Burglar Alarm

Twenty years after it was completed I remastered and re-edited a student film entitled The Burglar Alarm.

It was an interesting process for me to take work completed twenty years ago in high school and approach it fresh. It is also interesting that I found enough value in it to want to return to it so many years later.

The most important element in transforming a poorly edited student movie into something of a keepsake or memento was my good fortune at having my old collaborator Alan compose new music for the movie. I have been most pleased with the results.

Those of us who worked hard on the original as a class project will soon gather together to view the results.

Above: Co-Producers George and Steve are blacking out windows for day-for-night photography on The Burglar Alarm: December 30, 1985.

More What I am Watching

I enjoy watching movies and news more than anything else on television. Now that Arrested Development has been cancelled, there is nothing currently on network TV that I care anything about. (I unequivocally do not watch American Idol, though I thought Paris should have been axed two weeks ago, she was so annoying! And does Elliott stand a chance?)

Usually, when I stretch out in front of TV I flip hopelessly through the channels so rapidly that my wife is forced to leave the room in frustration.

(The exception is Good Eats on the Food Network. I stop clicking for that one. That nutty chef is from Georgia and and has the most interesting cooking show ever produced. But that one aside, there is not much on worth stopping my flipping for.)

How I miss Seinfeld and Frasier.

What I have become, well, addicted to, are reruns of Match Game on GSN. The game show ran on CBS during the 1970's.

What is it about that show that keeps me tuning in weekdays between 8 p.m. and 8:30 p.m. PDT whenever I am at home? (Or whenever American Idol isn't on, which I am not watching anyway.) Is it the show's wacky host, Gene Rayburn? The ever-cool, pre-Feud Richard Dawson? The flaming Charles Nelson Reilly, who is always cracking me up? And what about that nitwit Brett Somers? Who was she, anyway? I don't think I have ever seen her on anything except Match Game.

Is it because half the celebrity panel is three sheets to the wind and are often caught on camera wandering aimlessly around the set? You'd never see that on game shows today. Alex Trebec would saw their feet off.

No, I think it's the 70's hair and wardrobe that keeps me coming back to Match Game night after night after night. It just may inspire me to invest in a brown and orange plaid leisure suit.

My Daughter the Photographer

During our recent trip to the Seattle Space Needle I allowed my daughter to take seven or eight photographs of her choosing.
Above: I posed for this photograph on the exterior deck of the Needle.

Premium Essential Dress Pant, pleated, by Dockers, $70. Men's Dress Shirt with pointed collar by Bill Blass, $42. Cotton / Polyester / Nylon blend Pryor raincoat featuring a full-button front, covered placket and point collar by Ralph Lauren, $375.

From the Top of the Noodle

When my daughter was smaller she would refer to the Seattle Space Needle as the "Space Noodle." I thought about that a few weeks ago when a colleague of mine in another city said that he'd always wanted to get out to Seattle and see the the Space Pencil.

During the Winter my daughter began expressing an interest in my taking her to the top of the Needle, and I promised I would do so whenever it got warmer and clearer. The typical Seattle Winter day is overcast and rainy and not particularly conducive to viewing the horizon from 500 feet up. But the arrival of Spring Break -- and a little sunshine -- gave us the opportunity to plan our ascent.

The view of Seattle and Puget Sound from the top of the Space Needle is spectacular. It's particularly stunning on a clear day. I feel for those tourists who come to Seattle during the Rainy season only to find the views of the city and the sound marred by fog and rain.

The New Baby

My family welcomes this day young Lindsay Grace, born to my sister Kristi and her husband Robert.

I am an uncle today!

The baby weighed 10 pounds, 2 ounces.

I told my 5-year-old daughter, "I understand little Lindsay has your aunt's nose."

My daughter responded in disgust, "Why?!?"

"No," I said, "I mean, the baby's nose looks just like her mother's nose."

My daughter replied, with a candor endearing only in children, "It must be really big."

The Easter Break

There was an Easter party at my house the Thursday before Easter. It provided an opportunity for the mothers to have tea and chat and the kids to hide eggs and play.

But there was unexpected drama in store for us.

A few weeks ago, the door to my Tuff Shed blew off in a wind storm. The door is metal framed and very heavy. I could barely just lift it into place over the opening until I could have the door rehung. (I won't go into the hassle I experienced attempting to get the Tuff Shed people even return my calls!)

During the Easter party my daughter -- who is five -- decided she would retrieve her kite from the shed so that she and her friends could fly it in the back yard. In the process she managed to pull this heavy door down squarely on top of her. Chaos ensued, and my thanks goes out to young Miles (who is four) for saving my daughter. He lifted that extremely heavy door off of my daughter just long enough for one of the other tots to pull her safely away. Miles is my daughter's hero. Being a fan of Batman he no doubt knows how to play the hero role.

It could have been bad, but my daughter's reflexes saved her more serious injury. She must have had her hand out in front of her to protect her from the falling door, her arm taking the brunt of the force. She broke her ulna and radius in the accident.

My daughter seems more-or-less unaffected having to wear a cast. She certainly doesn't complain about it, though during her first day of convalescence she did state that since she was hurt she should stay in bed all day and watch Lizzie McGuire on DVD. Had it been me with the broken arm I think I might have driven my wife mad with my griping and complaining. But my daughter wears her cast like a badge of honor.

No surprise, the one she chose is bright pink.

Easter Musings

Today is Easter Sunday! Happy Easter everyone!

It's been a pleasant weekend. Yesterday while I finished up my tax return, my wife and daughter attended a live performance by the Australian supergroup The Wiggles. If you don't have children, you probably don't know who The Wiggles are. That's okay. My sister and brother-in-law will be finding out soon enough. I can tell you that my daughter had a phenomenal time, and that Murray strutted up the aisle and was right next to her. She nearly fainted.

We started the day with a breakfast of fruit salad (a favorite of The Wiggles, incidentally) and bagels, and during the meal my wife perused the calendar of events in the local section of the newspaper. She pointed out to me that the copy for the various children's egg hunts and Easter activities never actually included the word "Easter." Spring Egg Hunt, Spring Festival for Children...not a single reference to the word "Easter" despite the fact that finding colored eggs was the focus of each and every activity listed. I suppose an implied reference to the resurrection of Jesus Christ is just too much for most readers. Mustn't have that.

Saturday's activities also included dyeing Easter eggs with my daughter, something we both very much enjoyed. Between us we produced some nice eggs, most of them pink.

Today it's just the three of us, and I am somewhat disappointed that we will not be able to share the holiday with either my family in South Carolina or my wife's family in Colorado.

I will miss being with my family at Easter, and fondly recall the many Easter Sundays spent at my grandmother's house in Greenville. She makes the best potato salad, and often my uncle would come through with a most delectable ham. My aunt Joice always makes tasty Easter treats, and I miss those as well.

I think my dad will be in Greenville with my grandmother, and perhaps my other uncles and aunts. My mother and sister will not be making the two hour drive to my grandmother's house, as my sister has a baby due later in the week.

So many things to celebrate!

What I'm Watching

I am at the moment watching the 1981 German film Das Boot. I saw the film for the first time in 1987 with my friend Homer, and have not seen it since.

Das Boot is the only "submarine" movie that truly gave me a sense of claustrophobia. Set aboard a U-boat during World War II, Das Boot ("the boat") is tense, dramatic and terrifyingly realistic.

Das Boot was nominated for six American Academy Awards. Since that time, the film's director, Wolfgang Petersen, has been working in Hollywood. His post-Das Boot credits include Air Force One, The Perfect Storm, and the forthcoming remake of The Posiden Adventure.

Do I detect a recurring theme here?

The MS Walk

On Sunday I joined a few friends to walk for a cure for MS. My efforts as a volunteer this year for the Multiple sclerosis society have been enlightening, inspiring and humbling. I am made thankful for the health I presently have, and mindful that a disease like MS can strike anyone at any time.

That great progress has been made in recent years in the diagnosis and treatment of the disease is encouraging. And I have been inspired by those I have met with Multiple sclerosis who live their lives with dignity and courage.

I participated in this year's MS Walk in memory of my dear Grandmother Johnson, and in honor of two others I know who have the disease, Mrs. Green and Jenni. I exceeded my personal fund-raising goal of $500 by $50, and raised another $850 on behalf of my team.

I look forward to participating in the event next year. In the mean time, my brother-in-law is thinking about entering the MS 150 Bike Tour. I look forward to sponsoring him in his efforts if he decides to take up the challenge.

Building Something

Today is the sixth anniversary of The Harding Lunch. There have been few lunches in Kent, Washington, like The Harding Lunch. (There have probably been few lunches anywhere like The Harding Lunch.) We built something that day. Or we tried to, at any rate.

I cannot thank dear Karla enough for allowing the Harding Lunch to happen.

Harding (whom Venetz always referred to as "The Little Man") was the recipient of a very nice pair of brown leather shoes. This was our gift to Harding. Venetz and I had purchased them at the Hudson Bay Trading Company in Vancouver, British Columbia. We chose very nice, comfortable Canadian shoes, but we missed on the size. No matter how carefully one might study Harding's feet, one will invariably misjudge his shoe size by a size and a half. Harding's feet are much smaller than they look. Do you think they look like an 8? Ha! You're way off.

And I probably don't have to say how difficult it is to exchange a pair of Canadian shoes in the United States. You can't do it. Venetz had to go back to Canada to exchange a pair of shoes. Most likely a rarely used reason for crossing an international border.

Those of us involved in The Harding Lunch have gone our separaterate ways. I'm downtown now, working for a different company. Venetz is in Los Angeles. Karla moved to Nevada some time ago. And Harding...he's around somewhere, I understand. Perhaps Federal Way, Washington. The last time we talked -- more than a year ago -- he had gotten into the tee-shirt business. Interestingly enough, the image above is from the front of the official Harding Lunch tee-shirt. Only three were ever made.

We wish Harding the best in his on-line tee-shirt venture. Take it from me -- if you are searching for a vintage 1970s tee-shirt, your search is over. Harding has it.

He's building something.

He's No Arkin

The reviews of this latest attempt at reviving The Pink Panther franchise have not been kind. And I must admit that I had not been too eager to see Steve Martin take on the character so brilliantly portrayed five times by Peter Sellers. I love the character Sellers created in 1963’s The Pink Panther and its subsequent sequels. Sellers, who died in 1980, has few comic equals. One might argue Martin is one of them.

But he’s no Clouseau.

Yet I saw new The Pink Panther movie anyway.

There were a couple of things that gave me pause before going in to this movie:

The film was originally supposed to have been released last year. Typically these delays indicate a film performed poorly before test audiences and scenes needed to be re-edited or re-shot.

The post-Sellers Panther films have been terrible. This is the fourth.

My friend Mike and I promised one another we would not see this movie, yet through a bizarre series of unconnected events, each of us saw the film, unplanned, the same night at the same time, but not together. The following day Mike called to warn me not to see it. I was about to call him for the same reason.

Despite my disappointment with the film, I will give Martin two things:

One, he did have a few deliciously funny moments between long stretches of unfunny-business.

And two: while Martin is no Sellers, he did a better job playing Inspector Clouseau that either Alan Arkin or Roger Moore. (Yes, Arkin and Moore both played the inspector in really bad movies. If you don’t believe me, look it up. Arkin starred in 1968’s abysmal Inspector Clouseau, and Roger Moore played the part of Clouseau in the 1982 film The Curse of the Pink Panther.)

Doing What I Can

Wednesday night I attended a kick-off event in Seattle in preparation for the 2006 MS Walk.

I have been blessed with good health, which is something I think most of us take for granted. I know I have. Then there are those whose outlook on their personal health, on their entire lives, changes when a doctor tells them they have Multiple sclerosis.

At the meeting I had the opportunity to speak with many of these people, and hear their stories, and I was moved by their honesty and courage. I was filled with admiration at a number of these volunteers who have devoted their lives to supporting the on-going fight against the disease.

My co-worker (and MS Walk Team Captain Rob) confided to me a number of months ago that his wife had been diagnosed with MS. This was concurrent with the happy news that they were expecting their first child. Realizing that there are people in my life who have suffered from MS, I decided to take the initiative and do something, no matter how small. My grandmother had MS, and a close friend’s mother, a beautiful woman I have known very well for many years, also suffers from MS.

Which is why I have decided to walk this year.

If you would like to support me, you can click here to go to my MS Walk Team Page. You will see my name in the lower left. Click on my page to make a donation to the MS Society.

Pants Resolution

My relationship with my cleaners of two years has come to a bitter end.

A restraining order prevents me from saying anything more.

Delaware Senator Vows Not to be Taken Alive

On the MSN homepage tonight I read this headline:

Biden: I won't be taken alive

I have always found Senator Biden outspoken and often controversial, and the headline was provocative enough to cause me to pause in my task of voting on-line for "America's Funniest Home Videos" and read the story associated with the headline above.

Obviously, he is referring to Republicans, right?

Imagine my disappointment in clicking on the link and finding the headline: "Bin Laden vows never to be captured alive."

Not as provocative a story as I anticipated, but one heck of an editorial oversight!

Rant, Part Two

I am reproducing below the follow-up fax to my dry cleaners, which I fired off after discovering that my pants situation had deteriorated since the day before:

16 February, 2006

***** Cleaners
Seattle, WA
FAX: 206-555-5555


Dear Clumsy Cleaners,

Upon rising this A.M. I experienced a tinge of annoyance at the lack of a reply to my fax transmission dated 15 February concerning what I thought at the time was an ingenious “old switcheroo” ploy undertaken by you with a pair of my khaki cotton Dockers.

Imagine, then, that annoyance burning into anger this morning as I discovered that you, my fine ***** Cleaners, have all of my cotton Dockers! Every last pair, except the ones I was wearing yesterday.

After getting up this morning I kept trying on my pants, newly arrived and bagged from your sterile establishment, and each pair of pants I pulled on came up to mid-shin height. None dangled inconspicuously around my ankles as my pants usually do.

To wit:

ALL OF MY COTTON DOCKERS HAVE BEEN REPLACED WITH HIGH-QUALITY DRESS SLACKS OF IDENTICAL COLOR BUT UNIDENTICAL SIZE!

How can this possibly happen in our free society?

Please, I want to put on my pants again. Let’s end this little game of yours and move on with our lives.

Please contact me at the number below. Also, please expect me to arrive at your shop this afternoon at approximately 6 o’clock to collect my pants. I will not release the dress slacks until I have assurances from your people that my cotton Dockers have come to no harm.

With growing annoyance,

My name and cell phone number

Rant, Part One

I am re-printing below the fax sent to my dry cleaners yesterday, to which there was no reply.

I have respected their privacy by removing their company name and fax number.


15 February, 2006

***** Cleaners
Seattle, WA
FAX: 206-555-5555


Dear Clever Cleaners,

I was putting on my khaki pants this morning, straight out of the ***** Cleaners wrapper (you know, the plastic you dry cleaner people put over clean clothes that Dateline NBC says suffocates little animals) and I noticed that the cuffs were at mid-shin. Strange – they were never like this before. Previously they hung nicely at ankle-level.

Then I thought, those sneaky nut-cakes over at *****! They raised my cuffs. Believe me, I was amused and not at all upset that you people had a laugh at my expense. If you could only have been there, watching me staring perplexed at my high-water pants. Ha!

Then, quite remarkably, I noticed that your cleaning process had greatly improved the quality of the material in my pants. Oh how that cotton glimmered! They were shorter, yes, but they sure as heck were a lot nicer. Way to go, *****!

But further inspection revealed that these were dress slacks, probably in the $70 range, and not the khaki cotton Dockers I got at J.C. Penney on sale for $28.

Thus my conclusion:

You people have my pants!

To be fair, I also have your pants. Or someone’s pants. But the fact remains – you people have my pants, and I must hold my ground and refuse to turn over the high-waters until I get my khaki cotton Dockers back. I will describe them: they are khaki cotton Dockers, cuffs on the legs which hang at ankle length, small gray-colored lint ball in right pocket.

Please let me know if you have found my pants. I would like to wear them again. You may contact me at the number below.

Regards,

My name and cell phone number

A Quote from a Famous Person

"Do you think Coca Cola should still advertise? Don't you think everyone has heard of this product?"

- Ted L. Nancy

A Window into the Pacific Northwest

The Pacific Northwest -- there is no other place like it. I have been living here nearly eight years, and I never grow weary of the magnificence nature displays in this region. I have never gotten used to seeing the Goliath that is Mount Rainier reaching 14,410 feet above the earth and into the heavens toward its Creator. The Pacific Northwest, a region of water, mountains and sleeping volcanoes, is truly beautiful.

The photograph was taken by my wife near Snoqualmie Pass, Washington, back in November, and communicates to me a quiet dignity that is representative to this part of the country. When I leave this corner of the fruited plain, and I will some day, images like this one will stay with me for a long, long time.

Seahawks: Super Bowl XL Runners-Up

I don’t think too many people are in a state of shock and surprise around here, although the disappointment is palpable. Our underdog Seattle Seahawks were bested in Super Bowl XL by the Pittsburgh Steelers. And although the result is disappointing, we are happy just to have made it to the big game. After all, the Seahawks are the NFC champions, and that is a first.

The score was 21 to 10.

So much for Tuesday’s ticker-tape parade.

But I am proud of the home team. They had a phenomenal season and Holmgren did take them as far as the big game.

There is always next year…

I can say I enjoyed Harrison Ford's Dr. Seuss pre-game commentary.

Sunday Morning News Roundup

• Muslims are rioting in the streets. I know this is nothing new, but this time it’s because of some cartoons. I’ve gotten tired of Doonesbury, but there’s no point in my doing anything about it. This development cannot be good news for the likes of Bill Amend and Cathy Guisewite.
• Somebody is burning Christian churches in Alabama, yet parishioners continue to worship and have vowed to stay together and rebuild. Thus far, Baptists are behaving with restraint and nobility and no rioting has occurred.
• Rest in peace, Coretta Scott King.
• Super Bowl XII kicks off today in Hunt Valley, MD. The Super Bowl of Electric Football means that not only are people still playing electric football, but they are playing championship Electric Football. For younger readers, Electric Football was introduced before video games. It featured a metal field with tiny players that moved around when the board was turned on. The board hummed so loudly it sounded like a utility transformer about to explode.
• Rest in peace, Al “Grandpa Munster” Lewis.
• The Darwin Awards is now a film. Is anybody else out there saying, “Huh?”

The 12th Man

The Seattle Seahawks are on their way to Superbowl XL. Most Seattleites are cautious. We are not at all adept at winning national championships, and are unsure how to act. It does not happen very often here.

The Supersonics did it during the 1978-79 season, bringing the NBA title to the Emerald City. Some of my friends were not even born then. Twenty-five years later, the 2004 Seattle Storm won the WNBA championship. But that was off a lot of people’s radar. The WNBA just does not get the respect that it deserves.

Oh, and how can I forget that Seattle won the Stanley Cup? That's right, the Stanley Cup. Bet you did not know that. That was in 1917. The Seattle Metrolpolitans. They are no longer around.

Today a couple of friends and I walked down to Westlake Plaza in downtown Seattle for a rally in support of the Seahawks. There were about a thousand people in the street to watch Seattle Mayor Greg Nickels and King County Executive Ron Sims unfurl the 12th Man Flag over the plaza. A few friends from the Storm and Sonics were on hand to wish the Hawks good luck. There were no Seahawks on hand. They are all in Detroit, getting ready for the game.

I hope the Seahawks, or maybe owner Paul Allen, heard us cheering today. It’s 2,387 miles from Seattle to Detroit. That's a long way. But Seahawks fans are a loud bunch. I think we did okay.

Go Hawks!

Living Across from the Pantages

I went back to my old neighborhood the other day for haircut and was reminded how much things have changed since I abandoned the city for the suburbs. Nothing ever stays the same, and I certainly don’t expect things to remain as I remember them. But with every change l observe in Seattle’s Capital Hill neighborhood I feel that much more disconnected from my past. My recent past.

After my haircuit I took a walk and noticed that no less than four large, old houses near my old building on Harvard Avenue had been razed and fashionable new apartment buildings erected in their place.

I also discovered that on the corner across from my old building a magnificent old home characterized by sweeping steps cascading off the covered porch to the sidewalk had been lovingly and meticulously restored. I was pleased to see the grand old home looking so fine, and I stopped for a moment to admire it.

I had walked by that old house hundreds of times and had not a clue of its historical significance. A placard recently placed in front of the home tells us that it is the Pantages House, built in 1907.

Pantages, if you do not recognize the name, was a vaudevillian who built many theaters, many of which are still around today in cities like Minneapolis, Toronto, Kansas City, Tacoma, San Diego and of course the famous Pantages Theater on Hollywood Boulevard in the heart of Los Angeles.

So inasmuch as I am saddened to see so many changes in the old neighborhood, I am more than pleased to see such a unique old house saved from disorder and disrepair.

The Best Family Movie Since The Incredibles

Hoodwinked succeeds in skewering the fairy tale genre with a simplicity and genuine wit that exceeds anything they did in the Shrek movies. In the prologue we are presented with the classic telling of Little Red Riding Hood. What comes next is a Rashomon retelling of the memorable "What big eyes you have" story from four separate (and cleverly distinct) points of view: that of the grandmother (not what she seems), the wolf (whose story pays homage to the Chevy Chase film Fletch, much to my amusementnt), the woodsman (not really a woodsman) and of course young Red herself.

Hoodwinked is not only brilliantly constructed and well written, but superbly performed and genuinely funny. It's suitable for all ages (why it received a PG rating to begin with is a mystery to me), and Mom and Dad will enjoy it as well as the kids. Glenn Close, Jim Belushi, David Ogden Stiers, Anne Hathaway and Andy Dick lead the cast.

Planet of the Apes Revisited

I was thrilled a number of years ago when I read that Tim Burton got a green light to make a remake of the classic Franklin Schaffner film Planet of the Apes.

Fox had been wanting to do a remake of Apes for many years, and for a while the project was being developed by Platoon director Oliver Stone. But when that fell through, the visionary Burton signed on for a “re-imagining” of the material, as opposed to a strict remake.

The original Planet of the Apes, released in 1968 and based on a book by French author Pierre Boulle, is a classic, regardless of the fact that some people argue that star Charlton Heston spends half the film overacting. His character, George Taylor, is a misanthrope who gets what’s coming to him, and I think the performance works fine. The film's chilling ending, for my money, is still stunning. The filmmakers did an exceptional job with the effects in that final sequence, and it stands as one of Twilight Zone creator and Apes screenwriter Rod Serling’s finest “surprise endings.”

I am a fan the original Apes (though the subsequent sequels and the 1970’s television show fail to live up to the inspired boldness of the original) and I was excited to attend opening day in 2001 of Burton’s Apes at the Seattle Cinerama (the only remaining Super Cinerama theater in the world). There were 800 people there and I recall enjoying the experience far more than the movie. In fact, until I viewed the movie again on DVD the other day, I had forgotten nearly all of it.

Which turned out not to be such a crime. As inventive as the costumes, make-up and visuals in Burton’s Apes are, the film lacks something at its core, and I think that something is heart. The one thing the 1968 version of Apes has going for it is reason and true compassion at its core, in the form of two chimpanzees played by Roddy McDowell and Kim Hunter. Burton’s version, as beautiful as it is, is cold. I also think Mark Wahlberg fails to carry the film as a leading man.

So this week I learned something about myself and about Planet of the Apes: that I like the original better than the “re-imagining,” and that the “re-imagining” screens better in a packed house at the Cinerama than in my home.

No, Harrison Ford Was Not on Board

No matter what your politics, you have to acknowledge that the Commander in Chief travels well.

In the picture at left, my daughter and I are de-boarding Air Force One. This specially constructed Boeing 707-120 aircraft served several presidents, including Dwight D. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, and Richard M. Nixon.

A Quote from a Famous Person

"The answer [to success] is: Stay healthy, and stay married. And other than having a guy come over the top of a hill and hit me with a van, I've been able to do both."

- Stephen King, Time Magazine, April 2002

The 20th Anniversary Edition of Burglar Alarm

I have nearly completed the 20th Anniversary Edition of Burglar Alarm, a short film my friends and I made while we were in high school. Most of what remains to be done is some sound effects editing and mixing.

I am hoping that Alan, who composed and recorded the title song for both versions of the movie, can provide for me just a bit more bumper music, something straight acoustic piano, a tiny riff off the title song. In 1985, when we were putting together the original version of the movie, we were unable to do much with the sound. Now, I am changing that, attempting to give the soundtrack some depth.

I am also looking for Michael Homer (pictured above, in a scene from the movie), who has vanished from my address book in recent years. I need a snippet of dialogue from him. Last I heard he was working as an editor on MAD-TV.

Homer, if you don't already know, played Thomas the butler in our adaptation of the Mark Twain short story. He also appeared in another short film we began but never fully completed, Thomas T. Butler: Private Eye, or The Clown Murders. I am putting together a rough cut of the scenes we shot for Thomas T. Butler and including them on the Burglar Alarm DVD. There is quite a bit there. What we are lacking, for the most part, are ninety percent of the shots requiring the clown.

Although I have spent the past year re-working 1986's The Burglar Alarm as Burglar Alarm: 20th Anniversary Edition, I actually started the project in 2003. Alan recorded a new version of the title song for me, and it's terrific. He also provided some additional original music which will appear on the Burglar Alarm soundtrack. Chuck designed an animated title sequence which I completed in the spring of 2005. I have been thinking about tweaking it a bit, but we'll see. I want to get the sound completed before I revisit making any more changes to the visuals.

I will include here a screen shot taken from the opening animated sequence of the new Burglar Alarm.

Memorable Quotes from Old Friends

"My name is Christopher, but you can call me Crisco for shortening."

- Chris Neeley, circa 1987

Answers to the Jones-Berry Quiz

I think one reason Dean Jones (The Million Dollar Duck) and Ken Berry (F-Troop, Mayberry RFD, Mama's Family) are often confused is because both of them appeared in movies with Herbie, the Love Bug. Many might consider them interchangeable, in the same vein as Tom Bosley and David Doyle, but I happen to think that each brought something new and fresh to the crazy situations they got into in some of Disney’s most memorable comedies of the 1960’s and 1970’s.

It is interesting to note that our friend Chuck seems to be a Jones-Berry expert. He's got his Jones and Berrys sorted out better than I do. And I appreciate Patrick's take on the Jones-Berry Conundrum:

"I've always thought that it was a brilliant move on Disney's part. After all, if one of them was busy, they could pull in the other and most people wouldn't notice...they'd think it was still that guy I like in all the Disney movies."

Here are the answers to the handy Jones-Berry quiz:

1. Who was born in 1931? b) Dean Jones

2. Who was born in 1933? a) Ken Berry

3. Who starred in That Darn Cat? b) Dean Jones

4. Who appeared in The Cat from Outer Space? a) Ken Berry

5. Who was behind the wheel in Herbie Rides Again? a) Ken Berry

6. Who traveled abroad in Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo? b) Dean Jones

The David Doyle / Tom Bosley Question

Enough is enough, I suppose.

You decide.

The Durning-Dennehy Dilemma

Do you ever get these guys confused when you go to the movies? Brian Dennehy and Charles During are both fine character actors, but for some reason the movie-going public has confused the two for years.

Which of these two played the sheriff who ran afoul of Johnny Rambo? Who was outfoxed by Newman and Redford in The Sting? Was it Dennehy or Durning that appeared in Cocoon? Which “D” appeared on the sit-com “Evening Shade?”

This, then, is the Durning-Dennehy Dilemma.

Tagged - Guilty Pleasures

Rickwell at Good Coffee tagged me – write a blog about 5 guilty pleasures. Here we are:

1. A large bowl of Cocoa Pebbles in the middle of the night.
2. Stopping at the Baskin Robbins whenever my daughter and I are out and about without Mom.
3. Fourth Row Center.
4. Watching re-runs of the original Star Trek television series.
5. Comic Books

The Jones-Berry Conundrum

Here is a hypothetical question: you are watching a wacky Disney comedy from thirty years ago, featuring the antics of a Volkswagen Beetle and its nutty owner. Who is Herbie’s owner? Is it Dean Jones, or Ken Berry?

How about another: you are enjoying the classic Walt Disney guffaw-fest featuring a well-trained cat and its nutty handler. Who is onscreen with the cat? Is it Ken Berry, or Dean Jones?

And which one of these guys had the Million Dollar Duck?

Frankly, thinking about the Jones-Berry Conundrum has given me a headache the size of Monte Carlo, and now that I have done the research I am more confused than I was when I began this blog. I am slowly coming to the conclusion that Ken Berry and Dean Jones are one and the same.

What is your Jones-Berry I.Q.? Take the handy quiz below. Leave your answers in the comments section (no cheating!) and I will provide results in this space in a few days.

THE JONES-BERRY QUIZ:

1. Who was born in 1931?
a. Ken Berry
b. Dean Jones

2. Who was born in 1933?
a. Ken Berry
b. Dean Jones

3. Who starred in That Darn Cat?
a. Ken Berry
b. Dean Jones

4. Who appeared in The Cat from Outer Space?
a. Ken Berry
b. Dean Jones

5. Who was behind the wheel in Herbie Rides Again?
a. Ken Berry
b. Dean Jones

6. Who traveled abroad in Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo?
a. Ken Berry
b. Dean Jones

4th Row Center

Fourth Row Center

My friend and roommate Chuck and I found that fourth row center was the optimum place within most auditoriums to view most movies. Heaven knows in all of the hundreds of movies we have seen together over many years we tried just about everywhere else.

In the large auditoriums, like the Jefferson Square Theater and auditorium one of the Spring Valley Theaters, the seats are a reputable distance from the screen, and the fourth row is close enough to be enveloped by the cinema experience without being so close that one’s view of the motion picture is distorted. In the smaller venues which offer smaller screens, any further back than fourth row and one may find oneself distracted by restless audience members and the occasional top hat.

We were also careful to formulate our ideal fourth row center snack package, which consisted of the following:

• Coca-Cola
• Popcorn
• Goobers

An ice-cold Coca-Cola is the perfect cinema refreshment, and if you think I have to back up or justify that statement then you are out of touch. Diet Coke is an acceptable substitute. Root Beer, Hi-C and lemonade are okay if you are holding a child’s ticket. All other beverages are imperfect to the ideal forth row center cinema experience. That’s not to say that there is anything wrong with an espresso beverage during a film (I live in Seattle, after all) or a bottle of water or an Orange Crush if that’s what you enjoy sipping on when the lights go down. All I am saying is that a crisp, icy Coke is part of the formulary for the ideal cinema snack package, and nothing works as well in concert with a bag of crisp, freshly popped popcorn and a box of crunchy, wholesome Goobers.

(Sadly, one cannot find Goobers at the candy counters these days. I recently asked an employee at the Cineplex Odeon in downtown Seattle why that was. His reply: "Goobers? Nobody eats Goobers anymore! They're not very popular.")

Chuck and I partook of many cinematic delights over the years we lived with or close to one another, including a memorable viewing of Peter Weir’s The Mosquito Coast, a late-night preview of Aliens, and a rather tiresome screening of the first five Star Trek movies one long day in Atlanta in 1991.

(Then there was the infamous screening six months later of Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, a miserable experience marred by not only the fact that Chuck had a serious eye condition at the time, rendering him practically blind, but I suffered an asthma attack in the auditorium just as Kirk was being arrested for assassinating the Klingon Chancellor.)

We would even, on occasion, blow off work during an afternoon in order to enjoy a movie, giving our bosses an identical excuse, something about having to deliver blueprints to Aiken for our father's business. It was hogwash, of course. We would just rather be at the movies than at work any day.

But the most important aspect of our viewing movies together was the discussion of the film afterward, an exercise which completes and cements the movie-going experience.

Alas, Chuck is now living on the east coast and I on the west, but I am not without illuminated and film-literate movie companions. Mike and I regularly take in late Saturday night showings of movies at the Big Valley, often followed by serious discussion of the films afterward, and Dan is always available to enjoy a few days at the Seattle Film Festival when that time of year comes around. Both are excellent cinema companions, though neither subscribe to the fourth row center philosophy as rigidly as my old pal Charles. Besides, as I pointed out earlier, Goobers are hard to come by at theater concession stands, and I am not as inclined to snack as much at movies as I was when I was younger. And thinner.

But when I attend movies alone you can always find me where I am most inclined to be: fourth row center. And I leave the seat next to me open and available, just in case Chuck happens to be in the neighborhood.

Friday Five

Our friend Rick at Good Coffee picked up his Thursday Top 5 yesterday with his top 5 books from high school English class. Considering that he and I spent a few years together in high school English class, I offer up my own top five reads from high school:

• Look Homeward Angel, by Thomas Wolfe. The coming of age of Eugene Grant moved me but very few of my classmates.
• Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad. I loved the tone and feel of this one. It was also one of the shortest books I had to read in high school.
• Jude the Obscure, by Thomas Hardy. Jude Frawley is mesmerized by the lights of distant Christminster, and dreams of studying at the university there. But life rarely intersects with one's dreams, and I found this tragic novel a powerful one.
• The Mayor of Casterbridge, by Thomas Hardy. A great story, one in which Fate plays a major role. One of my favorite novels.
• Eye of the Needle, by Ken Follett. Dr. Maddox introduced this World War II U.K. thriller to us in 10th grade, and I have been a fan of Follett ever since.

2005 Worst Movies

As a follow-up to posting my ten favorite movies of 2005 I am reminded that there were some stinkers out there, two of which absolutely could not abide:

Sin City - The trailer was better, though it was good to see Mickey Rourke working again. I get a headache thinking about this movie.

Trust the Man - This one played the fests but did not see wide release in 2005. Reel Film Reviews called this romantic comedy "underwheling." Despite a cast that includes David Duchovney, Julianne Moore, Billy Crudup, Garry Shandling, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Ellen Barkin, the experience was pure pain for me.

2005 Top Ten Movies

After reading the year’s top ten lists from a number of film critics whom I respect, including Richard Corliss, David Ansen and Roger Ebert, I have decided to compile my own list of best films from the past year. I do so not having seen A History of Violence, a film that has landed on most critics’ lists, and I omit Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, a very flawed film but one which I enjoyed immensely.

Instead of rating them one through ten, starting with the best and moving down the list, I will merely offer, in alphabetical order, my ten favorite from 2005:

Capote – A film not only about the eccentric writer himself, but about the writing of the book In Cold Blood, still one of the most chilling written by an American author. Capote trivia: his assistant on In Cold Blood was Harper Lee, the woman who wrote another of the 20th Century's most important books, To Kill a Mockingbird.

Crash – Writer Paul Haggis (Million Dollar Baby, one of my favorite films of 2004) boldly tackles tough questions about racial prejudice as writer and director of this tightly written and superbly cast motion picture.

The Constant Gardner – Adapted from the novel by John Le Carre, this taut thriller features a powerful performance by Ralph Fiennes and wholly exceeded my expectations.

Good Night and Good Luck – A terrific jazz soundtrack backs a provocative and intense telling of the on-air battle between Senator Joseph McCarthy and CBS newsman Edward R. Murrow, played with riveting power by David Strathairn. Strathairn and Phillip Seymour Hoffman (Capote) give the year's finest motion picture performances.

King Kong – Three terrific hours spent at the movies, Kong is everything a Saturday afternoon matinee should be.

Munich – This is a superbly directed thriller with a fine cast, and although I recognize it as a superb film, I cannot say that I particularly enjoyed the taste this one left in my mouth. Still, an important film for 2005, directed by Spielberg at the top of his game.

The Squid and the Whale – It was great to see Jeff Daniels flexing his acting muscles in this bitter tale of a family disintegrating under the weight of a bitter divorce.

Stay – Yes, I am actually including this one on my top ten list. And yes, I enjoyed it very much. Marc Forster (Finding Neverland) helms a capable cast led my Ewan McGregor and Naomi Watts. And if anyone has any idea as to what on earth this movie was about, please let me know.

Syriana – This is George Clooney’s year. Syriana is a thinking man’s thriller which requires multiple viewings to truly appreciate. Writer/director Stephen Gaghan (Traffic) spins a tight, thought-provoking and tragic tale about big oil and international politics.

Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Wererabbit – One of those movies that delivers pure joy, moment by moment; the best family film of the year.

Among the biggest disappointments at the cinema this year were:

Herbie: Fully Loaded -- Despite a decent cast, this reincarnation of the beloved Love Bug offers none of the magic of the 1970s Herbie films.

The Fantastic Four – Considering what has been done in recent years with the X-Men, Spider-Man and Batman, this super hero flick could have been much better.

Elizabethtown – I enjoyed this latest offering from Cameron Crowe, but somehow never fully connected with this one. I don’t know if it was the script or the performances by Kirsten Dunst and Orlando Bloom; either way this movie (despite a fantastic soundtrack) left me flat.

Chicken Little – This is a mediocre film from the folks at Disney and a reminder that the mouse should have never split with the whiz kids over at Pixar.

Shaken, Not Stirred

During 2005 I managed to read nearly all of Ian Fleming's James Bond novels. I had intended only to read one, but once I got started, I enjoyed Doctor No so much that I kept going. To supplement by Bond reading, I added the Sean Connery and Roger Moore Bond films to my Netflix queue, and have enjoyed watching those films.

It was an amusing digression that was not lost on my friend Tim, who provided me with some listening material for the new year: a rare edition of the Dr. No soundtrack, the cover of which features me in a very compromising position.

The Dogs are in the House

My sister sent me a link to something called Dogs: The Musical. I suppose it was about time someone answered the long-running Broadway hit Cats.

The show seems amusing and whimsical. Something I might enjoy, particularly now that I have a dog.

Anyway, there are sample musical tracks on which my sister sings, if anyone wants to check them out. The tracks are This Cat Needs a Job and Collar/Leash Tango.

To my relief the barking dogs Jingle Bells song is nowhere on that web site.

I Was Tagged

Tagged by Todd - Write 5 random facts about yourself, and then list the names of 5 people whom you in turn infect.

1) I marvel at the writing of Truman Capote.
2) One of my prized possessions is Peter Sellers' autograph.
3) My will does not allow for a funeral -- only a memorial service.
4) As of late I have come to crave panang curry; I eat it twice a week.
5) M.F. brings me my coffee the moment I walk into the office presumably because I am such a grouch in the mornings.

I tag Isaac, Ray, Frank, Arthur and Piers.

Rest in Peace

Henry Ligon Brown died Wednesday, November 30th, 2005.

He will be missed.

On Film

I spent the day with Mike in restaurants, taxi cabs and cinemas, and over thirteen and a half hours we spanned Seattle, managing a fine brunch at Lola, panang curry at Phuket on Queen Anne, five movies that were worth seeing, and a confession by an East African cab driver who is a descendent of the lost tribe of Ireland. “I thought I was black all my life until my DNA test and they told me I was Irish. When I found out I was white I changed my last name to Patrick and became a Catholic,” he said, crossing himself and adding a “praise the Lord” in for good measure.

Mr. Patrick found out that the ship bearing his ancestors left Ireland for America but that the ship took a wrong turn and ended up in Africa. He suspects perhaps they were actually bound for Australia, and that his forefathers were criminals.

It might have made a good movie.

At any rate, of the five movies we saw today (none were about teenage wizards, thank you) I have to put George Clooney’s Good Night, and Good Luck at the top of the list. In fact, I think it’s one of the finest films I have seen all year. And if you want to put present-day politics aside, it’s a tightly-executed telling of Edward R. Murrow’s coverage of the McCarthy hearings, well-scripted and superbly cast. David Strathairn is outstanding as Murrow – a crisp, understated and very compelling performance. A nod, too, to Robert Downey, Jr. (it’s good to see him busy again), and George Clooney, who plays Fred Friendly in the movie, excels as co-writer and director as well. The black and white photography is outstanding.

And I cannot close this review without pointing out that Dianne Reeves’ jazz soundtrack was exquisite. Like metled butter. Sweet as honey. That good. Really.

Halloween Part Three

Why is it that Peppermint Patty and Marcy never appear in “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown?” They are in everything else...

Curious.

Halloween Part Two

"There are three things I have learned never to discuss with other people: religion, politics and the Great Pumpkin." -Linus Van Pelt

Rain on the Halloween Parade

This Halloween has progressed with much less drama than last year. (See my Halloween blogs in the 2004 archive).

First of all, it was raining at a steady pace. I got home from work after my wife and daughter had gone out to see friends, and prepared for my vigil in the doorway with my cauldron of candy, waiting on trick-or-treaters to arrive.

After 45 minutes none came. Even the dog was bored. It was quiet and depressing in the house, so I thought I would liven things up by putting in the DVD of the original FRANKENSTEIN to enjoy while I waited to pass out candy.

I put the DVD into the player to warm up, deciding to change out of my work clothes into something more comfortable. I would make some supper and watch the movie after a while, listening for the doorbell. So I left the TV off while engaged with wardrobe change.

What I did not realize was that the stereo receiver had been left on for some reason, and the volume was up pretty loud.

As I stood in the downstairs bathroom in my skivies, the DVD had cued up past the FBI warnings and into the main menu screen, even though the TV was still off in the next room.

The house was deathly quiet; the dog slept fitfully.

An enormous crash of thunder (in Dolby surround, no less) and the groaning of Boris Karloff quaked through the house and quite nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. With only one leg in my jeans, I was so startled and off-balance that the din sent me careening onto the floor with a smart, my head narrowly missing the toilet. And just as began to recover, realizing what it was that had startled me, the doorbell rang, loudly and unexpectedly, sending me flailing again and into yet another panic as I was at the moment both shirtless and pantless and unable to receive children in their Halloween garb begging candy.

I hurriedly dressed, and greeted a 12-year-old witch with an umbrella at the door. I had dumped a few Blow-Pops and Dum-Dums into her bag before I realized my sweatshirt was on inside out.

I turned my shirt around and put on my sneakers, settling in front of the TV to enjoy James Whale's remarkable 1931 film.

I had only one other trick-or-treater: a woman whose age I would estimate at about 25, costumeless, out in the rain gathering candy for her two-year-old who had a cold. She showed me a photograph of her child in a lion costume. He was terribly cute. I gave her a half-dozen Blow-Pops and some Bazooka Joe.

It was only later that I remembered seeing the same photo of the child, in a lion costume, in the October issue of Martha Stewart's Living.

Today's Sunday School Lesson

(as reported by my daughter, age 4)

The people melted down their jewelry and made a statue of a kitten. Then people loved the kitten statue more and they forgot about Jesus, who was angry, and he told Moses. Then Moses went down there, and took a bat with him, and he knocked over the kitten statue and stomped on the pieces so that the people would be sorry.

And that’s all I remember.

Personal Reply: Your Dream

I find your having dreamt of Elton John (as opposed to Sinatra or Manilow) most revealing.

Sir Elton himself does not appear in the dream (his physical presence would have added layers of complexity to your dream that I am not prepared to deal with), nor is his music presented abstractly or as background. You are, in your dream, leading a group of people in the singing of an Elton John song. You are in your pulpit; the song is your sermon. The song is a shared experience among those in the dream, your friends and family gathered round in a restaurant (Ryan’s perhaps?), an image I found both remarkable and profound. Furthermore, it is not just any Elton John song you are singing: it is “Crocodile Rock,” a fascinating tune for your subconscious mind to dig up.

“Crocodile Rock” appeared on the album Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano Player and shattered the charts in 1973. You, too, shattered something in 1973: your mother’s large ceramic ash tray. Coincidence? Perhaps.

But here is what I really think:

The song is a recollection of times more carefree, when not only “rock was young” but you were young as well. It represents a longing for the simple, blithe days of one’s past, even as one has moved well beyond it.

In those days you were moving, shaking, leading, singing…it was your show and others are merely along for the ride. But the choice of song… your mind understands that this is “what was,” not “what is.” Again, the song is an "American Pie" of sorts. Ahh, yesteryear!

You then proceed to “another engagement” (again, on the move, about town, taking care of biz) in your Nissan Sentra. (Startling that your mind dredge up this long-wrecked vehicle!) It is yet another relic of the past, another bygone symbol of what was. Part of you clings to that past, perhaps to simpler times – rock and roll, flashy red car, that sort of thing. To a past that was not only devoid of the burden of responsibility but perhaps one that was without a true direction as well.

Then you drift into the present. The woods – a classic dream symbol. A place of the mind, where one gets lost and confused. Darker now, times have changed, more responsibility and real life descends upon you. Yet you are still moving forward, toward the other “engagement.” Perhaps you do not truly know the way.

Then a presence. Interference? Alien hands over your ears. Why not the eyes? Why not keep you from seeing where you are going? An evil or malicious presence could derail your path by covering your eyes. But your eyes are untouched. You are still proceeding as you were. These mysterious hands cover your ears instead.

The presence is not trying to keep you from seeing where it is you need to go, but it is trying to prevent you from hearing what it is you need to hear while you are on your way to “another engagement.” You can see where you are going, but what is so important for you to hear that someone or something might try to prevent it from being heard?

Then you describe a second pair of hands on your shoulders. Are these hands of the same being who covered your ears? Or the hands of another? These are the leading hands. Leading you somewhere you don’t want to go, but, as you point out, somewhere you do not mind going. But they are leading, and you are allowing them to lead.

You are allowing them to lead.

Which begs the question: are the hands on your shoulders large and warm with well-trimmed nails, or cold and clammy and sporting claws?

Fish

Todd wrote in an email, “Speaking of Fish, do you recall the short-lived Abe Vigoda series, ‘Fish,’ based on his Barney Miller character?”

He asks the same thing in a recent blog.

My reply: I certainly do remember the short-lived Vigoda series. Who can forget Detective Phil Fish?

HARRIS: Hey Fish, does it hurt when those stones come out?
FISH: It can't be too bad. The doctor says it's like giving birth.

Abe Vigoda was big in the seventies, doing a lot of TV besides playing Phil Fish on Barney Miller. He did a couple of episodes of The Rockford Files, playing a character named Phil the Dancer in one of them.

But there are some things that can never be forgiven, and some people whose deeds are so dark that they may never re-enter the light of day. Vigoda is one such person, and his deed was poison.

Yes, Abe, I remember.

You see, Vigoda was Tessio in The Godfather, and was trusted for many years by the family. But he became greedy and wanted his own family, and plotted with Barzini to betray and murder Michael.

“It was just business, Michael,” Tessio (Vigoda) said, “You understand. Just business.”

But Michael was too clever, and Vigoda ended up like Luca Brasi, sleeping with the fishes.

Notes from New York: Jaywalking

“Seattle is the only city I’ve been to where you see people standing idly on all four corners of an intersection with not a car in sight, waiting for the signal before they cross the street.”

This was spoken to me with a laugh by one of my company’s executives on a visit to Seattle as we made our way six blocks to a restaurant for lunch. This is how we do it here: we wait for the green crossing light before venturing to cross the street. It’s a civilized practice that defines Seattle despite the chuckle it caused from my East Coast colleague.

The practice – now ingrained habit for me – does not work in New York where I have spent the last week. Stopping on the corner can be treacherous: one can be trampled if one interrupts the pedestrian flow. It took me a few days to get into the swing of crossing streets in Manhattan, but I was still beset with a tinge of guilt each time I jaywalked or crossed against the light. It felt wrong. Out of place. Unnatural. But as the hoards crossed the busy New York streets against the light, I crossed with them, mingling conspiratorially on my way block by block toward my destination.

By the end of the week I found myself oblivious to the crossing signals, darting artfully across intersections, dodging cabs and jaywalking like there was no tomorrow. It was liberating in a way, and a got to where I was going without delay or interruption.

Years ago in Seattle’s Capital Hill neighborhood my wife and I stepped off the curb to cross against the light, thought better of it, and back-stepped onto the sidewalk. A bicycle cop, who just happened to be idling behind us laughed and said, “I’m glad you did that, otherwise I’d have to write you a ticket.”

I am back in Seattle now, and crossing with the light. And I feel better about it.

Notes from New York: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

Patti LuPone is reprising her role as Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd on Broadway. The staging is unique: there is no orchestra, per se. The cast is the orchestra, and they perform the brilliantly complex Sondheim score on stage as they are acting out the play. Cello, violin, piano, bass, clarinet, and even LaPone on the tuba – the entire cast remains on stage during the show playing, acting, singing.

The effect is unique and mesmerizing, I told the bellman at my hotel. He had asked me if the cast’s double-duty as orchestra “got in the way” of telling the story. On the contrary, I found the staging clever and involving, and I admire the cast for the spectacular results they achieved on stage. It is a fine production.

Sweeney Todd is the story of an 18th century barber wrongly convicted and sentenced to prison who returns to London fifteen years later to discover his wife dead and his daughter the ward of the unscrupulous judge who convicted him. Desiring a relationship with the daughter he never knew, he sets up shop above Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop. But when Judge Turpin decides to wed his teenage ward in order to protect her from the evils of the world, Sweeney Todd descends into a murderous ire, dispatching his enemies with a straight razor.

And what does he do with the bodies? Let’s just say that Mrs. Lovett’s meat pies become famous all over London!

The show is dark and gruesome, yes, but it is also at times blisteringly funny and tender.

Returning home I discovered a flyer in the mail announcing Sweeney Todd was coming to Seattle’s 5th Avenue Theater. My wife was envious that I had seen the show in New York, which features two of Stephen Sondheim’s best and most memorable songs: “Pretty Women” and “Not While I’m Around.” My wife likes those two songs very much, and has never seen the show. So it looks like I’ll be seeing it again, and it will be interesting to compare the two.

Notes from New York: Walking in the Rain

I don't carry an umbrella, and haven't carried one as a matter of practice for years. Although it rains a great deal in Seattle, most of the time all we see is a fine mist. The sky "spits," as we say. A raincoat is usually sufficient; an umbrella is usually unnecessary.

When I lived in the city I bought a felt hat to protect me from the rain. It served me well for many years and spared me the inconvenience of carrying a brolly around with me during the winter. I never thought twice about wearing the brown felt hat to work until one morning, upon entering my building, the security guard greeted me with a sarcastic "Good morning, Dr. Jones."

I suppose it does look like the hat Indiana Jones wears, and I was thereafter careful to remove it before I entered the building.

It's been raining in New York. When I arrived at my hotel I discovered that a small umbrella belonging to my wife was packed in my suitcase. I did not want it (since hailing from Seattle I consider myself impervious to rain) but I nonetheless took it with me the following afternoon on my trek from Midtown East to Times Square. I had a few hours to kill until the eight o'clock curtain at the Eugene O'Neill Theater.

Dragging the umbrella around was an inconvenience I am unaccustomed to, but I tolerated its presence, and forgot about it during the show.

When the curtain dropped at ten-thirty, I exited the theater to discover that they sky was not merely spitting at me but raining cats and dogs. East Coast rain, I recalled. Because I was too cheap for a taxi I realized I was going to be soaked after my twelve block walk back to the hotel. But wait...what was that uncomfortable lump in my jacket pocket? My wife's umbrella! Victory!

Bless my wife.

There were a few times while walking through Manhattan in the rain that I left the umbrella unopened, when the sky was spitting as opposed to raining on me. Regardless, many New Yorkers (and tourists, presumably) had their umbrellas open, and it was then that I realized I was in a perilous situation.

Today's compact umbrellas are small enough for a purse or briefcase or coat pocket and have a very short telescoping handle, requiring them to be carried right at head level when opened, and the prongs of these compact bumbershoots are directly at eye level. I became fully aware of this fact on East 52nd and Third when I nearly lost an eye. The woman whose umbrella frame nearly punctured my retina was unaware of the incident. She merely shoved past me, crossing the street against the light. (There was some consolation in the fact that the strong wind traveling down 52nd Street turned her umbrella inside-out, rendering it useless. She no doubt shoved it into a trash bin along with all the other turned-out umbrellas that are disposed of by New Yorkers by the thousands on a rainy day.)

Before I arrived at my hotel a young man with a basket of umbrellas held one out to me as I passed. "Ten bucks," he said. I was damp, but not soaked. I smiled and shook my head.

"It's just a little rain," I said.

Call Again

My wife is in Portland. She is speaking at a conference of educators.

After putting our daughter to bed, I attempt to call her. The idiot at the desk has been drinking, I suspect. He answers the phone with such a rush of air and mangled verbiage that I suspect I have caught him sleeping off his binge.

He sets the phone down and turns on the TV. I can hear the TV. I can hear him blowing his nose. He starts singing an old Gloria Gaynor song. I manage to read over about a dozen emails while I wait. I can hear the TV moaning in the telephone receiver and the occasional honk followed by "I will survive!" in a cracked falsetto.

I am forced to call back. Again and again I call back and am greeted with the rushing air and mangled verbiage. I am connected to random rooms, awaking strangers who are not pleased at my asking, "Um, is my wife there?"

I call again. The desk attendant asks, "Why do you keep calling?"

"You keep connecting me to strangers. They don't like being woken up."

He laughs. "I connected you to room 214 that time, didn't I? That's not the room you want! I apologize."

I listen to an advertisement while I hold.

A groggy man answers the phone. "Who is this? Why do you keep calling?"

I hang up, feeling not the least bit guilty. I am not the one who is disturbing his sleep. It is the desk clerk who has failed us both. My concsience is clear.

I call the hotel again.

I am still hoping to be connected to room 134. My resolve is tested and unshaken. At least until the rush of air fills my ear for the seventh time.

"Portland________HotelhowmayIhelpyou?!?!?"

I ask for room 134. I still have faith that I may someday get through to my wife. I will persevere. I endure the hold music for a brief moment before someone in one of the rooms picks up the phone.

I hold my breath.

Today's Caper

My friend Gary left me a voice mail today, asking me if I knew where he could buy a good cape. “I would like your opinion as to what style,” he added.

“I think the cape is underrated, and I would like to get my hands on one and wear it about.”

I will return Gary’s call tomorrow, but for the moment I am unsure about the cape.

I am thinking about recommending to Gary that he consider a cloak instead. They are warm, stylish, and above all, a good woolen cloak is available from J. Peterman.

I ask you, dear reader, is a cloak not superior to a cape? A cape is just a cape, but a cloak is a cape and a hood.

More George

I had another “brush with Seinfeld greatness” a few years ago. This one with Jason Alexander.

A colleague of mine who knew Alexander told me that the actor was something of a fan of William Shatner and Captain Kirk. The colleague knew, of course, I was a fan of the Seinfeld show. Long story short I received a call from the actor’s office that Jason would like to send me a signed photo. It arrived the next morning by FedEx.

He also signed one for my friend Tim, which I sent to Tim anonymously.
A few days later Tim was thrilled to receive the note and the photo from “George,” and he immediately framed the 8x10 and, without telling his family, placed it on the credenza of his home with other myriad photographs .

It apparently took Tim’s wife several days before she noticed it. When she saw it, she cried out, “Tim! Why is there a Costanza on the Credenza?”

Imagine her surprise just last year upon finding a Peterman on the porch.

Next up: Kramer on the couch.

Cook Out

Burgers. Sirloin, of course. With lettuce, tomato, yellow onion, sliced. Mustard, ketchup and mayo. I made the mayo myself, a walnut mayo. Not bad.

Hot dogs. The Sinai kosher ones, just the right length. Fabulous! With some chili, mustard and ketchup.

Potato salad made with lots of spices, onions and peppers, boiled egg and yellow mustard. Used my walnut mayo in the potato salad, by the way. Beach Cole Slaw from a cookbook to bring up the rear.

Chips. Some cold soda pop and chardonnay.

My wife threw this thing together at the last minute after a week and a half of watching the continuing coverage of the disaster in the gulf coast. This would be her fund raiser for victims of Katrina disaster.

Even so, with only a few heads present, she raised $503.97, some of it coins collected by the kids who were present. She stepped up and did something important, helped a few people with the donations she collected, and had a nice evening in the process. I commend her.

All I did was make the potato salad.

George

I have been working on a list, also inspired by our friends at Caffinated Adventures: "10 Things I've Done You Probably Haven't."

One of the items I elected not to include on my list is my Seinfeld incident from a few years ago. Letterman used to call that sort of thing a "brush with greatness," which is when a regular Joe, like me, is involved in some mundane or bizarre incident with a stranger who turns out to be a celebrity.

Thus my BWG with The Sein.

But I digress.

Suffice it to say, I have always enjoyed his show and would, like many fans, enjoy a sequel, if only for a little while. So I thought it might be fun to publish here, without the author's permission, a rough treatment for a Seinfeld spin-off that I have on my computer:

"I had an idea about writing a pilot for another George sitcom wherein he moves to Seattle in search of the [ultimate] job. Every other episode he gets fired, each time for a different reason/situation that only George can get into. The rest of his life would be about his strange relationships with different women. With the exception of a couple of friends or a cousin just like him, he would be the only permanent cast member."

I thought the George idea was a good one. In the mean time, however, it looks like we've got George selling cars with Lee Iacocca.

A Taste of 80's Rock?

Curious as to my own tastes after seeing the test results over at Caffinated Adventures.

Your Taste in Music:

80's Rock: High Influence

Progressive Rock: High Influence

80's Alternative: Medium Influence

90's Pop: Medium Influence

80's Pop: Low Influence

90's Rock: Low Influence

Alternative Rock: Low Influence

Classic Rock: Low Influence

R&B: Low Influence

How's Your Taste in Music?

No, Mountain and Pacific

My four-year-old daughter asked my wife today what time a favorite cartoon was going to be on television.

"I'm not sure, honey," my wife responded.

"Is it eight, seven central?" came the reply.

Seven Years

Today is my wedding anniversary. As it happens, today is also Labor Day. I have a paid day off away from the office and intend to celebrate my anniversary with my wife and daughter.

Today marks seven years of marriage, traditionally the “wool” or “copper” anniversary.

I concluded that gifting my wife with a full set of copper kitchenware might send the wrong message on this important day. (Though as I write this, I have been up for more than two hours and still no one has bothered to come downstairs and cook my breakfast!)

Still, I am glad we got through the “iron” anniversary last year. That was a difficult one to shop for. Once I had (wisely) eliminated the electric iron, my options were few: a branding iron, a steam locomotive, an anvil.

Other anniversaries to note on this date:

· King Louis XIV of France was born in 1638.
· In 1774, the first Continental Congress met in Philadelphia.
· Jesse James was born in Kearney, Missouri, in 1847.
· In 1975, Lynette “Squeaky” Frome, a follower of Charles Manson, attempted to assassinate President Gerald Ford.

It’s comforting to know I will never forget the date of Squeaky’s pathetic attempted shooting of the president.

Anniversaries are nice. I enjoy thinking back on my wedding day.

We were married in Columbia, South Carolina on Saturday, September 5, 1998, gathered together with our friends and family. And while we were enjoying our nuptials:

· “Matlock” and “Diagnosis Murder” director Leo Penn (father of Sean) was dying.
· Americans were seeing There’s Something About Mary in droves.
· Mark McGwire was about to slug his 60th home run of the season.
· The Seattle Mariners were beating the Orioles at the Kingdome.
· Anthony (C-3PO) Daniels was telling his fans at SCI-FI.com, “I bumped into Harrison the other night in my local restaurant. We chatted, and he asked me what I would recommend. I told him the John Dorry with Aubergine caviar. Perhaps he thought I was a waiter.”
· President Clinton was concluding his trip to Ireland.
· The University of South Carolina Gamecocks were beating the Ball State Cardinals at Williams-Brice Stadium.
· Bob Newhart and Raquel Welch were celebrating birthdays, but most likely not with one another.

Happy seventh anniversary, darling!

The Smudge

We were at Huber’s Restaurant in Portland last weekend watching the magician perform sleight of hand at the table next to us and discussing nicknames.

I will digress here and mention that Huber’s is Portland’s oldest restaurant, opening its doors in 1879. I had the roast turkey, for which Huber’s is famous, and it was as tender and succulent as any I have ever eaten. I finished my meal with Huber’s other specialty: Spanish Coffee, a choice that delighted my daughter during its table-side preparation because it is set aflame.

But back to the nicknames.

My daughter asked to be called “Rose,“ as she was pretending to be a pirate. I had bought her a pirate hat and an eye patch at a toy shop in downtown Portland, and she figured “Rose” was a great name for a girl pirate.

I then told my daughter my nickname (which I made up on the spot): “From now on,” I announced, “you must call me The Smudge.”

My daughter despised the very idea of calling me The Smudge, moreso after I told her what a “smudge” was.

“That,” I said, pointing to a smudge on my sneaker, “is a smudge.”

“I am not calling you that,“ she flatly declared. And each time, during the weekend, that I brought up the subject of my wanting everyone to call me by my new nickname, my daughter stubbornly refused to even discuss it.

And so it was.

I walked into the house after work last night, passing my wife and daughter, who were seated together in the kitchen.

“Hello, everyone!” I cried.

“Hello, The Smudge,” my daughter shot back, without so much as a smirk or a sideways glance.

Dinner Like Real People

That's what Mike said last night at the Buenos Aires: We're having dinner like real people.

And we were.

Once upon a time, the four of us would often have dinner and socialize as two couples when we all lived in the Capital Hill neighborhood of Seattle.

"Before we all moved out to the 'burbs," I said.

"Before we started popping out babies," my wife pointed out. Amy laughed and nodded in agreement.

My wife has popped out only one baby. Amy has popped out three. That's four between them.

Mike reminded us all that it had been five years since the four of us had dinner together without the kids in tow.

Sober nods of agreement; time was surely passing, wasn't it?

The Argentine restaurant was well-chosen. Mike and I had celebrated our birthdays together at the Buenos Aires in November, but our wives had never dined there.

A pocket of foreignness in the Pacific Northwest was how Mike described it. The atmosphere was removed, stylish without being trendy, lighting low but not dim, the aroma of succulent grilled beef permeated the room. The food was fabulous from the get-go. The chimichurri sauce (an Argentine salsa) served with bread set the stage for a mixed grill feast that was complimented by a well-chosen, full-bodied Malbec.

According to my wife, the highlight of the evening was watching a beautiful young couple (professional dancers, without a doubt) perform the tango not only throughout the restaurant but on top of the bar.

"When they jump up and start dancing on that bar," our waitress told us in her thick Argentine accent, "you don't want to miss that."

We didn't.

Readings: Convergence

I suppose I am officially on a couple of kicks at the moment, having begun reading Goldfinger, my sixth Ian Fleming James Bond novel this year (fifth in a row). The Bond books are easy reads and very enjoyable.

The other: my daughter and I are also reading our third book in a row by Roald Dahl, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator.

And speaking of Dahl, I’ve also picked up a book of his short stories to read whenever the mood strikes me.

And besides juggling the reading of Fleming and Dahl books, I have numerous James Bond movies queued with my NetFlix service, and am watching the Bond titles after reading them.
The DVD of Ian Fleming’s YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE, starring Sean Connery, arrived the other day in my mailbox.

Imagine my surprise to discover that, after having recently read five Ian Fleming Bond novels and three books by Roald Dahl, the screenplay to Ian Fleming’s YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE was written by…

Roald Dahl.

Perhaps it’s time to move on to something else.

More Readings

I recently read Roald Dahl's classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to my daughter and we both enjoyed it immensely.

My wife had purchased a nice, hardbound edition that contained the original illustrations to the story. We are both anticipating Tim Burton's new interpretation of the story, and we like the 1971 film starring Gene Wilder. But we had never read the book until this month.

My daughter and I talk about Charlie and his golden ticket often. We have even made a date to go out and purchase another box of Wonka's Everlasting Gobstoppers. Those rock-hard, chameleon-like candies have become a favorite in our house. The great thing about my daughter's perspective on the book is that she has not seen the 1971 movie, and I do not yet know if the upcoming movie will be suitable for her. Her enjoyment of the book is pure, untainted by "Wilder vs. Depp" discussions. Or, which Oompa-Loompas are better: the 1971 Gene Wilder Oompas or the 2005 Johnny Depp Loompas?

The answer, for my daughter, are the ones in her head.

Last weekend my daughter and I went to the bookstore to pick out a new book to read and for no particular reason we settled upon another Dahl book, The Twits, which, like Charlie, I had never read as a child. Two days later I received a call from my friend Gary. "I have got a funny book for you and your daughter," were the first words out of his mouth. "It's called The Twits."

I received the call right after reading in a magazine that Monty Python alumnus John Cleese was working on a film version of The Twits.

The Twits is a very funny book. I had to assure my daughter that getting a bad case of The Shrinks is a purely imaginary condition. Otherwise she enjoyed it very much.

And it looks like we're sticking with Roald Dahl for the time being. My daughter wants to know more about the adventures of Charlie Bucket, and my wife just happened to puchase a nice hardbound copy of Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator.

Up and out.

Readings

“Good old Gleaner.” - Ian Fleming, The Man with the Golden Gun

In high school I had a friend named Blake who was a fan of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels. Fleming also wrote the children’s book Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, so there was more to him than just a preoccupation with espionage and the most famous member of the British Secret Service. But James Bond is without a doubt his legacy, and what Fleming will always be remembered for.

Blake loved the Bond movies, too, and he and I had actually watched a couple of James Bond flicks together at his house on videocassette. Blake was a Connery man, and he pointed out to me how different the Bond movies were from the Bond books.

Having recently read five of the Bond novels, and having seen DOCTOR NO on Spike TV seventeen times in the last thirty days, I realize how right Blake had been. The movie Bond and the book Bond were often very different characters.

I first read Fleming -- and Bond -- when I was in high school, and until this year I had not read him since. I had read a couple of James Bond short stories in 1985, which were published in For Your Eyes Only, a collection of five short adventures bearing no resemblance to the movie of the same name.

Anyway, it had been a while since I had read any Bond, and after Blake’s name came up in a conversation with another old friend a month or so ago, I decided to pick a James Bond novel as my next read. I chose Doctor No, a 1958 first edition which had been sitting on my bookshelf unread for a couple of years.

(I will interrupt myself at this point to note that, as I write this, McCartney’s “Live and Let Die” is being played on the radio. Ironic, no?)

I also find it ironic that my friend Tim and I managed to read Doctor No at the same time: me, in Seattle and while on vacation in South Carolina, and he while on vacation in Jamaica, which is where Doctor No is set.

As a gift, Tim brought back to me a copy of The Gleaner, "the Caribbean’s great newspaper" (Fleming's words), which has some relevance to the plot of Doctor No. The Gleaner is also the catalyst in The Man with the Golden Gun which leads Bond to his prey, Scaramanga, at 9½ Love Lane early in that novel.

In fact, Jamaica and The Daily Gleaner figure prominately in Bond lore. When Fleming first introduces James Bond in 1953’s Casino Royale, Bond is working undercover in a French casino, but we learn that he has been previously stationed in Jamaica, and that he is currently being run by a “control” who works the picture desk of The Gleaner in Kingston, Jamaica.

I am very pleased to have my own copy of The Gleaner.

Several James Bond adventures have been set in the Caribbean: Live and Let Die (1954), Doctor No, Thunderball (1961), The Man with the Golden Gun (1965), and the short stories “For Your Eyes Only,” “Quantum of Solace” and “Octopussy.”

Having recently experienced Doctor No both on the page and on television, I am torn between which I like more: the book or the movie. Normally the book wins out in these comparisons, but the movie has Connery, so the comparison is more difficult.

A Roger Moore man once pointed out to me that Connery was not an ideal movie Bond because Connery is Scottish and Bond was English. But in fact Bond was Scottish, and at the conclusion of The Man with the Golden Gun (Fleming's final Bond novel), 007 refuses knighthood by Queen Elizabeth on those grounds. “I am at home being a Scottish peasant,” he cables M. from his hospital bed in Jamaica, declining the honor, “and I will always feel at home being a Scottish peasant.”

So there you have it, Moore fans. Put that in your gun and shoot it.

I, like many Bond traditionalists, have always preferred Connery’s Bond to Moore’s. At least, I have thought so these many years. Roger Ebert agrees that Connery's Bond was best, and that man knows his movies. Yes, I would describe myself as a Connery man. But the irony is (more irony, folks!) that I involuntarily picture and hear Roger Moore in my head when I read James Bond books, try as I might to see and hear Connery in my imagination. Roger Moore has been in my head now five books running, and I don’t think he’s going anywhere.

You figure it out.

The Bond of the books exudes a calculated coldness that Connery captured well, but Bond’s cool-cat exterior masks inner-conflict fueled by indecision, missed opportunities and an aversion to killing in cold blood. The Bond of the books is often vulnerable and makes many mistakes. He’s much more human on the page than he is on celluloid.

Taking Bond’s humanity and vulnerability into account, perhaps Timothy Dalton was closer on film to the Bond of the books than any of the others.

And let’s not forget George Lazenby, who did one turn as Bond in the film ON HER MAJESTY’S SECRET SERVICE. People are surprised to find out that it’s actually one of my favorite Bond films. People are often more surprised to discover that many critics consider it to be the finest Bond film ever made. It is, however, little seen, mainly due to the fact that nobody knows who George Lazenby was and no one particularly cares. But the film was solid and very entertaining. I find it interesting that the character of Bond actually married (anybody remember that?), and his bride was murdered on their honeymoon by agents of Bond’s arch-nemesis Blofeld. ON HER MAJESTY’S SECRET SERVICE contains that tragic scene.

Little-seen, too, is a tepid Bond spoof from the 1960’s called CASINO ROYALE, which was the title of Fleming’s first Bond book. In it (the film, not the book) actor David Niven (who is incidentally mentioned by name in Fleming’s You Only Live Twice) plays an aging, retiring James Bond, and Peter Sellers is selected to succeed him as agent 007. The film, despite a stellar cast that includes Orson Welles, Woody Allen and Ursula Andress (who, coincidentally, played Honey Rider, Bond’s love interest in DOCTOR NO), is a mess.

And if it’s true that the Bond movies are different from the Bond books, then it is also true that there are Bond books that are different from the Bond books.

Earlier this year I read The Spy Who Loved Me, which again bears no resemblance to the film of the same name. The imaginative story, told from the perspective of a woman, follows young Vivienne in her quest for independence. She ends up working at a resort in the Adirondacks. As soon as the resort closes for the season, it is set upon by a group of mobsters and Vivienne finds herself in dire straights. In the last part of the book, a man shows up looking for a room for the night (it’s Bond, of course) and he ends up rescuing her from the gang of thugs.

That’s it. The whole book, part and parcel. No SPECTRE, no Blofeld, no Russians or cold war. No plans for world domination, no twisting, turning plot. Just the story about a woman who finds herself in a world of trouble in the Adirondacks and happens to be rescued in the end by a passerby who happens to be Agent 007 of the British Secret Service. He’s barely in the book!
Spy was the first of the five Bond books I have read so far this year.

Which brings me to a question that has occupied my mind since I finished the final chapter of Casino Royale a few hours ago: what next? More Bond?

I wonder what Blake would recommend?

CATCHING UP

Back in May and early June I wrote a few blogs while attending the Seattle International Film Festival. But in juggling work, family, and some times three films a day, I never got around to posting them.

There does not seem to be much of a point in posting them now, though I will make a few quick observations, including notes about my cinematic choices for Memorial Day, which were rather appropo: MISSING IN AMERICA and LAND OF PLENTY.

- M.I.A. stars Danny Glover as Jake, a Vietnam vet who has retreated to Washington's Cascadia and lives the life of a lone survivalist. After a shaky start, during which Glover's dying war buddy strands his half-Vietnamese daughter with Glover at his remote mountain cabin, the film hits its stride as Glover struggles to cope with having a young girl to care for and with the backlash her presence in these woods has created by another survivalist vet played by Ron Pearlman. I found Glover's performance convincing and at times powerful leading up to the film's tragic end. There is one scene that takes place at The Wall which I found very moving. Linda Hamilton also stars.

- Wim Wenders's LAND OF PLENTY was a disappointment. Set in L.A., this post-9/11 drama about a lone, confused, self-proclaimed pro-American militant who sees terrorism brewing in the city all around him was heavy-handed and left me ultimately unfulfilled.

- Also disappointing was an early cut of a romantic comedy starring Julianne Moore and David Duchovny called TRUST THE MAN. Oddly, I like this film less and less every time I think about it. When it comes out this fall, I will surely despise it. Avoid it.

- I thoroughly enjoyed THE THING ABOUT MY FOLKS, a warm-hearted and very funny movie about a father/son road trip. The films stars Peter Falk, Paul Reiser, Olympia Dukakis, and is written by Reiser. In the film, Reiser's Ben Kleinmann takes a journey with this father, played brilliantly and hilariously by Falk, after his parents split up under dubious circumstances. The journey is one not just across upstate New York but into Ben's family's past as well.

- Of the low-budget indies I saw, there was one that exceeded my expectations. I chose to see NOVEMBER only because I wanted at least one thriller thrown into the mix of films I attended at the festival. It stars Courtney Cox, and frankly, going into it, anticipated some B-move, horror film wannabe. My skepticism was quickly displaced by an intelligent script about a random murder told via several perspectives. Think RASHOMON meets THE OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK and you'll know what I'm getting at.