Bobb, Barbara, Ian, Will, Nancy, Bill, Lynne, Edgar, Jim, Jeanette, Steve L, Bob
The Diner Diarist is back from the land where the nearest thing to a diner is the sort of low-grade cafe known evocatively - and accurately - as a greasy spoon. So it was a relief to return to the Conrads embrace and a bigger turnout than some of us expected on Memorial Day. You'd think we didn't have homes to go to.
It was an unusual evening, in that there were few major conversational topics, give or take the regular political analysis from Bob and Steve's end of the table, but a record number of entries for Caught on the Breeze.
I tried to explain that the LA Times hasn't really captured the full implication of the House of Commons expenses scandal, which could bring down the government and replace it with a cabinet of showbiz celebrities - anyone, really, who hasn't been caught with their fingers in the till. Anarchy is closer than most Americans appreciate. But, in true Brit style, it could all fizzle out and the LA Times will be justified for taking a laidback attitude. Gordon Brown hopes so, anyway.
Will reluctantly celebrated his birthday which, as many of us have come to realize, is an extremely movable feast. But Nancy saw to it that a candle-topped cake was produced by Javier with due ceremony.
But this week the stage belongs to the one-liners:
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
What do you call an Italian suppository? An innuendo.
Nancy said it was the third best show we had done. Thanks, Nancy.
It's strain F for 'I have the flu'
Alec Guinness: isn't he the nice guy with the forelock?
I find Dickens really quite frightening
They said 'Let's sing happy birthday' and I said 'What key?'
You've been liberated, Bobb!
I like it up this end of the table, I really do
Beverly Hills people keep their valets in the Valley
I can't wait to die - every day. And I hate Waiting for Godot
This so-called afterlife had better be good, or else
Give me anything with Bugs Bunny in it.
She looked great, when the light went down
This is a restaurant, after all
Does your mother put your tacos in the blender? So swallow your pills!
Ass me another
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
No hugs from me!
Bill, Lynne, Bobb, Barbara, Will, Edgar, Jim, Ray, Andy
It was a busy weekend for this week's rather exclusive gathering, so early conversation explored what everyone had been up to.
Most had been to the Vitaphone Varieties at the Billy Wilder theater on Wilshire on Saturday night, which seems to have been a fascinating show. There are apparently hundreds of 1920s variety acts recorded on film, in one take just as if in performance, leaving an amazing record of a bygone era. The lassoist who kept the rope spinning for ten minutes seemed to impress most. Mary Mallory says he was Tex McLeod, a Texan with a Scottish father and a Brazilian mother. I expect he was fond of a shot of whisky in his coffee...
Lynne, Will and I went with Nancy to her condo in the Colorado mountains, which involved 36 hours' driving but the reward was spectacular scenery and two trips to Peggy Sue's 50s diner in Yermo CA. The purpose was to attend an amateur melodrama in the 1890s village of Silver Plume, to help raise funds to keep the original buildings standing. In between we managed a stroll round the delightful ski town of Frisco and took turns to stand in the one-time jail.
Jim and Mary Katherine went to the UCLA book fair, which I think Mary Mallory was intending to go to as well (let me know if you did, Mary). Gore Vidal told one hopeful "If you have to ask how to write you're not a writer", but Jim got Joe Wambaugh to autograph his latest crime novel with the message "Give Ian my best wishes".
While I was wishing I could have been in three places at once over the weekend, Barbara led calls for a Conrads wish list - things we'd like to see on the menu, like caffeine-free diet coke, sprite and root beer (Barbara) and veggie curry, chilli and moussaca (Edgar, Will, Lynne).
Meanwhile, Edgar and I quietly speculated on how a Mexican-run diner like Conrads will survive the swine flu epidemic, if it really takes hold. Monday nights might even have to move. Let's hope not.
Last week I ran a 'Caught on the Breeze' about not hugging except during sex - which, not entirely coincidentally, chimes with a remark Ian made to Barbara about not having to hug during his recent theatrical run (on the contrary, he was complaining that the actors snubbed him and the rest of the band).
But that got Barbara asking everyone whether they liked being hugged. The answers were varied, and not entirely enthusiastic. Maybe no one wanted to advertise - as it was I said I didn't mind and suddenly found Ray grasping me from behind warmly by the throat. It's all right, Ray, don't feel obliged to hug me, I won't hold it against you - or at least, I'll try not to.
We decided it was a class thing, with people from humble backgrounds and/or from the north of their homelands being less likely to hug than affluent southerners. All theories on a postcard, please.
Jim has not yet been able to see Phil Spector in jail yet, as visits are strictly rationed, but he has heard from Rachelle that he is being treated well and his 23 hours a day solitary confinement are regularly broken up by visits from his lawyers. Hate to think how he'll feel if he gets an 18 stretch and the appeal fails, though.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
I'm thinking of doing a popup version of Fart Book 3
Did you know that Dietrich = diet rich?
Yes, and Therapist = the rapist
I know Howdy Doody's birthday
They didn't have to wear a whole lot of make up in those days - men or women
The magic period lasted only that long
Rock Hudson had all these wild parties up from where I lived, then I realized everyone there were men
Cliff can't be gay - he tours with Helen Shapiro!
It was a busy weekend for this week's rather exclusive gathering, so early conversation explored what everyone had been up to.
Most had been to the Vitaphone Varieties at the Billy Wilder theater on Wilshire on Saturday night, which seems to have been a fascinating show. There are apparently hundreds of 1920s variety acts recorded on film, in one take just as if in performance, leaving an amazing record of a bygone era. The lassoist who kept the rope spinning for ten minutes seemed to impress most. Mary Mallory says he was Tex McLeod, a Texan with a Scottish father and a Brazilian mother. I expect he was fond of a shot of whisky in his coffee...
Lynne, Will and I went with Nancy to her condo in the Colorado mountains, which involved 36 hours' driving but the reward was spectacular scenery and two trips to Peggy Sue's 50s diner in Yermo CA. The purpose was to attend an amateur melodrama in the 1890s village of Silver Plume, to help raise funds to keep the original buildings standing. In between we managed a stroll round the delightful ski town of Frisco and took turns to stand in the one-time jail.
Jim and Mary Katherine went to the UCLA book fair, which I think Mary Mallory was intending to go to as well (let me know if you did, Mary). Gore Vidal told one hopeful "If you have to ask how to write you're not a writer", but Jim got Joe Wambaugh to autograph his latest crime novel with the message "Give Ian my best wishes".
While I was wishing I could have been in three places at once over the weekend, Barbara led calls for a Conrads wish list - things we'd like to see on the menu, like caffeine-free diet coke, sprite and root beer (Barbara) and veggie curry, chilli and moussaca (Edgar, Will, Lynne).
Meanwhile, Edgar and I quietly speculated on how a Mexican-run diner like Conrads will survive the swine flu epidemic, if it really takes hold. Monday nights might even have to move. Let's hope not.
Last week I ran a 'Caught on the Breeze' about not hugging except during sex - which, not entirely coincidentally, chimes with a remark Ian made to Barbara about not having to hug during his recent theatrical run (on the contrary, he was complaining that the actors snubbed him and the rest of the band).
But that got Barbara asking everyone whether they liked being hugged. The answers were varied, and not entirely enthusiastic. Maybe no one wanted to advertise - as it was I said I didn't mind and suddenly found Ray grasping me from behind warmly by the throat. It's all right, Ray, don't feel obliged to hug me, I won't hold it against you - or at least, I'll try not to.
We decided it was a class thing, with people from humble backgrounds and/or from the north of their homelands being less likely to hug than affluent southerners. All theories on a postcard, please.
Jim has not yet been able to see Phil Spector in jail yet, as visits are strictly rationed, but he has heard from Rachelle that he is being treated well and his 23 hours a day solitary confinement are regularly broken up by visits from his lawyers. Hate to think how he'll feel if he gets an 18 stretch and the appeal fails, though.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
I'm thinking of doing a popup version of Fart Book 3
Did you know that Dietrich = diet rich?
Yes, and Therapist = the rapist
I know Howdy Doody's birthday
They didn't have to wear a whole lot of make up in those days - men or women
The magic period lasted only that long
Rock Hudson had all these wild parties up from where I lived, then I realized everyone there were men
Cliff can't be gay - he tours with Helen Shapiro!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Book signing
Will, Bobb, Barbara, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Libby, Jim, Ian, Mary, Bob, Ray, Glenn, Joan, Andy
We are now in that limbo, film-festwise, between the noir season (yes, I do literally have the t-shirt) and the glorious prospect of Cinecon.
While Bob becomes more taciturn than ever at the prospect of being buttonholed for free tickets, we punters can look back on a noir season that was more eccentric than ever. But it was so successful that plans are afoot to stage two seasons a year. Presumably that means that the definition of 'film noir' will be stretched even further than it was this time in an effort to fill screen space. About all that linked the latest crop was that they were in monochrome, although the last night was possibly fit to stand comparison with any: a Paul Stewart double bill of Walk Softly, Stranger and Chicago Syndicate. In the first Stewart supports Joseph Cotten as a thinking thief whose perfect crime is foiled by the Stewart character's, well, character weakness.
One idea for future noir seasons: a feature of that era is that nearly everyone smokes, so why not get a license to let the audience smoke. Then we'd seen the films through the sort of haze the directors go to such lengths to create.
Lynne, Ian and I were still feeling the after-effects of a visit to the Academy last Friday to see Fellini 8-1/2 (clever chap that Fellini: no one talks about Lean's Lawrence of Arabia or Hitchcock's Psycho as if they were the titles of those films).
We watched it in true Fellini style. After a mishap (leaving my keys in the car door) I got separated from the other two and consequently saw what seems to have been an entirely different movie. They nearly walked out. I thought it was about 40 minutes too long, but enjoyed seeing which bits every other director had subsequently pinched. I'm sure Danny Boyle (Susan's secret son?) is indebted to Fellini for having the Slumdog boy drop into the latrine. It seems Fellini-ish somehow, just as every other line in Hamlet is now a cliche.
Slipping back to old technology, our gathering is turning out to be extraordinarily fecund, if Jim will pardon the lack of pun. First there was his definitive account of Angel's Flight, set to be a smash hit if only they'll get the tiny railroad running again. Now he has followed that with Motherfucker, another tome after which there is nothing left to say.
Meanwhile, Ian struggles with the production and design difficulties of giving his collection of Lotusland musings the literary environment they so richly deserve. Our very own James Joyce seems determined to turn Altadena into Dublin with himself as Leopold Bloom. Rollo is on his guard. It will, I'm sure, be the toast of LA well before my maiden attempt at fiction bursts on the west coast literary scene. But that's another story for another Monday night.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
I don't think I'm going to risk Fellini again
This book is my last gasp
The back of my legs still hurt from all that walking
Susan Boyle should be banned
We are now in that limbo, film-festwise, between the noir season (yes, I do literally have the t-shirt) and the glorious prospect of Cinecon.
While Bob becomes more taciturn than ever at the prospect of being buttonholed for free tickets, we punters can look back on a noir season that was more eccentric than ever. But it was so successful that plans are afoot to stage two seasons a year. Presumably that means that the definition of 'film noir' will be stretched even further than it was this time in an effort to fill screen space. About all that linked the latest crop was that they were in monochrome, although the last night was possibly fit to stand comparison with any: a Paul Stewart double bill of Walk Softly, Stranger and Chicago Syndicate. In the first Stewart supports Joseph Cotten as a thinking thief whose perfect crime is foiled by the Stewart character's, well, character weakness.
One idea for future noir seasons: a feature of that era is that nearly everyone smokes, so why not get a license to let the audience smoke. Then we'd seen the films through the sort of haze the directors go to such lengths to create.
Lynne, Ian and I were still feeling the after-effects of a visit to the Academy last Friday to see Fellini 8-1/2 (clever chap that Fellini: no one talks about Lean's Lawrence of Arabia or Hitchcock's Psycho as if they were the titles of those films).
We watched it in true Fellini style. After a mishap (leaving my keys in the car door) I got separated from the other two and consequently saw what seems to have been an entirely different movie. They nearly walked out. I thought it was about 40 minutes too long, but enjoyed seeing which bits every other director had subsequently pinched. I'm sure Danny Boyle (Susan's secret son?) is indebted to Fellini for having the Slumdog boy drop into the latrine. It seems Fellini-ish somehow, just as every other line in Hamlet is now a cliche.
Slipping back to old technology, our gathering is turning out to be extraordinarily fecund, if Jim will pardon the lack of pun. First there was his definitive account of Angel's Flight, set to be a smash hit if only they'll get the tiny railroad running again. Now he has followed that with Motherfucker, another tome after which there is nothing left to say.
Meanwhile, Ian struggles with the production and design difficulties of giving his collection of Lotusland musings the literary environment they so richly deserve. Our very own James Joyce seems determined to turn Altadena into Dublin with himself as Leopold Bloom. Rollo is on his guard. It will, I'm sure, be the toast of LA well before my maiden attempt at fiction bursts on the west coast literary scene. But that's another story for another Monday night.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
I don't think I'm going to risk Fellini again
This book is my last gasp
The back of my legs still hurt from all that walking
Susan Boyle should be banned
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Film noir and female anger
April 6
Ian, Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Big Jay McNeely, Steve L, Jeanette, Andy, Bob, Steve
A rare appearance from Big Jay McNeely who, as ever, sat there Sphinx-like surveying the regular chatter and lending an air of mystery and distinction to the evening.
Most of us had been to the first weekend of the current Film Noir season at the Egyptian, so plenty of opinions bounced around the table. Everyone seemed to enjoy the offerings but no one was overwhelmingly impressed. Jim wondered whether the organizers were beginning to scrape the bottom of the barrel after 11 years, reflecting an email debate involving Bill, Mary and Will over whether some of this season's films really are noir.
That of course depends on how you define the genre. The Foundation leaves it to Eddie Muller's "vivid co-mingling of lost innocence, doomed romanticism, hard-edged cynicism, desperate desire, and shadowy sexuality" to express its view. Whether the enjoyable Fly-By-Night, shown last Friday, fits all those requirements is doubtful. Will and Jim certainly didn't think that Ray Milland's devilish title role in Alias Nick Beal was more than an accomplished decoration to what was essentially a study of how a politician can be corrupted by the prospect of power, rather than true noir.
It would be interesting, though, so see whether contemporary audiences saw as many inconsistencies in plot and continuity as our group did, Maybe in the 1940s and 1950s they were more grateful and therefore more willing to make allowances. But Will pointed out that his parents thought when it was released that West Side Story went too far in straining credulity with its dancing, prancing gangsters. So they weren't all saps.
The assessment of the weekend was a little chippy, partly because of the relentless boosterising tone of the nightly introductions to the films - even the pair of B movies shown on Saturday. Maybe the noir season format needs rejuvenating - with regular injections of Angel's Flight, if Jim has any say in the matter.
Discussion of the devil took us through Lucifer and the Da Vinci Code to reincarnation, which Steve Lamb dismissed as pointless. That does assume that we know what the point could be, whether there is a God and whether that God ever goes in for pointless pursuits. I can think of plenty of pointless people, but then the poet William Cowper did ask us to accept that God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform, adding: 'His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a better taste, But sweet will be the flower.' I suspect though that this is not the sort of sentiment that wins enthusiastic nods of approval in the Coffee Gallery, or even on an Altadena omnibus. What is the man on the Altadena omnibus thinking - now there's a subject.
In saying that, I did not of course intend to demean or disparage in any way the often vociferous views of Altadena's female population, who are nevertheless the living embodiment of Lynne's assertion that women are not allowed to get angry in the same way men are.
'Women's voices rise when they are angry,' said Lynne, 'then men call them hysterical or tell them to calm down. They don't often tell other men to calm down.'
But if homo Altadena has an ounce of sapiens in his head, he instantly falls silent when his mate is launching forth on the many injustices still meted out to women, even after the glorious flowering of no fewer than 77 sunrises under the bountiful and omniscient Obama.
Take snoring. It is a well-known fact, especially to anyone living north of Pasadena, that women simply do not snore. Men, however, do it all the time, particularly after a certain age or after ingesting a certain quantity of alcohol. Penalty: exile, possibly for life.
Then there's housework. Men simply don't do enough of it. However much they do. This is confirmed by the Financial Times, no less, as reported by the fragrant Lucy Kellaway should you be tempted to Google it. Penalty: too many to mention.
At that we left Javier and his male assistant to clear the table.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
There was no jazz in The Jazz Age- I saw to that
A rattlesnake almost got me today
Standards? What standards?
It seems like the 70s were a forgotten decade
If writing isn't consistent, civilization goes
In a previous life I was a carpenter
Everything evens out - in the bed and at the dinner table
Ian, Will, Bill, Lynne, Jim, Big Jay McNeely, Steve L, Jeanette, Andy, Bob, Steve
A rare appearance from Big Jay McNeely who, as ever, sat there Sphinx-like surveying the regular chatter and lending an air of mystery and distinction to the evening.
Most of us had been to the first weekend of the current Film Noir season at the Egyptian, so plenty of opinions bounced around the table. Everyone seemed to enjoy the offerings but no one was overwhelmingly impressed. Jim wondered whether the organizers were beginning to scrape the bottom of the barrel after 11 years, reflecting an email debate involving Bill, Mary and Will over whether some of this season's films really are noir.
That of course depends on how you define the genre. The Foundation leaves it to Eddie Muller's "vivid co-mingling of lost innocence, doomed romanticism, hard-edged cynicism, desperate desire, and shadowy sexuality" to express its view. Whether the enjoyable Fly-By-Night, shown last Friday, fits all those requirements is doubtful. Will and Jim certainly didn't think that Ray Milland's devilish title role in Alias Nick Beal was more than an accomplished decoration to what was essentially a study of how a politician can be corrupted by the prospect of power, rather than true noir.
It would be interesting, though, so see whether contemporary audiences saw as many inconsistencies in plot and continuity as our group did, Maybe in the 1940s and 1950s they were more grateful and therefore more willing to make allowances. But Will pointed out that his parents thought when it was released that West Side Story went too far in straining credulity with its dancing, prancing gangsters. So they weren't all saps.
The assessment of the weekend was a little chippy, partly because of the relentless boosterising tone of the nightly introductions to the films - even the pair of B movies shown on Saturday. Maybe the noir season format needs rejuvenating - with regular injections of Angel's Flight, if Jim has any say in the matter.
Discussion of the devil took us through Lucifer and the Da Vinci Code to reincarnation, which Steve Lamb dismissed as pointless. That does assume that we know what the point could be, whether there is a God and whether that God ever goes in for pointless pursuits. I can think of plenty of pointless people, but then the poet William Cowper did ask us to accept that God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform, adding: 'His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a better taste, But sweet will be the flower.' I suspect though that this is not the sort of sentiment that wins enthusiastic nods of approval in the Coffee Gallery, or even on an Altadena omnibus. What is the man on the Altadena omnibus thinking - now there's a subject.
In saying that, I did not of course intend to demean or disparage in any way the often vociferous views of Altadena's female population, who are nevertheless the living embodiment of Lynne's assertion that women are not allowed to get angry in the same way men are.
'Women's voices rise when they are angry,' said Lynne, 'then men call them hysterical or tell them to calm down. They don't often tell other men to calm down.'
But if homo Altadena has an ounce of sapiens in his head, he instantly falls silent when his mate is launching forth on the many injustices still meted out to women, even after the glorious flowering of no fewer than 77 sunrises under the bountiful and omniscient Obama.
Take snoring. It is a well-known fact, especially to anyone living north of Pasadena, that women simply do not snore. Men, however, do it all the time, particularly after a certain age or after ingesting a certain quantity of alcohol. Penalty: exile, possibly for life.
Then there's housework. Men simply don't do enough of it. However much they do. This is confirmed by the Financial Times, no less, as reported by the fragrant Lucy Kellaway should you be tempted to Google it. Penalty: too many to mention.
At that we left Javier and his male assistant to clear the table.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
There was no jazz in The Jazz Age- I saw to that
A rattlesnake almost got me today
Standards? What standards?
It seems like the 70s were a forgotten decade
If writing isn't consistent, civilization goes
In a previous life I was a carpenter
Everything evens out - in the bed and at the dinner table
Friday, April 3, 2009
Film noir and brilliant TV
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
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
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
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