Will, Lynne, Bill, Jim, Big J, Ian, Edgar, Steve, Jeanette, Gloria, Ray and Rollo (in the Rollomobile). Guest appearances by Javier.
Hot outside and even hotter inside. The burning question of the evening was why Javier gave Ian an extra big dollop of cream on his desperately wanted ice-cream. More of that later.
Bill is busy, so the responsibility of recording the proceedings has gone, temporarily, to a reluctant Lynne. The last time she did something like this was when she was a cub reporter trying to make council minutes sound interesting. At least she now has exciting subject matter, very exciting, especially tonight (Thank you Ian).
Gloria arrived in a pretty top and a green pork pie shaped hat with a dusty pink rim. She was without her blue-tooth ear piece, but she was wearing a gold pin which said AKA 100. This, she explained, was not a reference to a birthday but a sorority pin. “We had our centenary last year.”
Bill told everyone that Lynne had knobbly knees. She gave the table a flash and Jeanette reassured her that her knees were nice. She simply had big dimples. Jeanette should know. In her career as a nurse she has seen thousands of naked knees.
Hearing the words knobbly knees got Ian talking to Bill about exotic British seaside knobbly knee contests. Strangely the non-Brits did not ask any questions.
Big Jay is just back from another European tour. In east Germany he performed at free afternoon concerts. He and Gloria, easily the oldest among us, sat side by side. Big Jay, who clutching his sax throws himself about the stage with wild abandon, and the vivacious Gloria (who enthusiastically embarks on lengthy road trips) talked about …aging bodies letting them down.
“Have you ever imagined yourself in an 80 –year-old body? asked a sun-kissed Jeanette later. She was the only one who had. Or who admitted it.
Will, weary from the drive from the annual Bronco Billy silent film festival in Niles, left early without paying his bill. Soon after he rang Bill from his car (Hope you pulled over Will) asking him to pick up the tab. This was only fair ’cos Will had picked up Bill’s tab recently when Bill exited the historic Hollywood Studio Bar and Grill in debt.
Will recommended the festival at which, he told us, Bob Birchard had been honored. Congratulations Bob.
Ray, who arrived last, said he had just seen Bob, our resident film historian, on Turner Classic Movies. Ray was in a saucy mood and on hearing that mail boxes were called pillar boxes in Britain inquired what female boxes were called.
Jim Dawson brought in copies of Sh-Boom which he used to edit. “I was the only white guy on staff and we made it as Street as possible,” he recalled. Inside was a picture of a bearded Jim looking like Edgar’s older brother. Even Edgar acknowledged the likeness. Is there something we should be told? Lots of undercurrents tonight.
Inside it is cold, then hot, then very cold. Lynne cannot grumble as usual about the air conditioning with Barbara, who along with Bobb is away. What a night to miss.
Lynne and Steve were on the same side of the health debate, volubly. Ian, in between them, covered his ears. He is pleased with the latest print of his new book but does not understand talk about dpi (dots per inch). He is not alone.
Ian now has a You Tube critic who calls him a wanker, and worse. But Ian also has a fan who likes his bottom. So it evens up.
Ian was not himself. But then that is Ian. He was still smarting at the way he always has to ask for his ice-cream when “it is part of my meal that I have paid for". And where was the drink he had ordered (white wine because it was cheaper than red)? Another table (“Christians,” said Ian dismissively) had already received their drinks even though they ordered later.
Javier and Ian locked antlers, full of retorts and hisses. Ian left. Never to return, he said. Fifteen minutes later he was back. He and Javier made up out of sight of the rest of us and he sat down to relish his specially topped-up ice-cream, plunging his spoon in deep. Rollo, who makes friends wherever he goes including tonight in the parking lot, had been left at home before the touching reunion. Too emotional for him, Ian had decided.
“I had to come back,” said Ian. Unable to go to sleep on a quarrel?
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
It was the first time I had to put on my driving glasses to pass my driving test.
I am tired of everyone in Southern California being so charitable.
You mean Republicans go to heaven?
If your head appears big it means your body is small.
It’s five past 12, we have to go soon. Oh I got that wrong it’s 10 past nine.
As we give welfare to disabled, maybe we should give money to Republicans.
Jimmy Ruffin needs a comeback song
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Rip, Ray and Rockabilly
Rip, Ray, Ian, Edgar, Lynne, Bill, Bobb, Barbara, Jim, Will, Joel, Art, Steve, Jeanette
Ian was still visibly shattered by a devastating snub from a group of his former fellow students at Trinity College, Dublin.
He said: "Maybe two years ago, my journalist friend Jeremy Lewis told me that several of people I thought were friends of mine at Trinity were putting together a book of reminiscences about their time at the college in the 1960s, which I'd written about many times. I was annoyed because they never asked me to contribute, and finally one of them who I'd known said they'd like something from me, so I just sent them one of my Letters from Lotusland where I'd written about my first day at Trinity.
"A year goes by and I get emails from them about the non-progress of the book, and I just ignored them. It was all organised by a bunch of amateurs, very much an English upper-class set, hunting, shooting, fishing, and I hadn't been part of them. But on Saturday I got an email from a chap in Dublin saying he'd seen a review of a book called Trinity Tales in the Irish Times. I thought I must be in it, so I wrote to Jeremy and he said, 'Alas, you're not,' but all these nobodies are. They turned me down! And the worst of it is, it's a beautifully produced book with 37 contributors - and I didn't make it. I feel humiliated. But I heard from Barry Humphries's assistant asking me to get in touch with them at Megastar Productions in North London. I'd rather have him as a pal than these snobs."
"You think that's bad," said Lynne, "I was at a social lunch once and I got told how to hold my knife and fork."
In what turned out to be a busy night for distinguished visitors, Rockabilly star Rip Masters was just back from playing in Nottingham, England - "I thought I liked Nottingham because it's the prostitution capital of England, but maybe because it's also the because gun capital. I thought most of the prostitutes had guns, so maybe they kinda combined the two - at least the ones I met did. It can be rough, though: they told me not to go down the local pub alone."
Rip reported "good Indian food, good Italian food, good English food. But they have great Indian food everywhere in England now."
"It's because of the Indians," said Ian.
"We went to a little town nearly Manchester," said Rip, "and found an Indian restaurant with a 20-page menu, and it's all great. And the pub food is just great too. I went there in 1980 and it was absolutely horrendous. It was very hard to get a good meal anywhere, but people have traveled more since then and they don't take crap any more. The English had 200 years to adulterate their food, but now it's recovering. They've gotten much better. I love England but no, I would never move there. I had a wonderful week on somebody else's expense. When I went to school in England, in Claygate, Surrey, I used to walk to school. They can't do that any more. It's a meaner world. It's the same way here."
Lynne and I reported on our first comedy class, at the Ice House on Sunday.
"It was very much an introductory session," said Lynne, "about a dozen of us, our teacher Bobbie Oliver explaining the rules most of the time and we each went up to the mike to talk about ourselves for a few minutes, not tell jokes. And it will end up with a graduation evening to which you're all invited.
"She wants everything original, no props, no gags, no playing characters, She was very hard on Robin Williams because he steals material - allegedly. We'll just be interested to see how far we go with it."
Jim asked: "Did the teacher tell you that one good topic is your mother in law?"
No.
Ian: you don't need a teacher to tell her what she told you, you just do it."
Jim added that it's about coming up with some kind of gimmick about yourself - which, said Rip, Some people have made a career out of.
Jim said: "One guy made a career out of 'Wanna buy a duck?'" (Joe Penner, born 11 November 1904, died 10 January 1941, a Hungarian-born American 1930s-era vaudeville, radio and film comedian. He was born Pintér József in Nagybecskerek, Hungary, now part of Serbia).
Ian didn't quite say "Wanna buy a book?" but he did produce a musty, brown-paged Penguin paperback edition of After The Ball, his iconoclastic history of pop music in the 20th century.
Ian recalled: "I used to deliver beer in Putney in south London - it was my first encounter with the working classes. I came across that English working-class mentality that we're not going to get any further so we'll do all we can to destroy the company we're working for - drinking on the job, petty criminal damage to spite their employer."
We were then joined by two more distinguished visitors: Joel Selvin, music critic of the San Francisco Chronicle, and musicologist and Phil Spector associate Art Fein, who runs the website www.sofein.com.
Joel's arrival prompted a strange story of a confrontation involving Ian in the garage under San Francisco's Union Square.
Ian was driving out of the garage, with Joel the passenger, but was trying to leave through the entrance. He encountered across a car coming the other way. Both got out of their cars and it looked to be heading for a fight, when the other man got in his car and backed off. Why? Because Ian had said: "I am fully armed."
As people began to leave, Steve and Jeanette were drawn further down the table and into the conversations. It is clear from Steve's blogs and letters that the undying admiration of President Obama is beginning to fray a little at the edges, particularly over health insurance. His equivocation over the Iranian election protests has bothered some on left and right.
We always knew that healthcare was going to be a tough one, and so it is proving.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
The flow is right - it's just that the dates are wrong.
You usually only see behinds like that in Britain or Africa
When I'm not here, you know, even more people come here
The black contribution to rock n roll is nearly zero.
I'm more literate than most English people you will meet.
You were forewarned, forearmed and foreskinned.
I like being told to be a good boy.
Spiders in England are getting bigger - they're this big! They say it's the central heating.
I've never seen such a quick volte-face in my life.
You know I'm a complete and utter mindreader, don't you?
I'm good on the gospels.
Kiss Me Deadly is one of my favorite films, even though I now know that it is also a hit song.
I think we ought to abolish junior highs and put the kids to work.
I'm not trying to put down blacks - well, maybe I am...
Ian was still visibly shattered by a devastating snub from a group of his former fellow students at Trinity College, Dublin.
He said: "Maybe two years ago, my journalist friend Jeremy Lewis told me that several of people I thought were friends of mine at Trinity were putting together a book of reminiscences about their time at the college in the 1960s, which I'd written about many times. I was annoyed because they never asked me to contribute, and finally one of them who I'd known said they'd like something from me, so I just sent them one of my Letters from Lotusland where I'd written about my first day at Trinity.
"A year goes by and I get emails from them about the non-progress of the book, and I just ignored them. It was all organised by a bunch of amateurs, very much an English upper-class set, hunting, shooting, fishing, and I hadn't been part of them. But on Saturday I got an email from a chap in Dublin saying he'd seen a review of a book called Trinity Tales in the Irish Times. I thought I must be in it, so I wrote to Jeremy and he said, 'Alas, you're not,' but all these nobodies are. They turned me down! And the worst of it is, it's a beautifully produced book with 37 contributors - and I didn't make it. I feel humiliated. But I heard from Barry Humphries's assistant asking me to get in touch with them at Megastar Productions in North London. I'd rather have him as a pal than these snobs."
"You think that's bad," said Lynne, "I was at a social lunch once and I got told how to hold my knife and fork."
In what turned out to be a busy night for distinguished visitors, Rockabilly star Rip Masters was just back from playing in Nottingham, England - "I thought I liked Nottingham because it's the prostitution capital of England, but maybe because it's also the because gun capital. I thought most of the prostitutes had guns, so maybe they kinda combined the two - at least the ones I met did. It can be rough, though: they told me not to go down the local pub alone."
Rip reported "good Indian food, good Italian food, good English food. But they have great Indian food everywhere in England now."
"It's because of the Indians," said Ian.
"We went to a little town nearly Manchester," said Rip, "and found an Indian restaurant with a 20-page menu, and it's all great. And the pub food is just great too. I went there in 1980 and it was absolutely horrendous. It was very hard to get a good meal anywhere, but people have traveled more since then and they don't take crap any more. The English had 200 years to adulterate their food, but now it's recovering. They've gotten much better. I love England but no, I would never move there. I had a wonderful week on somebody else's expense. When I went to school in England, in Claygate, Surrey, I used to walk to school. They can't do that any more. It's a meaner world. It's the same way here."
Lynne and I reported on our first comedy class, at the Ice House on Sunday.
"It was very much an introductory session," said Lynne, "about a dozen of us, our teacher Bobbie Oliver explaining the rules most of the time and we each went up to the mike to talk about ourselves for a few minutes, not tell jokes. And it will end up with a graduation evening to which you're all invited.
"She wants everything original, no props, no gags, no playing characters, She was very hard on Robin Williams because he steals material - allegedly. We'll just be interested to see how far we go with it."
Jim asked: "Did the teacher tell you that one good topic is your mother in law?"
No.
Ian: you don't need a teacher to tell her what she told you, you just do it."
Jim added that it's about coming up with some kind of gimmick about yourself - which, said Rip, Some people have made a career out of.
Jim said: "One guy made a career out of 'Wanna buy a duck?'" (Joe Penner, born 11 November 1904, died 10 January 1941, a Hungarian-born American 1930s-era vaudeville, radio and film comedian. He was born Pintér József in Nagybecskerek, Hungary, now part of Serbia).
Ian didn't quite say "Wanna buy a book?" but he did produce a musty, brown-paged Penguin paperback edition of After The Ball, his iconoclastic history of pop music in the 20th century.
Ian recalled: "I used to deliver beer in Putney in south London - it was my first encounter with the working classes. I came across that English working-class mentality that we're not going to get any further so we'll do all we can to destroy the company we're working for - drinking on the job, petty criminal damage to spite their employer."
We were then joined by two more distinguished visitors: Joel Selvin, music critic of the San Francisco Chronicle, and musicologist and Phil Spector associate Art Fein, who runs the website www.sofein.com.
Joel's arrival prompted a strange story of a confrontation involving Ian in the garage under San Francisco's Union Square.
Ian was driving out of the garage, with Joel the passenger, but was trying to leave through the entrance. He encountered across a car coming the other way. Both got out of their cars and it looked to be heading for a fight, when the other man got in his car and backed off. Why? Because Ian had said: "I am fully armed."
As people began to leave, Steve and Jeanette were drawn further down the table and into the conversations. It is clear from Steve's blogs and letters that the undying admiration of President Obama is beginning to fray a little at the edges, particularly over health insurance. His equivocation over the Iranian election protests has bothered some on left and right.
We always knew that healthcare was going to be a tough one, and so it is proving.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
The flow is right - it's just that the dates are wrong.
You usually only see behinds like that in Britain or Africa
When I'm not here, you know, even more people come here
The black contribution to rock n roll is nearly zero.
I'm more literate than most English people you will meet.
You were forewarned, forearmed and foreskinned.
I like being told to be a good boy.
Spiders in England are getting bigger - they're this big! They say it's the central heating.
I've never seen such a quick volte-face in my life.
You know I'm a complete and utter mindreader, don't you?
I'm good on the gospels.
Kiss Me Deadly is one of my favorite films, even though I now know that it is also a hit song.
I think we ought to abolish junior highs and put the kids to work.
I'm not trying to put down blacks - well, maybe I am...
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The mystery of Ian's ice cream
Ray, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Ian, Bobb, Barbara, Jim, Will, Glenn, Mary, Steve G
This diary entry is longer than before, because for the first time I used a digital recorder and so captured more of the scintillating conversation (and the crap too, but that's another story). Because of the greater length I have introduced subheadings so it is easier to see where one topic ends and another begins. There are also a lot more Caught on the Breeze lines.
As ever, all feedback gratefully received.
The evening began on a note of death and destruction. The violence after the LA Lakers' NBA championship win last night was roundly condemned, prompting me to recall how much worse it often is at English and Scottish soccer matches - particularly Rangers v Celtic in Glasgow. The odd thing about the Lakers looting and vandalism was that there were no opposition supporters there, as the championship-winning game had taken place in Florida. Soccer violence is usually a product of rival fans taunting one another, but the Lakers crowd didn't seem to need that needle to get them going. At least the oft-condemned LAPD was apparently a model of restraint.
David Carradine
David Carradine's death prompted Ray to recall that his buddy Paul Harper did a dozen Kung-Fu's with David Carradine. But the table was unsure whether the death was suicide, murder or accident.
According to Fox he bought a lot of bondage equipment just before he left for Thailand. Sounded like he was planning a bondage party - a one-in-a-bed romp! But he cannot have been doing that alone, can he? Maybe room service helped, then left? Or a hired accomplice? 'It'll take another year or so before we find out,' Lynne suggested.
'It doesn't have to be foul play, it can still be an accident,' said Edgar.
If you go to the edge of killing yourself, every so often it can go wrong.
People have died by putting plastic bags over their head. 'If you stretch it far enough, you can use a condom for the same thing!' Ray added.
Carradine's unfortunate end led to another review of the Phil Spector case. Ian said: 'I was talking to a lawyer who said Spector should have claimed Lana Clarkson was accidental death, then he'd have just got manslaughter. No one believed it was suicide.'
The missing ice cream that never was
Ian was complaining, as he often does, 'I haven't had my dessert - I've paid for it, you know, it's in the price, but I haven't had it.'
Just after he left for the loo, Javier served the missing confection.
Lynne said "Hide it, just to make him upset for ten seconds - Why? because I'm evil, and because it's fun!'
So Will took Ian's dessert and sat there with it in front of him, spoon in hand, as if it was his.
'Javier just gave it to me, that's what I'm going to say,' he declared.
'You'll have to claim you're the 100th customer tonight!' I offered.
Ian came back grumbling about the receptionist at the Caltech gym, who refuses to get Ian's name right.
'Have you always have trouble handling servants?' I asked.
'It's cultural snobbery,' Ian insisted. 'I just don't understand it. Now he just says "morning sir".'
Suddenly Ian saw Will with an ice cream in front of him and said, 'Javier simply will not get my dessert. Why didn't he get it to me?'
Will said you can have my one, I'm not eating it...
Ian was on the verge of stomping off to the kitchen when we all called him back - fearing fisticuffs - and Ian realized what had happened, and collapsed in a wide grin - 'You got me, I stand corrected.'
Bobb said 'It was the prankster here that set it up,' outing Lynne.
Mary added 'Lynne has a naughty sense of humor.'
Barbara declared that in future no one will ever be able to go to the loo.
That spun Lynne off into saying she was in 'KY Jelly mode', because someone had been served KY Jelly at a Daily Mail Christmas party in London years ago. But alcohol had been consumed on that occasion. Not like at Conrads. Not at all.
Some Like It Hot
Will, Mary, Lynne and Bill went to the Million Dollar Theater on Saturday to see a 50th anniversary showing of Some Like It Hot - originally the title of a movie starring Bob Hope.
Tony Curtis, all of 84, was on stage and endured some banal French questioning in order to tell the stories he wanted to anyway, about Monroe and about filming on location.
Ian said 'I think it's a perfect film, I never get tired of it.' Will said he saw things in it on Saturday he didn't remember seeing.
Are they waiting for Curtis to die to do a remake? I wonder. The sex scene between Curtis and Monroe is so unrealistic, because he says he can't make love and all they do is kiss! They'd have to update that.
Narcissistic movie stars
Ian told the story of Barbara Hutton showing Cary Grant some of her priceless porcelain behind glass and he seemed surprisingly interested in it. 'Truth was that he had caught sight of his reflection - I do it myself. Grant was supposed to be gay, but actors are so into themselves they don't care who they do it with.'
Maybe we'd better give Rollo a quick call in case he gets a surprise visit!
Well, come to a British public school, said Ian in one of his recurring themes.
'Cary Grant told me to get that microphone out of his face, at a party I'd been invited to by Mae West,' said Ray.
By today's standards Monroe is fat in SLIH. Ian and Will agreed that actors didn't look toned, except for a few such as Curtis and Burt Lancaster, who was quite vain.
Conversation turned to the artificial names, such as Rock Hudson, bestowed by agents on their clients. Then it turned rude.
Jim mentioned one of his favorites, Seymour Butts.
Ray cackled over The Tiger's Revenge by Claud Balls
Bill innocently contributed The KO Kid by Esau Stars
That reminded Will he was going to see John Thomas, who is not cockney rhyming slang - unlike Hampton (Wick) and Berkeley (Hunt), Ian reminded us.
A rival salon
Ian also reported on another salon he has been to, in one of Pasadena's smarter districts, given by Kenton Nelson, a highly prosperous Southern California landscape painter, in his Pasadena house - 'he owns the whole street, with a square at the end'. I've only been to one, beautiful house, lovely food laid out, there were film directors, trailer makers, musicians there last time. The trailer man said he'd like to use one of my songs. You never know, but it's worth doing, maybe something will come of it in five years' time. Anyway tomorrow night I'll be stuttering like mad, which I always do when I've got to be modest and I think there's a chance of some work! I've had this all my life, and it's all part of selling yourself.'
'I've known so many talented people turn up in this town,' said Will, 'and leave because they couldn't get a meeting with anybody.'
To which Ian replied: 'But you've got to have the drive, Will, and I've seen you, you can be very determined. It's been true of my first book, my first record, I got them published because I kept battering on doors. You get lots of refusals too, but you've got to keep at it.'
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
He called me 'green-eyed Mexican lady'
I wrote a letter to the Red Ryder ranch when I was 12, but I chickened out and never mailed it. I covered it with deerskin.
If there had been email earlier in my life I'd have kept in touch with many more people
When I die I'd much rather be awake
Janet's gone to Australia: I feel sorry for the Australians, quite frankly
Fancy making a million for overdubbing - we all overdub!
So in a conjugal visit at a halfway house, do you only get to shake hands? No tongues!
It was a case of a beautiful leading actress being, well, a beautiful leading actress.
I always feel at home on a Monday night
There's a worship of American culture, like rockabilly.
Leaving a good tip is like picking in high cotton
I don't mind death, it's dying that bothers me
Carlos is singing - something must be wrong
Have you heard the song I'm in Love with a Girl on Death Row - now there's a short story
If I murder a hippy, will you come to my defence? I hate hippies.
She took them by storm - or by surprise
A fake psychic - isn't that a redundancy?
I've got one side of me pushing and the other side saying 'Don't push'
Everything sounds better in Latin.
Chester Gould sent you a signed autograph of Pogo? That would be great, if Chester Gould drew a picture of Pogo looking like Dick Tracey
A character in my new book has rigged up twitter to send a tweet every time he farts: 'I tweet therefore I am'
This diary entry is longer than before, because for the first time I used a digital recorder and so captured more of the scintillating conversation (and the crap too, but that's another story). Because of the greater length I have introduced subheadings so it is easier to see where one topic ends and another begins. There are also a lot more Caught on the Breeze lines.
As ever, all feedback gratefully received.
The evening began on a note of death and destruction. The violence after the LA Lakers' NBA championship win last night was roundly condemned, prompting me to recall how much worse it often is at English and Scottish soccer matches - particularly Rangers v Celtic in Glasgow. The odd thing about the Lakers looting and vandalism was that there were no opposition supporters there, as the championship-winning game had taken place in Florida. Soccer violence is usually a product of rival fans taunting one another, but the Lakers crowd didn't seem to need that needle to get them going. At least the oft-condemned LAPD was apparently a model of restraint.
David Carradine
David Carradine's death prompted Ray to recall that his buddy Paul Harper did a dozen Kung-Fu's with David Carradine. But the table was unsure whether the death was suicide, murder or accident.
According to Fox he bought a lot of bondage equipment just before he left for Thailand. Sounded like he was planning a bondage party - a one-in-a-bed romp! But he cannot have been doing that alone, can he? Maybe room service helped, then left? Or a hired accomplice? 'It'll take another year or so before we find out,' Lynne suggested.
'It doesn't have to be foul play, it can still be an accident,' said Edgar.
If you go to the edge of killing yourself, every so often it can go wrong.
People have died by putting plastic bags over their head. 'If you stretch it far enough, you can use a condom for the same thing!' Ray added.
Carradine's unfortunate end led to another review of the Phil Spector case. Ian said: 'I was talking to a lawyer who said Spector should have claimed Lana Clarkson was accidental death, then he'd have just got manslaughter. No one believed it was suicide.'
The missing ice cream that never was
Ian was complaining, as he often does, 'I haven't had my dessert - I've paid for it, you know, it's in the price, but I haven't had it.'
Just after he left for the loo, Javier served the missing confection.
Lynne said "Hide it, just to make him upset for ten seconds - Why? because I'm evil, and because it's fun!'
So Will took Ian's dessert and sat there with it in front of him, spoon in hand, as if it was his.
'Javier just gave it to me, that's what I'm going to say,' he declared.
'You'll have to claim you're the 100th customer tonight!' I offered.
Ian came back grumbling about the receptionist at the Caltech gym, who refuses to get Ian's name right.
'Have you always have trouble handling servants?' I asked.
'It's cultural snobbery,' Ian insisted. 'I just don't understand it. Now he just says "morning sir".'
Suddenly Ian saw Will with an ice cream in front of him and said, 'Javier simply will not get my dessert. Why didn't he get it to me?'
Will said you can have my one, I'm not eating it...
Ian was on the verge of stomping off to the kitchen when we all called him back - fearing fisticuffs - and Ian realized what had happened, and collapsed in a wide grin - 'You got me, I stand corrected.'
Bobb said 'It was the prankster here that set it up,' outing Lynne.
Mary added 'Lynne has a naughty sense of humor.'
Barbara declared that in future no one will ever be able to go to the loo.
That spun Lynne off into saying she was in 'KY Jelly mode', because someone had been served KY Jelly at a Daily Mail Christmas party in London years ago. But alcohol had been consumed on that occasion. Not like at Conrads. Not at all.
Some Like It Hot
Will, Mary, Lynne and Bill went to the Million Dollar Theater on Saturday to see a 50th anniversary showing of Some Like It Hot - originally the title of a movie starring Bob Hope.
Tony Curtis, all of 84, was on stage and endured some banal French questioning in order to tell the stories he wanted to anyway, about Monroe and about filming on location.
Ian said 'I think it's a perfect film, I never get tired of it.' Will said he saw things in it on Saturday he didn't remember seeing.
Are they waiting for Curtis to die to do a remake? I wonder. The sex scene between Curtis and Monroe is so unrealistic, because he says he can't make love and all they do is kiss! They'd have to update that.
Narcissistic movie stars
Ian told the story of Barbara Hutton showing Cary Grant some of her priceless porcelain behind glass and he seemed surprisingly interested in it. 'Truth was that he had caught sight of his reflection - I do it myself. Grant was supposed to be gay, but actors are so into themselves they don't care who they do it with.'
Maybe we'd better give Rollo a quick call in case he gets a surprise visit!
Well, come to a British public school, said Ian in one of his recurring themes.
'Cary Grant told me to get that microphone out of his face, at a party I'd been invited to by Mae West,' said Ray.
By today's standards Monroe is fat in SLIH. Ian and Will agreed that actors didn't look toned, except for a few such as Curtis and Burt Lancaster, who was quite vain.
Conversation turned to the artificial names, such as Rock Hudson, bestowed by agents on their clients. Then it turned rude.
Jim mentioned one of his favorites, Seymour Butts.
Ray cackled over The Tiger's Revenge by Claud Balls
Bill innocently contributed The KO Kid by Esau Stars
That reminded Will he was going to see John Thomas, who is not cockney rhyming slang - unlike Hampton (Wick) and Berkeley (Hunt), Ian reminded us.
A rival salon
Ian also reported on another salon he has been to, in one of Pasadena's smarter districts, given by Kenton Nelson, a highly prosperous Southern California landscape painter, in his Pasadena house - 'he owns the whole street, with a square at the end'. I've only been to one, beautiful house, lovely food laid out, there were film directors, trailer makers, musicians there last time. The trailer man said he'd like to use one of my songs. You never know, but it's worth doing, maybe something will come of it in five years' time. Anyway tomorrow night I'll be stuttering like mad, which I always do when I've got to be modest and I think there's a chance of some work! I've had this all my life, and it's all part of selling yourself.'
'I've known so many talented people turn up in this town,' said Will, 'and leave because they couldn't get a meeting with anybody.'
To which Ian replied: 'But you've got to have the drive, Will, and I've seen you, you can be very determined. It's been true of my first book, my first record, I got them published because I kept battering on doors. You get lots of refusals too, but you've got to keep at it.'
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
He called me 'green-eyed Mexican lady'
I wrote a letter to the Red Ryder ranch when I was 12, but I chickened out and never mailed it. I covered it with deerskin.
If there had been email earlier in my life I'd have kept in touch with many more people
When I die I'd much rather be awake
Janet's gone to Australia: I feel sorry for the Australians, quite frankly
Fancy making a million for overdubbing - we all overdub!
So in a conjugal visit at a halfway house, do you only get to shake hands? No tongues!
It was a case of a beautiful leading actress being, well, a beautiful leading actress.
I always feel at home on a Monday night
There's a worship of American culture, like rockabilly.
Leaving a good tip is like picking in high cotton
I don't mind death, it's dying that bothers me
Carlos is singing - something must be wrong
Have you heard the song I'm in Love with a Girl on Death Row - now there's a short story
If I murder a hippy, will you come to my defence? I hate hippies.
She took them by storm - or by surprise
A fake psychic - isn't that a redundancy?
I've got one side of me pushing and the other side saying 'Don't push'
Everything sounds better in Latin.
Chester Gould sent you a signed autograph of Pogo? That would be great, if Chester Gould drew a picture of Pogo looking like Dick Tracey
A character in my new book has rigged up twitter to send a tweet every time he farts: 'I tweet therefore I am'
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The bubbling breeze
Bobb, Barbara, Ian, Will, Nancy, Bill, Lynne, Edgar, Jim, Jeanette, Steve L, Bob
The Diner Diarist is back from the land where the nearest thing to a diner is the sort of low-grade cafe known evocatively - and accurately - as a greasy spoon. So it was a relief to return to the Conrads embrace and a bigger turnout than some of us expected on Memorial Day. You'd think we didn't have homes to go to.
It was an unusual evening, in that there were few major conversational topics, give or take the regular political analysis from Bob and Steve's end of the table, but a record number of entries for Caught on the Breeze.
I tried to explain that the LA Times hasn't really captured the full implication of the House of Commons expenses scandal, which could bring down the government and replace it with a cabinet of showbiz celebrities - anyone, really, who hasn't been caught with their fingers in the till. Anarchy is closer than most Americans appreciate. But, in true Brit style, it could all fizzle out and the LA Times will be justified for taking a laidback attitude. Gordon Brown hopes so, anyway.
Will reluctantly celebrated his birthday which, as many of us have come to realize, is an extremely movable feast. But Nancy saw to it that a candle-topped cake was produced by Javier with due ceremony.
But this week the stage belongs to the one-liners:
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
What do you call an Italian suppository? An innuendo.
Nancy said it was the third best show we had done. Thanks, Nancy.
It's strain F for 'I have the flu'
Alec Guinness: isn't he the nice guy with the forelock?
I find Dickens really quite frightening
They said 'Let's sing happy birthday' and I said 'What key?'
You've been liberated, Bobb!
I like it up this end of the table, I really do
Beverly Hills people keep their valets in the Valley
I can't wait to die - every day. And I hate Waiting for Godot
This so-called afterlife had better be good, or else
Give me anything with Bugs Bunny in it.
She looked great, when the light went down
This is a restaurant, after all
Does your mother put your tacos in the blender? So swallow your pills!
Ass me another
The Diner Diarist is back from the land where the nearest thing to a diner is the sort of low-grade cafe known evocatively - and accurately - as a greasy spoon. So it was a relief to return to the Conrads embrace and a bigger turnout than some of us expected on Memorial Day. You'd think we didn't have homes to go to.
It was an unusual evening, in that there were few major conversational topics, give or take the regular political analysis from Bob and Steve's end of the table, but a record number of entries for Caught on the Breeze.
I tried to explain that the LA Times hasn't really captured the full implication of the House of Commons expenses scandal, which could bring down the government and replace it with a cabinet of showbiz celebrities - anyone, really, who hasn't been caught with their fingers in the till. Anarchy is closer than most Americans appreciate. But, in true Brit style, it could all fizzle out and the LA Times will be justified for taking a laidback attitude. Gordon Brown hopes so, anyway.
Will reluctantly celebrated his birthday which, as many of us have come to realize, is an extremely movable feast. But Nancy saw to it that a candle-topped cake was produced by Javier with due ceremony.
But this week the stage belongs to the one-liners:
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
What do you call an Italian suppository? An innuendo.
Nancy said it was the third best show we had done. Thanks, Nancy.
It's strain F for 'I have the flu'
Alec Guinness: isn't he the nice guy with the forelock?
I find Dickens really quite frightening
They said 'Let's sing happy birthday' and I said 'What key?'
You've been liberated, Bobb!
I like it up this end of the table, I really do
Beverly Hills people keep their valets in the Valley
I can't wait to die - every day. And I hate Waiting for Godot
This so-called afterlife had better be good, or else
Give me anything with Bugs Bunny in it.
She looked great, when the light went down
This is a restaurant, after all
Does your mother put your tacos in the blender? So swallow your pills!
Ass me another
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
No hugs from me!
Bill, Lynne, Bobb, Barbara, Will, Edgar, Jim, Ray, Andy
It was a busy weekend for this week's rather exclusive gathering, so early conversation explored what everyone had been up to.
Most had been to the Vitaphone Varieties at the Billy Wilder theater on Wilshire on Saturday night, which seems to have been a fascinating show. There are apparently hundreds of 1920s variety acts recorded on film, in one take just as if in performance, leaving an amazing record of a bygone era. The lassoist who kept the rope spinning for ten minutes seemed to impress most. Mary Mallory says he was Tex McLeod, a Texan with a Scottish father and a Brazilian mother. I expect he was fond of a shot of whisky in his coffee...
Lynne, Will and I went with Nancy to her condo in the Colorado mountains, which involved 36 hours' driving but the reward was spectacular scenery and two trips to Peggy Sue's 50s diner in Yermo CA. The purpose was to attend an amateur melodrama in the 1890s village of Silver Plume, to help raise funds to keep the original buildings standing. In between we managed a stroll round the delightful ski town of Frisco and took turns to stand in the one-time jail.
Jim and Mary Katherine went to the UCLA book fair, which I think Mary Mallory was intending to go to as well (let me know if you did, Mary). Gore Vidal told one hopeful "If you have to ask how to write you're not a writer", but Jim got Joe Wambaugh to autograph his latest crime novel with the message "Give Ian my best wishes".
While I was wishing I could have been in three places at once over the weekend, Barbara led calls for a Conrads wish list - things we'd like to see on the menu, like caffeine-free diet coke, sprite and root beer (Barbara) and veggie curry, chilli and moussaca (Edgar, Will, Lynne).
Meanwhile, Edgar and I quietly speculated on how a Mexican-run diner like Conrads will survive the swine flu epidemic, if it really takes hold. Monday nights might even have to move. Let's hope not.
Last week I ran a 'Caught on the Breeze' about not hugging except during sex - which, not entirely coincidentally, chimes with a remark Ian made to Barbara about not having to hug during his recent theatrical run (on the contrary, he was complaining that the actors snubbed him and the rest of the band).
But that got Barbara asking everyone whether they liked being hugged. The answers were varied, and not entirely enthusiastic. Maybe no one wanted to advertise - as it was I said I didn't mind and suddenly found Ray grasping me from behind warmly by the throat. It's all right, Ray, don't feel obliged to hug me, I won't hold it against you - or at least, I'll try not to.
We decided it was a class thing, with people from humble backgrounds and/or from the north of their homelands being less likely to hug than affluent southerners. All theories on a postcard, please.
Jim has not yet been able to see Phil Spector in jail yet, as visits are strictly rationed, but he has heard from Rachelle that he is being treated well and his 23 hours a day solitary confinement are regularly broken up by visits from his lawyers. Hate to think how he'll feel if he gets an 18 stretch and the appeal fails, though.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
I'm thinking of doing a popup version of Fart Book 3
Did you know that Dietrich = diet rich?
Yes, and Therapist = the rapist
I know Howdy Doody's birthday
They didn't have to wear a whole lot of make up in those days - men or women
The magic period lasted only that long
Rock Hudson had all these wild parties up from where I lived, then I realized everyone there were men
Cliff can't be gay - he tours with Helen Shapiro!
It was a busy weekend for this week's rather exclusive gathering, so early conversation explored what everyone had been up to.
Most had been to the Vitaphone Varieties at the Billy Wilder theater on Wilshire on Saturday night, which seems to have been a fascinating show. There are apparently hundreds of 1920s variety acts recorded on film, in one take just as if in performance, leaving an amazing record of a bygone era. The lassoist who kept the rope spinning for ten minutes seemed to impress most. Mary Mallory says he was Tex McLeod, a Texan with a Scottish father and a Brazilian mother. I expect he was fond of a shot of whisky in his coffee...
Lynne, Will and I went with Nancy to her condo in the Colorado mountains, which involved 36 hours' driving but the reward was spectacular scenery and two trips to Peggy Sue's 50s diner in Yermo CA. The purpose was to attend an amateur melodrama in the 1890s village of Silver Plume, to help raise funds to keep the original buildings standing. In between we managed a stroll round the delightful ski town of Frisco and took turns to stand in the one-time jail.
Jim and Mary Katherine went to the UCLA book fair, which I think Mary Mallory was intending to go to as well (let me know if you did, Mary). Gore Vidal told one hopeful "If you have to ask how to write you're not a writer", but Jim got Joe Wambaugh to autograph his latest crime novel with the message "Give Ian my best wishes".
While I was wishing I could have been in three places at once over the weekend, Barbara led calls for a Conrads wish list - things we'd like to see on the menu, like caffeine-free diet coke, sprite and root beer (Barbara) and veggie curry, chilli and moussaca (Edgar, Will, Lynne).
Meanwhile, Edgar and I quietly speculated on how a Mexican-run diner like Conrads will survive the swine flu epidemic, if it really takes hold. Monday nights might even have to move. Let's hope not.
Last week I ran a 'Caught on the Breeze' about not hugging except during sex - which, not entirely coincidentally, chimes with a remark Ian made to Barbara about not having to hug during his recent theatrical run (on the contrary, he was complaining that the actors snubbed him and the rest of the band).
But that got Barbara asking everyone whether they liked being hugged. The answers were varied, and not entirely enthusiastic. Maybe no one wanted to advertise - as it was I said I didn't mind and suddenly found Ray grasping me from behind warmly by the throat. It's all right, Ray, don't feel obliged to hug me, I won't hold it against you - or at least, I'll try not to.
We decided it was a class thing, with people from humble backgrounds and/or from the north of their homelands being less likely to hug than affluent southerners. All theories on a postcard, please.
Jim has not yet been able to see Phil Spector in jail yet, as visits are strictly rationed, but he has heard from Rachelle that he is being treated well and his 23 hours a day solitary confinement are regularly broken up by visits from his lawyers. Hate to think how he'll feel if he gets an 18 stretch and the appeal fails, though.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
I'm thinking of doing a popup version of Fart Book 3
Did you know that Dietrich = diet rich?
Yes, and Therapist = the rapist
I know Howdy Doody's birthday
They didn't have to wear a whole lot of make up in those days - men or women
The magic period lasted only that long
Rock Hudson had all these wild parties up from where I lived, then I realized everyone there were men
Cliff can't be gay - he tours with Helen Shapiro!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Book signing
Will, Bobb, Barbara, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Libby, Jim, Ian, Mary, Bob, Ray, Glenn, Joan, Andy
We are now in that limbo, film-festwise, between the noir season (yes, I do literally have the t-shirt) and the glorious prospect of Cinecon.
While Bob becomes more taciturn than ever at the prospect of being buttonholed for free tickets, we punters can look back on a noir season that was more eccentric than ever. But it was so successful that plans are afoot to stage two seasons a year. Presumably that means that the definition of 'film noir' will be stretched even further than it was this time in an effort to fill screen space. About all that linked the latest crop was that they were in monochrome, although the last night was possibly fit to stand comparison with any: a Paul Stewart double bill of Walk Softly, Stranger and Chicago Syndicate. In the first Stewart supports Joseph Cotten as a thinking thief whose perfect crime is foiled by the Stewart character's, well, character weakness.
One idea for future noir seasons: a feature of that era is that nearly everyone smokes, so why not get a license to let the audience smoke. Then we'd seen the films through the sort of haze the directors go to such lengths to create.
Lynne, Ian and I were still feeling the after-effects of a visit to the Academy last Friday to see Fellini 8-1/2 (clever chap that Fellini: no one talks about Lean's Lawrence of Arabia or Hitchcock's Psycho as if they were the titles of those films).
We watched it in true Fellini style. After a mishap (leaving my keys in the car door) I got separated from the other two and consequently saw what seems to have been an entirely different movie. They nearly walked out. I thought it was about 40 minutes too long, but enjoyed seeing which bits every other director had subsequently pinched. I'm sure Danny Boyle (Susan's secret son?) is indebted to Fellini for having the Slumdog boy drop into the latrine. It seems Fellini-ish somehow, just as every other line in Hamlet is now a cliche.
Slipping back to old technology, our gathering is turning out to be extraordinarily fecund, if Jim will pardon the lack of pun. First there was his definitive account of Angel's Flight, set to be a smash hit if only they'll get the tiny railroad running again. Now he has followed that with Motherfucker, another tome after which there is nothing left to say.
Meanwhile, Ian struggles with the production and design difficulties of giving his collection of Lotusland musings the literary environment they so richly deserve. Our very own James Joyce seems determined to turn Altadena into Dublin with himself as Leopold Bloom. Rollo is on his guard. It will, I'm sure, be the toast of LA well before my maiden attempt at fiction bursts on the west coast literary scene. But that's another story for another Monday night.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
I don't think I'm going to risk Fellini again
This book is my last gasp
The back of my legs still hurt from all that walking
Susan Boyle should be banned
We are now in that limbo, film-festwise, between the noir season (yes, I do literally have the t-shirt) and the glorious prospect of Cinecon.
While Bob becomes more taciturn than ever at the prospect of being buttonholed for free tickets, we punters can look back on a noir season that was more eccentric than ever. But it was so successful that plans are afoot to stage two seasons a year. Presumably that means that the definition of 'film noir' will be stretched even further than it was this time in an effort to fill screen space. About all that linked the latest crop was that they were in monochrome, although the last night was possibly fit to stand comparison with any: a Paul Stewart double bill of Walk Softly, Stranger and Chicago Syndicate. In the first Stewart supports Joseph Cotten as a thinking thief whose perfect crime is foiled by the Stewart character's, well, character weakness.
One idea for future noir seasons: a feature of that era is that nearly everyone smokes, so why not get a license to let the audience smoke. Then we'd seen the films through the sort of haze the directors go to such lengths to create.
Lynne, Ian and I were still feeling the after-effects of a visit to the Academy last Friday to see Fellini 8-1/2 (clever chap that Fellini: no one talks about Lean's Lawrence of Arabia or Hitchcock's Psycho as if they were the titles of those films).
We watched it in true Fellini style. After a mishap (leaving my keys in the car door) I got separated from the other two and consequently saw what seems to have been an entirely different movie. They nearly walked out. I thought it was about 40 minutes too long, but enjoyed seeing which bits every other director had subsequently pinched. I'm sure Danny Boyle (Susan's secret son?) is indebted to Fellini for having the Slumdog boy drop into the latrine. It seems Fellini-ish somehow, just as every other line in Hamlet is now a cliche.
Slipping back to old technology, our gathering is turning out to be extraordinarily fecund, if Jim will pardon the lack of pun. First there was his definitive account of Angel's Flight, set to be a smash hit if only they'll get the tiny railroad running again. Now he has followed that with Motherfucker, another tome after which there is nothing left to say.
Meanwhile, Ian struggles with the production and design difficulties of giving his collection of Lotusland musings the literary environment they so richly deserve. Our very own James Joyce seems determined to turn Altadena into Dublin with himself as Leopold Bloom. Rollo is on his guard. It will, I'm sure, be the toast of LA well before my maiden attempt at fiction bursts on the west coast literary scene. But that's another story for another Monday night.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
I don't think I'm going to risk Fellini again
This book is my last gasp
The back of my legs still hurt from all that walking
Susan Boyle should be banned
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Film noir and female anger
April 6
Ian, Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Big Jay McNeely, Steve L, Jeanette, Andy, Bob, Steve
A rare appearance from Big Jay McNeely who, as ever, sat there Sphinx-like surveying the regular chatter and lending an air of mystery and distinction to the evening.
Most of us had been to the first weekend of the current Film Noir season at the Egyptian, so plenty of opinions bounced around the table. Everyone seemed to enjoy the offerings but no one was overwhelmingly impressed. Jim wondered whether the organizers were beginning to scrape the bottom of the barrel after 11 years, reflecting an email debate involving Bill, Mary and Will over whether some of this season's films really are noir.
That of course depends on how you define the genre. The Foundation leaves it to Eddie Muller's "vivid co-mingling of lost innocence, doomed romanticism, hard-edged cynicism, desperate desire, and shadowy sexuality" to express its view. Whether the enjoyable Fly-By-Night, shown last Friday, fits all those requirements is doubtful. Will and Jim certainly didn't think that Ray Milland's devilish title role in Alias Nick Beal was more than an accomplished decoration to what was essentially a study of how a politician can be corrupted by the prospect of power, rather than true noir.
It would be interesting, though, so see whether contemporary audiences saw as many inconsistencies in plot and continuity as our group did, Maybe in the 1940s and 1950s they were more grateful and therefore more willing to make allowances. But Will pointed out that his parents thought when it was released that West Side Story went too far in straining credulity with its dancing, prancing gangsters. So they weren't all saps.
The assessment of the weekend was a little chippy, partly because of the relentless boosterising tone of the nightly introductions to the films - even the pair of B movies shown on Saturday. Maybe the noir season format needs rejuvenating - with regular injections of Angel's Flight, if Jim has any say in the matter.
Discussion of the devil took us through Lucifer and the Da Vinci Code to reincarnation, which Steve Lamb dismissed as pointless. That does assume that we know what the point could be, whether there is a God and whether that God ever goes in for pointless pursuits. I can think of plenty of pointless people, but then the poet William Cowper did ask us to accept that God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform, adding: 'His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a better taste, But sweet will be the flower.' I suspect though that this is not the sort of sentiment that wins enthusiastic nods of approval in the Coffee Gallery, or even on an Altadena omnibus. What is the man on the Altadena omnibus thinking - now there's a subject.
In saying that, I did not of course intend to demean or disparage in any way the often vociferous views of Altadena's female population, who are nevertheless the living embodiment of Lynne's assertion that women are not allowed to get angry in the same way men are.
'Women's voices rise when they are angry,' said Lynne, 'then men call them hysterical or tell them to calm down. They don't often tell other men to calm down.'
But if homo Altadena has an ounce of sapiens in his head, he instantly falls silent when his mate is launching forth on the many injustices still meted out to women, even after the glorious flowering of no fewer than 77 sunrises under the bountiful and omniscient Obama.
Take snoring. It is a well-known fact, especially to anyone living north of Pasadena, that women simply do not snore. Men, however, do it all the time, particularly after a certain age or after ingesting a certain quantity of alcohol. Penalty: exile, possibly for life.
Then there's housework. Men simply don't do enough of it. However much they do. This is confirmed by the Financial Times, no less, as reported by the fragrant Lucy Kellaway should you be tempted to Google it. Penalty: too many to mention.
At that we left Javier and his male assistant to clear the table.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
There was no jazz in The Jazz Age- I saw to that
A rattlesnake almost got me today
Standards? What standards?
It seems like the 70s were a forgotten decade
If writing isn't consistent, civilization goes
In a previous life I was a carpenter
Everything evens out - in the bed and at the dinner table
Ian, Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Big Jay McNeely, Steve L, Jeanette, Andy, Bob, Steve
A rare appearance from Big Jay McNeely who, as ever, sat there Sphinx-like surveying the regular chatter and lending an air of mystery and distinction to the evening.
Most of us had been to the first weekend of the current Film Noir season at the Egyptian, so plenty of opinions bounced around the table. Everyone seemed to enjoy the offerings but no one was overwhelmingly impressed. Jim wondered whether the organizers were beginning to scrape the bottom of the barrel after 11 years, reflecting an email debate involving Bill, Mary and Will over whether some of this season's films really are noir.
That of course depends on how you define the genre. The Foundation leaves it to Eddie Muller's "vivid co-mingling of lost innocence, doomed romanticism, hard-edged cynicism, desperate desire, and shadowy sexuality" to express its view. Whether the enjoyable Fly-By-Night, shown last Friday, fits all those requirements is doubtful. Will and Jim certainly didn't think that Ray Milland's devilish title role in Alias Nick Beal was more than an accomplished decoration to what was essentially a study of how a politician can be corrupted by the prospect of power, rather than true noir.
It would be interesting, though, so see whether contemporary audiences saw as many inconsistencies in plot and continuity as our group did, Maybe in the 1940s and 1950s they were more grateful and therefore more willing to make allowances. But Will pointed out that his parents thought when it was released that West Side Story went too far in straining credulity with its dancing, prancing gangsters. So they weren't all saps.
The assessment of the weekend was a little chippy, partly because of the relentless boosterising tone of the nightly introductions to the films - even the pair of B movies shown on Saturday. Maybe the noir season format needs rejuvenating - with regular injections of Angel's Flight, if Jim has any say in the matter.
Discussion of the devil took us through Lucifer and the Da Vinci Code to reincarnation, which Steve Lamb dismissed as pointless. That does assume that we know what the point could be, whether there is a God and whether that God ever goes in for pointless pursuits. I can think of plenty of pointless people, but then the poet William Cowper did ask us to accept that God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform, adding: 'His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a better taste, But sweet will be the flower.' I suspect though that this is not the sort of sentiment that wins enthusiastic nods of approval in the Coffee Gallery, or even on an Altadena omnibus. What is the man on the Altadena omnibus thinking - now there's a subject.
In saying that, I did not of course intend to demean or disparage in any way the often vociferous views of Altadena's female population, who are nevertheless the living embodiment of Lynne's assertion that women are not allowed to get angry in the same way men are.
'Women's voices rise when they are angry,' said Lynne, 'then men call them hysterical or tell them to calm down. They don't often tell other men to calm down.'
But if homo Altadena has an ounce of sapiens in his head, he instantly falls silent when his mate is launching forth on the many injustices still meted out to women, even after the glorious flowering of no fewer than 77 sunrises under the bountiful and omniscient Obama.
Take snoring. It is a well-known fact, especially to anyone living north of Pasadena, that women simply do not snore. Men, however, do it all the time, particularly after a certain age or after ingesting a certain quantity of alcohol. Penalty: exile, possibly for life.
Then there's housework. Men simply don't do enough of it. However much they do. This is confirmed by the Financial Times, no less, as reported by the fragrant Lucy Kellaway should you be tempted to Google it. Penalty: too many to mention.
At that we left Javier and his male assistant to clear the table.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
There was no jazz in The Jazz Age- I saw to that
A rattlesnake almost got me today
Standards? What standards?
It seems like the 70s were a forgotten decade
If writing isn't consistent, civilization goes
In a previous life I was a carpenter
Everything evens out - in the bed and at the dinner table
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