Okay, those of you who are regular readers to this blog, you will know that I, myself, am not a regular reader. About a year and a half ago, I challenged myself to read more with the goal of reporting it here. I go through reading spurts, most tied to those times when I am on a plane a lot.
Now that you're completely updated on the annoying exposition and backstory, I will follow up by telling you that I tend to read nothing but non-fiction. Some history, usually about the Presidents of the last century Some sports, primarily retrospectives on baseball.
And, of course, I do love the occasional celebrity biography. If it's a memoir written by the star themself, even better.
A few months ago, I read and subsequently trashed the autobiography of James Garner. After 300 unctuous pages of self-adminstered-back-slapping, I totally hated the author. He was self-congratulatory to a fault. And, with his non-negotiable stance on politics and the world around us, I found Garner even more annoying. Who gives a shit what he, merely a serviceable actor, thinks about anything more important than what Malibu restaurant he should have dinner at?
Totally the wrong way to do one of these memoirs. Now, Garry Marshall? He's got the right idea. And, as a result, his latest tome, "My Happy Days in Hollywood," is a big winner.
None of these Hollywood tell-alls will take up much of your time. Most can be knocked off in a single LAX-JFK flight on American Airlines, as long as there isn't a small child kicking your seat. Based on sheer substance, all these books read as quickly as a greeting card. You know how they work.
"And then I...."
"And then I..."
"And then I..."
The trick to success with that format is the way you, as the celebrity author, approaches it. If you take your accomplishments too seriously, you'll lose some readers, including me. But, as the always humbled Garry Marshall does in his book, he seems to be constantly in awe of his own career. And, as a result, the journey through his life is a refreshing and gentle one for the reader.
I've always been a fan of the guy. He's got a lifetime pass with me for simply producing "The Odd Couple," which is one of the best TV sitcoms of all time. But, he's done a host of other stuff for both the small and big screens. Some of it good. Some of it lousy. But, as Garry relates the story behind each and every one of those productions, his kind and friendly demeanor comes shining through each page. And you can practically hear the Bronx accent with every written word.
If you're looking for nastiness about people he has worked with, forget it. Garry doesn't tell tales out of school. Except, of course, in the chapter where he has to address the very unfortunate production squabbles that revolved around his big TV hit, "Laverne and Shirley." To do that accurately, he has to shine a pretty big glaring light on his own sister, Penny, who was completely and hopelessly out of control during those years. He does apologize to her in advance, but he honestly relates just how bad the times were on that very troubled soundstage. Props to the author for being that compliant. And kudos to Penny for allowing him to do so.
The best compliment for Marshall's book is that it all feels very breezy as if you're simply talking to the guy on a backyard patio over a nice, cool glass of lemonade. Ultimately, he's somebody you feel you want to be friends with. And, after 275 pages, you essentially are.
Since Garry mentions pretty much everything that happened to him over the course of his sixty-year career, I should be a little pissed that he left something out.
I was introduced to him in a bathroom at Warner Brothers while he was filming an episode of "Murphy Brown." Obviously, folks like Jane Fonda, Julia Roberts, and Tom Hanks have made lasting impressions on him while I did apparently did not. Or maybe our meeting didn't make the final draft of the book. I envision the excerpt as something like...
"So, I'm standing in front of the urinal doing my thing and I am asked to say hello to this guy Len. Who he is, I don't know. But he looked like a nice guy and I stuck around long enough to make sure he washed up before I shook his hand."
Living in Los Angeles, I can tell you that it's a very common and almost routine happenstance for a family to simply and spontaneously pop down to Disneyland for the day. Nothing to do with the kiddies? Hey, let's take a hundred dollars or five out of the bank and go down to see Mickey Mouse. Sure, it's expensive, but it's comforting to know that there is a major and historic amusement park right in your backyard.
Such fortune didn't exist for my family when I was a kid. Growing up in Mount Vernon, New York, we had nothing on par with the Magic Kingdom. Our theme park options were few and far between. You waited for every June when the Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church on 10th Avenue had their annual feast. A couple of clunky rides and lots of arcade games. You'd take a chance on that new Ford Mustang, knowing fully well that the Monsignor would be driving it the very next week.
We heard stories about this great amusement park down in New Jersey, just past the George Washington Bridge. Palisades Park with the world's largest salt water pool, which my parents were convinced was nothing more than one big petri dish of bacteria. Somehow, I coerced Dad to take me there once, fighting through the litany of his usual excuses.
"It's too hot/too cold."
"It's too far."
"It's too crowded."
Given those restrictions, I guess my summer amusement should have been confined to a temperature-controlled closet in the hallway.
But, okay, we did have one option nearby. Rye Playland. A throwback to the old county fairs of days gone by. In its non-updated and borderline antiquated state, Playland could be embraced as delightfully retro. Or simply old as the hills.
Nevertheless, it's what we had to work with in Westchester County. You looked forward to that summer night where the family would troop up to Playland.
Less fun for those of us in smaller families. Being sibling-less, our outings to Rye were a little less intense on the fun side. Me, Mom, Dad. Woo hoo. Looking back, I can now affirm that the only way to enjoy an amusement park is with a group. A large, large group. That does not translate to an only child with his two non-ride-participating parents.
My mother was always more worried about her hair and it getting blown askew on some ride that would whip the rest of us into a frenzy. Forget the fact that her coiff was already hardened into a helmet-like mold thanks to liberal doses of Caryl Richards Hard-to-Hold Just Wonderful Hair Spray. She was worried that she'd get off a ride looking one iota less pristine than when she got on. Besides, you couldn't smoke on any of them.
My father? His Army experience in Japan was more than enough thrills for his lifetime. He preferred life on terra firma.
"You go on. I'll wave."
And that he did.
I'd whisk by.
Wave.
Whisk by.
Wave.
Again.
Wave.
And again.
Wave.
Riding these conveyances solo, I longed for another kid. Any kid. Please. It got so that, after hearing one year that we were headed to Playland that Friday night, I asked my parents if they could have a foster child in the house by the end of the week.
That did not get a laugh.
As a result of this solitude, I never got adventurous in my Playland ride choices. I pretty much kept to the kiddie section. If it went fast, okay. If it went up and down, no. If it went fast and up and down, absolutely no. The only exception was the Caterpillar ride. Because it covers you with that imitation Persian rug for part of the trip, you couldn't really tell when you were going fast or moving up and down. The lack of a visual made the ride palatable for me.
Except I could never see my father waving when I rode it.
When the prospect of another Playland visitation came up and the annual foster child plea went unanswered, I floated the notion of allowing me to take a friend with us. One of my buddies "up the block." A schoolmate.
"What are you kidding? We're not made of money. We can't be taking all of Mount Vernon."
Huh?
One kid. That's not "all of Mount Vernon." I never could understand the dismissal of this concept. Except my parents countered that none of their parents had invited me to Playland either.
Oh.
Suddenly, I thought that similar discussions were being held in the homes of countless friends and chums all over town.
"What are you kidding? We're not made of money. We can't be taking all of Mount Vernon."
So, there I would be in Rye one more time.
Whisk by.
Wave.
Whisk by.
Wave.
Again.
Wave.
Eventually, the family outings to Rye Playland stopped. Or were mercy-killed. Luckily, I got older and branched out to other social realms. And, my Rye Playland excursion took on completely different and unchartered dimensions.
I was 13 and there was this girl.
Wasn't there always?
I've written about my very first girlfriend here before, but this portion of the tale has never been elaborated upon. For all intents and purposes, this was our first "date." Or was it? A debate for the ages.
She had been in my Sunday School for about five years. As I got older, so did she and, as is always the case with hormones, she got a lot less "yucky" with the passage of time. By the time she was 12, I was ready to go out for the requisite blood test and the new living room sofa. As fate would have it, we would get to spend a lot of time together that year. We were both in confirmation class and spent two hours every Saturday morning reciting the Apostle's Creed together. In the process of becoming official Christians, I was inwardly becoming quite horny. If this is what growing up was all about, I'd like to take the class twice, thank you very much.
After we got our first taste of wine and cardboard wafer, our German-speaking pastor decided to treat the whole class of 12 confirmants (?) to a day at Rye Playland. This would be sweet. An outing we could share together. And sanctioned by the clergy, for Pete's sake. How good would this be?
Not as good as I thought. All of a sudden, there was somebody else. Another girl in the class who latched onto the love of my life. Hello? Where were you all year? You didn't show any interest in being pals with my friend while we were drilling down on the Gospels. Now you're looking to get chummy? Just when I'm looking to have a nifty ride buddy on "Laugh in the Dark."
I needed a strategy fast.
All day, I made myself imminently available to my little friend. If she was standing in a spot, I would immediately stand alongside her. Even if it meant knocking over this thirteen-year-old Rhoda Morgenstern who was in my way. If my friend moved to another spot, I followed her. Oh, Rhoda, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bump you like that.
Rides were trickier. Most of them sat two comfortably. I wanted to make sure I was always the companion. This took some careful manipulation as we stood in line to board our appointed conveyance. While everybody was anticipating the sheer exhileration of a thrill ride, I was busy working like a scientific engineer to make sure she and I would be traveling together. Once I screwed up and wound up on the Caterpillar with not my "date," but the interloping Rhoda.
"Isn't this fun?"
Yeah, who asked you?
Since this was a church group, I was morally limited to just what I could think and do about this whole situation. I could have pushed the other chick into the Long Island Sound. Wait. What is that, Pastor? The Fifth Commandment?
"Thou shalt not kill."
Oh, right.
I would, however, get some divine intervention a little later in the day. Thanks to my innate ability not to listen closely to instructions.
The Pastor announced we would stop for lunch. Bring out the sandwiches you all brought.
Er, sandwich?? Did I miss the memo??
I was lunchless.
Suddenly, the intrusion of this other girl took second place to my hunger pains. I guess I could have bummed a few coins off the Pastor and buy a hot dog. But, I didn't want to call atention to myself. As if being a complete pest wasn't enough of a red flag.
As everybody ate at the picnic table, I quietly sat and waited for them to finish. Except my "girlfriend" noticed that I wasn't eating.
"Didn't you bring a sandwich?"
How sheepish a look could I conjure up in the next ten seconds?
Um, no, shucks, I forgot.
"Hey, have half of mine."
Whoa!!!!!
That was the best half-of-a-bologna-sandwich I ever had. This relatively innocuous gesture melted me to the ground right there in the middle of Rye Playland.
For the rest of the day, though, we were inseparable. And hence my "date" began. When two people share a book of ride tickets, well, that can get pretty darn serious.
Move the calendar up six years. Another Playland trek. This time, I'm with a group of college friends, including my roommate and best friend at the time. And, yep, there's a girl in the mix that I'm really interested in. Times had changed. Hormones had not. Suddenly, I'm back working the same strategic maneuvers I had attempted when I was 13. Calculating how lines would work so I would wind up on a ride with my very special buddy. With this co-ed crowd, the ploys were a little harder to work. Others had the same design, damnit.
With me hopelessly yearning for some quality time on a ride with the girl of my dreams, our contingent moved off to the famed Dragon Coaster. This would be our next ride.
Um, the Dragon Coaster?
This was the big ride at Rye Playland. While tame today, this was a fairly intense roller coaster and, for a while during the ride, you are actually zooming up and down inside a dragon's stomach. My friends zipped over to join the line.
Er, I don't do roller coasters. I really, really don't do roller coasters.
The voice of my would-be wife was heard.
"Don't you want to go on this? With me?"
I was being played. I didn't give a shit. I would go on the Dragon Coaster.
Of course, as we waited amidst all the distant screams of patrons already on the ride, my stomach fluids were making equally sharp turns. What I wouldn't do for love. I dreaded it all, but I needed to put on my game face. This would be fun.
I think.
As well as God had intervened in my love life six years earlier, on this day, He apparently had taken the day off. Because, somehow, I messed up my seat calculations. When it was time for board the Dragon Coaster, my ride buddy was...my college roommate.
He wanted to be on this ride even less than I did. And now we were heading to certain doom together.
The next two minutes scared the pellets out of us. As we entered into the belly of the Dragon, we said our goodbyes.
Moments later, we exited the Dragon, a lot more worse for wear. I looked over at my roommate.
"What happened to your sunglasses?"
They had obviously flown off his head somewhere between the Dragon's spleen and gall bladder.
It would not be on that day, but I did eventually connect with the girl in question. But, that would be my last time on the Dragon Coaster. And there would be very few excursions for up to that main amusement park of Westchester County.
Dinner last night: Bratwurst at the Hollywood Bowl.
My childhood pal, Leo, and his wife Connie joined my friends last weekend at the Hollywood Bowl for their annual musical presentation. This year, Mel Brooks' "The Producers" was dusted off for revival. Given that the original only came out eleven years ago, you wouldn't expect that much dust to have accumulated. You'd be surprised, though. Some of the original gags got a little shopworn a week after it opened.
Nevertheless, Leo was astonished by the evening. He thought we were just going to see some selected numbers from the show. He had no idea that we were seeing essentially about 90% of the production as produced on Broadway.
Yeah, I'm amazed, too. As I was last year when they gave us a remarkable rendition of "Hairspray." And several summers back when they put on a terrific revival of "South Pacific" with Reba McIntire and Brian Stokes Mitchell. And on and on and on. It's usually one of the highlight weekends of the whole Bowl summer.
Frankly, I've always been astounded by the Hollywood Bowl's ability to mount a full-blown musical comedy every summer. Oddly enough, for all the work that's needed, they only put the show on for three nights. And I'm thinking that's pretty much the amount of rehearsal time they're allotted. Still, almost miraculously, they pull it off every year. Sure, there are microphones that don't work, awkward scene changes, and line gaffs. But, it's live and it's real and we don't argue these days with any level of spontaneity.
Such was the case with "The Producers." When the original content is as strong as the Mel Brooks musical is, you can overlook bad casting, missed opportunities, and odd choices in direction. A great show has an innate ability to rise above it all and this edition of "The Producers" did just that.
Now, I've seen the show in a variety of venues several times. I saw the original on Broadway right after it opened with Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick. Several years later, I saw the Los Angeles production with Jason Alexander and Martin Short, which was, in my humble opinion, a much better and funnier production. The Bowl send-up, with Richard Kind and Jesse Tyler Ferguson as the renowned Bialystock and Bloom, falls somewhere in between the two. Soaring over the incredibly overrated Lane and Broderick, but falling a little bit short of the sheer professionalism essayed by Alexander and Short.
Still, with material like this, you're almost guaranteed to shine regardless.
Admittedly, a lot of the humor embedded in "The Producers," whether it be the original movie with Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder, the Broadway musical, or the dreadful movie version of the musical, is pure Borscht Belt. Jokes as old as the trunk in your attic and most of the gags may have been stored there since Herbert Hoover. But, it is Mel Brooks and he's consistently and wonderfully an equal opportunity offender, regardless of how much you groan at the last line. Blacks, gays, Jews, actors, the blind, the old lady, and the Swedes. All of them get skewered in "The Producers" and Mel is a great reminder of how political correctness has killed comedy in America. Brooks is one of those oddities who gets a hall pass when it comes to taking potshots at those of different nationalities, races, and/or afflictions. Sadly, he's the exception and not the rule.
Now, last Saturday at the Bowl, there was a very prominent gay presence to see "The Producers." It's a musical comedy from Broadway so that's almost mandatory attendance from the denizens of West Hollywood. Plus co-star Jesse Tyler Ferguson, fresh from his "Modern Family" contract squabble, plays one-half of a gay couple on TV. Plus, he's out of the closet in real life. This is a homosexual hat trick for a lot of the Bowl audience. And they ate it up. You could tell who was doing the hooting and the hollering every time Jesse had a musical number. And the "ooohs" and "aahhs" when he had to kiss Ulla were straight from your last bridal shower.
Meanwhile, there is an awful lot of mincing and sashaying from the gay characters of Roger DeVries and Carmen Ghia, perfectly recreated by Broadway originators Gary Beach and Roger Bart. Paul Lynde or Alan Sues might blush or bristle, but the Bowl audience loved every offensive moment of it all.
Yet, earlier in the week, some executive at Chick-Fil-A comes out with a public statement denouncing gay marriage and a lot of the same audience is outraged. He hates us. The bastard. How dare he? So, it's okay for Mel Brooks to play upon stereotypes, but it's not for some guy who is simply exercising his right of free speech? Makes you wonder about the latent hypocrisy of it all. You can't laugh at one moment of "hate" and be outraged at the next. You might argue that it's not the same thing. I would argue back that this rebuttal is splitting the smallest of hairs.
But, I digress....
"The Producers" we saw at the Bowl was shepherded by the original Broadway director/creator Susan Strohman and she did the best she could do adapting the choreography to match the odd contortions of the Bowl stage. And, so that the Bowl could meet its neighborhood curfew, two numbers were cut out of the second act. Nobody noticed, which means that the first version of the Broadway show might have been too long anyway.
Richard Kind had played Bialystock on Broadway and he obviously displayed a familiarity and comfort with the role, while Ferguson, despite his love affair with half of the patrons, seemed to be struggling to find a common ground somewhere between Gene Wilder and Matthew Broderick. He essentially wound up being neither and, ultimately, didn't own the part at the Bowl.
The smartest move by these producers was to bring back the aforementioned Beach and Bart, who stole the show as they did eleven years ago. Beach won the Supporting Tony and hasn't missed a beat in giving us that same glory a decade later. Dane Cook was a surprisingly welcome addition as Nazi playwright Franz Liebkind, especially since the always unwelcome Will Ferrell turned him into such a humorless mess in the recent movie version of the musical.
As Ulla, Rebecca Romjin was essentially eye candy except for all those aforementioned patrons who were too busy cheering on Jesse Tyler Ferguson. Her main claim to show business fame is once sleeping regularly with John Stamos, so you certainly don't expect much from her here. The good news is that she delivered on that expectation. We didn't get much from her, since the major accomplishment on her acting resume is height.
Yes, they all scuffled a bit. But, once again, I marvel at the Bowl's ability to do this every summer. It's a much better production than some of the crap you'd see on Broadway right now. Of course, there is the superlative content at its core. Mel Brooks may never have this kind of stage success again. Indeed, his attempts to turn "Young Frankenstein" were a colossal failure. But, at least for now and for the ages, we have "The Producers" to behold every time it's brought out of mothballs.
It's rare, but, no matter how hard some folks try, there are some things you just can't louse up. I'd tell you to go see "The Producers," but, oh, well, too late. It was three performances and toodles.
Dinner last night: Meatloaf at the Cheesecake Factory.
Not many blogs are leading off with a picture of Gregg Jefferies today. But, mine is. Happy birthday, kid. Except you're not really a kid anymore, are you?
10 BC: ROMAN EMPEROR CLAUDIUS IS BORN.
I, Alive.
69: THE BATAVIANS IN GERMANIA INFERIOR REVOLT UNDER THE LEADERSHI OF GAIUS JULIUS CIVILIS.
Years later, Hitler started Germania Superior.
527: JUSTINIAN I BECOMES THE SOLE RULER OF THE BYZANTINE EMPIRE.
Ending the previous Byzantine rule by committee.
607: ONO NO IMOKO IS DISPATCHED AS ENVOY TO THE SUI COURT IN CHINA.
SUI? Sleeping under the influence? Oh, no, no, no.
1192: RICHARD THE LIONHEART LANDED ON JAFFA AND DEFEATED THE ARMY OF SALADIN.
Saladin? Have Spear, Will Travel.
1498: CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS BECOMES THE FIRST EUROPEAN TO VISIT WHAT IS NOW VENEZUELA.
That's his problem.
1664: THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE IS DEFEATED IN THE BATTLE OF SAINT GOTTHARD BY AN AUSTRIAN ARMY LED BY RAIMONDO MONTECUCCOLI, RESULTED IN THE PEACE OF VASVAR.
Gee, world history sure does have a lot of big words.
1779: LYRICIST FRANCIS SCOTT KEY IS BORN.
Oh, say, can you see......
1800: THE ACT OF UNION 1800 IS PASSED IN WHICH MERGES THE KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN AND THE KINGDOM OF IRELAND INTO THE UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND.
Yeah, let me know how that works out.
1819: AUTHOR HERMAN MELVILLE IS BORN.
You called me Moby What????
1831: A NEW LONDON BRIDGE OPENS.
My fair lady....
1834: SLAVERY IS ABOLISHED IN THE BRITISH EMPIRE AS THE SLAVERY ABOLITION ACT 1833 COMES INTO FORCE.
Beating the United States to the punch as usual.
1838: NON-LABOURER SLAVES IN MOST OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE ARE EMANCIPATED.
That took four years?
1840: LABOURER SLAVES IN MOST OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE ARE EMANCIPATED.
That took six years???
1842: THE LOMBARD STREET RIOT ERUPTS IN PHILADELPHIA.
The earliest recorded sale of Nike Sneakers.
1876: COLORADO IS ADMITTED AS THE 38TH US STATE.
If they insist...
1903: CALAMITY JANE DIES.
The ultimate calamity.
1914: GERMANY DECLARES WAR ON RUSSIA AT THE OPENING OF WORLD WAR I.
They didn't order all those pointy helmets for nothing.
1933: ACTOR DOM DE LUISE IS BORN.
That must have been one big baby.
1936: DESIGNER YVES SAINT LAURENT IS BORN.
YSL's DOB.
1942: GRATEFUL DEAD MUSICIAN JERRY GARCIA IS BORN.
And to think he later became a flavor of ice cream at Ben and Jerry's.
1944: THE WARSAW UPRISING AGAINST THE NAZI OCCUPATION BREAKS OUT IN POLAND.
"Take that-ski!"
1957: THE UNITED STATES AND CANADA FORM THE NORTH AMERICAN AIR DEFENSE COMMAND OR NORAD.
Remembering the movie "War Games." "Shall we play a game?"
1960: ISLAMABAD IS DECLARED THE FEDERAL CAPITAL OF PAKISTAN.
And now it's Islamaverybad.
1964: THE BELGIAN CONGO IS RENAMED THE REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO.
So is it now also Republic of the Congo Waffles?
1966: CHARLES WHITMAN KILLS 16 PEOPLE AT THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS AT AUSTIN BEFORE BEING KILLED BY THE POLICE.
Shooting people at random. A true Whitman Sampler.
1967: BASEBALL STAR GREGG JEFFERIES IS BORN.
Which makes him 21 when he helps to get the Mets into the playoffs in 1988.
1977: SPY PLANE PILOT FRANCIS GARY POWERS DIES.
You, too?
1981: MTV BEGINS BROADCASTING IN THE UNITED STATES.
And thus shortens the attention span of our youth forever.
1981: WRITER PADDY CHAYEFSKY DIES.
The writer of "Marty" and "Network." A tragic loss.
2004: A SUPERMARKET FIRE KILLS 396 PEOPLE AND INJURES 450 IN PARAGUAY.
They left over 800 people into a supermarket at one time? How do you even manage to get a shopping cart?
2007: THE I-35W MISSISSIPPI RIVER BRIDGE IN MINNEAPOLIS COLLAPSES DURING THE EVENING RUSH HOUR.
Because it would be too easy to do it at 2AM in the morning.
2007: IRISH FOLK SINGER TOMMY MAKEM DIES.
Now makem dust.
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza at the Dodger game.
