If she calls to you, go
Never a reason to say no
Love her so well she cries
If she sends you away
turn about without delay
Love her so well she cries
If she proffers an avenue
that can only end bad for you
Love her so well she cries
If she tells you to play ukulele
while she takes it in each hole from los amigos three
Love her so well she cries
She's been wounded, you're a man
Drop your vanity, lose your plan
Love her so well she cries
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Thursday, May 23, 2013
two chairs with thoreau
“Be yourself - not your idea of what you think somebody else's idea of yourself should be.”
-henry david thoreau
On March 12th, i was the exact age thoreau was when he died.
Often when i relate this to someone, they'll assume i mean that thoreau was forty-four when he died, so on March 12th i turned forty-four?
No. Stick with me, we have a higher standard here. As i became aware i was nearing the age he died, i calculated how many years, months, weeks, and days old he was his life ended. I then calculated on which date i would be that age. I'd never been to Walden Pond, and realized there could never be a more pilgrimage-perfect moment. This was to be the second such commemoration of my life, the first being at the Dakota for john lennon (in that case, i even timed it down to the minute - http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2008/07/mr-wheat.html). The prospect of a pilgrimage made me think this might become the second in a series - years ahead are jim henson, and decades ahead kurt vonnegut. Perhaps twain? Seuss?
-"If thy neighbor hail thee to inquire how goes the world, feel thyself put to thy trumps to return a true and explicit answer. Plant the feet firmly, and, will he nill he, dole out to him with strict and conscientious impartiality his modicum of a response."
I boarded a bus to Boston. A short commuter train ride further would find me in Concord. The pilgrimage was almost aborted when a metro worker with the best of intentions told me there was no way i could make it back in time for the return bus (this was the second time that day a public servant turned out to have no idea what they were talking about). Fortunately, i said "missed buses be damned".
-"Our charitable institutions are an insult to humanity. A charity which dispenses the crumbs that fall from its overloaded tables, which are left after its feasts!"
I arrived in Concord and set out for the pond on foot, having been told it would take half an hour or less. I soon realized that as a big city biker for the better part of a decade, i'd lost touch with the connectedness one feels when traveling by foot, a lesson that seemed particularly germane to the day's errand.
In the previous months, i'd read more thoreau than ever before (three weeks of attempting his journals were like swimming in congealing gelatin). For what it's worth, he's perhaps one of the few writers of whom you don't need to read any full book to appreciate - highlights and quotes might suffice. But the words of WALDEN swirled in my consciousness...i considered the possibility that i might arrive on the day the pond's ice started to break, creating the unearthly noises he described so compellingly (alas, i didn't).
As i neared the area, i realized that i would probably have as much solitude as i wished - the three or four small parking lots were almost entirely empty. I came to the visitor center/gift shop. Determined to not be a cynical poop (until such should be merited), i went in. I had a genial conversation with the clerk, who assured me he'd never heard of a pilgrimage timed in such a way as mine. I looked through the discount T-shirt rack, mostly because i wanted to leave the conservancy some monetary token. I had a quiet (or perhaps not so quiet) chuckle at the unintentional irony in the vending of a shirt that reads "Beware of any enterprise that requires a change of clothes".
-“There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.”
I continued on.
The pond was larger than i'd imagined. I surmised i might be pressed to get back to Boston on time if i walked the circumference...but again knew which choice was the right one.
-"All this worldly wisdom was once the unamiable heresy of some wise man."
The ice had thawed enough to leave a two-foot gap around the edge. I dipped my hands in. So beautiful. I'd been nervous about that, knowing that the pond had become quite polluted before a reclamation project in the 90s. I didn't imagine it would ever again be as henry knew it...water more than a hundred feet deep so clear you could see the bottom in almost every part...but it was humbling to know how well the curators had done their work. In the one area of deeper visibility i found, the clarity was unlike any pond i'd ever seen.
-“Take long walks in stormy weather or through deep snows in the fields and woods, if you would keep your spirits up."
There was still a blanket of snow through the woods. As i followed the several-mile trail, i met only seven or so strangers, most at the very end. The cabin area itself was beautifully done, a testament to simplicity. There was no reconstruction, simply concrete blocks outlining the area, plus a commemorative pile of small stones brought by pilgrims.
In an unintentional coincidence, my own new little home is almost exactly the size of the cabin - with exactly the same number of chairs.
-“I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”
Lost in serenity and the simplicity of being, it was a day for silence. Henry would have approved. When i finally turned to leave the pond, i passed two women who were merrily singing in some foreign tongue. He would have liked that too, immeasurably more than any conclave of babbling brainiacs. There was no more perfect sound to him than a bird in song.
-"I have just been through the process of killing the cistudo (tortoise) for the sake of science; but i cannot excuse myself for this murder, and see that such actions are inconsistent with the poetic perception, however they may serve science, and will affect the quality of my observations. I pray that I may walk more innocently and serenely through nature. No reasoning whatever reconciles me to this act. It affects my day injuriously. I have lost some self-respect. I have a murderer's experience in a degree."
When i was a youth, thoreau's words touched me deeply. It might be hard to overstate how much his thoughts on living simply and civil disobedience informed the person i was becoming. In revisiting his words, there is no shortage of examples in which my life has been an extension of his. Also obvious is how his own life had been an extension of eastern philosophy. When i finally sat on a very late bus back to New York, it occurred to me that my life might be held up as one of the most thoreauvian you'll ever meet. I even imagined participating in a worldwide most-alike contest. That last thought might be a conceit that wouldn't bear too much scrutiny. There are certainly areas in which henry and i diverge...his journey into transcendentalism little resembles my secular exploration of human barbarity. Yet in terms of manifesting his essential message on how one ought live...the embrace of authenticity, the rejection of materialism...even life details and words of his that i'd never encountered to as a youth, are often an almost ridiculously-accurate mirror of who i am.
Of course, henry himself said that we only learn that which we already half-know.
-"Perhaps I am more than usually jealous of my freedom. I feel that my connections with and obligations to society are at present very slight and transient. Those slight labors which afford me a livelihood, and by which I am serviceable to my contemporaries, are as yet a pleasure to me, and I am not often reminded that they are a necessity. So far I am successful, and only he is successful in his business who makes that pursuit which affords the highest pleasure sustain him. But i foresee that if my wants should become much increased the labor required to supply them would become a drudgery. If I should sell both my forenoons and afternoons to society, neglecting my peculiar calling, there would be nothing left worth living for. I trust that i shall never thus sell my birthright for a mess of pottage."
So today, i've collected for you the fruits of my return to those words that once filled my youthful spirit with longing and purpose. Quotes that either moved me then, or would have. Very occasionally, words trigger some deep, elemental recognition. This ultimately, is the greatest gift a writer can offer.
This ultimately, is the only reason a writer ought write.
-"How many there are who advise you to print! How few who advise you to lead a more interior life! In the one case there is all the world to advise you, in the other there is none to advise you but yourself. Nobody ever advised me not to print but myself. The public persuade the author to print, as the meadow invites the brook to fall into it. Only he can be trusted with gifts who can present a face of bronze to expectation."
Thank you, henry david.
-henry david thoreau
On March 12th, i was the exact age thoreau was when he died.
Often when i relate this to someone, they'll assume i mean that thoreau was forty-four when he died, so on March 12th i turned forty-four?
No. Stick with me, we have a higher standard here. As i became aware i was nearing the age he died, i calculated how many years, months, weeks, and days old he was his life ended. I then calculated on which date i would be that age. I'd never been to Walden Pond, and realized there could never be a more pilgrimage-perfect moment. This was to be the second such commemoration of my life, the first being at the Dakota for john lennon (in that case, i even timed it down to the minute - http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2008/07/mr-wheat.html). The prospect of a pilgrimage made me think this might become the second in a series - years ahead are jim henson, and decades ahead kurt vonnegut. Perhaps twain? Seuss?
-"If thy neighbor hail thee to inquire how goes the world, feel thyself put to thy trumps to return a true and explicit answer. Plant the feet firmly, and, will he nill he, dole out to him with strict and conscientious impartiality his modicum of a response."
I boarded a bus to Boston. A short commuter train ride further would find me in Concord. The pilgrimage was almost aborted when a metro worker with the best of intentions told me there was no way i could make it back in time for the return bus (this was the second time that day a public servant turned out to have no idea what they were talking about). Fortunately, i said "missed buses be damned".
-"Our charitable institutions are an insult to humanity. A charity which dispenses the crumbs that fall from its overloaded tables, which are left after its feasts!"
I arrived in Concord and set out for the pond on foot, having been told it would take half an hour or less. I soon realized that as a big city biker for the better part of a decade, i'd lost touch with the connectedness one feels when traveling by foot, a lesson that seemed particularly germane to the day's errand.
In the previous months, i'd read more thoreau than ever before (three weeks of attempting his journals were like swimming in congealing gelatin). For what it's worth, he's perhaps one of the few writers of whom you don't need to read any full book to appreciate - highlights and quotes might suffice. But the words of WALDEN swirled in my consciousness...i considered the possibility that i might arrive on the day the pond's ice started to break, creating the unearthly noises he described so compellingly (alas, i didn't).
As i neared the area, i realized that i would probably have as much solitude as i wished - the three or four small parking lots were almost entirely empty. I came to the visitor center/gift shop. Determined to not be a cynical poop (until such should be merited), i went in. I had a genial conversation with the clerk, who assured me he'd never heard of a pilgrimage timed in such a way as mine. I looked through the discount T-shirt rack, mostly because i wanted to leave the conservancy some monetary token. I had a quiet (or perhaps not so quiet) chuckle at the unintentional irony in the vending of a shirt that reads "Beware of any enterprise that requires a change of clothes".
-“There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.”
I continued on.
The pond was larger than i'd imagined. I surmised i might be pressed to get back to Boston on time if i walked the circumference...but again knew which choice was the right one.
-"All this worldly wisdom was once the unamiable heresy of some wise man."
The ice had thawed enough to leave a two-foot gap around the edge. I dipped my hands in. So beautiful. I'd been nervous about that, knowing that the pond had become quite polluted before a reclamation project in the 90s. I didn't imagine it would ever again be as henry knew it...water more than a hundred feet deep so clear you could see the bottom in almost every part...but it was humbling to know how well the curators had done their work. In the one area of deeper visibility i found, the clarity was unlike any pond i'd ever seen.
-“Take long walks in stormy weather or through deep snows in the fields and woods, if you would keep your spirits up."
There was still a blanket of snow through the woods. As i followed the several-mile trail, i met only seven or so strangers, most at the very end. The cabin area itself was beautifully done, a testament to simplicity. There was no reconstruction, simply concrete blocks outlining the area, plus a commemorative pile of small stones brought by pilgrims.
In an unintentional coincidence, my own new little home is almost exactly the size of the cabin - with exactly the same number of chairs.
-“I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”
Lost in serenity and the simplicity of being, it was a day for silence. Henry would have approved. When i finally turned to leave the pond, i passed two women who were merrily singing in some foreign tongue. He would have liked that too, immeasurably more than any conclave of babbling brainiacs. There was no more perfect sound to him than a bird in song.
-"I have just been through the process of killing the cistudo (tortoise) for the sake of science; but i cannot excuse myself for this murder, and see that such actions are inconsistent with the poetic perception, however they may serve science, and will affect the quality of my observations. I pray that I may walk more innocently and serenely through nature. No reasoning whatever reconciles me to this act. It affects my day injuriously. I have lost some self-respect. I have a murderer's experience in a degree."
When i was a youth, thoreau's words touched me deeply. It might be hard to overstate how much his thoughts on living simply and civil disobedience informed the person i was becoming. In revisiting his words, there is no shortage of examples in which my life has been an extension of his. Also obvious is how his own life had been an extension of eastern philosophy. When i finally sat on a very late bus back to New York, it occurred to me that my life might be held up as one of the most thoreauvian you'll ever meet. I even imagined participating in a worldwide most-alike contest. That last thought might be a conceit that wouldn't bear too much scrutiny. There are certainly areas in which henry and i diverge...his journey into transcendentalism little resembles my secular exploration of human barbarity. Yet in terms of manifesting his essential message on how one ought live...the embrace of authenticity, the rejection of materialism...even life details and words of his that i'd never encountered to as a youth, are often an almost ridiculously-accurate mirror of who i am.
Of course, henry himself said that we only learn that which we already half-know.
-"Perhaps I am more than usually jealous of my freedom. I feel that my connections with and obligations to society are at present very slight and transient. Those slight labors which afford me a livelihood, and by which I am serviceable to my contemporaries, are as yet a pleasure to me, and I am not often reminded that they are a necessity. So far I am successful, and only he is successful in his business who makes that pursuit which affords the highest pleasure sustain him. But i foresee that if my wants should become much increased the labor required to supply them would become a drudgery. If I should sell both my forenoons and afternoons to society, neglecting my peculiar calling, there would be nothing left worth living for. I trust that i shall never thus sell my birthright for a mess of pottage."
So today, i've collected for you the fruits of my return to those words that once filled my youthful spirit with longing and purpose. Quotes that either moved me then, or would have. Very occasionally, words trigger some deep, elemental recognition. This ultimately, is the greatest gift a writer can offer.
This ultimately, is the only reason a writer ought write.
-"How many there are who advise you to print! How few who advise you to lead a more interior life! In the one case there is all the world to advise you, in the other there is none to advise you but yourself. Nobody ever advised me not to print but myself. The public persuade the author to print, as the meadow invites the brook to fall into it. Only he can be trusted with gifts who can present a face of bronze to expectation."
Thank you, henry david.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Pounding Nails...
POUNDING NAILS IN THE FLOOR WITH MY FOREHEAD
THEATER 69
-winter 2003
Following JCS, the Red Curtain Players began work on LENNY, about the life of censored comic Lenny Bruce. I played Lenny, and beach resident Mark List played several characters beautifully. I coaxed Shane out of retirement to play the hipster musician. We went through several actresses as Lenny’s stripper wife. Our first, Shanendoah, had a wonderful spirit and great talent, but drinking had control over her life. I made the tough, sad decision – the first time i’d ever cut an actor. Our final Honey was Samantha Bortnick, a gentle, laughing soul who’d been a percussionist in Rhythm Culture. Dave “Big Wave Dave” Lazerson did some nice work as a cop. But the show died in utero. I’d written for performance rights, and didn’t expect any difficulty; the show was twenty-five years old and controlled by the playwright. But i finally got a letter from Julian Barry, saying that the Bruce estate was suing him. He made reference to a litigious woman, whom i surmised to be either Bruce’s child or widow. It was a bit crushing, as our potential had already been blooming. One original touch i’d come up with was having Lenny prance across the stage wearing only a flight helmet, with an inflatable Hindenburg over his groin. For Halloween, we did a mini-performance of THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW, in conjunction with the township’s screening of the movie. We acted out “Time Warp” and “Sweet Transvestite” in front of the screen. Shane played Rocky, his girlfriend Angelina played Janet, Paul played Brad, Tony Turiano from BURIED CHILD played Riff, i played Frank, and another ex-student of mine, Athena Collins, played Magenta. Athena and i knew the show best(and she knew more than i). The costumes were a hoot, and the event fantastic. With my lingerie, fishnets, and high heels, a number of guys told me they “didn’t”, but if they did, they’d be calling me. We then began work on THE ROAD TO NIRVANA, by Arthur Kopit. When i found out it had been written in response to SPEED-THE-PLOW (which we had done at the Orpheus), i had to read it. Suffice to say that Kopit out-mamets Mamet. I cast Paul and i as the two Hollywood producers. The play is searingly funny, and Paul was going to be fantastic. But it was not to be, for we kept on going through actress after actress trying to find the right two. Every time we got set, one or the other would drop out. Heartbroken, i turned to another Eric Bogosian one-man show. I tinkered with the lineup of monologues, dropping two and adding one from another show. Another reason for a one-man show was instability in the gallery. Paul’s landlord was a man of suspect integrity. Paul, on the other hand, was not always prompt with payments. I knew that Jorge could force an eviction, and i was still a bit haunted by the instability my actors had endured in JCS. So one actor made sense. The piece was beautiful - the first Bogosian play in which one of the characters is his own persona. The gallery had just been painted red, with a beautiful new bar, new lights, and huge new stage (built with help from Gary Clause, Caitlin’s father). The show opens with “America”, in which a Limbaugh-type DJ chain-smokes and spews hate. I altered one of the lines into a nightmare vision of Britney Spears having sex with Madonna…months later, life imitated art when they french-kissed on TV. “Molecules” has a homeless person on a subway haranguing the audience. In “Intro”, Bogosian’s persona lashes out at the audience and his own celebrity. In “Inner Baby”, a southern self-help guru exhorts a crowd into indulging every selfish whim. In “The Glass”, vulture-like specters of starving africans intrude on middle-class comfort. In “Art”, a dead-on-the-inside porn director runs his actors through their paces (“You need anything there, Chuck-o…some hay, a sugar cube?”). In “Rash”, a poolside millionaire grilling steak laments to a buddy about social problems and home security. In “The Recovering Male”, a man in group therapy shares his feelings of penile shame. “The Stud” has a back-lit man speaking to the audience about how women, upon being penetrated by his large and perfect penis, will cry with happiness. In the final piece, “Blow Me”, Bogosian’s persona lashes out at our stupidity and indifference. The show drew small, enthusiastic crowds. Chris Capp, a gallery regular and publisher of The Really Free Press, was so touched that he special-ordered a cap for himself with “Blow Me!” emblazoned across it. The show turned out to be the Red Curtain swan song, for at the end of the run we found out that Paul’s mother was dying, and that he would need to move back to PA. I helped him dismantle the gallery, and pack his life into a truck. After Paul was gone, i did one final encore performance at the Orpheus, at Tony’s request…
THEATER 69
-winter 2003
Following JCS, the Red Curtain Players began work on LENNY, about the life of censored comic Lenny Bruce. I played Lenny, and beach resident Mark List played several characters beautifully. I coaxed Shane out of retirement to play the hipster musician. We went through several actresses as Lenny’s stripper wife. Our first, Shanendoah, had a wonderful spirit and great talent, but drinking had control over her life. I made the tough, sad decision – the first time i’d ever cut an actor. Our final Honey was Samantha Bortnick, a gentle, laughing soul who’d been a percussionist in Rhythm Culture. Dave “Big Wave Dave” Lazerson did some nice work as a cop. But the show died in utero. I’d written for performance rights, and didn’t expect any difficulty; the show was twenty-five years old and controlled by the playwright. But i finally got a letter from Julian Barry, saying that the Bruce estate was suing him. He made reference to a litigious woman, whom i surmised to be either Bruce’s child or widow. It was a bit crushing, as our potential had already been blooming. One original touch i’d come up with was having Lenny prance across the stage wearing only a flight helmet, with an inflatable Hindenburg over his groin. For Halloween, we did a mini-performance of THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW, in conjunction with the township’s screening of the movie. We acted out “Time Warp” and “Sweet Transvestite” in front of the screen. Shane played Rocky, his girlfriend Angelina played Janet, Paul played Brad, Tony Turiano from BURIED CHILD played Riff, i played Frank, and another ex-student of mine, Athena Collins, played Magenta. Athena and i knew the show best(and she knew more than i). The costumes were a hoot, and the event fantastic. With my lingerie, fishnets, and high heels, a number of guys told me they “didn’t”, but if they did, they’d be calling me. We then began work on THE ROAD TO NIRVANA, by Arthur Kopit. When i found out it had been written in response to SPEED-THE-PLOW (which we had done at the Orpheus), i had to read it. Suffice to say that Kopit out-mamets Mamet. I cast Paul and i as the two Hollywood producers. The play is searingly funny, and Paul was going to be fantastic. But it was not to be, for we kept on going through actress after actress trying to find the right two. Every time we got set, one or the other would drop out. Heartbroken, i turned to another Eric Bogosian one-man show. I tinkered with the lineup of monologues, dropping two and adding one from another show. Another reason for a one-man show was instability in the gallery. Paul’s landlord was a man of suspect integrity. Paul, on the other hand, was not always prompt with payments. I knew that Jorge could force an eviction, and i was still a bit haunted by the instability my actors had endured in JCS. So one actor made sense. The piece was beautiful - the first Bogosian play in which one of the characters is his own persona. The gallery had just been painted red, with a beautiful new bar, new lights, and huge new stage (built with help from Gary Clause, Caitlin’s father). The show opens with “America”, in which a Limbaugh-type DJ chain-smokes and spews hate. I altered one of the lines into a nightmare vision of Britney Spears having sex with Madonna…months later, life imitated art when they french-kissed on TV. “Molecules” has a homeless person on a subway haranguing the audience. In “Intro”, Bogosian’s persona lashes out at the audience and his own celebrity. In “Inner Baby”, a southern self-help guru exhorts a crowd into indulging every selfish whim. In “The Glass”, vulture-like specters of starving africans intrude on middle-class comfort. In “Art”, a dead-on-the-inside porn director runs his actors through their paces (“You need anything there, Chuck-o…some hay, a sugar cube?”). In “Rash”, a poolside millionaire grilling steak laments to a buddy about social problems and home security. In “The Recovering Male”, a man in group therapy shares his feelings of penile shame. “The Stud” has a back-lit man speaking to the audience about how women, upon being penetrated by his large and perfect penis, will cry with happiness. In the final piece, “Blow Me”, Bogosian’s persona lashes out at our stupidity and indifference. The show drew small, enthusiastic crowds. Chris Capp, a gallery regular and publisher of The Really Free Press, was so touched that he special-ordered a cap for himself with “Blow Me!” emblazoned across it. The show turned out to be the Red Curtain swan song, for at the end of the run we found out that Paul’s mother was dying, and that he would need to move back to PA. I helped him dismantle the gallery, and pack his life into a truck. After Paul was gone, i did one final encore performance at the Orpheus, at Tony’s request…
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
teach me
Teach me how to be your lover
Teach me how to dream
When blood rises in the night
Your name a whisper, a scream
Shape this spirit to your rhythm
Make these touches true
Your lips parting, your eyes shut
Tell me what will and won't do
What speed, which spot, which touch, how long
Then position me
How gentle, how hard, how many, what time
For time to cease, from all pain free
Teach me how to dream
When blood rises in the night
Your name a whisper, a scream
Shape this spirit to your rhythm
Make these touches true
Your lips parting, your eyes shut
Tell me what will and won't do
What speed, which spot, which touch, how long
Then position me
How gentle, how hard, how many, what time
For time to cease, from all pain free
Thursday, May 9, 2013
"Huff"
2004-2006
There are certain actors you only need to see once, to know that you'd like to see them in anything they ever do. Sometimes this instinct serves us not well - Hank Azaria (THE BIRDCAGE, MYSTERY MEN), come on down. HUFF revolves around a psychiatrist trying to keep his life together in the face of patients who test his faith in himself (including one who commits suicide in his office), a controling mother (Blythe Danner - MEET THE PARENTS, FUTUREWORLD), a man-child best friend (Oliver Platt - THE IMPOSTERS, THE WEST WING - who, to the surprise of no one, nearly steals the show), a sensitive son (Anton Yelchin - ALPHA DOG), and a stressed-out wife (Paget Brewster - CRIMINAL MINDS). It's easy to be sucked in, there's a lot to love - sharp, funny dialogue plus fantastic acting (throw Swoosie Kurtz, Robert Forster, Lara Flynn Boyle, Annie Potts, Sharon Stone, and Tom Skeritt into the mix). But the show tantalizes without gelling. And then the season 1 finale overreaches so badly it almost becomes shark-jumping farce. This show makes you realize why both psychiatrists and shows about psychiatrists should perhaps forever be avoided. The story arcs into a scenario where Huff is tempted to "stray", and the way this supposedly highly-educated human being reacts to human nature is simply embarrassing...mirroring the fact that psychology is the only institutionalized branch of "learning" that tries to contort human beings into something we are absolutely not - monogamous. Here we are, thirty years after THE BOB NEWHART SHOW, and we're basically just as dishwater dumb when it comes to sex (on TV, anyway). Perhaps the show came together in season 2, but i may never know.
There are certain actors you only need to see once, to know that you'd like to see them in anything they ever do. Sometimes this instinct serves us not well - Hank Azaria (THE BIRDCAGE, MYSTERY MEN), come on down. HUFF revolves around a psychiatrist trying to keep his life together in the face of patients who test his faith in himself (including one who commits suicide in his office), a controling mother (Blythe Danner - MEET THE PARENTS, FUTUREWORLD), a man-child best friend (Oliver Platt - THE IMPOSTERS, THE WEST WING - who, to the surprise of no one, nearly steals the show), a sensitive son (Anton Yelchin - ALPHA DOG), and a stressed-out wife (Paget Brewster - CRIMINAL MINDS). It's easy to be sucked in, there's a lot to love - sharp, funny dialogue plus fantastic acting (throw Swoosie Kurtz, Robert Forster, Lara Flynn Boyle, Annie Potts, Sharon Stone, and Tom Skeritt into the mix). But the show tantalizes without gelling. And then the season 1 finale overreaches so badly it almost becomes shark-jumping farce. This show makes you realize why both psychiatrists and shows about psychiatrists should perhaps forever be avoided. The story arcs into a scenario where Huff is tempted to "stray", and the way this supposedly highly-educated human being reacts to human nature is simply embarrassing...mirroring the fact that psychology is the only institutionalized branch of "learning" that tries to contort human beings into something we are absolutely not - monogamous. Here we are, thirty years after THE BOB NEWHART SHOW, and we're basically just as dishwater dumb when it comes to sex (on TV, anyway). Perhaps the show came together in season 2, but i may never know.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
John Jones
JOHN JONES
1964-2012
How is it possible that one of your dearest friends could die...and you don't find out until over half a year later?
No, neither John nor i were arctic explorers (but let's not kid ourselves...in this era of satellite communication, even those folk are only a dial away...hm, did i just say "dial"?). Nor were either of us a Guantanamo detainee, eliminating the only remaining plausible explanation.
But then, perhaps this isn't as improbable as it feels, in this land of staggering population densities, same-day contintental travel at the drop of a few thousand dimes, and an average of fourteen addresses per lifetime.
No, perhaps the amazing thing is that i found out at all. For in close to a decade of friendship, i never met a single other friend or acquaintance of John's, and he never met a single one of mine. How do you get news to someone that nobody but the deceased knew existed? I can only imagine assume that Kristen did a search of John's inbox to find any loose threads of his life.
Bless her.
John and i first met in a seedy little dive in Marrakesh...no wait, that was John Noonian Jones. Who were we talking about?
Reading the reminisces from his friends is a bit eye-opening. Not that he was so cherished, but that he was so, quite widely. I must inform Cynthia, however, that there's one error in her luminous remembrance - not ALL of John's friends were conscientious professionals. At least one of them was an aprofessional, dimestore buddha.
Another curious aspect to my long ignorance is that i was no stranger to his illness. I visited him several times at the hospital after his surgery. He asked me to run some errands, and perhaps some other business. As he enjoyed some of my writings, i'd looked forward to having him as a captive audience. He wanted to pay me for my visits, and i honestly can't remember whether i was able to dissuade him. I knew that it had always been important to him to be financially generous with me. I think he looked favorably upon my non-materialist life, and wanted to know i was cared for.
Another reason i went through the past half-year assuming he was fine, was that there was no feeling of death about him when we parted. It didn't occur to me to think anything of some unanswered e-mails - there had always been lapses in our talks. Plus, one aspect of being a two-cent thoreau is that we have a generally different relationship with time. We almost always know what decade it is, but anything more specific can get hazy. In my memory, i was sure i'd visited him at Sinai in the fall, but realize now it must have been earlier.
The subject of money harks back to how we first met - as client and coach. He hired me (and my extensive theater background) to improve his public speaking, an aspect of his life that had given him bouts of flop sweat. For several years, we met every month or two at Columbus Circle, for exercises in escalating mortification. Picture John flapping his arms and clucking like a chicken while doing laps around a busy public fountain, and you'll get the idea.
At a certain point though, i was clearly getting as much out of his company as he was getting from mine. The greatest thing we shared was a similar sense of humor - so very sweet and rare it is, to find someone who "gets" a very personal part of you. Perhaps my single greatest triumph in tickling him was a parody i wrote of a Chicago song:
http://unboughtsoul.blogspot.com/2011/12/turn-away.html
So we stayed in touch as friends. We were close to the same age. At some point, i began to take comfort in the thought that he would be there for most or all of my life.
And now there's a John-sized hole in me.
All too often, we ascribe a certain universality to how people react to death. But the difference in cultural attitudes toward death over the course of human history, is far more diverse than most of us imagine. Many cultures have defined a person's death not by their biological end, but by the moment when one passes from all memory. In that spirit, i dedicate these words to my friend John, and amend his life dates thusly:
JOHN JONES
1964-?
I've always imagined that i'd break the human record for longevity, which is 137 years. So settle in, sweet John. You may have business in this world for a long time to come.
1964-2012
How is it possible that one of your dearest friends could die...and you don't find out until over half a year later?
No, neither John nor i were arctic explorers (but let's not kid ourselves...in this era of satellite communication, even those folk are only a dial away...hm, did i just say "dial"?). Nor were either of us a Guantanamo detainee, eliminating the only remaining plausible explanation.
But then, perhaps this isn't as improbable as it feels, in this land of staggering population densities, same-day contintental travel at the drop of a few thousand dimes, and an average of fourteen addresses per lifetime.
No, perhaps the amazing thing is that i found out at all. For in close to a decade of friendship, i never met a single other friend or acquaintance of John's, and he never met a single one of mine. How do you get news to someone that nobody but the deceased knew existed? I can only imagine assume that Kristen did a search of John's inbox to find any loose threads of his life.
Bless her.
John and i first met in a seedy little dive in Marrakesh...no wait, that was John Noonian Jones. Who were we talking about?
Reading the reminisces from his friends is a bit eye-opening. Not that he was so cherished, but that he was so, quite widely. I must inform Cynthia, however, that there's one error in her luminous remembrance - not ALL of John's friends were conscientious professionals. At least one of them was an aprofessional, dimestore buddha.
Another curious aspect to my long ignorance is that i was no stranger to his illness. I visited him several times at the hospital after his surgery. He asked me to run some errands, and perhaps some other business. As he enjoyed some of my writings, i'd looked forward to having him as a captive audience. He wanted to pay me for my visits, and i honestly can't remember whether i was able to dissuade him. I knew that it had always been important to him to be financially generous with me. I think he looked favorably upon my non-materialist life, and wanted to know i was cared for.
Another reason i went through the past half-year assuming he was fine, was that there was no feeling of death about him when we parted. It didn't occur to me to think anything of some unanswered e-mails - there had always been lapses in our talks. Plus, one aspect of being a two-cent thoreau is that we have a generally different relationship with time. We almost always know what decade it is, but anything more specific can get hazy. In my memory, i was sure i'd visited him at Sinai in the fall, but realize now it must have been earlier.
The subject of money harks back to how we first met - as client and coach. He hired me (and my extensive theater background) to improve his public speaking, an aspect of his life that had given him bouts of flop sweat. For several years, we met every month or two at Columbus Circle, for exercises in escalating mortification. Picture John flapping his arms and clucking like a chicken while doing laps around a busy public fountain, and you'll get the idea.
At a certain point though, i was clearly getting as much out of his company as he was getting from mine. The greatest thing we shared was a similar sense of humor - so very sweet and rare it is, to find someone who "gets" a very personal part of you. Perhaps my single greatest triumph in tickling him was a parody i wrote of a Chicago song:
http://unboughtsoul.blogspot.com/2011/12/turn-away.html
So we stayed in touch as friends. We were close to the same age. At some point, i began to take comfort in the thought that he would be there for most or all of my life.
And now there's a John-sized hole in me.
All too often, we ascribe a certain universality to how people react to death. But the difference in cultural attitudes toward death over the course of human history, is far more diverse than most of us imagine. Many cultures have defined a person's death not by their biological end, but by the moment when one passes from all memory. In that spirit, i dedicate these words to my friend John, and amend his life dates thusly:
JOHN JONES
1964-?
I've always imagined that i'd break the human record for longevity, which is 137 years. So settle in, sweet John. You may have business in this world for a long time to come.
Monday, May 6, 2013
if you're young...
If you're young, you'll live to see...
1) The end of separate "best actor/best actress" movie awards.
2) The last execution.
3) The first female president.
4) The first asian president.
5) The first openly atheist president.
6) The first openly non-heterosexual president.
7) If we're verrrry lucky, 3-6 might be all rolled into one.
8) The last president.
9) The last prison.
10) The last pope.
11) The last lottery.
(Okay, i can't guarantee each and every one of these within that time frame. Prognostication is an inexact venture. But isn't it amazing to sit a child upon your knee and think about how many of these they'll witness?)
1) The end of separate "best actor/best actress" movie awards.
2) The last execution.
3) The first female president.
4) The first asian president.
5) The first openly atheist president.
6) The first openly non-heterosexual president.
7) If we're verrrry lucky, 3-6 might be all rolled into one.
8) The last president.
9) The last prison.
10) The last pope.
11) The last lottery.
(Okay, i can't guarantee each and every one of these within that time frame. Prognostication is an inexact venture. But isn't it amazing to sit a child upon your knee and think about how many of these they'll witness?)
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
what i ought
What i ought do
is love you
without question or pause
What i ought be
is loving thee
without measure or fear
What i ought render
without agenda
will let you be what you ought
is love you
without question or pause
What i ought be
is loving thee
without measure or fear
What i ought render
without agenda
will let you be what you ought
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