Out of desperation (work avoidance), I tuned in NBC Monday night and watched two of their new Fall shows. The first was “Chuck,” which, although based on a ridiculous premise, was fun. It’s about a computer geek that’s part of the “Nerd Herd” that works at a thinly disguised Best Buy. (Those ad people at Best Buy are ingenious – all the exposure, none of the advertising dollars.) Chuck is a lovable, socially awkward goof played by doe-eyed Zachary Levi. The producers think that by giving the adorable Mr. Levi a bad haircut and dorky wardrobe, people will think he’s just an average-looking guy. It doesn’t take much imagination to see that Zachary Levi is a hunk. I really wish network primetime would sack up and cast normal-looking people in leads. The side kick, Morgan (Joshua Gomez), is the character I find most entertaining mainly because he’s funny as shit. He’s got some great lines and delivers them believably. It’s not so much the line, line, line, punchline formula. The writers here have come up with good, funny dialogue between Chuck and Morgan.
Back to the stupid premise, Chuck has this old college buddy that became a CIA agent. He also becomes dead in the first scene. His final act, as he lies bleeding on a rooftop staring down the barrel of one of the evildoers, is to send his old computer game playmate, Chuck, an email. The email contains images encrypted with all the secrets of all the terrorists everywhere. We don’t know who they are or where they’re from, but by God they’re terrorists and NBC figures that’s enough explanation for most Americans. When Chuck opens it, all the images flash, and voila, Chuck now has the secrets in his head. Dead guy’s lover/fellow spy, tracks down Chuck, and manages to destroy instead of steal his computer (while dressed like a ninja) leaving our hero as the only known source of every dastardly plan the terrorists have ever thought up and a hard-on for sizzling hot spygirl. Just in case you’re blind, NBC makes sure there are plenty of underwear clad spygirl scenes. No explanation about how the hell Chuck’s biological memory is now encrypted with this artificial intelligence. The fact that Chuck’s magic memory would have a short shelf life is totally ignored. I mean, terrorists are always coming up with new plots. It’s what they do, right? Spygirl develops a soft spot for Chuck and prevents a rival NSA agent from blowing him away after she realizes Chuck has all the diabolical schemes of the suspiciously swarthy terrorists stowed in his noggin. Unintentional hilarity ensues as Chuck seems to upload the appropriate plot for the given situation and using good old nerd gumption defuses a bomb intended for a general that is in the middle of delivering a speech in a packed hotel ballroom. That nobody in the ballroom notices the three people gathered around a food trolley located in the exact center of the room that contains a bright red bomb complete with wires, digital timer and flashing lights, is not addressed.
So, it appears that in the world of “Chuck” we could all be dead or assimilated if it weren’t for loveable computer nerds with flash drive memories and ridiculously good looking CIA agents (in stiletto boots).
The second premiere I watched was “Journeyman.” Think “Quantum Leap” meets The Time Traveler’s Wife. First episode was disappointing but I will watch again hoping that Kevin McKidd’s talent will be able to sell the premise as well as Scott Bakula’s did for “Quantum Leap.” Something I found annoying is that they made Kevin McKidd American. The actor is British and I found his voice disturbingly flat as he spoke with an American accent. Overall, my reaction to the show was “meh.”
“Dirty Sexy Money”
I liked this one mainly because I like the lead actor – Peter Krause. Of course Donald Sutherland and Jill Clayburgh add legitimacy to the program. My biggest gripe is that the characters of the Darling children were too cliche. Hopefully this was because the writers were trying to introduce these characters to the audience as quickly as possible and they will add nuance to the personalities as the series progresses.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Long beautiful "Hair!"
Labor Day has never been a big deal for me. Just a long summer weekend – not a real holiday. This year was the exception. My husband and I went to New York to see our daughter in an off off Broadway production of “Hair!” When Hair made its debut in 1967, I was 11 years old. I heard the songs on the radio and, of course, the nude scene was big news back then. I knew it was about hippies and pictured it as one protest scene after another. I saw the movie probably no more than 5 years ago.
Since my daughter’s involvement with this production, I’ve been educated. I learned the history, looked up the lyrics, listened to the soundtrack. Heck, we even sent our daughter a box of clothes and stuff for the cast. (Laura is the costume designer as well as playing Chrissy.) We didn’t arrive in NY until too late to see the Saturday show but met up with Laura and many of the cast, after, for drinks. I already knew most of the cast because they were also students at Neighborhood Playhouse when my daughter attended. The new cast members were every bit as friendly, and well, just as sweet as they could be. I was struck by the energy emanating from the group. These people had just finished a long, physically demanding performance and they didn’t seem exhausted, quite the opposite. They were stoked.
The show we attended was 7:00, Sunday. We met up with friends who’d seen the original production about 4 times. I was the only one that hadn’t seen it on stage. I was amazed. How the hell did these kids manage to capture the spirit of a culture that existed at least 15 years before they were born? As a member of the audience that was alive during that era, I was reminded of the naiveté my friends and I shared during the late 60’s and early 70’s. We all wanted to go to Haight-Asbury (even though I wasn’t exactly sure where it was) thinking we could just show up and be adopted into this benign community and be free. When upset about how our parents were smothering us and demanding that we conform to their ideals, the common retort (sometimes even spoken aloud) was, “Up the ol’ hole, I’m off to Frisco.” All those memories and, more amazingly, feelings returned as I watched these talented actors. I was really impressed with the staging and choreography, especially “Going Down,” and a short Kama Sutra scene between “Air” and “I Got Life.” Of course the highlight for me was my daughter’s song, “Frank Mills.” I forget to breathe sometimes when I watch her perform and this was one of those times. Her father cried. Poor Laura, it’s pretty bad when the quality of your performance is based on how wet your father’s face is or how blue your mother has turned. I think she’s shooting for making me pass out.
I didn’t know it, but, Nathan Lane sat behind me. I wonder what he thought of the show. Was he there scoping out new talent or does he just like “Hair”?
Okay, okay, the nude scene. All my friends and family asked me, “Are they gonna do the nude scene? How do you feel about that?” Well, truthfully, it bothered me when I first realized my daughter would be naked on stage. Then I just put it out of my mind. I told my friends I would look at the other side of the stage. What really happened was that as soon as the nude cast emerged from beneath the parachute silk, I located Laura and was momentarily spellbound. I then looked to the other side of the stage. But you know what? The memory I will always have of this scene is the image of my breathtakingly beautiful, fearless daughter.
Since my daughter’s involvement with this production, I’ve been educated. I learned the history, looked up the lyrics, listened to the soundtrack. Heck, we even sent our daughter a box of clothes and stuff for the cast. (Laura is the costume designer as well as playing Chrissy.) We didn’t arrive in NY until too late to see the Saturday show but met up with Laura and many of the cast, after, for drinks. I already knew most of the cast because they were also students at Neighborhood Playhouse when my daughter attended. The new cast members were every bit as friendly, and well, just as sweet as they could be. I was struck by the energy emanating from the group. These people had just finished a long, physically demanding performance and they didn’t seem exhausted, quite the opposite. They were stoked.
The show we attended was 7:00, Sunday. We met up with friends who’d seen the original production about 4 times. I was the only one that hadn’t seen it on stage. I was amazed. How the hell did these kids manage to capture the spirit of a culture that existed at least 15 years before they were born? As a member of the audience that was alive during that era, I was reminded of the naiveté my friends and I shared during the late 60’s and early 70’s. We all wanted to go to Haight-Asbury (even though I wasn’t exactly sure where it was) thinking we could just show up and be adopted into this benign community and be free. When upset about how our parents were smothering us and demanding that we conform to their ideals, the common retort (sometimes even spoken aloud) was, “Up the ol’ hole, I’m off to Frisco.” All those memories and, more amazingly, feelings returned as I watched these talented actors. I was really impressed with the staging and choreography, especially “Going Down,” and a short Kama Sutra scene between “Air” and “I Got Life.” Of course the highlight for me was my daughter’s song, “Frank Mills.” I forget to breathe sometimes when I watch her perform and this was one of those times. Her father cried. Poor Laura, it’s pretty bad when the quality of your performance is based on how wet your father’s face is or how blue your mother has turned. I think she’s shooting for making me pass out.
I didn’t know it, but, Nathan Lane sat behind me. I wonder what he thought of the show. Was he there scoping out new talent or does he just like “Hair”?
Okay, okay, the nude scene. All my friends and family asked me, “Are they gonna do the nude scene? How do you feel about that?” Well, truthfully, it bothered me when I first realized my daughter would be naked on stage. Then I just put it out of my mind. I told my friends I would look at the other side of the stage. What really happened was that as soon as the nude cast emerged from beneath the parachute silk, I located Laura and was momentarily spellbound. I then looked to the other side of the stage. But you know what? The memory I will always have of this scene is the image of my breathtakingly beautiful, fearless daughter.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Know where I can pick up an imagination cheap?
According to W.P. Kinsella, "Writing is ability, imagination, passion, and stamina. Ability is being able to write complete sentences with clear, straightforward, standard English, which eliminates 70% of everyone who wants to write. Imagination is having a story to tell, which eliminates another 20%..." I made it into the top 30% -- woohoo. I am seriously screwed.
I attended my first fiction writing class last night which I enjoyed in a licking a 9-volt battery kind of way. My classmates are very smart, very articulate, and very talented (the bastards). We were given a sheet of paper printed with several first lines from short stories and told to pick two lines that appealed to us. The two I chose were: "Understand that your cat is a whore and cannot help you," and "Early in the morning on the first anniversary of the day her family survived, the mother woke." We were then told to write a paragraph using one of the sentences we chose as the first line and the other choice as the last line. Fuck me. Okay fine, I somehow managed to slap some bullshit between those two sentences in a somewhat coherent manner. I even had time to revise because other students were taking a lot of time with this. The professor finally called time and asked if anyone would like to read their paragraphs. You betcha! Those students that wrote for so long -- effing brilliant. Made what I wrote look like "Dick, Jane, and Sally had a wreck and hate their cat, Spot. The end."
We have until September 18th (3 weeks) to turn in our first story. Two students turned their's in last night, of course. I've begun four stories; does that count?
I attended my first fiction writing class last night which I enjoyed in a licking a 9-volt battery kind of way. My classmates are very smart, very articulate, and very talented (the bastards). We were given a sheet of paper printed with several first lines from short stories and told to pick two lines that appealed to us. The two I chose were: "Understand that your cat is a whore and cannot help you," and "Early in the morning on the first anniversary of the day her family survived, the mother woke." We were then told to write a paragraph using one of the sentences we chose as the first line and the other choice as the last line. Fuck me. Okay fine, I somehow managed to slap some bullshit between those two sentences in a somewhat coherent manner. I even had time to revise because other students were taking a lot of time with this. The professor finally called time and asked if anyone would like to read their paragraphs. You betcha! Those students that wrote for so long -- effing brilliant. Made what I wrote look like "Dick, Jane, and Sally had a wreck and hate their cat, Spot. The end."
We have until September 18th (3 weeks) to turn in our first story. Two students turned their's in last night, of course. I've begun four stories; does that count?
Friday, August 17, 2007
That's entertainment.
Yep, some days you're the dark crystal and some days you're the Podling. I swear to God, there are days I feel like my computer at work is sucking the essence right out of me.I'm a movie whore. I admit it. I also love live theatre but don't get the opportunity to attend often enough. The best play I ever saw (outside of my daughter's) was "Dance of Death" starring Sir Ian McKellan and Frances De La Tour. I was fortunate enough to see it at the Lyric Theatre in London back in '03. I so admire English actors in that even though they may be successful in movies; they regularly return to the stage to hone their skills. American actors -- not so much. I saw poor Julianne Moore acting opposite Bill Nighy in "The Vertical Hour" last November on Broadway and Mr. Nighy mopped the floor with her.
My favorite movie at the moment is "Secret Life of Words" with Tim Robbins, Sarah Polley and the remarkable Julie Christie. It's a beautifully acted, quiet film that affected me deeply.
So, maybe your thinking that I'm an entertainment snob. Well, guess what. I also live and breathe a (Jesus, I can't believe I'm admitting this) soap opera. "Days of Our Lives" to be specific. But, I'm choosy about that too. I only watch episodes with Stephen Nichols and Mary Beth Evans aka Steve and Kayla. Thanks to the internet I know when they will be on. Hey, they're out there turning the crap that's been written for them into gold day after day after day with little time for rehearsal. It's the closest thing you'll see to live theatre on TV. I gotta hand it to them. And, at least the soaps are employing actors (that is when they aren't casting models) unlike all the reality show crap. Johnny Depp got his start on a soap as did Meg Ryan, Julianne Moore, George Clooney, Halle Barry, Jimmy Smits, Heath Ledger, Morgan Freeman, the list goes on and on.
Therefore, I amend my initial statement. I'm a movie, theatre, television whore. An equal opportunity slut, if you will.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Introspection ain't for sissies
I’m beginning to question my admittedly dark sense of humor. I really cannot set boundaries for myself where comedy is concerned. You know how some people say, “Years from now, we’ll look back on this and laugh.”? Well for me, “years from now” is usually about ten minutes. (30 seconds if it involves somebody falling down.)
I come by this trait honestly. My brothers and sister are the same way. We barely made it through the funeral arrangements for our father – that is how despicable we are. The priest was quite at a loss. Don’t get me wrong, we all love Daddy and miss him terribly, but there’s just something in our wiring that wrings the comedy out of just about any situation.
I had the pooey scared out of me about 3 weeks ago when my daughter in New York had a medical emergency. She passed out while substitute teaching a ballet class for inner city kids. She busted her chin open and had to go to the ER for stitches. They also ran a battery of tests to try to diagnose the cause of her fainting. She was upset, we were worried, boyfriend was distraught, etc. Turns out, there was no reason for the faint. They called it vasovagal syncope which sounds lethal so I looked it up online and the entry was: Vasovagal syncope (fainting). Apparently the danger posed by vasovagal syncope is hurting yourself when you hit the floor, or sidewalk, or stairs …
Okay, so last week. My daughter, being of my blood, made a crack about my appearance in a photo I posted in this blog. She remarked that my arm looked fake and jeeringly called me “Wax Arm Mom.” That’s all I needed. I immediately shot off a postcard to her that was a 50’s era black and white photo of three little angelic ballerinas and their equally angelic, young teacher. Above each little tutu’ed cherub I drew a thought balloon. The first one said, “Man, this new sub really blows.” The second one said “Well at least this one’s conscious,” while the third was used to symbolize the trauma inflicted on the poor little kids in my daughter’s class and said “Find a happy place. Find a happy place. Find a happy place…”
What kind of mother am I? To make fun of my own daughter’s unfortunate incapacitation. God … I suck! Self realization’s a bitch. Now that I’ve recognized this flaw in my character, I’ll change. Right? NOT BLOODY LIKELY!!! I direct your attention, dear reader, to my new slogan, located in the upper right corner of this page. I got it off a bumper sticker.
I come by this trait honestly. My brothers and sister are the same way. We barely made it through the funeral arrangements for our father – that is how despicable we are. The priest was quite at a loss. Don’t get me wrong, we all love Daddy and miss him terribly, but there’s just something in our wiring that wrings the comedy out of just about any situation.
I had the pooey scared out of me about 3 weeks ago when my daughter in New York had a medical emergency. She passed out while substitute teaching a ballet class for inner city kids. She busted her chin open and had to go to the ER for stitches. They also ran a battery of tests to try to diagnose the cause of her fainting. She was upset, we were worried, boyfriend was distraught, etc. Turns out, there was no reason for the faint. They called it vasovagal syncope which sounds lethal so I looked it up online and the entry was: Vasovagal syncope (fainting). Apparently the danger posed by vasovagal syncope is hurting yourself when you hit the floor, or sidewalk, or stairs …
Okay, so last week. My daughter, being of my blood, made a crack about my appearance in a photo I posted in this blog. She remarked that my arm looked fake and jeeringly called me “Wax Arm Mom.” That’s all I needed. I immediately shot off a postcard to her that was a 50’s era black and white photo of three little angelic ballerinas and their equally angelic, young teacher. Above each little tutu’ed cherub I drew a thought balloon. The first one said, “Man, this new sub really blows.” The second one said “Well at least this one’s conscious,” while the third was used to symbolize the trauma inflicted on the poor little kids in my daughter’s class and said “Find a happy place. Find a happy place. Find a happy place…”
What kind of mother am I? To make fun of my own daughter’s unfortunate incapacitation. God … I suck! Self realization’s a bitch. Now that I’ve recognized this flaw in my character, I’ll change. Right? NOT BLOODY LIKELY!!! I direct your attention, dear reader, to my new slogan, located in the upper right corner of this page. I got it off a bumper sticker.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Musical reawakening
For years I had virtually no interest in popular music. I was content to listen to whatever my husband was playing -- usually Jimmy Buffet and James Taylor -- which was fine. My brother is a blues musician and I love his music also. My son plays guitar and writes songs that are, to me, visceral.
Then I was given an iPod by my daughter and I rediscovered the thrill of music that spoke to me or took me back to a time when life was waiting. I started by sampling what my kids were listening to and came across groups that just blew me away. Man Man comes to mind. I came home one day and my son was listening to something upstairs that stopped me in my tracks. I went upstairs to find him downloading Man Man and was blown away by the no rules blend of sounds. They use all sorts of instruments, from accordion to cutlery thrown into metal bowls. And the vocalist has this rough, almost gutteral voice backed up by high-pitched child-like singers. I hear something new everytime I listen.
I pick up on songs now that I would have ignored not so very long ago. My favorite at the moment is "Johnny Appleseed" by Joe Strummer and the Mescalaros. It is the opening song for "John from Cincinnati," an HBO series. HBO always has great music for their series'. "Johnny Appleseed" has a 60's retro sound with the political lyrics of disenchanted youth.
I also am amazed at the great music coming out of Arkansas. Who knew? There's Benjamin del Shreve, Latture, Evanescence, Lucero, Delarosa, Official Version, The Boswells and more that I can't think of now. Oh, and of course, there's my brother's band, N2Blues.
Then I was given an iPod by my daughter and I rediscovered the thrill of music that spoke to me or took me back to a time when life was waiting. I started by sampling what my kids were listening to and came across groups that just blew me away. Man Man comes to mind. I came home one day and my son was listening to something upstairs that stopped me in my tracks. I went upstairs to find him downloading Man Man and was blown away by the no rules blend of sounds. They use all sorts of instruments, from accordion to cutlery thrown into metal bowls. And the vocalist has this rough, almost gutteral voice backed up by high-pitched child-like singers. I hear something new everytime I listen.
I pick up on songs now that I would have ignored not so very long ago. My favorite at the moment is "Johnny Appleseed" by Joe Strummer and the Mescalaros. It is the opening song for "John from Cincinnati," an HBO series. HBO always has great music for their series'. "Johnny Appleseed" has a 60's retro sound with the political lyrics of disenchanted youth.
I also am amazed at the great music coming out of Arkansas. Who knew? There's Benjamin del Shreve, Latture, Evanescence, Lucero, Delarosa, Official Version, The Boswells and more that I can't think of now. Oh, and of course, there's my brother's band, N2Blues.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Tiggerbutt Returns
After being missing for over 24 hours, our cat, Tiggerbutt, came home. We were all very worried about him because he's an indoor cat. Our last cat, Ziggy, was an indoor/outdoor cat who came and went as she pleased. She lived to be 19 so I don't think it hurt her any. We've been afraid to let Tiggerbutt out because we figured he'd get his ass kicked by the monster tom that lives in the storm drain in our back yard.
We walked the neighborhood after work yesterday as it dawned on us that unless the cat was out in the open, or up on somebody's porch; we'd never see him. We went home all dejected thinking he was gone for good.
We left the garage door up last night in case he should wander by and recognize his old hangout. (The closed garage is the closest he comes to the outside world.) My husband got up around 1:00 a.m., went downstairs and looked out into the garage and, lo and behold, there was Tiggerbutt! I was sound asleep when I felt hubby plop down on my side of the bed. I didn't respond thinking, "Hey, I'm sleeping here!" He plopped down again. I remained still thinking maybe the old bear trick would work and he would lose interest. Then he said my name loudly. Shit. I opened my eyes and he was sitting there holding the cat. All was once again right with the world. The cat's all lovey now but spooks easily. I hope he relaxes soon 'cuz I don't want him to be a tweaky cat.
"But the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away."
-Harry S. Miller
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