xtcian

pentultimatrimonial

4/30/04

At Sean & Jordana's rehearsal dinner in Great Neck, NY, they turn around after a full night of roasting. I got a joke in there about his first marriage, leading to groans all around, so I feel like I represented myself well

It was an intimate affair – well, about as intimate as you can get with the girth of my family – and the best speeches belonged to Kent, Jordana's grandmother, and a delightfully effluvial Mac Rogers. It was a very, very sweet evening (that's my nephew Sean Patrick and my brother Kent in foreground)

Tessa wore killer hose, so I reproduce them here. She did an amazing job on the "This is Your Life in Pictures" video, even though it made us late, and raised the ire in our ilk

by the way, hoist one aloft for my brother and his betrothed today!

l'chaim!

4/29/04

The important thing, of course, is that my brother Sean is getting married to Jordana on Saturday. Friday we'll have the rehearsal dinner, and the next day it's 23-skidoo up to Yonkers to celebrate their matrimonial bond in what promises to be an entertaining mix of my bizarre family and Jordana's Long Island Jewish ancestry. I figure it will rock.

We came back from Los Angeles this week in order to help, but as I know from our own wedding, one of the prime ways to be of service is to stay the fuck out of the way, and be on time when called. Our wedding was compared to a movie shoot, while Sean's compares his to Opening Night on a big play, and the two aren't that much different. I think you could plop a Wedding Planner into the producer's chair of "Scrubs" and they'd run the show fine.

above: Laurie W., George G. and Tessa; below: us on Park Ave.

I went into the city today to find a good shirt for the dinner, play basketball (terribly, as it turned out), then went back home to help Tessa with the "This is Your Life in Pictures" video that accompanied every Mormon wedding we ever knew (and was sadly missed at our own nuptials). What we've discovered is that there is a dearth of pictures of Sean & Jordana together, yet hours of footage of them in different movies. We're going to give them a little trip down Mem'ry Lane, and yes, there will be FULL FRONTAL NUDITY of not just Jordana, but her sister too!

I suppose it's an interesting line between a heartwarming wedding video and kiddie porn, but we're willing to walk that tightrope. For the family.

Oh, and for those of you wondering where Lord Chip Chapman has been this week, he has been ruling the court at Mulberry Street Garden:

Lindsay, Chip, Scotty, me

nothing rhymes with "depth"

4/28/04

Yesterday's entry spurred comments that eventually devolved into a debate about terrible lyrics, rather than the god-awfulness of pop songs themselves. I've talked about lyrics before (click here for a well-arranged laundry list on the subject) but this recent chatter has reminded me of another litany I wrote in 1989: My Least Favorite Song Lyrics.

Making a list like this was harder than you think, because most lyrics are supposed to be bad. I'd like to see Blender try it. Again, keep in mind that this is me, at age 21, writing 15 years ago:

Least-Favorite Song Lyrics

10. "All I Need" – Jack Wagner
This may be a chance we're taking
But it always comes to this
If this isn't love we're making
Then I don't know what it is

9. "I Can't Hold On" – Squeeze
She'd like to dance, but not this minute
She's the fish I'd like to filet
[ed. note: "minute" and "filet" are made to rhyme]

8. "Slide it In" - Whitesnake
I know what you want, I can see what you're looking for
I know what you want from me, an' I'm gonna give you more
I'm going to slide it in
Right to the top.
Slide it in;
I ain't never gonna stop.

7. "Horse With No Name" – America
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There were sand and hills and rain
You see I've been to the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert, you can't remember your name
'Cuz there ain't no one for to give you no pain

6. "(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman" – Aretha Franklin
When my soul was in the lost and found
You came along to claim it.

5. "Save a Prayer" – Duran Duran
Some people call it a one-night stand
But we can call it paradise.

4. "Manic Monday" – The Bangles
It's just another manic Monday
Wish it were Sunday
'Cuz that's my fun-day
My I-don't-have-to-run day.

3. "Got Me Where You Want Me" – The Romantics
Little girl, yer such a tease
Every time ya aim to please
Checkin' out the other fellas
Ya made me mad, ya make me jealous.

2. "Love Gun" – Kiss
I really love you baby, I love what you've got
Let's get together, we can... get hot!
No more tomorrow baby, no place to run
You pull the trigger on my love gun.

1. "Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car" – Billy Ocean
repeat title ad nauseum

Again, I believe this litany has stood the test of time. But there have to be plenty of ghastly lyrics that YOU, fair reader, can provide. Like even something from this decade! Any takers?

turn around, bright eyes

4/27/04

By now, most of you have seen the list of the 50 Worst Songs Ever list put out by Blender magazine, and several of my favorite blogs, like Stereogum and Betty Rocker, have amended these choices and put out their own.

At this time, however, I would like to say that I totally owned the Worst Song List back in the fall of 1988, when I was writing the Wednesday's Child column for the DTH at the University of North Carolina, and it always got me in more fights than anything else.

Here's my list of the Top 20 Worse Songs Ever, but keep in mind that it was written almost 16 years ago:

20. "Superman" - REM
19. "Wild Thing" - The Troggs
18. "Wild Thing" - Tone Loc
17. "Rock On" - Michael Damian
16. "Puppy Love" - Donny Osmond
15. "I Saw (Him) Standing There" - Tiffany
14. "Once Bitten, Twice Shy" - Great White
13. "Total Eclipse of the Heart" - Bonnie Tyler
12. "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" - Wham!
11. "Hangin' Tough" - New Kids on the Block
10. "Makin' Love Out of Nothing At All" - Air Supply
9. "In The Navy" - The Village People
8. "Wild Boys" - Duran Duran
7. "Shake Your Booty" - K.C. and the Sunshine Band
6. "All I Need" - Jack Wagner
5. "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" - Whitney Houston
4. "Angel of the Morning" - Juice Newton
3. "Rock Me Amadeus" - Falco
2. "Cum on Feel the Noize" - Quiet Riot
1. "Electric Avenue" - Eddy Grant

Now, having just retyped this list for the first time since Reagan was president, I have to say I stand by almost all of them. I'd take K.C. off the list, perhaps "In the Navy" and of course, I would certainly not disparage Falco anymore, may he rest in peace. And it could be said that Great White has suffered enough.

But top to bottom, "Superman" still sucks balls and "Electric Avenue" is ONE GODDAMN CHORD. What's worse, my friends in LA live on Electric Avenue, and there's no way to drive on it without that fucking song pounding through your head.

Eddy Grant, who I am sure is a nice enough guy

It's interesting that Blender chose "Hangin' Tough" and others have "Muskrat Love" in place of "Puppy Love" (I'd say they're about equal), and Carla also chose "Rock On." The blogosphere seems to despise both "Love Shack" and "Take on Me" (both of which remind me of happy times, but I guess those tunes can get pretty annoying over the years).

I realized that I had forgotten my least favorite "pop" artist ever: Bob Seger. That fucking guy has made me sick to my goddamn stomach since I was a toddler, and I've fucking had it. When Ford made "Like a Rock" its signature tune, I wretched into my 3-leaf binder. "Old Time Rock and Roll"? "Against the Wind"? "Turn the Page"? "Rock and Roll Never Forgets"? Is any man in music history - including Salieri and Stockhausen - more boring than this man?

Blender's choice for worst song ever is "We Built This City," but Starship actually had a worse hit: "It Ain't Over ('Til It's Over)," which was the least-inspired hunk of burning catshit since... well, since "Electric Avenue." I did like "Sara," you know, "storms are brewin' in your eyes." Some songs get a pass because they put you back in a place you remember with exquisite fondness.

What would I add today? That's really hard, because I think a lot of the hip-hop and full-ahead rap on the radio right now is hard to calibrate: if you hate one song, generally you're going to hate them all. Hip-hop and sexually-charged R&B, which dominate the charts right now, marks an important shift for music lovers (and critics) currently in their 30s like me: either you got on the train around 1996, or else you haven't been in a record store in years.

That said, I would like to add these songs to the list:
"If It Makes You Happy" - Sheryl Crow (nails on chalkboard)
"Breakfast at Tiffany's" - Deep Blue Something
"Somebody's Watching Me" - Rockwell (lyric about the I.R.S. may be the worst ever)
"Just a Friend" - Biz Markie (no, I don't think it's funny)
...and I'd look up the various hits by Bush, Live and Matchbox 20, but seriously, who has the time to fight chicks in 9th grade?

Bonus Category:
Best Rap Interlude in a Song by White People:
Q-Tip in Deee-Lite's "Groove is in the Heart"

Worst Rap Interlude in a Song by White People:
KRS-ONE in R.E.M.'s "Radio Song"

I suppose my feeling is this: almost all songs these days are kinda bad; focus-group-tested, uninspired, yet pleasing enough. In the '80s, you had artists really trying, which gave us some flashes of brillliance ("Life in a Northern Town," "Head Over Heels," "How Soon is Now?") and colossal failures ("Dr. Heckyll and Mr. Jive," "Method of Modern Love," "Mr. Roboto," "Bad Medicine").

I know which era I'd pick.

our second act

4/26/04

I would encourage anybody who knows my family to go read Michelle's blog (Apr 25 entry) about someone most of you don't know: my sister-in-law Melissa. Michelle does an excellent job of extolling somebody who had an ENORMOUS impact on my life, and is probably responsible for 10% of the way I think.

When I was 14, I was yanked from London back to the cornfields of Iowa, back to the place where I had been (and was further to be) brutalized by assholes at Franklin Junior High School in Cedar Rapids. I retreated into an incontrovertible silence so hermetically sealed that I didn't talk for an entire month. These days you would call that "depression" and treat it with "therapy" and perhaps "drugs" - but back then, all I had was Melissa. (see here for an early blog on the subject)

Long before marrying my brother Kent was considered an option, Melissa was at our house every day, playing board games and cards, and taking me to her mom's second-hand clothes store off Mt. Vernon Road. When my parents started remodeling the kitchen – and then took off to Europe for a month – she painted a giant calendar on the wall for the fun things we'd all do. She also stuck broken cigarettes up there, as a token to her quitting smoking.

Thanksgiving '78 - Melissa is turning around, closest to the camera. Read more about this picture

At some point in the 80s, after her marriage to Kent and the beginning of her own family, it seemed like she was less psyched to hang out with us. To be expected, really. But pretty soon, years would go by without us getting a chance to talk like we used to, and by the time I got to Los Angeles in 1997, I barely knew how she felt about any of us.

And here's where it got nasty: Sean and I let a young Iowa City couple move into our house on Beachwood, sight unseen, because they had been friends with Kent & Melissa. I'd hung out with the dude several years earlier, and he seemed like a decent fellow. Six months into it, they snuck out of the house while we were away for Thanksgiving - owing us a thousand dollars in rent and bills - and fucking disappeared. He turned out to be a blithering moron, and his girlfriend revealed her true colors as an unbalanced, witless banshee.

We tried to keep Kent out of it, as it had nothing to do with him. But this guy (who is unbelievably lucky I don't post his name here) did something worse than bilk us out of money: he went back to Iowa and told Melissa a litany of bullshit things we'd supposedly said about her.

This – along with another family element – is why we haven't seen Melissa as much as we want, and now that I know the extent of it, I totally understand why. There are many things she hasn't done with the family, and I'm here to say, "I get it."

But I hope she also gets that she will always be tremendously important to me, and that we love her. She taught me to always buy all the property you can in Monopoly, the meaning of the word "pubic," and gave me my first copy of "Catcher in the Rye." What more could you ask of the best babysitter you ever had?

culture schlock

4/25/04

All I can say is this: those of you addicted to Xanax, I pity you poor bastards. How can you get anything done? My brain feels like it has turned into a post-fishing-expedition wool sock thanks to the Xanaxes I slipped into my bourbon, making for a delightfully uneventful flight from Long Beach, CA to New York City. Or at least I'm told it was uneventful.

Y'see, the Fox party had lasted until 3am, and I had to get up at 4:45am. Several missed flights later, I popped the pills and was suddenly at JFK at 10:30pm (Eastern time) Saturday night, then cabbed into the city, got ol' Bessie the Land Rover from Laurie, fought traffic all the way up the West Side Highway, and made it to my brother's bachelor party upstate at 3 am.

Fortunately, Sean has the same caliber of dedicated friends that I do, and everyone was still up, playing pool, darts, talking shit and being exceptionally funny. That kind of culture shock - from Venice Beach to my upstate NY barn - is quite profound. It took me a few hours to regain my witty repartee (poor Tessa is stuck in Santa Monica, and fears that her brain is atrophying).

Reports of the death of winter here in New England are woefully premature. It is fucking freezing here, miserable, rainy and 40 degrees. I can't imagine how you, my fellow New Yorkers, have suffered through the last two months. I've been here for 24 hours and I already want to stick a fork into my neck.

But the change of pace is utterly arresting: in the matter of hours, I went from shaking hands with some of the most important decision makers in Hollywood to gardening flower bulbs 3000 miles away. At some point, you just have to be a Buddhist about everything, because "relinquishing control" isn't a choice, it's an order. And as my and Tessa's career rests in the jotted notes of the young execs on Pico Blvd, all I can do is shoot foul shots in the barn and pretend I'm 12.

where Rockefellers walk with sticks

4/23/04

I think you'd have to call tonight a success. Everyone loved the entire evening, and my play went over like gangbustahs, I tellya. Pictured: me, Spencer, Mary Kay, Tony, Jess, Joe and Geoff

You could throw six hundred ping-pong balls into a revolving basket and never come up with the talent of this cast. Pictured with me is the lovely and hilarious Sian (who is complaining about her chins AS YOU READ THIS), and my closest Fox Exec confidante and fabulous new friend Jen

Tessa was going to wear a Little Black Dress, but I talked her into this floral number. Nobody works the room better

I got to buy a Banana Republic suit with the insurance money we're getting from our great Fedex swindle, but I still had to ride my bike to the show. One of these days we'll take a hybrid limo, and they'll roll out the red carpet, but for tonight, we'll take our little victories and sleep with exhausted euphoria.

storm before the calm

4/22/04

We just had the last performance of "Naked TV" before the Fox Executive and Celebrity Night shindig tomorrow night, and I've been subtly trying to calm my actors down and not freak them out before the Powers That Be come to judge them. I don't know why so much importance has been placed on this one performance (out of sixteen), since our future could be equally determined by some silent, powerful creature slipping into one of the other nights. But everyone's casts, not just mine, has worked themselves up into a fine froth, so maybe that energy will be channeled positively.

I mean, what else can I think? Not much either Geoff or I can do about it now. We wrote and directed it, but the show belongs to them now. It is pretty exciting – I'm getting the old charge we used to have in high school, the stomach-fluttering thrill of adolescent kids putting on a show.

By the way, we replaced the old Joan of Arc lactating line with the following:

CARLA: Stu, what's that you keep writing in your notebook?

Stu buries his head in his hands.

It kills, I tellsya! It kills!

love handles everyone

4/21/04

One thing about being back in LA: you're definitely forced to think about yourself occupying a "physical space." In New York, you can get away with being a neurasthenic writer with little or no care given to grooming, and your weight can fluctuate about 10 lbs. either way without anyone particularly giving a shit. But the visual social structure here is so exacting that you honestly find yourself looking at yourself all the time.

Strange thing is, this is occurring at a time in my life when I feel the Desire to Be Physically Acceptable beginning to slip away. I think we must spend so many years trying desperately to measure up to the other gender (or your same gender, if that's the way you butter your bread) that we get to a point where we are simply EXHAUSTED.

For some, this means finally getting nice and fat. For others, like me, it means living in that in-between state of sucking in my gut, but not really feeling like sucking in my gut anymore. I think Tessa and I are doing fine:

2001, April 2002, April 2003, April 2004

But as I sit around all of these cast members, 15-year-old hotties and 25-year-old bombshells, I sometimes forget that I don't need to care anymore. I wonder how it feels for beautiful women after they get married, or after they reach that magical age when they are no longer instantly considered sexual – is it a little sad? Do you flirt a little bit to see if you still "got it"?

I have been with the same woman for four years, been married for months now, and still, I have to take a second to remind myself that my sexuality – as a public thing – means absolutely nothing. And hopefully, it will be like that forever. And I miss it. A tiny bit.

recreational analgesic abuse

4/20/04

While we were biking on the beach yesterday, I told Tessa that Sean and I used to sabotage each other's bike rides by coming up from behind and hitting the back tire of the bike in front of us with our own front tire. After a few months of this, we discovered something: almost always, the guy in back was the one who ended up crashing. So - I confidently assured Tessa - if she was ever thinking about doing it, suffice to say the research had been done, over twenty years ago, and it just doesn't work.

There are plenty of things you do as kids that you would never dream of doing as an adult, but the upshot is that a lot of pretty decent research gets accomplished. How else would you know that an egg explodes in the microwave? That's just something you don't do when you're 36.

However, I had an experience today that I reprint here in the interests of science. Namely, I had three giant extra-strength Excedrin caplets go directly into my lung.

I get these headaches that only three Excedrins can manage, so I popped some while driving down Abbot Kinney Road in Venice Beach. Some pedestrians walked out onto the road, so I braked, and in doing so, sent the white capsules into my bronchioles. Unable to breathe except for a tiny passageway of wheezing, I pulled over, and gave the "choking sign" to a driver who was pulling out of a restaurant.

He basically looked at me and told me to fuck off. I'm using this blog, right now, to send him really, really bad karma. Thank god another woman, a pedestrian, came over to me and gave me a small Heimlich and basically talked me down. I was wheezing mucous, in a cold sweat, and she calmly explained that the pills were beginning to break up, and that the passageway would clear gradually. I managed to croak out "are you a doctor?" She said, "I'm studying to be one." I never got her name, but I'm sending her much love and yes, good karma.

Here's where the science comes in, just in case any of you were thinking "what happens when you snort three Excedrins at the same time?" First off, the caffeine in three of those pills is equivalent to two or three big shots of espresso squirted directly into your brain. It's not far from the sensation cocaine might give you: agitation, dizziness, feelings of euphoria mixed with paranoia, and road rage.

I drove to Arcadia and played one of the best basketball games of my career, nearly got into a fight with a missionary at the church, and now I lie awake in bed at 2:10am writing this blog with explosions of horrible spelling.

So that's what happens. Just so you know.

k is for komedy

4/19/04

Okay, so here's the deal: my play, one of seven one-acts currently running in Santa Monica at the Edgemar Theater, has a line that we have always loved, but the audience doesn't get it.

Here's the dialogue between Carla, and her son 12-year-old son Stu:

CARLA: Stu, what's that you keep writing in your notebook?

STU: Yeah, that sucked. I wrote in a history paper that at the Battle of Orleans, Joan of Arc lactated the French Army.

...and it would not surprise any of my faithful blog readers to know this was a true story from my own childhood. The dialogue looks good on the page, but it's confusing theatergoers. There's just too many references – like Tessa says, we're asking an audience in Los Angeles to know what "vanquish" and "lactating" mean, not to mention the Battle of Orleans, Joan of Arc, and the French.

Pretty much every other joke lands except this one, so my director and I are going to replace it with something else. I have a few ideas, but I'd be interested to know what You in the Blogosphere would do with that line.

Here's the rules: it has to be a mis-hearing of something from your own childhood, it has to be suitably bizarre, it has to be delivered in a language meant for comedy, it has to be YOURS and not something SUBSCONSIOUSLY APPROPRIATED from a SITCOM in 1978, and it should be, you know, funny.

So – dare any of you throw down the mantle?

doin' all right, gettin' good grades

4/18/04

the rarest of all pictures: me with both of my parents! (at the Edgemar Theater on Saturday night)

The fact is this: no matter how awful the lead-up might be, when it comes to theater, most productions manage to nail the dismount on opening weekend. I was genuinely scared of what might transpire, having experienced the tech rehearsals for our project, but now I can say it with impunity – come to the show, it's pretty damned cool.

Both Tessa's and my play had been percolating quite well of late, but on Saturday night, they exploded on stage, bringing it, in the oft-clichéd words of the vernacular, "to a whole new level." We were getting laughs at each sentence, applause in big plot moments, and the whole thing felt like GREAT SEX. It would be amazing to recreate that performance for the Fox Executive Night next Friday, but in a way, I don't really care, because these actors Did It The Way It Was Meant To Be Done. To paraphrase Ira Gershwin, they can't take that away from us.

And while we're on the subject of great performances, I'd like to send a warm congrats to our boy Fred Weller, who was apparently stunning on "CSI" last night. Also, at the same time, my step-sister Cyia was on VH1 dancing with the Pussycat Dolls at the Divas Live show in Las Vegas. We could see neither, because ALSO the VERY SAME TIME... our very own Laurie Williams was on "The Sopranos"! Yes, the Laurie you've read about here and here played Tony Soprano's mother Livia in a flashback last night, and she was simply stunning.

I don't know any other actress who could portray such haunting betrayal, a lifetime of pain, a tiny pinprick of vulnerability – all within two minutes of screen time, lying in a hospital bed. She's simply that good. I wanted more, I wanted a whole series based on the Sopranos of the early 1970s, and I wanted it all directed by Steve Buscemi.

I feel blessed to break bread among such people as these. Laurie, Fred, my cast, my director, my wife: I could get a tan from their luminescence of talent. Their future's so bright, I must indeed wear shades.

curtain up

4/16/04

We opened tonight to a preview crowd, and I have to say, I underestimated how exciting these things really are. It reminded me of all the best parts of high school, when we put on "Camelot" and strange new talents were discovered among our quieter friends.

I've just returned from a couple of tequila shots, a jack & coke, and the remnants of a Goldschlager (horff) with a bunch of the other actors, so I'm not going to be typing much longer, but I am truly happy to be surrounded by talented people. As you age, you begin to realize those moments are more rare than you think. Simply put, most people can't do their jobs. When you meet somebody who can, you must embrace them and sing their praises to the heavens.

I am thankful for Salem's steaks, Ann's poetry, Tessa's writing, Lindsay's producing, Sean's acting – and tonight I am thankful for my cast, and the small disturbed group of thespians daring to pull this thing off.

Drunk moment at the bar: a random woman who was being hit on by a semi-coherent cast member heard that I'd written the "Liberal" piece. She slipped away for a second, cornered me and said, "oh my god that thing fucking SPOKE to me." I said that I was lucky to have my cast, and she grabbed me and SHUT ME UP with one of those glares, you know, the look that says you have a carte blanche to her planet.

I used to live for these moments. When you're a single writer, one of those looks could give you petrol for another six months of self-perpetuating creativity. We don't ask for much, us writers, just .000004% of what the quarterback of the high school football team gets every day, and we can labor on for decades.

(voiceover) That was one crazy summer.

4/15/04

It is 2:57am, and I just finished reading fifteen TV pilot scripts that will be shown on the major networks in the near future. My brain has turned into milk-logged Wheat Chex. But I can tell you the following things:

1. Dysfunctional families sure are dysfunctional.
2. Everybody always thinks somebody is gay.
3. Dad knows best except that he never does.
4. You just don't get it, do you?
5. Everyone in the world is formerly rich and needs a desk job.
6. The football captain has a dark, sensitive side you'll never understand.
7. Why am I always jumping to conclusions?
8. That wasn't my blood – it was HIS.
9. If you look like you know what you're doing, you do.
10. Mom doesn't play favorites, but you aren't one of them.

they smile when they are low

4/14/04

The entire cast of this Fox/Naked Angels production got together in one place for perhaps the last time tonight – since there are seven different shows and no real "curtain call," the bows were videotaped to be shown at the end of each evening. If I were one of the actors, I might be a little put off by this (the curtain call is one of the greatest moments you get in theater) but I suppose there's just too many human beings performing.

the full cast of "Naked TV" – click for bigger

You may recognize some folks in the above picture: Melissa Joan Hart is wearing a blue shirt, sitting next to the bald man in the football jersey in the second row; Missy Yager (who shines in Tessa's play) was in "Boston Public" and is the blonde wearing the black shirt near the center of the back row.

My own cast, whom I believe to be fantastic, are the ones that actually look like a family at the bottom left part of the picture. Just as they memorized the entire script, they were given four pages of cuts, and thus had to re-learn a similar version - which, if you've done theater, you know is a particularly hard thing to do.

I was nervous for them, since this was the first real tech rehearsal (we open on Friday) but they gave it their best performance to date. I'll explain the whole idea of my play later, but suffice to say it is a deceptively difficult political comedy with a lot of moments of true love and utter vulgarity (we even considered using the word "felching" for one part, but cooler heads prevailed). I'm really proud of them. I feel like they nailed the triple axel and made it to the medal round.

Next up: the dress rehearsal!

we steal a quick run-through in the hallway

latter-day fixin's!

4/13/04

I'd like to interrupt your usual blog broadcasting for a tidbit of culture many of you might have missed: yes, I'm talking about Mormon Jello Dessert.

While my family did not become actual Mormons, the rest of my 735 cousins did, and every few weeks we decide to experience the culture shock of leaving Hollywood and venturing into the San Gabriel Valley for a dose of Latter-Day Saints. My own relationship with the church is fraught with many contradictions and inner turmoil, but my family is terrific, and we always have a great time.

The meals, however, always teeter on the edge of bizarre, and nothing typifies this more than Mormon Jello Dessert. I was probably 15 before I noticed that this concoction was being served at every function. The dish is an ever-changing amalgamation of dark-colored jello that is land-mined with deeply incongruous fruit: you should not be surprised to find carrot cubes stuck in the gelatin, like trilobite fossils hung forever in rock. You might come across the thorny skin of a pineapple, the shaving of watermelon rind, or even globs of maraschino cherries. It's not far from the jello dish the grandmother brings in "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation," you know, the one with Tender Vittles Cat Food in it.

The pan is refrigerated, and then topped off with a three-inch viscous layer of Dream Whip (powdered milk from the apocalycloset recommended). I warned Tessa about the dish before we got there, but she actually took a big helping and finished the whole thing! I began wondering who this chick "my wife" really was.

Although Republican by nature, Mormons are also strict survivalists, which made them a perfect audience for the Prius. They took turns driving, and the whole family was deeply impressed. For a group of people who keep two years' worth of food stored in their homes, a car that gets 60 mpg would be perfect for the End Times. If Jesus ever shows up and all the gas pumps are rendered useless in the Rapture, at least we know the Prius will be the last car running.

redemption and redefinition

4/12/04

Have I ever told you how bad life was, circa 1997-2000, in the Beachwood house in Los Angeles? In one of my first blog entries ever, way back in 2001, I was still so post-traumatic about the place that I said some things I shouldn't have said (but I like the writing, so it remains in the archives). What that entry fails to radiate is that I was just as much a shitbag as everyone else.

Case in point: the second week I moved in, I put up a basketball court on the back patio, about 20 feet from the bedroom of Xander Berkeley, one of the most respected working actors around. When I was depressed, which was about 17 hours a day, I used to go back there and shoot foul shots until I worked Xander into a furious froth, and then the two of us would scream at each other across the fence.

I was still in some sort of narcissistic haze, convinced that my woes were epic and had to be sated by hitting 37 foul shots in a row (my record) or else I'd surely sink into the ground. Conversely, Xander had paid good money for his house and was suddenly beset with seven crazy, post-grad morons living next door, and he wasn't terribly thrilled. After he and I reached a compromise early on, I spent the next two years trying in vain to keep my housemates from screeching outside after 4am.

Okay, so flash forward to late 2000. I've escaped from Los Angeles, and the first week I'm in New York, I write a 24 Hour Play that is brilliantly performed by my brother Sean, fellow Beachwood refugee Seth, and a fabulous young woman named Sarah Lively. We all get along so well that Sarah joins Sean and Seth again for an evening of 3 one-acts called "Wine, Women and Song." Sarah then reads the Pink House script, loves it, and we plan a reading.

Suddenly, Fox flies her to Los Angeles, where she gives one of the greatest auditions ever, and lands the role of Nina on the hit show "24." On the pilot episode, she meets – and falls in love with – yep, Xander Berkeley.

And now, in 2004, they are married and live next door to my old house on Beachwood, where, by all accounts, the next-door clientele still runs roughshod over the neighborhood. And I'm in Los Angeles with Tessa, where, among other things, we are putting on the play that Sarah did in 2000. Tonight, we all found ourselves at La Poubelle, where I used to soak my miseries in Jack Daniels.

Needless to say, it feels great to survive. Sarah looks great, Xander is charming and funny, and we spend two hours swapping stories. I offer a blanket apology for the basketball, we have a memorial bourbon & coke, and I get to present myself, this time as a real person. I can't tell you how good it felt.

Unfortunately, Xander and Sarah's car got towed during dinner, so we trucked them back up the canyon in the Prius. And stuffed in the car, on top of this mountain where there had been so much unhappiness, it was finally okay to laugh.

sugar high sugar high sugar high

4/11/04

I've never quite understood Easter as a holiday. I know Jesus resurrected himself somehow, but as a kid, I always wondered why he waited two days. Lazarus was a "resurrection" in the good old-fashioned sense in that he once was dead, now he was alive. Jesus died, but when he "came back to life," let's face it: he wasn't exactly the same anymore. In Mormon iconography, he's always shown as floating around and generally looking creepy. And he didn't stay long, making me wonder what the point was.

The pagan Easter stuff is great, of course, and as I've shown in full color, we always have a good time. But Easter at the home of Walt Boyle? That's true bacchanalia. I've known Walt since I was a scared teenage freshman at Carolina, and since then, he has been the provider of more good times than the decades should allow. When you entered his house in the Hollywood Hills, he actually had an Easter Bunny topiary:

Fifty people showed up for this get-together, so it was a festive blast of margaritas and Marshmallow Peeps©. Elements from my history kept popping up – I've known Stasia Droze for fourteen years, and Dan Etheridge for twenty-one, and we all have running conversations that never end. These are the people with whom I'd like to play mah-jongg when we're all 97 and can't eat solids.

The sun set, and the view of nighttime Los Angeles revealed itself like a breathtaking carpet of creamy light. I put the camera on a "long exposure" setting and grabbed a few friends for a photo experiment that turned out to be pretty cool:

Anyway, Tessa and I wish you all a very happy Christ Ascending to Heaven Day and that your pagan Gods make you as fertile as you dare. Here's to your eggs!

put a fine point on it

4/9/04

The Voyager space modules sent out in the 1970s included a phonograph with human voices, pictures of various cultures, a DNA double-helix, and all sorts of obvious clues for aliens that happen to stumble upon the spacecraft. I, too, am going to clear up a few things around here for any future beings stumbling upon this blog.

My name is Ian. My middle name is Richard, which is also my Dad's name. My mom is Linda, and my brothers are Kent, Steve, Sean, and my sister is Michelle. I am 36 years old.

I am married to Tessa, who is 34. We have no children yet, but we're talking about thinking about changing that. Tessa is really fantastic. We met when she was 18 and I was 20, although we didn't start dating until she was 31 and I was 33. We have a dog, Chopin, who is 14 and crochety.

We live in Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York. We also have a little place upstate with a barn. The barn has a basketball court. I grow pumpkins and Tessa grows annuals and perennials. We like to fill the house up with fast-talking liberals, and the place has become a think tank for rowdy progressives. I like peeing outside.

We make a living as writers and journalists. I wrote a couple of non-fiction books that were modest hits, but that was a long time ago. Tessa made a movie about her dad that was on the short list for the documentary Oscar®, but that was a while ago too. Together, we made a boisterous college comedy, and we're desperately trying to finish the last technical hurdle. We have chosen a very frustrating profession.

Right now, we find ourselves in Los Angeles because a large network thinks we might be onto some good sitcom ideas. We are living next to the ocean because the last time I lived here, I was landlocked in Hollywood and became suicidal.

We drive a Prius. It is pretty swell. It gets 45-48 miles per gallon. That may seem like a tiny amount to you guys in the future, but right now, it's considered magical. Tessa uses a cell phone that is also a Palm Pilot. I carry around both. I just discovered that wool socks are much cooler, even in the summer. Because they "wick moisture." I imagine all fabrics will wick moisture in the future.

We all live under the reign of a very bad man. You know how bad he is because you've read the history books, but just imagine living in a time when he is actually your president. It is as crappy as you think.

I am wearing a T-shirt that says "Carolina" and boxer shorts that have watermelons on them. Carolina has only won three NCAA championships at this moment. There will be three more by the time you read this, but lemme tellya, the wait is awful.

Well, that's all from me in the past. I'm still young and my 3-point shot is still dropping. Tessa is very pretty and trained for the marathon last year. I'm on medication for depression and gout, but we are having fun and happy with one another. Still waiting to see if a kid ruins all that.

your host,
ian

I'm a Little Light in the Skechers

4/8/04

Peter Rukavina wrote to me because he saw a scathing critique of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" in the New York Daily Press, calling the show's hosts "'Sambo' gays." Now, I think they used the wrong black literary metaphor - Sambo is actually an old Indian story that is not particularly racist, but is definitely bizarre. There used to be a chain of pancake restaurants in the Midwest called Sambo's, but that was back in the mid-70s, when you could actually have a menu with a picture of a black kid with huge red lips eating "one hundred and sixty-nine pancakes."

No, I think the Daily Press meant to call the Queer Eye cast was a bunch of "Uncle Tom Gays," meaning they were obsequiously "being faggoty" for the highest corporate dollar, whoring out their swishiness for a world that otherwise wouldn't accept them. They are the Amos, Amos, Amos, Amos and Andy of modern gay television.

I hadn't thought about it before, and I'm not sure if I agree: seems to me that the last laugh is always on the audience, and any bit of Gay that slips into the atmosphere is good for homosexuals in general. If you start watching "Queer Eye," and that makes you buy leather shirts at Bang Bang on 8th Avenue, well, then, you're probably less likely to vote for the Defense of Marriage Act.

It is true, however, that we live in that liminal time when gays are not accepted, but their culture is celebrated – much like African Americans of the late 50s and 60s. Perhaps this is the natural progression of every disenfranchised group as they make their way slowly to the mainstream. Maybe the brazen flapper hussy of 1920 was the precursor to outright suffrage and the beginning of Taking Women Seriously.

I will agree that "Queer Eye" can be a little exhausting, and if you're a regular run-of-the-mill gay man just trying to get a little respect from the government, the Queer boys can seem like a minstrel sideshow. Other gays must hate "Queer Eye" the same way my friends hated the Generation X Irony Explosion of 1994: suddenly, all of our inside jokes were being sold back to us as beer ads and Urban Outfitter T-shirts. We can't make "Gilligan's Island" jokes anymore because everyone on TV already did – I wonder if "Queer Eye" has done the same for track lighting and cock rings.

Can you guess what program was the most forward-thinking show in the history of entertainment? That's right, "The Little Rascals." These were kids getting into mischief in the early 1930s, yet Buckwheat and Stymie were just as accepted into "Our Gang" as the white kids. Ah, that life would be that simple! Once Butch gets a pie in the face, we're all happy gay black lesbian bisexual left-handed Armenians at heart, right?

this blog was written in real time

4/7/04

Ian's Pop Kulture Korner #476b!!!

Today we're going to talk about two shows that I never watched before last week, but now I'm an expert: "24" and "The Gilmore Girls." Since we are in Los Angeles and ripe with the potential for TV writing, Tessa and I are doing our homework, and I have to admit I've been slightly out-of-the-loop on television since my heyday of 1975 through 1992.

My first "why does everyone but me think this is funny" cultural moment started with "Mad About You," continued through "Friends," and is now "Everybody Loves Raymond." I take it back: obviously Joey on "Friends" is fabulous, but the rest of it just gives me stupid feeling.

A little bummed out, I curtailed my TV watching so much that I missed out on "24" the first time around, which, in retrospect, is especially insane since Sarah Clarke (who played Nina Meyers) is a friend of ours from NYC who played leads in two plays I've written. So I rented the entire first season on DVD, and I have to say: FUCKING WOW. Sure, there are a couple of clunky scenes – usually involving Senator Palmer's wife – but is there better "thriller" writing in the history of TV? I've tried to think of something, maybe a "Columbo" or two, but these guys do it right.

And Sarah is brilliant. That's what happens when you hire real New York actors rather than Today's Flavor Living on La Cienega. She has a face made for television, and gets every beat right. Strangely enough, she was the original Carla (the Senator's wife) in my play we're putting up later this month in Santa Monica.

As for "The Gilmore Girls," I'm watching it because Tessa wants to write for them. I have to say, it's totally up her alley: hyper-literate fast-paced dialogue delivered in miles per second. Occasionally you can see the writers peeking through the seams of their characters (one 20-year-old girl in the dorm made a joke about Lou Ferrigno) but thank god someone is trying. I dunno – motormouth intellectuals spouting forth at college? Might be a stretch for me and Tessa, but we'll try to make do.

AM 1580

4/6/04

If you want the definition of "preaching to the choir," look no further than me in my car listening to Air America Radio. The station can be heard in the biggest cities in America (New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco, and bizarrely, Minneapolis) but, because those places are progressive-minded, it can do nothing more than to work already-angry liberals into a furious froth. What I'd like to see is a battery of Air America stations blanketing swing states like Pennsylvania, Missouri, Florida, Ohio and Michigan – and then a few desperate "Tokyo Rose"-like transmitters stuck in Moncks Corner, SC, Huntsville, AL and Crawford, TX.

Air America has the usual problems emblematic of an AM station: the sound is pretty terrible, you lose entire sentences when you pass under a bridge, and at night, you can suddenly be listening to a St. Louis Cardinals game because of the atmospheric skip. Also, I appreciate that such an unproven venture has advertisers (thank god) - but around the top of the hour, it can get out of hand. It'll go from 12:55 to 1:06 without a bit of original programming besides the news, which is a long time if you're stuck in traffic.

But the content is superb. Chuck D. rocks. Randi Rhodes hasn't lost a beat, graduating from her digs in South Florida (where she had been #1 for years) to a national audience while still maintaining her raspy chick-from-Brooklyn cred. Al Franken is going to need a few weeks to get his moorings; it seems like he's pacing himself, but he's got to realize that pulling out all the stops each day makes the next day easier (a lesson I learned early on with this blog).

If you're not living in one of the leftist big cities mentioned above, you can always get an XM Satellite Radio, which are so cheap now that it can almost be an afterthought. They're promoting the new lineup by offering an America Left and an America Right channel, best exemplified by this picture:

I mean, Michael Savage looks like a homespun, tobacco-chawin' MORON to me, but everyone has their bizarre tastes. Personally, I don't know why XM felt the need to have an "America Right" channel when they already have Fox News, ABC Talk, three Christian Rock stations and NASCAR, but at least somebody thought it was important to get Air America out there.

And that's really what this is all about for me: after 9/11 and during the lead-up to the Iraq War, I began to believe we were utterly alone. Tessa and I felt adrift on the Ice Floe of Freaks, being the only people (besides our close friends) who thought this country was veering dangerously off-course. It made me write stuff like this and this. Now I can take comfort in a station that will be some small beacon of light in the overwhelming darkness. I don't feel as alone anymore, and sometimes the choir needs to hear the preacher just to keep from losing their religion.

ding-dong the dookies are dead

4/5/04

I have never won a contest in my life. I have attended many raffles, scratched lottery cards, joined several Field Day celebrations at my prep school where 95% of the entrants won at least something, and yet I have never brought home the bacon ever. When I go to Vegas, the town salivates; my luck is so bad that people gather around me just to watch. Until this year, I had won only one bet in Las Vegas: my brother's ex-wife bet me that I would win at least ONE SPIN OUT OF FIFTY on the slot machine, AND I DIDN'T. At the Cat's Cradle benefit in 1997, there were 14 door prizes, and 15 of us were in the audience. Guess who didn't win anything.

This galloping stream has recently begun to change course, beginning with a break-even night at the Harrah's in New Orleans (for my bachelor party) and then my karma-be-damned wager that Carolina would beat the spread against Air Force a few weeks ago. And now tonight, with the University of Connecticut's victory over Georgia Tech in the NCAA final, I have won a basketball pool consisting of 35-40 great guys who went to UNC with me. It's so bizarre that I almost have "survivor's guilt" about winning.

In many ways, this year's Final Four was deeply satisfying; I have always had clandestine affection for Georgia Tech, and UConn won me some money. But nothing could have been better than Dook University's historic collapse at the end of Saturday's game - I was in Las Vegas when it happened, and I swear to god you could feel the town listing to one side as soon as the buzzer sounded. The bookies were happy because Duhon's last-second bullshit prayer at the buzzer allowed Dook to beat the spread. The rest of the country - except for moron bandwagon fans at the Durham Walmart - jumped in jubilation that the evil fires of Koach K's private Mordor had been extinguished.

Watching that assmunch in the post-game press conference provided psychological insight into the face of a modern-day Narcissus so fixated on his own success that he can barely provide room for the rest of the world. Sure, Roy Williams said "shit" on national TV a year ago because he lacks an "edit" function, but Koach K is a tightly-wound, cancerous mess of resentment, profanity, and the toxic combination of a control freak with a thinly-veiled persecution complex.

His assistant koaches - Chrissy Collins, Wojo and Johnny Dawkins - are all sprouting the same devil-etched furrowed brow and perma-crease between the eyes, from years of hurling epithet-laced invective at the referees, students who dare question the boss (see Chronicle, 1990) and occasionally, their own players. Dook's stunning lack of success in the pro leagues is further proof that negative reinforcement provides short-term results (5 ACC championships, etc.) but proves disastrous in the long-term (only two Dook players IN HISTORY have an NBA ring - see comments).

One can only hope that this is the beginning of the end for these bastards. No doubt they will be formidable every few year or so, but I think the jig is up. Too many people have caught on. Dook has lost, and the world has righted itself.

Next up: George W. Bush!

get me to the drive-thru on time

4/4/04

We were on a top-secret covert mission to Las Vegas today, an operation so clandestine that Tessa and I barely knew about it. In short, our lovely and wonderful friends Laurie Williams and George Gilmore decided to eschew big celebrations, cast off the shackles of their pasts, and get married in Vegas.

But they weren't just going to get married, they were going to do it at a Wedding Drive-Thru, the kind of place you've always heard about, but never dared experience. Well, let us tell you: such places exist, we drove there, and God bless 'em, they did it.

Laurie looked stunning in a gossamer green outfit, and George was strapping in a matching mint-flavored suit of his own. A scant 5-minute drive from the eloquent Venetian casino lies the "Say I Do" Wedding Drive Thru, a modest cinder-block structure with much the same workings as an old-fashioned A&W restaurant.

Nobody came to the window when we drove up, so both Tessa and I went inside to investigate: in short, it seemed like a day-care center in Chihuahua. At least three Hispanic weddings were in various states of progress, and swarms of kids, all suckling on grape Chilly Willies that stained everything around them, climbed over all the furniture.

Finally, the minister – who must have the patience of several Benedictine saints – came out to the window and began the scant bits of paperwork. Tessa signed as a witness, and as the minister quoted the gospel Matthew, the entire proceedings suddenly took on a formal, sacred, otherworldly aura that could have been just as meaningful up on the hill at our own wedding. As Laurie and George exchanged vows, it felt like such a relief, a simple, beautiful moment free of the pitfalls of judgment, crowds, prior history, and caterers. At 4:44pm EST, on 04/04/04, they were happily married.

Afterwards, we parked the car in the sun, and basked in a perfect sunny day in the desert. The cell phones came out, and they informed an incredulous world of friends of what they'd just done. Each call was hilarious in its own way, worth catching even one side of the conversation.

Here's to Laurie and George: two souls who really deserve each other by now. Long may they rock, on stage, in film, at breakfast, on voyages, at rest, and always with each other.

but enough about me

4/2/04

Having just returned from another evening deep in the flats of Hollywood, I (shockingly) have a complaint. And this complaint is not even California-centric; it's just as bad in New York City. Namely: WHY DON'T PEOPLE EVER ASK YOU QUESTIONS ABOUT YOURSELF?

Seriously, I'm not making myself out to be some sort of bastion of social etiquette, but I always ask everybody I meet at least 5-10 questions about their work, their passions, where they're from, what they've done they're proud of, even slightly personal queries like "are you happy?" I do this because I'm easily bored, and everyone has a story, and there's always SOMETHING that will briefly excavate a fascinating aspect of an otherwise-tedious-seeming person.

And what does the world ask me? NOTHING. And it's not just me, I listen to other conversations, I am a damn good verbal sociologist, and it seems like nobody asks anybody anything; they just wait their turn to hurl out their yawp, and hope something sticks.

"I'm from Chicago?"
"Oh really? I've been to Chicago."

"I was reading Variety, and it said that 'Cracking Up' is tanking."
"I don't like that show. I think 'Malcolm in the Middle' does it better."

"I was at UMass with him."
"I met him at the Mercer after the play."

It's enough to make you think that the entire fucking population of America wants an oompa-loompa and they want it NOW.

I freely admit my barrage of questions came from years of seduction; the sad truth about this world is that a lot of women will sleep with anybody who will listen to them. But it wasn't a cynical ploy; I was (and remain) genuinely interested. I was so desperate for people to tell me something fascinating that I would often go WAY overboard, turning a romantic date into an asexual confessional.

Perhaps that's why therapy is so effective and so expensive: you're actually paying somebody to ask questions of you. People need to be heard like they need bread and water. During a particularly bad fuckup this week, in which an actor felt grossly mishandled, I listened to her on the phone and said, with emphasis, "I HEAR YOU." The conversation melded into delight as soon as she heard those words.

"Oh, the irony," you must think, "this asshole is complaining about needing to be heard while he's writing a public weblog." Yeah, yeah. Maybe all blogs are a cheap way for technology to assuage the babies whose mommas didn't pay enough attention to them.

But do me this favor: at some point today, ask somebody a question about themselves. Even if you don't give a fuck. At least you won't be part of the problem.

j'accuse, et challenge!

4/1/04

I have made it to April 2004, which is saying something, because two years ago, my state of mind was so apoplectic that I truly thought I wouldn't make it. I started this blog in earnest on April 11, 2002, and apart from my honeymoon week, I have written every day in here since.

Except, of course, for Sundays, which I started to skip last fall. I had no idea how many readers I had until they lined up to complain that I wasn't providing them with witty bon mots with which to digest their Sabbaths. Now, dear readers, I am going to tell you up front that I can't go on like this. Seven - and then six - days a week for two years has forced me to be far more interesting than any human should have to be.

I'd feel a lot better if some of you took up blog writing. Sure, each member of my family has one, but they're all anal-expulsive dramatic types who learned from early Mormon upbringings the importance of putting on a good show. I have begged all of you to reveal yourselves the way I have, but alas, I mostly stand on stage with my trousers down solo (not you, Canadians - you guys are always hangin' brain with the best of us).

So at some point very soon, I'm going to go from 6 times a week down to three or four. My reasoning is thus: every time we get a good debate going, I start a new blog topic and it feels like we abandon some pretty great stuff. Also, folks like Steven Garrity and dooce write twice a week, and their repartee is endlessly fascinating.

It's a little sad when you find yourself inspecting the seams at the far end of a medium. Usenet absolutely transfixed me for a year or two before I understood how limited it truly was. At the Zap Yer PRAM conference we had up in Canada, it seemed like blogs could become interdependent and feed off each other in a synergistic frenzy. Now I'm not so sure. There aren't enough people willing to expose themselves to pick up the slack, and if you're not revealing yourself in your blog, I'm bored before I begin.

Perhaps I'm just a little shellshocked from life. These pages were originally a diary of my adventures with Celexa, but I've been told that it may be time to swap drugs. My new diagnosis? ADD. Which means lots of Ritalin. And then I'll go back to posting every day, and sixteen times on Thursday.