Holland & Tony

As some of you may know by now, I decided to take a trip to New York a few weekends ago. I hadn't been there in a number of years, and for a variety of reasons it felt great to be back.

Not the least of which was the main reason I went in the first place: to see my friend Holland Taylor in ANN, the play she wrote and stars in about former Texas governor Ann Richards.

You know that feeling when you have an expectation about a show and hope the reality lives up to it? And you know that other feeling, the one where it wildly exceeds your expectations?

The second one.

The play was beyond whatever it was I'd imagined it would be. With the turn of a phrase, or a subtle change of tone or expression, Holland would have me laughing hysterically one minute, then crying the next. It's a performance filled with subtle nuance only a talent of Holland's caliber and experience could pull off, in the writing and the performance. A tour de force - one you come out of with the immovable conviction that the actor you've just seen is the only one you could ever imagine in the role.

The other thought I had was what a remarkable woman Ann Richards was. Outspoken, straight-shooting, wicked sense of humor and a low threshold for fools made her entry into politics an even more intriguing choice. It's not hard to see why Holland was drawn to her given their many common traits.

Anyway, to the surprise of absolutely no one who's seen her in the show, Holland is now nominated for Best Leading Actress in this year's Tony Awards. I keep telling her she needs to start working on her acceptance speech, and she keeps shushing me.

But she really needs to start working on her acceptance speech.

I know what you're thinking: I'm going on and on because she's my friend. How can I possibly be objective? It's a valid question.

Well, here's the thing about a once-in-a-lifetime role and an unforgettable performance: everyone can agree on it.

Theory of flight

I have a theory about flying. It's a simple one really, and it goes like this: no matter what the destination, there is no flight too short for first.

Elitist? Maybe. Expensive? Definitely. Worth it? Without a doubt.

This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who follows this blog (and if you do follow this blog, you really need to get out more). After all, I've posted before here about the rapid decline in respect for air travel as evidenced by the caliber of people who fly. And by that I mean people who fly coach.

I know how I sound. And, as is typical of first class passengers, I don't care.

We used to go see family in Carmel, CA. While my wife and kids would get all excited about the six hour road trip up there (by road trip they meant monotonous drive up interstate 5, with a stop at the McDonald's in Buttonwillow being the highlight of the trip), I on the other hand would make my airline reservations. I'd fly from L.A. to S.F., then take jet-service back down to Monterey.

The flight from San Francisco to Monterey is exactly 16 minutes. Know where I sat? In the front of the plane. I'd buy upgrade coupons from United in books of four, and I wasn't afraid to use them.

So when I went to New York a couple weekends ago to see my friend Holland Taylor in the Broadway show ANN, which she wrote and stars in, there was no question what part of the plane I was going to sit in.

Which is why you're looking at a picture of the left wing and engine as seen from seat 2A.

Holland Taylor is ANN

My friend Holland Taylor is starring on Broadway in a play she wrote about former Texas governor Ann Richards. If you're in New York, go see it. If you're not in New York, get there and see it.

Meanwhile, I'm going back to my own pet project: finding out where she gets the energy to do it all brilliantly, then bottling it.

Right after my nap.

AT&T Jew-verse

Everyone has to live with a certain amount of denial in life. Otherwise, we'd never cross a street, get on a plane or eat at Jack In The Box for fear of what could happen to us. It's how we manage everyday risk and emotion.

Since, according to this article, the average consumer can be exposed to between 3000 and 20,000 ads a day, and actually see and register about 250 of them, commercials - especially bad ones - have also become one of the things we have to deny in order not to be overwhelmed by them. Out of necessity, they become white noise.

It'd be a second career getting mad about all of them.

However, there is one commercial so bad, so hateful, so grating in the most primal way, I feel pointing it out is less of a gripe and more of a public service. It's this one:

Here's how I'm pretty sure the meeting went.

CLIENT: What do you think the kid should look like?

ART DIRECTOR: Well, he should be...

ACCOUNT PERSON: We were leaning towards a "New York" look. (actually does air quotes)

CLIENT: You mean Jewish.

ACCOUNT PERSON: Yes, you know, curly hair, big nose...

Laughter erupts in the room.

CLIENT: Can we have him say some Jew sounding words?

WRITER: Like fancy, schmancy or for cryin' out loud?

CLIENT: Yes!

ACCOUNT PERSON: (hamming it up - no pun intended) Oy vey, we'll do it.

ART DIRECTOR: Maybe an argyle sweater, so he looks like the old Je...uh, old "New York" guys you see in the jewelry mart.

CLIENT: I love it. What do they say?

ACCOUNT PERSON: Mazel tov?

CLIENT: That's it!

Laughter erupts again.

Don't get me wrong, I love the Jews on TV. I can even tolerate the stereotyping. But what I hate is a stale concept, long past its expiration date, that's been done a gazillion times before - in this case a kid talking like a wiser, older "New York" grandfather to kids slightly younger than him who, for some inexplicable reason, know how to act their real age.

And wagging the corn dog while he's talking must be a Jewish tradition I'm not familiar with.

It's frustrating because it's AT&T. A big client with a huge advertising budget and decent production dollars to spend, and this is the best they (and their 65-year old, Jackie Mason loving writer/art director team) could do.

Then, just to make sure there's absolutely no escape, they run the crap out of this spot. You can't turn on the TV without seeing it everywhere. Maybe the kid got them the air time wholesale.

The best advice I can give the team, or anyone else associated with this spot is that same advice that works managing life's risks.

If someone asks if it's your spot, deny it.

On our Mark

For many people, this time of year kicks off a certain kind of joy. It’s the exciting and festive start of the holiday season, with at least one major celebration a month from now until the end of the year. The air is thick with anticipation.

But for me, October brings something a little darker now – a little more Woody Allen in attitude.

It's a reminder the year is running out of time. The days get shorter, the night comes earlier, the chill lasts longer. Also, every October is one more year my lifelong friend Mark Geldman has been gone.

Mark died of cancer in October 2007, but not before living a wild, full and adventurous life. Not only was he one of my very best friends, he was also an artist, a poet, a writer, an activist, an entrepreneur and a ladies man. He was married four times. Some people just never learn.

In high school, there were three of us: me, Mark and Sandy Frey. We were inseparable and unstoppable. Together, we stole our parents cars before we could legally drive (note to my kids: don’t even think it). We organized a political demonstration that shut down our junior high school for a few days. At the time, Mark was a member of the Young Socialist Alliance, and his parents belonged to the Socialist Workers Party. If I heard one lecture about Eugene Debs I heard a hundred. (As a side note, years later when I asked Mark if he was still a socialist, he told me he worked in Hollywood, where everyone including him was a devout capitalist).

Anyway, like friendships that have been so close for so long sometimes do, we went our different ways after high school.

About 14 years ago, I was reading the Calendar section of the L.A. Times. It was some article about Mickey Rourke and how impossible he was being (I know, I was as shocked as you are) with a project he was involved in. The article listed the screenwriter as Mark Geldman. I hadn’t seen or heard Mark’s name in a very long time, and wondered whether it was the same one. So I called 411, asked for his number, and got it. Then I called him.

I think our first conversation was two hours – two wonderful hours catching up on the years that’d gone by.

I wound up reconnecting for a short time with Mark. My wife and I had dinner at his house. We met his wife and kids. They came to our house. It was a great time. The thing about knowing someone so long and well is they can fill in the blanks for you. Among other things, Mark reminded me of a dinner we'd had years earlier at an Indian restaurant in New York called Nirvana (I didn't even remember being in New York). And of the Tribeca apartment he could've signed a 20-year lease on for $300 a month.

It’s easy for me to recall the last time I saw Mark because I have a good milestone to remember it. It was the night before my daughter was born. Together with our wives, we had dinner at L’Opera in downtown Long Beach. It was a drizzly Sunday night, and we were sitting by the large windows looking out at the Metro Blue Line as it came and went. It was all very east coast, and it felt right.

And then he was gone. I never spoke to him again.

Fast forward to the end of September, beginning of October 2007. I got a call from Mark’s high school girlfriend and fourth wife, Jodi. When I answered, in tears she said, “We lost Mark.” When I told my wife Mark had died, the first words out of her mouth were, “You have to tell Sandy.”

I couldn’t even remember the last time I talked to Sandy, so I took to the interwebs and Googled him. Turns out Sandy was a partner in a prestigious law firm in downtown L.A. Come to find out in what I now refer to as the lost years, he done good.

I emailed him about Mark passing away, and I now know when he got the email he was in a client meeting and had to step outside because of the tears in his eyes.

When Jodi let me know the date of the memorial service, Sandy and I got together beforehand for a reunion of our own. Even though Mark wasn’t there, he couldn’t have been more present. As Mark and I had done, Sandy and I spent the time we had before the service filling in the blanks for each other, rekindling both memories and a friendship that had never really been gone, just dormant.

At the service, although we didn’t speak, we were spoken about. People talked about Mark’s friends Sandy and Jeff because they’d heard about us from Mark.

While a lot of that day is a blur, the thing I remember most is after the service and get together at his cousins house, Sandy and I were walking to our cars with Ron Yanover, Mark’s writing partner. He told us how often Mark had spoken of us over the years. Then, he stopped for a minute and said, “We had the best of him.”

What brought all this on is now, every year since Mark's service, Sandy and I get together around October 8th, Mark’s birthday, to have dinner at Blair’s in Silverlake and raise a glass to Mark. Then we have dessert at Pazzo Gelato, the shop Mark opened with his neice and nephew.

I think it’s strange yet comforting Mark managed to bring Sandy and I back together. The three of us were always, and I mean always, together. When Sandy and I are together, it feels like we still are. We both have a fierce determination never to let the years slip away again. At least we know we’ll always see each other one night a year.

Next Wednesday night, you’ll find Sandy and me at Blair’s, talking about ourselves, our work, our lives and Mark.

And remembering we had the best of him.

9/11

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 7

Billy’s eyes were as wide as manhole covers.

Being a city kid, he was naturally skeptical. The only real horses he’d ever seen were the ones the police rode in Times Square, and the swayback nags pulling tourists around Central Park in replica turn-of-the-century carriages.

Neither had impressed him.

So when he saw the first bronco break from the gate, all four legs in the air, gyrating wildly, it was all he could do to remember to breathe.

He watched in awe as the cowboy in the red checked shirt tried in vain to stay on the wildly spirited horse. His dad couldn’t help wondering why anyone would put themselves through that kind of beating. That thought never crossed Billy's mind. He just thought it was fun to watch.

Robert thought about his two hundred dollar investment, and was glad it had paid off. The seats weren’t exactly where the black man said they were, but they were awfully good just the same. He felt like he’d won the lottery.

Seeing the smile on his son’s face, he knew he had.

For the first time, he let himself think that maybe everything was going to be okay. Maybe the pain of growing up without a mother might take a leave of absence.

What he didn't know in that moment was the leave was temporary.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 6

When their cab pulled up to the Garden, the first thing they saw when they got out was a ticket scalper. He was a tall, happy black man with a New York accent, wearing a crisp, Stetson cowboy hat and a red scarf.

“Rodeo tickets right here! Hundred dollars. Get your rodeo tickets here! See them white boys get thrown all around! Hundred dollars.”

“Where are the seats?” Robert asked.

“He’s funny Dad.”

“That’s right little man. I’m as funny as they come. I bet you don’t see a lot of funny men like me up where you live, ain’t that right boss?”

Billy just smiled up at him.

“The seats, where are they?”

“Mister, they so close, you can watch the bruises change colors on the cowboys' ass.”

Billy giggled. Robert took out his 100% tanned leather wallet Johnson & Johnson had given him for one of his job anniversaries, handed the man in the cowboy hat two hundred dollars and took the tickets.

“These better be great seats.”

“If they’re not, you can come back and make me live in Harlem.” He started laughing hysterically.

“Bye mister.” Billy smiled up at him and waved.

“Bye little man. Watch you don’t get any dust in your eyes.”

For a moment, Billy and the black man held a knowing stare.

Then Robert took his sons’ hand and they went inside.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 5

The rodeo was in town.

If you were driving down the Las Vegas Strip, past exploding volcanoes, pirate ships, the Statue of Liberty, Eiffel Tower, nine story Coke bottle and gargantuan flashing hotel signs, and if you were a stickler for detail, you might have noticed the limp flags hanging from light posts, lamely fighting a losing battle for attention. They read “National Rodeo Finals Oct. 15th - 24th, West Valley Center”.

Billy Delrogh noticed them. In fact, they were almost the only thing he noticed.

Seven years ago, when he was just five years old, Billy became a rodeo fan. His father, Robert, had been a senior vice-president of marketing at Johnson & Johnson in New York for most of his career. But when J & J hired a consultant to help them figure out how they could run more efficiently and profitably, one of their bright ideas was to offer senior management early retirement in a way they couldn’t refuse.

Which actually turned out to be O.K. with Robert.

In the last few years, he’d begun to notice his enthusiasm for New York dwindling. He was also having second thoughts about raising Billy there.

His debate was that while the city was the center of the universe, with its museums, theater, publishing and possibilities, it was also headquarters for the kind of perverse crime that lands on the front page daily, and urban paranoia that leaves you no choice but to walk with your eyes looking behind as much as ahead of you. Of course, September 11th had done nothing to improve that.

Besides, having Billy in a private school, which was the only real option in New York, was giving him a first class education but also shielding him from the very things the city had to offer.

So when the early retirement offer came down, Robert took it. He cashed in his stock options and profit sharing, and decided he was going to take Billy someplace new that had different things to offer.

Space is what he wanted one of those things to be. Despite the fact they lived in an extraordinarily spacious condo on Central Park West, Robert felt Billy should have the opportunity to grow up with a real yard to play in, instead of a cement balcony nine stories above traffic.

Before Sarah died giving birth to Billy, the condo had meant more to them than just a great place to live. Robert struggled for years as a mid-level executive at Johnson & Johnson, and Sarah had had to put up with an unreasonable number of late nights, missed holidays and family dinners with an empty place setting where Robert should have been but wasn’t. She’d taken a part time job as a cocktail waitress at a bar called Rendezvous in the east village just to help make ends meet. It was demeaning, and she grew weary deflecting nasty pick-up lines from drunken losers and losers trying to get drunk.

Persistence was what Robert had always told her. Make yourself indispensable to the company, they’ll see your value and they’ll reward you for it. And he was right. Eventually, they did. The title, the money, stock options, the corner office. All as a way of rewarding the fine work, and recognizing the contribution he’d made to the company’s bottom line.

What success meant more than anything to Robert was at last he’d be able to repay Sarah for her sacrifice. So they rewarded themselves with their dream condo, and the promise of a family to come.

It was exactly the kind of place people with rich fantasy lives imagine they’d live when they think about living in New York. But since Sarah’s death, it'd become a constant, sad reminder to Robert that he was raising his boy alone. While Billy was the most beautiful gift Sarah could have left as her legacy, the truth was that this oversized apartment, with their footsteps echoing on hardwood floors, the muted sound of the traffic coming in the weatherproofed windows, and the two of them rattling around in it only served to constantly remind him of the hole in his heart since she died.

In conversations they’d had while she was pregnant, Sarah always told Robert if anything ever happened to her she wanted him to show Billy things he wouldn’t normally be exposed to in the city.

The circus. The tall boats. The rodeo.

She wanted wide horizons for her son, and she wanted him to appreciate life beyond the cement and skyscraper world he was growing up in. Robert hated it when she talked about dying before he did. Each time she mentioned it, and she mentioned it far too often for a woman her age, he emphatically assured her she’d be around to watch Billy grow up, and see that he learned and saw everything she wanted him to.

It was an assurance he now felt foolish giving.

So, on the very day Billy turned five, a day each year that caused both great grief and celebration, Robert was perusing the New York Times. He turned the middle page of the sports section, and there it was. An ad for the Watkins Family Rodeo at Madison Square Garden.

Remembering his promise, he scooped up Billy, grabbed their coats, and they were off to a rodeo. In the middle of New York City.

He smiled up at Sarah as he closed the door.

A game of Checkers

A friend of mine used to say you weren't in a real city unless you could do two things: jaywalk and hail a cab.

The first time I was in New York I realized, as everyone instantly does, that this was not only a real city, but the real city.

And one of the best and most memorable things about it were the ginormous yellow Checker cabs.

By the thousands, these tank-sized cabs would roam up and down the avenues, looking great, burning gas and picking up passengers. Once inside, you were met with the cavernous back seat. It made you feel like you were driving in your living room. Or more often than anyone needs to think about, bedroom.

I remember flying into JFK one time and sharing a Checker cab into the city. They were built for sharing - they had an additional backwards-facing fold-down bench seat in the back so about 8 or 9 people could fit comfortably into one of these babies.

It made getting into the city fairly painless, financially speaking.

Eventually the Checkers, like the dinosaurs, became extinct - not because they were taken out by a meteor, but because they couldn't adapt to the changing times. And by changing times I mean gas prices.

So instead, in their place today we have fuel-efficient, technologically-advanced, non-polluting, dull-as-hell, puny little Prius cabs. They barely carry four people. None of them comfortably. And luggage? That's just crazy talk.

Photo actual size--------------------------------->>>>>>

If you know anything about me - and really, what haven't I shared on here - you know political correctness isn't one of my strong suits. I think the Big Apple should bring back the inefficient, polluting, technologically outdated, passenger-pleasing Checker cabs.

Earth Day, Ed Begley and Al Gore be damned.

Uncle Pete

I didn't get to choose my first family. But I did get to choose my second.

And Pete Caubisens, who passed away a few days ago, was a huge part of it.

Many years ago my pal Richard introduced me to a friend of his named Rémi Aubuchon. I knew fairly quickly this Rémi character was going to fast become a new best friend. What I didn't know was how important Remi's family would become in my life. In some ways, with absolutely no disrespect to my own beautiful parents who had their hands more than full with me, Rémi's would often be my family of choice.

Living first in Brentwood then in Santa Monica when we met, I'd always look forward to driving (willing) my orange Super Beetle over the hill to the valley, then up the hill to Remi's house in Woodland Hills. It was always a welcoming, safe place, giving me many things I couldn't get in my own home.

Family, in the bigger sense of the word, was one of them.

Rémi's father Jacques was an accomplished actor. I was a theater arts major. Jacques didn't like flying. At the time I had a huge fear of flying. We'd sit for hours, talking about acting and how flight was still just a theory.

While we're here, one more thing about my major.

My parents were older when they had me, and like many parents of their era they had some old school thinking on what was a real job and what wasn't. Let's just say there wasn't a lot of love in my house for being a theater arts major (they were Jewish - doctor and lawyer were genetically programmed to be at the top of their list).

Where was I? Okay. Rémi's mom Denise, who looks like Ellen Burstyn, was an artistic, warm and welcoming presence. In my eyes she was always accepting and non-judgemental. It was like a breath of fresh air (perhaps I've revealed too much).

I was also close to his sister Danielle (the birthday girl in the picture above), and while his brother Philippe always marched to his own drummer, I constantly enjoyed his company and humor, and always loved hearing his take on things.

It was just good being around them. It felt like what a home should feel like.

Because of how I felt about Rémi's family, and the way I felt about my own at the time, for many years I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas at his house.

On one of those holidays early on, Denise's brother Pete was out from New York. Pete was an attorney for the airlines, so naturally with my fears I had all sorts of questions for him. I'd never met someone who knew so much about wind shear and bird ingestion (not the Thanksgiving kind, the jet engine kind).

Pete and I hit it off right from the get-go. He had a gentle brilliance and a sharp wit about him. He was funny as hell. He was worldly and sophisticated. He had a smile that lit up a room. And a laugh that let you know how much he was enjoying life.

He was New York cool.

I know what you're thinking: that he was also somewhat of a father figure to me. Is it that obvious?

The conversation turned to New York. Pete said I was welcome to stay at his place on the upper east side anytime I wanted. So I took him up on it. I was there about a week, using his place as my base camp.

I remember meeting him for lunch one day. He took me to my first real French restaurant. Escargot, rude waiters, the whole neuf yards. It was awesome.

Afterwards, as we were walking down 5th Avenue, it started to snow. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen falling snow. It was magical. It's a feeling I'll always associate with Pete.

Time marches on and everyone's life gets busier. And while I talked to Pete less and less over the years, ironically I thought about him more and more.

When Rémi (here with the coolest uncle ever) let me know Pete was gone, he said one of the reasons he wanted me to know was because he knew how much I enjoyed him and his company.

But I don't think he really did. In fact, I don't think I did until I heard he'd died.

I don't know many things for sure, but I do know that Rémi's family, New York and my life are all better for Pete having been a part of them.

The other thing I know is, as of last week, heaven is a much more welcoming place.

Big apple. Big regret.

New York is the center of the universe. You can argue that point, but of course why would you? You'd be wrong and you'd lose.

Pulsing with possibility, unlike L.A. or Detroit, New York isn't a one company town. Telecommunications, fashion, commerce, advertising, movies, television, theater, finance, art, publishing and more. It's all there for the taking.

One of the great rites of passage in anyone's life is their first trip to New York. The energy, the crowds, the buildings and architecture (not counting the Trump buildings), the lights - it's unforgettable.

This past summer my son got to experience it all. That's the good news. The bad news is he got to experience it without me.

I wanted to be the one to show both my kids New York for the first time. When I found out towards the end of last year that my son was going on a class trip to Washington D.C. and New York this past June, I thought it'd be great to take him there first. For starters, he'd have a leg up on his class. I'd show him things he wouldn't see with the class (get that thought out of your head). Plus he'd know his way around when he got there with the group.

And most importantly, he would have seen the city for the first time with me.

Long story short, if that's possible at this point, is like so much in life, it came down to timing. I couldn't make the days work for everyone's schedule so the family could go together. And the days we could all go, seats weren't available (I was going to cash in airline miles for the trip before the airline took them away or told me they "expired").

So he went with his class. And without me. It may not be a big deal in the scheme of things, but it feels like it. It's like someone else taught him to ride a bike or how to shave or drive a car. To me, New York is something you learn from your dad. Maybe it's because my dad was from Brooklyn that I feel so strongly about it. Even writing about it now makes my heart hurt. It kills me. I just should've poured gas on the credit cards, yanked him out of school and gone.

Would'a could'a should'a.

Rational or not, logical or not, big deal or not, I know I'll always regret not doing it.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm not exactly a glass-half-full guy. But, as many people have pointed out to me, after having said all this, there are a couple positive points to be made.

One is that I got to learn a lesson apparently I need to keep learning - only it sunk in deeper than ever before this time. That's if I want to do something, then do it. Find a way. Don't wait. I don't take no for an answer in many lesser parts of my life, I won't do it again on something that holds this much meaning for me.

Another thing is the trip he went on was an educational outing to those cities. The class was running around from sun up to almost midnight every night, and was actually only in the city for two days. Which means even though he did ride a subway, see a Broadway show and go to the top of the Empire State Building for the first time without me, there are still plenty of great New York experiences waiting for us to have together.

Ray's pizza.

Off Broadway. Off off Broadway.

Showing him Sparks Steak House where Paul Castellano got whacked (because what kid shouldn't know about that).

Taking him to a taping of Letterman.

Having a cannoli at Ferrara's (leave the gun, take the cannoli).

Seeing a show at and explaining the legendary history of the Apollo.

Seeing a show at Madison Square Garden, and showing him where I sat when I saw Springsteen. Twice.

There are also the many friends I haven't seen in so long, and who have never met my kids. We could fill up a week with that alone.

So, from now on I'll make a point of trying not to dwell on what could've been, and I'll start narrowing my focus to all the things I will get to show him.

And while I'm at it, I'll keep a smile on my face. Because I know exactly who's going to show my daughter New York for the first time.