Monday, May 6, 2013
Ninety Seconds Of Hell
As a former limousine chauffeur for 10 years, news coverage of the burning limousine on the San Mateo Bridge over San Francisco Bay last Saturday got my attention. Nine women in a bridal party, including the bride-to-be and her mother, were in the car when the rear section caught fire. The cause of the fire has not been determined.
The chauffeur and four women escaped. Five others did not. Authorities found their bodies clustered around a three foot wide opening in the partition between the passenger and driver compartments.
That three foot space has a panel that can be raised or lowered by the chauffeur or the passengers. It’s called a privacy panel. Initial reports state that four survivors escaped through the open privacy panel and out the front doors along with the chauffeur.
The limo had two doors at the back of the passenger section. Some limos also have a hinged plexiglass window in the roof, called a moon roof. In recent years fewer and fewer limousine companies have had the moon roof installed. Too risky. Inebriated male passengers have been known to climb through an open moon roof for a fresh air ride on top of the car. Sometimes inebriated female passengers use an open moon roof to flash their assets. This can dangerously distract other motorists into causing insurance headaches.
Whether or not this limo had a moon roof was not cited in the reports I read. It might not have made any difference if it had. The moon roof is usually placed over the rear of the passenger compartment. That’s where the fire was.
Stretch limos have extended windows on each side of the passenger compartment. Those windows are made of shatterproof glass and composite plastics. They can only be opened by a strong person with a sledge hammer.
Then we have the trunk, which is directly over a 35 to 55 gallon gas tank. Some limo companies stash an empty one gallon gasoline can in the trunk. Empty gasoline cans have fumes if they’ve ever contained gasoline. Fumes are explosive. Some limos still have road flares in the trunk instead of, or in addition to, collapsible plastic triangles with reflectors. Flares are made with chemicals that are nearly impossible to extinguish.
Another thing. The faux wood fixtures in limousine interiors, such as the lids for the ice compartments, are made of plastics that give off toxic fumes when ignited. So does upholstery and carpeting.
Given all the combustibles in the interior of a stretch limousine, I was not surprised when the chauffeur told authorities that the limo went up in flames in 90 seconds.
Those 90 seconds may have seemed like eternity for everyone involved.
For five of the women in the limo that night, it was.
Comments:
I have never seen the point of limousines. Never rode in one, never had the urge to. (No offense, just me being me.) I always enjoy your limousine stories though, and your analysis on this sad accident was very illuminating. It seems as if limos need some kind of escape route better than what they have now! -- Eve
A horrible accident. -- Lynda
Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. Next time I'll ride a scooter. -- Pre
Scooters are hard to spot in traffic. You might get smacked by a limo.
Thought of you immediately when this story broke! It was helpful reading what you wrote; sobering and informative. So glad you are okay, and very sad about those women. -- Miriam
What a nightmare for all, and on the darned bridge too. -- Diane
I'll never look at a limousine the same again. -- Linda B.
It gets sadder and sadder. Seems like a lack of communication between the woman and the driver. So sad. -- Uma
They did communicate. According to news accounts, one of the women alerted the driver about smoke in the back. The driver came to a stop and bailed out along with four of the women. The other five, well...
Helluva a post -- very informative and as usual, really well written. -- Tim
All I know is that people are dead who should not be, and families are grieving and will for the rest of their lives. Maybe some changes in the next limo that rolls off the production line will happen because of that incident. Maybe some people who didn't think something awful could happen to anybody in that car that night -- and anyone who sees people they love roll away for a night of fun -- will think a little harder about how much they love someone and tell him so. People will bury their loved ones this week, and the rest of us will go on living. It's what we do. Terribly sad, and resiliently good that we have to and can. What a sad, awful story, Mike. -- Zoey
I won't ride in a limo now. Very sad. -- Meemir
This was a very freakish event that has safety investigators all over it. My view is that you’re safer in a stretch limo in Saturday night traffic than you are in a car.
Mike...I thought about you when I heard the news, particularly since the driver's last name was Brown. SO GLAD it wasn't you! I was up in SF last week for a couple of days, viewing the Dutch Masters' exhibit at the DeYoung. Creepy, awful accident! -- Cyn
My last name is spelled Browne, and I gave up being a chauffeur over a year ago.
I, too, was afraid that you were driving that limo; didn't know you have given up the driving gig. Still, I know you must feel badly, as a fellow driver. -- Shannon.
Aw hell. Literally. -- Tracy
Keith and I were so sad to hear that story. Those poor women and their families. -- Sandy
I also was saddened by news of the limo disaster on the San Mateo Bridge. 90 seconds for that many people to escape, unbelievable. Words can not describe how awful it must have been, but you told the story that may make companies reexamine evacuation procedures. -- Karen
Unbelievable tragedy. I too thought of you. Even though you are not doing that anymore, I still thought of you. The limo driver must be feeling really awful right now. Thank you for all of the information that most people would never know or even think about. Sad. -- Carol
It is very sad that these five women died at a young age. Perhaps investigators will discover what caused the fire, and perhaps this information will make limousines safer in the future. -- Ken
Thursday, April 25, 2013
The Leaf Blower Blues
Of course I don’t have to remind you that the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848 ceded California, Texas, Nevada. Arizona, New Mexico, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming to the U.S. from Mexico, do I? I thought not.
You’ll recall that in addition to paying the Mexican government $15 million in 1848 dollars, the U.S. conceded the use of leaf blowers within the continental United States and its territories.
That’s right, leaf blowers.
See, even though leaf blowers would not be invented until the next century, those wily Mexicans consulted their Azteck and Mayan calendars, which are also dandy little oracles, and forecast a time when Mexico could get even for the headaches caused by Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and the rest of that Alamo riffraff in 1836.
Oh sure, the Mexicans won that one, but latter day hotheads in the Mexican government were still pissed about the Great Yanqui Land Grab of 1848. While they were pleased about giving the bowel splitting symptoms of Montezuma’s Revenge to Yanqui invaders, something more was needed to take the fight to the enemy camp, the U.S. itself.
Hence, leaf blowers. It took awhile, but eventually, in 150 years, California was swarmed with legions of lawn care workers armed with howling leaf blowers causing sleep deprived mayhem from the Oregon border to San Ysidro. Traffic accidents caused by drowsy drivers doubled overnight. Domestic tranquility among formerly happy couples degenerated into sleepless and sometimes fatal squabbles over such trifles as custody of the TV remote. A whole social fabric was being torn asunder by the barking blasts of backpacked engines.
Things came to a head in 1973 when the U.S. was leaf blown to the negotiating table. No less than Henry Kissinger himself worked out the Tijuana Accords that year, but the Mexicans hung tough with Article IX, Section VII, Paragraph 3, subparagrph ( c ) which states that "Expatriate Mexican lawn care workers employed by Yanqui Gringos may use gasoline powered leaf blowers when tending the lawns, gardens and yards of said Yanqui Gringos between the hours of 7:00 and 7:30 a.m. forever world without end amen. Viva Mejico."
So that’s why four presumably documented Mexican workers, who are probably working for minimum wage or less, and without ear and eye protection, make Monday mornings around here worse than Monday mornings usually are by leaf blowing their way into every brain pan within earshot.
I could buy an AK-47 and end this leaf blowing nonsense myself, but that has more consequences than I am willing to bear. Folsom Prison is not far away. Neither is San Quentin. Besides, the sight of blood makes me sick.
So, I just try to remember that the Treaty Of Guadalupe Hidalgo was very one sided, that the leaf blowers only blow leaves around here less than an hour each week, and that I can buy a set of earplugs for sixty five cents.
Besides, if you can’t beat ‘em, hire ‘em. Maybe I can pay the leaf blowing crew to blast the crows that crap on my car from the tree over my parking spot.
I know that "into each life some rain must fall," but this?
At our complex, yard workers are allowed to start at 7:30 AM. They are even allowed to try and blow wet leaves after a heavy rain. I mean really! I empathize. -- Beaty
What a coinkydink. I was just lookin for a Guadalupe medal -- Uma
Uma provided a balanced perspective well worth reading:
http://www.beinglatino.us/uncategorized/invisible-men/
That was hysterical and yet so very poignant. Excellent. -- Mary Pat
You’ll recall that in addition to paying the Mexican government $15 million in 1848 dollars, the U.S. conceded the use of leaf blowers within the continental United States and its territories.
That’s right, leaf blowers.
See, even though leaf blowers would not be invented until the next century, those wily Mexicans consulted their Azteck and Mayan calendars, which are also dandy little oracles, and forecast a time when Mexico could get even for the headaches caused by Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and the rest of that Alamo riffraff in 1836.
Oh sure, the Mexicans won that one, but latter day hotheads in the Mexican government were still pissed about the Great Yanqui Land Grab of 1848. While they were pleased about giving the bowel splitting symptoms of Montezuma’s Revenge to Yanqui invaders, something more was needed to take the fight to the enemy camp, the U.S. itself.
Hence, leaf blowers. It took awhile, but eventually, in 150 years, California was swarmed with legions of lawn care workers armed with howling leaf blowers causing sleep deprived mayhem from the Oregon border to San Ysidro. Traffic accidents caused by drowsy drivers doubled overnight. Domestic tranquility among formerly happy couples degenerated into sleepless and sometimes fatal squabbles over such trifles as custody of the TV remote. A whole social fabric was being torn asunder by the barking blasts of backpacked engines.
Things came to a head in 1973 when the U.S. was leaf blown to the negotiating table. No less than Henry Kissinger himself worked out the Tijuana Accords that year, but the Mexicans hung tough with Article IX, Section VII, Paragraph 3, subparagrph ( c ) which states that "Expatriate Mexican lawn care workers employed by Yanqui Gringos may use gasoline powered leaf blowers when tending the lawns, gardens and yards of said Yanqui Gringos between the hours of 7:00 and 7:30 a.m. forever world without end amen. Viva Mejico."
So that’s why four presumably documented Mexican workers, who are probably working for minimum wage or less, and without ear and eye protection, make Monday mornings around here worse than Monday mornings usually are by leaf blowing their way into every brain pan within earshot.
I could buy an AK-47 and end this leaf blowing nonsense myself, but that has more consequences than I am willing to bear. Folsom Prison is not far away. Neither is San Quentin. Besides, the sight of blood makes me sick.
So, I just try to remember that the Treaty Of Guadalupe Hidalgo was very one sided, that the leaf blowers only blow leaves around here less than an hour each week, and that I can buy a set of earplugs for sixty five cents.
Besides, if you can’t beat ‘em, hire ‘em. Maybe I can pay the leaf blowing crew to blast the crows that crap on my car from the tree over my parking spot.
I know that "into each life some rain must fall," but this?
* * *
Comments?
This reminds me of the morning I had a migraine and the workers at the childcare center next door would not stop using the damned things when asked. I still cringe when I hear them. -- Shannon
Contrary to your eloquent and well-thought-out analysis of the leaf blowing disturbance, I am just going to say this:
Why in the hell do my thoughtless, uncaring, brainless neighbors, in this otherwise well-kept, neat, quiet complex that I live in, have to turn on their water every freakin' night right at the precise moment that I shut my eyes to finally go to sleep? Do they save up their body washing, desperately-needing underpants laundry jobs, dishwasher duties, extended hand-washing and quenching of thirsts for that exact moment for some reason I have failed to research and therefore comprehend? How do they know?
Is this travesty related to some historical issue I have yet to discover in my neck vein popping fits, and you are the only one studious enough to figure this stuff out? Please, tell me it has to do with some drought that happened in dinosaur times that somehow wormed its way into the long lost ancestors of these freakishly ignorant people I live next to. Please tell me that so I can blame it on something that makes sense. Tell me I will one day sleep again. -- Zoey
We're both doomed. MB
Don't get me started on snowblowers, something you are blessed not to have to deal with. Wonderful reading as always. -- Julisari
This reminds me of the morning I had a migraine and the workers at the childcare center next door would not stop using the damned things when asked. I still cringe when I hear them. -- Shannon
Contrary to your eloquent and well-thought-out analysis of the leaf blowing disturbance, I am just going to say this:
Why in the hell do my thoughtless, uncaring, brainless neighbors, in this otherwise well-kept, neat, quiet complex that I live in, have to turn on their water every freakin' night right at the precise moment that I shut my eyes to finally go to sleep? Do they save up their body washing, desperately-needing underpants laundry jobs, dishwasher duties, extended hand-washing and quenching of thirsts for that exact moment for some reason I have failed to research and therefore comprehend? How do they know?
Is this travesty related to some historical issue I have yet to discover in my neck vein popping fits, and you are the only one studious enough to figure this stuff out? Please, tell me it has to do with some drought that happened in dinosaur times that somehow wormed its way into the long lost ancestors of these freakishly ignorant people I live next to. Please tell me that so I can blame it on something that makes sense. Tell me I will one day sleep again. -- Zoey
We're both doomed. MB
Don't get me started on snowblowers, something you are blessed not to have to deal with. Wonderful reading as always. -- Julisari
I enjoyed reading this column. -- Ken
At our complex, yard workers are allowed to start at 7:30 AM. They are even allowed to try and blow wet leaves after a heavy rain. I mean really! I empathize. -- Beaty
What a coinkydink. I was just lookin for a Guadalupe medal -- Uma
Uma provided a balanced perspective well worth reading:
http://www.beinglatino.us/uncategorized/invisible-men/
That was hysterical and yet so very poignant. Excellent. -- Mary Pat
Saturday, April 20, 2013
A Suspicious Character
Two beefcake security guards yanked the plastic cooler out of my hands, slapped some handcuffs on my wrists, hustled me off to a small room and plunked me down on a folding chair.
“Did you call the bomb squad?” one of them asked his partner.
“Not yet. Should we?”
“Let’s have a look first. Check his ID.”
One of them pulled me upright by my collar and fished my wallet out of my hip pocket.
“Best fake ID I’ve ever seen. Got the state seal hologram and everything. Even looks like him.”
I asked what this was all about.
“Shaddap! If we want any crap out of you we’ll tighten your shoelaces!”
So I shaddap while they carefully set my plastic cooler on the floor and slowwwwwly removed the cover.
“Hmmm. Looks like a tuna sandwich, a bottle of Gatorade, a bag of Cheetos and a box of Junior Mints.”
“Well, that’s better than that gawdawful smelly curry that dark guy was packing yesterday. Think this stuff could be bomb components? I don’t see no wires.”
“Ya never know. Don’t forget the Potroast Bomber Of Poughkeepsie that was all over the news last week. He had one of them printed circuits under the sliced potatoes and carrots. Turned out to be an old hearing aid that somehow fell in the stew, but you can’t be too careful.”
Again I asked what this was all about. This time I got an almost civil answer.
“Listen, bub. You match the profile of the Angry Old White Male, right down to your bifocals, bald head, black socks and Birkenstocks.”
“Well, he’s clean,” the other guard said, sounding disappointed.
His partner removed the cuffs and jabbed a finger in my chest. “Be more careful next time. What were you doing at a Little League game anyway? You got a grandkid here or something?”
No, I just happened by and needed a place to sit down for awhile.
“Well, you’re lucky we got to you first. Them Little League moms woulda torn you to pieces.”
Since then I've been trying to remember who said "Those who give up civil liberties for security lose both."
I don't like pot roast either.
Above quote provided by CDB. Thank you.
“If a nation values anything more than freedom, it will lose its freedom; and the irony of it is, if it is comfort or money it values more, it will lose that, too.“ W. Somerset Maugham
I have this framed on my office wall at home. Good work, as usual, my friend. Thanks. -- Tom
Thanks for the good stuff to read. About every few weeks I get to thinking I ought to find a good book to read, maybe even some short stories - which I write a lot of and like when I find one, too. Sometimes a Reader's Digest falls into my hands at the dentist's office, but since I don't go to the dentist but once a year or so, that really doesn't work all that well. So, every so often I get a piece of mail from Mike. Ah, there it is. A little humor, some wry comments, something thoughtful about life or people or something ordinary that is written in just such a way as to hold my interest, make me smile, make me think, make me enjoy. Thanks again, Mike. It's always good. Stay well. - Zoey
You are a bright spot in my day. Keep going. And quit deleting the luv ya. -- Carol
Hysterical. -- Mary Pat
This is a sad statement about our society. Too many police are acting like every citizen they deal with is a terrorist or at least criminal. Every city has a SWAT team, usually financed by the feds and this is designed so that the cities will do the their bidding.
The people who founded this country were explicit about just this eventuality and tried to write our Constitution to prevent it. It appears our duly elected officials in Washington are doing everything in their power to circumvent these safeguards.
It's a sad state of affairs and one day maybe the human race will learn to deal with our shortcomings without resorting to force. -- Wht
Ok, now that we've read the script, we want to see the film, or the cartoon, rather! -- Gerard
I like the humor in this story. -- Ken
LOL Tomatomike. a BIG THANKS ONCE AGAIN!!.. for letting my imagination run free and wild! Hearts and Thoughts -- Pirate
Was this true???? -- Lynda
No. I like pot roast.
“Did you call the bomb squad?” one of them asked his partner.
“Not yet. Should we?”
“Let’s have a look first. Check his ID.”
One of them pulled me upright by my collar and fished my wallet out of my hip pocket.
“Best fake ID I’ve ever seen. Got the state seal hologram and everything. Even looks like him.”
I asked what this was all about.
“Shaddap! If we want any crap out of you we’ll tighten your shoelaces!”
So I shaddap while they carefully set my plastic cooler on the floor and slowwwwwly removed the cover.
“Hmmm. Looks like a tuna sandwich, a bottle of Gatorade, a bag of Cheetos and a box of Junior Mints.”
“Well, that’s better than that gawdawful smelly curry that dark guy was packing yesterday. Think this stuff could be bomb components? I don’t see no wires.”
“Ya never know. Don’t forget the Potroast Bomber Of Poughkeepsie that was all over the news last week. He had one of them printed circuits under the sliced potatoes and carrots. Turned out to be an old hearing aid that somehow fell in the stew, but you can’t be too careful.”
Again I asked what this was all about. This time I got an almost civil answer.
“Listen, bub. You match the profile of the Angry Old White Male, right down to your bifocals, bald head, black socks and Birkenstocks.”
“Well, he’s clean,” the other guard said, sounding disappointed.
His partner removed the cuffs and jabbed a finger in my chest. “Be more careful next time. What were you doing at a Little League game anyway? You got a grandkid here or something?”
No, I just happened by and needed a place to sit down for awhile.
“Well, you’re lucky we got to you first. Them Little League moms woulda torn you to pieces.”
Since then I've been trying to remember who said "Those who give up civil liberties for security lose both."
I don't like pot roast either.
* * *
...And so you said:
I wouldn't trust a person that doesn't like pot roast. -- Ldy
Well, it's okay if I can put teriyaki sauce on it. MB
Keep writing Mikeee. You are awesome -- Canids
Aww, you say that to all the produce.
Mike I always enjoy your mind and the pictures you paint in my mind with your words. maybe we can have a little feminine nudity and a few snickers in the near future?
Loved the relationship/comparison to the police profiling that happens in this world today and how it does not work. Used to when one was pulled over we were asked politely for a registration, proof of insurance and a valid drivers license. You may have a ticket coming but it was done with politeness unless you became a asshole, and then the cops revenge was to be nicer and write you more tickets.
Now a Command Voice is used on you and a command to place your hands on the steering wheel while your approached With Hand on Weapon to intimidate you. Yes I know it's a different world today and society as a whole is under attack, but still the police are not our representatives/protectors and servants, they are our keepers and have joined Washington in the attitude that they are above us as a class and do not have to live by the same rules and laws we do.
Not Sure whats really happening, but Amy, myself and our children are striving to find the America we used to know. We are seeking a small town atmosphere on a lake, and we think we have success in Oklahoma in a Cherokee environment.
Mike, Ole Bud, thanks for the grins and giggles on the 2nd story and have a great day. On June 1 we are floating from Quad Cities to New Orleans on the Mighty Miss in canoes and Kayaks , 96 miles a day 11 days .. Dont just grow old , have fun doing it The Boomers arent dead yet we just arent noticed any more! -- Nick and Misses Nick "aka My Amy"
”Those Who Sacrifice Liberty For Security Deserve Neither.” -- Benjamin Franklin
I wouldn't trust a person that doesn't like pot roast. -- Ldy
Well, it's okay if I can put teriyaki sauce on it. MB
Keep writing Mikeee. You are awesome -- Canids
Aww, you say that to all the produce.
Mike I always enjoy your mind and the pictures you paint in my mind with your words. maybe we can have a little feminine nudity and a few snickers in the near future?
Loved the relationship/comparison to the police profiling that happens in this world today and how it does not work. Used to when one was pulled over we were asked politely for a registration, proof of insurance and a valid drivers license. You may have a ticket coming but it was done with politeness unless you became a asshole, and then the cops revenge was to be nicer and write you more tickets.
Now a Command Voice is used on you and a command to place your hands on the steering wheel while your approached With Hand on Weapon to intimidate you. Yes I know it's a different world today and society as a whole is under attack, but still the police are not our representatives/protectors and servants, they are our keepers and have joined Washington in the attitude that they are above us as a class and do not have to live by the same rules and laws we do.
Not Sure whats really happening, but Amy, myself and our children are striving to find the America we used to know. We are seeking a small town atmosphere on a lake, and we think we have success in Oklahoma in a Cherokee environment.
Mike, Ole Bud, thanks for the grins and giggles on the 2nd story and have a great day. On June 1 we are floating from Quad Cities to New Orleans on the Mighty Miss in canoes and Kayaks , 96 miles a day 11 days .. Dont just grow old , have fun doing it The Boomers arent dead yet we just arent noticed any more! -- Nick and Misses Nick "aka My Amy"
”Those Who Sacrifice Liberty For Security Deserve Neither.” -- Benjamin Franklin
Above quote provided by CDB. Thank you.
“If a nation values anything more than freedom, it will lose its freedom; and the irony of it is, if it is comfort or money it values more, it will lose that, too.“ W. Somerset Maugham
I have this framed on my office wall at home. Good work, as usual, my friend. Thanks. -- Tom
You are a bright spot in my day. Keep going. And quit deleting the luv ya. -- Carol
Hysterical. -- Mary Pat
Do they really think a man in black socks and Birkenstocks would do something even remotely evil? I find that hard to believe. But keep writing. I'll believe anything you write (cough) -- Linda B
Yes, I do. Committing a fashion felony, for openers. MB
Mike, thank you for sending the T Times. Wonderful as always -- Liv.
Yes, I do. Committing a fashion felony, for openers. MB
Mike, thank you for sending the T Times. Wonderful as always -- Liv.
The people who founded this country were explicit about just this eventuality and tried to write our Constitution to prevent it. It appears our duly elected officials in Washington are doing everything in their power to circumvent these safeguards.
It's a sad state of affairs and one day maybe the human race will learn to deal with our shortcomings without resorting to force. -- Wht
Ok, now that we've read the script, we want to see the film, or the cartoon, rather! -- Gerard
I like the humor in this story. -- Ken
LOL Tomatomike. a BIG THANKS ONCE AGAIN!!.. for letting my imagination run free and wild! Hearts and Thoughts -- Pirate
Was this true???? -- Lynda
No. I like pot roast.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Rugs
The other night I was startled by the televised appearance of a local businessman I had known 20 years ago. He owns a piece of the National Basketball Association franchise here, the Sacramento Kings. That’s what the TV interview was about.
He also owns a piece of hair. Or what might pass as hair in a dim light. What I remembered as his thinning blond hair had been replaced with something that looked like a road kill skunk, minus the white stripe. In short, this guy was wearing the most obvious rug in captivity. That’s what startled me.
See, this guy is not a pauper who can't afford to accessorize. He’s a developer who’s built vast suburbs and a Hyatt Regency hotel in addition to owning a percentage of the Kings. You’d think he would buy a hairpiece that didn’t look like a failed experiment swept from the floor of a barber college. He could easily afford a head ornament from the Sean Connery Collection of Cranial Canvas, but no, he’s taken the badly paved road to a false economy and looks it.
I can sympathize. My own hairline has not just receded. It’s gone into wild retreat. I toyed with the idea of buying a rug in order to be attractive to a woman, then the voice of sweet reason whispered in my inner ear, “She’s gonna find out sometime, Ace. Better make it sooner than later. Later and she just might burst out laughing if the damn thing flops over on your face at a crucial time and ruins The Moment.”
Besides, as a woman told me, “If it falls off in a restaurant, the other diners will try to kill it.”
A barber who hated to lose any business counseled me to let the hair on the side of my head grow long enough to cover the nekkid part on top. Bad idea. That looks goofier than a cheap hairpiece and is even more obvious. Another barber suggested that a couple of combover strands might be a comforting illusion for me, but that would just make me look like a skinny Homer Simpson. Forget it.
I thought Bald Pride might be the way to go. I had barbers give me the quick Buzzed To Fuzz Special. Eventually I bought an electric clipper to do the job myself instead of spending ten bucks a pop to be shorn like a sheep. On cold days I wear a stylish beret or a woolen Navy watch cap at a jaunty angle and strut around like a grand boulevardier and the most vain of peacocks.
I even bought a license plate frame that read “The More Hair I Lose The More Head I Get” but a miffed Christian neighbor took offense and removed it.
Yet I am sometimes humbled when remembering the words of a tired cocktail waitress when a bald drinking buddy of mine told her, “Bald headed men are more virile.”
She sighed and said, “No, they aren’t. They just talk more.”
Some of us even write about it.
As for that developer, I know him to be a nice fella. I wish he would ditch the toup and let his head shine like a beacon of good will.
Besides, if it falls off in a restaurant, well......
Now I'll know what my Australian cowboy hat will be good for, when my hair gets so thin you can see my brain through it -- Gerard
Thanks, this is utterly charming. Just thought you should know! -- Kate.
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! -- Karen
Even though a hairpiece is something quite atrocious?
I enjoyed your essay on hair. I am glad that I still have my hair. When I weighed 225, my stomach stood out ahead of my chest. I lost 30 pounds but still have a thick waist. I suppose that if I exercised more, I might have a thinner waist. On the positive side, you and I are still alive and good things may happen to us. -- Ken
Donald Trump says he has a double comb over. Well, someone who analyzed his head in a picture said that's what it was. You could go for that, but I'd choose another color than orangutan. It's not even becoming on men with money. Keep writing. I'll keep reading and laughing. -- Linda B
David Letterman refers to Trump’s hair as “that thing on your head.”
Really enjoyed this one, Mike--and I wish you could get the Donald to read it! -- DA
This is one of my absolute favs, Mike. Very funny. This guy must have a relative named Donald, right? -- Sandy
Right!
You're going to think this odd but I'm on a Greyhound bus headed for Las Vegas as I write this. Lol, this ain't the 1950's Pomidoro man! -- QBman
Good luck in Vegas. Hope you don't get, uh, clipped, and have to hitch hike home.
Oh, Mike, how I love your stories. I really, really do! -- Tia
This was a good one. We were just talking about combovers at work last night. -- Julisari
You're hilarious! Why don't you send this to the New Yorker? -- Pamela
Flatterer.
.I liked 'the most obvious rug in captivity.' Thanks. -- Lady W
LOL. That was entertaining. -- Mary Pat
You should have seen the pilot I flew with when I was a co-pilot in B-52s. He wore an unmistakable rug, and was so vain that he would not take it off even when he flew. So, for 8 hours or so during flight he had his helmet on (and we usually sweat a lot under those helmets). At the end of the flight he kept his helmet on until he could finally get out of the plane and get to the men's room at base ops, where he would comb and rearrange his hair piece, and emerge with perfect hair and helmet under his arm. -- Mickey C.
Well, as long as he didn’t also touch up his eyebrows and lipstick while shooting an instrument approach, I guess he was harmless.
Some hair turns grey, some hair turns loose. That's all I have to say on the subject. -- Wht
He also owns a piece of hair. Or what might pass as hair in a dim light. What I remembered as his thinning blond hair had been replaced with something that looked like a road kill skunk, minus the white stripe. In short, this guy was wearing the most obvious rug in captivity. That’s what startled me.
See, this guy is not a pauper who can't afford to accessorize. He’s a developer who’s built vast suburbs and a Hyatt Regency hotel in addition to owning a percentage of the Kings. You’d think he would buy a hairpiece that didn’t look like a failed experiment swept from the floor of a barber college. He could easily afford a head ornament from the Sean Connery Collection of Cranial Canvas, but no, he’s taken the badly paved road to a false economy and looks it.
I can sympathize. My own hairline has not just receded. It’s gone into wild retreat. I toyed with the idea of buying a rug in order to be attractive to a woman, then the voice of sweet reason whispered in my inner ear, “She’s gonna find out sometime, Ace. Better make it sooner than later. Later and she just might burst out laughing if the damn thing flops over on your face at a crucial time and ruins The Moment.”
Besides, as a woman told me, “If it falls off in a restaurant, the other diners will try to kill it.”
A barber who hated to lose any business counseled me to let the hair on the side of my head grow long enough to cover the nekkid part on top. Bad idea. That looks goofier than a cheap hairpiece and is even more obvious. Another barber suggested that a couple of combover strands might be a comforting illusion for me, but that would just make me look like a skinny Homer Simpson. Forget it.
I thought Bald Pride might be the way to go. I had barbers give me the quick Buzzed To Fuzz Special. Eventually I bought an electric clipper to do the job myself instead of spending ten bucks a pop to be shorn like a sheep. On cold days I wear a stylish beret or a woolen Navy watch cap at a jaunty angle and strut around like a grand boulevardier and the most vain of peacocks.
I even bought a license plate frame that read “The More Hair I Lose The More Head I Get” but a miffed Christian neighbor took offense and removed it.
Yet I am sometimes humbled when remembering the words of a tired cocktail waitress when a bald drinking buddy of mine told her, “Bald headed men are more virile.”
She sighed and said, “No, they aren’t. They just talk more.”
Some of us even write about it.
As for that developer, I know him to be a nice fella. I wish he would ditch the toup and let his head shine like a beacon of good will.
Besides, if it falls off in a restaurant, well......
* * *
Comments?
Funny. The day before I left, a neighbor suggested that I dye my hair and the very next day (the day I left!) a woman in the airport told me how much fun I'd have with "the bottles." I like your jauntiness, your highness. -- Thea
LOL Tomato. No lie! As I clicked to read this story, my husband opened the door and shouted out, "I brought you home a rug to use your ab exerciser on." Another cute write, you! -- Pirate
Wonderful, and more wonderfuller. Love your timing. Lust for your sentences. Plus the hair thing is funny. -- Galen
Aw shucks. I thank you and my surviving hairs thank you.
I dated a man a long time ago who was going bald and went for the shave-his-head-with-a-razor technique. I thought it was pretty spiffy, and I thought it equally spiffy that he made up for his lack of hair on top with a grand mustache and a fancy goatee that looked like a work of art. He was a striking looking guy. Now, if only his looks had compensated for the fact that he turned out to be a prick. Oh well. Sometimes there's just no way to make a dumbass fine, no matter how handsome a package it comes in. Great writing as always. -- Zoey
What a terrific story, Mike! -- Amanda
Funny. The day before I left, a neighbor suggested that I dye my hair and the very next day (the day I left!) a woman in the airport told me how much fun I'd have with "the bottles." I like your jauntiness, your highness. -- Thea
LOL Tomato. No lie! As I clicked to read this story, my husband opened the door and shouted out, "I brought you home a rug to use your ab exerciser on." Another cute write, you! -- Pirate
Wonderful, and more wonderfuller. Love your timing. Lust for your sentences. Plus the hair thing is funny. -- Galen
Aw shucks. I thank you and my surviving hairs thank you.
I dated a man a long time ago who was going bald and went for the shave-his-head-with-a-razor technique. I thought it was pretty spiffy, and I thought it equally spiffy that he made up for his lack of hair on top with a grand mustache and a fancy goatee that looked like a work of art. He was a striking looking guy. Now, if only his looks had compensated for the fact that he turned out to be a prick. Oh well. Sometimes there's just no way to make a dumbass fine, no matter how handsome a package it comes in. Great writing as always. -- Zoey
What a terrific story, Mike! -- Amanda
To the point: What is hard for our generation is we once were longhairs, unlike our fathers.The guy's codpiece only tells me god has a sense of humor. There are many forms of self annhilation. Your writing , always good, is seeming even more fluid, perhaps the natural outcome of hearing ones own voice, and haven given up on defense mechanisms to ball up perceptions. Keep going, and know I always enjoy your sketches, scenes and scenarios. They have that feel of substance. -- Peter Kidd aka Ig Bear
Thank you, Peter. Took me a long time to hear that voice and commit it to print. Up to that point I tried to commit literature. The result would have gotten me a membership in Pompous Anonymous. Then I learned to write for the readers’s ear and not the term paper eye, sentence fragments and all. Took lots of practice. Stll does.
Bravo. Nobody I know who sets out to make literature actually succeeds. Sometimes even poets don't get it often. Be a humble writer and let the rest take care of itself. -- Ig
Thanks again. Humility is harder for me to learn than committing literature.
You never cease to amaze and amuse me. Please, never stop. I agree with one of the other posts, you should write a book. -- Carol
Thank you, Peter. Took me a long time to hear that voice and commit it to print. Up to that point I tried to commit literature. The result would have gotten me a membership in Pompous Anonymous. Then I learned to write for the readers’s ear and not the term paper eye, sentence fragments and all. Took lots of practice. Stll does.
Bravo. Nobody I know who sets out to make literature actually succeeds. Sometimes even poets don't get it often. Be a humble writer and let the rest take care of itself. -- Ig
Thanks again. Humility is harder for me to learn than committing literature.
You never cease to amaze and amuse me. Please, never stop. I agree with one of the other posts, you should write a book. -- Carol
Now I'll know what my Australian cowboy hat will be good for, when my hair gets so thin you can see my brain through it -- Gerard
Thanks, this is utterly charming. Just thought you should know! -- Kate.
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! -- Karen
Even though a hairpiece is something quite atrocious?
I enjoyed your essay on hair. I am glad that I still have my hair. When I weighed 225, my stomach stood out ahead of my chest. I lost 30 pounds but still have a thick waist. I suppose that if I exercised more, I might have a thinner waist. On the positive side, you and I are still alive and good things may happen to us. -- Ken
Donald Trump says he has a double comb over. Well, someone who analyzed his head in a picture said that's what it was. You could go for that, but I'd choose another color than orangutan. It's not even becoming on men with money. Keep writing. I'll keep reading and laughing. -- Linda B
David Letterman refers to Trump’s hair as “that thing on your head.”
Really enjoyed this one, Mike--and I wish you could get the Donald to read it! -- DA
This is one of my absolute favs, Mike. Very funny. This guy must have a relative named Donald, right? -- Sandy
Right!
You're going to think this odd but I'm on a Greyhound bus headed for Las Vegas as I write this. Lol, this ain't the 1950's Pomidoro man! -- QBman
Good luck in Vegas. Hope you don't get, uh, clipped, and have to hitch hike home.
Oh, Mike, how I love your stories. I really, really do! -- Tia
This was a good one. We were just talking about combovers at work last night. -- Julisari
You're hilarious! Why don't you send this to the New Yorker? -- Pamela
Flatterer.
.I liked 'the most obvious rug in captivity.' Thanks. -- Lady W
LOL. That was entertaining. -- Mary Pat
You should have seen the pilot I flew with when I was a co-pilot in B-52s. He wore an unmistakable rug, and was so vain that he would not take it off even when he flew. So, for 8 hours or so during flight he had his helmet on (and we usually sweat a lot under those helmets). At the end of the flight he kept his helmet on until he could finally get out of the plane and get to the men's room at base ops, where he would comb and rearrange his hair piece, and emerge with perfect hair and helmet under his arm. -- Mickey C.
Well, as long as he didn’t also touch up his eyebrows and lipstick while shooting an instrument approach, I guess he was harmless.
Some hair turns grey, some hair turns loose. That's all I have to say on the subject. -- Wht
In my case, both.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
A Birthday Of Books
Last Monday I became one year shy of my allotted three-score-and-ten by having another birthday. My birthday loot included an armload of books. I love books. Always have. I even went to book college and got two commercially useless degrees in the reading of books. Now that’s real love.
Sometimes I prefer books to people. There are reasons for this. Books never borrow money, break promises, give unwanted advice or get jealous of other books on your shelves. Another plus: once you’ve enjoyed them, you can nod off without having to sleep on a wet spot.
Books can transport you to any point in the universe without making you take off your shoes and get petted by a TSA person prior to departure. I mean, you can still take off your shoes and get petted before reading a book if that’s your thing, but it’s a personal choice and not a government regulation enforced by people who are paid to pet other people in socks.
You don’t even have to leave home to enjoy a book, unless it’s to go to the library to get more books. I treasure my library card more than my credit card.
Unlike credit card companies, public libraries don’t charge interest and send huffy letters when books are overdue. Instead libraries politely inquire with “Have you forgotten?” notices written with motherly concern.
Libraries do have fines for overdue books of course, but it’s chump change compared to the extortion demanded by credit card companies for overdue payments. You get the impression that if you don’t cough up the overdue amount plus interest and fees, the credit card company will have people with names like Guido and No Neck kneecap your credit rating with Louisville Sluggers.
Local governments can be a threat to books. Public libraries are the most vulnerable of services when budget time rears its snarling head. The result is often reduced staff, limited hours and fewer purchases of new books.
The electronic medium is also eating away at the printed word. Television has already chewed a big chunk out of the newspaper industry, even though the script for a 30 minute newscast would not fill a single column of the newspaper you used to read.
Personal computers with Internet capability are also nibbling their way into the print medium, but in some cases, marriages of convenience are arranged between books and computers. Libraries that can afford computers have digitalized their card catalogues, although those big varnished cabinets with their drawers of Dewey Decimaled cards still have a prominent spot in libraries. They're usually near a reference desk or a counter with a real human being behind it, a kindly person who can patiently direct you to the book with the answer to your goofiest question. Such people are saints.
You can order books on-line, and even read them on your computer with some services, but reading them on a glowing screen lacks the comforting feel of a hefty hardback in your hands.
Books can also decorate a room and make their owner seem scholarly and wise. A room full of computer screens will brand their owner as a nerd. Plus books don’t go dark during power failures and are not subject to having their contents erased by a computer virus or an electronic bug. The only bugs books get are silverfish and maybe a stray spider, but both are easily dispatched without having to call someone in Bangalore or Manila for customer service.
I agree with a 19th Century writer named Edward George Bulwer-Lytton who wrote “Master books but do not let them master you. Read to live, not live to read.”
But then, he was also the author of the line “It was a dark and stormy night,” so I wouldn’t make too much book on his counsel.
They'll make a nice permanent memory.
Wonderful stuff. You make me want to grab a book and find a well-lit comfortable spot. Too much time on the computer these days. -- Mike C.
As always Mike thanks. Some write some do. I had to quit writing before I became so huge as to be house bound. The next adventure is from St Paul to New Orleans By Canoe and Kayak. You are invited to come along -- Nick
Wonderful article about the value of books, those actual items of written word that nestle in your hands and your eyes can feast on the words. I love books. My life would not be complete without them. I am not into the electronic reading things, myself. I prefer to hold a real book in my hands. Thanks Mike for another terrific essay. -- Peggy
Always enjoy the arrival of Tomatoman Times in my emai box. -- Ldy
Always a treat, Mike. I have arthritis in my hands that makes holding a book and turning pages very difficult. I read almost exclusively on the computer now, and I miss the feel of books in my hot little hands! -- Linda
So nice to have a new Tomatoman Times! -- Diane
Happy Birthday, fellow Aries! I've come to love my Kindle more than actual books. Hope all is well with you -- Babe/Cyn
Thank alla yas for the kind words. Hell, thanks for reading this stuff in the first place. MB
Sometimes I prefer books to people. There are reasons for this. Books never borrow money, break promises, give unwanted advice or get jealous of other books on your shelves. Another plus: once you’ve enjoyed them, you can nod off without having to sleep on a wet spot.
Books can transport you to any point in the universe without making you take off your shoes and get petted by a TSA person prior to departure. I mean, you can still take off your shoes and get petted before reading a book if that’s your thing, but it’s a personal choice and not a government regulation enforced by people who are paid to pet other people in socks.
You don’t even have to leave home to enjoy a book, unless it’s to go to the library to get more books. I treasure my library card more than my credit card.
Unlike credit card companies, public libraries don’t charge interest and send huffy letters when books are overdue. Instead libraries politely inquire with “Have you forgotten?” notices written with motherly concern.
Libraries do have fines for overdue books of course, but it’s chump change compared to the extortion demanded by credit card companies for overdue payments. You get the impression that if you don’t cough up the overdue amount plus interest and fees, the credit card company will have people with names like Guido and No Neck kneecap your credit rating with Louisville Sluggers.
Local governments can be a threat to books. Public libraries are the most vulnerable of services when budget time rears its snarling head. The result is often reduced staff, limited hours and fewer purchases of new books.
The electronic medium is also eating away at the printed word. Television has already chewed a big chunk out of the newspaper industry, even though the script for a 30 minute newscast would not fill a single column of the newspaper you used to read.
Personal computers with Internet capability are also nibbling their way into the print medium, but in some cases, marriages of convenience are arranged between books and computers. Libraries that can afford computers have digitalized their card catalogues, although those big varnished cabinets with their drawers of Dewey Decimaled cards still have a prominent spot in libraries. They're usually near a reference desk or a counter with a real human being behind it, a kindly person who can patiently direct you to the book with the answer to your goofiest question. Such people are saints.
You can order books on-line, and even read them on your computer with some services, but reading them on a glowing screen lacks the comforting feel of a hefty hardback in your hands.
Books can also decorate a room and make their owner seem scholarly and wise. A room full of computer screens will brand their owner as a nerd. Plus books don’t go dark during power failures and are not subject to having their contents erased by a computer virus or an electronic bug. The only bugs books get are silverfish and maybe a stray spider, but both are easily dispatched without having to call someone in Bangalore or Manila for customer service.
I agree with a 19th Century writer named Edward George Bulwer-Lytton who wrote “Master books but do not let them master you. Read to live, not live to read.”
But then, he was also the author of the line “It was a dark and stormy night,” so I wouldn’t make too much book on his counsel.
* * *
Some pals write:
Oh, Mike, how I love your stories .... I really, really do! -- Tia
Thanks for these. Always great to read them. -- Angel
Oh, Mike, how I love your stories .... I really, really do! -- Tia
Thanks for these. Always great to read them. -- Angel
I enjoyed reading the essay and love having time to read books now that I am retired. Happy birthday. Some of my cartoons will be published in my college class's 50th reunion book. -- Ken
They'll make a nice permanent memory.
Wonderful stuff. You make me want to grab a book and find a well-lit comfortable spot. Too much time on the computer these days. -- Mike C.
As always Mike thanks. Some write some do. I had to quit writing before I became so huge as to be house bound. The next adventure is from St Paul to New Orleans By Canoe and Kayak. You are invited to come along -- Nick
No thanks. For me, a trip to the mailbox is all I can manage.
Such a well-woven together essay; you never cease to impress me. -- Galen
Thank you. I know you are not easily impressed.
As much as I fancy computers and keyboards, I still find great comfort in writing out longhand all kinds of things I think about in my journal from time to time, and on my shelves are past ones, full now, next to poems and favorite books. A line of computer-generated stuff just isn't the same kind of comfort, is it? -- Zoey
Nope.
So? When can we see all this in a nice bound volume? -- Larry
That’s a good question.
Another priceless gem, Mike! Thanks for sending another great piece my way. -- Amanda
I enjoyed this, Mike. Happy birthday, Buddy. Nice to see you're still doing this. Say hi to Jerry [Brown] next time you're downtown and tell him Scotty Miller's keeping the faith in Seattle. I hope he can fix some of what's broken. -- Rusty
Knowing the good governor, he’ll make things worse with good intentions.
Zounds! Many happy returns of the day. Good TT! -- Albert
Love the kind words about books and libraries -- Karen
Excellent. -- CDB
In my eyes, you are like a good book! Thanks, for another good read -- P&P
Thanks for sending! -- Eve
Thank you for the break -- Carol
Always a treat, Mike. I have arthritis in my hands that makes holding a book and turning pages very difficult. I read almost exclusively on the computer now, and I miss the feel of books in my hot little hands! -- Linda
So nice to have a new Tomatoman Times! -- Diane
Happy Birthday, fellow Aries! I've come to love my Kindle more than actual books. Hope all is well with you -- Babe/Cyn
Happy Birthday, Mike! -- Pamela
Sooo good. I lol'd, literally, and I really needed to do that today. Thanks.
P.S. I'm sharing to Facebook, with or without your permission. -- SumWonderful article about the value of books, those actual items of written word that nestle in your hands and your eyes can feast on the words. I love books. My life would not be complete without them. I am not into the electronic reading things, myself. I prefer to hold a real book in my hands. Thanks Mike for another terrific essay. -- Peggy
Always enjoy the arrival of Tomatoman Times in my emai box. -- Ldy
Always a treat, Mike. I have arthritis in my hands that makes holding a book and turning pages very difficult. I read almost exclusively on the computer now, and I miss the feel of books in my hot little hands! -- Linda
So nice to have a new Tomatoman Times! -- Diane
Happy Birthday, fellow Aries! I've come to love my Kindle more than actual books. Hope all is well with you -- Babe/Cyn
Thank alla yas for the kind words. Hell, thanks for reading this stuff in the first place. MB
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Goldie, Buddha & Me
Goldie Hawn doesn’t know it, but she jumpstarted my freelance writing career when the production company for her movie Protocol came to Sacramento in 1984. The plot was centered in Washington D.C. The producer, Anthea Sylbert (Chinatown, Rosemary’s Baby, Day Of The Dophin), wanted a location that looked enough like Washington D.C. to spare the expense of moving cast, crew, and equipment to the nation's capital for a single scene requiring a backdrop of Greek Revival government buildings. There are two of them in Sacramento, facing each other on the Capitol Mall traffic circle across the street from the capitol itself. Just the setting the producer wanted.
At the time I was in a period of creative repose, a polite way of saying unemployed, when a buddy called saying a movie company was coming to town and hiring locals as extras. "They want people who look like anonymous bureaucrats," she said. "I thought of you right away. I mean, you were an anonymous bureaucrat for eleven years, so you don’t even need an acting coach. Just be yourself."
Gee thanks.
"You get $50 and a catered lunch."
That clinched it. I asked if I should have my people call their people.
"Very funny. Look, one of the associate producers is screening people at the state employment office tomorrow. Wear your sincere suit, the blue pinstriped one."
I showed up at the employment office five minutes after it opened. A handwritten sign had been taped to the door stating all the movie extra positions had been filled -- probably by employment office staff plus their friends and relatives -- but I saw this as a karmic test. Buddha dwells everywhere, even in adversity. So, if I couldn’t be immortalized on the silver screen and get $50 and a free lunch, I could at least write about the local people chosen as extras and peddle the story to a regional magazine.
But Buddha wasn’t done with me yet. The scene was being filmed in a small park within sight of the state capitol, and I was persona non grata. "This is a closed set," the unit publicist told me when I showed up in my sincere suit with an expired press pass on my lapel and a 35 mm camera slung from my neck. "No media allowed," she said. Some publicist. A uniformed cop moved closer in case I made a fuss.
I later learned the film had drawn the ire of Muammar Khaddafy’s Libyan government for its portrayal of a Muslim diplomat’s attraction to an American cocktail waitress, a blasphemous American temptress who serves forbidden liquor played by Ms. Hawn. Worse yet, Ms. Hawn is Jewish. Not only that, but Ms. Hawn is a practicing Buddhist. That made her a triple infidel in the eyes of the Prophet Mohammed's nutcase disciple in Libya.
So what did that have to do with me, a publicist and a cop on the other side of the world? Well, since the movie was also being filmed in Libya, Khaddafy’s displeasure had real traction with the U.S. Department of State -- and with the cast and crew who needed Libyan visas stamped on their passports. The last thing the producer wanted was publicity at this stage of the game, any publicity, even the kind generated by a bush league freelancer in a pinstriped suit.
I was blissfully ignorant of all this fuss, but it would not have made a bit of difference if I had known. Opportunity was not just knocking on my door, it was hammering with an iron fist. I made a big show out of looking around at the assembled crowd. "Doesn’t look very closed to me," I said. "Anyway, I just want to talk to some local extras and be on my way."
In other words, leave me alone and I won’t make waves. Not that I could, but this Hollywood gofer didn’t know that. Besides, I had Buddha in my corner. No way I was giving up this contest of wills, especially after being aced of $50 and a free lunch.
The publicist decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. She shrugged and walked away. Since she wasn’t making a fuss, the cop didn't make one either. He swaggered away, probably thinking all reporters should be required to wear shrouds, like medieval lepers, and clang hand bells while shouting "Unclean! Unclean!" when venturing out among decent people. Most cops feel that way about reporters. Hell, I sometimes feel that way about reporters myself.
The production company was quite a production in itself. Big windowless buses were parked up and down Ninth Street across from the capitol, along with 40’ trailers that served as dressing and conference rooms. One of the trailers contained a kennel housing two Afghan hounds that were needed for the scene. Extras, grips and technicians with earbud radios milled around, looking important. A man later identified as the director, Herbert Ross (Funny Girl, The Sunshine Boys), was stripped to the waist and doing pushups on the Capitol Mall lawn.
One guy wearing a baseball cap and who needed a shave was sitting on a plastic cooler reading a newspaper. The unshaven dude was not an actor, but I recognized him anyway. He was the screenwriter.
"So, this is what writers do when they’re not writing," I said.
"We read," Buck Henry said in an annoyed tone. Bad enough that he was stuck in this goddamn boring government town, but he had to put up with chatty locals in sincere suits as well. There oughta be a law.
No matter. While I was duly impressed with seeing the screenwriter who scripted The Graduate, I was here to interview the Sacramento based talent, not yak it up with the Grand Panjandrums.
I singled out three of the locals. One was an attractive middle-aged woman in a peasant dress who sat in the shade reading a hardbound book, her long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. I imagined she was a retired teacher who volunteered at a public library and organized coffee klatches for Walter Mondale supporters. I asked her about that. She looked up from her book. "No," she said, amused. "I’m involved with Little Theater. That’s how I heard about this." She returned to her book. The other two extras were an off duty deputy sheriff and another man in a period of creative repose, like me. Neither was very talkative. I guess they were getting in touch with their Inner Extras before the cameras rolled.
Then the star emerged from her trailer. The cast and crew jumped into action. The publicist hustled over to Ms. Hawn and pointed me out. Ms. Hawn gave me a look of critical appraisal, perhaps thinking I was a State Department snitch in that stupid blue suit. I imagine she mentally gave me the finger.
The scene required the use of three huge cameras and an array of arc lights despite the cloudless sunny day. A string of locally owned late model cars had been corralled and fitted with fake Virginia, Maryland and D.C. license plates to circle the mall during filming. Extras in their sincere suits accessorized with briefcases walked purposefully to and fro.
Finished with his push-ups, Mr. Ross took control and called for action. The cars circled, the extras extraed, the Afghan hounds hounded. The dogs were released to run across the lawn with Ms. Hawn in pursuit. Her character was supposed to be taking care of them. Then she tripped and landed butt first on the grass, laughing. Cut and print. That was it. All that prep, all those cars, all those those extras, and all those free lunches for less than 10 seconds on the screen.
I went home and wrote up the story, which was accepted by a local magazine. Not only was the story accepted, but I was accepted too. The publisher hired me to be the managing editor. Unfortunately, the magazine went bankrupt the month I was hired. Even so, a credit is a credit and it opened the doors to other publications.
So, thank you, Ms. Hawn.
Still, I wish I could’ve gotten $50 and a free lunch.
Comments, critiques, threats:
No matter which stories you tell, your lovely, easy going voice shines. -- Mimi
Thank you, Mimi. It took me a long time to learn to write for the reader's inner ear instead of trying to commit literature in deathess prose. Or deadening prose. MB
_____
....you never fail to make me smile, make me think, entertain me - Zoey
You can reprise this one any time you like. Eventually Goldie will hear it and probably ask you on a date. -- Shag
Or actually give me the finger this time. -- MB
_____
Thanks for sending, Mike, I enjoyed it! -- Bob
_____
I landed a major book deal with film interest. Man got mugged in Washington State 10 years ago-- became a savant from the brain injury. You can't make it up :) -- Maureen
_____
I enjoyed your article on movie extras. My daughter, 29, and her husband recently moved to L.A. to seek their fortune in the entertainment industry. She managed to get a job as a waitress and a temporary, part-time job acting as a wife in distress on the radio. I would like her to succeed as a writer or actress, but at this point would be very relieved if she and her husband had health insurance. -- Ken
_____
I loved it, Mike. I wish you'd write more. -- Linda
_____
Oh hell. You're back. Why don't you get a day job, you hack? -- ZipLePrune
_____
Another wonderful read! -- Juli
_____
I greatly enjoyed your recollections about Goldie, but I must correct one fact: Buck Henry did not direct The Graduate, Mike Nichols did. Buck, however, was the official screenwriter on the movie -- Condor
Correction made. Thanks! -- MB
At the time I was in a period of creative repose, a polite way of saying unemployed, when a buddy called saying a movie company was coming to town and hiring locals as extras. "They want people who look like anonymous bureaucrats," she said. "I thought of you right away. I mean, you were an anonymous bureaucrat for eleven years, so you don’t even need an acting coach. Just be yourself."
Gee thanks.
"You get $50 and a catered lunch."
That clinched it. I asked if I should have my people call their people.
"Very funny. Look, one of the associate producers is screening people at the state employment office tomorrow. Wear your sincere suit, the blue pinstriped one."
I showed up at the employment office five minutes after it opened. A handwritten sign had been taped to the door stating all the movie extra positions had been filled -- probably by employment office staff plus their friends and relatives -- but I saw this as a karmic test. Buddha dwells everywhere, even in adversity. So, if I couldn’t be immortalized on the silver screen and get $50 and a free lunch, I could at least write about the local people chosen as extras and peddle the story to a regional magazine.
But Buddha wasn’t done with me yet. The scene was being filmed in a small park within sight of the state capitol, and I was persona non grata. "This is a closed set," the unit publicist told me when I showed up in my sincere suit with an expired press pass on my lapel and a 35 mm camera slung from my neck. "No media allowed," she said. Some publicist. A uniformed cop moved closer in case I made a fuss.
I later learned the film had drawn the ire of Muammar Khaddafy’s Libyan government for its portrayal of a Muslim diplomat’s attraction to an American cocktail waitress, a blasphemous American temptress who serves forbidden liquor played by Ms. Hawn. Worse yet, Ms. Hawn is Jewish. Not only that, but Ms. Hawn is a practicing Buddhist. That made her a triple infidel in the eyes of the Prophet Mohammed's nutcase disciple in Libya.
So what did that have to do with me, a publicist and a cop on the other side of the world? Well, since the movie was also being filmed in Libya, Khaddafy’s displeasure had real traction with the U.S. Department of State -- and with the cast and crew who needed Libyan visas stamped on their passports. The last thing the producer wanted was publicity at this stage of the game, any publicity, even the kind generated by a bush league freelancer in a pinstriped suit.
I was blissfully ignorant of all this fuss, but it would not have made a bit of difference if I had known. Opportunity was not just knocking on my door, it was hammering with an iron fist. I made a big show out of looking around at the assembled crowd. "Doesn’t look very closed to me," I said. "Anyway, I just want to talk to some local extras and be on my way."
In other words, leave me alone and I won’t make waves. Not that I could, but this Hollywood gofer didn’t know that. Besides, I had Buddha in my corner. No way I was giving up this contest of wills, especially after being aced of $50 and a free lunch.
The publicist decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. She shrugged and walked away. Since she wasn’t making a fuss, the cop didn't make one either. He swaggered away, probably thinking all reporters should be required to wear shrouds, like medieval lepers, and clang hand bells while shouting "Unclean! Unclean!" when venturing out among decent people. Most cops feel that way about reporters. Hell, I sometimes feel that way about reporters myself.
The production company was quite a production in itself. Big windowless buses were parked up and down Ninth Street across from the capitol, along with 40’ trailers that served as dressing and conference rooms. One of the trailers contained a kennel housing two Afghan hounds that were needed for the scene. Extras, grips and technicians with earbud radios milled around, looking important. A man later identified as the director, Herbert Ross (Funny Girl, The Sunshine Boys), was stripped to the waist and doing pushups on the Capitol Mall lawn.
One guy wearing a baseball cap and who needed a shave was sitting on a plastic cooler reading a newspaper. The unshaven dude was not an actor, but I recognized him anyway. He was the screenwriter.
"So, this is what writers do when they’re not writing," I said.
"We read," Buck Henry said in an annoyed tone. Bad enough that he was stuck in this goddamn boring government town, but he had to put up with chatty locals in sincere suits as well. There oughta be a law.
No matter. While I was duly impressed with seeing the screenwriter who scripted The Graduate, I was here to interview the Sacramento based talent, not yak it up with the Grand Panjandrums.
I singled out three of the locals. One was an attractive middle-aged woman in a peasant dress who sat in the shade reading a hardbound book, her long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. I imagined she was a retired teacher who volunteered at a public library and organized coffee klatches for Walter Mondale supporters. I asked her about that. She looked up from her book. "No," she said, amused. "I’m involved with Little Theater. That’s how I heard about this." She returned to her book. The other two extras were an off duty deputy sheriff and another man in a period of creative repose, like me. Neither was very talkative. I guess they were getting in touch with their Inner Extras before the cameras rolled.
Then the star emerged from her trailer. The cast and crew jumped into action. The publicist hustled over to Ms. Hawn and pointed me out. Ms. Hawn gave me a look of critical appraisal, perhaps thinking I was a State Department snitch in that stupid blue suit. I imagine she mentally gave me the finger.
The scene required the use of three huge cameras and an array of arc lights despite the cloudless sunny day. A string of locally owned late model cars had been corralled and fitted with fake Virginia, Maryland and D.C. license plates to circle the mall during filming. Extras in their sincere suits accessorized with briefcases walked purposefully to and fro.
Finished with his push-ups, Mr. Ross took control and called for action. The cars circled, the extras extraed, the Afghan hounds hounded. The dogs were released to run across the lawn with Ms. Hawn in pursuit. Her character was supposed to be taking care of them. Then she tripped and landed butt first on the grass, laughing. Cut and print. That was it. All that prep, all those cars, all those those extras, and all those free lunches for less than 10 seconds on the screen.
I went home and wrote up the story, which was accepted by a local magazine. Not only was the story accepted, but I was accepted too. The publisher hired me to be the managing editor. Unfortunately, the magazine went bankrupt the month I was hired. Even so, a credit is a credit and it opened the doors to other publications.
So, thank you, Ms. Hawn.
Still, I wish I could’ve gotten $50 and a free lunch.
-o-
Comments, critiques, threats:
No matter which stories you tell, your lovely, easy going voice shines. -- Mimi
Thank you, Mimi. It took me a long time to learn to write for the reader's inner ear instead of trying to commit literature in deathess prose. Or deadening prose. MB
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....you never fail to make me smile, make me think, entertain me - Zoey
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I really enjoyed that. -- Trog
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Or actually give me the finger this time. -- MB
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Thanks for sending, Mike, I enjoyed it! -- Bob
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I landed a major book deal with film interest. Man got mugged in Washington State 10 years ago-- became a savant from the brain injury. You can't make it up :) -- Maureen
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I enjoyed your article on movie extras. My daughter, 29, and her husband recently moved to L.A. to seek their fortune in the entertainment industry. She managed to get a job as a waitress and a temporary, part-time job acting as a wife in distress on the radio. I would like her to succeed as a writer or actress, but at this point would be very relieved if she and her husband had health insurance. -- Ken
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I loved it, Mike. I wish you'd write more. -- Linda
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Oh hell. You're back. Why don't you get a day job, you hack? -- ZipLePrune
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Another wonderful read! -- Juli
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I greatly enjoyed your recollections about Goldie, but I must correct one fact: Buck Henry did not direct The Graduate, Mike Nichols did. Buck, however, was the official screenwriter on the movie -- Condor
Correction made. Thanks! -- MB
Friday, July 20, 2012
The Battered Battery Syndrome
I have a Zen-like belief that if my car doesn’t want to take me someplace, maybe it’s better that I don't go. Today my car did not want to take me to the battery store. I wanted to go to the battery store because the car’s battery has been acting like a sullen teenager lately, only working part time and grudgingly at that. So I thought it needed replacing.
Sullen batteries are easier to replace than sullen teenagers. I know. I was a sullen teenager. There were times when my parents wished they could replace me with a battery. Unlike sullen teenagers, batteries don’t eat everything not frozen solid, don't break curfew, and don't get other batteries pregnant with little batteries. Not that I got any batteries pregnant, you understand, but that was then and this was now, and now my Zen thinking was in conflict with my desire for automotive mobility. It was quite an internal crisis. For both the battery and for me.
Anyway, I thought I had charged the battery with a 100 mile drive last week, but when I tried to start the car today, the engine said “crick crick.” See, it’s a Japanese car, and Japanese cars don’t say “click click” when the battery is acting like a sullen teenager and refuses to start the car. They say…well…you get the picture.
But out of the mud may bloom the lotus. It’s possible that my sullen teenaged battery may have saved me from a gruesome wreck on the way to the battery store. I thought about being squashed into road kill by a speeding big rig whose driver was so hopped up on truck stop coffee that he thought my car was a speed bump. I puddled up at the thought my untimely demise. Poor Mike. Cut down in the prime of his senility. Then I wiped away my tears and blew my nose in a Handi Wipe or maybe on the nearest sleeve and tried to start the car again. “Crunk,” it said, and that was that.
Okay. I can take a hint. I called the Insurance Angel whose company provides roadside assistance. This was my third call this month. We’re getting to be old friends.
“You again,” she said. “What is it this time?”
I told her my car would not start. It sat there like a sullen teenager and muttered ’crunk’ the last time I turned the key.
She let out a sigh that crossed state lines. “Ooookay, Mister Brownie. I’ll call a tow company. Again. And stop buying cars that don’t speak English.”
As it happened, my car did not need a tow. Just a shot of battery Viagra from a more virile battery that worked out consistently and ate a lot of battery vitamins, which the tow company truck provided.
“You again,” the driver said. “Why don’t you get a battery with better manners?”
That’s just what I did when I finally got to the battery store.
“You again,” said the battery man, then he took the battery’s pulse and blood pressure. The prognosis was not good. “Your battery terminals are terminal,” he said, and got me another battery. This battery recently finished a stint in battery rehab, “but I can’t guarantee that it won’t relapse,” said the battery man.
Well, if this battery won’t start my car, maybe it’s my car’s karma. But it did, and me and the car were as happy as Buddha under a Bo tree.
Comments?
"Prime of your senility" Dang, you're younger than I am and I'm NOT senile. Always fun to read your stories. -- Carol M.
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You again? By the way, I think our cars are related. -- Beatysr
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Ahaaaaa loved it -- Juli
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I enjoyed reading your column. I am delighted with my low tire pressure light that has kept me from having a flat tire on 3 occasions. -- Ken
Thanks, Ken. I dunno about having a car smarter than I am.
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I'll probably never look at little batteries the same, again -- Pirate
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Crick? Pretty funny Mike -- Lynda
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Cutest one yet! -- Tab A
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Laughing so hard I ....well you know. That was one of the funniest ever. Good job! -- Mary Pat
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Entertaining as always.
You know, I had to chuckle. First, my AAA man knows me by my first name because for some reason I obstinately will not put a key box magnet on my car somewhere or keep an extra key in my really tiny purses. I simply get out of the car and leave the keys in the ignition enough times that when I call AAA, the man says "Hi, Zoey. How have you been...I mean, other than today when you locked your keys in your car again?"
So, I chuckled at your piece. We know something's going wrong but we just put it off a little longer. We make love to it with our voices as though it was a familiar lover with no intention of failing to make you come just like he always does. Well, perhaps a bad analogy, but that's where my head...uh...my mind was.
Anyway...thanks for the smile, Mike -- Zoey
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Funny, as usual. You're such a joy to read. -- Amanda
_____
You sure know how to turn a demi-tragedy into a good comedy -- Karen S.
Sullen batteries are easier to replace than sullen teenagers. I know. I was a sullen teenager. There were times when my parents wished they could replace me with a battery. Unlike sullen teenagers, batteries don’t eat everything not frozen solid, don't break curfew, and don't get other batteries pregnant with little batteries. Not that I got any batteries pregnant, you understand, but that was then and this was now, and now my Zen thinking was in conflict with my desire for automotive mobility. It was quite an internal crisis. For both the battery and for me.
Anyway, I thought I had charged the battery with a 100 mile drive last week, but when I tried to start the car today, the engine said “crick crick.” See, it’s a Japanese car, and Japanese cars don’t say “click click” when the battery is acting like a sullen teenager and refuses to start the car. They say…well…you get the picture.
But out of the mud may bloom the lotus. It’s possible that my sullen teenaged battery may have saved me from a gruesome wreck on the way to the battery store. I thought about being squashed into road kill by a speeding big rig whose driver was so hopped up on truck stop coffee that he thought my car was a speed bump. I puddled up at the thought my untimely demise. Poor Mike. Cut down in the prime of his senility. Then I wiped away my tears and blew my nose in a Handi Wipe or maybe on the nearest sleeve and tried to start the car again. “Crunk,” it said, and that was that.
Okay. I can take a hint. I called the Insurance Angel whose company provides roadside assistance. This was my third call this month. We’re getting to be old friends.
“You again,” she said. “What is it this time?”
I told her my car would not start. It sat there like a sullen teenager and muttered ’crunk’ the last time I turned the key.
She let out a sigh that crossed state lines. “Ooookay, Mister Brownie. I’ll call a tow company. Again. And stop buying cars that don’t speak English.”
As it happened, my car did not need a tow. Just a shot of battery Viagra from a more virile battery that worked out consistently and ate a lot of battery vitamins, which the tow company truck provided.
“You again,” the driver said. “Why don’t you get a battery with better manners?”
That’s just what I did when I finally got to the battery store.
“You again,” said the battery man, then he took the battery’s pulse and blood pressure. The prognosis was not good. “Your battery terminals are terminal,” he said, and got me another battery. This battery recently finished a stint in battery rehab, “but I can’t guarantee that it won’t relapse,” said the battery man.
Well, if this battery won’t start my car, maybe it’s my car’s karma. But it did, and me and the car were as happy as Buddha under a Bo tree.
Comments?
"Prime of your senility" Dang, you're younger than I am and I'm NOT senile. Always fun to read your stories. -- Carol M.
_____
You again? By the way, I think our cars are related. -- Beatysr
_____
Ahaaaaa loved it -- Juli
_____
I enjoyed reading your column. I am delighted with my low tire pressure light that has kept me from having a flat tire on 3 occasions. -- Ken
Thanks, Ken. I dunno about having a car smarter than I am.
_____
I'll probably never look at little batteries the same, again -- Pirate
_____
Crick? Pretty funny Mike -- Lynda
_____
Cutest one yet! -- Tab A
_____
Laughing so hard I ....well you know. That was one of the funniest ever. Good job! -- Mary Pat
_____
Entertaining as always.
You know, I had to chuckle. First, my AAA man knows me by my first name because for some reason I obstinately will not put a key box magnet on my car somewhere or keep an extra key in my really tiny purses. I simply get out of the car and leave the keys in the ignition enough times that when I call AAA, the man says "Hi, Zoey. How have you been...I mean, other than today when you locked your keys in your car again?"
So, I chuckled at your piece. We know something's going wrong but we just put it off a little longer. We make love to it with our voices as though it was a familiar lover with no intention of failing to make you come just like he always does. Well, perhaps a bad analogy, but that's where my head...uh...my mind was.
Anyway...thanks for the smile, Mike -- Zoey
_____
Funny, as usual. You're such a joy to read. -- Amanda
_____
You sure know how to turn a demi-tragedy into a good comedy -- Karen S.
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