Off the island for a night

Hi, my name is Jeff and I'm a LOST addict.

All together: Hi Jeff.

Even though I don't wear t-shirts with the numbers (although I bought them for my kids), I don't own a blue '68 VW bus (although I've looked for one on Edmunds), I don't have Dharma logo decals on my car, I didn't name my daughter Kate (or Juliet, or Claire, or Penny) and I don't use "Namaste" as a greeting, the addiction runs deep. I occasionally catch myself saying "Dead is dead." and "Live together or die alone."

I'm not about to kid myself I can quit anytime. That's just crazy talk.

Last night was LOST night at the annual Paley Festival, a two-week celebration of the top television shows of the moment put on every year by The Paley Center (formerly The Museum Of Broadcasting, formerly The Museum of Television & Radio). For the price of the ticket, the public can see panels made up of the actors, producers, writers and directors of the shows. And if you're addicted to a particular show - say for example one about a group of airline passengers who crash on a mysterious island - it's an outstanding evening of stories, process and behind the scenes intrigue.

The LOST panel was made up of several executive producers/ writers, and three of the main stars: Locke (Terry O'Quinn), Ben (Michael Emerson) and Richard (Nestor Carbonell). Each was intelligent, funny, entertaining and just as much in the dark as I am about what's going to happen to their characters from week to week.

Since addiction loves company, I was there with my son (sadly addictive behavior is often passed down to the children), and my good friends Mike and Janice, two fellow LOST addicts.

All together: Hi Mike, Hi Janice, Hi Jeff's son.

The evening was spectacular. Like the show, the panel was just as mysterious when it came to answering some of the questions, and we were all left wanting more.

But here's the sad truth about LOST addiction. Even more is never enough.

Our annual family trip to Sea World will continue. Here's why.

It's beyond sad what happened to Orlando Sea World trainer Dawn Brancheau. This week she was killed by a 12,000-pound orca whale like the ones she'd worked with for over 13 years - one of the many who play Shamu. Apparently already in an agitated state earlier that day, he leapt out of the water, grabbed her by her ponytail, and dragged her underwater, violently shaking the life out of her and drowning her.

Without a doubt, lots of questions need to be answered. For starters, if the whale was already agitated, why was he made to do a show?

Animal rights activists have already seized this tragedy, banging the drum about how orcas shouldn't be in small tanks for the pleasure of the paying public, and should in fact be frolicking free in the ocean where they belong.

The thing is, they're not wrong. But there's another side to the argument for the existence of parks like Sea World. And internationally recognized zoos like the San Diego Zoo. And camouflaged zoos like Wild Animal Park.

Without them, people would care even less.

Every year, our family vacations in Coronado, and as part of the trip, we always spend one day at Sea World. Every year, we are in awe at the grandeur, intelligence and beauty of these animals. Every year, we are reminded we should be doing more to preserve them. And every year, as a result, we contribute to the cause.

It's a unique and emotional appreciation you can't get from pictures. Or television. In fact, you can't get it anywhere else except by seeing them in person. Or seeing them next to a person, like in the above video.

I'm not naive. I know these animals are on display and being put through their paces for profit. But I also know that the cause for their preservation and survival profits much more than it ever would by the public having access to them in a way they couldn't if these parks didn't exist.

While Ms. Brancheau's death is sad enough on its own, the tragedy is being compounded by animal rights groups politicizing it. Don't get me wrong - I think some of these groups are right on many points. In fact I've contributed to a few of them as well.

But contrary to what they're saying, I believe that while orca whales are black and white, the issue of closing Sea World is not.

 

Phlegm Fatale

This morning I got the answer to a question I've never asked before: what would it take to make Joan Rivers voice sound like Pavarotti?

On the master list of things like nails on a blackboard, forks dragging across dinner plates, drumming fingers and mosquitoes buzzing your ears, I'd like to add one more: Lisa Stanley's voice.

Every morning I listen to Kevin and Bean on KROQ. But this morning while I was driving my almost eleven year-old daughter to school, I thought I'd put on something a little more appropriate for her tender ears (it meant missing Ralph Garman's Show Biz Beat, but after all it was my decision to be a parent). So I tuned into KRTH because what could be more harmless than oldies. When the FM display hit 101, the voice that came out of the speakers was as smooth as gravel washed down with a cold glass of whole fat milk. My daughter asked, "Why doesn't she clear her throat?" I'm guessing Lisa Stanley gets that question a lot.

Apparently this woman is KRTH's entertainment reporter. Which I suppose works if your idea of entertainment is watching dogs ears bleed. I imagine the red carpet isn't too crowded when she's working it.

Of course the answer was simple. I told my daughter she could change the station. She tuned it to Radio Disney.

Perhaps I've been a little too harsh on Ms. Stanley.

 

One Twilight Zone too many

Okay, creepy right?

This living (not living) nightmare is called Itty Baby. She's one of my daughter's American Girl dolls. Well, American Girl says she's a doll. But I know what she really is: a mutant, evil, possessed, murderous monster who rummages through the kitchen in the dead of night, when it's blackest and silent, looking for a knife to kill me with. A long knife. A dull knife. One that I'll feel. One that'll hurt.

Okay, maybe not. Maybe she's just my daughter's doll.

But tonight when my daughter looked at me and said, "Look, Itty only has one eye open. That's creepy." suddenly the vision of that Twilight Zone with Telly Savalas and the doll that was alive and trying to kill him came flooding back. So did Trilogy Of Terror, a television movie with Karen Black where a doll is trying to kill her. And the episode of Night Gallery where an army officer returns home and his daughter's doll, a gift from one of his enemies is - well, you see where I'm going here.

I can trace at least some of this primal terror directly back to when I lived with a roommate who owned a Jerry Mahoney ventriloquist dummy. He - the roommate, not the dummy - thought it was hilarious to move it around the apartment and position it sitting up in, say, the kitchen or bathroom, so when I'd get up in the middle of the night I'd see it looking at me in the dark, with its dead eyes and frozen smile. Let's just say if you had stock in Fruit Of The Loom during those years, you did very well.

Although not a doll or dummy, also fueling my fears is the vivid memory of the antique, wooden roll-top desk I had next to my bed growing up. It had long, light narrow patterns within the dark wood that looked like alien eyes staring at me. And we're not talking ET here.

And Stephen King books? Don't get me started.

Of course, the truth I know is that in the real world, when my imagination isn't moving like a runaway train, Itty Baby is really just a doll that my daughter loves. Itty makes her happy and safe, and will probably be the doll that she passes down to her own daughter someday.

The other truth I know is that it only costs pennies a year to leave the light on at night.

Where's Sam when we need him?

I don't think I've ever been struck so hard, comedically speaking, than when I saw Sam Kinison's first appearance on  Late Night with David Letterman. He didn't look like other comics. He certainly didn't sound like other comics. And his material had a razor-sharp, taboo edge to it that shocked audiences hearing him for the first time, and completely eviscerated comics of the day who were doing safer, more mainstream "observational" material. The other thing that struck me - and still does - is his complete intolerance for hypocrisy ("You know there's a director five feet away going 'Don't feed him yet!!'). It's hard to believe we're coming up on eighteen years (in April) since he died. Yet when I watch this clip from that first Letterman appearance, it's as though I'm hearing it for the first time. You'll notice the video quality is poor. However the material is as rich as ever.

The responsible thing to do

When was the last time you heard the head of an American corporation take responsibility for a major screw up? Not any time recently. Tylenol maybe. Yet there was the head of Toyota in Japan, apologizing to Toyota owners worldwide for mistakes that led to the recall of almost one million vehicles. Can you imagine Wall Street apologizing? Or the big banks? And politicians? Please. I currently own two Toyotas, a politically incorrect Land Cruiser that I love tailgating Smart Cars in, and a Lexus (which as we all know is just a Camry dressed up for a night on the town). In the past I've also owned a Celica and a Supra. They've always been relentlessly reliable cars. They've driven great. They've never caught fire (like my Audi), and they never made me feel like I needed a co-signer when I took them for service (like my Mercedes - you're welcome Fletcher Jones). 


I can't really get too upset they've made a mistake, apologized for it, and are taking action to correct it. Wouldn't it be great if everyone in our lives did that when they made mistakes? In fact my Lexus - which is part of the recall - has already had the new accelerator assembly installed. It feels exactly like the old one. The car performs exactly as it did before. And I don't worry about it taking off uncontrollably by itself anymore than I did before the recall (although truthfully, on the 405, how far would it get?). I'm not one for conspiracy theories, but it does seem to me the people who have the most to gain from fanning the flames for government investigations are Chrysler, GM and Ford. They have plenty of politicians in their pockets. They can get a favor when they need one. And of course, they are the American car companies.  


So I'm going to try to not care about all the nasty things the news and the competition are saying about Toyota. And if you know anything about me, you know not caring is something I do extremely well. Instead, I'll just go on driving my cars, the ones that have never given me any reason to question their quality. 


Apology accepted.

Remembering Ann

It's not like me to get sloppy in my beer. Alright, who're we kidding - I'm a sap. And the fact that today is 28 years since my mom died isn't helping that any. I'm sad to say I can't remember nearly as much about my mom as I would like. 
I can still hear her laugh. Because my parents had me later in life, I can still hear her almost apologizing to me for being "an old lady." But I never saw her that way. She was my old lady. She was my mom. She was there, frightened and strong in the emergency room at Cedars when I'd been thrown forty-five feet out of a car and knocked unconscious in an accident (many people by the way are still waiting for me to regain consciousness). She was there at the graduation when I walked onstage at the Hollywood Bowl to accept my diploma (yeah, I've played the Bowl). She held me, and the bucket, after my first real experience with a little too much egg nog and bourbon.

The last meal I had with my mom was at Nibbler's on Wilshire in Beverly Hills. Coke, tuna melt, arguements. The sounds of a generation and a half older clashing with a time and world that had changed in ways they didn't completely understand, and my impatience at their lack of understanding. Not my finest moment, and probably the first one I'd go back to change. Three days later, it was my turn to be with her in Cedars emergency room. She had died three times in the ambulance, and had been brought back three times. There was severe brain damage, and ten days later she was gone. I remember going into her intensive care room (can someone really be hooked up to that many wires?), and talking to her for about an hour. Trying to make my peace. Trying to say goodbye. And then, my mother opened her eyes and looked right at me. It was the first time she'd opened her eyes in ten days. Her doctors said it was a muscle reflex, similar to a twitch. They said she wasn't really there, wasn't really seeing me. But after a lifetime with this woman who gave me my sense of humor, sensitivity, temper, and everything I ever wanted (yes, only child), I didn't really care what the doctors said. Because I knew better. Every day, especially today, I'm the one who's seeing her. Bye mom. Before you know it.