Every once in a while it occurs to me how out of shape I am. I try not to dwell on it too much, because then I feel bad about downing a pint of Americone Dream while bingeing Breaking Bad for the sixth time.
And who wants to feel bad.
Besides, digging that spoon into the frozen ice cream is a workout. Technically.
Anyway, what brought all this on was the fact my friend Kurt and his wife are going on a ride this weekend. A bike ride. Around Lake Tahoe. A hundred miles around Lake Tahoe.
When he first told me about it, I thought it'd be the perfect way to get back in shape. When I lived in Santa Monica, I used to ride my bike on the bike path every weekend on a thirty-mile round trip to Redondo Beach.
I like riding a bike. I'd be back into it in a heartbeat.
The plan was to train with them for eighteen weeks, make the ride, then feel this enormous sense of accomplishment and well-being.
But eighteen Saturdays of training were just something I couldn't commit to, what with kids' schedules, college tours, school concerts and unopened Cherry Garcia to take care of.
So here we are at the weekend of the ride. While in years past the weather's been beautiful for the ride, this weekend it's all thunderstorms and heavy rain at the lake.
Or as I like to call it, perfect weather to stay home and binge on a show about drug kingpins and the destruction of their family.
I hope Kurt and his wife are careful out there, and have a great ride.
Even though I'm not with them in person, I'm there in spirit. And if it's any consolation, they've inspired me to map out a course for getting on my own road back into shape.
Next to where the original Farmer’s Market was, where The Grove stands now, used to be an icon of a cinematic, automatic, hydro-matic time gone by. The Gilmore Drive-In.
When I was in high school, some friends and I would ride our bikes over to the back of the drive-in, and watch the movies from behind the chain-link fence (which could be easily hopped) for free on the ginormous screen. I’m not saying they were R-rated, but I’m not saying they weren’t. Besides, what was the point of rating anything if the entire city could see it on a 7-story screen.
I always got the feeling that on the list of things the Gilmore Drive-In was about, movies were somewhere beneath community. Socializing was the point, and there were just as many people in their cars as out walking around talking to friends.
I suppose it was foolish to think property that valuable wouldn’t get developed. And the slow death rattle of drive-in’s having the life choked out of them by actual theaters made it all but inevitable the Gilmore would one day be a faded Technicolor memory.
Still, I remember being with friends, watching Clint Eastwood’s violent directorial debut Play Misty For Me.
Even on bikes, even without sound, even though it was cold. It was still magic.
Why are you looking at a picture of Stu Rosen (aka Dusty), Maxine the Crow, Stanley Spider and Scooter the Squirrel? It’s because I don’t want you looking at a picture of me in a black shirt, tights and a bright yellow scarf tied around my neck.
Even though I know how badly you want to see that.
One of the many odd jobs I’ve had was working for master puppeteer Tony Urbano. In the marionette world – and yes, there is a marionette world - there are a few giants. Bob Baker was one. Tony was another.
Even if you don't know his name, you've seen Tony's work in Men In Black (1 & 2), The Abyss and Team America: World Police.
Tony’s studio was a warehouse in a small industrial park in Van Nuys. I’d seen an ad for a job while I was at UCLA (all hour and a half), so I went and applied. I interviewed with Richard who ran the studio, and who’d later become a good friend of mine.
Cue the Twilight Zone theme.
In the part of the studio that opened to the parking lot via a garage door hung dozens of marionettes. Skeletons. Pianists. Crazy looking ones, whose eyes followed you as you walked around the room after closing.
Did that one just turn his head? I’ll swear he did.
Anyway, Tony did shows for corporate and children’s events. He had a road company of puppeteers, of which I was one, and an ingenious puppet stage he’d designed that, when folded, was about four feet by twenty feet and fit on the roof rack of the company station wagon.
I, along with one of the other puppeteers, danced dolls at events in Redlands, Topanga Mall, South Coast Plaza and Universal Studios. We did celebrity birthday parties, although I can’t remember which ones.
It was open puppetry, that is to say we danced them right out in the open and not from behind a curtain to hide us.
Tony was also the puppeteer on Dusty’s Treehouse (remember that picture?) a kids show that ran for ten years on KNXT-TV. It even won a Peabody Award. I got to work on the show many times, and was able to get my AFTRA card because of it.
Here’s one of my fond memories of Tony.
One day we were at the studio and some young kids were playing ball in the parking lot. The garage door was open, and the kids were looking at all the marionettes inside. Richard, Tony and I were in there. Tony was manipulating Maxine as he was going over a new script for Dusty’s Treehouse. One of the kids recognized the puppet, and yelled, “Where’s Dusty?” And without breaking stride, Tony shot the kid a look and in his bitchiest voice said, “Dusty’s dead.”
I felt sad for the kid, but Richard and I couldn’t stop laughing.
The other thing we used to do when Tony wasn’t around was have a little fun with the Piano Player puppet. His hands were sculpted as if he were playing the keyboard. So Richard would grab the strings, fly him around the room, then land him on the side of a plastic trash can. He’d have his hands on the side, and make his head look down in the trash can and make throwing up sounds. It was awesome.
Guess you had to be there.
Anyway, there comes a time in every boys life where he has to stop playing with dolls, so eventually I moved on. Fortunately I found my calling, such as it is, in advertising.
There's about the same amount of manipulation and string pulling.
Last night was the high school graduation party for young Mr. Spielberg before he goes off to one of the top ten film schools in the country, and his good friend Trevor, who is graduating with him. It was a fun-filled evening, with many of his friends he’s literally grown up with and known all his life.
I’ve also known most of the kids there since they were in kindergarten. Which was great, because I never get enough reminders of how fast time is going by. Wasn’t it just yesterday they were asking me for 5’s instead of 20’s?
Anyway, besides the portable pizza oven catering the party, candy table, impromptu stage where my son (did I mention he plays five instruments?) sang with Trevor, was a wall with items representing who both boys were, their interests, where they’ve been and where they’re going. My boy was on the left. Trevor was on the right.
Each of our families had room for nineteen pictures. So late Saturday, we went online and had a ton of pictures printed out at Fromex. And they came out spectacularly.
The other thing they did was remind me how much I hate digital pictures. Not digital photography, just digital pictures.
Once you have the pictures in your hand, spending as much time as you want with them, they become time machines. They have the ability to take you right back to the moment they’re showing you.
I think too often we get caught up in the technology of seeing pictures on screen, and lose the meaning of the pictures themselves. I was reminded last night of something I've known but had forgotten - I'd much rather pass hard copies of pictures around than watch a digital slideshow any day of the week.
My beautiful son moves to Texas in August. But thanks to these pictures, and the many more I’ll be printing out, I’ll still be able to hold on to him.
It's been getting a little steamy in the bedroom lately. And by steamy, I mean moist. And by moist, I mean damp.
Let me explain.
As you'll recall, I've posted lately about my nasal woes and my trips to my ear/nose/throat doctor to remedy them.
One of the directions I was given after he cauterized my nose - besides stop whining - was to keep it moist with saline sprays and antibacterial gels so it would heal properly. He also wanted me to use the device you see here while I'm sleeping.
It's the Family Care Humidifier. It's job is to turn the bedroom into a rain forest.
Simply fill up the tank, flip the switch and in no time a fine mist of warm steam is rising up to the ceiling, eventually making the room twenty degrees warmer than the rest of the house.
Sure, it's good for my nose, but bad for the t-shirts I sleep in (Yes Rich Siegel, they're black). I wake up drenched in sweat, as if I'd been doing an extreme workout. Now that I think about it, for me sweating is an extreme workout.
Anyway, the wife doesn't care much for the tropical climate of the bedroom these days, so she's camping out someplace cooler until my schnozola heals. It's either the living room or an oceanfront suite at Shutters. I'm sound asleep, so I really won't know which until I get the VISA bill.
I think at this point I've said all I want to say about my nose. And I'm certain I've said all you want to hear.
Thanks for putting up with me while I've been venting about all this. I'll make sure my next post doesn't have anything to do with my nose. In other words, it shouldn't be mist.
Where does the time go? One minute it's baby bottles and diapers, the next it's Starbuck's cards and Trunk Club subscriptions.
My boy is graduating high school next month. Of course, he's not the first kid to do it, and he won't be the last.
I did it - one of the very few items on the short list of things I've actually finished. But I didn't have nearly the celebration he's going to have this weekend.
There's a reason for that. High school now isn't anything like what it was back then.
I never had the hours and hours of homework he's had to navigate through. All while participating in and student directing school plays, playing in the school jazz band and orchestra and being president of the student council. Not to mention the guy who brings four dozen donuts to the rehearsals at 7 a.m. (I drive him to those morning rehearsals. Where's my donut?).
It's a whirlwind just writing about it. Back in the day we had homework, but it wasn't a second career. It was just, you know, homework. Then time for TV.
Anyway, just a quick post tonight to say I'm so proud of my guy. I love him like crazy.
And while he's off to one of the country's top film schools at a major university in the next few months, I hope he'll remember and take to heart the one thing I've tried to drill into him over the years while he's been so consumed accomplishing so much.
"When you direct your first Marvel movie, daddy wants a big house."
As you'll recall from an earlier post - and there will be a test - I mentioned I had a rather volcanic nosebleed about a week ago. But I saw my ear/nose/throat doctor, decided to buy some stock in saline gel and spray, and let it go at that.
And I didn't have another nosebleed. Until yesterday.
I was leaving the house for a gig at an agency I work at frequently, and I let the dogs out (guess that answers that question) one last time. While I was in the yard, I bent over to pick something up and blew a gasket. Like they say in the movies, it was a gusher.
The creative director at the agency I was supposed to start at has been great, and after having my nose cauterized (this post just gets better and better doesn't it?) today, I should be back on track Friday.
It all got me thinking about people who have it much worse than I do when it comes to nose issues. If there's anywhere size does matter, it's the schnoz, especially when it comes to colds, allergies or, for the overachievers in the audience, fire-hose nosebleeds.
I don't have a large nose or a small nose. I'd place it right in the middle. However, when I was in junior high school, Eddie Petroff decided to place it off to the side.
I was on the bus home from Bancroft Jr. High School in Hollywood. The bus was jammed with kids, and was pulling away from the stop when I saw Eddie walking with his girlfriend Dorinda, who I was friends with. Eddie saw me looking at Dorinda and said something to me, and I said something back. I figured I was fine since the bus was moving.
Well, besides being in a gang called the Diablos (so quaint, they used fists instead of guns), old Eddie was quite the little runner. He ran alongside the bus, and got the driver to stop and let him on. In slow motion, I saw Eddie parting the Red Sea of students, storming down the middle aisle making his way to me.
All together now: Oh shit.
Eddie got to me, grabbed me by the collar, said something stupid that made me wonder, again, why Dorinda was with him, then punched me in the nose and broke it. My friend Sandy was in the seat behind me, and years later, when I asked him why he didn't do anything to help me, he gave me a disarmingly honest answer. He said, "I figured why should I get killed."
Anyway, ever since having my nose broken by Eddie, I've had problems. I've had surgery twice to correct a deviated septum (Septum? Damn near killed 'em!). Apparently during one of those surgeries, my septum was perforated so I now have a small hole in between airways. Sometimes late at night, when the moon is full and the sky is clear, if the air's cold or I'm breathing hard enough, like from walking to the kitchen to stare into the open refrigerator, or looking for the remote, if you listen carefully you can hear my nose whistle.
I'm thinking about taking it on America's Got Talent. Still undecided.
The point, and yes there is one, is despite my nasal distress since junior high and this past week, it could've been worse. Thankfully, it's all manageable.
If someone were to ask me what I think of this post, I'd have to say snot the best I've ever done, but at least it doesn't blow. Sorry, couldn't help myself.
I'll take my leave now with my favorite big nose joke of all time. Pay attention, it happens early around the :47 second mark. Please to enjoy.
