these sudden run-ins are worth craning your neck for – worth clicking on Google about, as soon as you get home.
Anywhere else, save perhaps New York City, London or Paris, this glancing encounter might be meaningless – your eyes playing tricks. In Los Angeles, it's more likely that you've collided with a celebrity on his or her off-hours.
As abstract as it may sound, you get used to it. It matters not that their last blockbuster was a smash, or only a semi-hit, or even a dud – or if they've been out of the A-list spotlight for some time. And even more strangely, your mind does an instant full circle – from realization, and a mental reference of their résumé, back around to an everyday encounter with a fellow human.
"Mr. Affleck, could I squeeze my cart past yours? I'm after a can of those stewed tomatoes."
The odds of these incidents becoming routine, goes up, when you are on the audition trail. But the dynamic is altered; for within those boundaries you're supposedly a pro, just as they surely are. You might even get to – briefly – talk shop with them.
You get to "hang" in their sphere. A temporary confidant. And in the first few days or weeks of one's foray into this alternate universe called show business, these moments are electrifying – yet one knows not to let the cork out of the bottle until safely home, frantically dialing pals to tell them all about it.
And then something changes. You are colored somewhat by a tinge in the atmosphere. It dawns on you – the "show" in show business is what the world outside sees, as opposed to what you are assimilating to, the "business."
Finding yourself in the same waiting room as that stunning tall-drink-of-water brunette you saw last night in a Macy's commercial takes on the same ambiance as passing a coworker in the hallway to and from the copier. You are both at work.
And forget the "opportunity" factor, Mr. Howly-Wolf. It's a non-issue – she likely has an engagement ring weighing down her demurely thin hand, given her by a 7-foot tall, bald and devil-goateed, Teutonic techno-geek named Vinn, who can make the cables on a Bowflex home gym smoke like an unoiled crankcase.
When in Hollywood, do not trust that old adage that extremely beautiful women likely have low self-esteem, and just want to be appreciated by an honest guy whether or not he's as attractive as she. That may work in Duluth – but here these ladies know exactly how beautiful they are, they take self-defense classes with an ironman gusto, and if she can't bitch-slap you back into your place, her boyfriend certainly can. Begin with "hi," and end with "nice meeting you." Make it out of this audition alive, even if the role is lost.
My round-about point is that finding yourself in line with someone famous, especially "at work" is a commonplace happening in America's media capitol, and as time wears on, it becomes that to everyone involved, at all levels. I stumbled upon this, at just such an audition, for a new video game, of all things.
Now I myself do not play video games anymore, so the new releases are as mystifying to me as they are to any old fart who say, still misses rotary phones. The video game commercial being casted was for Sega Monkeyball 2, which I imagine now is a well worn old hat to most gamers, but it was brand new and ready to hit the store shelves as I arrived to read my lines.
The conceit of the ad, was that thousands of people from all walks of life were raving about Monkeyball 2 as the ultimate gaming experience, even though the product had yet to be unloaded even from the first delivery truck. Much like those 1-1/2-star stinkers opening at theaters, yet already heralded by critics no one has ever heard of.
It boiled down to all of us doing improv, praising a video game we'd never even seen the box for, let alone played. Yes, it's a huge con-job, slapped together last-minute, by advertising execs who can't even spell "scruple," to sell a product with built-in obsolescence to people who have nothing better to do than flush their money away. Business as usual.
The waiting area was ornate, with oak paneling and plush leather divans lining both sides of the room. I had never been here before. I signed in, and simply sat for several minutes marveling at the surroundings. Serious folks, these. You hafta dress like it's dinner with Dracula just to audition here!
In minutes I became aware that I was sitting on the opposite end of the room as everyone else at the audition. In fact, everyone seemed huddled around one person, who was in essence holding court. Even more stunning, was that all the others were men about my age, wearing clothing similar to mine, while this attention magnet at stage-center was dressed in something other than what I'd consider "work clothes."
Let me describe him – as you paint his portrait in your mind.
A short, pudgy Asian man, with olive skin. Ragged cut-off jeans shorts. A tank-top that looked like off-the-rack at Goodwill. Plastic and foam flip-flops. An expensive looking watch. And not a single hair on his body, save his penciled mustache and not-quite-bald-yet comb-over. I mean, he was so hairless as to look uncatchable if he were soaking wet. Like an oiled up piglet.
No chest shrubbery poking out of the tank-top. Not even any light armpit fuzz. He was like a tanned water balloon from head to toe. Normally I wouldn't mention a thing like this, but in this case it wasn't just noticeable, but downright hypnotic – it was in fact, his body's chief feature.
A Cabbage Patch Doll.
And this little potato had his audience spellbound. Every word uttered by his round, smooth jowls was pure gold to those surrounding him. "Who is THIS guy," I wondered to myself?
Well, he did look somewhat familiar, the more I watched. I was mildly curious. But then I decided not to lemming this guy, whomever he was.
I wasn't here to sit at anyone's feet and absorb crumbs of gossamer wisdom like some transfixed opossum. I was here to work – here as a pro. Let those rubbing up against Mr. Backyard Swapmeet miss the point of being here – I'm in the hunt for a callback. Yet, I was still just a bit interested, for trivia's sake, to know this guy's identity – even though he looked like he was in line for a waffle-cone at the county fair, not auditioning for a TV ad.
Remember that the word "celebrity" is somewhat deceptive in the grand scheme of the media-entertainment business. It's hardly a matter of playing by any rules, written or unwritten. There are NO rules to this contest except "Be What They Want." Being a celebrity is not synonymous with being talented, or even attractive. It's having what the Casting Person wants, and in turn, having something that the public at large decides it desires. Pat Sajak, for instance, proved that he couldn't carry a talkshow for even one season, but as the master of a large, spinning, glitter-sprinkled wheel on a gameshow, he possesses an irreplaceable brand of charisma.
The front desk gatekeeper called a name out, which apparently belonged to one of the man's cadre of listeners. His turn to audition – he rose, and proceeded to the studio door. "Nice to meet you, Your Honor."
The guy was a judge. Okay... he's an important person from another profession, here for one of his fifteen minutes, no doubt thanks to some connection from across the bench. He let someone off the hook... his payback was a free pass to a brief moment in pop-culture. He was here without his black robe... dressed in his idea of Ellay Informal. It just happened to be Van Nuys Garage Sale. Then again, who's going to tell a judge what to wear to audition for a video game commercial?
Then the real bomb promptly fell. Another of the entourage was summoned into the studio. "A pleasure, Mr. Ito."
Ito? Judge Lance Ito. Who presided over the O.J. trial. The most watched and most recounted media event of, oh, the entire 20th century, shall we say?
I sat awestruck. This guy had told the World Media to sit down and shut the hell up, on national TV. He'd browbeat celebrated attorneys like Marcia Clark, Robert Kardashian, Johnny Cochran and Chris Darden with a rueful stare and a pointed finger.
After that, endorsing a video game ought to have been like scratching a chaffed nipple.
I stared across the carpet in silence, knowing I was NOT going to get this job.
Monkeyball 2 went on to some degree of success after that commercial, but I did not. Another guy who was there didn't even have to dress up for it, because in the world of celebrity status, he had the cheat code.
There's a phenomena called the Standard Hollywood Epiphany. At least that's what I call it.
It happens elsewhere, to a lesser degree, but never like it does in Star Town. You go about your day, perhaps even following a routine that has remained unchanged for months, years. You run into someone who by odd chance, just happens to cross your path in some mundane, otherwise unremarkable way. And you get a strange feeling that you know that person, as if from a past life – in fact, you know them on some unnameable but nonetheless intimate level.
In Hollywood and its neighboring southern California communities, these sudden run-ins are worth craning your neck for – worth clicking on Google about, as soon as you get home.
Anywhere else, save perhaps New York City, London or Paris, this glancing encounter might be meaningless – your eyes playing tricks. In Los Angeles, it's more likely that you've collided with a celebrity on his or her off-hours.
As abstract as it may sound, you get used to it. It matters not that their last blockbuster was a smash, or only a semi-hit, or even a dud – or if they've been out of the A-list spotlight for some time. And even more strangely, your mind does an instant full circle – from realization, and a mental reference of their résumé, back around to an everyday encounter with a fellow human.
"Mr. Affleck, could I squeeze my cart past yours? I'm after a can of those stewed tomatoes."
The odds of these incidents becoming routine, goes up, when you are on the audition trail. But the dynamic is altered; for within those boundaries you're supposedly a pro, just as they surely are. You might even get to – briefly – talk shop with them.
You get to "hang" in their sphere. A temporary confidant. And in the first few days or weeks of one's foray into this alternate universe called show business, these moments are electrifying – yet one knows not to let the cork out of the bottle until safely home, frantically dialing pals to tell them all about it.
And then something changes. You are colored somewhat by a tinge in the atmosphere. It dawns on you – the "show" in show business is what the world outside sees, as opposed to what you are assimilating to, the "business."
Finding yourself in the same waiting room as that stunning tall-drink-of-water brunette you saw last night in a Macy's commercial takes on the same ambiance as passing a coworker in the hallway to and from the copier. You are both at work.
And forget the "opportunity" factor, Mr. Howly-Wolf. It's a non-issue – she likely has an engagement ring weighing down her demurely thin hand, given her by a 7-foot tall, bald and devil-goateed, Teutonic techno-geek named Vinn, who can make the cables on a Bowflex home gym smoke like an unoiled crankcase.
When in Hollywood, do not trust that old adage that extremely beautiful women likely have low self-esteem, and just want to be appreciated by an honest guy whether or not he's as attractive as she. That may work in Duluth – but here these ladies know exactly how beautiful they are, they take self-defense classes with an ironman gusto, and if she can't bitch-slap you back into your place, her boyfriend certainly can. Begin with "hi," and end with "nice meeting you." Make it out of this audition alive, even if the role is lost.
My round-about point is that finding yourself in line with someone famous, especially "at work" is a commonplace happening in America's media capitol, and as time wears on, it becomes that to everyone involved, at all levels. I stumbled upon this, at just such an audition, for a new video game, of all things.
Now I myself do not play video games anymore, so the new releases are as mystifying to me as they are to any old fart who say, still misses rotary phones. The video game commercial being casted was for Sega Monkeyball 2, which I imagine now is a well worn old hat to most gamers, but it was brand new and ready to hit the store shelves as I arrived to read my lines.
The conceit of the ad, was that thousands of people from all walks of life were raving about Monkeyball 2 as the ultimate gaming experience, even though the product had yet to be unloaded even from the first delivery truck. Much like those 1-1/2-star stinkers opening at theaters, yet already heralded by critics no one has ever heard of.
It boiled down to all of us doing improv, praising a video game we'd never even seen the box for, let alone played. Yes, it's a huge con-job, slapped together last-minute, by advertising execs who can't even spell "scruple," to sell a product with built-in obsolescence to people who have nothing better to do than flush their money away. Business as usual.
The waiting area was ornate, with oak paneling and plush leather divans lining both sides of the room. I had never been here before. I signed in, and simply sat for several minutes marveling at the surroundings. Serious folks, these. You hafta dress like it's dinner with Dracula just to audition here!
In minutes I became aware that I was sitting on the opposite end of the room as everyone else at the audition. In fact, everyone seemed huddled around one person, who was in essence holding court. Even more stunning, was that all the others were men about my age, wearing clothing similar to mine, while this attention magnet at stage-center was dressed in something other than what I'd consider "work clothes."
Let me describe him – as you paint his portrait in your mind.
A short, pudgy Asian man, with olive skin. Ragged cut-off jeans shorts. A tank-top that looked like off-the-rack at Goodwill. Plastic and foam flip-flops. An expensive looking watch. And not a single hair on his body, save his penciled mustache and not-quite-bald-yet comb-over. I mean, he was so hairless as to look uncatchable if he were soaking wet. Like an oiled up piglet.
No chest shrubbery poking out of the tank-top. Not even any light armpit fuzz. He was like a tanned water balloon from head to toe. Normally I wouldn't mention a thing like this, but in this case it wasn't just noticeable, but downright hypnotic – it was in fact, his body's chief feature.
A Cabbage Patch Doll.
And this little potato had his audience spellbound. Every word uttered by his round, smooth jowls was pure gold to those surrounding him. "Who is THIS guy," I wondered to myself?
Well, he did look somewhat familiar, the more I watched. I was mildly curious. But then I decided not to lemming this guy, whomever he was.
I wasn't here to sit at anyone's feet and absorb crumbs of gossamer wisdom like some transfixed opossum. I was here to work – here as a pro. Let those rubbing up against Mr. Backyard Swapmeet miss the point of being here – I'm in the hunt for a callback. Yet, I was still just a bit interested, for trivia's sake, to know this guy's identity – even though he looked like he was in line for a waffle-cone at the county fair, not auditioning for a TV ad.
Remember that the word "celebrity" is somewhat deceptive in the grand scheme of the media-entertainment business. It's hardly a matter of playing by any rules, written or unwritten. There are NO rules to this contest except "Be What They Want." Being a celebrity is not synonymous with being talented, or even attractive. It's having what the Casting Person wants, and in turn, having something that the public at large decides it desires. Pat Sajak, for instance, proved that he couldn't carry a talkshow for even one season, but as the master of a large, spinning, glitter-sprinkled wheel on a gameshow, he possesses an irreplaceable brand of charisma.
The front desk gatekeeper called a name out, which apparently belonged to one of the man's cadre of listeners. His turn to audition – he rose, and proceeded to the studio door. "Nice to meet you, Your Honor."
The guy was a judge. Okay... he's an important person from another profession, here for one of his fifteen minutes, no doubt thanks to some connection from across the bench. He let someone off the hook... his payback was a free pass to a brief moment in pop-culture. He was here without his black robe... dressed in his idea of Ellay Informal. It just happened to be Van Nuys Garage Sale. Then again, who's going to tell a judge what to wear to audition for a video game commercial?
Then the real bomb promptly fell. Another of the entourage was summoned into the studio. "A pleasure, Mr. Ito."
Ito? Judge Lance Ito. Who presided over the O.J. trial. The most watched and most recounted media event of, oh, the entire 20th century, shall we say?
I sat awestruck. This guy had told the World Media to sit down and shut the hell up, on national TV. He'd browbeat celebrated attorneys like Marcia Clark, Robert Kardashian, Johnny Cochran and Chris Darden with a rueful stare and a pointed finger.
After that, endorsing a video game ought to have been like scratching a chaffed nipple.
I stared across the carpet in silence, knowing I was NOT going to get this job.
Monkeyball 2 went on to some degree of success after that commercial, but I did not. Another guy who was there didn't even have to dress up for it, because in the world of celebrity status, he had the cheat code.
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