Curtain

As the curtain fell,
Marie picked up the flowers.
It was her last show.

What Pandora Thinks

I've been listening to Pandora a lot lately. The idea behind Pandora is simple:
1. You enter a song or music artist.
2. Pandora creates a playlist filled with songs that share musical qualities with your original selection (based on the Music Genome Project).

It's amazing how predictable my music tastes are. Usually I can spot the connection between two songs - it's not hard to guess that if I like Led Zeppelin I will also like The Who. But sometimes the box (this is what I call Pandora) will throw a curve ball at me (actually I've never called it "the box" until just now). I won't see the connection, but I'll like the song. For instance:

Station - Beastie Boys
Song played - "Tuesday's Gone" by Lynyrd Skynyrd

Tell me, what about a New York hip hop act overlaps with a Southern fried rock ballad? Was Pandora broken? Joking?

No. Just underrated. The box looked at my selection and thought, "Hm. A Beastie Boys fan. The Beastie Boys' popularity peaked in the early to mid nineties. People care most about popular music when they are about 12-16 years of age. Compiling concert data from 1991-1996, 83% of the Beastie Boys audience was white and 73% was male. So we're probably looking at a white male who was between the ages of 12 and 16 during 1991-1996. Almost the identical profile of Adam Sandler's demographic. So I'll play something from the soundtrack to the 1996 hit Happy Gilmore. White boy'll love it."

Sniff. Why did Chubbs have to die? Why?!!

The Calming Power of Music

I've talked about my trip to L.A. last December, but I didn't touch on how I felt when I arrived. Here's an account of how nervous I was, and how I was able to get over it.

---

I hopped off the plane at LAX. I had dressed in layers, because L.A.'s a desert and it can look warm but get pretty cool at night. So I was wearing a cardigan. Even in the airport I could see that my dream L.A., the L.A. I had built up in my head as this perfect marriage between art and commerce, wasn't meshing with the reality. Plastic women and suntanned guys everywhere. It seemed like everyone was obsessed with fame and excess. I have to say, I wasn't sure I'd fit in.

I jumped in a cab. We drove along for a while, and it felt like it was the first time I'd been to L.A. Sort of for no reason, I looked to my right. There, out the window on a familiar hillside was the Hollywood sign. It was all so crazy. Under the metaphorical shadow of that sign, everyone I saw seemed so famous.

By this time my stomach was in knots. I found myself homesick, which I never am. I was missing everywhere I'd ever lived. New York, Michigan, St. Louis. I'd never felt pressure in any of those places. Now I was feeling way too much pressure. I was so nervous. Then something happened that I wasn't ready for. The taxi man (that's what he called himself; he felt cabbie was demeaning) turned on the radio. And a Jay-Z song was on. On the radio, just like that. A Jay-Z song was on. A Jay-Z song. Was. On.

Well, that's just what I needed to hear. It was my song! The song I listen to whenever I feel stressed or pressured or actually when I just want to hear a good tune. The taxi man must have thought I was crazy: I put my hands up. Hey, they were playing my song! The butterflies in my stomach flew away. I was nodding my head. Moving my hips. (Which was hard to do while seated in the back of a cab.) But I had my hands up. And they were playing my song. I knew it was going to be okay. It felt like all those places I had ever lived in were sort of the same as this new strange place I was in. Sure, it was different, but anywhere I was, I could hear my song. These disparate places were all part of America. Wherever I was when I celebrated my song, it was always one thing: a party in the U.S.A. I'll say it again. A party in the U.S.A.

Well, when I actually got to the Disney offices for the meet and greet, I felt like everyone was looking at me. I imagined they were thinking something like, "Who's that guy with the rockin' tie? He's gotta be from out of town." In retrospect, they were right. Wearing a tie branded me as an outsider. But what could I do? It was hard without my friends around me. This definitely wasn't a New York party. I knew because all I saw were Top-Siders. I guess I never got the memo.

Because of this wardrobe disconnect, my stomach started its old nervous routine. Twisting in knots. To make matters worse, I started thinking about my couch and how nice it would be to just lounge around with Lindsay. I was homesick again. The pressure! I had to meet people and at the same time look competent and interesting. I was so nervous. But the DJ there must have read my mind. Just when I thought I couldn't feel any worse, he dropped my favorite tune! (Which is different from my song. My favorite tune is the one I would pick if I could only listen to one song for the rest of my life.) Yep! A Britney song was on! A Britney song was on. A Britney song was on!

So right there at the mixer, in front of everyone, I put my hands up. They were playing my (other) song! Those pesky butterflies flew away. I was nodding my head, like - yeah - like I was in the cab. And moving my hips like - yeah - like I was in the cab. (But it was easier here, because I was standing.) I wonder what the other people were thinking. But I had my hands up and they were playing my song, so I didn't care what anyone thought. I knew I was going to be okay. It didn't matter that it was an L.A. party. I imagined the same party was going on in New York at the same time. I imagined it spanned the whole country. It was a party in the U.S.A. Yeah! A party in the U.S.A.!

But sometimes that week, when I was alone and driving in my rental car, I felt like just giving up and heading home early. Like hopping on a flight back to my hometown that night. Something stopped me every time, though. Every time. I'd flick through the radio, and guess what? I'd find a DJ playing my song(s)! And I'd feel all right.

Just picture me, alone in my rental car with no one watching. I put my hands up! They're playing my song! The butterflies fly away. Nodding my head like, yeah. Moving my hips like, yeah. I put my hands up! They're playing my song, and I know I'm gonna be okay. Yeah! It's a party in the USA. Yeah, it's a party in the USA!

30 Rock - The Elite

The link at the bottom of this post will lead you to the 30 Rock script I submitted to this fellowship.

I wrote it last spring, so the characters and story are consistent with the end of last season. Note that this is a "spec" script, short for speculative. Essentially this means I wasn't hired to write it. (And no, it wasn't purchased or produced - I wrote it as a writing sample.)

I love the show and it was a blast to spec. Now to pick one for this year...


30 Rock - The Elite

Fightin' Hemingway

The phone rang sharply.
Hemingway jumped to his feet,
ready for a fight.

In Saints We Trust

How about that Super Bowl on Sunday, huh? I found this article about what the Saints' win means for the city of New Orleans and thought I'd repost it here. Enjoy!

IN SAINTS WE TRUST

NEW ORLEANS - It seems Mardi Gras has come early this year. Shouts of "Who dat?" echoed through the streets of New Orleans' French Quarter Sunday night as throngs of euphoric fans celebrated the Saints' win over the Indianapolis Colts in the former's first Super Bowl appearance ever. The triumph was remarkable for the underdog Saints, but even more so for the city they call home.

"It's a miracle!" shouted Ray White, a lifetime resident of the Big Easy's Bucktown neighborhood. "Put this one down in the record books. No, forget the record books. Put this one into Scripture!"

White's opinion of the historic win was shared by many revelers on Bourbon Street.

"This wasn't just a football game," explained Allison Higgins between sips from a three-foot beer flute. "This was the rebirth of a city." Higgins, who moved from New Orleans after the devastating aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and was in town to watch the game with relatives, says the Saints winning the Super Bowl will solve every one of the Crescent City's problems, which many had considered insurmountable until about the middle of the 2009-2010 NFL season.

"I heard the entire city just up and elevated itself. Literally. Nothing - and I'm talking not even Lake Pontchartrain - is lower than fifteen feet above sea level now." After high-fiving a nearby homeless man, she added, "The Saints have done it! Who dat?!"

The win also seems to have relieved racial tension in the Big Easy, a city long plagued by prejudice. "I used to dislike me some black people for no reason other than the fact that they different than me," admits 78 year-old Carl LeFranc, a self-described 'cau-Cajun'. "But when I saw them white folk playing the football with them black folk, it set me to thinking. If they all can work together to win them a sports competition, then it necessarily follows that the City of Nawlins has been cleansed of all her myriad afflictions."

Falling in step with the rest of the city, the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New Orleans announced plans to ask the Pope to canonize Saints quarterback Drew Brees and coach Sean Payton. "Archbishop Aymond has written to his Holiness urging him to expedite the canonization process," reported the Rt. Rev. Paul Kafkin, the Archdiocese's public relations chair.

"Normally you have to wait until a candidate has been dead for five years, but I can't imagine the Holy See wouldn't overrule that," Kafkin mused as he finished spray-painting over the words 'Louis' and 'Cathedral' on the sign in front of historic Saint Louis Cathedral, then adding an 's' to the remaining 'Saint'. "I mean, c'mon. It already says 'Saints' on their uniforms. It feels like we're halfway there."

Even residents of the Ninth Ward, a section of New Orleans all but leveled by 2005's flooding, expressed unbridled optimism. Leroy Johnson, 53, who lost his house, dog, tractor, wife, and ice cream truck in the floods, says he thinks the Super Bowl win will magically cause his neighborhood to be rebuilt. "I heard 'Touchdown Saints!' when I was listening to the game on my transistor radio, which incidentally was the only one of my possessions or relatives to survive Katrina," recounts Johnson. "And right then and there I knew: I'm getting my life back."

The enthusiasm wasn't limited to the Mississippi Delta; it spread at least as far as Washington. President Obama issued a statement minutes after time expired on the Super Bowl game clock. "I offer my congratulations to the people of New Orleans and the entire Gulf Region on this thrilling night," the statement read. "The way this football team took a struggling city, elevated it onto its shoulders, and made it the greatest urban confluence in modern memory is inspiring to cities worldwide. My fervent hope is that next year the Nationals will rise up and win the Pennant for the District of Columbia. That'll finally sort out this health care mess."

Turkey

"Not the crude eagle!"
cried Franklin at the meeting.
"How 'bout the turkey?"

Seriously, Tina Fey, I (Really, Truly, Without Caveat) Think You’re Funny

The other night I called our apartment to tell Lindsay I would be home later than expected. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message. When I got home, I played it back, intending to delete it. And that’s when I heard that frightening sound. Some dork blabbering on in what could generously be called a high tenor (and less generously called a warbling alto), saying in a hundred words what should have taken seven (“I will be home late. Love you.”)

If you're playing along at home, you'll realize that dork was me.

You’d think I’d be used to the sound of my own voice by now. It’s not like every waking moment of my life has been recorded (like the kids these days - how great would it be to have a million hours of video of yourself growing up? Don’t scoff; you, dear reader, are just as latently narcissistic as the rest of us), but the succession of audio/visual representation of me has been regular enough to become commonplace if not ubiquitous. Still every time I ask, “Do I really sound like that?”

This weekend I had to ask that question in another context; reading my own voice. And yes, I certainly said that stuff. Only it didn’t sound that way in my head. It sounded smart (one), poignant (two), and insightful (aaaand strike three).

When I read it now, it looks like I think Tina Fey is unworthy as an acting role model. This is not what I think. She's great. What my stupid warbling alto voice was trying to say was that I don't have acting role models because I'm a writer. Why would a writer have an acting role model? Do lawyers have doctors as role models? Do disc jockeys pattern their careers after airline pilots'? (Actually, that would explain why yesterday the host on NPR instructed me not to get out of my seat until the fasten seatbelt sign had been turned off. But I digress.)

Maybe you don’t ever get used to hearing your words quoted back to you, whether electronically or through the filter of another person’s mind. To quote the poet Robbie Burns:

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

And that's probably not how it sounded in his head, either.

Suits Me

The second floor of the Columbus Circle mall doubles as a gallery space. I’m not sure if anyone ever buys the sculptures or photos or paintings under or behind the sturdy plastic cases. I do know that whenever I’m there (usually after plodding behind Lindsay as she peruses the inventory at J. Crew) I at least glance at what’s being displayed.

Yesterday I spotted a blown-up picture of Frank Sinatra making his way down a boardwalk. Surrounding him are several people we in the post-HBO world would recognize as his entourage. But what first caught the eye (after Sinatra) was the man walking next to him. He was dressed in identical clothing. Seersucker suit, leather shoes, shirt, tie. Even his hair was the same. Turns out this was Sinatra’s stunt double on whatever movie he was shooting at the time (he looked a little pudgy but only sort of old; I’m guessing late 1960s).

But even more interesting than the two dressed-alike men were the other people on the boardwalk. They wore swimsuits, mostly, with a few shorts or shirts thrown in here and there. And they were all staring at Sinatra. Or the double. Hard to tell exactly. So I started to wonder: were they staring because this was a major movie star? (That’s the chief attribute of a movie star, by the way. Forget acting. Stars are stars because people want to look at them. They’re just so watchable.) Celebrity seems like the most obvious reason. I have a competing theory, though. If you’ll allow:

Our building has a common outdoor area with, among other things, grills and a swimming pool. We have to reserve a grill in order to use one. On weekends, the building guy in charge of these reservations sits at the pool with the lifeguards. So if one wanted to reserve a grill for use on, say, a Sunday evening, and it was already, say, Sunday afternoon, one would have to go to the pool area and ask the aforementioned guy.

So I did this. I walked into the pool area and strode confidently toward the lifeguards and the building guy. I had to walk around the pool, past sunbathers and swimmers wearing swimsuits, mostly, with a few shorts or shirts thrown in here and there. As I passed them I noticed something: they were all staring at me. After a second I knew why. I was wearing a suit.

It was all quite simple. See, since it was Sunday, we had just come home from church. I wanted to get the grill reserved as soon as possible, so instead of going upstairs and changing first, I stopped at the pool on my way up to our apartment. That I happened to be wearing a suit had nothing to do with the pool or the grill. It just worked out that way.

That’s not what it looked like to everyone else, though. They saw a man in a suit. They saw a man on a mission. They saw a shirt with buttons all the way down, plus full-length pants, plus shoes, plus a bona fide jacket over it all. Plus (Italian street vendor knock-off) Ray-Bans as the cherry on top.

When I reached the lifeguards and the building guy, their conversation ground to a halt. Their heads snapped up, faces expectant. I could have said anything.

“I’d like to reserve a grill. 5pm work?”

Of course 5pm worked. I was wearing power. It’s true. Suits give anyone an air of purpose, an aura of ambition. Were those 1960s boardwalk people staring at Frank and his double because they were movie stars? Probably. But even money says it had something to do with those seersuckers.