In a year where I have completed the renovation of my New York apartment, the ongoing fix of myself continues. And doesn't appear to be stopping any time soon.
A while back, I wrote here on these blog pages of the physical therapy I underwent in order to stave off knee replacement surgery. That morphed into a tryout session with a personal trainer. Yeah, I know. How Hollywood could I get? Well, this might rank as one of the top ten decisions of my life.
I am still at it with Jeff. Two hours a week and apparently that's all you really need. I look at all those yokels running around the neighborhood on weekend mornings. One mile after another as their knees withstand pavement pounding after pavement pounding. In the times of my life where I was heavily into exercise, I foolishly thought that the more you do, the better it is. Not so, says Jeff. This stuff is worthless unless it's part of a very finite regimen. And it only works if you do it correctly.
Take, for instance, the exercise in the snapshot above. A side plank, which I have learned is perhaps the perfect calisthenic to do if you want to strengthen your core. Oh, your core is the area of body between your chest and your legs. The side plank is your key. Master that and you rock your world.
Who knew?
Well, the first week that this stunt was presented to me, I scoffed at it. And I held the position on each side for a grand total of...ten seconds.
Ouch.
Well, I have no idea what has happened in my world, but my ability to do this has expanded. Last Monday, I was timed at one minute and five seconds.
Ouch? Not so much.
To me, the differences in my life are subtle. But, people who have not seen me in a while remark that I no longer seem to favor my right leg. The guy with season tickets behind me at Dodger Stadium said that I look different. Another friend described me as appearing "bouncy." My trek up and down the stairs at the ballpark is fluid and sprightly.
All of a sudden, it's not just my NY kitchen and bathroom that are brand spanking new.
So, given the wonderful and almost Lourdes-miraculous benefits of training, you can imagine my horror when Jeff tells me his business is taking off and he's going to shuttle some of his clients to a new associate. Heck, I've been dumped before but never by somebody who is teaching me the proper way to do a wood chop on the weight machine. He says that he is surprised that his clients are actually upset that they might not be working directly with him in the future. To me, he has no idea just how good he is. He's done a magical job learning my body. How do I entrust this lump of plasma to somebody else?
Moving forward, we will work something out and I may train with his associate one day and Jeff another. But, I'm not quitting by any stretch.
And, oh, yeah, the post-session stretching is great, too.
Dinner last night: Salami sandwich and side salad.
Julius Caesar, whose bust looks nothing like Rex Harrison. But, the guy made a helluva salad. Here's your weekly history lesson, folks. With a very special notation at the end.
46 BC: JULIUS CAESAR DEFEATS CAECILIUS METELLUS SCIPIO AND MARCUS PORCIUS CATO (THE YOUNGER) IN THE BATTLE OF THAPSUS.
I think Cato the Older later worked with the Green Hornet. Or was that O.J. Simpson?
1199: KING RICHARD I OF ENGLAND DIES FROM AN INFECTION FOLLOWING THE REMOVAL OF AN ARROW FROM HIS SHOULDER.
The sad thing is he shot the arrow there himself.
1320: THE SCOTS REAFFIRM THEIR INDEPENDENCE BY SIGNING THE DECLARATION OF ARBROATH.
Big deal. They're still a bunch of guys who wear skirts.
1327: THE POET PETRARCH FIRST SEES HIS IDEALIZED LOVE, LAURA, IN THE CHURCH OF SAINT CLARE IN AVIGNON.
After connecting with her first on Parchment.com.
1453: MEHMED II BEGINS HIS SIEGE OF CONSTANTINOPLE (ISTANBUL), WHICH FALLS ON MAY 29.
It took Mehmed seven weeks to get this done?
1667: AN EARTHQUAKE DEVASTATES DUBROVNIK, THEN AN INDEPENDENT CITY-STATE.
What? No tsunami? Big gyp.
1782: RAMA I OF SIAM FOUNDS THE CHAKRI DYNASTY.
When do Yul Brynner and Deborah Kerr show up?
1808: JOHN JACOB ASTOR INCORPORATES THE AMERICAN FUR COMPANY, EVENTUALLY LEADING HIM TO BECOME AMERICA'S FIRST MILLIONAIRE.
Of course, this was "BBB." Before Bob Barker.
1830: THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER DAY SAINTS IS ORGANIZED BY JOSEPH SMITH JR..
Technically, I guess these were the Former Day Saints.
1860: THE REORGANIZED CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER DAY SAINTS IS ORGANIZED BY JOSEPH SMITH III.
"Sorry, Dad, I've got a better way."
1869: CELLULOID IS PATENTED.
A good idea at the time, now it's wasted on movies starring Seth Rogan and Will Ferrell.
1893: SALT LAKE TEMPLE OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER DAY SAINTS IS DEDICATED BY WILFORD WOODRUFF.
These guys sure get around.
1896: IN ATHENS, THE OPENING OF THE FIRST MODERN OLYMPIC GAMES IS CELEBRATED.
Well, there goes NBC's 1896 prime time line-up.
1909: ROBERT PEARY AND MATTHEW HENSON ALLEGEDLY REACH THE NORTH POLE.
Allegedly? Check the bottom of their boots. If there's snow, they were there.
1917: WORLD WAR I BEGINS WHEN THE UNITED STATES DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY.
Well, that will finally teach them a lesson. We won't have to worry about them ever again.
1919: MOHANDAS KARAMCHAND GANDHI ORDERS A GENERAL STRIKE.
Against what? Or was that too much thinking to do at once?
1929: ACTRESS JOI LANSING IS BORN.
Who? Well, she was every sitcom ever made. Here she is. A big buxomed actress you wouldn't forget. And the cosmic screwing she got? She died in 1972 of breast cancer.
1929: LOUISIANA GOVERNOR HUEY LONG IS IMPEACHED.
And all the king's horses and all the king's men...
1930: GANDHI RAISES A LUMP OF MUD AND SALT, DECLARING " WITH THIS, I AM SHAKING THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE."
Pretty stupid if you ask me. Fooling around with mud when you're wearing white all the time.
1937: ACTOR BILLY DEE WILLIAMS IS BORN.
And, for the first time, Jerri Curl shows a profit.
1947: THE FIRST TONY AWARDS ARE PRESENTED FOR THEATRICAL ACHIEVEMENT.
I had a friend who actually thought they were named after Tony Randall. I am no longer friends with this idiot.
1957: GREEK TYCOON ARISTOTLE ONASSIS FOUNDS OLYMPIC AIRLINES.
I still can't believe Jackie slept with this ogre.
1973: THE AMERICAN LEAGUE OF MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL BEGINS USING THE DESIGNATED HITTER.
And they remain assholes to this day.
1996: ACTRESS GREER GARSON DIES.
She gave the longest Oscar acceptance speech ever. Actually, this was the day she finally shut up.
1998: COUNTRY SINGER TAMMY WYNETTE DIES.
D-E-A-T-H.
2004: ROLANDAS PAKSAS BECOMES THE FIRST PRESIDENT OF LITHUANIA TO BE PEACEFULLY REMOVED FROM OFFICE BY IMPEACHMENT.
If you no longer have to lead Lithuania, I call it addition by subtraction.
2005: PRINCE RAINIER OF MONACO DIES.
He lasted longer than his wife because he had the good sense not to drive around all those twisty roads.
2009: A 6.3 MAGNITUDE EARTHQUAKE STRIKES ITALY.
6.3? Japan is thoroughly unimpressed.
2011: THIS IS THE 1500TH POST OF LEN SPEAKS.
That's a shitload of writing without getting paid.
Dinner last night: Pork loin, rice, and string beans.
Given all the negative press for reasons I will discuss later, you might find it a little bizarre for me to wax gloriously about all the wonders of this baseball season's opening series at Dodger Stadium. But, I will because, save for a couple of neanderthals, there was an awful lot to celebrate.
The Dodgers took three of four games (I was at all three wins) versus the world champion San Francisco Giants and that is always a good thing regardless of the time of year. But, to do so in the very first home series, this is indeed Christmas in April. Well, actually, thanks to ESPN, late March/early April.
Opening Day began at my home. As the photo shows, it's all about selecting the proper attire from my vast Dodger wardrobe. Clayton Kershaw was starting, so, of course, his jersey is worn. But, to honor the new manager's first game ever, a Mattingly T-shirt was worn underneath. Yes, I can be that strange.
It's hard to tell from this parking lot snapshot, but there's snow on them thar mountains in the distance. This is likely the first time I've gone to an opening day with visible white stuff around. Okay, that would be the first time it's happened to me on the WEST COAST.
Of course, it ain't a baseball party unless the Goodyear Blimp is overhead.
The view from my season seats is still one of the best in the house.
That's Placido Domingo getting set to sing the National Anthem on Opening Day. The very next night, it was American Idol's Jordin Sparks. Talk about a wildly swinging pendulum. From this distance, Placido looks like your typical singing barber.
Gave proof through the night that there was some smoke there...
The requisite stealth bomber fly-over. Something you don't see every day. Unless, of course, you're stationed in Libya or Afghanistan.
On Friday night, it was time to eat with the fancy napkins. My first pre-game Stadium Club buffet of the year. The best dining experience in Los Angeles.
You can eat outside and watch some Giant pitcher do his bullpen session down below. Or, if staring at that mental patient Brian Wilson's bizarrely dyed black beard is not appetizing to you...
Do what I do and eat inside. They had the Mets-Marlins opener on the big screen. Ideal for this bi-coastal baseball fan.
There are fireworks every Friday night this season. They always remind me of the opening credits from "The Honeymooners."
"...Audrey Meadows.....and Joyce Randolph."
Looks like fun, heh? So, you might be asking, how is it that all I heard over the weekend was how dangerous a dump Dodger Stadium can be?
Lots of media attention was devoted to a rather horrific act that took place in the parking lot after Thursday's opener. Two barbaric Dodger fans apparently beat some Giants fan senseless. Okay, the obvious joke there is an oxymoron, but this is not a laughable situation. Violence of any shape or form at a baseball stadium or its environs is detestable. Catch those bastards and string 'em up. Immediately.
That said, once the press and, most notably, the Los Angeles Times sports staff got hold of this story, it branched off in all the wrong directions. Dodger Stadium is unsafe. Everyone that goes to a game there is scared for their lives. Owner Frank McCourt is so cheap that there were only two security guards available to police 56,000 fans. One pile-on after another. These days, the only way the Dodgers can get a break with the Los Angeles Times is if the team is purchased by Barack Obama.
You put all those people in one place where alcohol is available and I guarantee you that shit will happen. Regardless of whether it is Dodger Stadium, Yankee Stadium, or Citi Field. Let's also not forget the "kill or die trying" sports mentality that is infused in our youth from almost Day One. Drummed into their minds by whom? The media. And the fact that, from what everyone has learned, the culprits were a couple of Mexican gangbangers. A fact largely ignored by the numbskulls at the Los Angeles Times.
You might to insure that a ballpark is fan-friendly? Stop selling beer. Oh, wait, nobody can do that. After all, the Budweiser logo is emblazoned on so many scoreboards. You can stop discounting tickets so low that the price of a hot dog costs more than the chair you're sitting in. Oh, wait, nobody can do that. After all, everybody, regardless of the income level, is entitled to enjoy America's favorite pastime.
Bullshit.
You can't have it both ways, folks.
I can tell you that I have never ever felt unsafe at Dodger Stadium. But, look at where I sit. Look at who I am with. And I can tell you unequivocably that the only drink I've ever enjoyed there (save for maybe a smart cocktail at the Stadium Club) is a Diet Coke.
Those photos that you see in this blog? Does that look like a dungeon to you?
Some may see a mental institution. Me? I see a wonderful home.
Dinner last night: Smoked sausage and rice.
Sorry, ladies.
Dinner last night: Super Dodger Dog at the game.
Just when I think the well has run dry on Sunday memories...
I connect with some grade school pals via Facebook and this book. Voila. Pictures like this one are shared and the flood gates open.
Don't squint trying to find me. I'm not in this photo. But two of the aforementioned chums are. Diane and Cheryl, the latter graciously letting me use this snapshot for my own weekly babble.
In May of every year, the city of Mount Vernon, New York set aside one weekday afternoon for a school parade. The entire public school system was involved as one after another lined up at the starting point, which was Third Avenue and Second Street. From there, they'd all march, each with their respective bands, through the major shopping district of Fourth Avenue and then Gramatan Avenue. The marchers included not just band members, but school officers, teachers, and the like.
Everybody but me. Somehow, I wasn't any of those things.
I can remember those springs with trepidation. Weeks before, the preparations would begin. Band practice in the afternoon. One friend after another would be excused from class to rehearse for some parade-related exercise. Before you knew it, the classroom was empty and I was left alone to read "Henry Huggins and Ribsy" or whatever Beverly Cleary book I had just pulled out of the school library.
I recall thinking that, somehow and some way, there must be some reason for me to march along with all my friends. Didn't the fact that I always got stellar report cards count for something around here??
Apparently not. So I decided to try the conventional route. I would learn to play a musical instrument.
Okay, backing the story car up a bit...
I had never before shown any musical aptitude whatsoever. One Christmas when I was about eight or nine, my parents inexplicably gave me a guitar. Not one with Donald Duck on it. Nope, a full blown "Peter, Paul, and Mary coffee house" guitar. Why? No clue. Did they suddenly want me to become another Trini Lopez?
So, I dutifully took the lesson booklet also provided and sat down to learn the guitar. To my surprise, I figured out how to play a few chords and notes. One afternoon, I went downstairs and played for my grandmother. I serenaded her with a tune I had fashioned myself. "Taps." On a guitar. Yes, I know. So did Grandma.
"That's supposed to be played on a bugle."
Sorry. That's all I got.
Not to be dashed, I commenced a few days later to put together the first few chords of the "Theme from Bonanza."
Bum dee dah bum dee dah bum bum bum...Bonanza! Well, that's how it sounded to me. Not to Grandma.
"When are you going to play a polka?"
Never at this rate. Meanwhile, the blisters were forming on my fingers. A few weeks later, the guitar wound up in the closet with a lot of other not-so-bright gift ideas. Ironically, to this day, I still have that same guitar. In a place where it belongs. In an East Coast closet with other junk I simply can't bring to a dumpster.
But, back then, I realized that a guitar wasn't going to be my entry into the loftiness of the spring parade. Unless, of course, I strummed it all the way down Fourth Avenue like I was some waiter in a Mexican restaurant.
Nope, I had to try something else.
The clarinet.
Our school had a program where they tried to cultivate your musical skills. They rented out instruments, case and all. I remember the day I received my clarinet. I opened up the suitcase. It didn't look like the thing on the Benny Goodman record album cover at home.
Oh, I have to put it together?
That took a day and a half to figure out alone. I blew on the damn thing. Nothing came out except a little spit.
Oh, you have to put this reed on it?
That took another day and a half to master. My reed kept falling off. Perhaps it knew what it would be in for.
Luckily, the school system wasn't dumb enough to simply hand over musical instruments and tell kids to "have a nice day." They did provide lessons. I don't remember the name of the teacher. That person, however, probably has not forgotten me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find a note. Or hit one.
I'd practice at home. More air blowing in, more air blowing out. Grandma, who was the only one home during the day, had a suggestion.
"I liked the guitar better."
Thanks, Grandma.
At the rate I was going, my musical participation in a college football halftime show ten years later was probably a stretch. There was no way I was walking down Fourth Avenue anytime soon. President John F. Kennedy had made two promises to the American people. By the end of the decade, there would be a man on the moon. And Len would hit a note on his clarinet.
I'm glad NASA held up their end of the bargain.
An unwitting person would act as the ultimate savior to all those suffering around me. My orthodontist. I've written about him here before. As he liked to call himself..."Dr. Arthur Ash not the Tennis Player." I had my first appointment with him to get my Bugs Bunny overbite fixed.
"Once we start, no apples, no Turkish Taffy, and, oh, yes, no musical instruments."
And that was that. I handed back the clarinet. There was the hint of faint applause all throughout Mount Vernon, New York.
I never did march in the freakin' parade. But my friends did and they have the photos to prove it.
Gang, keep the snapshots. I will provide the memories and the laughs.
And a little pain, too.
Dinner last night: Sausage and olive pizza at Miceli's.
The best billboard ever.
Dinner last night: The wonderful Dodger Stadium Club buffet.
No, I'm not talking about that stupid show that used be on E! This is about one of those special moments that can only happen when you live in Hollywood.
On Wednesday night, a producer-friend of mine who belongs to the TV Academy invited me to be her guest at one of their members-only events. An evening devoted to "Hot in Cleveland." Okay, I was a fan of the show in its first season and, as you may have read on these blog pages, I think it has slipped a bit in its second year. Still, it's better than most of the sitcoms on the tube these days and, oh, by the way, Valerie Bertinelli is going to be there. Apparently, it has gotten around town about me and her. Who knew? More importantly, TV Land executives are likely to be there and we might to figure out how to pitch two ideas to them.
I was in.
Luckily, these TV Academy functions are more "inside" than the evenings offered up by the Paley Center, when any and every slob shows up looking to get their favorite star's autograph while they sit and chomp down a bag of Cheetos they just bought at Rite Aid. There is an air of intelligence that you can actually feel, touch, and smell.
The moderator of the evening is Larry King and I can't wait for him to shut up in his introductions. He brings out Sean Hayes, one of the show's executive producers, along with the series creator Suzanne Martin. Out comes the cast and naturally Betty White gets a long and sustained standing ovation. But, so does surprise guest Carl Reiner who has a recurring role as her love interest. Jon Lovitz, fresh from his guest shot as a homeless guy, is also there and I now wonder how super productive this evening could be. I've been thinking about approaching him for a radio sitcom.
The evening is smart and congenial and over in 90 minutes. Larry King inexplicably leaves at the one hour mark. Obviously, the Metamucil has kicked in. After the show, audience members mill around the stage and try to talk to whoever. My producer friend makes a bee line for the head of TV Land. I try to manuever my way towards Lovitz, but I'm upended by a pesky 80 year-old who probably was Hugh Downs' assistant in 1962.
Thanks to my producer pal, the right connections did get made and we have an angle. As we discuss the positives in the lobby, I beg off for the mens room. No, my Metamucil wasn't kicking in, but a bottle of water was. I run upstairs and I push open the entrance door.
I walk right into Carl Reiner.
Holy shit. One of the icons of television. The creator of one of my favorite TV shows, "The Dick Van Dyke Show." I didn't have more than a split second to come up with something clever.
The split second wasn't enough. I mustered up some mediocrity.
"Wow, I'm in the mens room and I see Carl Reiner."
He smiled at me.
"I'm in the mens room all the time and I always see Carl Reiner."
Good save on my paltry gut reaction.
He went into another direction. He looked down at the typical mens room mess. Those slightly wet paper towels that somehow don't make it into the trash receptacle. I've never understood this. Carl Reiner, however, finds it completely abhorrent.
"I hate when I see this. I can't leave the floor like this."
Huh?
So, in front of me, Carl Reiner starts to clean up the mens room floor. There had to be a dozen crumpled wads. He collected all of them.
"Good. Now I feel better."
And off he went.
Yep, only in Hollywood.
The next day, I saw Rob Reiner at the Dodger game. He has the season tickets right below mine. He disappeared for about an inning. I began to wonder.
Is their mens room on the field level that needs some cleaning?
Dinner last night: Polish sausage at the Dodger opener.
