DEEP THOUGHTS (AND SHALLOW ONES) FROM A WRITER-PRODUCER-POET-COLUMNIST WHO'S STILL TRYING TO FIGURE THINGS OUT
Feeling unfulfilled? The above cartoon from GoComics.Com has the answer, and I have to admit that it’s been working for me for – ulp – years.
In other words, Gwen and I are doing our best to help the economy while trying to figure out how the hell this new giant robot in our laundry room works.
Have a wonderful weekend!
LYMI,
LB
T.S. Eliot famously wrote that “April is the cruelest month,” but out Paradise way the honors for Most Sadistic Time of Year go to September.
Like most people who grew up in the Northern Hemisphere, I associate the month of September with Fall, expecting it to be a time of falling temperatures, with chilly nights and crisp, sparkling days.
Ha!
Here in the Ozarks, September is narcissistic Lucy to my naïve Charlie Brown. Only instead of yanking away the football, September sends temperatures soaring up into the 100s, with humidity to match. Want to get outside work done in September? No problem…as long as you get out there at sunup and collapse back inside by 10 a.m.
All in all, September in Paradise is a profound illustration of the most fiery Hell any angry preacher has tried to describe. Drops of sweat swipe down from your scalp to burn your eyes like the most powerful brimstone. And there’s no escape.
None.
Except—
No, not repentance (I’ve tried that and failed, again and again), but—
Air conditioning.
All praise the Benign-and-Mighty Universe for good ole A.C.!
And its equally Benign-and-Mighty Prophets:
The Doobie Brothers Heating and Air.
Sometimes I think that these fine boys, operating out of a little hole in the wall not too far from the Town Square, are all that stand between civilization and barbarism. Without the Doobsters, this space would be blank today instead of filled with these very words.
Because instead of sitting at the computer and writing I’d be lying in the E.R. of the closest hospital, waiting, waiting, waiting (you can tell I’ve had some Emergency Room experience) for treatment for heatstroke.
The trouble began when Gwen the Beautiful and I returned from a month-long sojourn to the Northwest, where we hung with Youngest Daughter Amber and her significant other, The Mighty Jeremiah.
They live in Seattle, where almost no one has air conditioning because no one needs it. Summer temperatures average 20 degrees cooler than those here at home in early Fall.
Bill Morningstar had done a fine job of watching over Cloud Creek Ranch while we were gone, and he’d done as we’d asked and kept the A.C. off. So the first thing Gwen did when we got inside the hot, stuffy house was go to our new, computerized thermostat and turn it on.
We waited for the humming of the compressor and the breeze of cold air from the registers in the walls and floors.
And waited.
And waited some more.
“Oh no….” Gwen’s voice was a wail. “I can hardly breathe in here. What’re we going to do?”
“Well, we could go into the Annex and see if the window units work, which they probably don’t because they’re really old,” I said. “Or we can call in certain angels of mercy—
“The Doobies!” Gwen said and raced for the phone.
It was Friday evening, and she got the machine. Left a quick description of our plight.
Clicked off the phone….
And an hour later, Mighty King Doobie himself was at our door.
Now, Mighty King Doobie is no ordinary mortal. No, sir. He’s a Marine vet who’s fought in Iraq and is easily recognizable here in Paradise because he’s got arms bigger than Arnold Schwarzenegger. That’s right, bigger than the whole governor, not just Arnold’s arms.
Mighty King Doobie stood flexing in our doorway. Put a finger to his lips as though to say, “Hush. Everything’s all right now. I promise.”
With a wink, he vanished and reappeared at the side of the house, where he knelt down. Reached out. Touched a coil.
And vanished again, returning with a big pump. “Mechanism froze up. You’re two pounds of hydrofluorocarbons down. But not for long.”
(Actually, he said “Freon,” but of course he was speaking generically because everyone knows Mighty King Doobie never would use anything that could harm our planet.)
Eight minutes later, MKD was gone, and cold, healing air was blowing throughout the main house. Gwen and I stood in the great room and hugged each other and smiled.
“Hooray for Mighty King Doobie!” I yelled.
“My hero!” Gwen cried.
“What?!” I said to her.
“Only for the moment. You’re my more permanent hero. I promise,” she said with a wink of her own.
“Whew.”
All hail MKD and the Doobie Brothers.
Vanquishers of Sweat.
Champions of Cold.
Slayers of September!
Oh, and the inventors of Freon and its greener substitutes have my eternal gratitude as well.
…Other than having a hell of a lot of difficulty dealing with the physical aspects of aging, this:
It takes a village of small moments to create the emotions of ‘Everything Everywhere’
And this:
“Everything Everywhere All at Once” editor Paul Rogers tells The Envelope that the most important thing he wanted was to have audiences “care about all these characters.” Judging by the film’s 11 Oscar nominations, including one for Rogers, it seems as though the film’s viewers cared about them very much.
Directed by Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert, known as Daniels, the film is an emotionally complex family drama wrapped inside a kick-ass sci-fi epic. At its core, Evelyn Wang (Michelle Yeoh), a mother and Laundromat owner, finds herself up against her daughter, Joy (Stephanie Hsu) in more ways than she could imagine.
The three passages above are from an article by Daron James in yesterday’s L.A. Times. Yes, I know I went into total retirement mode over a year before the article was published, but my reaction to it is, in essence, the reaction I’ve had to most TV and film entertainment for a very long time. That reaction being, “Huh?”
I didn’t get the movie, Everything Everywhere All at Once, and I understand what James says about it even less. To me, the film is a meaningless, boring, unoriginal Loony Toons cartoon knockoff that uses human actors instead of 2D cartoon characters and conveys – well, to me it conveys nothing.
Nothing human or emotionally real (or even emotionally relatable) in any way.
I’m not saying I’m right and James is wrong. I’m simply saying that James is writing what he experienced, but my experience was so different, as it is with much of what I try to watch, that I accept (and have accepted albeit silently since the turn of the 21st century) that I have no understanding of what current entertainment media are trying to do and therefore no right to try to “teach” or “enlighten” anyone join in the fun.
I’m saying all this here and now because I’m constantly asked why most of what I write these days isn’t about the entertainment business but my daily life. (Much of which, by the way, I don’t understand either but nevertheless can still enjoy on my own terms.) I feel that I owe those who’ve followed me on the interwebs or been entertained by the shows I’ve written as much insight into the world as I can continue to give.
Now, though, I realize there’s more going on in this little post. My life not only has been about writing and teaching but also doing all I can to learn all I can, and among the many things I still have way more to learn are the whys, hows, and wherefores about the creativity all around me.
In other words, if anyone out there can give me a clue or two about how to stop missing all the points I’m clearly missing, please get back to me with a comment or an email, or a text and let me know.
My eternal gratitude awaits!
LYMI,
LB
Back in the early ’80s, I was the Supervising Producer of an ABC series called The Fall Guy.
It was a big hit, and I ran it for three years.
We had our crises, but The Fall Guy was filled with action and humor, and for the most part it was so much fun to work on that I couldn’t wait to get to the studio everyday.
There was, however, one problem.
The star, Lee Majors, hated me.
In all my years on the show, he only spoke to me three times.
The second time was when I came to see him during the shooting of the first episode. He said, “Get out of my trailer.”
The third time was at a party at another producer’s house. He crooked a finger and beckoned me over to a corner of the dining room.
“Know why I hate you?” Lee said.
“Um…no.”
And as soon as I said that, he took me back to the first time. (You thought I got the numbering wrong, didn’t you?)
“Think back to when we first met. To the first words out of your mouth.”
I thought about our meeting. The show was three weeks away from production, and our little building at Fox Studios had been buzzing all day with the news that Lee was back from a vacation and coming over to say hi.
I was as buzzed as everyone else. I wasn’t a big fan of his work on previous series, but I’d enjoyed my experience as a freelance writer on The Six Million Dollar Man. Everyone on the show had talked about what a great guy Lee was, and friends of mine who also knew him agreed.
“Down to earth.”
“Fun to hang with.”
“Wait till he takes you duck hunting!”
So when Lee drove up in his red Ferrari and strode into the office, I was eager and prepared to make a friend for life. I thrust out my hand to welcome him and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, loud and strong, for everyone in the office to hear.
“Here he is, everybody! Here’s the hero!”
Lee’s forehead wrinkled. He frowned. Did an about-face.
Went back out the door and into the Ferrari.
Roared away.
“You mocked me,” Lee said as we stood in the corner of the dining room. “You made fun of me in front of the entire staff.”
“But I meant it. You were a hero to me.”
Lee’s brows knitted, just as they had that day years ago. Frowning, he left me standing there alone.
Again.
The reason all this comes to mind is that last Saturday night Gwen the Beautiful and I went to Donny the Storyteller’s house to meet an old high school friend of his who he’d described as, “Larry B’s biggest fan.
“Gil reads you first thing every Friday. Then he e-mails me to discuss what you’ve written. You should see his file on the Old Billionaire.”
According to Donny, Gil was planning on making the five hour drive all the way from Oklahoma City to show me his appreciation, soon as I gave the nod.
How could I not want to meet someone like that?
I nodded.
Twice.
Which brings us to Saturday night.
There we were. Donny, Gwen, Gil, and me.
Gil thrust out his hand. “I think I’m pleased to meet you,” he said. “But I’m not sure. This is Donny’s idea, you know. From what I’ve read of your columns you’re kind of iffy to me.
“Your early stuff about life in Paradise was interesting, but after the first year you jumped the shark,” Gil went on. “All that drivel about spirits and mounds and dreams! If I’ve got to read one more conversation with the universe, or the wind, or your horse, I’m going to throw up!”
My brows knitted. I frowned. I turned away, to a wide-eyed Gwen. I took her hand in mine, and out we went, taking off for home in our pick-up.
Later that night, Donny called, talking very, very fast. “Larry B, it’s not what you think. Gil’s the funniest guy I know, in a sarcastic kind of way. He can’t help himself. He was excited, and trying to talk like you write and—”
And I get it now, at last. After all this time I understand what I did to upset Lee Majors.
And I’m sorry, Lee. I’m saying it here in public, as loudly as I can.
I hope you’ll forgive me. And prove yourself the better man.
The Much Better Man.
Because I’m admitting here in public, also as loudly as I can, that I’ll never forgive Gil.
