Zorro (10/21/05)

When danger strikes, the citizens of Metropolis can call on Superman. New Yorkers have Spider-Man. But when evil threatens the ranchos of Old California, who can the poor and oppressed turn to? Why, to Zorro, of course! Though the story of the swashbuckling Mexican avenger seems like a folk legend, he was created by Johnston McCulley for his 1919 novel, "The Curse of Capistrano." The masked avenger caught on almost immediately, sparking movies starring Douglas Fairbanks, Tyrone Power, George Hamilton, and (most recently) Anthony Hopkins and Antonio Banderas. From comic books and a television show in the '50s to a novel by Isabel Allende and musicals and ballets, Zorro has conquered the media the same way he overcomes the forces of evil and darkness -- with humor, derring-do, and unmatched swordsmanship.

Living Martha Stewart (09/21/05)

Imagine this: You look at your to-do list and see that you need to sew a button onto your favorite shirt, redecorate the bedroom, and cook Thanksgiving dinner for a family of 25. Oh, and did we mention that you have to do all these chores at the same time? Can't do it? Martha Stewart could -- and she'd even throw a festive centerpiece and a new line of sheets into the bargain. But even Martha needs some help. And tonight, the search for her protégé begins. As you might expect, the multimedia magnate has chosen only the best candidates. These go-getters include lawyers, cooking teachers, and public relations experts, and their challenges range from running a coffee bar and rewriting fairy tales to devising hotel concepts for "personal renewal." But for all the success these high-powered entrepreneurs have had in their chosen fields, they'd better hope that the Doyenne of Domesticity doesn't give them the task of solving a decorating nightmare.

Supreme Court Confirmation Hearings (09/12/05)

Will John G. Roberts -- the first nominee to the U.S. Supreme Court since 1994 -- be remembered for serving on America's highest court, or as a footnote in its history books? In the last few decades, some candidates have sailed through the process with little controversy, while others haven't fared as well. In 1968, Lyndon Johnson nominated Justice Abe Fortas for Chief Justice, but his nomination was filibustered and withdrawn. In 1970, G. Harrold Carswell was dismissed as not being distinguished enough for the Court. In defense of the judge, Senator Roman Hruska of Nebraska asked, "Even if he is mediocre, there are a lot of mediocre judges and people and lawyers. They are entitled to a little representation, aren't they?" The most controversial nominee in recent years was Judge Robert Bork, whose name has had the dubious distinction of becoming a verb. Following the judge's unsuccessful nomination in 1987, "to Bork" now means "to seek to obstruct a political appointment or selection." Whether Judge Roberts becomes a justice or a figure of speech, only the Senate can say.

Eating Contests (08/16/05)

Hungry? Think you've got an appetite for chicken wings, hot dogs, or ribs? Do you return to the buffet line for seconds? You're an amateur compared to professional competitors, large and small, who come from all over the globe to eat in competitive events. With their ability to consume mass quantities of everything from salty-ball potatoes to sticks of butter in record times, these champions give new meaning to the words "fast food." It took Carlene LeFevre only 18 minutes to eat the world famous 72-ounce Big Texan Steak -- with a baked potato, salad, shrimp cocktail, and rolls. Sonya "The Black Widow" Thomas, another notable "gurgitator," weighs a mere 100 pounds, but holds more than 20 world eating records, including 11 pounds of cheesecake in just nine minutes. Still think you can keep up? If so, it's time to loosen your belt and head back to that buffet for thirds -- or even fourths.

Celebrity Religion (07/27/05)

From all the attention that Tom Cruise's recent appearances on Oprah and the Today Show received, one would think that no celebrities were ever forthcoming about their religious affiliation. But there's a long tradition of celebrity spirituality, from Bing Crosby and Mel Gibson's Catholicism and Cat Stevens' conversion to Islam, to Hollywood's fascination with Kabbalah. Some claim that blues musician Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for his guitar-playing ability. There are even celebrities who have had religions based on their life and work. Of course, there are some notables who would never declare their beliefs... or have they?

The Future Ain't What It Used To Be (02/23/09)

Remember the Future? When everything was going to be clean and bright and efficient? When we'd all be whizzing around in flying cars to supervise our robots or eating meals in pill form?

I was reminded of those days that never were when I saw that February 21 was the anniversary of Waldo Waterman's first test flight of his "Aerobile," the world’s first flying car -- in 1937! 1937?! You mean, we've had flying cars for over 70 years, and no one bothered to tell me? And to make matters worse, Glenn Curtis built a flying car in 1917?! (Though, to be fair, that model may not have made it off the ground).

Waterman was an aviation genius, but he was never able to make his flying car practical. He built six of them, and only five of those flew -- and only two of those were able to make the first test flight from California to Ohio.

Reading about the Aerobile made me wonder if there were any other inventions that were supposed to be parts of the far future, but had actually already existed. Somehow we didn't even notice how big-screen TVs infiltrated our homes or how computers went from filling whole rooms to fitting on our laps.

And robots? Most of us still don't have robots to run our space ships or clean our homes (or do we?), but who knew that the first robots were built in 1206(!), or that there were human-like robots in movies as early (or as late, I suppose) as 1920, or that they were walking around the 1939 New York World’s Fair?

The more I looked, the more revelations appeared. Personal jet-packs? Done. Death rays? Old hat. Moving sidewalks? Barely worth mentioning. Heck, even Disneyland’s "House of the Future," which showcased such unimaginable gadgets as microwave ovens and PicturePhones became obsolete and was torn down in 1967!

While teleportation, man-made food, and interstellar travel still aren’t commonplace, we have to admit we’re glad that such "innovations" as artichoke hair and glass clothing never came to be. Although that head-mounted flashlight does look pretty sweet...

This Week in the Yahoo! Directory (02/27/09)

"What's in the daily news? I'll tell you what’s in the daily news."

So this afternoon I took a gander at what folks were looking for on the Interwebs; seeing what people are searching for or sending to each other. As I surfed, it occurred to me that we have a lot of information in the Yahoo! Directory on those very subjects; the things that people are interested in, whether it be the Obama's dog; the doings at the caves in Lascaux, France; serial killers; Tiger Woods's comeback (and his wife, of course); or baseball gearing up again (not to mention the question of just where Manny Ramirez is going to end up).

So take a look at the Yahoo! Directory, won't you? The more you know about the stuff you’re interested in, the more interesting it (and you) will be.

The Eighth Wonder of the World (3/2/09)

It probably wasn’t very long after the Lumière Brothers invented the motion-picture camera that someone realized if you stopped the camera, you could make objects appear or disappear on screen in the blink of an eye. Certainly pioneering filmmaker Georges Méliès realized that by 1899 when he made his film "The Conjuror."

But the year before Méliès made his film, American J. Stuart Blackton figured out if you just repositioned things, instead of moving them on- and off-camera, you could make inanimate objects seem to move on their own.

While Blackton became known as the "Father of American Animation," most of his films were trifles and filled with gimmicks that failed to move the plot forward. As pioneering as his techniques were, decades passed before they truly came to fruition in the work of Willis O’Brien, whose birthday we note today.

O'Brien was originally a sculptor, but in the 1910s was hired by Thomas Edison to create stop-motion short films -- most of which featured dinosaurs. O'Brien began using clay for his creations, but he soon developed models that had articulated metal skeletons covered with plastic or rabbit fur. In 1925, he achieved new heights with his work in the film "The Lost World," which featured a brontosaurus running amok through London. But that film was only a warm-up for O'Brien's masterpiece, "King Kong" (which, coincidentally, also opened on this day in 1933). Working on his largest scale ever, O'Brien was able to actually shape Kong's performance, making the giant ape the most sympathetic character in the film -- never mind that his pathos was combined with bouts of ingesting and crushing people.

O'Brien continued animating until his death in 1962, revisiting giant apes in "Son of Kong" and "Mighty Joe Young," but he never again scaleed the heights he reached in 1933.

O'Brien's work may seem a little primitive to modern eyes, but without it, we’d have no Wallace and Gromit, Gumby, or even Davey and Goliath. Many of today’s CGI animators got their inspiration from watching the original "King Kong." So, on this most animated of days, let's raise a toast -- a banana daiquiri, say -- to the man who created the "Eighth Wonder of the World."

A Wunnerful, A Wunnerful (3/11/09)

He didn't speak English at until he was 21, and even then, he spoke it with a thick German accent. The music he played was considered corny and outdated even at its peak. But Lawrence Welk, whose 103rd birthday we celebrate today, remains one of the unlikeliest -- and most popular -- of all television stars.

Welk was born on a rural North Dakota farm, but longed to become a musician. He assured his father that he would work on the farm until he was 21 if the elder Welk would spend $400 on an accordion. Thus armed, young Lawrence set out on his 21st birthday for such metropolises as Yankton, SD to follow his dream.

The music industry of the mid-1920s was different from today's. Sure, kids with bands traveled around, trying to get recording contracts, but those bands had names like "The Hotsy Totsy Boys" or "The Honolulu Fruit Gum Orchestra," and played hot fox-trots and quicksteps -- or even waltzes -- on trombones, trumpets, and saxophones. Welk was able to parlay his North Dakota fame into work as far afield as Pittsburgh. There, his music was described "as light and bubbly as champagne," leading Welk to call his band's tunes "champagne music." It was a brand some listeners found to be sticky sweet (lacking the swing and drive of other bands), but others found it just right.

By the 1940s, Welk's orchestra had a regular gig at Chicago's Trianon Ballroom, but following World War II, the popularity of big bands began to fade, so Welk moved his organization to Los Angeles, where a local television station gave them airtime. The show caught on, and the Welk program was soon picked up by ABC, where it remained for the next 16 years. When ABC cancelled the show in 1971, Welk syndicated it for another eleven.

Welk was a savvy businessman who died as one of the wealthiest men in show business. His influence is enduring -- reruns of his syndicated show are still one of the most popular attractions on public television, and the Welk resort in Branson, MO is one of that town's most visited, both for those looking to mock its corniness or to revel in its old-fashioned charms.

Another Slice of Pi (3/13/09)

3.141592 may look like some kind of phone number, but for the mathematically inclined, those numbers have a special significance -- they're the first few digits of pi. We're not talking about delicious baked desserts, but rather the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter. And March 14 -- or 3/14 -- is Pi Day! Celebrating a fraction may seem like an odd thing to do, but you know what party animals mathematicians are! Any excuse to eat pizza and drink piña coladas -- and especially at one minute to 2:00 pm (3/14, 1:59 being the first six digits of pi) -- well, just stand clear of the piñatas, pine nuts, and pineapples, 'cause you know where the hot geek-on-geek action will be! But you can do more than just eat; you can convert circles into radians, or go for a 3.14 mile run. If that's too strenuous, though, we recommend sitting down and watching a good movie and eating some delicious homemade snacks.

Requiem For a Stooge (3/17/09)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that men like The Three Stooges and women do not. But even among Stooge partisans, controversy reigns as to who the greatest is. Most fans will opt for Curly, while others rank Moe as the ne plus ultra of Stoogedom. My own preference is for Larry (seriously -- he's indispensible in his role as the moderating ego to Moe's superego and Curly’s id). But a strong argument can be made for the man we celebrate today: Shemp Howard.

Shemp was born Samuel Horowitz, but his mother's inability to pronounce his name led to his unique sobriquet. Shemp and his brother Harry Moses -- soon to be known as "Moe"  -- were stage struck as kids, frequently playing hooky to attend local vaudeville and theatre performances. Moe carved out a career for himself in movies and vaudeville, but Shemp was a slow starter, making his film debut in 1919’s "Spring Fever," alongside Moe and baseball Hall of Famer Honus Wagner.

Moe found work as a foil for fellow vaudevillian Ted Healy. In a 1923 appearance, he spotted Shemp in the audience. The brothers started heckling one another to the audience’s delight, and Healy hired Shemp to join the act.

By 1930, Healy and his "Racketeers" (or ultimately, "Stooges") made it to Hollywood. But Shemp, who had never gotten along with Healy, quit the act (to be replaced by his youngest brother, Jerry, also known as "Curly") and struck out on his own. With his comedic flair and unusual looks (he was billed as "The Ugliest Man in Hollywood"), he quickly found success working as a character actor with such stars as Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, W.C. Fields, and Abbott and Costello -- even appearing in a dramatic role opposite John Wayne.

In 1946, a stroke left Curly unable to perform, so Shemp stepped in on a "temporary" basis that lasted for the next decade, though the three Howards did make their only film appearance together in 1947’s "Hold That Lion."

Shemp himself died of a massive heart attack in 1955. Producer Jules White completed a number of unfinished films using a body double, leading to an immortalizing tradition that seems appropriate for a Stooge. To this day, when actors are hired to double for other actors while wearing heavy makeup or being filmed only from the back, they're referred to as a "Fake Shemp."

Can You Hear Me Now? (10/29/07)

From Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part I:

Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man, but will they come when you do call for them?

Well, if you believe the proponents of EVP, the spirits will come. EVP, or Electronic Voice Phenomena, is one of the ways ghost hunters "prove" that the dead walk among us, even though we can't hear or see them. The technique is simple enough that anyone can do it. First, set up a recording device in a place where voices couldn't possibly be heard or where you suspect ghosts are lurking. Next, leave the recorder running or ask questions. Finally, listen to the (mostly unintelligible) recording. If you're lucky, you'll get such fascinating messages from the afterworld as "what's that" or "not me." If the dearly departed were making so much effort to send a signal from the Great Beyond, maybe they should be more interesting or informative. But, hey, who are we to criticize the dead? Regardless of whether EVPs are legit or not, even the skeptic in us has to admit they're pretty creepy.

There Was a Hot Time in Tunguska That Night (7/1/2008)

One hundred years later, no one is sure exactly what happened. Eyewitnesses described a column of blue light as bright as the sun that tore the sky in two and set it on fire, followed by an explosion the likes of which humans had never seen or heard.It all happened in Tunguska, Russia, on July 1, 1908, when something came from the sky and devastated more than 800 square miles, flattening an estimated 80 million trees. The explosion was estimated at 1000 times the power of the atomic bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. It was seen from 100 miles away, and the shock wave broke windows 250 miles from the point of impact. An Englishman reported that the sky on the north coast of Britain that night was so bright that he "could read a book by it."The most surprising thing about the event was that virtually no lives were lost. Thanks to the remoteness of the impact site (the center of Siberia), the only casualty was a reindeer herder who was thrown into the air and against a tree -- twenty miles from ground zero. Astonishingly, for all the commotion, there was no immediate investigation. The first exploration party didn't arrive until 1927, and no one thought to take aerial photographs until 1938. Numerous theories of what the event was have been floated: asteroids, comets, black holes, antimatter, UFOs -- even Nikola Tesla testing a death ray. But no one theory provides all the answers.If it was an asteroid, we can be thankful that it struck where it did. Astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson has warned that if an asteroid hit in the right part of the Pacific Ocean, it would wipe out most of the Pacific Rim. Sounds like Russia got off cheap.

Great American Grump-Out, My @#$%

When we read that May 7 is the Great American Grump-Out, we naturally wondered, "What in the heck is that?" We soon learned that it's a challenge to Americans to go 24 hours "without being grumpy, crabby, or rude" in order to promote "peace, harmony, and lighthearted humor."That sounded like a great idea until we looked at it a little more closely: It occurred to us that while a world of peace and harmony is a noble goal, nothing would get accomplished. It's the dissatisfied grumps of the world who make things happen.Look at the facts. Of all the Seven Dwarfs, who got things done? Doc? Happy? Dopey, for Pete’s sake? No, it was Grumpy. Without him telling the other six to get back to work in the diamond mine, they'd have sat around the house all day, cleaning and singing songs. And which of the Marx Brothers made things happen? Not the angelic Harpo, the shady Chico, or the bland Zeppo. Nope, it was Groucho.What about nature? How does an oyster make a pearl? By a grain of sand irritating it.Do you think Thomas Edison was "happy and satisfied?" No, he was fed up with sitting in the dark, listening to nothing. Was Alexander Graham Bell "peaceful and lighthearted," or was he looking for a more efficient way for marketers to reach him?Need we add who keeps things from becoming moribund on Sesame Street?And what about The Spark? Where would we be without snarkiness? We'd be stuck writing about kittens and My Little Pony.So while we thank the "No Grump" people for their sentiment, we'll depend on the crabs to keep things progressing.

What Do You Get for the Man Who Knows Everything?

Happy Birthday, Mr. NostredameYou'd probably never predict it, but one of the things we love to do at the Spark is translating the works of Medieval French writers. One of our favorites is Michel de Nostredame, aka, Nostradamus. Imagine our surprise, then, to come across this particular quatrain: When the bird has devoured the cat,And the ass has trampled that big thing with the long nose,Someone in a cube of metal and fabricWill write a paean to me on my birthday.Well, with that hanging over our heads, how could we not celebrate? Mike (as we like to call him) earned his living as a pharmacist, but became known for his prophecies that foresaw everything from Napoleon to the hula hoop with startling accuracy (or not, depending on who you talk to). Regardless, Mike, we wish you a happy 503rd birthday! We'd have gotten you a present, but you would have known what it was before even unwrapping it -- and we hate that!

A Helluva Trip

So, we went back to lovely Carbondale, IL, this past weekend to throw a surprise 80th birthday party for Pidge's mom, Joan.

To get to Carbondale (which we worked out, by the way, was where Hooterville from "Green Acres" was set) from San Francisco, one flies into St. Louis Lambert Airport, then drives 120 miles southeast.

Because we didn't want to arrive in the middle of the night, we chose to leave in the middle of the night; that is to say, to take the 7:40 flight from SFO to STL, arriving at about 1:15, then arriving in Carbondale sometime before 5, meeting Pidge's brother and sister-in-law for dinner. (There are two other American Airlines flights from SF to StL daily, at something like noon and 3 pm.)
Well, even though we knew we needed to get up at about 4 to make it to the airport in time (including showering, driving, long-term parking, shuttle, and check-in time), we neither us of got to sleep much before 12:30.

But, in spite of our tiredness, things went well. In the terminal by 6 or so, breakfasted and on the plane a little past 7. Things went so efficiently, in fact, that we were going to leave a little early. Pidge and I were in a three-seat row, and since no one showed up to take the window seat, we spread out (Pidge with all her magazines in two seat-back pockets) and removed our shoes.
We assumed our place on the runway ("Second in line," the pilot assured us), and at the appropriate hour, began our taxi down the runway to take off. We're going great guns, and virtually in the air, when there's a loud BANG! and the plane slows down. Everyone wonders what the hell just happened, and the pilot immediately assures us that our right engine wasn't getting enough pressure, so we were going back to the terminal to let the engineers figure out if they could fix it or if they needed to take us all off of the plane. We make it back to the gate, and everyone sits there, trying to figure out if we're getting off or going on our way to the Midwest. After five or ten minutes, the pilot comes back on the intercom and informs us that we are indeed deplaning, and that we should see the agent at the gate to make substitute travel arrangements. When we get off, that agent asks everyone who is connecting in St. Louis to other cities to get in line, and everyone who is going only to the Gateway City to just wait.

Pidge, being the worrywart she is, gets on her cell to the airline and, after finding out it's okay to make the alternate arrangement (they have to get official word that the flight has been cancelled), books us on an 9:50 flight to Los Angeles, and an 11:35 flight from there to St. Louis, so we'll be late, but only by about three hours. It was darned fortunate she did this, since the two other SFO/STL flights and the all the LAX/STL flights were soon sold out. I would wager, though, that almost all of the original St. Louis-only passengers made it onto the LAX flight.
So, 9:30 comes and we all get on our second plane of the day. We again spread out and take our shoes off. The plane takes off a little late, but given that it's only a fifty-three minute flight, it shouldn't be a problem to make our connection.

The flight goes smoothly, and as we reach LA, I'm looking out the window at various landmarks, trying to figure out just where we are. One of the first things I notice is the Coliseum, which we slowly pass over from west to east. I start thinking that the airport is a good 15 miles west of the Coliseum, and I begin wondering we we're continuing so far east and away from the airport. Finally, somewhere over Orange County, we begin a long right turn and head back to LAX. I'm guessing that, coming in at that time of day, we're stuck in some kind of traffic holding pattern and our boarding time is drawing closer and closer. In the meantime, the flight attendant gives a rundown of which gates will be hosting which connecting flights. We hear where the St. Louis flight is connecting, but it doesn't really register. We figure we'll ask the person at the desk or check the monitors.

Finally -- just before 11 -- we land. However . . . I've been going to LAX for over 40 years, man and boy, and have never seen this particular part of the airport we landed at. We're -way- off to the west of the terminals (at least, I'm guessing that from how we taxi), and we taxi and taxi and taxi -- about ten minutes worth. All the time, I'm looking at my watch, and seeing our 11:05 boarding time come closer and rapidly fly away until we at last arrive at the terminal. We stop, everyone shoots out of their seats, and Pidge takes a few cuts (fortunately, we were near the front of the plane) by explaining we're rushing to make a connection. Everyone understands and lets us exit quickly.

We race to the monitors and see that our St. Louis flight is leaving fro mGate 48B -- the very same gate -- and plane -- we've just exited. Feeling like dopes, we look at the sign at the gate and see that the flight has been delayed from 11:30 to something like 11:55. Knowing we're okay, we sit and wait for the plane to empty and be serviced. Finally, we're ready to board, we get on, find our seats, spread out again, and wait for takeoff.

As we taxi down the runway, I notice an odor that smells like something burning. I'm alarmed for a second, but figure it's one of those airplane smells and ignore it.

I spend the first few minutes of the flight, just looking out the window at the amazing number of swimming pools in LA and trying to figure out where we are when, about ten minutes into the flight, the pilot comes over the intercom and mentions that we've had some mechanical problems and need to head back to LAX. We make another long slow turn and make our second landing of the day in Los Angeles. As we taxi back to the gate we'd just left, I notice a couple of fire engines tailing us. The pilot comes back on the com and tells us (again) that they're going to try to figure out what went wrong and if we'll need to deplane or continue on. I keep looking out the window and see a guy in a hazmat suit. Soon enough, the pilot comes back and tells us we need to get off. This time, though, there's nothing mentioned about alternate arrangements. Pidge tries calling the airline again, but since the flight still hasn't been officially cancelled, they can't rebook us.

As we get off, the woman at the desk makes the announcement to hang around the area until they figure out what they're going to do. A little after 12, they tell us that they have another plane and are going to put us all on it. They'll tell us where to go in a little while. A little after 12:30, they tell us they'll have an announcement by 1:15. Finally, about 1:10, they tell us that we all have to change gates, so we're moving down to gate 42. We get there and eventually the woman tells us that since the original flight has been cancelled, they're going to dragoon a plane that's due to leave to Mexico and put us all on it. But since the original flight has been cancelled, we'll all have to stand in line and get new boarding passes for the new flight -- the information about which will be forthcoming. All this time, the message baord in back of her is flashing contradictory information -- that our flight has been cancelled; that it hasn't; that it's leaving at 2, 2:15, or 2:30; that we should be at this gate; that we should be at another gate.

(Allow me to say here that the airline people we great; they kept us fully informed as best they could, even if the information they were getting from upstairs made no sense.)
After about 20 minutes in the new line, they tell us that the Mexico flight we were going to take over was going to proceed as planned, and that we were going to get a whole new plane. (Fortunately, we were at LAX, rather than some smaller airport that had fewer spare aircraft.) But we now all needed to go back to the original gate, although since it was the same kind of aircraft as the original one that had been pulled out of service (it turned out that it had an oil leak that seeped into the air conditioning -- hence the burning I smelled), we could keep our same boarding passes and seat assignments. The problem was that the plane we were getting wouldn't be in until about 2:15 and that, between cleaning and servicing it, we wouldn't take off until nearly 3. That was fine; just get us to St. Louis. (They also offered $10 meal vouchers, but we'd already eaten.)

Finally, the new plane comes in, they get everyone off, and the clock ticks closer to 2:45. The desk woman comes back on the loudpeaker and tells us that, because the flight crew is getting near the end of the time they can work, we have to have everyone on the aircraft, seated and belted up, and the door closed by 3:05, or they'll have to postpone they flight while they dig up another crew. That gets us all panicky, so we rush onto the plane. As we get on, the attendants make an announcement that some folks who were on the regularly scheduled 3:00 flight had snuck onto our plane (good security!) and had to get off -- NOW -- or else. We all do our best to hustle them off , and somehow we get it all done by 3, with five minutes to spare.

This time, we do not spread out, Pidge does not take out all her magazines, we do not take our shoes off. We get in the air, and we all hold our breaths, waiting to see what's going to happen this time.

Well, somehow, nothing does. We arrive at STL at 8:20, only seven hours late (which is actually remarkable, considering all we've been through), and as we head for baggage claim (and god only knows where our checked bags have been all this time), we can't help but notice that the St. Louis airport virtually rolls up its sidewalks early. At 8:30 on a Friday night, all the bars and shops and closed and locked (and, seeing the presence of janitors, seems that they have been closed for quite some time) and that there's virtually no one in the terminal.

We arrive at baggage claim, and after a very brief search, Pidge finds our bags, which had been put on the 12:00 SFO/STL flight. We picked them up, the woman at the desk checked out tags, and out we went to catch our Dollar rental car shuttle. The Dollar desk at the terminal was closed, so we called the number on the sign, told them we were there (we'd phoned earlier to push our car and hotel reservations back), and headed upstairs to the pickup area.

It was a cold and rainy night in St. Louis, but fortunately, the pick-up area was covered over. Fortunate in that after five, ten, fifteen minutes, the guy still wasn't there. Pidge called again to verify we were where we were supposed to be. Twenty minutes. Another couple shows up. Shuttles -- multiple shuttles -- from every other rental company pass us by and still nothing. Twenty-five minues. The guy from the other couple calls the company. "He's on his way."

Finally, after a half an hour, the guy shows with some lame excuse about how traffic was backed up at the other terminal and how he just couldn't make it any faster. (We were dubious, but after seeing how things were this morning, it might have been true.) He takes us to the rentl facility, we are able to get the car -- a Dodge PT Cruiser -- and head off to Carbondale.

Of course, since we're both hungry, we stop at a Jack in the Box to get some snacks and something to drink. That holds us up a little more, and we finally get on the road about 9:50, in the pouring rain.

Unbelieveably, the drive itself is uneventful -- if tiring -- and we make it to the Carbondale Holiday Inn just after midmight -- eighteen hours after we got up in Pacifica.

Coming up next: The Noisiest Hotel in the World

Two For One

So, we're in New York for Xmas, and of course, there's no chance of snow. Too warm and not enough precipitation. It's still pretty cold (given the wind chill), but not enough.

Anyway, we went to see Michael Feinstein's Christmas show at the Regency last night. I had just seen "The Drowsy Chaperone" for the fourth time, and on the cab ride to the hotel, I mentioned to Pidge that at spent a good part of the evening watching Bob Martin as "Man in Chair;" the show is amazingly tight after a year and his performance is amazing in that he's so focused.
So, anyway, we're in line at the Regency, and I'm quoting some line for Pidge and who should walk right past us to see the same show but Bob Martin and his wife, Janet Van de Graaf. I went mental. And then to top it off, they were seated right next to us. I waited until after the show (Feinstein introduced him from the stage and he was on his way backstage), but after he paid his bill (in cash), I leaned over, extended my hand, and told him that I had seen the show for the fourth time that night, and was a huge fan of him, the show, and "Slings and Arrows," the Canadian TV show about a Shakespeare festival that he co-created. That was the right note, in that he thanked me and said that he's always glad to hear that someone likes the show, as it's special to him. I mentioned that I couldn't wait for Season Three (which is true), and he told me it'd be available in a few months.

So, we left the club and headed for the bathrooms. I came out and, while waiting for Pidge, who should I see but Bucky Pizzarelli, who had just finished playing for Feinstein. I said, "Oh, my god, it's you," and extended my hand. I told him that I was a huge admirer of him, his sons, and his daughter in law and thanked him. We shook hands, and I left, walking on air, having met two
people whom I admire greatly.

It's been a great trip so far. Good shows ("Room Service;" good lively production. "Mary Poppins;" a relentless entertainment machine, but incredibly well directed. "The Drowsy Chaperone;" I just love that show. "The Apple Tree;" quite entertaining, though it didn't feel as big as it did at Encores. "The Coast of Utopia: Shipwreck;" Not quite as good as the first part, but still one helluva show. Lots of food (too damn much; Junior's; Hell's Kitchen; Keen's Chophouse; Burger Joint), with more to come.

We went to Rockefeller Center after "The Apple Tree" to go to the observation deck. It was incredibly cold, but with great views. We went up Fifth Avenue afterwards, and it was just packed with people shopping and looking at Xmas decorations. Very hard to move, with Pidge vowing not to go back. We plan on on going ice skating at Bryant Park tomorrow after Katz's Delicatessen and "Company."

I have to tell someone: I met Hal Prince today. (For those not in the know; Hal Prince is probably the most important director of musicals in the 20th century, and certainly the most important producer of them: Short list of his credits (in chronological order): The Pajama Game, Damn Yankees, West Side Story, Fiorello!, Tenderloin, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, She Loves Me, Fiddler on the Roof, Cabaret, Zroba, Company, Follies, A Little Night Music, Pacific Overtures, On the Twentieth Century, Sweeney Todd, Merrily We Roll Along, Evita, The Phantom of the Opera, and Show Boat.)

Pidge and I had a weekend in NY (four shows: Grey Gardens [good, not great]; Heartbreak House [brilliant]; The Drowsy Chaperone [3rd time; I love that show]; and Tom Stoppard's Coast of Utopia: Part One [epic; amazing direction (Jack O'Brien) and deep, deep script]; not to mention two cabaret shows [saw Stritch at the Carlyle -- cost an arm and a leg, but worth it]).

Anyway, we were in the airport this morning, waiting for our flight from JFK to SFO (via Las Vegas). I looked over to my left and saw an old guy sitting by himself. I turned to Pidge and said (jokingly), "That guy looks like Hal Prince." I looked again, and realized it was actually him. He was making phone calls and texting messages, and impatiently waiting to get on the plane. Finally, when I saw my chance, I went up to him and said, "Mr. Prince. I'm a director and just want to thank you for your work. You're an inspiration for all of us." He shook my hand, thanked me, and said, "Well, that's a nice thing to hear first thing in the morning." He asked if I lived in New York. I told him, "No, San Francisco." "Ah, that's where you live -- and work?" I said yes. He asked my name: I told him, and said, "I hope to meet you again." I told him "likewise," shook hands again, and went back to Pidge, shaking from the adrenaline rush.
When we got on the plane (I assume he was going to Vegas to check up on Phantom), he was in the right aisle seat in the front row. I smiled at him, he winked, and I just had to crack up.

I was so stoked; still am.

Off to L.A.

Well, been a while, hasn't it?

I so meant to do a day-by-day report of my trip to New York, but the connection problems in the hotel were so miserable (I never knew from night to night -- hell, from moment to moment -- whether I'd have a wireless connection) that it just wasn't worth it.

Of course, why that's prevented me from writing anything for the three months since is a cosmic mystery.

Anyway, I'm going to Los Angeles tomorrow for a quick trip. The Director's Lab Gold Medal Class of '04 is having a reunion, so my plan is to go down Friday afternoon, have dinner (I crave a Big Boy combo) and see a movie (probably "Idiocracy"), breakfast Saturday (brunch with Kathy), followed by a matinee of "Curtains," then the reunion, and straight to the airport from there. I do tend to cram things in. Strange trip, though; between the inability to take any liquids (or toiletries) on the plane and the whole leave-Friday-afternoon-return-Saturday-night aspect, it's damn odd. I hate the idea of having to buy a stick of deodorant and a tube of toothpaste just to throw them out. Makes me wonder if the whole London terrorism plot was a massive scheme of the part of the personal care cartel.

"Rosencrantz & Guildenstern" actually ended up going pretty well. I was happy overall, and Pidge thought it was some of the best work I've done. so that's the only validation I really need. (We'll see how that translates to "Mrs. Bob.") The reviews were good, though, and we sold out the run, so that's the other important validation. They're doing "Midsummer" next year, and I wouldn't mind being asked back at all.

Getting ready for "Mrs. Bob" auditions in a couple of weeks. My perfect cast has thinned out some; two of my "sure things" opted out, and I have a feeling that two more may join them. I probably won't have trouble filling their shoes, but can't vouch for the quality. Not that the subs will be bad; it's just that they won't be my first choices.

NYC: Days 2 and 3

Well, in spite of my good intentions to update this every day, the vagaries of the Internet just wouldn’t let me.

My plan had been to do as I did last year here at the Cosmo by unplugging the cord from the phone and plugging it into the computer’s phone jack. Unfortunately, the hotel outwitted my maneuver by not only buying phones that don’t allow this, but also using cords that can’t be unplugged from the wall without more trouble than it’s worth (not to mention the hassle I had last year in having to place a deposit to make outside phone calls).

I was able to piggyback onto a wireless network with no trouble Tuesday night, but Wednesday was a comedy of errors, as I kept getting booted off networks after only a couple of minutes in every case. After what seemed like hours of attempts, I finally had to throw the towel in.

What I missed writing about was how I broke one of the windows here in my room. I tried and tried and tried to raise the window in order to get some more fresh air in here (it can get hot and stuffy – supposed to be in the mid 90s Saturday, with a heat index of 100), and the damn thing was jammed. I kept trying and trying to get the thing raised and it finally cracked – big time. I left it alone for the night. I was tempted to go down to the desk to tell them and give them enough time to call a glazier, but it was 4:30 in the morning and I figured it could wait until I left Wednesday morning. Well, given the noise from outside (even worse tonight, I slept for shit.) When I did leave, I stopped at the desk, expecting them to give me a hassle over paying for the window (which I would have felt some kind of obligation to do), but the woman didn’t even bat an eye, saying they’d fix it right away, and she called a maintenance guy. End of that story – except when I came back Wednesday night, and saw that there was a two-foot gap at the top of the window. I tried raising the window again, but it was still stuck . . . and then I realized that the bottom window doesn’t raise, the top one does – which makes no sense, given the way the lock is constructed, but hey, I can close it and block out most of the noise – seems like all they do in this city is pick up garbage all night. . .

Anyway. . .

Wednesday morning, I went to the South Street Seaport to buy my ticket for the evening performance (I already had bought my “Faith Healer” ticket online), and expected the usual long line and 30 minute wait. Imagine my surprise when my TKTS experience of Tuesday was repeated and there were only three people ahead of me. I saw that they had “The Lieutenant of Inishmore,” and got the ticket, leaving me with plenty of time to kill, so I decided to rustle up some breakfast, which I did, getting a turkey salad wrap, which wasn’t bad. By the time I finished, it was time to get in line for the show, and into the theatre I went. The show was at the Booth, which is one of my favorite Broadways houses (it was my favorite until I got looks at the Belasco and the Lyceum, which are just as nice), small and intimate.

There was a small mix-up with my seat, as a woman was sitting in the wrong seat, but she and her husband moved over with no trouble and the show proceeded.

It’s a very, very good show. Probably the best thing I’ve seen Ralph Fiennes do. He’s usually so restrained and bottled up, and he gets a chance to loosen up here and, if not charm the audience, then to play off them and have some fun.

He finished his monologue, we went into the scene change, they let the latecomers in, and Cherry Jones starts her monologue – and this piercing squeal from some woman’s hearing aid begins. The entire audience gets pissed off (excepting the oblivious woman her companions, who didn’t bother to do anything about it), and we spend the next ten minutes hearing ushers try to find her, her adjusting the damn thing, and various levels and types of squeals. The woman next to me (who’d been in the wrong seat) turns to me and complains about the house staff doing nothing. Through it all, Jones perseveres, acting away, either oblivious to the noise or just knowing it’ll be taken care of eventually. Finally, the noise stops, and we can all concentrate on the play. Comes intermission, and the woman next to me and I start talking about the deaf woman (who apparently was getting indignant that people were telling her off) and who we were. She and her husband had taken the day to come from DC to see the show. She had become curious about it after reading a review and wondering if it would have any resonance for her job and an “energy healer” (I know. . . ) I talked a little about myself, the Booth, and Brian Friel (about whom I wrote my thesis), and eventually Act Two began.

Given my overall lack of sleep on Wednesday morning (I can’t call it Tuesday night), I was dopey for the entire Act, and it was a real struggle to make it to the end. I’m 99% sure I saw it all, but it wasn’t easy.

Again, very, very good show. Fiennes good, Jones good (I’ve seen her better, and she had no dialect – which surprised me since I’d read she did extensive work and her coach gets a program credit), and Ian MacDiarmid – with the flashiest role – very good. Nicely directed, with a very interesting scene change effect that I’d like to steal sometime, if the occasion ever arises (traveler moves across the stage, and the set gets brought on or struck behind it as it travels).

After the show, I had a few hours to kill, so I went to Virgil’s BBQ on 44th. I’m usually leery of places in the theatre district, but I’d read good things about Virgil’s and I love the barbecue, so I went. Had a lovely salad – lettuce, chunky blue cheese, red onions (which I picked out), and a bacon vinaigrette – and a combo plate with pork and brisket. It was tasty, but overall inferior to, say, the Rib Shack in Daly City. Not bad, but not great, either.

By this time, it was time to leave for “Lieutenant.” I wanted to see it anyway, but being at the Lyceum made it irresistible. In all my years of coming here, I’ve never seen anything there. It’s a beautiful house, again small and much more interesting that the Booth from a decorative and architectural standpoint. I was disappointed to see that David Wilmot (the eponymous character) was out, but the understudy was quite good, so I guess I didn’t miss him too much. I was still having some drowsiness problems, but the play is so good and so funny – and so gory; jeezus god, I wondered how they clean up the set and costumes every night, not to mention wondering if they go through eight wigs a week when one character gets a ponytail cut off. No one, absolutely no one, writes like McDonagh, and the whole thing is hysterically funny at the same time it’s grim and bloody.

So far I haven’t seen a bum show (no "Paris Letter"s in this collection . . .) yet.

Thursday was DaveCon, and my plan was to walk from the hotel to the TGI Friday’s we were meeting at, but just past Houston, I realized that I would have trouble getting there, so I hopped it onto the subway. Got to the restaurant and was extremely confused. The address was on Broadway, but the restaurant is on 7th. I went in, went upstairs, and saw no one, so I went down the block to the Times Square Visitor’s Center, where I could check my email and verify the address. Everything seemed correct, so I thought I should try again, and sure enough, I’d had the right place all along; it was just that the group was around the corner. I caught up with everyone, even if some of the regulars weren’t there – Karen was out of town; Carl, Kathie, and Brady, who knows; Brad getting ready to move to Virginia the next day. After only a few minutes, we had to hoof it over to the Ed and get in line to get our tickets. It was a hot day, but we didn’t have to wait too long, and were soon marched in, given our instructions (be back by 3:45), and released. We went to Rupert’s, as usual, and ordered stuff. I had a lemon lime whippy, which was too sweet and a real mess (I had to use the bathroom in the Ed to hose down and clean my shirt). We chit chatted a little while, and then some of us repaired to the Angelo’s Pizza for drinks. Finally, it was time to get back in line, so off we went. Usually, the ushers will give us the spiel (“no ‘woo’ing, laugh at everything,” etc.), lead us into the lobby, where we wait interminably, and after finally let into the house. This year, though, they must have realized we (of all people) know what to do; they marched us straight from the sidewalk to our seats, with no preamble. It was a nice change of pace.

The show itself was okay. KYCE was good, Sandra Bullock, meh, and the band sucked as much as they had the first time I saw the show (Carl phoned us during dinner, and I told him that, not only could I not remember what they had played then, I honestly couldn’t have done it while they were playing it – they were truly unmemorable).

Afterwards, Tony Mendez came to collect us, and we went into the lobby to shoot our annual episode of the “Tony Mendez Show.” I got some nice face time (we all did), and then it was back into the house for photos and the tour for the new kids – I got to go for the first time in three years; nothing new, but it’s always interesting.

(There’s a car on the street right now, playing deafening rap. I’m three stories up, so I can only wonder how loud it is in the damn car.)

After the tour, we talked to Tony out on the street. He couldn’t go to the party as he had ballet tickets. While we were talking, a car pulled up with some well-dressed women in it. The driver got out and looked like she wanted to ask a question, hesitated a while, then got back in. I went up to the car and asked the passenger, an older woman, if I could help them. They were curious as to what was going on, but were also trying to give away their tickets for “The Threepenny Opera.” I was tempted, but had already paid for the party, so I was going to go. I told them they’d probably have no trouble getting rid of the seats; they told me they’d already been turned down five times. I suggested they try over by the TKTS booth, which they thought was a good idea. I hope they were able to get rid of the tickets; they seemed nice and I hate to see seats go to waste like that. Ironically enough, a little while later, Jim Dale walked by on his way to work (looking damn good for 70), and I saw Ana Gasteyer while walking to the restaurant. (So far I’ve seen Marian Seldes [bustling along northbound on 7th while I was in P.J. Carney’s], George Takei [leaving “Faith Healer”], and Dale and Gasteyer. I saw a woman today who looked a lot like someone, but I’m damned if I can remember who it was. Oh, and there was a woman at “Faith Healer” whom I thought might have been Frances Sternhagen, but I couldn’t swear to it).

We finally got to the restaurant, and even though we were a half hour early, they were able to seat us upstairs in a private area. The food was pretty good (I’d been bitching about having to pay so much, but I almost got my money’s worth – and they forgot to charge me for my first drink). We all talked a while, and then about 9:30, they asked if we could move so they could clean up. We agreed, but since there was no room downstairs, they sent us to their sister restaurant next door, which was horribly loud. After only about a half hour, we repaired to Hurley’s on 48th, where we usually end up. It wasn’t quite as crowded as the other places, but there was still only one table for 8 or 10 of us (the NBA playoffs were on), and after they informed us that it was a one-drink minimum, we left. After a few minutes on the sidewalk, we all parted and headed for homes or hotels (some folks went to Helen Read’s hotel room; I did not, as I was feeling sleepy). Cheryl Levenbraun and I walked to the Times Square subway station, and after a few minutes, my train came, and I was off for the hotel. I was up until 4:30 again, trying to do some work (which I’ll subtract from my hours next week, natch), and dealing with more connectivity issues. (I don’t understand how a signal can go from “Excellent” to gone in only a few minutes.) I figured I could sleep in Friday, which I did.

I’ll get to Friday’s exciting events tomorrow, since it’s now 4:15, and it looks like I’ll hit the trifecta if I don’t watch it . . .

Saturday? “Shining City” in the afternoon, “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels” in the evening (I’m only hoping that Norbert is in; he wasn’t in when I bought my ticket Wednesday afternoon – great seat; second row center), then Jessica Molaskey at the Algonquin at 11:30. I’ve been afraid I wouldn’t be able to stay awake for her, but given my late hours this week, I’m hoping it won’t be a problem.

NYC: Day 1

I promised myself I'd do this, so even though it's after 3 here, I'll give it a go.

The day started at about 4:45, when my alarm went off. I hit the snooze button and rolled over, but then got paranoid that it wouldn't go off again, so I basically just laid there until 5:03, when I got up.

Left the house at 6:03, only ten minutes later than I'd planned, but when I got to the parking lot, the guy kept driving around and picking people up (the nerve!), so I didn't hit the airport until nearly 6:45. Checked in -- the place was packed and it took nearly ten minutes for the poor woman who was manning the self-serve check in area to get to my bag. Finally cleared security sometime after 7, and was on the plane only a few minutes later. A whirlwind morning.

I'd cashed in some miles and was in the first class section, next to one of those women who is helpless without her cell phone and kept making calls about some tickets to some event that had to be confirmed and a trip to China or India (or both; I can't remember). I couldn't have been more fascinated by these calls. She was beaten, however, by the woman who was on the other end of the aisle and continued making cell calls while we were taxiing (long after the announcement to shut down your damn phones had come and gone) and who had to be told three times to shut off her laptop when we were landing. Some people are just too damn pleasant to be around.

The flight itself was pretty smooth and uneventful; some turblulence, but not much. I ate a not-bad omelet, drank a lot of water and juice, and slept a couple of hours. The movie was "The Pink Panther," so it was safe to ignore.

We got in about 15 minutes early, but the hike through the new American terminal at JFK is endless, so it was a push. (Seriously, every time you get around a bend, there's another slidewalk.) I got my bag pretty quickly, and was on the AirTrain by about 4:30, getting the A train about 4:45 and was in the hotel somewhere after 5:30. Called Pidge to let her know I made it, and immediately had to leave for midtown, to hit the TKTS booth to get my ticket for "Sweeney Todd," which has a 7:00 curtain on Tuesdays. I don't know if it's the new location or just the hour, but there was no line at the TKTS booth. I saw "Sweeney" was still on the board and immediately walked up to a window.

Pretty good seat; house left, about 2/3rds back. (Especially good for $59.25.) Pretty good view until the latecomers got seated and Stretch Armstrong seat down in front of me. Top his height with a proclivity to move his head around a lot, and it's a recipe for annoyance.

Some things about the audience tonight. One was the latecomers. They're seated at the first break, 40 minutes in (kudos to John Doyle for directing the show to preclude applause after every number), and among the late people was one woman who was in the middle of the third row. Manoel Felciano, who was playing Tobias, was in the middle of the Pirelli number, and froze solid, not singing, and just followed the woman with his head as she made her way to her seat. Reminded me of Kris Tabori's story about Donald Sinden, who would greet West End latecomers by making sure they had a program and they knew who was who. Felciano got a good laugh and hand and I'll bet that woman is never late to the theatre again. Felciano struck again later in the number, when he played most of the hair tonic stuff to a bald man in the front row.

Lots of kids in the center section -- three rows worth. They were at that indeterminate age: high school kids? College students? and reacted to everything, some of it inappropriate (the sex stuff, of course). Overall, they were really into it (one got the feeling they had done the show themselves) and helped prime the pump for the rest of the audience. The cast seemed genuinely appreciative at the curtain call (for which I had to stand, as usual, to see what was happening; I HATE the manditory standing ovation, but I think Sondheim's point about the audience having spent so much money that they want to prove it to themselves by giving anything a standing O is an excellent one), but that could be their standard call conduct (extra bows, applauding back, etc.).

Also, lots of little kids in the crowd -- like 6 and 7 years old. What kind of parent brings a kid that young (or younger) to a show like this? The smallest one (3? 4?) fussed a little toward the end, but I have to admit they were well-behaved throughout.

The other thing was the weirdness two seats over from me. Late in Act One, the guy started twitching and moving and muttering (or saying quietly) "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." I don't know if he was having some kind of Tourette's attack, but he didn't have anything close to it again, and his outburst was relatively quiet, if disruptive. I doubt if people three rows away heard him. Weird.

Anyway, as to the show. I admit I was a little dubious going in. Doyle seems like a one-trick pony with his "cast-doubles-as-the-orchestra" schtick, but it worked here, and worked really well (especially Patti LuPone on her tuba). Brilliant concept, and since he was the designer, too, it was all of a piece. He really understood what he wanted and got it. Very intense performances by Michael Cerveris (though not as obsessed as his Booth; but then, it was a Tuesday night) and Alexander Geminagni (which surprised me, cause so many people dissed him). Donna Lynne Champlin was very good as Pirrelli, but I just didn't understand how Felciano got a Tony nod for that performance. Decent work, but there were others in the show far better. LuPone was very good -- probably the best thing I've seen her in (certainly better than her final performance in "Evita," when she channeled Lucille Ball), but her ass is huge in her costume. I don't know if it's all her (one assumes it is), since she doesn shake it at the auidence in "God, That's Good," so she's either padded, or they've made the most of an unfortunate situation.

Overall, maybe not as rococo or impressive as the original Sweeney, but certainly a rethinking and a very good night of theatre.

Afterwards, headed to Ray's for a slice and a Pepsi, then to P.J. Carney's bar for a beer. I was going to get some supper there, but nothing looked appealing except for chicken tenders (the menu looked good; it's just I wasn't in a mood for anything on it) and decided to stop at McDonald's on the way back to the subway and get some of their own (less expensive) chicken. On the way, I stopped at Virgin and bought the "Drowsy Chaperone" CD and looked out for "The Brain" and was vastly disappointed. We've got an Answers promotion where some of the power users are living in a two-story structure on the top of the Hard Rock Cafe marquee at the Paramount Building. It's tough to see at all (I completely missed it this evening) and I feel sorry for those folks, having to sit there all day and do nothing but be on Answers. There's a bunk bed on the lower floor, and they're apparently working in shifts so they can go to their hotel rooms in their off hours (the whole thing is supposed to last 72 hours, I think), so it's not too bad, but one gets the feeling that these folks don't get out a lot, and to torture them by putting them in a hot fishbowl in the middle of Times Square and its attractions is a bit cruel. But they seem to be enjoying it on the Video feed. Of course, le'ts see how they do at 4 am Friday morning. . . Regardless, it's hard to spot (even when looking for it), and doesn't seem especially interactive.
Oh, my room. Nicest one at the Cosmo yet. I even have a window this time, although it's really noisy outside. I've managed to piggyback onto someone else's wireless network (thanks, "dickerson"), which is fortunate, since they've rigged the phones so that I can't unplug the wires and plug them into the laptop. Hopefully, I'll continue to have access.

Tomorrow: "Faith Healer" and "The Lieutenant of Inishmore." It's Irish Day!

Jeebus, It's Been That Long?

Jeebus, It's Been That Long?

Since I posted an entry here? Time sure flies when you're not doing a damn thing, I guess.
We started rehearsals for "R&G" this week. Just a read-through and two nights of table work, but it seemed to go fairly well. Most of the cast read too fast and sort of skimmed through the text, but since I did mention in the beginning that I wasn't looking for either acting or performances, that's what they gave me.

The thing that concerns me the most at this point is that I don't have Carolyn (Guildenstern) for most of next week, and then I leave for New York, so whatever I don't get blocked tomorrow, Monday, or Tuesday will have to wait until the end of the month, and I hate to think that I'll still be blocking that late into the process. But, as I need to focus on, A) anything we block outside of the space will have to be adapted anyway, and B) once I get back , we'll still have a month. Things may be a little rough for the first week of performances, but I have little doubt they'll eventually pull together.

Pidge leaves for Texas in the morning. She's going to some kind of tech writing conference in Dallas from Monday to Thursday, then to Carbondale to visit her mom. I leave for NY on the 13th, and she doesn't get back until the 14th, so we won't see one another for nearly three weeks, which is the longest we'll have ever been apart since she moved to Oregon from Pittsburgh. She's getting a little weepy tonight, as I'm sure I'll be -- and it's always odd around here without her, but I'll persevere. (I've never told anyone this: YEARS ago, I was taking a train somewhere, and the woman next to me was writing a letter. The trip was slightly bumpy, and I looked over to her letter. She was drawing a little train going up- and downhill, mentioning how it wasn't easy to write under these conditions, "but I persevere." Ever since then -- and it's probably close to 20 years -- I have never used the word "persevere" without thinking of her and her letter.)

Anyway . . .

We're going out to Woodside tomorrow for a picnic and rehearsal. For the non-company members, this will be the first time they see the space, and I can only imagine, not only what they'll think, but also what it looks like now. The company members were going out today to rebuild the stage, and I have no idea how much they got done. Hopefully, enough so that I can block a good portion of Act One. I've got them for three hours, so we should be able to get a lot done - maybe even all of the first act, which would be great and do wonders for my mood.

We went to Michael Spector's memorial today. He died of a brain tumor not quite a month ago, and there was such a sense of -- well, loss, of course (I suppose you get that at any funeral/memorial), but just the random unfairness of life. He would have turned 37 just 12 days after he died, but managed to cram so much into those years. I had no idea he had so many interests and friends (the place was packed, and many of those who'd been on the various lists telling about his dying weren't there). I mean, he was a great and funny guy and the best stage manager ever, but I guess it's one of those cases where you can never have a full sense of all the aspects of someone else's life.

More later. . .

Time Flies Like an Arrow . . .

. . . Fruit Flies Like a Banana

Feels like ages since I've posted. Got the job directing "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern." It'll be a challenge, especially since we'll be doing it outdoors and in various locations in a park (or something) in Woodside. Apparently, lots o' trees and hills; not the most conducive atmosphere for a comedic/dramatic examination of the nature of reality and a deconstruction of "Hamlet;" but it's a challenge, so that's good.Did I mention we saw John Pizzarelli two weeks ago in the city? Followed that up last night by seeing Audra McDonald. It's part of a new -- well, not philosophy, but a goal, I guess -- to see great artists when I can, and to not miss them, like I did Sinatra. We're talking about seeing Tony Bennett in Saratoga in September, but the tickets are dear, and I don't know if I want to see him that much -- but, still. . . .

Anyway, both evenings (Pizzarelli and McDonald, that is) were wonderful. It's such a pleasure (for me, anyway) to watch artists who are so skilled and comfortable with their talents that that ease and pleasure becomes almost a palpable sensation for the audience. Pizzarelli signed CDs after the show, so we got one, and I complimented him on the show and asked if his wife, Jessica Molaskey (whom I adore) is working on a new album. He said she was, which thrilled me almost as much as reading (while I was writing this paragraph, in fact) that she'll be appearing at the Algonquin while I'm there. I am so there.McDonald gave a great show, too, with new and old material. She went up twice, which I'm sure wasn't intentional, but reminded me of nothing so much as a magician or a slight-of-hand artist who will "accidentally" fumble a trick in order to make themselves seem more human or to make their feats that much more impressive. The best thing about both evenings (other than the high entertainment value, natch) was the fact that both of them seemed utterly human and down-to-earth, and people I could hang out with, once I got past the hero worship.Read a play called "Pack of Lies," that I'll probably interview for at Palo Alto next week. Very interesting play based on a true case in London in the early 60s. Middle-class English couple is best friends with an American couple across the street. One day, an MI-5 agent appears at the house and asks the English couple if the government can postion an agent to watch the Americans. Eventually we find out that the Americans might be Soviet spies, and we see the havoc it causes with the friendship and how the situation tests the limits of personal privacy, security, friendship, and where we draw those various lines. Very timely, I think (perhaps not as timely as "The White House Murder Case," but then what is?). It turns out that the Americans are, indeed, spies, but that's almost a MacGuffin. I'd really like to do it (time for a heavy drama, I think), and hope Peter hires me.Not much else. Have a couple of leads on a new Bob Cratchit, so we'll see. Hope to get back to this in less than a couple of weeks.

Double Feature

Feels like ages since I've posted anything -- because it has been.

Had a momentous day today. Went to two different movies at two different theatres for (I think) the first time in my life. I may have done it in L.A., though I can't remember. Regardless, it's the first time in decades.

Pidge had mentioned how much she really wanted to see "Thank You for Smoking." I was lukewarm, but agreed, since she was right that she usually sucks it up when it's something I want to see, and it was my turn to do the same for her.

We drove down to Palo Alto (the CineArts, where it was playing on both screens, which struck me as odd) and ot there pretty much just in time. Big crowd (again, surprisingly), so we didn't have a great choice of seats. What we got were pretty good, although they leaned back so far I was a little uncomfortable, and the head of the woman in front of me occupied a tiny portion of the screen. (That said, it was good to see a movie on an honest-to-god big screen.)

(Odd coincidence. The ticket takers at both theatres were in wheelchairs. I've never seen that at all before, and to see it twice in one day was off. NTTAWWI.)

Anyway, we saw a number of trailers, most of which actually looked good -- I guess that's the benefit of going to an art house -- even one owned by Century. The feature finally started, and I instantly knew I was in good hands with a brilliant credits sequence. I miss credits sequences. They can do so much work for the filmmakers in setting a mood or a time or place. I was watching "Murder By Death" and "The Cheap Detective" last night (the latter of which I hadn't seen since it opened, and boy, does it hold up; much better than MBD, in fact) and both (each?) had credits by Wayne Fitzgerald, who was a god at such things, and a good set of credits is worth its weight in gold.

To continue. "Thank You . . ." is laugh-out-loud funny (a rarity, I find), and the thing that impressed me the most about it (and there's a lot to be impressed about) is that it has a conservative political bent and is still funny. I've often complained that, even as liberal as I am, I'd like to see some kind of conservative political statement in the theatre or movies. TYFS has the usual Hollywood cliches upended, with the corporate shills being the good guys and the do-gooder groups being the, well, not the bad guys, but putzes. It was a refreshing change of pace. I'm not saying I want to see every film be like this, but it was nice to see for once. Nicely written, well-directed (and good continuity!), with fine performances by Aaron Eckhart, J.K. Simmons (who is thisclose to reaching "Money in the Bank" status), Robert Duvall, and Bill Macy.

That said, Katie Holmes has reached the point in her career where she has no credibility on screen. Between her not-overwhelming acting ability, whatever the fuck is going on with Tom Cruise, and her youthful appearance, she has a -lot- to overcome -- and doesn't do it here. The second she appeared on screen, I cringed mentally. She suffers here from the same thing she suffered from in "Batman Begins." She's supposed to be a tough and accomplished professional, and looks 12 and has all the gravitas of Macaulay Culkin. She needs to get off the screen -- now. Oh, and if you're going to have significant amounts of dialogue about a character's awesome "tits," you have to do one of two things. Either cast an actress with awesome tits and have her show them, or cut the lines referring to them. Director Reitman did neither. The only time we come close to seeing Ms. Holmes's mammae is in one long shot where she's standing in an office in a very modest blouse showing nothing out of the ordinary. Contrast this with the attention paid to the ta-tas of Ms. Renee Graham as Tiffany, the corporate jet flight attendant, and the whole thing becomes a "wha--?" moment.

The film ended and it was back in the car to drive to Mountain View to see the film I wanted to, "Inside Man." I'd read a lot about it in the past couple of days, and wanted to see it early, before any potential spoilers reached me. We got to the theatre early and it was a much different experience. Huge lobby, 16 screens, a completely different demographic. (For example: One of the trailers at the CineArts was for "A Scanner Darkly," which is Richard Linklater's newest piece of vomit, using that computer rotoscoping technique that I find so annoyingly pretentious. I turned to Pidge and asked who the hell could watch this for more than five minutes. Well, I found out. The Century 16 has trailers playing on monitors throughout the lobby [seems too cavernous to call it that, but what else is there?], so the patrons can't go more than about 1o seconds without having their senses assaulted. They played the "Scanner Darkly" trailer, and the girls in front of us were -riveted-. When it finished, they both agreed that they -had- to see the picture. Different strokes, I guess . . . )

After about ten minutes in line, they let us into the theatre, which had a suspiciously large number of people in it already. We managed to get decent seats, though (even if both of us complained that they were extremely uncomfortable), and passed the time until the trailers started; this time, showing the usual selection of things I wouldn't see on a bet. Is it me or is it Hollywood? Anyway . . .

We both enjoyed the picture, even if I felt it was a little long. I also expected more twists and turns (from the reviews), but still found it satisdfying, even if there were the usual selection of plot holes. Like how does Clive Owen's character know what he knows? And when he is where he is, how does no one suspect it? Really well-directed, with a real sense of New York and location in general, and just a slew of good performances from Washington, Owen, Dafoe (good to see him not play a heavy), Plummer (who I can't believe I like now), and even Jodie Foster, whom I usually loathe, but is quite good - but then I'm supposed to loathe her character in this one, so it works.

Regardless, it was a fine afternoon of filmgoing, and I look forward to a couple more in the near future. Still have to see "Find Me Guilty" and "V for Vendetta."

Coming up? I'm doing a reading of a new play Monday at the Lorraine Hansberry Theatre in the city. I play a crotchety college professor who's locked into the traditional way of doing things. Sort of a continuation from "Oleanna." Darold (from "Miss Daisy") called and asked me if I'd be interested in acting in it, and I said sure; especially since there's a little dough involved, and I'll be working with Lorrie Holt, among others. And it may give me a line into finding a black actress for "Mrs. Bob Cratchit."

Tomorrow, it's dinner with the Rustans at a mystery restaurant that's the last gasp of my 50th birthday. Don't expect anything momentous to come of it, but it'll be the first time we see them without Schlomo since, hell, since Leisa got pregnant.

Maude Maggart

Got back a little while ago from seeing Maude Maggart at the Plush Room. What a singer! I admit it took me about five or ten minutes to warm up to her (I have an inate dislike for cabaret singers), but once I got her, I really got her. She's got an amazing ability to really inhabit a song and phrase it and communicate it. (The one flaw in her delivery [for me] is that she doesn't quite have all the chops yet to do with a song what she wants to do with it. According to her biography on her website, though (http://www.maudemaggart.com), she's only been singing professionally since 2001. Once she really gets her talent melded with her intelligence, there'll be no stopping her. Just an amazing singer. She's not Jessica Molaskey, but she's in that league. She's Fiona Apple's sister and Brandon Maggart's daughter.

I'm a big fan of Brandon Maggart, whom I know best as having played Buddy on the early episodes of Sesame Street. He was teamed with an actor named James Catusi as "Buddy and Jim," two guys who made Laurel and Hardy look like brain surgeons. They were hilarious to my 13-year-old eyes. I only found out about her father after I got home, and I wish I'd known. I bought three of her CDs after the show and got to talk to her as I was getting them autographed. I would have mentioned her father if I'd only known. I'm slightly tempted to go back later this week (I won't, but I'm tempted), and would definitely mention him if I did.

When I started this thing, I expected I would be reviewing and critiquing movies and TV and comics and pop culture and politics, but there's been unsurprisingly little of that. Suffice it to say that I rented Sin City (meh; very comic-booky and true to the material, but too long and I'm not Miller's biggest fan) and Layer Cake (nice complicated caper-type picture, but it failed for me in the climax when one of the pivotal characters didn't pass the "who the hell is that?" test; I still don't quite know who it was). I've been reading comics, and am running hot and cold on Infinite Crisis. I admired the ideas behind it -- at least based on what they were saying at WonderCon -- but am none too pleased with the treatment of Kal-L, the original Superman (this is hopelessly geeky, I know, but I just don't give a rat's ass). I'm enjoying The Amazing Race and am looking forward to the return of The Sopranos this weekend. What else am I watching? The 24, the Apprentice, the Veronica Mars, still watching the ER (god knows why), Deal or No Deal, Justice League, and not much else (Dave, of course). I'm sure there are other shows, but I'm punchy right now, and can't imagine why I'm not in bed (it's 12:20 am). I did watch the premiere of The Unit last night, and in spite of my liking of Mamet, found it vile. If it was serious, it was replusive in its politics and if there was a tongue-in-cheek element, it went whooshing over my head.

Just saw my nemesis Scarlett Johannson in a makeup commercial, exhibiting more range than in any movie I've seen her in to date. She had a horrible lipstick on (and with her mouth, it probably took two tubes), but maybe there's hope for her otherwise.

This has been one of those long-ass weeks for me. Seems like Monday was about two weeks ago. I can't wait to work at home Friday. There's a couple of meetings at work tomorrow; one is the monthly department meeting, which can range from actually interesting to chew-my-arm-off bad. The other is the semi-regular meeting with Stephanie (my boss) and the rest of the team. I don't expect any bombshells, but you never know.

We had an Answers meeting today, and it began with my admitting I didn't know how to set up a Twiki page, which everyone looked askance at. I did my best "Dammit, I'm old!" impression by saying, "Hey, I'm 50!" Not quite (10 more days), but close enough. Then on top of that, it suddenly occurred to us that all the other surfers on the product are "new," meaning hired within the last year. If that didn't make me feel old (and it did), nothing would. These damn kids with their rock and roll . . .

Still waiting to hear about DaveCon 2005. Hope we hear soon; I'd like to make my travel plans.

Came up with a plan for Pidge's 40th birthday in 2007 tonight. I don't know if I can pull it off, but if I can, it should be memorable -- and better than that surprise party they pulled on my 40th. I've been promised there'll be no surprise party for my 50th, so I'm hopeful, but who knows.

I'm Just Tired

Hasn't been a long week, but a jam-packed one. Pidge leaves for her mother's tomorrow morning, so I'll be a bachelor all week, but if that means anything anymore, it means, well, nothing. I'll read the paper, watch TV, be online and fall asleep on the couch downstairs. All in all, no change. I might take in a couple of movies, but don't expect to do much other than (hopefully) get some sleep.

We escaped the rain (more or less) today, but it's supposed to shower all weekend, which will further restrict me. Not that I had big plans, but still . . .

I do have work stuff this weekend, but other than that, JLU, and the Oscars, I got nothin'.