March 30
Ian, Bill, Lynne, Bobb, Barbara, Will, Edgar, Jim, Steve L, Jeanette, Bob
I'm bookending March, with Diner Diaries immortalising only the first and last Mondays of the month thanks to Douglas Fairbanks's silent pranks and Will Ryan's considerably noisier Cactus County Cowboys!
Although he hasn't been awarded much sympathy by the public - many of whom, it seems from press and radio, have decided he's guilty - Phil Spector has been remarkably cheerful while he awaits the jury's verdict, according to Jim. While no one expected the jury to make their mind up in a trice, every obstacle appears to have been placed in the way of a definite conclusion to the five-month trial, from letting the jury stay home in case downtown was clogged up by crowds celebrating Cezar Chavez day or one of their number falling ill. When you consider that he could spend the rest of his life in jail, it has been a considerable achievement for him to surround himself with friends like Jim, generously taking them out to meals and generally living as normal a life as possible. Most murder suspects have only the four walls of a prison cell to look at while they await a verdict, but it can be just as hard to go out in public.
As far as I know, Spector has not recently visited Micheli's, the Italian tourist trap off Hollywood that really should be the automatic choice for a meal before seeing a movie at the Egyptian. But it shows just how many doubts surround the place, that its merits are so often debated. Now was one of those times, ahead of the April film noir season at the Egyptian. It has few real fans among our group and some definite detractors, notably Ian and Lynne.
I'll take the liberty of jumping ahead of myself to say that Lynne, Will and I went there on the season's first night and had a good meal, promptly served. That may have had something to do with the recession thinning out the number of customers, but let's take it as a good omen for both film noir and Cinecon. Perhaps the real puzzle is why the area doesn't have a whole bunch of excellent restaurants clamoring for our dollars. Taking tourists for granted can be a hard habit to shake off..
How much TV should we watch? That question has been asked far more than how often we should or should not go to the movies - because that has traditionally meant getting out of the house? Because movies are more of an art form than TV? Barbara revealed that she rations herself, either despite or because she wants to clear away space to watch American Idol, among other attractions of the small screen. But I haven't heard of anyone rationing themselves with regard to movies, unless to save money, so I think TV has had an undeservedly bad press. Aside from Idol, which Lynne and I also follow avidly, the debate on TV's merits were prompted by a new series that launched on HBO on Sunday, a serialization of Alexander McCall Smith's Botswana-based books, The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. This really is a marriage made in heaven: excellent books, a fine lead actress in Jill Scott, great producing and directing from the late Sidney Pollack and Anthony Minghella, and wonderful Botswana scenery. Don't ration yourselves!
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
There's so many more people know you than you know
I've been free for a long time of worrying about what people think of me
Every man would like to be randy for a day
Do you really mean to say that a man with a beard can't be sexy?
I saw Johnny Mathis driving down Sunset once
Touching is all right for sex, but that's it as far as I'm concerned
Friday, April 3, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Cactus County Custard
March 2
Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Edgar, Ian, Bob, Steve L, Jeanette
Jim is busy pitching for a third volume of his definitive magnum opus on breaking wind, and the rest of us were eager to share the glory by contributing more of our own fart stories.
Lynne started, aptly enough, by repeating the IFart application on her newly acquired iPhone, and I recalled that Peter Sellers farted several times in his Pink Panther films (infinitely superior to the feeble Steve Martin version, but that's just my opinion), and Sellers's fellow Goon Harry Secombe was prone to raspberry farts on the Goon Show. However, that was on radio so it probably didn't count. Maybe that was why the Goons never transferred successfully to television.
Hitler was anoher famous farter, and we speculated that his strange bowel irruptions may have accounted for the concentration camps, the Holocaust and even the whole of World War II, which the historian Hugh Trevor-Roper may have described as the 20th century's biggest fart. Or not.
Maybe that was the giveaway line in what proved to be Hitler's fake diaries when they were published in the early 1980s: 'Must stop farting, or Jim Dawson will stick me in one of his books.'
But Jim's most sensational revelation was that Greta Garbo must have been a compulsive farter. He has spent untold hours studying Garbo's role in the film Grand Hotel where, to Prof Dawson's immense satisfaction, the sultry Scandinavian seamstress unmistakably farts in a solo bedroom scene. Maybe that silver-screen indiscretion is not so unmistakable: Bob, our resident cinematic authority, was sceptical, delivering the magisterial verdict that 'I seriously doubt they would let Garbo fart on screen,' which prompts the image of the director going up to Louis B Mayer or one of the Warner brothers and asking if he could let the grande dame break wind while the cameras were rolling. ('No, no, she has a fart-break clause in her contract, it would cost us more than the studio is worth').
Ian's current problem is less to do with breaking wind as breaking into print with his latest collection of Letters from Lotusland, for which he is employing the relatively untested technique of self-publishing (not to be confused with vanity publishing). He is employing a middle man who is supposed to be preparing the work for the printer but is falling short of Ian's exacting standards. Other would-be self-publishers are watching Ian's experience closely for hints and tips.
The latest victim of the economic collapse that day, was Virgin Megastore closing its Times Square branch in New York and considering shutting the rest - including one next to Grauman's Chinese Theater. I discovered later that the Megastores no longer have anything to do with Richard Branson, other than the Virgin name, as the shrewd Branson sold out to a couple of property guys a couple of years ago. The chain has already shrunk from eleven to six stores. The only profitable branch is the Times Square one, and they want to sell that because it is so valuable.
Bob mused over why the Megastores should be closing while Amoeba Records apparently sails on untroubled on Sunset. It's probably not a fair comparison, given the property element in the Megastores, but Amoeba may be a real estate play too, depending on the lease. Also they pack every square inch with product, and I suspect they pay the staff less than the price of a bent CD.
Discussion continues to rumble on over the merits or demerits of Slumdog Millionaire, which Bob argues is a throwback to the old Hollywood movie theme of poor kids getting rich and everyone lives happily ever after. This morphed into a debate over the lack of social glue nowadays, what with media being so fragmented and so there are very few films or TV progs that everyone watches - like Dallas or Peyton Place. Superbowl is still a magnet, but for only one day a year. Ditto the Oscars, thought its audience is shrinking as it shuns the blockbusters like Dark Knight. American Idol still draws 30 million, but it's in its eighth season and is beginning to lose momentum.
Much vitriol hurled at Leno and Letterman, seen as poor substitutes for the peerless Johnny Carson. But isn't that always the case, that past performers acquire that golden hue that overshadows today's pale imitations. I suspect, though, that Leno and Letterman will be looked back in through rose-tinted glasses.
Ian raised the perennial question of Will: the strange date of birth in his Wikipedia entry and why Will creates radio and stage personae for himself, rather than promoting himself - as Ian does, to take a totally random example.
In a delicious piece of stage business, Ian tried to embarass Will into revealing his actual age, at one point going round the table asking us all what year we were born. We all naturally replied, truthfully as far as I know, whereupon Ian turned triumphantly to Will and said: 'There! They've all said when they were born, Will - so when were YOU born?' He might as well have been talking Mandarin, for all the good it did.
But we all agreed, those of us who had seen them at least, that Will's latest series of shows as the Cactus County Cowboy have been a great success, wonderfully varied and talented ensemble, great atmosphere. At which point Will threw his eyes to heaven and said: "Well there you go, it just shows you...."
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
You keep talking, I want to talk to Will
I like doing your show more than anyone else's
After film noir - we're going to have Obama noir!
Do people really care about Octomom?
The evangelicals are trying to shed their southern Gothic, Flannery O'Conner image
I think you will agree you are a performer of great skill but relative obscurity
Being very rich takes some of the excitement out of life
Oh god, my bloody brain
I'd have really loved to be in a western
I wanted to be Warren Beatty for a time, but the feeling passed
Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Edgar, Ian, Bob, Steve L, Jeanette
Jim is busy pitching for a third volume of his definitive magnum opus on breaking wind, and the rest of us were eager to share the glory by contributing more of our own fart stories.
Lynne started, aptly enough, by repeating the IFart application on her newly acquired iPhone, and I recalled that Peter Sellers farted several times in his Pink Panther films (infinitely superior to the feeble Steve Martin version, but that's just my opinion), and Sellers's fellow Goon Harry Secombe was prone to raspberry farts on the Goon Show. However, that was on radio so it probably didn't count. Maybe that was why the Goons never transferred successfully to television.
Hitler was anoher famous farter, and we speculated that his strange bowel irruptions may have accounted for the concentration camps, the Holocaust and even the whole of World War II, which the historian Hugh Trevor-Roper may have described as the 20th century's biggest fart. Or not.
Maybe that was the giveaway line in what proved to be Hitler's fake diaries when they were published in the early 1980s: 'Must stop farting, or Jim Dawson will stick me in one of his books.'
But Jim's most sensational revelation was that Greta Garbo must have been a compulsive farter. He has spent untold hours studying Garbo's role in the film Grand Hotel where, to Prof Dawson's immense satisfaction, the sultry Scandinavian seamstress unmistakably farts in a solo bedroom scene. Maybe that silver-screen indiscretion is not so unmistakable: Bob, our resident cinematic authority, was sceptical, delivering the magisterial verdict that 'I seriously doubt they would let Garbo fart on screen,' which prompts the image of the director going up to Louis B Mayer or one of the Warner brothers and asking if he could let the grande dame break wind while the cameras were rolling. ('No, no, she has a fart-break clause in her contract, it would cost us more than the studio is worth').
Ian's current problem is less to do with breaking wind as breaking into print with his latest collection of Letters from Lotusland, for which he is employing the relatively untested technique of self-publishing (not to be confused with vanity publishing). He is employing a middle man who is supposed to be preparing the work for the printer but is falling short of Ian's exacting standards. Other would-be self-publishers are watching Ian's experience closely for hints and tips.
The latest victim of the economic collapse that day, was Virgin Megastore closing its Times Square branch in New York and considering shutting the rest - including one next to Grauman's Chinese Theater. I discovered later that the Megastores no longer have anything to do with Richard Branson, other than the Virgin name, as the shrewd Branson sold out to a couple of property guys a couple of years ago. The chain has already shrunk from eleven to six stores. The only profitable branch is the Times Square one, and they want to sell that because it is so valuable.
Bob mused over why the Megastores should be closing while Amoeba Records apparently sails on untroubled on Sunset. It's probably not a fair comparison, given the property element in the Megastores, but Amoeba may be a real estate play too, depending on the lease. Also they pack every square inch with product, and I suspect they pay the staff less than the price of a bent CD.
Discussion continues to rumble on over the merits or demerits of Slumdog Millionaire, which Bob argues is a throwback to the old Hollywood movie theme of poor kids getting rich and everyone lives happily ever after. This morphed into a debate over the lack of social glue nowadays, what with media being so fragmented and so there are very few films or TV progs that everyone watches - like Dallas or Peyton Place. Superbowl is still a magnet, but for only one day a year. Ditto the Oscars, thought its audience is shrinking as it shuns the blockbusters like Dark Knight. American Idol still draws 30 million, but it's in its eighth season and is beginning to lose momentum.
Much vitriol hurled at Leno and Letterman, seen as poor substitutes for the peerless Johnny Carson. But isn't that always the case, that past performers acquire that golden hue that overshadows today's pale imitations. I suspect, though, that Leno and Letterman will be looked back in through rose-tinted glasses.
Ian raised the perennial question of Will: the strange date of birth in his Wikipedia entry and why Will creates radio and stage personae for himself, rather than promoting himself - as Ian does, to take a totally random example.
In a delicious piece of stage business, Ian tried to embarass Will into revealing his actual age, at one point going round the table asking us all what year we were born. We all naturally replied, truthfully as far as I know, whereupon Ian turned triumphantly to Will and said: 'There! They've all said when they were born, Will - so when were YOU born?' He might as well have been talking Mandarin, for all the good it did.
But we all agreed, those of us who had seen them at least, that Will's latest series of shows as the Cactus County Cowboy have been a great success, wonderfully varied and talented ensemble, great atmosphere. At which point Will threw his eyes to heaven and said: "Well there you go, it just shows you...."
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
You keep talking, I want to talk to Will
I like doing your show more than anyone else's
After film noir - we're going to have Obama noir!
Do people really care about Octomom?
The evangelicals are trying to shed their southern Gothic, Flannery O'Conner image
I think you will agree you are a performer of great skill but relative obscurity
Being very rich takes some of the excitement out of life
Oh god, my bloody brain
I'd have really loved to be in a western
I wanted to be Warren Beatty for a time, but the feeling passed
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
From Oscar to Alaska
Feb 23
Ian, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Glenn, Rita, Mary, Ray, Bob, Andy
Another nomad returns to the fold: after Libby last week it was Glenn, fresh from the surgeon's knife. about 25lbs lighter but happily claiming the procedure and its aftermatch were virtually pain-free. He was made to walk around just a few hours after coming round from the anaesthetic, and left hospital a mere five days later. Thanks to modern surgery, a triple bypass has become almost a routine op - and Glenn said one of the other patients had had a sextuple bypass. Amazing. But since he has been out, the old remedies have kicked in: regular exercise and a strict diet, which had him eating salmon tonight. But it's driving him nuts that he can't drive: the saintly Rita is his chauffeuse.
They said how thankful they were that they had an HMO health insurance policy, which covered them totally for the $96,000 that the hospital stay cost, BEFORE the surgeon's and anaesthetist's fees.
'I'd have been in a hotel room in the Huntington if we had had a PPO,' said Glenn, 'but we couldn't have afforded the 20% deductible.'
Being the night after the Oscars, the annual shebang was much trawled over with the help of Mary, who kindly brought her program for us all to peruse, with a sheaf of instructions on the night such as having to have a driver's license or passport to pass the ID checks. The general opinion was that the TV show was better than usual: at least they tried a few new ideas.
That led us into a wider discussion of movies and a trip down memory lane to the days when we used to see a B movie, maybe a cartoon or two and a newsreel before the main feature - often all shown continuously so you could turn up when you liked and just stay until you said 'This is where we came in'.
You can do something like that now at the multiplexes, because one ticket can let you flit from screen to screen and see several movies for your money. I've never done that, but I've often been tempted.
'But multiplexes have killed the movies,' intoned Bob, 'because they have allowed films to become bloated beyond audience endurance. Because multiplexes can play the same film on dufferent screens, a film can start every half hour without regard to running time. In a single screen set up, running time was a consideration because you need to get so meny screenings in per day to bring in enough dough to keep the doors open. Now it doesn't matter if a picture is 14 reels long, because it can play in three or five theaters in a multiplex and achieve the needed number of showings. Directors become self-indulgent and shoot extra footage--that extra footage costs money (sometimes as much as 40% below the line) and very few stories are worth the kind of screen time the extra footage entails. That is why mutiplexes have ruined the movies.'
The LA Times pointed out that the nominated titles for Best Picture had taken around $200m so far, but in 2003 the comparable figure was over $600m - a significant decline, not helped by the fact that there's just so much more grabbing our attention, from DVDs to Facebook.
Bob is a recent adherent Facebook in order, so he admitted, to generate publicity for his various projects. I suggested he put create a Facebook Group for Cinecon, which would make it much more interactive than at present. I also repeated my plea to be allowed to start a Rollo Fan Club, and I can reveal that Regina has - after consulting the peerless hound - agreed. I've started preparations already.
As often happens, one of the most interesting tales emerged right at the end, when nearly everyone else had gone home. Andy told us some of his exploits as a lawyer in Alaska, north of the Arctic Circle, with no electricity, no running water, no locally grown vegetables (too cold for them to survive), no restaurants, no libraries, no telephone - just hiking, fishing, listening to a crackly radio and praying that the ship delivering supplies is not blocked by ice.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
The only people who come up to me in restaurants are three-year-old kids
What happens when you pass your old age?
If you have yr face lifted any more you'll have a goatee
I was a piccallily, not a piccaninny.
You have to have a god complex to be a surgeon
The camera just loves people with small bodies and big heads: don't ask me why.
If you can survive a Conrads dinner, you must be feeling ok
Ian, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Glenn, Rita, Mary, Ray, Bob, Andy
Another nomad returns to the fold: after Libby last week it was Glenn, fresh from the surgeon's knife. about 25lbs lighter but happily claiming the procedure and its aftermatch were virtually pain-free. He was made to walk around just a few hours after coming round from the anaesthetic, and left hospital a mere five days later. Thanks to modern surgery, a triple bypass has become almost a routine op - and Glenn said one of the other patients had had a sextuple bypass. Amazing. But since he has been out, the old remedies have kicked in: regular exercise and a strict diet, which had him eating salmon tonight. But it's driving him nuts that he can't drive: the saintly Rita is his chauffeuse.
They said how thankful they were that they had an HMO health insurance policy, which covered them totally for the $96,000 that the hospital stay cost, BEFORE the surgeon's and anaesthetist's fees.
'I'd have been in a hotel room in the Huntington if we had had a PPO,' said Glenn, 'but we couldn't have afforded the 20% deductible.'
Being the night after the Oscars, the annual shebang was much trawled over with the help of Mary, who kindly brought her program for us all to peruse, with a sheaf of instructions on the night such as having to have a driver's license or passport to pass the ID checks. The general opinion was that the TV show was better than usual: at least they tried a few new ideas.
That led us into a wider discussion of movies and a trip down memory lane to the days when we used to see a B movie, maybe a cartoon or two and a newsreel before the main feature - often all shown continuously so you could turn up when you liked and just stay until you said 'This is where we came in'.
You can do something like that now at the multiplexes, because one ticket can let you flit from screen to screen and see several movies for your money. I've never done that, but I've often been tempted.
'But multiplexes have killed the movies,' intoned Bob, 'because they have allowed films to become bloated beyond audience endurance. Because multiplexes can play the same film on dufferent screens, a film can start every half hour without regard to running time. In a single screen set up, running time was a consideration because you need to get so meny screenings in per day to bring in enough dough to keep the doors open. Now it doesn't matter if a picture is 14 reels long, because it can play in three or five theaters in a multiplex and achieve the needed number of showings. Directors become self-indulgent and shoot extra footage--that extra footage costs money (sometimes as much as 40% below the line) and very few stories are worth the kind of screen time the extra footage entails. That is why mutiplexes have ruined the movies.'
The LA Times pointed out that the nominated titles for Best Picture had taken around $200m so far, but in 2003 the comparable figure was over $600m - a significant decline, not helped by the fact that there's just so much more grabbing our attention, from DVDs to Facebook.
Bob is a recent adherent Facebook in order, so he admitted, to generate publicity for his various projects. I suggested he put create a Facebook Group for Cinecon, which would make it much more interactive than at present. I also repeated my plea to be allowed to start a Rollo Fan Club, and I can reveal that Regina has - after consulting the peerless hound - agreed. I've started preparations already.
As often happens, one of the most interesting tales emerged right at the end, when nearly everyone else had gone home. Andy told us some of his exploits as a lawyer in Alaska, north of the Arctic Circle, with no electricity, no running water, no locally grown vegetables (too cold for them to survive), no restaurants, no libraries, no telephone - just hiking, fishing, listening to a crackly radio and praying that the ship delivering supplies is not blocked by ice.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
The only people who come up to me in restaurants are three-year-old kids
What happens when you pass your old age?
If you have yr face lifted any more you'll have a goatee
I was a piccallily, not a piccaninny.
You have to have a god complex to be a surgeon
The camera just loves people with small bodies and big heads: don't ask me why.
If you can survive a Conrads dinner, you must be feeling ok
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Sinatra's secret
Feb 16
Ian, Regina, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Will, Jim, Libby, Bob, Ben, Steve L, Jeanette, Andy, Ray, Joan
We were delighted to be able to greet Libby's return to the fold, in an all-too-rare visit that we all hope will be converted once again into regular appearances - with or without fur coat and wig.
Ian made a great fuss of Libby, buoyed as he was by the realization that the play he is in - The Jazz Age - has the makings of a huge success. A packed house is a packed house, however small the venue, and Ian even allowed himself the dream of accompanying it on a London run, in some edgy venue off-off West End. If only...
With less than a week to go before the Oscars, and an Academy voter (Will) in our midst, there was much talk of the chances of the nominees. Milk and Slumdog Millionaire had their devotees for best picture, Sean Penn seemed to be the local favorite as best actor and Philip Seymour Hoffman as best supporting. No broad agreement on the two actress Oscars, although it seems to be between Meryl Streep and Kate Winslet for the top female award.
The long-running question, Do We Still Like Obama?, got another airing with most people reassuring one another that, whatever he does, he will still be better than either Bush or McCain - understandably, given the way McCain still keeps putting his foot in it on the stimulus and housing rescue packages. Myself, I see the beginnings of a trimmer whose top priority is going to be survival. I think the forgiveness will have worn thin by Labor Day.
Edgar was telling Libby how his employers regularly ditch, or at least give to thrift stores, library books that are rarely read, and few borrowers choose fiction that is more than ten years old - let alone the classics. This is sad, but part of the iPhonisation of books and newspapers, where the soundbite dominates at the expense of the considered work of prose, fiction or non-fiction.
I was horrified to discover that the US, land of the free and defender of property rights, has no equivalent to the British Public Lending Right, which pays authors a small royalty every time their book is borrowed from a public library. It's not much - I've just received six pounds and thirteen pence in ye English monnie for last year, which at current exchange rates doesn't even buy me a Conrads dinner, but at least it recognises the principle that potential sales are being lost through free-at-point-of-selection libraries. Time for a campaign: are you listening, Barack
Some of us have continued to attend the Phil Spector trial, which is dragging on to its conclusion amid schoolyard name-calling by the rival attorneys. Let's hope the final speeches and the judge's summing up will make sense of it. At any rate, Judge Fidler must know more about Spector than any other man alive.
Will ended by telling a long but fascinating tale about his upclose experiences with Frank Sinatra, mainly at the Greek Theatre in the 1980s. On the third and final occasion he had the luck to be in the wings as Sinatra went into his act - and saw that the great man was reading the words off a Teleprompter! I suppose he had too many songs to remember by then, but it somehow tarnishes the effortless impression he gave. Ho hum, another god with feet of clay.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
He looks gay just walking up steps
Do you know where I can get cowgirl clothing?
Some people aspire to prostitution
We don't want Will to be promiscuous, do we?
You know best - in this regard, at least
She was developing another boyfriend
We've met a lot of your old girlfriends - and they were all very nice, really they were
Ian, Regina, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Will, Jim, Libby, Bob, Ben, Steve L, Jeanette, Andy, Ray, Joan
We were delighted to be able to greet Libby's return to the fold, in an all-too-rare visit that we all hope will be converted once again into regular appearances - with or without fur coat and wig.
Ian made a great fuss of Libby, buoyed as he was by the realization that the play he is in - The Jazz Age - has the makings of a huge success. A packed house is a packed house, however small the venue, and Ian even allowed himself the dream of accompanying it on a London run, in some edgy venue off-off West End. If only...
With less than a week to go before the Oscars, and an Academy voter (Will) in our midst, there was much talk of the chances of the nominees. Milk and Slumdog Millionaire had their devotees for best picture, Sean Penn seemed to be the local favorite as best actor and Philip Seymour Hoffman as best supporting. No broad agreement on the two actress Oscars, although it seems to be between Meryl Streep and Kate Winslet for the top female award.
The long-running question, Do We Still Like Obama?, got another airing with most people reassuring one another that, whatever he does, he will still be better than either Bush or McCain - understandably, given the way McCain still keeps putting his foot in it on the stimulus and housing rescue packages. Myself, I see the beginnings of a trimmer whose top priority is going to be survival. I think the forgiveness will have worn thin by Labor Day.
Edgar was telling Libby how his employers regularly ditch, or at least give to thrift stores, library books that are rarely read, and few borrowers choose fiction that is more than ten years old - let alone the classics. This is sad, but part of the iPhonisation of books and newspapers, where the soundbite dominates at the expense of the considered work of prose, fiction or non-fiction.
I was horrified to discover that the US, land of the free and defender of property rights, has no equivalent to the British Public Lending Right, which pays authors a small royalty every time their book is borrowed from a public library. It's not much - I've just received six pounds and thirteen pence in ye English monnie for last year, which at current exchange rates doesn't even buy me a Conrads dinner, but at least it recognises the principle that potential sales are being lost through free-at-point-of-selection libraries. Time for a campaign: are you listening, Barack
Some of us have continued to attend the Phil Spector trial, which is dragging on to its conclusion amid schoolyard name-calling by the rival attorneys. Let's hope the final speeches and the judge's summing up will make sense of it. At any rate, Judge Fidler must know more about Spector than any other man alive.
Will ended by telling a long but fascinating tale about his upclose experiences with Frank Sinatra, mainly at the Greek Theatre in the 1980s. On the third and final occasion he had the luck to be in the wings as Sinatra went into his act - and saw that the great man was reading the words off a Teleprompter! I suppose he had too many songs to remember by then, but it somehow tarnishes the effortless impression he gave. Ho hum, another god with feet of clay.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
He looks gay just walking up steps
Do you know where I can get cowgirl clothing?
Some people aspire to prostitution
We don't want Will to be promiscuous, do we?
You know best - in this regard, at least
She was developing another boyfriend
We've met a lot of your old girlfriends - and they were all very nice, really they were
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Naked or nude? That is the question
Feb 2
Bill, Lynne, Ray, Ian, Bob, Steve L, Jeanette, Andy, Will, Jim, Ben
Although there were eleven of us at Conrads on Monday night, there were never more than eight at any one time because Will and Bob left early while Jim, Ben and (of course) Andy arrived late.
Ian, who was sporting another Band-Aid on his nose from shutting the back door of his car, was again worrying about the recession.
'Why are all the restaurants I go to so busy? I don't think there's a recession,' he said. 'It's not just here - Cantalini's is the same.'
I pointed out that high-end venues - even higher-end than Cantalini's - were suffering first, places like Parkway Grill. It's like in retail: Neiman Marcus is well down while Wal-Mart is up. We'll know the recession is really biting when people stay at home rather than go to even the cheap places. But, we pledged, Monday nights at Conrads will go on, come what may?
That may be more than can be said for the Mayflower Club, which Ray was promoting as a home-from-home for British expats. Its numbers are down, too - not surprisingly, judging from the menu.
Bob got us talking about his great expertise, old movie stars, he is lecturing at the Barn next week on two of them, Francis Ford and Grace Cunard. By little or no coincidence, one of Bob's favorite film, How Green Was My Valley, was directed by Francis Ford's younger brother, John. Pressed by Lynne, though, he admitted that his absolute favorite was Orson Welles's The Magnificent Ambersons. Lots of people seem to rate How Green as among their top films, but it is of course immediately disqualified as far as I am concerned as it is all about Welsh folk. Still, I suppose they seem quite charming from this distance.
Via a diversion onto films noir - the annual Egyptian season isn't far off - we somehow got talking about WC Fields and Charlie Chaplin. Ian, the great defender of British music hall, insisted that Fields had got his act and overall style from Harry Tate (1872-1940), the Scottish comedian - who, ironically in view of later history, was born Ronald McDonald. Now why would you give up a name like that in favor of Harry Tate, unless someone in showbiz already owned it?
This gave Ian the excuse he needed to have a go at another icon, Chaplin, and how he had pinched his stage mannerisms from the lesser British comedians in Fred Karno's Army, the group that brought him to America.
Another member of the Karno troup was Arthur Jefferson, later Stan Laurel who, as Jim remarked, was nothing until he was teamed up with Oliver Hardy by Hal Roach in 1920 - as with all the other famous double acts, they were nothing on their own and breakaways were rarely successful, right up to and including Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis.
Bob had, like Bill and Lynne, been to see Minsky's at the Ahmanson Theatre, which got us onto the history and origin of burlesque and how it was eclipsed by striptease - and now, so I am told, by lap dancing.
Minsky's, we agreed, is a rattling good evening in the old tradition - nothing original, but what it does it does well.
The nearest to burlesque in London was the Windmill Theatre where, thanks to the iron rule of the Lord Chamberlain* in those days, the women could be naked but could not move or speak. The only speech came from the comedians who had the thankless task of keeping the almost entirely male audience amused between scene changes.
While the girls were naked they were always referred to as nudes. The two words mean the same: so what's the difference? It turns out that nude is Latin while naked is Old English and therefore considered more vulgar.
*The Lord Chamberlain licensed every show, and had to be sent every script before a show could be staged, until the law was changed in 1968.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
If that man comes he'll never stop talking
What do you care what I'm having? Are you going to eat it? I don't think so!
Drapes don't wear out - just wash them
I've always loved WC Fields
What you've got to do is get your head out of the way, then you won't hit your nose
There are ten million stories in a naked city, but no nudes is good nudes
I'm going to enjoy life without drink, I really am
Bill, Lynne, Ray, Ian, Bob, Steve L, Jeanette, Andy, Will, Jim, Ben
Although there were eleven of us at Conrads on Monday night, there were never more than eight at any one time because Will and Bob left early while Jim, Ben and (of course) Andy arrived late.
Ian, who was sporting another Band-Aid on his nose from shutting the back door of his car, was again worrying about the recession.
'Why are all the restaurants I go to so busy? I don't think there's a recession,' he said. 'It's not just here - Cantalini's is the same.'
I pointed out that high-end venues - even higher-end than Cantalini's - were suffering first, places like Parkway Grill. It's like in retail: Neiman Marcus is well down while Wal-Mart is up. We'll know the recession is really biting when people stay at home rather than go to even the cheap places. But, we pledged, Monday nights at Conrads will go on, come what may?
That may be more than can be said for the Mayflower Club, which Ray was promoting as a home-from-home for British expats. Its numbers are down, too - not surprisingly, judging from the menu.
Bob got us talking about his great expertise, old movie stars, he is lecturing at the Barn next week on two of them, Francis Ford and Grace Cunard. By little or no coincidence, one of Bob's favorite film, How Green Was My Valley, was directed by Francis Ford's younger brother, John. Pressed by Lynne, though, he admitted that his absolute favorite was Orson Welles's The Magnificent Ambersons. Lots of people seem to rate How Green as among their top films, but it is of course immediately disqualified as far as I am concerned as it is all about Welsh folk. Still, I suppose they seem quite charming from this distance.
Via a diversion onto films noir - the annual Egyptian season isn't far off - we somehow got talking about WC Fields and Charlie Chaplin. Ian, the great defender of British music hall, insisted that Fields had got his act and overall style from Harry Tate (1872-1940), the Scottish comedian - who, ironically in view of later history, was born Ronald McDonald. Now why would you give up a name like that in favor of Harry Tate, unless someone in showbiz already owned it?
This gave Ian the excuse he needed to have a go at another icon, Chaplin, and how he had pinched his stage mannerisms from the lesser British comedians in Fred Karno's Army, the group that brought him to America.
Another member of the Karno troup was Arthur Jefferson, later Stan Laurel who, as Jim remarked, was nothing until he was teamed up with Oliver Hardy by Hal Roach in 1920 - as with all the other famous double acts, they were nothing on their own and breakaways were rarely successful, right up to and including Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis.
Bob had, like Bill and Lynne, been to see Minsky's at the Ahmanson Theatre, which got us onto the history and origin of burlesque and how it was eclipsed by striptease - and now, so I am told, by lap dancing.
Minsky's, we agreed, is a rattling good evening in the old tradition - nothing original, but what it does it does well.
The nearest to burlesque in London was the Windmill Theatre where, thanks to the iron rule of the Lord Chamberlain* in those days, the women could be naked but could not move or speak. The only speech came from the comedians who had the thankless task of keeping the almost entirely male audience amused between scene changes.
While the girls were naked they were always referred to as nudes. The two words mean the same: so what's the difference? It turns out that nude is Latin while naked is Old English and therefore considered more vulgar.
*The Lord Chamberlain licensed every show, and had to be sent every script before a show could be staged, until the law was changed in 1968.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
If that man comes he'll never stop talking
What do you care what I'm having? Are you going to eat it? I don't think so!
Drapes don't wear out - just wash them
I've always loved WC Fields
What you've got to do is get your head out of the way, then you won't hit your nose
There are ten million stories in a naked city, but no nudes is good nudes
I'm going to enjoy life without drink, I really am
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Krumping at Conrads
Jan 26
Ian, Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Edgar, Steve L, Bobb, Barbara, Ray, Andy, Joan
There is, I hope no one will deny, a distinctly self-improvement side to Monday nights at Conrads. It's by no means the main aim, it happens almost by accident, but barely a week goes by without some of us learning at least something - it's how Lynne and I have become almost fluent in Californian (I did say almost).
This Monday was no exception, for some of us learned about Krumping. That it was a real word, as opposed to something Jim had made up, another term for farting, perhaps.
No, Krumping was written, in black and white, in print, in a newspaper, so it had to be real.
It was just a throwaway line in a Culver City freesheet review of Cantalini's and Ian's show there. A friend of the writer might as well have been somewhere else krumping, we were told.
As is becoming a regular ritual, I promptly whipped out my iPhone to google the word. Glenn holds the Conrads record for fastest googling on a handheld device while eating, but he alas was not with us for health reasons, to which I return below.*
It was left to me to define krumping, and it turns out to be a new urban street dance-form that began in South Central Los Angeles and "is characterized by free, expressive, and highly energetic moves involving the arms and chest," says Wikipedia. It has become a major part of hip hop dance culture, I understand.
As it was such a stuffy, sychophantic restaurant review I can only surmise that the reference to krumping was a rare burst of irony. The review itself was so fawning that it even embarrassed Ian, which takes some doing, I think we would all agree.
The entrance of Wikipedia onto the stage led to renewed discussion of Ian's, Will's and my Wiki entries and how or whether they should be edited, and by whom. This was prompted by a recent scandal in which someone altered Senators Edward Kennedy and Robert Byrd's entries to say they were dead, so there is a move afoot to have every alteration reviewed by a team of super editors, who will presumably be overwhelmed by the backlog. Alterations take weeks to appear in German Wiki, where this regime is already in force.
So I urged Will to update his entry quickly, as he has complained for some time that it says he was born in 1939, making him out to be much younger than he really is (OK, older, just kidding Will!).
This of course got Ian going on the perennial subject of his Wiki slights, not the least of which is to do with the now-deceased British TV rock music series, Old Grey Whistle Test. Ian has been completely overlooked as the first co-host of the series, for a month anyway, because he stuttered in rehearsal on the first night. This might not have mattered, except this was 1971 and it was going out live. The executive producer, Mike Appleton, was taking no chances and so earned Ian's undying hatred even though he was allowed to conduct interviews.
Stuttering is naturally a subject of some interest at Conrads, as Ian and Jim can sometimes take ten minutes to pass the pickled pepper to one another over d-d-d-dinner. But, as they soon point out, their stutters vanish when confronted with a microphone, at least one that is switched on.
They are in the company of many famous stutterers, from Marilyn Monroe to Winston Churchill, who were OK on camera and therefore not known to the general public for their affliction. Which raises the question why those who do suffer from this ailment don't simply pretend they are speaking into a microphone, or even carry a dummy one around with them, to put on the table at Conrads and elsewhere? But what do I know, not being a victim myself?
One of the best, if temporary, cures for stuttering is to read strong, rhythmic poetry, such as Ian was forced to learn as a lad at Dotheboys' Hall or wherever his doting parents dumped him in his formative years. Tennyson, Browning, Noyes, Sassoon and even Wilfred Owen have been pressed into service in this noble cause.
At the opposite end of the artistic spectrum, we wondered why there was such a vogue for novelty songs, and why they have largely disappeared - maybe too naive for these worldly times. The Witch Doctor song by RossBagdasarian, Purple People Eater by Sheb Wooley and the classic of the genre, "Gilly Gilly Ossenfeffer Katzenellen Bogen By The Sea", recorded in 1954 by the Four Lads over here and the oily Max Bygraves in Britain the same year. Thank goodness the public grew up enough to move on, if only to Cumberland Gap.
* Glenn had a triple heart by-pass op on January 19. All apparently went well, so we signed a get-well card for him with best wishes for a swift return to Conrads
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
When you think about it, a movie about Obama would have to be a film noir
As I get older I blurt things out more: there I go again!
Write that one down, Bill, that'll be a good Caught on the Breeze....
You must tell him one thing at a time - but tell him often
Soy is the devil's workshop
Ian, Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Edgar, Steve L, Bobb, Barbara, Ray, Andy, Joan
There is, I hope no one will deny, a distinctly self-improvement side to Monday nights at Conrads. It's by no means the main aim, it happens almost by accident, but barely a week goes by without some of us learning at least something - it's how Lynne and I have become almost fluent in Californian (I did say almost).
This Monday was no exception, for some of us learned about Krumping. That it was a real word, as opposed to something Jim had made up, another term for farting, perhaps.
No, Krumping was written, in black and white, in print, in a newspaper, so it had to be real.
It was just a throwaway line in a Culver City freesheet review of Cantalini's and Ian's show there. A friend of the writer might as well have been somewhere else krumping, we were told.
As is becoming a regular ritual, I promptly whipped out my iPhone to google the word. Glenn holds the Conrads record for fastest googling on a handheld device while eating, but he alas was not with us for health reasons, to which I return below.*
It was left to me to define krumping, and it turns out to be a new urban street dance-form that began in South Central Los Angeles and "is characterized by free, expressive, and highly energetic moves involving the arms and chest," says Wikipedia. It has become a major part of hip hop dance culture, I understand.
As it was such a stuffy, sychophantic restaurant review I can only surmise that the reference to krumping was a rare burst of irony. The review itself was so fawning that it even embarrassed Ian, which takes some doing, I think we would all agree.
The entrance of Wikipedia onto the stage led to renewed discussion of Ian's, Will's and my Wiki entries and how or whether they should be edited, and by whom. This was prompted by a recent scandal in which someone altered Senators Edward Kennedy and Robert Byrd's entries to say they were dead, so there is a move afoot to have every alteration reviewed by a team of super editors, who will presumably be overwhelmed by the backlog. Alterations take weeks to appear in German Wiki, where this regime is already in force.
So I urged Will to update his entry quickly, as he has complained for some time that it says he was born in 1939, making him out to be much younger than he really is (OK, older, just kidding Will!).
This of course got Ian going on the perennial subject of his Wiki slights, not the least of which is to do with the now-deceased British TV rock music series, Old Grey Whistle Test. Ian has been completely overlooked as the first co-host of the series, for a month anyway, because he stuttered in rehearsal on the first night. This might not have mattered, except this was 1971 and it was going out live. The executive producer, Mike Appleton, was taking no chances and so earned Ian's undying hatred even though he was allowed to conduct interviews.
Stuttering is naturally a subject of some interest at Conrads, as Ian and Jim can sometimes take ten minutes to pass the pickled pepper to one another over d-d-d-dinner. But, as they soon point out, their stutters vanish when confronted with a microphone, at least one that is switched on.
They are in the company of many famous stutterers, from Marilyn Monroe to Winston Churchill, who were OK on camera and therefore not known to the general public for their affliction. Which raises the question why those who do suffer from this ailment don't simply pretend they are speaking into a microphone, or even carry a dummy one around with them, to put on the table at Conrads and elsewhere? But what do I know, not being a victim myself?
One of the best, if temporary, cures for stuttering is to read strong, rhythmic poetry, such as Ian was forced to learn as a lad at Dotheboys' Hall or wherever his doting parents dumped him in his formative years. Tennyson, Browning, Noyes, Sassoon and even Wilfred Owen have been pressed into service in this noble cause.
At the opposite end of the artistic spectrum, we wondered why there was such a vogue for novelty songs, and why they have largely disappeared - maybe too naive for these worldly times. The Witch Doctor song by RossBagdasarian, Purple People Eater by Sheb Wooley and the classic of the genre, "Gilly Gilly Ossenfeffer Katzenellen Bogen By The Sea", recorded in 1954 by the Four Lads over here and the oily Max Bygraves in Britain the same year. Thank goodness the public grew up enough to move on, if only to Cumberland Gap.
* Glenn had a triple heart by-pass op on January 19. All apparently went well, so we signed a get-well card for him with best wishes for a swift return to Conrads
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
When you think about it, a movie about Obama would have to be a film noir
As I get older I blurt things out more: there I go again!
Write that one down, Bill, that'll be a good Caught on the Breeze....
You must tell him one thing at a time - but tell him often
Soy is the devil's workshop
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration Eve Dinner
Jan 19
Will, Bill, Lynne, Ian, Edgar, Bob, Bobb, Barbara, Jeanette, Steve L
This was one of those rare occasions when Monday night was sandwiched between two historic events: the inauguration of President Obama and the 32nd Doo Dah Parade.
Despite Obama's efforts to make as much a mess of the swearing-in as he could, there was little doubt that the Doo Dah was the bigger disappointment. There appeared to be fewer floats than usual, towards the end there were huge gaps between floats so the crowd got restless, and the protest floats lacked their usual zip. Hard to tell if this was because the recession is squeezing spending, or the lack of political targets now that Bush is history.
There was one half-hearted attempt to have a go at McCain and Palin, but it didn't amount to much. And as, according to a poll, most American voters are willing to give Obama two years to get things right, maybe we won't see floats protesting his record until 2012. Could be a bit dull for a while, then.
Poor Bobb and Barbara were caught under a balcony on Raymond where the occupants were spilling champagne and the glasses containing the bubbly, as well as necklaces, lumps of marshmallow and lots of the other stuff that was flying to and fro across the street. Understandably, they quit early and I don't reckon they missed too much. But the sun shone and it was an entertaining couple of hours before the traditional police car followed the last float to signal that it was time to go home.
This sparked the now-obligatory discussion at this time of year about our organizing a Monday Night float for the next Doo Dah. I wouldn't bet on it, though, unless Conrads can be persuaded to pay for it - and I wouldn't bet on that either.
At least the parade took Ian's mind off the problems he is having as musical director on The Jazz Age, which the Blank Theater Company is putting on in Hollywood next month.
According to the publicity, the play will feature "the pulsating beat of a live jazz trio" playing a original score which Ian is supposed to be writing. Trouble is, the live trio are his Bungalow Boys, who aren't best known for jazz riffs. Even worse, on Sunday night Ian invited the lady who owns the show to hear him and the Boys at Cantalini's. She was apparently unimpressed with Ian's preferred repertoire.
What's more the director is apparently taking the politically safe line of allying himself with the boss, leaving the spotlight firmly on Ian. Time for one of Rollo's rescue acts, methinks.
But at least Ian was sufficiently happy with the forthcoming 800-page collected volume of his Letters from Lotusland to buy Barbara's meal last night, in return for her sterling efforts as the book's editor. And he even split his bread pudding with her too.
The subject of editing led to the perennially fraught question of Will's Wikipedia entry, notorious for claiming that he was born in San Francisco in 1939. It was actually St John, Nova Scotia, in 1989 (OK, just kidding).
Will protests, as ever, that he cannot get it changed, and Wikipedia does now guard its entries far more jealously than in the early days, when anyone could and did put anything into the entries, often maliciously or hoaxily (I just made the word up, but then a neologism a day keeps the pedant at bay).
However, it can't be that difficult to update an entry, because I have just added the Cactus County Cowboys to Will's. Just give us the facts, Mr Ryan, just the facts, and we'll get it all put right.
The evening ended, sort of, on a hygiene note. As we are so used to seeing the A, B, C grading system to rate the cleanliness of LA restaurants, so of us trusting souls, me included, thought it applied to Pasadena. Not so, because the crown colony has its own health department and they don't run any system at all that the public can easily latch on to. Consequently you never know how clean they are. Or otherwise. I was glad we'd finished eating by the time this came up, if you'll pardon the expression.
Conrads is, of course, beyond reproach cleanliness-wise.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
It's such a depressing play
How do you get a seat at the Doo Dah Parade?
I count my blessings - Rollo, Simon and Regina
You can see men kissing and holding their crotches - just like Cantalini's, then?
Ooh, she's come dressed as a nurse: but she is a nurse!
Electric cars suck.
I don't look at my portfolio, these days there's no point
It's like a long 8-year migraine coming to an end
Solar cars are great - as long as you don't leave them in the garage
Life isn't for the faint-hearted
Perfection and procrastination are my two guiding principles, or should that be principals? I'll tell you later
Will, Bill, Lynne, Ian, Edgar, Bob, Bobb, Barbara, Jeanette, Steve L
This was one of those rare occasions when Monday night was sandwiched between two historic events: the inauguration of President Obama and the 32nd Doo Dah Parade.
Despite Obama's efforts to make as much a mess of the swearing-in as he could, there was little doubt that the Doo Dah was the bigger disappointment. There appeared to be fewer floats than usual, towards the end there were huge gaps between floats so the crowd got restless, and the protest floats lacked their usual zip. Hard to tell if this was because the recession is squeezing spending, or the lack of political targets now that Bush is history.
There was one half-hearted attempt to have a go at McCain and Palin, but it didn't amount to much. And as, according to a poll, most American voters are willing to give Obama two years to get things right, maybe we won't see floats protesting his record until 2012. Could be a bit dull for a while, then.
Poor Bobb and Barbara were caught under a balcony on Raymond where the occupants were spilling champagne and the glasses containing the bubbly, as well as necklaces, lumps of marshmallow and lots of the other stuff that was flying to and fro across the street. Understandably, they quit early and I don't reckon they missed too much. But the sun shone and it was an entertaining couple of hours before the traditional police car followed the last float to signal that it was time to go home.
This sparked the now-obligatory discussion at this time of year about our organizing a Monday Night float for the next Doo Dah. I wouldn't bet on it, though, unless Conrads can be persuaded to pay for it - and I wouldn't bet on that either.
At least the parade took Ian's mind off the problems he is having as musical director on The Jazz Age, which the Blank Theater Company is putting on in Hollywood next month.
According to the publicity, the play will feature "the pulsating beat of a live jazz trio" playing a original score which Ian is supposed to be writing. Trouble is, the live trio are his Bungalow Boys, who aren't best known for jazz riffs. Even worse, on Sunday night Ian invited the lady who owns the show to hear him and the Boys at Cantalini's. She was apparently unimpressed with Ian's preferred repertoire.
What's more the director is apparently taking the politically safe line of allying himself with the boss, leaving the spotlight firmly on Ian. Time for one of Rollo's rescue acts, methinks.
But at least Ian was sufficiently happy with the forthcoming 800-page collected volume of his Letters from Lotusland to buy Barbara's meal last night, in return for her sterling efforts as the book's editor. And he even split his bread pudding with her too.
The subject of editing led to the perennially fraught question of Will's Wikipedia entry, notorious for claiming that he was born in San Francisco in 1939. It was actually St John, Nova Scotia, in 1989 (OK, just kidding).
Will protests, as ever, that he cannot get it changed, and Wikipedia does now guard its entries far more jealously than in the early days, when anyone could and did put anything into the entries, often maliciously or hoaxily (I just made the word up, but then a neologism a day keeps the pedant at bay).
However, it can't be that difficult to update an entry, because I have just added the Cactus County Cowboys to Will's. Just give us the facts, Mr Ryan, just the facts, and we'll get it all put right.
The evening ended, sort of, on a hygiene note. As we are so used to seeing the A, B, C grading system to rate the cleanliness of LA restaurants, so of us trusting souls, me included, thought it applied to Pasadena. Not so, because the crown colony has its own health department and they don't run any system at all that the public can easily latch on to. Consequently you never know how clean they are. Or otherwise. I was glad we'd finished eating by the time this came up, if you'll pardon the expression.
Conrads is, of course, beyond reproach cleanliness-wise.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
It's such a depressing play
How do you get a seat at the Doo Dah Parade?
I count my blessings - Rollo, Simon and Regina
You can see men kissing and holding their crotches - just like Cantalini's, then?
Ooh, she's come dressed as a nurse: but she is a nurse!
Electric cars suck.
I don't look at my portfolio, these days there's no point
It's like a long 8-year migraine coming to an end
Solar cars are great - as long as you don't leave them in the garage
Life isn't for the faint-hearted
Perfection and procrastination are my two guiding principles, or should that be principals? I'll tell you later
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