A Friend Is A Friend

A friend sent me this. I loved it. Wanted to share ...

JB

THE TEAPOT COLLECTOR

So. I make all these noises about being a playwright. But it's been a couple of years since one of my works has been produced. Am I now writing for my own amusement?

That ain't it, kid.

So. Last year my buddy Julie and I entered a play in the WRITER'S DIGEST PLAY COMPETITION, and it did well.

So. This year I entered my latest work in the same competition. I mean, that's doing something.

Right? Right.

So. A minor complication. The play has been entered, but so far only 25 pages of it have actually been written. I mean, if it wins something, what are the chances that somebody might actually want to read part of it?

So. For the past few days I've been writing like the panicked idiot that I am. Here's a bit of dialogue nobody else has seen yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Madeline, age 55, is talking on an antique cell phone.)

MADELINE: Betty? Madeline. Would you do me a favor? Look out your window and tell me if Bill is home yet. (SHE pauses.) Good.Yes. I'm still here. His Highness hasn't come out of the bathroom in three hours. I mean, nobody is that full of ... on the other hand, I could be wrong about that. (SHE pauses.) I don't know. A couple of hours, most likely. I want to make sure he's taking his pills. Not that it would be such a big loss, if you know what I mean. (SHE looks around.) God, look at the dust. I'm in the tea room. The TEA room. The GARAGE!

(SHE runs a finger over the top of a dusty teapot. At that moment OWEN, age 72, enters.)

OWEN: If you break that, you pay for it.

MADELINE: Why don't you clean these once in awhile?

OWEN: Go home. Clean your own teapots.

MADELINE: Teapot. Singular. More than one is an excess.

OWEN: Too bad you don't feel that way about husbands.

MADELINE: I beg your pardon?

OWEN: As well you should.

MADELINE: I'm sure I don't know why I come over here.

OWEN: You're masochistic.

MADELINE: I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.

OWEN: And it's no fun at all if I have to explain it.

(MADELINE speaks into the cell phone.)

MADELINE: Betty? I'll call you back. (SHE ends the call, hands the phone to OWEN.) You really should get a new one of these.

OWEN: Why?

MADELINE: It's old.

OWEN: So am I. There. I've fed you a straight line for once. Make the most of it.

MADELINE: Of what?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Comment?

JB

And how was your day?

Art Deco, In case you've wondered..

Art Deco. I like that. It's my favorite art style. I also like Art Nuevo, which is only one generation away.

(And before you climb all over me, yes, I like most art styles. There's something in almost all I've seen that appeals to me on some level.)

But I like Art Deco the best. There's a flow and a grace about it. There's an "in your face" whimsy. And you see it everywhere.

Buildings ...

And even what we consider classical art, such as Egyptian, becomes this ...

But best of all are the wondrous creations that once adorned lawns ...











... and homes ...

This is likely one of the most recognized Art Deco styles. Incorporated into structures, it defined a generation.

In the home, this would have been both typical and classic.

And so would this. Sadly, the only place
you find these today are in yard sales.

But this one is my favorite. It graces my living room. It warms me with personality every time I look at it. I wish I had fifty more just like it ... (and perhaps a slightly larger living room.)

JB

And how was your day?

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Sings ...

In THE BOYS FROM SYRACUSE, Rogers & Hart wrote,

“Sing for your supper and you’ll get breakfast. Songbirds are well fed …”

I like that. Most of the singers I enjoy fall into the category of “songbirds.” That is, they can actually SING, and express positive personality while doing it. (In other words, anyone I consider good is either old or dead.)

In a previous post, I said I enjoy both Paul Simon and Carly Simon. What I didn’t explain was that I like Paul as a songwriter (he’s an okay singer.)

Carly Simon, on the other had, is a singer with all kinds of personality. Whether you like her or not, it’s difficult not to watch her when she sings.

I liked Reba McEntire even before she did ANNIE GET YOUR GUN on Broadway. She does “cute and charming” better than just about anybody I know.

I first became aware of Linda Ronstadt when she did THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE in New York’s central park. I’ve enjoyed seeing pictures of her over the years. She’s never going to be a great beauty, and the more they try to “glamorize” her, the more clown-like she looks. She likes singing back-up more than leads, and her favorite music was written before she was born. How can you not love somebody like that?

One of my favorite singers is Pam Dawber from the old MORK & MINDY TV series. I saw her in a production of MY FAIR LADY, and she was every bit as good as Julie Andrews – and that’s saying something.

Rounding out my favorite female singers are;

Edith Piaf, and

Patti LuPone. Pure raw command and power, both.

In men, one of my favorite singers is Mandy Patinkin, Patti LuPone’s co-star in EVITA. The man can sing anything, and chooses Broadway tunes that are both obscure and difficult.

I also like Michael Crawford, who starred in THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. He was also featured in the movie HELLO DOLLY.

Do you get the feeling I like Broadway singers?

Well, I like Willie Nelson, so there! I don’t know why I like Willie Nelson, but I do. He’s one of those people who got better looking as he aged. He’s now 110, and tolerable. But as a singer, he sells sad songs wonderfully well.

I like Sting. He’s been touring lately as a balladeer, and that’s been quite nice.

And finally, I like Theodore Bikel (speaking of balladeers). He had a growing popularity in the U.S., before he moved permanently to Israel. Their gain. Our loss. (I saw him do the lead in FIDDLER ON THE ROOF. He was incredible.)

Those are singers who come to my mind with no great effort. I know I’ve missed a few. So … do you think I have any taste at all?

JB

Theatre Settings as Art

Okay. So – you know – I’m directing this production of Blithe Spirit, a comedy by British playwright Noel Coward.

(And it’s going well, by the way. I’m working with very talented people who aren’t constantly falling over their own egos. Do you know how rare that is? Trust me. It’s rare.)

Anyway …

A play – any play, needs a setting, a location. In our case, it’s the British equivalent of an American family room, slightly off the main drag of the house. On one wall is a fireplace. On the opposite wall are French doors overlooking the moors. Directly at the back of the room is a large doorway, leading to other parts of the house.

Ya with me so far?

Here’s what the set looked like when the walls were first set in place on the stage. Eventually everything would be painted white – the walls, the fireplace, the French doors, even the floor. (It’s my set. I can paint it any color I want.)

I took some flack about the color, actually. “Nobody paints a set white,” I was told. “Nobody paints a FLOOR white.”

But I did.

Here’s the fireplace, right after it was constructed, and before it was painted and decorated.

Here it is, finished.

The mantle and fluted front is routed and carved Styrofoam. Nobody is going to dance on them. (Yes. I know. The candle is broken. It's part of the story, okay? Gimme a break.)

On the other side of the stage is where the French doors will go.

And here they are. Opened …

… and closed. Above the doors is …

a stained glass transom, constructed just for our set. We spared no expense. Sort of. (Our extravagance actually cost less than twenty bucks – eleven dollars for the Plexiglas, and eight dollars and change for the translucent paint.)

Here’s our hallway

.

What you see as the wall is actually blanket-like material, stretched over a frame. I found a roll of the stuff in the attic of the theatre. Nobody knows how it got there. Nobody will remember where it went.

And this is the finished set. I like it.

If this was a room in a real house, I could be quite happy here.


And how was your day?

JB

A Craving For Power

So … okay … there was this hurricane down in Texas. It made a mess in Galveston, and flooded Houston … Hurricane “Ike.” Maybe you heard about it.

Okay, that’s in Texas, ya know? Texas. Wa-a-a-y down there on the map. On a child’s puzzle, Texas was always an easy piece to find, because it’s big. And it’s easy to know where it goes, because IT’S WAY DOWN THERE!

So … then … so … how could a hurricane from Texas knock out the power in my house? I mean, I’m HALF A COUNTRY AWAY from this thing!

It couldn’t, ya know? Couldn’t possibly reach me. Couldn’t. NOT NOT NOT! Are you listening to me in the weather bureau? NOT NOT NOT!

In the future, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your storms where they’re supposed to be, thank you very much. I’d appreciate that. I would.

Anyway. The power went out a week ago, Sunday evening at 6:05pm. It didn’t come back on until this past Saturday. I’m not sure what time it came back on, because my clocks are electric, and I DIDN’T HAVE ANY POWER!

(In the desire for full disclosure, I must admit that my power did come back on last Wednesday. In the middle of the night I was awakened by my downstairs TV screaming at me to buy a vacuum cleaner shaped like a large ball. I know it was a large ball because I had just managed to stumble down stairs and was reaching for the kill switch when the power again went off, leaving me in a pitch black room and mood. I concluded that this whole episode was the electric company’s attempt at dark humor …)

So … what can you do for a week with no electricity?

Well, you can watch food spoil. That’s always fun. You can wander, zombie-like, around the neighborhood. You can shave by flashlight (By the way, that’s not NEARLY as romantic as everyone says it is.) You can become re-acquainted with radio, reminding you why you stopped listening to it in the first place.

You can talk to people on your cell phone (for awhile. Until it needs to be re-charged. Another illusion demolished. I always thought the cell phone fairy came around in the middle of the night and took care of stuff like that. Guess not.)
On the other hand, I was surprised by how many people genuinely care about me – wanted to be sure I had hot water, a place to wash clothes, and meals that didn’t automatically come with French fries. To those of you who knew and called and cared, thank you. I love you very much.

On the OTHER hand, I had plenty to keep me busy. Every day I would type on the revisions for the play Julie Morrison and I have written. (Of course I didn’t have any POWER to the computer, but just punching away at the dead keys made me feel a little better.)

And then there’s the acting class I’m supposed to start teaching this week – gotta get everything ready. Gotta print all the forms that are stored in my computer, and … ohthat’sright … great googely woogely …

Oh. And I’m directing a production of Blithe Spirit for a local theatre company. I received a call last Monday, asking me if I would/could replace a director who was forced to drop out. Since I wasn’t doing anything except running into things in the darkness, I readily agreed – something to occupy my mind.

“When do rehearsals start,” I inquired. “When is the first one?”

“In about two hours,” came the sheepish reply.

Okay …

The power came back on a little over a day ago. No more quiet, no more naps in the afternoon. No more casual walks around the neighborhood. No more instant communication with every disaster in the world. No more –

Hm-m-m.

Maybe I should think about this some more.

Hm-m-m.

And how was your day?

JB

Maybe I'll Run For President

So … maybe I’ll run for President.

I could do that.

Secretly, I’ve always wanted to be President ever since I learned that in the White House there’s a chef on duty 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Think about it. If I wanted a hot fudge Sundae at 3:30 in the morning, it’s only a phone call away.

“Say, George, are there any Secret Service down there?” (If I was the President, I would know that Secret Service always hang around the kitchen.)

“Good, good,” I’d continue. “I’d like a hot fudge Sundae, George. Would you send someone up with one? Thank you so much. Oh, and … George, are you still there?” (I knew he would be.) “Would you make it the way the day chef does? You know, I like the hot fudge at 81 degrees, not that tepid 75 degrees that you sent up for me last time. Will you do that for me? Thank you very much.”

I hang up, satisfied. Yesterday I ordered a limburger and onion sandwich on Moravian
Olive bread and tomorrow I’ll likely order a ham sandwich slathered in Yak butter.

But tonight I’ll be happy with my hot fudge Sundae. Being President is a good thing.

Oh – and if I wanted to go somewhere? Would you believe this – I have my VERY OWN airplane. (Sort of) No waiting in lines. No luggage to check in. Good snacks, and they don’t cost extra. And I could smoke if I wanted to. (I don’t smoke, but I could if I wanted to.) In fact I wouldn’t even bother to fly anywhere. We could just taxi the big thing around town. Who’s gonna stop me? I’m the president.

And see – now I know what you are thinking. What kind of President would I be? Well, I’ll tell you. I’d be a great President. I have a secret. I’d go into the White House and hide for 4 years. I wouldn’t go out, I wouldn’t answer the phone – nothing. So how would that make me a great President? I’ll tell ya. Truthfully, at the end of 4 years the country would be no better off than it was when I took office. BUT … on the other hand, by doing nothing, the country would be no worse than it was before I became President. So how about that, huh? Think about it. How many other Presidents can make that claim, huh? Hm-m-m. Maybe I’ll use that as my campaign slogan – “No worse than we were before.” (Hey. Don’t scoff at the idea. It worked for Eisenhower.)

Now here’s the REAL secret. The important thing is not BEING President. What’s important is having BEEN President. Where else can you work for 4 years and then retire on a government pension? With full medical? And the Secret Service is still there, in case you need a babysitter or a hot fudge Sundae in the middle of the night. And people will actually pay you good money to come speak at the PTA or Little League banquet.

And here’s the best part. What are the qualifications to become President? Would you believe it, THERE AREN’T ANY! None. Zip. All you really need is an obnoxious campaign manager and a plastic flag pin to wear in your lapel. Works for me. I have the pin, and I know lots of obnoxious people.

Oh. That reminds me – I need a Vice President. So … you doin’ anything for the next few years? The way I see it, you will do even less than I do, and it’s SUPPOSED to be that way. And maybe … maybe maybe maybe … if you do the job well (and don’t shoot anybody while you’re in office), then you could be the NEXT President.

Wouldn’t that be fun?

So think about it. I think we still have a month or two. And if you need incentive, think hot fudge Sundae. I have it on very good authority that Sundaes consumed while in office are not fattening.

JB

My Uncle Jack

Did I ever tell ya ‘bout my Uncle Jack?

No?

Well …

(Did you catch the inflection in “well”? The inflection that says have a seat ‘cause this is gonna be good and take awhile?)

If you didn’t … do, because it is and will.

So here’s Uncle Jack – or at least the way he looked when one of the Disney artists sketched him. I always thought he looked very continental in this drawing. He thought he looked like a 1930’s Chicago gangster. And since I knew he’d lived a few years in Chicago, I would suspect he knew what he was talking about. But I don’t know that for a fact.

Uncle Jack had been a merchant seaman. I think. He told me that he had once climbed a mountain in the Himalayas. I was told that at one time he had been employed as a rodeo clown. At another time he had managed a New York modeling agency (briefly. It was owned by another relative, and Jack could have inherited it if he had liked the business. He didn’t.) He did own a few Texas oil wells, and knew by first name every man who worked for him.

And there are a whole SLEW of stories about the things Jack did for a living, and I believe all of them. For one thing, I never knew my uncle to lie (or brag, for that matter.) Most of the things I knew about him I learned from other people. Jack always had an abiding interest in a great variety of occupations and social activities, and tried “hands on” to as many of them as he could.

I not only found his life fascinating, but only later in life did I realize how much I had emulated it.

When I knew Uncle Jack he owned a real estate agency in Pasadena California. He was a truly gentle human being, open and soft spoken. Men felt very comfortable around him, and women … well, he outlived three wives.

I never met anyone who didn’t like him.

And the feeling was mutual. Jack loved people – all types and sizes. The picture above shows the corner of Hollywood and Vine in Hollywood, California. Uncle Jack lived in the building you see in the background. From the corner window at the 2nd floor level, Uncle Jack could comfortably sit in his living room and watch humanity traipse back and forth in front of him. (And I knew this to be a fact; I distinctly remember sitting there with him while we watched a quite attractive young lady in a bikini leading a purple French poodle down Vine Street at three in the morning. At another time we were sitting there when we heard a resounding “crash.” Looking out the window I saw what looked like a cannon ball imbedded in the side of a truck. Looking up Hollywood boulevard, we saw a man bowling in the middle of the street.)

Jack was involved with the movie business at the time. He didn’t participate in any way – he had absolutely no use for actors. But since he headed a most successful real estate agency, I think a number of producers wanted very much to be his friend.

Jack’s real friends were artists and still photographers, He was on such good terms that a few were so comfortable that they would simply walk in without even bothering to knock. (I personally found this a little unnerving, but Uncle Jack seemed to take pride in this lack of pretense regarding formality, so we never talked about it.) On one such occasion we were sitting there when the door opened and a – creature – whisked past me. Whoever (or whatever) it was headed straight for the bathroom, leaving a pungent odor in it’s wake. Jack and I looked at each other. Even for him this was something new.

A moment later we heard the shower running. Another moment passed, and a man entered that Uncle Jack obviously knew. This man also went into the bathroom, dropped off a large bag, and returned to the living room. Jack and the man talked for about twenty minutes before the bathroom door opened …

… and out stepped Sandra Dee. She had been shooting still pictures in the desert, and had stopped at Uncle Jack’s for a quick shower because she “smelled like a horse.” They left, to meet with the press in order to promote the movie she had just completed.

According to my Aunt, this sort of thing happened all the time.

I was in a movie shooting in a remote location the day Uncle Jack died. I didn’t even know about it until after the funeral. His ashes had been scattered over a park he loved and helped create. The day I went there it rained – hard. My uncle was reminding me of how he felt about actors.

It’s interesting, I think, about how profoundly you are influenced by some people and are unaware of it until years later. That’s how it was with Uncle Jack. I often wish I could talk to him one more time.

I guess if there’s a moral here, it’s that you should appreciate people when you have ‘em.

And how was your day?

JB