Ghost Strum

Jane pointed. “Where did that come from?”

Molly followed her mother’s gaze to the milk glass picture frame standing atop the shelf under the window. It captured the sunlight and seemed to glow.

But Jane didn’t see the frame. She only saw the black and white photo of her teenaged self, arm in arm with a handsome kid in uniform.

Molly answered carefully. “I found it in a box of old frames at the thrift store. Who’s the guy?”

Her mother moved toward the picture. “You need to trash it. Now.”

Molly grabbed it and held it close. “I bought it. You can’t take it.”

“What if Jim sees it?”

“He doesn’t care about my stuff. And anyway, he never comes in here. He’s not allowed.”

“I come in here and I don’t want to see it.”

Molly examined the picture. It was only a snapshot but the lighting gave it a quality of old Hollywood glamour portraits.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Molly said.

“A nobody. Just trouble,” Jane answered.

Molly prodded, “Did you always like guys in uniform? This guy, Jim…” Jane’s husband, Jim, was a cop.

Her mother shot back, “No, I did not ‘always like guys in uniform’… That guy was a wild man. If vines were hanging from trees, he’d be swinging from them.”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “Woooie-hooie! Like Tarzan, eh?”

“More like Cheetah, if you ask me. Put it away. Or I will.”

Molly returned it to the shelf. “You’ll never see it again.”

Jane moved toward the door.

“Mom?” Jane turned impatiently. “Is he my Dad?”

A complex of emotions passed over Jane’s face. “No, honey. I barely knew him in high school. I don’t remember that picture being taken. Don’t even remember his name.”

“He looks nice.”

“Well, you don’t know, do you? Don’t pester me with questions.”

“Just curious.”

“I tell you, Moll. If he were your Dad, I would understand why you are such a brat. But he isn’t, so I don’t.”

Molly laughed.

Jane turned away. “Don’t get me started.” She walked out, shutting the door hard behind her.

Molly looked at the picture. Every week this old guy with a beard carried a box of knick-knacks and junk into the thrift store to donate or sell.

Sorting and pricing the stuff people brought in fell to Molly. And then, of course, shelving it.

Molly found it hard to believe the old guy and the kid in the photo were the same person. The beard aged him compared to her mother. Or, not that he looked so much older, but more abused.

Her mother looked plenty old to Molly. But it was more Jane’s attitude setting into her face than the accumulated years.

This guy looked wrung out. His shirts hung on him like they’d outgrown him. Thinking back, she recognized the remnants of military bearing. He walked with dignity. But he carried a wounded quality too, like something gone missing.

That day he came in with a big box of old frames, he looked right at Molly and spoke with weight to his words. “There’s some good stuff in this one. Might find something in here you want to keep.”

Molly wondered why he hadn’t shown her the picture then. She figured he left it up to her. If attentive, she would find a treasure. That’s cool. He didn’t want to force it on her. But he knew.

At first glance, the picture startled her. Molly mistook the girl in the picture for herself at first. But the guy? And the clothes? Then she realized it had to be her mother.

Her mother used to be pretty. What happened? Molly hoped she wouldn’t end up looking the way Jane looked now. No one would squeeze Molly into her mother’s mold.

She knew it wasn’t Jim’s fault. He was a late arrival. But he didn’t help.

The other night Jim confronted Molly over what he overheard in a café. His dinner with a fellow officer got interrupted when some boys started a commotion. Jim told Molly he heard them talking about her in ‘unflattering terms’.

Based on that, Jim accused her of being a drug-addled slut. This even shocked her mother. But Jane didn’t defend Molly.

Molly said, “I can’t account for gossip, Jim. But if I were your boss, I’d expect harder evidence than a bunch of drunk kids spouting off. What about some credit that I wasn’t with them?”

Jim backed off. But he said, “Molly, I don’t care who your mother is. If I catch you breaking the law, you’ll answer to the law.” He hit the counter. “You’re fifteen. You don’t have the rights of an adult.”

Jim always got the last word in, regardless.

~

Next time the old guy came into the store, Molly almost missed him. Her boss had her sorting through a slew of CDs that people brought in. But the old guy found her. He pointed at the CDs.

“You ever see any old copies of ‘Heartbreak Mountain’?”

“Brokeback Mountain? That would be in sound…”

“No, no, no… It’s a latter-day bluegrass group, ‘Heartbreak Mountain’. I played with them. They were good before dissipation sunk them. Too many train wrecks.”

Molly shook her head. “Oh, I want to thank you for that picture. Who are you? That’s you with my Mom? What’s your name?”

“Whoa, girl. Too many questions.”

Molly looked down. “Oh… sorry.”

“I mean, you’re working. Is it cool to stand around chatting up the customers?”

“Oh, right. But I have a break. Can I buy you a coffee next door?”

“No, you may not. But if you’ll let me buy you one…” Molly brightened. “Everyone calls me Smith.”

Molly offered her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Smith.”

Smith chuckled. “You can skip the ‘Mister,’ Miss Molly.”

~

Molly and Smith talked for almost an hour that day. Smith said he played guitar, occasional session work and weddings when invited. He started busking straight out of the Marines. He did whatever he needed to pay the bills, but mainly played music — with compensation or not.

“I recognized you the first time I came in,” Smith said. “You look so much like Jane, I did a double-take. I’m cleaning up, so thought I’d pass that old picture on to you if you wanted it. Sorry about the crack in the glass.”

“I thought it was me at first. Mom doesn’t have a lot of pictures around, especially from way back. And she doesn’t talk much. But she said you are trouble. Are you trouble?”

Smith swallowed a chuckle. “Well, back then you could say I was full of a lot of… uhm, vinegar. I’ve moderated myself considerably since. I know not to step on other’s solos and if I borrow a lick, I’m generous in return.”

Molly looked confused by this answer.

Smith elaborated. “I liked her and we went out once or twice, but it never took. I didn’t hurt her though.”

Molly bit her lip. She had to ask. “Mom says no, but…”

“What?”

“You’re not my father, are you?”

Smith laughed. “No, honey, ‘fraid not. I doubt I even got a kiss from her. But you can’t blame me for trying.” He furrowed his brow. “You don’t know your Daddy, then?”

“She doesn’t say much about anything. All I know is ‘long time gone’.”

Meeting for coffee became a regular event for Molly and Smith. In Smith’s terms, they resonated. Molly loved hearing about her mother. Smith couldn’t help but talk about music. Molly told Smith she loved passing time with him.

He got serious. “Don’t pass precious time with anyone, Molly. Keeping time is what it’s all about. Build solid memories. They’ll sustain you when times get hard.”

One day, Smith brought a guitar along. He noodled a bit and played some intricate riffs that held her spellbound. The notes poured out so fast, Molly couldn’t believe Smith was playing alone.

“Do you teach? How much do you charge?”

“You can’t afford it, Molly. Either accept it as a gift or walk on.”

He shared a few things about the guitar. “Imagine this is the universe in miniature. This little cosmos amplifies all the vibrations moving through it. All that light and sound from the stars bounces around and moves outward forever.”

Molly tried to follow.

Smith played a chord. “Take a simple chord. It’s like the seed of a melody. All the notes of a song scrunch up together in that one chord. String them out like a vine over twelve bars of time and the melody emerges.”

“The chord holds all the notes of the song?”

“It could. A bunch of them anyway. Think of a chord as a family unit. Harmony prevails when all the strings or notes are in tune with each other. Harmonious notes resonate. They lift everyone up.”

“Okay…”

“But discord enters when a note or two is out of tune. A sour note drags everything down. It has its purposes in counterpoint, but over time it depletes. It neutralizes all the positive vibes.”

“Smith, are you talking about music or… life?”

“Same thing, Molly. You’re old enough to understand I’m talking about both. Music is the highest form of communication. It’s God’s voice resonating from heaven.” He grinned. “Watch this…”

Smith tuned the guitar using the harmonics of one string resonating with another. This mystified Molly.

“It’s over your head now, but don’t worry, you’ll get it.” He handed the guitar to Molly. “Here…”

A boy from Molly’s class approached. He ignored Smith. “Hey, Moll, are you going to the rave this weekend?”

Molly looked uncomfortable. Smith interjected, “Your mother ever teach you manners, boy? You have business with my kid? Show some respect. We’re in the middle of something.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were just some guy. You’re Molly’s father?”

“I didn’t say I’m her father. I said she’s my kid.”

The boy backed away, confused. “Sorry, Molly. See you ‘round.” He walked away shaking his head.

Molly smiled nervously. “I hope you know the rumor you just started. I’m your kid?”

Smith shut his eyes. “Student… I meant we were having a class. I should have said you’re my student.”

“I can’t wait ’til my Mom hears I’m your kid.”

Smith laughed at himself. “In music that is known as a ‘clam’.”

“Anyway, I’m your ‘kid’ now, aren’t I?”

They laughed. Smith whispered, “A little secret for you… Basically, everyone chooses their family.”

Molly smiled. Smith nodded toward the guitar she held. “That’s yours, you know.”

“No, Smith. I can’t.”

“I’ve got a dozen of them. Keep it. Call it ‘permanent loan’ if you want. But you have to practice!”

~

Adding guitar lessons to her work and school took effort. But somehow it all worked for the best. Molly’s grades improved. And the mood at home got better too.

Mastering chords was a stretch. So Molly stretched herself.

One day they were noodling through a song. Lost in the process, Molly became aware Smith had stopped playing, she looked up to meet his gaze.

“What?”

Smith said, “You were singing.”

“No. I don’t sing. Never have.”

“But you were. And beautifully. Don’t stop.”

Molly never sang. She didn’t even know how to begin.

“I don’t know how.”

Smith smiled at her. “You’ll figure it out.” He went back to his riff. In a minute, he looked up again. “Jane had a voice. I thought you might.”

“Are you talking about my mother? She never sings.”

“She did then.” Smith returned to his guitar.

Molly asked, “Do you sing?”

“Like gravel on fine china,” he answered. Then he started coughing and couldn’t stop.

~

A few weeks later, Smith invited Molly to hear him play with his band at a wedding gig.

“It’s up at my house. Here’s the address. Oh, and you’re singing with us. Don’t worry. Just one song. Here’s the music.” He handed her a paper. “Oh, and tell Jane and Jim to come if they want. It’ll be fun.”

This was too much. Fun with Jane and Jim? “Smith! I can’t sing. I never sang before. How can I sing in front of a crowd? You want me to ruin the wedding?”

Smith smiled. “My dear, you can sing notes your fingers never dreamed of. Practice. Don’t think too much about it.” Smith started strumming the intro. “Let’s go through it.”

Molly couldn’t see the music through her tears. How is this happening?

She sang. And after a few passes, she gained some confidence.

Smith grinned. “That wasn’t so bad. And don’t forget, you’ll have back up. Cheryl, my girlfriend will pick up the harmony at the hook.”

Smith had a girlfriend?

~

Molly entered the kitchen, home from her job. Her mother started on Molly before she set her purse down.

“What’s this I hear about you and that man? I told you to stay away from that degenerate.”

“He’s teaching me to play, Mom. And that’s all. He’s just a guy.”

“I’ll tell you who to hang with. Why do you oppose me at every turn?”

Jim stepped into the doorway from the living room. Jane looked to him for support.

“It’s okay, Jane.”

Both Molly’s and Jane’s mouths dropped.

“What?”

“I asked around. Everyone knows Smith. He’s well respected. And for a musician, that’s something.”

Jane fell into a chair and stared.

Molly couldn’t help but smile. Jim nodded at her.

“So, Mom. Smith invited the three of us to a wedding at his house.”

That brought Jane to attention. “That man is getting married? He’s too old for such stuff.”

Molly said, “Do what you want. I’m going. I hear there will be cake.”

Jane rolled her eyes.

~

A few days later, Molly looked up from her homework. She heard something and went to investigate.

Molly found Jane singing to herself while doing the dishes. Molly had never heard her sound so happy.

Molly took a chance and picked up the harmony. Jane stopped and turned to see Molly, who continued. Jane smiled and began again. They laughed together.

But then Jim entered and Jane stopped short. Jim tried to encourage them but the moment had passed. Jim shook his head and left.

Jane gave Molly a look. “Have you finished your homework?”

Molly returned to her room.

~

On the morning of the wedding, Molly got a ride up the hill to Smith’s house. He met her at the gate down the long drive. The house had a veranda where the musicians jammed until the festivities began.

Molly took it all in. “You really do live up a hill. This is beautiful.”

“And easier to defend.”

Smith introduced Molly to Cheryl. Everything about Smith and Cheryl felt comfortable.

Cheryl said, “Smith says you have good pipes.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m…”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, Molly, but Smith doesn’t flatter. If he says you can sing…” They nodded.

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Let’s go over the break.”

Cheryl rehearsed the harmonies with Molly and they had fun.

~

Smith’s group played for the wedding and mixed it up at the reception held on Smith’s front lawn. Molly sat nearby, enjoying the music.

When Smith nodded to her, Molly ascended the steps to join the band. She turned as Smith introduced her to the crowd. The valley opened before her.

Molly saw Jim watching from the back of the crowd. He waved and smiled. No sign of Jane.

No pressure. She only had to sing. It was all a blur from that point forward.

Afterward, Molly didn’t remember singing. She heard applause, even from the musicians. Everyone seemed happy. Cheryl couldn’t stop smiling. She said, “Let’s sing again, soon.”

Smith said, “You killed it.” And that was a good thing.

~

Jim drove Molly home. When they got there, Jane remained in her room.

The next morning, when Molly entered the kitchen, Jane sat drinking coffee.

Jane said, “Well you did it. Now you can get away from that man.”

“What’s your deal, Mom?”

“Don’t you get it? I don’t want you hurt.”

“He’s not hurting me.”

“He will. I know what he’s doing.”

“What’s he doing? He’s teaching me.”

Jane let go. “Don’t you know he’s dying?”

In a flash, Molly understood his coughing. And giving his things away.

Molly couldn’t speak.

Jane tried to comfort her. “Baby, I know… You care about him and then he’ll be gone. You need to pull away.”

Molly pulled away from Jane. “You’re wrong, Mom. You want me to keep my emotions stored away, like you. I should only bring them out to show for special occasions? Like that pin you wear every Christmas?”

Jane let Molly leave. She didn’t want to argue.

~

Smith met Molly for coffee by the thrift store a few more times. They played together but things were different. Molly couldn’t talk about what Jane told her. But she could see it now. Smith knew she knew. Nothing she could say. Words wouldn’t do a thing. They could play music together. And so they did.

The day Smith didn’t show, Molly knew why.

Cheryl came into the store. She held Molly and they cried together.

Molly sang at Smith’s funeral. Everyone was there.

© John K. Adams 2019. All rights reserved.

Blue Skies

 Martha’s boss, Walter, caught her eye as she pulled her pay envelope from her box. “Let’s talk,” he said. He turned and stepped into his office.

Martha didn’t want to miss her bus. When that happened, her whole schedule got thrown off. Ordinarily, getting called into a meeting at day’s end on a Friday would be cause for anxiety. Those meetings were always bad news.

Being one of the newspaper’s best ad sales people, Martha wasn’t worried. They needed her.

Walter indicated the chair when she entered. There goes the bus, thought Martha. He actually wants to talk. She sat, trying to not look impatient.

Walter stood, looking out the window. Martha waited expectantly.

“How long have you been with us, Martha?”

“I started with you in 1933, so, three years? Give or take.” The Depression had limped and groaned for four years and counting.

“You’ve done well, considering the business climate we’re in. You’re a top producer.”

“Thank you, sir. I do my best.”

“How are things at home?”

Martha chose her words carefully. Why didn’t he get to the point? “As well as you could expect. I’m the sole breadwinner, you know.”

“Is your eldest boy working?”

“Fred is on his own. He helps as he can.”

“I see. And your son Carl wants to be a writer? Or was it a big league pitcher?”

“He has big dreams.”

“And they’re all still in school?”

“The three of them, yes. Betty, my youngest, is ten.”

“I remember her. In a few years, ‘hello Hollywood!’”

“She’s a good girl.”

Walter turned and leaned on his desk. He looked straight at Martha and sighed.

“You know how things are, Martha. I cannot tell you how sorry I am about this.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have to let you go. There are men who need the work. They need to feed their families.”

“But I need to feed my family.”

“I’m very sorry. It isn’t my decision.”

Martha was stunned. How could this be? He said himself, she’s a top producer.

Walter cleared his throat and stood straight. “Take the weekend. Rest. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

Walter turned to the window again. Martha left in silence.

The bus ran late. Fresh snow blew like dust, through the headlights from rush hour traffic. Detroit winters are cold. But even on the bus, Martha couldn’t get warm. What would she do? This had been the perfect job. And now? She couldn’t think straight. What would she tell the kids? She needed a plan. Again.

Martha reminded herself to cancel the dentist appointments for Betty and Roman.

A prayer always calmed her. She repeated it.

Carl, Roman and Betty had eaten when Martha got home. Betty knew the routine and had whipped up some buttered noodles for the boys. They listened to a comedy show on the radio.

Martha hung up her winter coat. She thanked Betty for her help. “Listen to your show. I’ll clean up.”

“Aren’t you going out? It’s Friday.”

“I don’t know dear,” said Martha. “This day about did me in.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing that won’t work out. Just work.”

“You should go to your club. Your friends will cheer you up.”

“I don’t know. Maybe… I’ll be fine.”

Martha looked at Carl. “Are you going out?”

“Of course. It’s Friday night. The Thin Man is playing.”

“It’s freezing out.”

Exhausted, Martha stared at her noodles and the dishes in the sink and wanted only to sit. She wasn’t hungry. Not for noodles. Maybe she would go to the club.

Martha sang. For many, her songs at the club were a highlight. It wasn’t opera. Her voice and easy delivery brought warmth to a cold world.

Her friends said she should make records. That seemed so out of reach now. Four kids ago, she might have had a chance. She didn’t regret the kids. If only she had met a different kind of man.

Martha put the dishes to soak and the phone rang. Her eldest son, Ferdinand called every day.

“Ferdie!”

“How are you, Ma?”

“Tired. But good. How’s your father?”

“He’s out. I think he’s planning a trip back home.”

“Really? Is there work in Warsaw? If you can’t make it in Detroit…”

“He never fit in, Ma. You know that.”

“I thought he was at Ford.”

“’Til last week…”

“Oh well. What can you do?” Fred didn’t answer. “How are you?”

“I’m good. How’s work?”

“Slow.”

“Slow everywhere, after Christmas.”

“We’ll get by.”

“Going to the club?”

“Maybe later.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Then I’ll go.”

“See you then. Bye Ma. Love ya.”

“Love you too, Ferdie.”

She hung up the phone. Carl put on his coat. Martha straightened his collar and arranged his scarf. She looked at him. Tears welled up and she looked away.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“You go. Be with your friends. I’ll be alright.”

“Mom?”

“I got laid off.”

Carl didn’t miss a beat.

“I’ll get a job.”

“You can’t. You have school.”

“There’s always work. I’ll work nights. I’ve been thinking about it anyway.”

“I’ll find something. I always land on my feet. You know.”

Carl embraced his mother. “I’ve got to go. Don’t worry.” Carl smiled and gave Martha a thumbs up as he closed the door.

“How can I help, Mom?”

Martha turned to see Roman and Betty looking at her. No secrets with four children.

“Oh, kids.” She moved to embrace them. “It’ll work out. Let’s keep it between us, okay?”

Betty said, “I’ll help out, here.”

“You always do, Cherub.”

“I can sell papers. Jerzy, at the news stand, said so.”

“It’s too cold now, Romie, with your leg. Maybe in the spring.” Roman suffered a mild case of polio a few years ago. But there was still scarring.

“I’m used to it, Mom. I’m fine.”

Martha tousled his hair. “Like Rasputin, you can’t keep a good man down.”

Roman laughed at her old joke. They hugged their mother.

“Thanks, kids. I guess I’ll go to the club after all.” Big band music drew their attention. “Your show is starting.”

They ran to the radio and Roman adjusted the tuning as the theme song rose to crescendo.

The wind had died. Riding the bus again, Martha looked at the false dawn, lights from the busy General Motors factory.

Oscar, the piano player, grinned when he saw Martha arrive. They went way back and he loved accompanying her singing. Her voice fit like a favorite shoe.

Someone helped her doff her coat. A smattering of applause greeted her approach to the piano. Martha greeted old friends with a wave or a hug.

It was a card club, where most played Pinochle and caught up with friends. No booze, due to Prohibition. No one minded.

Martha stepped up to the microphone and someone called out. She laughed with the others at the familiar feeling. How could she not be here, at home?

Oscar smiled, “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“But I’m here now. Got to make an entrance, eh?”

“Whatcha got for me?”

“Let’s start with ‘Blue Skies’. But play it slow and blue. Don’t jazz it up. Ride the melancholy.”

Oscar cocked his head. “You okay?”

“I will be.”

Everyone quieted as the piano set the mood. Martha waited for her moment and gently sang her song.

“Blue skies smiling at me.
Nothing but blue skies do I see.
Blue birds singing a song.
Nothing but blue skies from now on.
Never saw the sun shining so bright.
Never saw things going so right.
Noticing the days hurrying by.
When you’re in love, my how they fly.

Blue days, all of them gone.
Nothing but blue skies from now on…”

Martha sang how she felt, simply and from the heart. When she finished, the final chord had almost died before anyone clapped.

It felt good. She sang a few other favorites, played Pinochle and laughed with her friends for a while. Martha left early.

The snow crunched in the cold. Her breath lingered and then was gone. The bus didn’t make her wait.

Already home, Carl waited up for Martha. The others were asleep. He came to her as she hung her coat.

“Ma, I talked to a friend. He thinks he can get me on, part time, nights.”

Martha smiled at her young son, already a head taller than her. “I don’t know, Carl. Let’s see what happens this week. We’ll keep that in our back pocket.”

They smiled and she kissed him goodnight.

Monday morning, Martha got up early, as usual. She got everyone off to school and dressed in her work best.

Everyone in the advertising department looked up as Martha entered. No one said anything. A few eyes met hers. She found Walter giving a tour to a man, her presumed replacement. She never saw Walter so flustered.

“Let’s talk when you finish your tour.” Walter nodded.

In a few minutes, he approached and opened his office door for Martha.

She didn’t sit.

“What a surprise, Martha. Was I not clear?”

“You were clear. I’m giving you an opportunity.”

“You are?”

“Keep your new man. Pay him what you want. But keep me on. Pay me straight commission. You know how good I am.”

“Commission only?”

“Five percent flat. And I’ll do better than anyone.”

Walter smiled at Martha. They shook hands.

Martha did great.

 

 

Oscar Night

Jimmy could hardly sit still. This is the biggest night of his life. His whole career is riding on this one evening and he feels ready to explode.

Of course, no one looking at him would know that. He’s been in the biz long enough to know, never to show his emotions. That’s what scripts and make up and cameras are for. Don’t forget cameras. Without cameras we’d have nothing. None of us. None of this.

Jimmy loves the cameras. And the cameras love him.

Just smile. You gotta smile. Who wouldn’t? It’s such a circus. How can you not smile? Make it real.

Yes. It is almost too much. The theater is filled with so many people he’s known for so long. Some of them friends. Many competitors. But there is a mutual respect, or Jimmy liked to think so, between long time collaborators. Even when you strive for a job against so many talented people. Someone has to get it. Better when it’s you, but like the Duke used to say, “Catch the next wave.” There’s always another job, another wave, another Oscar. Until there’s not.

But tonight! Oh boy! Walking up that red carpet. He’s made that trip before, but tonight, they were watching him. Everyone knew Jimmy. Everyone wants to grab his hand. Pat him on the back. Take a picture. Be seen with Jimmy! It is grand. Grand to be Jimmy.

And the women! So many beautiful women! And the clothes. Jimmy has never seen such dresses! Each one more extravagant than the one before. Who wears such stuff? Actresses! They can get away with it. Do you know how many poor children you could clothe with the fabric in that one dress? Is that a dress? Or a house?

Oh, and look at her. Excuse me. You look cold. Does your mother know you went out naked? Your goosebumps have goosebumps. Maybe Dame Whatshername will lend you some of her train with which to cover yourself.

Even tomorrow, when they do the postmortems on the evening and cat about this ugly dress, or that worst look. Hey! Shut up. They were on the carpet. They had the good seats. They were the ones the paparazzi were calling to. Where were you? Lame bastards.

Men are smart enough not to compete on the fashion front. Hopefully, they remember to wear pants. And the tux sleeves aren’t too short. That’s about as daring as the men get. Try to look dignified in the midst of all this brouhaha. They want people looking at their faces, not the clothes. What the men really want is to stand beside a beautiful woman. They really don’t need more than that, when the cameras are flashing. That is plenty, thank you.

A man can look like a toad, but if he’s standing next to a babe? Who cares? He’s a toad with good taste in women. “Look at that beautiful woman with the pet toad!” More power to him. Maybe later, when she kisses him, he’ll turn into a prince.

And the paparazzi. How many flashes can you stand? It’s enough to give you a seizure. Yikes! Take it easy guys. I’ll hold the pose… That’s it? How about one more? A money shot. Get it.

Here comes the interview. “Hey! How are you? Blah. Blah. Stunning!”

“Thank you. Hey, I love your blah, blah. How do you do that?”

“Oh, it’s blah. Got it from my mother, blah. But enough about me. How do you feel tonight? Is this your night?”

“I feel great. I know I did my best and I trust the Academy and the gods that be, to touch those most deserving. I’m just so honored, blah.”

“Well, I don’t want to jinx you. Ha, ha!”

“And blah, blah to you too! Ha, ha!” Smooch!

Jimmy looks around at all the people. And not just people, famous people! He never dreamed. Of course he always dreamed. But to be here is something he could hardly envision. Talk about a cast of thousands.

Look at the sets! They dropped a few dimes on this. Every year it out does every expectation. So much talent. And so much talent that never gets a nod. A name on a list at the end of the show. How many people work to make this come off? It is incredible!

Oh! And there she is. If he owes it to anyone, it is to his co-star. Jimmy knows he wouldn’t have the nomination if not for her. They call it acting, but those scenes with her — well, they forgot about the cameras. Twenty people standing around and they were alone.

She is staggeringly beautiful to Jimmy. Not cliché ‘stunning’. Not merely gorgeous. ‘The original knock-out’ is how Jimmy puts it. And none of the distracting frippery about her dress. Simple, pure class. Elegance defined. Of course nothing could disguise her classic looks.

Jimmy tells people, thousands of years from now, scholars will debate ‘What was she really like?’

Jimmy regrets, they couldn’t make a go of it, off set. He thought they were really in love. It was a movie, silly. Jimmy got taken, like all the rest. “It’s called ‘acting,’ Jimmy,” he chuckles to himself. And she is an actress through and through.

He catches her eye and she nods with that little smile of hers that makes him melt inside. It was just for him.

But she doesn’t come over. No time for that. Who’s the new heartbreak escorting her tonight? Some surfer she discovered? Or Tony, her PR hack, shoe-horned into the program? Cue Hollywood Hairboy #3. Action!

Jimmy hopes for his sake, he’s got the stuff to land on his feet. He’ll need it. Jimmy walked that gauntlet. Good luck!

Smiling people stroll by. They offer their hands, embraces, kisses on the cheek. Some of them mean it.

The orchestra is starting up! Here we go. Batten down the hatches. Jimmy’s getting an Oscar tonight! “Don’t let it slip through your fingers, boy.”

Jimmy looks at his notes. Short and sweet. Sincere thanks. Hit all the notes. Humility. Make them laugh. Make them cry. Leave them wanting more. And thank her. She won’t expect that.

Judging by the acceptance speeches, Jimmy knows it will be a long evening. At least until he gives his. Then everyone will wake up. He was all for the third seamstress getting her due. But please don’t let her near the mic.

Jimmy thinks, “Can everyone just shut up and let me have my statue? Enough!”

After a while, Jimmy wonders if he accidentally wandered into a political rally. “Is someone running for president? I thought these were acting awards. Actors don’t have opinions, they have scripts.”

Suddenly, it is time. Jimmy can’t believe it. It all happened so fast. He doesn’t feel ready. Where did the night go?

He keeps repeating the mantra, “Wait to hear your name. Don’t jump up until they say your name.” Jimmy braces himself on the arms of the chair.

The presenters come out. She is one of them. This could be weird. Maybe it will be perfect. Is it a sign? An omen? Jimmy swallows hard.

The presenters stall with some banter. Everyone is laughing. It is excruciating. The man gives her the envelope. She looks directly at Jimmy with that little signature smile. She opens the envelope and the look in her eyes says it all. She says the most beautiful words in the most beautiful voice, “And the winner of the Oscar, for best actor is… Jimmy…”

The crowd goes nuts. She throws the envelope over her shoulder and strides to the edge of the stage to offer her hand to Jimmy as he bounds up the steps. There are screams and whistles as she gives him a passionate kiss. The other presenter makes a big show of breaking them up. It’s pandemonium. Jimmy wipes tears from his eyes as he steps to the mic…

Nurse Salazar tapped Jimmy on the shoulder to get his attention. He looked up at her from his chair with a look of confusion.

“Mr. Jimmy, time for your meds. They’ll help you sleep.”

Jimmy looked at the television. The end credits streamed by. The big music reached its crescendo. Then Jimmy remembered the golden statue, cradled on his lap.

The nurse continued. “Everyone in the home gets so agitated. Every year, it’s the same.” She smiled down at Jimmy. “You want me to take that for you? You don’t want to drop Mr. Oscar. I’ll put it back up on the shelf. He’ll be safe there.”

Jimmy surrendered his Oscar with reluctance. In exchange, she gave him a small cup containing some pills.

“Here you go, Mr. Jimmy. These will help you sleep. Would you like to get into bed now?”

Jimmy smiled at her. “Do you want my autograph? You can say you knew me, when.”

 

 

 

Life is a Dance

I’ll always remember my folks clearing the living room floor of furniture and dancing the Lindy to Glen Miller’s, ‘In the Mood’. I couldn’t do that.

I guess I could blame my dancing style on Jerry Lee Lewis. “Great Balls of Fire” was released when I was only five years old. Mr. Lewis’ extra-curricular activities were meaningless to me. The lyrics were over my head, like so many things in those days. But that piano! That beat got me moving, The rest is history.

I love to dance.

Of course, my concept of dancing was radically different from everyone else’s. All the polite gestures, carefully measured steps, held poses and graceful twirls one might see at a classic ballroom dance were beyond my primitive sensibilities. I couldn’t care less about them. My home grown style developed from thinking every beat demanded some convulsive gesture responding in kind to Newton’s Third Law of Motion. Imagine my sitter’s reaction when Jerry Lee started tickling those keys and I responded by bouncing and jerking around like a wind-up toy monkey with a cymbal.

I met my first girlfriend, Susan in our first grade class. Of course, I was pretty innocent. I think we only kissed once, and we never danced. But her older sister held a mock wedding for us. What did I know? Absolutely nothing.

Then my Dad moved us to a farm town in central Minnesota. Six years later, we moved back, so I looked Susan up. She was the only person I knew from before.

We were about to start seventh grade at the same school. She invited me to her birthday party. This was my entrée into local society.

But someone put rock ‘n’ roll on the record player and I confidently started dancing in my signature style. I must have looked like I was having a fist fight with myself. In retrospect, I must have embarrassed her terribly. She never spoke to me again.

I learned to rein it in, somewhat, after that, but sock hops were pretty ridiculous, with everyone standing against the wall while the few ‘elite soshes’ dominated the dance floor. I would never be accepted into that group. How lame it all was.

Had ADHD been an acronym at the time, I would have been the poster boy. I always had a rhythm driving through my head. Sit me in a chair and within moments my fingers or feet would be tapping. I still struggle to suppress it.

You need to understand, Minnesota winters are brutal. Back then, teachers understood boys need to blow off excess energy, or nothing will get done in the classroom.

In grade school, when it was too cold to go outside, we were stuck in the gym. A game we ad-libbed was called Kill the Guy with the Ball. The only rule was to swarm whomever had the ball and get it from him. Of course, whoever got it, would also get swarmed. Teams? Winning? Beside the point. Round and round the gym we’d stampede, tackle, wrestle for the ball and stampede again. The girls tried to stay out of the way. After an hour of that, we were able to sit quietly and listen to instruction. Even me.

One week we had to learn square dancing. The girls begged the teacher not to pair me with them. My style of locking elbows and swinging my partner until they went airborne didn’t match their meek desire to demurely prance in time with the music.

I was the rambunctious kid who was immune to the civilizing influences of music. I didn’t understand the social protocols that accompanied dancing. I just wanted to get physical and feel the joyful beat. It was rock ‘n’ roll. Yeah!

By the time school dances were a thing, I was like a one man mosh pit, long before such things were invented. When the mandatory drum solo started, everyone would retreat, leaving me to do my best to respond to every drum beat with my spastic, slip jointed style.

No one ever said anything to me. They were in awe.

Yet mysteriously, girls would demur when I invited them to dance. The social subtexts were indecipherable to me. Did they really prefer to sit on the sidelines in the dark, at a dance (!), than dance? With me?

Years later, a woman I knew from Argentina spent about five minutes attempting to teach me the Tango before despairing. Great music, but so restrictive in its style. My best attempts resembled more of a parody than a dance. The tango’s barely sublimated dominant/submissive sexuality was stifling. I like to move and respond in the give and take of dancing with my partner. But without the tone of a human sacrifice.

Then I met my future wife. She dances gracefully but likes my style too. By then, I could actually keep time with the music. Every song didn’t have to resemble a boxing match. She and I are known to spend hours improvising on the dance floor, whether others participate or not. We have fun. We laugh together. We dance.

Opportunities to take over the dance floor don’t present themselves very often. But one learns to incorporate grace and timing into one’s life, always being ready to capitalize on an accident of syncopation. Regardless of other’s opinions of my dancing abilities, I see life as a dance. Stay upright, don’t trip over the furniture and keep that beat.

I’m not a Talking Bomb, but I Played One on TV

One of the most interesting aspects of working in post-production in Hollywood was the time I spent on the ADR stage. ADR (Automatic Dialogue Replacement) is the process by which actors are brought onto a sound stage to recreate their original performance that was marred by noisy ambience or other technical issues. I had the opportunity to work with many talented actors, most of whom were cooperative and agreeable under stressful circumstances.

The task is a unique blend of technical ability and art. Ideally, in the original performance, the actor inhabits the character while submerged in the ambiance of the location and interacting with the other characters.

On the ADR stage, the actor must re-create that original sense and emotion of the scene, while standing alone on a dark stage which lacks any of the physical cues that supported the original performance. And he must also watch him or herself on the screen and perfectly lip-sync his new performance to the original. It is that combination of re-creating an emotional performance, while also objectively observing it, which throws some actors.

Imagine yourself playing a character helping a wounded friend while dodging bullets from a sniper. All your exertions and dialogue provide the viewer with a sense of the immediacy and danger of your plight.

Now, imagine trying to re-create that same tension, without the noise, the dust, the struggle, or your co-player, all while standing on a cool, dark stage, watching yourself perform on a giant screen.

Some actors just cannot do it. Their process of acting is so integrated into the moment that doing justice to their performance, after the fact, in such artificial circumstances defeats them. And many are wonderful actors. Ultimately, if the performance is good, a little judicious editorial surgery will improve on the sync.

One such case was with the actor Robert DeNiro. Considered one of the greatest actors of his generation, the process of ADR is completely counter-intuitive for him and his style of acting. We scheduled multiple sessions, only for him to balk or cancel each in turn. He was agreeable, but intimidated by the technical process. I finally got him to do his lines ‘wild,’ with four or five interpretations of each line. With minimal editing, I was able to make one of these performances fit.

I worked with the actor Jackie Chan on one of his films. He is the most focused and exacting actor I ever worked with. Except for lunch, he never took a break. A week was scheduled for the recording and he finished re-voicing the complete film in three days.

Jackie’s film was shot in Chinese. Our task was to replace Jackie’s whole Chinese language performance with English lines. We needed to write Jackie’s lines so they would make sense to the story and also closely match the onscreen lip movements.

This task was daunting enough. But as we were starting, Jackie asked how he could get rid of his Chinese accent. Since we were preparing his film for an American release, he didn’t want his Chinese accent to distract or make the audience struggle to understand.

Having never been asked this, or thought about it, I needed to think fast. How could I solve this? Hardly missing a beat, a solution popped into my head. The ADR gods were smiling down on me.

One factor for any non-native speaker of English (or, I suspect, any second language) is the natural tendency to pronounce each word discreetly. This exaggerates the accent and creates a stilted hesitation, rather than a natural flow of expression. The speaker sounds like they are struggling over a pile of rocks, rather than floating down a stream.

I asked Jackie to say the phrase ‘American accent’ but to slur the final ‘n’ to the beginning of ‘accent’ to sound like ‘America-naccent’. By tying the two words together, much of that odd emphasis and hesitation is lost and it sounds much more natural.

Jackie tried it and immediately grasped my intent. We started work and he was pleased with the improvement in his ‘American’ accent. Whew!

Another aspect of ADR is the recording of background ‘walla’ for crowd scenes, restaurant scenes etc. Some ‘loop groups’ are very talented and will create a texture of background that adds a sense of reality to a scene.

Long ago, loop groups were told to murmur ‘peanut butter’ over and over to create a non-descript background buzz that would not compete with the foreground dialogue. Modern loop groups bring vocabulary lists and even foreign language phrases for the talent to use in order to give the walla the flavor of a specific time and place. A Moroccan street market sounds different than a corporate board room. Really!

Many actors, practice their craft and can make a decent living working in a loop group while seeking on-camera work. The downside can be that novice actors are so hungry to be ‘discovered,’ their performances must be reined in so they remain in the background.

Working with inexperienced actors provided me with the opportunity to perform as a ‘talking bomb’. Twice. Occasionally, some absurd gimmick becomes popular with multiple script writers. In this case, a time bomb which not only had a clock, but also a voice which announced, to anyone who happened to be standing around, how many seconds they had before being blown to bits.

“Siri, should I cut the red wire or the blue wire?”

On two different shows, I ran the sessions where we needed a voice counting down from ‘ten,’ presumably to inject further tension into an already anxious scene. But the actors seemed unable to grasp the ‘motivation’ of the ‘talking bomb.’ Alternatively gleefully evil or mother-hover anxious, their bomb was over-acting.

Every Shakespearean attempt by each member of the loop group would be rejected by the director. When they ran out of actors, I offered to try.

The tension in the scene was in the characters, and hopefully, with the audience. But the bomb couldn’t care less about the pending explosion. It wasn’t a character. It had no character. It didn’t ‘know’ what was about to happen.

I performed my count-down as devoid of emotion as possible, a counter-point to the humans in the scene. This bomb had not a care in the world. Rain or shine, this bomb was indifferent to its future or the lack thereof. It was what no actor wants to be described as – mechanical and flat. My performance, with just a suggestion of boredom, was perfect.

I was the bomb. They loved it.

Hits and Misses from Storyography – 2017

Each year at this time I re-publish a selection of some of my blogs that may have slipped through the cracks, or I hope will find readers who might have missed them on the first pass.

And I include some of my personal favorites.

I am Woman, Hear Me “Wahhh!” is a little more political than usual for me but, like it or not, I felt my take on the recent sex scandals had to be said: https://lifestoryography.wordpress.com/2017/11/26/i-am-woman-hear-me-wahhh/  

Gumshoe, Meet Banana Peel is a rant from a different place that I hope gives you a smile: https://lifestoryography.wordpress.com/2017/11/04/gumshoe-meet-banana-peel/

Shakespeare, On the Rocks is a whimsical re-imagining of some of the Bard’s more famous plays: https://lifestoryography.wordpress.com/2017/10/24/shakespeare-on-the-rocks/

Eclipsed by a Fidget Spinner is an exploration of our need for diversion and the cyclical nature of our lives. This was printed in a recent edition of the Tolucan Times: https://lifestoryography.wordpress.com/2017/09/05/eclipsed-by-a-fidget-spinner/

You Kiss With That Mouth? was my most read blog this year. I’m told my misadventures with dentists is very entertaining and funny. Don’t forget to floss: https://lifestoryography.wordpress.com/2017/09/01/kicking-when-im-crowned/

Liberals and the Seven Stages of Grief examines the Kubler-Ross model of grief through the prism of the 2016 election: https://lifestoryography.wordpress.com/2017/05/31/liberals-and-the-seven-stages-of-grief/

Another Brick in the Wall recounts my brief tenure as a middle school teacher: https://lifestoryography.wordpress.com/2017/06/22/another-brick-in-the-wall/

Love and Scar Tissue is a reprint of a review I did for the Tolucan Times of the amazing Danny and the Deep Blue Sea. I wish everyone could have seen this riveting performance: https://lifestoryography.wordpress.com/2017/04/12/love-and-scar-tissue-on-display-in-danny-and-the-deep-blue-sea-and-poison/

Thank you for reading my blog this year. I very much appreciate your comments and attention. I hope 2018 is wonderful for all.

Why Movies About Movie Making Flop

It seems most movies tanked this summer. But why do movies about the film business do especially badly at the box office? I don’t mean films that use Hollywood as a backdrop, great films like ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ or ‘Sunset Boulevard’.

I mean movies that present the film business as interesting in and of itself. You know, shows like ‘An Alan Smithee Film’, ‘Map to the Stars’, ‘The Player’ ‘Won Ton Ton…’ and others. Did you see any of them? Exactly my point. These films didn’t sell enough pop corn to pay the ushers.

Why audiences don’t ‘get’ Hollywood-centric stories is a question I’ve never heard answered. I think it has to do with Hollywood’s self-promotion as a land of limitless glamour and glimmering success. There must be conflict to successfully engage the audience. How can the audience identify with anyone from that fanciful place untouched by darkness?

Comedies about the film business fail because they are filled with self-aware ‘in’ jokes, funny to those in the movie and few others. Alternately, the character’s problems may seem contrived. Can I truly sympathize with Red when she actively solicits the attentions of the Big Bad Wolf?

A case in point is a TV series I recently endured. The premise of it is absurd and I don’t recommend it. A secondary character, a writer is complaining about his sorry lot as the lead writer of a hit show. He is so put upon by his producer boss, that he has to work during ‘hiatus week’ while everyone else is vacationing or sitting by the pool. Any working schmo can identify with that. Who wants to work while everyone else is out playing? Not me.

But when you consider how much this ‘poor’ guy gets paid to put words on paper (six figures easily, plus golden time, residuals, etc.), our sympathy starts to fade. Perhaps his kids will respect him when they learn their Harvard tuition is completely funded. Meanwhile, he kvetches about his horrible job while riding around in a bit-coin powered limo and attending exclusive parties to schmooze flavor-of-the-week glitterati. Poor guy.

Understand that writing in Hollywood is a difficult and often thankless job. Writers often don’t get the appreciation they deserve. That is not my point. But Joe Blough, working two jobs just to keep up, and mowing his own lawn has a hard time feeling this character’s pain.

I never met a Hollywood writer who complained about his job. Whatever his private life, Hollywood people know they are blessed by whatever gods they grovel to. They would never be tempted to bite that beast’s gracious hand.

But that is only part of the problem. You have actors whose job is to give a gloss of authenticity to what is an inherently artificial process. It is hard enough to succeed at playing a cop, a housewife, or a lawyer. But an actor portraying an ‘authentic actor’ is beyond the best skills of most talented thespians. How exactly does an actor act, in the wild, when he’s not acting? What are they ‘really’ like? Just like you and me? Really?

Also, creating sympathetic portrayals of producers, directors and others in the business can be a task fraught with many pitfalls. Some of us ‘civilians’ may have to deal with out-sized egos and immense pressures in our hum-drum lives, but in Hollywood? Recent headlines only hint at what some of these powerful people are about.

But there is something un-real about how Hollywood elite deal with even mundane tasks. I heard Frank Sinatra had toilet paper in his house bearing his own image. Is your guest bathroom stocked with toilet paper with your smiling face printed on each two-ply sheet?

Asking an actor (read: someone truly fake and insincere) to honestly portray someone who is fake and insincere, creates a feedback loop of artifice. When it fails, it just looks like bad acting. But it is an honest attempt (by an inherently dishonest person) to portray as genuine, someone they know is dishonest. And that last bit is the problem. They try to make them genuine.

Some actors just play themselves and really only play one role, regardless how many shows they are in. Others never play themselves and completely transform once that camera starts rolling. When is either genuine though?

Not to say ‘genuine’ is impossible to do. In the recent mini-series ‘Feud,’ the story of the legendary competition between Bette Davis and Joan Crawford (played wonderfully by Susan Sarandon and Jessica Lang) all the elements combine to form a veritable work of genius. Centered on their one movie together, ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ the series does everything right that most movies about movies fail miserably at. The characters are well known and bigger than life. The supporting roles are deliciously consistent with our expectations of who these people were. The writing is superb.

We see the characters on and off camera and they behave just as we expect they behaved, cat claws and all. Despite their bigger than life personas, the actors and writers succeeded in bringing out these character’s genuine humanity and the poignancy of their loneliness while embracing their prodigious flaws. They bring out their third dimension.

And the filmmakers never try to convince us these stars were normal or ‘just like us’. Hell, no! We don’t need to believe the ‘rich Hollywood actors, being paid millions of dollars to portray people just like you and me’ actually are just like you and me.

They succeed by highlighting our lives and allowing us to see things more clearly through their depiction on the big screen.

But they are not like us. And that is alright. I don’t want their flaws. I have my own. Watching them is entertaining. Watching me, not so much. (That is why they are known as ‘stars’!) If they were like me, I certainly wouldn’t be buying tickets to watch them.

Click  to see the Storyography Video Memoir website:  http://www.lifestoryography.com/

Two shipwrecked strangers: Actress Renée Marino on ‘Danny and the Deep Blue Sea’

by John K. Adams

You may doubt mere words could draw blood. But you haven’t seen John Patrick Shanley’s Danny and the Deep Blue Sea, extended through April 15th at Theater 68. It is as if Shanley writes in some secret language which penetrates our emotional core and reconnects us to that true life within us.

Brought to us by Panic! Productions, starring J. Bailey Burcham as Danny and Renée Marino as Roberta, Danny is a perfect storm of stellar writing and spectacular acting.

Since Burcham brought it to Marino over a year ago it has been their dream project. Some of Marino’s passionate comments on the play follow.

According to Marino, Burcham has her complete trust. “It is such a blessing to have a scene partner who helps lift the material as high as possible.” Trust is what you need when venturing onto an emotional tightrope like Danny.

Marino shares, “This play is the epitome of pushing my boundaries and taking the chance to reveal my heart and soul and life’s blood on the stage every night. To make the audience forget they are watching a play.”

“These stories need to be told. Bailey and I are so blessed to be able to explore these emotional depths and share them with audiences. It is really something to hear gasps from the audience.” Marino continues, “It means so much to work with material that isn’t just entertainment, but an opportunity to deeply move people.”

Marino sums up, “Shanley’s writing is so brilliant. The story is so layered, every time I review the script I find new moments to reveal.”

It is as if Shanley writes in some secret language which penetrates our emotional core and reconnects us to that true life within us.

“Danny and the Deep Blue Sea” is staged on extended run through April 15th, with three performances the weekend of April 7th and two on the closing weekend, at Theatre 68 located at 5112 Lankershim Blvd. in NoHo. Tickets for both shows are on sale at Plys411.com/danny.

Note: This interview originally appeared in the Tolucan Times on March 6, 2017.

Love and scar tissue on display in ‘Danny and the Deep Blue Sea’ and ‘Poison’

John Patrick Shanley doesn’t write small talk. His characters fight like cornered animals, every syllable flung like a threat. Even expressions of love are spit through clenched teeth. There is a saying that “hurt people hurt people.” John Patrick Shanley brings that to the stage in living color. Shanley’s plays, Poison and Danny and the Deep Blue Sea, playing at Theatre 68, are vivid examples of this.

In Poison, the one-act directed by Kay Cole, Kelly (Kelsey Flynn) wants Kenny (Nicola Tombacco) back. Kelly asks a gypsy fortune teller (Katie Zeiner) for a potion to get him, no matter the cost.  Zeiner’s performance as the gypsy is worth the price of admission.

Danny and the Deep Blue Sea, directed by Ronnie Marmo, opens with Danny and Roberta (J. Bailey Burcham and Renee Marino) growling at each other over beers in a cheap bar. Is this scenario a mating dance, an attempted murder or a suicide pact? Shanley’s play takes them through seething anger and self-loathing to tenderness as these broken souls grope toward a warm embrace in a cold world.

Words on a page are only that without talented actors bringing those words to life. Marino and Burcham draw us into their character’s intimate, horrible reality and reveal, perhaps also within ourselves, the savage redemption of the irredeemable.

Note: This review originally appeared in the Tolucan Times on March 17, 2017.

The False Karass is Your Friend

Kurt Vonnegut’s concept of the false karass from his masterpiece Cat’s Cradle (1963), has assisted me to understand how things work, and don’t in social events.

Vonnegut’s definition of the false karass, (or granfalloon) is a group of people who imagine they have a connection that does not really exist. (A karass is a group of people linked in a cosmically significant manner, even when superficial links are not evident.)

That Vonnegut, however cynically admits to a divine purpose in his book is remarkable in itself.

How this concept has played out in my life may best be illustrated by two small examples.

When visiting friends in Buenos Aires, Argentina an evening ‘out at the clubs’ was planned. My hosts determined that I should borrow some clothes so as not to look “too American” and thus avoid becoming a target of the pickpockets known to frequent train stations and other gathering places.

Suitably disguised (in a shirt and blue jeans), we set off for the evening. While standing on the platform awaiting a train, I assumed what I thought of as an ‘Argentinian stance’ to better blend with the crowd.

Out of nowhere, a ‘man on the street’ news reporter and camera crew approached me and abruptly thrust a microphone in my face. She urgently asked my opinion on who knows what? I was busted. All I could do was stammer that I didn’t speak Spanish in broken Spanish.

Our best efforts ended up signaling every pickpocket within fifty yards that an illiterate foreigner was primed for fleecing. However, we drew so much attention that anyone with malevolent plans steered clear of our party.

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Shortly after moving to Los Angeles I was invited to a costume birthday party to be held for the American drummer of what was then a prominent English rock ‘n’ roll group. Jane, my date was high school friends with the drummer’s wife. It sounded like it might be fun. Jane always insisted that one of their hits was about her.

I was told the planned theme of the party was for everyone to dress as the ‘minister of a church’. There didn’t seem to be much to that requirement. Having lived in the South, I thought I could do a funny version of a huckster – Southern preacher/snake oil salesman.  I found a loud, plaid, polyester jacket to go with a straw hat, string tie, spats and some other details.

When we arrived at the party, I was chagrined to see everyone dressed in long black robes as ministers of the Church of England. One was dressed in drag as a nun. The theme was in the vein of what Monty Python might do.  It made perfect sense that an English band would play with that theme. I didn’t get the memo.

Of course, everyone ignored me. They didn’t know me and it was a party for a member of a close knit group. I had no standing. A non-entity, I felt as appropriate as a beach toy at a baptism.

Then came the big surprise. Jane’s ex-husband arrived carrying a cheap prop cross and dressed to look like Jesus Christ.

He didn’t dress according to the rules either, but being long-time friends with the group, he got a pass. It annoyed me since I was technically dressed as a minister – perhaps in the uniform of another team, but hey…

I always maintained a standard that if dressed in costume one should try to be ‘in character’. When the ex and I were introduced I mustered up my best Foghorn Leghorn, southern drawl and delivered a line that bordered on ironic genius.

“Ah’ve heard a lot about you but I don’t believe we’ve met.” If he was in character, his graceless portrayal was too subtle for me. I offered my hand to shake but his cross was apparently too cumbersome for him to reciprocate.

And not one seemed to notice the brilliance of my delivery.

The rest of the party has faded from memory. Like many parties, the most interesting moment is when you realize you have no reason to be there.

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Nowadays I side-step any false karass that looms on the horizon. I have a strong sense of those with whom I am cosmically linked. The evidence is irrefutable.