Present: Will, Bill & Lynne, Edgar, Ben, Steve & Jeanette, Jim, Big Jay, Andy
In a low-key kind of way, this Monday's fairly select gathering ended up discussing song - or at least that's what I heard most about. But if you know better, do say!
Ben, on one of his occasional visits, raised the intriguing question, Who is Aaron Conte? The reason is that he has a framed Platinum Disc, the accolade bestowed on records that sell (or at least ship) more than a million copies.
The trouble is, this record dates back a good 50 years and intense Google searches don't reveal a singer of that name in that era. Indeed, the only Aaron Conte on Imdb is an actor/drummer who is around today and has no such sales. It could be a mistake, it could be a hoax. Answers on a postcard, please.
That led, by a roundabout route to a wayward to and fro about Christmas songs, and how Ian should release a Christmas album - for some reason, Santa Baby was thought to be a good track for him. The musically minded around the table then launched into a Christmas medley, including Silver Bells. Turned out this was originally called Tinkle Bells - until the composer Jay Livingston's wife told him not to be so silly!
Livingston's co-composer, Ray Evans's wife Wyn was much older than most people realised, having been born in 1900 and died in 2002. She was old enough to be a friend of Charlie Chaplin's family in the 1920s and 1930s, and used to have lunch regularly with Chaplin's mother to keep her company.
This got Will talking about how many old radio and TV shows are now available on CD or DVD for a few dollars, mainly because the costs have already been covered many times over. This set Will off on one of his favorite subjects - why writers get paid so little. I joined in enthusiastically on behalf of journalists. Jeanette looked on as if she were hearing strange creatures from another planet, as well she might on a nurse's salary!
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
If you're trying to tame a bronc you're not being leisurely
These things are dangerous, they have salt
You can get some really very good books in Out of the Closet, brand new and smelling nice
I just lucked out because Larry Wilson likes me. No, he hasn't got a crush on me!
One thing I'll say about Ian: he's a great STAGE performer
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Where angels fear to fly
Present: Jim, Will, Edgar, Mary, Ian & Regina, Bill & Lynne, Bobb & Barbara, Steve & Jeanette, Sue, Bob, Ray and - after most had gone home - Gloria.
Sadly, we were without the wonderful Javier to keep us in order tonight - and were informed that he will be gone for as long as two months, on a trip home to Mexico. This was nothing short of a minor disaster, as he does so much to keep the rattling train on the rails on a Monday night. But his replacement, the balding Juan, rose to the occasion in a way that suggests we might actually get through the next month or two without tearing our hair out in frustration.
Just as the celebrations for Ian's recent birthday went on far beyond the day itself, so last night we had the beginning of what promise to be a lengthy launch of Jim's eagerly awaited definitive account of Angel's Flight - the first book of his in some years where the title has not contained an obscenity. Official publication date is August 11, and a major promotion is planned downtown for September 12. After that, any visitor to LA who cannot produce a SoCal gas bill will have to buy one. So I hear. Anyway, it's a masterly volume that will be essential reading for anyone pretending to know anything about the history of LA.
It was a busy, buzzy evening, with far more discussion threads than I could keep up with, from the plight of West Virginia miners at one end of the table to the iniquities of Altadena Town Council at the other - it's their loss, Steve, but I think you've reached that conclusion already.
Sue Dadd made one of her all-too-rare appearances. She and Steve had what he described as "a lovely discussion" on Louis B. Easton and a restoration she and James did to one of his very significant homes, and how since his methods of construction were unique, the restoration required significant flexibility of thought. They also spoke at length about a commission she is consulting on, to restore the ceilings at the Arizona Biltmore.
Barbara's pack of Pentel retractable pencils caused a small but significant flurry, for the simple reason that the lead, once exposed, in all cases refused to retract, like toothpaste coming out of a tube and other similes of a similar nature. Several of us tried, We all failed. I would hate to be the person in Pentel's customer service department who takes Barbara's call.
But even the non-retractable pencils were but a fleabite compared to the main topic of the evening: Ian's underpants. To general consternation, Regina revealed that they must be Calvin Klein, and must be bought from Macy's - or better, presumably, but it is a sad comment on the state of Pasadena retailing that that is about as good as it gets these days.
Counter-suggestions of going to Target or JC Penney, from Lynne and Bobb respectively, were dismissed with a regal wave of Regina's hand, while also telling the world where that pair go shopping. At least no one admitted to patronizing the 99cents or Out of the Closet (yuk!) underwear departments. Don't get ideas, you two.
But have we stumbled on the secret of Ian's musical success - a money-no-object attitude to girding his nether regions? Does he, like the girl in the ad, feel like a million dollars when he goes on stage with Ck emblazoned on his bum, or elsewhere?
And no one thought to ask the zillion-dollar question: boxers or Y-fronts? Maybe I ought to hang around the men's changing rooms at Caltech, purely in the interests of objective reporting, naturally.
While Ian's tackle is not in doubt, some weird cross-gender revelations came out of a little test Lynne had plucked from the LA Times: what words do we see in BE_A_E and LO_AL? The Times was adamant that men saw BECAME and LOCAL, while women saw BEWARE and LOYAL. You can't do much more with LO_AL other than LORAL (pertaining to lore, knowledge, learning, etc, in case you are wondering). But Regina and Barbara also saw BEHAVE as well as the other two permutations in the first word, and Bobb picked out LOYAL. Another fine mess courtesy of the Times.
Such weighty issues put into their proper context subsequent discussion about the impact of education on democracy, whether we have a democracy at all, gun laws, thuggery in Altadena and the length of time Ray had to wait to get a plane back from England (or was it to England?0 Either way, he played to the usual crowd of 70,000 in Nottinghamshire, presumably the same 70,000 as hung on his every note last year. And I bet he doesn't wear Calvin Klein underpants.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Have you had a haircut? No I just combed it, that's all
You're fired from the human race - give me that gun
I can read the back of Barbara's t-shirt without embarrassment
What is a Texan doing getting sunburnt?
That Pasadena Star News reporter is such an asshole
He doesn't usually slap himself
Oh, Regina's here! I haven't seen her all night
I have to say that Bush is quite good-looking - and, besides, who was the last ugly President?
They won't pay me, so I may as well write a letter
Sadly, we were without the wonderful Javier to keep us in order tonight - and were informed that he will be gone for as long as two months, on a trip home to Mexico. This was nothing short of a minor disaster, as he does so much to keep the rattling train on the rails on a Monday night. But his replacement, the balding Juan, rose to the occasion in a way that suggests we might actually get through the next month or two without tearing our hair out in frustration.
Just as the celebrations for Ian's recent birthday went on far beyond the day itself, so last night we had the beginning of what promise to be a lengthy launch of Jim's eagerly awaited definitive account of Angel's Flight - the first book of his in some years where the title has not contained an obscenity. Official publication date is August 11, and a major promotion is planned downtown for September 12. After that, any visitor to LA who cannot produce a SoCal gas bill will have to buy one. So I hear. Anyway, it's a masterly volume that will be essential reading for anyone pretending to know anything about the history of LA.
It was a busy, buzzy evening, with far more discussion threads than I could keep up with, from the plight of West Virginia miners at one end of the table to the iniquities of Altadena Town Council at the other - it's their loss, Steve, but I think you've reached that conclusion already.
Sue Dadd made one of her all-too-rare appearances. She and Steve had what he described as "a lovely discussion" on Louis B. Easton and a restoration she and James did to one of his very significant homes, and how since his methods of construction were unique, the restoration required significant flexibility of thought. They also spoke at length about a commission she is consulting on, to restore the ceilings at the Arizona Biltmore.
Barbara's pack of Pentel retractable pencils caused a small but significant flurry, for the simple reason that the lead, once exposed, in all cases refused to retract, like toothpaste coming out of a tube and other similes of a similar nature. Several of us tried, We all failed. I would hate to be the person in Pentel's customer service department who takes Barbara's call.
But even the non-retractable pencils were but a fleabite compared to the main topic of the evening: Ian's underpants. To general consternation, Regina revealed that they must be Calvin Klein, and must be bought from Macy's - or better, presumably, but it is a sad comment on the state of Pasadena retailing that that is about as good as it gets these days.
Counter-suggestions of going to Target or JC Penney, from Lynne and Bobb respectively, were dismissed with a regal wave of Regina's hand, while also telling the world where that pair go shopping. At least no one admitted to patronizing the 99cents or Out of the Closet (yuk!) underwear departments. Don't get ideas, you two.
But have we stumbled on the secret of Ian's musical success - a money-no-object attitude to girding his nether regions? Does he, like the girl in the ad, feel like a million dollars when he goes on stage with Ck emblazoned on his bum, or elsewhere?
And no one thought to ask the zillion-dollar question: boxers or Y-fronts? Maybe I ought to hang around the men's changing rooms at Caltech, purely in the interests of objective reporting, naturally.
While Ian's tackle is not in doubt, some weird cross-gender revelations came out of a little test Lynne had plucked from the LA Times: what words do we see in BE_A_E and LO_AL? The Times was adamant that men saw BECAME and LOCAL, while women saw BEWARE and LOYAL. You can't do much more with LO_AL other than LORAL (pertaining to lore, knowledge, learning, etc, in case you are wondering). But Regina and Barbara also saw BEHAVE as well as the other two permutations in the first word, and Bobb picked out LOYAL. Another fine mess courtesy of the Times.
Such weighty issues put into their proper context subsequent discussion about the impact of education on democracy, whether we have a democracy at all, gun laws, thuggery in Altadena and the length of time Ray had to wait to get a plane back from England (or was it to England?0 Either way, he played to the usual crowd of 70,000 in Nottinghamshire, presumably the same 70,000 as hung on his every note last year. And I bet he doesn't wear Calvin Klein underpants.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Have you had a haircut? No I just combed it, that's all
You're fired from the human race - give me that gun
I can read the back of Barbara's t-shirt without embarrassment
What is a Texan doing getting sunburnt?
That Pasadena Star News reporter is such an asshole
He doesn't usually slap himself
Oh, Regina's here! I haven't seen her all night
I have to say that Bush is quite good-looking - and, besides, who was the last ugly President?
They won't pay me, so I may as well write a letter
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
When is Universal Universal?
Will, Edgar, Ian, Jim, Big Jay McNeely, Bill, Lynne, Steve G, Glenn, Bobb, Barbara, Steve & Jeanette.
Glenn, the rest of us agree, is a man of few words. But when he lets rip, anyone in earshot certainly knows about it.
On Monday it was the word "universal" that got him. Not Universal Studios or Mr Universe, but as in universal healthcare. "It's ridiculous," he exploded, "healthcare is not for everyone in the universe."
Jeanette, Bill and Lynne tried to point out that, in this context, it meant healthcare for the entire universe of US residents.
Glenn started punching buttons on his cellphone-cum-organizer - not an iPhone, but just as powerful.
Up it came. Two definitions for "universal". The second covered everything in the universe, but the first was simply everyone or thing in a particular category, from sheep to left-handed pygmies - or all the people in the US who needed healthcare.
"I still don't like it," said Glenn, refusing to accept defeat.
Which only goes to show that we know how to let ourselves go on a Monday night at Conrads. Everything goes, and no one holds back - or shouldn't.
When Bobb and Barbara turned up, Barbara hugged Will to pass on greetings from a well-wisher: or should that be Will wisher?
The big set-piece of the evening was the clash of the musicians: Ian, Will and Jay talking musical terms like titans lobbing skyscrapers at one another. As Edgar adroitly observed, Ian and Jay were opera v jazz, Ian all in favor of structure and Jay putting the emphasis on the flow of the melody. What an evening it would be to get the two of them on stage together (again?).
Looks as if Jay could have a second career as a fire-eater, after he poured a huge amount of Hottest F-ing Sauce on his Greek salad and he ate it as unconcernedly as if he had gently shaken a little salt and pepper on his food. Asbestos mouth and iron stomach, no doubt about it.
Less fiercely, Lynne gave Ian a pot of the precious and rare Greek delicacy, taramasalata, for which he had been pining for months, as a late birthday present, and he revealed that as another present a friend in movies had offered to film his show at the Coffee Gallery on Saturday - but he turned down the chance and regretted it, because the house was packed and Ian was on top form, at least by his own calm, cool and utterly objective reckoning. Another time maybe.
Edgar and his partner, Keith, are thinking of having their house tented. Sounds like they ought to stop thinking about it and do something, because there are little piles of sawdust all over the house. Before long the whole house will be just a pile of sawdust.
We're as tough on termites as we are on anything else that gets in our way from the animal kingdom even though, as the irascible Glen pointed out, they were here before us, whether you are talking about skunks, racoons, coyotes or any of the other lively wild life in these parts. Edgar's bete noir is, appropriately, the black widow spider, which eats its mate and behaves in a generally antisocial way to the rest of the planet.
Monday was Bastille Day, a public holiday in France since 1790, to celebrate the previous year's revolution. But, according to Edgar's partner Keith, there is nothing left of the Bastille, notorious prison of the 18th century, except a post with a plaque on it. This led to tales of how prisoners were allowed to receive meals and other luxuries denied to modern inmates, especially the lavish last meals, before being executed. Americans on death row prefer depressingly familiar grub like hamburgers or fried chicken and the inevitable fries. Now, at Newgate in London, where the Old Bailey central criminal court stands today, some of the more colorful murderers used to bring in prostitutes to enliven their last night on earth...
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
This is the most unprepped menu in Pasadena!
What does Barbara's t-shirt say? I daren't look.
It says: "Hard work never hurt anyone, but why take a chance?"
They were all short films in the early days - until the movie houses got taller
Time drags when I'm in a Buddhist temple
They're always closing the Rialto and opening it again
In the 50s kids had springs on their shoes
It's ok - men can join the league of women voters
Glenn, the rest of us agree, is a man of few words. But when he lets rip, anyone in earshot certainly knows about it.
On Monday it was the word "universal" that got him. Not Universal Studios or Mr Universe, but as in universal healthcare. "It's ridiculous," he exploded, "healthcare is not for everyone in the universe."
Jeanette, Bill and Lynne tried to point out that, in this context, it meant healthcare for the entire universe of US residents.
Glenn started punching buttons on his cellphone-cum-organizer - not an iPhone, but just as powerful.
Up it came. Two definitions for "universal". The second covered everything in the universe, but the first was simply everyone or thing in a particular category, from sheep to left-handed pygmies - or all the people in the US who needed healthcare.
"I still don't like it," said Glenn, refusing to accept defeat.
Which only goes to show that we know how to let ourselves go on a Monday night at Conrads. Everything goes, and no one holds back - or shouldn't.
When Bobb and Barbara turned up, Barbara hugged Will to pass on greetings from a well-wisher: or should that be Will wisher?
The big set-piece of the evening was the clash of the musicians: Ian, Will and Jay talking musical terms like titans lobbing skyscrapers at one another. As Edgar adroitly observed, Ian and Jay were opera v jazz, Ian all in favor of structure and Jay putting the emphasis on the flow of the melody. What an evening it would be to get the two of them on stage together (again?).
Looks as if Jay could have a second career as a fire-eater, after he poured a huge amount of Hottest F-ing Sauce on his Greek salad and he ate it as unconcernedly as if he had gently shaken a little salt and pepper on his food. Asbestos mouth and iron stomach, no doubt about it.
Less fiercely, Lynne gave Ian a pot of the precious and rare Greek delicacy, taramasalata, for which he had been pining for months, as a late birthday present, and he revealed that as another present a friend in movies had offered to film his show at the Coffee Gallery on Saturday - but he turned down the chance and regretted it, because the house was packed and Ian was on top form, at least by his own calm, cool and utterly objective reckoning. Another time maybe.
Edgar and his partner, Keith, are thinking of having their house tented. Sounds like they ought to stop thinking about it and do something, because there are little piles of sawdust all over the house. Before long the whole house will be just a pile of sawdust.
We're as tough on termites as we are on anything else that gets in our way from the animal kingdom even though, as the irascible Glen pointed out, they were here before us, whether you are talking about skunks, racoons, coyotes or any of the other lively wild life in these parts. Edgar's bete noir is, appropriately, the black widow spider, which eats its mate and behaves in a generally antisocial way to the rest of the planet.
Monday was Bastille Day, a public holiday in France since 1790, to celebrate the previous year's revolution. But, according to Edgar's partner Keith, there is nothing left of the Bastille, notorious prison of the 18th century, except a post with a plaque on it. This led to tales of how prisoners were allowed to receive meals and other luxuries denied to modern inmates, especially the lavish last meals, before being executed. Americans on death row prefer depressingly familiar grub like hamburgers or fried chicken and the inevitable fries. Now, at Newgate in London, where the Old Bailey central criminal court stands today, some of the more colorful murderers used to bring in prostitutes to enliven their last night on earth...
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
This is the most unprepped menu in Pasadena!
What does Barbara's t-shirt say? I daren't look.
It says: "Hard work never hurt anyone, but why take a chance?"
They were all short films in the early days - until the movie houses got taller
Time drags when I'm in a Buddhist temple
They're always closing the Rialto and opening it again
In the 50s kids had springs on their shoes
It's ok - men can join the league of women voters
Saturday, July 12, 2008
No more Mr Nice Guy
Ray, Ian and Regina, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Edgar, Steve G, Steve & Jeanette, Mary, Bobb and Barbara, Bob Birchard turned up at 7.03 and couldn't get a seat at first.
This edition of Diner Diary is later than usual because of last week's hiatus. The Diary's veracity came under challenge, whereupon I ceased publication. I did so because I am still a working professional journalist, and any suggestion of lying therefore poisons my reputation.
I have been persuaded to resume the blog only after a heartwarming display of overwhelming public demand, but only on the understanding that the rules are changing: the sources of Caught On the Breeze quotes will not be identified, and in return anyone who casts doubt on the blog will run the risk of full investigation and exposure. If you are mocked, humiliated, ridiculed or otherwise pilloried, you have to take it as served. In my book there is no such thing as a right of reply, but I promise not to censor comments.
Enough of rules. The dominant theme of last week's session at Conrads was Ian's 67th birthday, celebrated in characteristically eccentric style with cupcakes preceded by a large green bag of French onion-flavored multigrain chips. This marked the start of week-long celebrations, which are of course only a dress rehearsal for the big Seven-Oh, only three years away now.
Ray Campi made a second consecutive appearance after his debilitating two-month illness, and was flying to England on Wednesday to sing at a rock-a-billy festival near Newark in Nottinghamshire on Sunday. 'The promoters treat me real well,' he growled. 'We are put up in a five-star hotel, and give us plenty of time to see the other acts.' Trouble is, he will be stuck in one of England's less appealing areas, unless you are fan of Nottingham castle and Lincoln cathedral.
One of the group's more charming qualities is that everyone retains a childlike freshness, to the extent that it is possible to see each of us as children. That raised the question of how much we really change, or is growing up merely a process of learning how to adapt our inbuilt characteristics to our surroundings, and having the ability to change those surroundings. At school or college we are thrown together with people we may or may not like, but gradually birds of a feather flock together and no more is that truer than on Monday nights. But you can see the extroverts, the attention-seekers (plenty of those), the quieter ones, the mischief makers, the pontificators and the gossip-mongers. I couldn't possibly put names to any of those, but feel free to post your own suggestions in the comment box!
A recurring theme is the group's general distaste for organized religion, and scepticism or more about the existence of a god. Nowhere does that bring out hostility more than in the case of the money-making TV evangelists, and no one nails them more fiercely than Jim. 'They say God is merciful but then he's going to send you to hell if you transgress,' he pointed out, 'and he is infinitely powerful but he still passes round the begging bowl.' My view? Religion is inversely proportional to knowledge, so the more we have learned the more religion has taken a back seat. Politicians pay lip service to it, because millions of ignorant people still believe in an unthinking naive way. I'm not ruling out that there might be a god, but I don't think we've thought seriously about what form it might take.
Our closest observer of what is going on under Pasadena's placid surface is undoubtedly Steve Lamb, plugged in as he is to the Coffee Gallery and Altadena Town Council. He observed that you never know who the really rich are in Pasadena, because they dress like the workers. This also happens in Britain, where the old-money rich pay little attention to their appearance unless they are attending some grand ball, when the family jewels come out of the safe deposit box. They tend to be rural, love green boots and Barbours, let their clothes go to rags. It's not an attempt to hide, they just don't need to impress many people, and maybe the same goes for the old money in Pasadena. However, you can usually tell them apart if you look closely, because their tattered clobber usually comes from very expensive tailors, cobblers or couturiers. They just make things last - especially household gooes. One jibe by one of the English old wealthy against one of the up-and-comers was 'Do you know, he had to buy his own furniture!' Of course, none of us would be gulity of such a solecism.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
You can never be too far from Birmingham [England]
La Crescenta is a dead zone
Regina is Queen of the Cupcakes
If a car goes 100,000 miles without changing the muffler you are not going to do much business
You watched Yankee Doodle Dandy and it wasn't even July 4? How wonderful!
It's too hot to cook
We'd all like to be Rollo!
This edition of Diner Diary is later than usual because of last week's hiatus. The Diary's veracity came under challenge, whereupon I ceased publication. I did so because I am still a working professional journalist, and any suggestion of lying therefore poisons my reputation.
I have been persuaded to resume the blog only after a heartwarming display of overwhelming public demand, but only on the understanding that the rules are changing: the sources of Caught On the Breeze quotes will not be identified, and in return anyone who casts doubt on the blog will run the risk of full investigation and exposure. If you are mocked, humiliated, ridiculed or otherwise pilloried, you have to take it as served. In my book there is no such thing as a right of reply, but I promise not to censor comments.
Enough of rules. The dominant theme of last week's session at Conrads was Ian's 67th birthday, celebrated in characteristically eccentric style with cupcakes preceded by a large green bag of French onion-flavored multigrain chips. This marked the start of week-long celebrations, which are of course only a dress rehearsal for the big Seven-Oh, only three years away now.
Ray Campi made a second consecutive appearance after his debilitating two-month illness, and was flying to England on Wednesday to sing at a rock-a-billy festival near Newark in Nottinghamshire on Sunday. 'The promoters treat me real well,' he growled. 'We are put up in a five-star hotel, and give us plenty of time to see the other acts.' Trouble is, he will be stuck in one of England's less appealing areas, unless you are fan of Nottingham castle and Lincoln cathedral.
One of the group's more charming qualities is that everyone retains a childlike freshness, to the extent that it is possible to see each of us as children. That raised the question of how much we really change, or is growing up merely a process of learning how to adapt our inbuilt characteristics to our surroundings, and having the ability to change those surroundings. At school or college we are thrown together with people we may or may not like, but gradually birds of a feather flock together and no more is that truer than on Monday nights. But you can see the extroverts, the attention-seekers (plenty of those), the quieter ones, the mischief makers, the pontificators and the gossip-mongers. I couldn't possibly put names to any of those, but feel free to post your own suggestions in the comment box!
A recurring theme is the group's general distaste for organized religion, and scepticism or more about the existence of a god. Nowhere does that bring out hostility more than in the case of the money-making TV evangelists, and no one nails them more fiercely than Jim. 'They say God is merciful but then he's going to send you to hell if you transgress,' he pointed out, 'and he is infinitely powerful but he still passes round the begging bowl.' My view? Religion is inversely proportional to knowledge, so the more we have learned the more religion has taken a back seat. Politicians pay lip service to it, because millions of ignorant people still believe in an unthinking naive way. I'm not ruling out that there might be a god, but I don't think we've thought seriously about what form it might take.
Our closest observer of what is going on under Pasadena's placid surface is undoubtedly Steve Lamb, plugged in as he is to the Coffee Gallery and Altadena Town Council. He observed that you never know who the really rich are in Pasadena, because they dress like the workers. This also happens in Britain, where the old-money rich pay little attention to their appearance unless they are attending some grand ball, when the family jewels come out of the safe deposit box. They tend to be rural, love green boots and Barbours, let their clothes go to rags. It's not an attempt to hide, they just don't need to impress many people, and maybe the same goes for the old money in Pasadena. However, you can usually tell them apart if you look closely, because their tattered clobber usually comes from very expensive tailors, cobblers or couturiers. They just make things last - especially household gooes. One jibe by one of the English old wealthy against one of the up-and-comers was 'Do you know, he had to buy his own furniture!' Of course, none of us would be gulity of such a solecism.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
You can never be too far from Birmingham [England]
La Crescenta is a dead zone
Regina is Queen of the Cupcakes
If a car goes 100,000 miles without changing the muffler you are not going to do much business
You watched Yankee Doodle Dandy and it wasn't even July 4? How wonderful!
It's too hot to cook
We'd all like to be Rollo!
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Why Mars is like Vegas
Present: Jim, Ian, Lynne, Bill, Edgar, Ray (getting over 8 weeks in bed with a virus), Steve G, Bob Birchard, Will.
Maybe it was because it was the Monday before July 4, but we had a fairly small turnout of nine - no more than eight at any one time, because Will replaced Edgar - and the conversations took a while to get onto anything more than gas prices and the will they/won't they actors' strike.
Ray was a welcome returner after being away for a long time which turned out to be a virus that kept him in bed for eight weeks. He put it down to a diet of Mihares food washed down with copious Margharitas. Not exactly a balanced diet, but hardly deserving of eight weeks flat on his back. And next week Ray has to be off to Newark in Nottinghamshire, England, to play his special brand of rockabilly before an expected audience numbering 70,000. You can't knock the money that'll raise, even if the July weather in that part of the world is usually rubbish.
So, as a Brit I have to confess, are the breakfasts. The great British breakfast has been exported round the world but, like tennis, cricket, soccer and most other games we invented, it is done so much better in foreign lands.
The American diner and coffee shop are bywords for excellent reliable plain meals, especially breakfast. So why can't the Brits carry through on what they basically started? French and Italians have been making do with coffee, bread and jam, and northern Europe was starting the day with cold ham, cheese, salami and more bread - untoasted of course.
It has much to do with restrictions in the two world wars, designed to save light, encourage the workers to focus on the war effort and get everyone off the streets and tucked up in bed before the bombing raids started. But that's not the whole story, otherwise the standard would have risen as soon as the shackles were unlocked. Instead, many places quietly continued as if the wartime regulations were still in force, producing rubbish food and basically ordering consumers to buy when it suited the owners of shops, cafes, pubs and restaurants. British governments, too, were far too slow to scrap rules that were eventually half a century out of date.
Britain's volatile relationship with alcohol also discouraged a more liberal attitude, but the floodgates have been opened and the only answer is to avoid most shopping precincts and malls on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights.
America, meanwhile, produced McDonald's, Burger King, KFC, Denny's, Carl's Jr Starbucks and many others (not forgetting Conrads, of course) that recognised the importance of reliability and repeatability.
Mind you, those qualities can be taken too far, and many of those fast-food chains are not to everyone's taste - nor, Jim pointed out, were crime series such as Perry Mason. But aren't all crime series formulaic, and all TV drama series, for that matter? There is a never-ending tension between the predictable framework that gets viewers into a hit series within minutes every week, and the conveyor belt nature of daytime soap operas.
Songs, too, go through periods when one or two formulas dominate - often, as Ian pointed out, related to particular nationalities such as the Italians in the 1950s. In the 1920s and 1930s, Chinese songs and dress were objects of great fascination in Europe and America, mainly because few westerners had been there so there was a great mystique attached to China.
Nowadays much of that mystique has been stripped away by cheap airfares. We can go just about anywhere now, and the reason that some areas are still remote is that they are not particularly attractive - the same could be said about the midwest, where few tourists venture.
Lynne said she was keen on a trip to Mars in the wake of the JPL Phoenix mission currently digging into the harsh, frozen northern soil. "Mars looks like Vegas before the hotels were built," Ray observed. I look forward to a branch of the Bellagio staffed with little green men with three heads: "I'm Brad, Brad and Brad and I'll be your waiter, waiter, waiter tonight."
Trips to Cuba may soon be on the agenda for left-leaning Americans after Fidel Castro stepped down and his brother started making conciliatory noises to Washington DC. Tales brought back to Europe by intrepid adventurers suggest it is a mixture of luxury and penury, which I suppose is the ideal blend for the champagne socialist with enough dosh to fly long-haul to Havana.
And we learned that during the Cuban middle crisis, Jim was on alert with the Marines - in North Carolina, though, so not really in the front line. I was at school and remember our chaplain getting all worked up about it as Kennedy and Krushchev played poker on a global scale.
Back in the realm of the day-to-day headache, Edgar told us about the unexpected complexities caused by the fact that his late father had transferred $80,000 to an annuity but died before finally signing it into action. That has created one of those legal limbos that lawyers love so much, though the odds are that it must happen to every annuity provider a few times a year, so it can hardly be impossible to sort out. As Edgar said, it certainly can be sorted out, but not without the go-betweens taking a little matter of $3,000 off the top for their trouble. And, as Edgar Snr was 82 already, the insurance company was onto a near-certain winner in return for saving the old fella the trouble of having to think about how best to invest such a tidy sum. For the sake of our heirs, may we all tidy up our financial compost heaps before we keel over.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
My uncle had about 13 kids, all born in different countries
Barbara is the original earth mother
Reading a book is like going into that person's bedroom
The margharitas are weak but the flesh is strong
If you were told you'd get a 70,000 crowd at the north pole, you'd turn up all right
I've had my check but I've just noticed I haven't had my carrot cake. Sorree, Mister Jim, last piece just gone!
Maybe it was because it was the Monday before July 4, but we had a fairly small turnout of nine - no more than eight at any one time, because Will replaced Edgar - and the conversations took a while to get onto anything more than gas prices and the will they/won't they actors' strike.
Ray was a welcome returner after being away for a long time which turned out to be a virus that kept him in bed for eight weeks. He put it down to a diet of Mihares food washed down with copious Margharitas. Not exactly a balanced diet, but hardly deserving of eight weeks flat on his back. And next week Ray has to be off to Newark in Nottinghamshire, England, to play his special brand of rockabilly before an expected audience numbering 70,000. You can't knock the money that'll raise, even if the July weather in that part of the world is usually rubbish.
So, as a Brit I have to confess, are the breakfasts. The great British breakfast has been exported round the world but, like tennis, cricket, soccer and most other games we invented, it is done so much better in foreign lands.
The American diner and coffee shop are bywords for excellent reliable plain meals, especially breakfast. So why can't the Brits carry through on what they basically started? French and Italians have been making do with coffee, bread and jam, and northern Europe was starting the day with cold ham, cheese, salami and more bread - untoasted of course.
It has much to do with restrictions in the two world wars, designed to save light, encourage the workers to focus on the war effort and get everyone off the streets and tucked up in bed before the bombing raids started. But that's not the whole story, otherwise the standard would have risen as soon as the shackles were unlocked. Instead, many places quietly continued as if the wartime regulations were still in force, producing rubbish food and basically ordering consumers to buy when it suited the owners of shops, cafes, pubs and restaurants. British governments, too, were far too slow to scrap rules that were eventually half a century out of date.
Britain's volatile relationship with alcohol also discouraged a more liberal attitude, but the floodgates have been opened and the only answer is to avoid most shopping precincts and malls on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights.
America, meanwhile, produced McDonald's, Burger King, KFC, Denny's, Carl's Jr Starbucks and many others (not forgetting Conrads, of course) that recognised the importance of reliability and repeatability.
Mind you, those qualities can be taken too far, and many of those fast-food chains are not to everyone's taste - nor, Jim pointed out, were crime series such as Perry Mason. But aren't all crime series formulaic, and all TV drama series, for that matter? There is a never-ending tension between the predictable framework that gets viewers into a hit series within minutes every week, and the conveyor belt nature of daytime soap operas.
Songs, too, go through periods when one or two formulas dominate - often, as Ian pointed out, related to particular nationalities such as the Italians in the 1950s. In the 1920s and 1930s, Chinese songs and dress were objects of great fascination in Europe and America, mainly because few westerners had been there so there was a great mystique attached to China.
Nowadays much of that mystique has been stripped away by cheap airfares. We can go just about anywhere now, and the reason that some areas are still remote is that they are not particularly attractive - the same could be said about the midwest, where few tourists venture.
Lynne said she was keen on a trip to Mars in the wake of the JPL Phoenix mission currently digging into the harsh, frozen northern soil. "Mars looks like Vegas before the hotels were built," Ray observed. I look forward to a branch of the Bellagio staffed with little green men with three heads: "I'm Brad, Brad and Brad and I'll be your waiter, waiter, waiter tonight."
Trips to Cuba may soon be on the agenda for left-leaning Americans after Fidel Castro stepped down and his brother started making conciliatory noises to Washington DC. Tales brought back to Europe by intrepid adventurers suggest it is a mixture of luxury and penury, which I suppose is the ideal blend for the champagne socialist with enough dosh to fly long-haul to Havana.
And we learned that during the Cuban middle crisis, Jim was on alert with the Marines - in North Carolina, though, so not really in the front line. I was at school and remember our chaplain getting all worked up about it as Kennedy and Krushchev played poker on a global scale.
Back in the realm of the day-to-day headache, Edgar told us about the unexpected complexities caused by the fact that his late father had transferred $80,000 to an annuity but died before finally signing it into action. That has created one of those legal limbos that lawyers love so much, though the odds are that it must happen to every annuity provider a few times a year, so it can hardly be impossible to sort out. As Edgar said, it certainly can be sorted out, but not without the go-betweens taking a little matter of $3,000 off the top for their trouble. And, as Edgar Snr was 82 already, the insurance company was onto a near-certain winner in return for saving the old fella the trouble of having to think about how best to invest such a tidy sum. For the sake of our heirs, may we all tidy up our financial compost heaps before we keel over.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
My uncle had about 13 kids, all born in different countries
Barbara is the original earth mother
Reading a book is like going into that person's bedroom
The margharitas are weak but the flesh is strong
If you were told you'd get a 70,000 crowd at the north pole, you'd turn up all right
I've had my check but I've just noticed I haven't had my carrot cake. Sorree, Mister Jim, last piece just gone!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
A piece of cake
Jim, Will, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Steve G, Steve & Jeanette, Bobb & Barbara, Bob, Mary, Ian & Regina
Last night at Conrads was all about cake - a 40th anniversary cake! I was celebrating the start of my journalistic career on June 24, 1968. At least, that was when I started to get paid for scribbling, as opposed to the pretend stuff at college.
Regina literally topped off the whole occasion with party hats for everyone (I hope we can download some of the pix!). I felt that Ian and Barbara's shorts - sartorial rather than the movie variety - also added to the gaiety of the evening, however unintentionally.
The only thing missing was, er, the cake. I thought I had sorted this out last week by having a quiet word with the manageress and agreeing a price - she even showed me an example of the triple choccy job that would have suited perfectly. But last night no show. The lady gave me some nonsense about her boss deciding not to buy any more cakes for the diner, strange timing in view of the fact that I had placed a firm order for a whole cake, so no risk of them being left with any unsold slices. It was the most bizarre commercial decision I have come across.
So it was off to Ralph's across the road, who had one almost as good at half the price and Conrads for once had the grace not to charge for letting us eat it on their premises. The saintly Regina again stepped forward, complete with glass of water to keep the knife clean, to cut the cake into more than enough pieces for everyone. It made a great evening, and one I shall remember for a long time.
Inevitably my anniversary prompted a discussion about the newspaper industry, especially the long, slow but accelerating decline of the LA Times and the not entirely coincidental lack of competition either from a citywide LA paper or from local papers such as the abysmal Pasadena Star-News.
My main employer, Rupert Murdoch, came in for his usual quota of abuse but, as I pointed out, look at what Sam Zell has done to the LA Times in the few months he has owned it. Of course, there is much hysteria about Murdoch's changes at the Wall Street Journal, but I think this is as much cultural as megalomanical.
As I have found in my efforts to get work here, there is a much bigger cultural gap than is generally recognised between American and Anglo-Commonwealth ideas of what constitutes a 'good' newspaper. Americans love to sneer at the animalistic instincts of British tabloids, which at least do a good job of denting the outdated image of Britain as toffee-nosed and mealy-mouthed, while Brits routinely yawn at what they see as boring, overwritten US broadsheet features masquerading as in-depth analysis.
The culure gap is exemplified by the differing attitudes to the Journal and Britain's Financial Times, which is generally regarded by British journalists as the apex of business coverage, if a little dull at times. But I have read an LA Times piece dismissing the FT and the current issue of Atlantic Monthly scoffs at it as being trivial or superficial! I nail my colors firmly to the FT mast, and look forward to Murdoch enlivening the Journal.
But, as Jim pointed out last night, the big factor impacting on all newspapers is the internet. It's only the latest incursion, after radio, movies and TV, but this time it looks serious. 'It good and bad,' said Jim, 'because it encourages more freedom of expression but also produces diarrhea.' How true.
The beginning of the LA Times's decline can fairly accurately be dated from the day it was sold to Tribune Group by the Chandler family, which produced a delightful story from Steve Lamb about Otis Chandler.
Steve, as we all know, is a massive auto fan and historian. At the age of 14 he attended an exhibit featuring a car owned by Chandler. Steve spotted an error in it just as the great man was arriving on the spot, earning Chandler's gratitude. Nearly 25 years later Steve is at another exhibit of classic cars when who should sidle up to him but Chandler - who clearly remembered Steve despite the passage of years, a little extra weight round Steve's girth and a major transference of hair from the top of his head to his chin! It said a great deal about Chandler's attention to detail.
Otis Chandler is long gone, but this was the week for remembering the death only a few days ago of the comedian George Carlin at 71. I never saw his shows, but the clips televised since he died have very much the feel of Scotland's Billy Connolly - irreverent, saying the unsayable, breaking taboos on swearing. I don't know whether Carlin was the first, or if Lenny Bruce or someone else beat him to it, but they have certainly spawned a comedy genre that did not exist in gentler times and is miles away from the smutty innuendo of Max Miller.
Like Connolly, Carlin was as much a social commentator as a comedian, for much of his act consisted of making serious points in a funny way about genuine social or political problems, be it gun law or Iraq. One of his favourite targets was the fraudulent preachers who make themselves rich from scaring gullible believers and offering them catchpenny solutions to their problems. But Carlin's starting point is that of an atheist: if it turns out that some sort of god does actually exist, those pulpit scam artists might have been handing out useful advice. Similarly on the political front, like nearly all modern comedians Carlin started from a heavily left-wing standpoint, for that where most of the good jokes come from.
Not that there is any lack of political targets or ammunition, in the dying days of what is coming to be agreed is one of the worst presidencies the US has had to endure. As Bush has boasted, he is living proof that you can be a C-grade student and still make it to the top. Mind you, it helps if your father was also President and can buy you into Harvard.
While I am sure Jeanette does not entertain such uncharitable thoughts, she was buzzing with political talking points after her 1,000-strong national convention of the League of Women Voters in Portland, Ore, last week.
Healthcare was a major topic, with a focus on Japan's and even Switzerland's systems alongside the British National Health Service so cleverly extolled by Michael Moore in his film Sicko! As defenders of the US status quo love to point out, all the foreign schemes have flaws, but none lets a patient go bankrupt. I recently read an investment analyst's report claiming that healthcare is on track to absorb 25% of US GDP by 2025, compared with the present and already bloated 16%. I sense that we are getting close to something radical being done about the problem.
Perhaps Jeanette, and Steve for that matter, will soon have their very own global soapbox right on their doorstep in Alatadena, for Ian was telling us about how the owner of the Coffee Gallery has equipped the upper rooms with a state-of-the-art multimedia studio capable of producing top-class professional TV shows and even films.
Ian sees the potential of this facility for him to maybe make a TV version of his Wednesday internet radio show for Luxuriamusic.com, but the possibilities are enormous. And if the Coffee Gallery can lay on such a studio, why not other property owners in the area? Maybe the area is about to be transformed into another Hollywood! Ian and Steve could have their faces on a Walk of Fame down North Lake...
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Are you shorter than the rest of us, Bill, or are you just slouching?
I just want to write a two-reeler, and then make it
Some people aren't tipping enough - and we know who they are
I wish they could bring the Red Line back again
Do you remember Richard Murdoch? no relation to Rupert
Maybe Phil Spector will come and see the Wrecking Crew documentary
Caltech and the houses to the east were built on a swamp
I just want to be remembered for who I am - but who am I?
Last night at Conrads was all about cake - a 40th anniversary cake! I was celebrating the start of my journalistic career on June 24, 1968. At least, that was when I started to get paid for scribbling, as opposed to the pretend stuff at college.
Regina literally topped off the whole occasion with party hats for everyone (I hope we can download some of the pix!). I felt that Ian and Barbara's shorts - sartorial rather than the movie variety - also added to the gaiety of the evening, however unintentionally.
The only thing missing was, er, the cake. I thought I had sorted this out last week by having a quiet word with the manageress and agreeing a price - she even showed me an example of the triple choccy job that would have suited perfectly. But last night no show. The lady gave me some nonsense about her boss deciding not to buy any more cakes for the diner, strange timing in view of the fact that I had placed a firm order for a whole cake, so no risk of them being left with any unsold slices. It was the most bizarre commercial decision I have come across.
So it was off to Ralph's across the road, who had one almost as good at half the price and Conrads for once had the grace not to charge for letting us eat it on their premises. The saintly Regina again stepped forward, complete with glass of water to keep the knife clean, to cut the cake into more than enough pieces for everyone. It made a great evening, and one I shall remember for a long time.
Inevitably my anniversary prompted a discussion about the newspaper industry, especially the long, slow but accelerating decline of the LA Times and the not entirely coincidental lack of competition either from a citywide LA paper or from local papers such as the abysmal Pasadena Star-News.
My main employer, Rupert Murdoch, came in for his usual quota of abuse but, as I pointed out, look at what Sam Zell has done to the LA Times in the few months he has owned it. Of course, there is much hysteria about Murdoch's changes at the Wall Street Journal, but I think this is as much cultural as megalomanical.
As I have found in my efforts to get work here, there is a much bigger cultural gap than is generally recognised between American and Anglo-Commonwealth ideas of what constitutes a 'good' newspaper. Americans love to sneer at the animalistic instincts of British tabloids, which at least do a good job of denting the outdated image of Britain as toffee-nosed and mealy-mouthed, while Brits routinely yawn at what they see as boring, overwritten US broadsheet features masquerading as in-depth analysis.
The culure gap is exemplified by the differing attitudes to the Journal and Britain's Financial Times, which is generally regarded by British journalists as the apex of business coverage, if a little dull at times. But I have read an LA Times piece dismissing the FT and the current issue of Atlantic Monthly scoffs at it as being trivial or superficial! I nail my colors firmly to the FT mast, and look forward to Murdoch enlivening the Journal.
But, as Jim pointed out last night, the big factor impacting on all newspapers is the internet. It's only the latest incursion, after radio, movies and TV, but this time it looks serious. 'It good and bad,' said Jim, 'because it encourages more freedom of expression but also produces diarrhea.' How true.
The beginning of the LA Times's decline can fairly accurately be dated from the day it was sold to Tribune Group by the Chandler family, which produced a delightful story from Steve Lamb about Otis Chandler.
Steve, as we all know, is a massive auto fan and historian. At the age of 14 he attended an exhibit featuring a car owned by Chandler. Steve spotted an error in it just as the great man was arriving on the spot, earning Chandler's gratitude. Nearly 25 years later Steve is at another exhibit of classic cars when who should sidle up to him but Chandler - who clearly remembered Steve despite the passage of years, a little extra weight round Steve's girth and a major transference of hair from the top of his head to his chin! It said a great deal about Chandler's attention to detail.
Otis Chandler is long gone, but this was the week for remembering the death only a few days ago of the comedian George Carlin at 71. I never saw his shows, but the clips televised since he died have very much the feel of Scotland's Billy Connolly - irreverent, saying the unsayable, breaking taboos on swearing. I don't know whether Carlin was the first, or if Lenny Bruce or someone else beat him to it, but they have certainly spawned a comedy genre that did not exist in gentler times and is miles away from the smutty innuendo of Max Miller.
Like Connolly, Carlin was as much a social commentator as a comedian, for much of his act consisted of making serious points in a funny way about genuine social or political problems, be it gun law or Iraq. One of his favourite targets was the fraudulent preachers who make themselves rich from scaring gullible believers and offering them catchpenny solutions to their problems. But Carlin's starting point is that of an atheist: if it turns out that some sort of god does actually exist, those pulpit scam artists might have been handing out useful advice. Similarly on the political front, like nearly all modern comedians Carlin started from a heavily left-wing standpoint, for that where most of the good jokes come from.
Not that there is any lack of political targets or ammunition, in the dying days of what is coming to be agreed is one of the worst presidencies the US has had to endure. As Bush has boasted, he is living proof that you can be a C-grade student and still make it to the top. Mind you, it helps if your father was also President and can buy you into Harvard.
While I am sure Jeanette does not entertain such uncharitable thoughts, she was buzzing with political talking points after her 1,000-strong national convention of the League of Women Voters in Portland, Ore, last week.
Healthcare was a major topic, with a focus on Japan's and even Switzerland's systems alongside the British National Health Service so cleverly extolled by Michael Moore in his film Sicko! As defenders of the US status quo love to point out, all the foreign schemes have flaws, but none lets a patient go bankrupt. I recently read an investment analyst's report claiming that healthcare is on track to absorb 25% of US GDP by 2025, compared with the present and already bloated 16%. I sense that we are getting close to something radical being done about the problem.
Perhaps Jeanette, and Steve for that matter, will soon have their very own global soapbox right on their doorstep in Alatadena, for Ian was telling us about how the owner of the Coffee Gallery has equipped the upper rooms with a state-of-the-art multimedia studio capable of producing top-class professional TV shows and even films.
Ian sees the potential of this facility for him to maybe make a TV version of his Wednesday internet radio show for Luxuriamusic.com, but the possibilities are enormous. And if the Coffee Gallery can lay on such a studio, why not other property owners in the area? Maybe the area is about to be transformed into another Hollywood! Ian and Steve could have their faces on a Walk of Fame down North Lake...
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Are you shorter than the rest of us, Bill, or are you just slouching?
I just want to write a two-reeler, and then make it
Some people aren't tipping enough - and we know who they are
I wish they could bring the Red Line back again
Do you remember Richard Murdoch? no relation to Rupert
Maybe Phil Spector will come and see the Wrecking Crew documentary
Caltech and the houses to the east were built on a swamp
I just want to be remembered for who I am - but who am I?
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Banana Beat
Bob, Ian, Regina, Jim, Bobb, Bill, Lynne, Barbara, Glen, Ben, Steve G and Steve L.
After last night I have a strong suspicion that most of our Conrad's Monday night diners have a banana stuffed in their pocket (and there was me thinking they were pleased to see me).
It all started with innocent remarks about whether people preferred green or brown (ripe) bananas. Like Jack Spratt and his wife in the nursery rhyme, Barbara and Lynne like 'em ripe, while Bobb and Bill prefer them harder - happily our old pal Dr Freud couldn't be with us, or he would have had material for several learned tomes on phallic symbols, erections and other trivia.
That led naturally onto a debate on whether bananas should be cooked, and how. I am delighted to report that no one could cap Bill and Lynne's method, honed after extensive testing, of splitting them, barbequeing them until brown and adding brandy and whipped cream. Delicious!
Unusually, bananas were a subject that we could all agree on - Bobb even went so far as to declare "You don't need to eat anything else!". Strange then, that the long-suffering Javier rarely takes an order for banana - or do they taste better bought from a supermarket?
Bobb's remark was a strong contender for quote of the night, but that has to go to the other Bob, Birchard, with his world-weary but profound observation: "I don't buy the idea that reading one book is going to change anyone's psyche."
Bill got Bob onto the power of books by mentioning that another biography of Cecil B. DeMille has just appeared - to the rest of us at least, though it turned out that Bob has had a copy for some time and found it paid fulsome tribute to his own sterling effort.
That led on to a riveting account by Bob of the historic Directors' Guild board meeting of October 9, 1950, which he had been sent by an Australian PhD student.
It was about whether Hollywood directors should sign a loyalty oath to affirm that they were not communists, and featured an ego-soaked battle between DeMille and the guild's president, Joseph Mankiewicz. I dug up an excellent report of the saga on http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C0CE1DC1138F936A15752C0A96E958260&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=all. Maybe Bob should write a book on that extraordinary episode, with the advantage of 60 years' hindsight.
Ian entertained us with his new song, the Clap Clap Crew, a pointed attack on those film buffs who love to applaud their favorites' names when the credits roll, as if they were there like actors taking a bow on stage. Leading exponents: Will Ryan and Mary Mallory of our Conrad's group. The song caused much mirth, but it seemed that felt as strongly about this harmless if pretentious practice as Ian himself. But if it takes off it won't be the first song to change people's thinking.
The checks are coming earlier and earlier, landing on our laps at 7.32 pm - not sure if that was because Javier wanted to take his break, or just that Ian and Regina had to leave early. But, whatever the reason, there was a mass exodus at 7.45, leaving just Jim, Bill, Lynne, Bob and the two Steves.
But the talk wasn't finished. Steve G, who revealed his father had been a gardener for the legendary Harry Chandler in Arden Road, Pasadena, joined in a discussion over whether the department store is dead, or are we just witnessing the death throes of Macy's?
Everyone has childhood memories of being taken to department stores, but nowadays Macy's seems to defy financial gravity by requiring few customers and even fewer staff. They just aren't places to be seen in any more.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Barbara asked if the group has transmogrified - for the worse?
Regina not sure what to do in November, likes Mr Kipling lemon and almond slices, but meanwhile wants to be Rollo.
Steve L said that BMW was ruining Morgan and Bentley cars, and Volkswagen likewise with Rolls-Royces.
Ian told Jim he should collect old women - starting with Helen Shapiro!
The heavily tattooed Ben raised the question of why tattoos are becoming so popular? And why do porn stars like them so much?
After last night I have a strong suspicion that most of our Conrad's Monday night diners have a banana stuffed in their pocket (and there was me thinking they were pleased to see me).
It all started with innocent remarks about whether people preferred green or brown (ripe) bananas. Like Jack Spratt and his wife in the nursery rhyme, Barbara and Lynne like 'em ripe, while Bobb and Bill prefer them harder - happily our old pal Dr Freud couldn't be with us, or he would have had material for several learned tomes on phallic symbols, erections and other trivia.
That led naturally onto a debate on whether bananas should be cooked, and how. I am delighted to report that no one could cap Bill and Lynne's method, honed after extensive testing, of splitting them, barbequeing them until brown and adding brandy and whipped cream. Delicious!
Unusually, bananas were a subject that we could all agree on - Bobb even went so far as to declare "You don't need to eat anything else!". Strange then, that the long-suffering Javier rarely takes an order for banana - or do they taste better bought from a supermarket?
Bobb's remark was a strong contender for quote of the night, but that has to go to the other Bob, Birchard, with his world-weary but profound observation: "I don't buy the idea that reading one book is going to change anyone's psyche."
Bill got Bob onto the power of books by mentioning that another biography of Cecil B. DeMille has just appeared - to the rest of us at least, though it turned out that Bob has had a copy for some time and found it paid fulsome tribute to his own sterling effort.
That led on to a riveting account by Bob of the historic Directors' Guild board meeting of October 9, 1950, which he had been sent by an Australian PhD student.
It was about whether Hollywood directors should sign a loyalty oath to affirm that they were not communists, and featured an ego-soaked battle between DeMille and the guild's president, Joseph Mankiewicz. I dug up an excellent report of the saga on http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C0CE1DC1138F936A15752C0A96E958260&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=all. Maybe Bob should write a book on that extraordinary episode, with the advantage of 60 years' hindsight.
Ian entertained us with his new song, the Clap Clap Crew, a pointed attack on those film buffs who love to applaud their favorites' names when the credits roll, as if they were there like actors taking a bow on stage. Leading exponents: Will Ryan and Mary Mallory of our Conrad's group. The song caused much mirth, but it seemed that felt as strongly about this harmless if pretentious practice as Ian himself. But if it takes off it won't be the first song to change people's thinking.
The checks are coming earlier and earlier, landing on our laps at 7.32 pm - not sure if that was because Javier wanted to take his break, or just that Ian and Regina had to leave early. But, whatever the reason, there was a mass exodus at 7.45, leaving just Jim, Bill, Lynne, Bob and the two Steves.
But the talk wasn't finished. Steve G, who revealed his father had been a gardener for the legendary Harry Chandler in Arden Road, Pasadena, joined in a discussion over whether the department store is dead, or are we just witnessing the death throes of Macy's?
Everyone has childhood memories of being taken to department stores, but nowadays Macy's seems to defy financial gravity by requiring few customers and even fewer staff. They just aren't places to be seen in any more.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Barbara asked if the group has transmogrified - for the worse?
Regina not sure what to do in November, likes Mr Kipling lemon and almond slices, but meanwhile wants to be Rollo.
Steve L said that BMW was ruining Morgan and Bentley cars, and Volkswagen likewise with Rolls-Royces.
Ian told Jim he should collect old women - starting with Helen Shapiro!
The heavily tattooed Ben raised the question of why tattoos are becoming so popular? And why do porn stars like them so much?
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