NEW YORK, NY – January 29, 2010 – I keep going to these things thinking one day I'll understand them but I never do but I keep coming back anyway. Experimental theater. Experimental films.
I’ve always been very much a literalist, looking at things in a linear way. Beginning. Middle. End. Well, I’m a news guy! That’s what we do! Beginning. Middle. End. And things come to a conclusion.
But not so in experimental theater. Because it doesn’t come to a logical conclusion, it doesn’t really have an ending, and that appeals to me. It’s kind of anarchistic. And that’s one of the several reasons I moved back to New York. I want to be exposed to some different paradigms, some alternate ways of expression.
Tonight I saw a marvelous production at the -- ready for this? – Ontological-Hysteric Theater in the East Village. You reach the theater by going around the back of this great-looking old church, St. Mark’s. The theater company is the brainchild of Richard Foreman. The New York Times calls him “the emperor of New York experimental theater”. I saw some of Foreman’s work back in the 70s. I mainly remember it because one of the actresses took off all her clothes. That image stuck in my memory for sure! But tonight’s production, “Trifles”, was all PG-rated. But boy was it weird.
The play is "Trifles" by Susan Glaspell.
New York Times writer Ben Brantley describes it “acknowledging that you’re lost, I’m lost, we’re all lost in the unmapped forest of the early 21st century.”
Uh, yeah. Me too.
The story revolves around a murder in 1916 in a remote farmhouse. The wife is the suspect and she’s already been carted off to jail and we never see her. But we see ABOUT her. In an allegorical way, we see her by seeing her shadow. And that’s where the reality starts getting skewed.
The sheriff and the District Attorney come in and do their heavy-handed guy stuff at the murder scene. But the two neighbor women with them don’t see it as a murder scene. They see it as someone's HOME. And in the end, they solve the motivation of the murder while the guys are still stepping on their cranks, dismissing the women’s quite astute observations. (This is 1916 after all!)
I wanted to see the show because murders always interested me as a reporter. I’ve probably covered a dozen. And probably a half dozen murder trials. It’s the highest-stakes chess game in town.
When “Trifles” was over tonight, everyone applauded. I showed my ignorance by nudging the woman next to me and asking, “Is this an act break? Or it over?” It was over.
So I came away with having seen some extremely talented young men and women doing some cutting-edge contemporary material. It’s not something I would have written. And I certainly didn’t understand it. But that doesn’t matter. It stretched my thinking and I enjoyed it.
And that’s what I’m doing in New York. Stretching my thinking.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Mitzvah
NEW YORK, NY – Jan. 29, 2010 -- I couldn’t believe it!
“Mitzvah” literally in Hebrew means a commandment from God. Or a good deed. In popular use in these parts, it usually means an unexpected good thing. Like a coincidence.
It is bitterly, bitterly cold in New York. 25 degrees is as warm as it’ll get today. And we don’t commute to work in our cars with the heaters turned up. We stand on street corners waiting for buses. Heavy coats, sweaters, a hat that covers your head and ears.
And gloves!
But that was the problem. I had a perfectly warm and stylish glove I’d bought from Men’s Warehouse. Notice the word “glove”. As in one. The right one. I had lost the left one. If only I could find someone who’d been behanded (similar to beheading but not as severe) of the left hand.
There’s a little discount store on the way to the office. Comways. Their stuff is cheap. Probably fell off the backs of several trucks between here and Istanbul. Who knows? Who asks?
The Chinese lady at the back of the store in the glove department said, “Only these. But they no good!”
“So what’s wrong with them,” I asked, “They look fine.”
“Only left hand glove,” she said.
I kept a poker face. “How much?”
“Five dollah.”
I pondered. I come from a long line of hondellers. Another New York term. It means literally “to trade”. But in popular usage, it means to talk them down. My Father and my Aunt Iva Joe were champions. They never paid retail for anything.
“Well, they’re damaged merchandise. How about cutting me a break? How about two bucks?”
We settled for three. What a deal! What a mitzvah.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
“Mitzvah” literally in Hebrew means a commandment from God. Or a good deed. In popular use in these parts, it usually means an unexpected good thing. Like a coincidence.
It is bitterly, bitterly cold in New York. 25 degrees is as warm as it’ll get today. And we don’t commute to work in our cars with the heaters turned up. We stand on street corners waiting for buses. Heavy coats, sweaters, a hat that covers your head and ears.
And gloves!
But that was the problem. I had a perfectly warm and stylish glove I’d bought from Men’s Warehouse. Notice the word “glove”. As in one. The right one. I had lost the left one. If only I could find someone who’d been behanded (similar to beheading but not as severe) of the left hand.
There’s a little discount store on the way to the office. Comways. Their stuff is cheap. Probably fell off the backs of several trucks between here and Istanbul. Who knows? Who asks?
The Chinese lady at the back of the store in the glove department said, “Only these. But they no good!”
“So what’s wrong with them,” I asked, “They look fine.”
“Only left hand glove,” she said.
I kept a poker face. “How much?”
“Five dollah.”
I pondered. I come from a long line of hondellers. Another New York term. It means literally “to trade”. But in popular usage, it means to talk them down. My Father and my Aunt Iva Joe were champions. They never paid retail for anything.
“Well, they’re damaged merchandise. How about cutting me a break? How about two bucks?”
We settled for three. What a deal! What a mitzvah.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Don't Look!
NEW YORK, NY – Jan. 27, 2010 – Having a pleasant lunch with my ex-wife Louise yesterday, I rediscovered a navigational trick. She pointed out what I was doing wrong.
I was having trouble bumping into people in crowds. A day earlier, I was taking a commuter train from Penn Station at the busiest time of the day – around 5 in the evening. In the sea of people, I was having to bob and weave in order to get to the train. (I’ve lived here before but I didn’t have such problems.)
Louise pointed out what I was doing wrong: I was looking at people!
When you walk through a wall of people, think about a big rock up on a mountain. It looks like it’s solid but it’s not. When you get up close, you realize that there are fissures, little cracks. Crowds of people are like that. Not solid. They’re continually ebbing and flowing.
So now, I just fix my gaze directly in front of me with my concentration on my destination. But I use my peripheral vision. I’m aware of what’s coming from the left, center and right. And sometimes I can sense if someone is behind me.
It’s amazing! I just “go with the flow” and slip right through. Like buttah! And I now realize that’s what everyone else is doing. Only rarely do we actually look at each other.
Fixing our attention ahead on our goal. Hmm. Perhaps a life lesson?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
I was having trouble bumping into people in crowds. A day earlier, I was taking a commuter train from Penn Station at the busiest time of the day – around 5 in the evening. In the sea of people, I was having to bob and weave in order to get to the train. (I’ve lived here before but I didn’t have such problems.)
Louise pointed out what I was doing wrong: I was looking at people!
When you walk through a wall of people, think about a big rock up on a mountain. It looks like it’s solid but it’s not. When you get up close, you realize that there are fissures, little cracks. Crowds of people are like that. Not solid. They’re continually ebbing and flowing.
So now, I just fix my gaze directly in front of me with my concentration on my destination. But I use my peripheral vision. I’m aware of what’s coming from the left, center and right. And sometimes I can sense if someone is behind me.
It’s amazing! I just “go with the flow” and slip right through. Like buttah! And I now realize that’s what everyone else is doing. Only rarely do we actually look at each other.
Fixing our attention ahead on our goal. Hmm. Perhaps a life lesson?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
EAST SIDE/WEST SIDE
NEW YORK, NY – Jan. 27, 2010 – You’d be amazed at the differences between the people on the Upper East Side and the Upper West Side! While the bulk of the businesses are farther downtown, most of the residences are uptown.
They are physically separated by Central Park, a strip of land in the middle with only a few cross streets linking the two. I rode a city bus uptown yesterday on my way to Barnes & Noble on East 86th. An author named Lorraine Diehl was speaking about her new book Over Here. It’s about New York City during World War II.
As I looked out the bus window, a decidedly different scene presented itself as compared with the West Side. The biggest difference was in the types of shops. Many, many greengrocers, their fruits and vegetables laid out neatly in a colorful pattern. Very reminiscent of the open markets in France. Not thrown into a bin as in a third world country.
And the home furnishing shops. Gracious Home appears to be the leader. They’ve expanded to both sides of Lexington Avenue. Must be a sign of success because the rents here are mega-expensive.
And finally, the people. Better dressed. Even the homeless.
It’s Birkenstocks on the West Side versus Guccis on the East side.
I feel more at home on the West. Down deep¸ maybe I’m still a bohemian.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
They are physically separated by Central Park, a strip of land in the middle with only a few cross streets linking the two. I rode a city bus uptown yesterday on my way to Barnes & Noble on East 86th. An author named Lorraine Diehl was speaking about her new book Over Here. It’s about New York City during World War II.
As I looked out the bus window, a decidedly different scene presented itself as compared with the West Side. The biggest difference was in the types of shops. Many, many greengrocers, their fruits and vegetables laid out neatly in a colorful pattern. Very reminiscent of the open markets in France. Not thrown into a bin as in a third world country.
And the home furnishing shops. Gracious Home appears to be the leader. They’ve expanded to both sides of Lexington Avenue. Must be a sign of success because the rents here are mega-expensive.
And finally, the people. Better dressed. Even the homeless.
It’s Birkenstocks on the West Side versus Guccis on the East side.
I feel more at home on the West. Down deep¸ maybe I’m still a bohemian.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Monday, January 25, 2010
New York Scenes
NEW YORK, NY – Jan. 25, 2010 - Quick trip early this Monday morning, across W47th to the corner deli to get the New York Times. Wet streets from a light rain. 53 degrees. Feels more like spring even though we’re in the dead of winter. Hard to believe that a week ago, I was walking home from a movie in 22-degree weather and a hellacious wind blowing.
Ah global warming. Bring it on!
Piper Laurie (yes THAT Piper Laurie!) has produced a lovely production called “Ground Zero” at a little theater off Times Square. I caught a Sunday matinee yesterday.
It’s about Zero Mostel and the communist witch hunts of the 50s. Playing the late Mostel in the one-man show is Jim Brochu, who looks very much like him. Mostel is probably best known for the movie “The Producers” or “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum”. But I remember Mostel from the play “Rhinocerous” back in the 60s. I saw it on Broadway with my college friend Dennis Johnston. I sneaked a picture with my Canon IV S-2 camera.
“Ground Zero” chronicles a dreadful and shameful period in American history – the blacklisting of creative people, mainly Jewish writers and performers in Hollywood and in New York. I was just a teenager at the time and quite well behaved. (My rebellious, anarchistic phase was yet to come.) But even then I had an inner sense that something was not right about Senator McCarthy and the reckless charges he was throwing around.
In my mind, that period dovetails with the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II as an equally shameful period. In both cases, we let hysterical fear overwhelm our allegiance to the constitution.
But then what we’re doing now, in the name of political correctness, is our own form of idiocy. The fact that airport cops waste time with light-skinned Okies like me instead of zeroing on the Achmeds with their beards and swarthy skin and exploding underwear is just downright stupid. (Remind me to tell you sometime about my interrogation last year at Reagan Airport in Washington. Scary.)
Tomorrow, I'll be attending a taping of the Colbert Report. Always nice to see a live performance. Since I’m here for a while, I'm also going to apply online for tickets to Jon Stewart and David Letterman. They’re free. But they’re extremely popular so it takes a while.
Heading downtown today to look at renting an office cubicle in the Madison Square Garden area. I can get a space, a desk and a mid-town address for only $350 a month. Not a bad deal. So no matter where I live, I’ll have a consistent address.
Life is good. Praise God!
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Ah global warming. Bring it on!
Piper Laurie (yes THAT Piper Laurie!) has produced a lovely production called “Ground Zero” at a little theater off Times Square. I caught a Sunday matinee yesterday.
It’s about Zero Mostel and the communist witch hunts of the 50s. Playing the late Mostel in the one-man show is Jim Brochu, who looks very much like him. Mostel is probably best known for the movie “The Producers” or “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum”. But I remember Mostel from the play “Rhinocerous” back in the 60s. I saw it on Broadway with my college friend Dennis Johnston. I sneaked a picture with my Canon IV S-2 camera.
“Ground Zero” chronicles a dreadful and shameful period in American history – the blacklisting of creative people, mainly Jewish writers and performers in Hollywood and in New York. I was just a teenager at the time and quite well behaved. (My rebellious, anarchistic phase was yet to come.) But even then I had an inner sense that something was not right about Senator McCarthy and the reckless charges he was throwing around.
In my mind, that period dovetails with the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II as an equally shameful period. In both cases, we let hysterical fear overwhelm our allegiance to the constitution.
But then what we’re doing now, in the name of political correctness, is our own form of idiocy. The fact that airport cops waste time with light-skinned Okies like me instead of zeroing on the Achmeds with their beards and swarthy skin and exploding underwear is just downright stupid. (Remind me to tell you sometime about my interrogation last year at Reagan Airport in Washington. Scary.)
Tomorrow, I'll be attending a taping of the Colbert Report. Always nice to see a live performance. Since I’m here for a while, I'm also going to apply online for tickets to Jon Stewart and David Letterman. They’re free. But they’re extremely popular so it takes a while.
Heading downtown today to look at renting an office cubicle in the Madison Square Garden area. I can get a space, a desk and a mid-town address for only $350 a month. Not a bad deal. So no matter where I live, I’ll have a consistent address.
Life is good. Praise God!
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Grandmother Loogie
NEW YORK, NY – Jan. 24, 2010 – My grandmother could hawk a loogie the size of a baseball.
She and my grandfather lived out on a farm and my sister and I were sent there for a couple of weeks every summer. I never knew exactly why. Probably so Mother and Dad could chase each other around the house naked.
Or maybe not.
My sister and I would giggle as we heard grandmother standing at the back door in the morning. There were no neighbors within a quarter of a mile so there were no social niceties to observe.
There’d be a big wind-up. Then a “HAWWWWWK!” It came from so deep inside that it gurgled. Then a gigantic “PA-TOOOOEY!” And it hit the grass with a loud splat. Well, so I imagined, anyway.
When we got back home, my sister and I would imitate grandmother. Mother, ever the peacemaker, chided us, “Now children, don’t make fun of grandmother. One of these days, you’ll be doing that.”
How did she know? Was it a curse?
Excuse me now. I gotta go do something.
HAWWWWWK!
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
She and my grandfather lived out on a farm and my sister and I were sent there for a couple of weeks every summer. I never knew exactly why. Probably so Mother and Dad could chase each other around the house naked.
Or maybe not.
My sister and I would giggle as we heard grandmother standing at the back door in the morning. There were no neighbors within a quarter of a mile so there were no social niceties to observe.
There’d be a big wind-up. Then a “HAWWWWWK!” It came from so deep inside that it gurgled. Then a gigantic “PA-TOOOOEY!” And it hit the grass with a loud splat. Well, so I imagined, anyway.
When we got back home, my sister and I would imitate grandmother. Mother, ever the peacemaker, chided us, “Now children, don’t make fun of grandmother. One of these days, you’ll be doing that.”
How did she know? Was it a curse?
Excuse me now. I gotta go do something.
HAWWWWWK!
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Saturday, January 23, 2010
New York/Nashville/New York
NEW YORK CITY – Jan. 23, 2010 – I never disliked Nashville. And I never really liked it liked it. But Lois and I decided to stop being TV gypsies. We'd left New York City back in '88, moved to Pennsylvania, then Louisiana. But once we got to Nashville, we settled in and made the most of it.
We made wonderful loving, supportive friends. And when she got sick and died, I was surrounded by prayers and love and support.
And before that, for 15 years in Nashville, she and I had great times together. I was deliriously happy being with her. Really! For the whole 25 years. Pretty remarkable, especially considering my track record of four marriages.
But I always had this “other woman” in the back of my mind: New York City. It was something I never mentioned to her. But with her passing two years ago, I explored other horizons. Berlin. Dresden. Even considered Paris. But none of them was a “fit”.
I'm back again and New York City is a fit!
I just returned from a round trip from New York to Nashville, driving my 2001 Mazda pick-up and darling schnauzer Bekka back to Nashville. Then I flew back. Alone. Now here I am in The City. No pet, no vehicle. Wide open agenda.
Driving down there on Thursday and Friday, I had a lot of time to think. Radio reception was pretty staticky. I thought about Nashville. And I thought about New York City. It's easier to move on when you really dislike your circumstances. A relationship that’s gone sour, a job that’s not working out, a city that you hate. I have none of that. Nashville is a wonderful, warm, inviting, friendly place. Even the security people at the Nashville airport recognized me from television. Kinda nice. I slept in my own bed back in Nashville last night, snuggled under the covers with Bekka.
So there’s lots of reasons to stay there. But it’s a matter of a choice. Chocolate or vanilla?
So I’ve made my choice: New York City. My friend Jan Esterline and his wife Debbie have been wonderfully loving to me for these past three years, letting Lois and me and, later, me live with them. With my doggie. They say I’m “family”, that I will always have a place to live with them. Jan gave a wry smile when I told him of my choice. “That sounds right to me,” he said. “You’ve always been more of a New Yorker than a Nashville person”.
And he’s right. I got off the plane at LaGuardia this afternoon, found my way immediately to the airport bus to Port Authority Bus Terminal, walked home up 9th Avenue after stopping at the local market for a can of Progresso soup and some Lipton tea bags.
Now I’m here. I’m home. Like slipping on an old familiar well-worn glove. No idea what’s next. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have one or two ideas. But I don’t really know what’s in store. But I have full confidence that it’s something good.
Last Thursday morning as I was getting on a commuter train at Penn Station, I had this flash of insight. It was a word from God. Now don’t get all weird on me. I didn’t hear an audible voice. But I had this impression on my heart that went like this:
“You’re exactly where I want you to be. Keep on doing what you’re doing and I will direct you.”
So what I need to do is keep on plugging, sharpening my spiritual hearing and go where the Boss says to go.
Pretty cool, isn’t it?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
We made wonderful loving, supportive friends. And when she got sick and died, I was surrounded by prayers and love and support.
And before that, for 15 years in Nashville, she and I had great times together. I was deliriously happy being with her. Really! For the whole 25 years. Pretty remarkable, especially considering my track record of four marriages.
But I always had this “other woman” in the back of my mind: New York City. It was something I never mentioned to her. But with her passing two years ago, I explored other horizons. Berlin. Dresden. Even considered Paris. But none of them was a “fit”.
I'm back again and New York City is a fit!
I just returned from a round trip from New York to Nashville, driving my 2001 Mazda pick-up and darling schnauzer Bekka back to Nashville. Then I flew back. Alone. Now here I am in The City. No pet, no vehicle. Wide open agenda.
Driving down there on Thursday and Friday, I had a lot of time to think. Radio reception was pretty staticky. I thought about Nashville. And I thought about New York City. It's easier to move on when you really dislike your circumstances. A relationship that’s gone sour, a job that’s not working out, a city that you hate. I have none of that. Nashville is a wonderful, warm, inviting, friendly place. Even the security people at the Nashville airport recognized me from television. Kinda nice. I slept in my own bed back in Nashville last night, snuggled under the covers with Bekka.
So there’s lots of reasons to stay there. But it’s a matter of a choice. Chocolate or vanilla?
So I’ve made my choice: New York City. My friend Jan Esterline and his wife Debbie have been wonderfully loving to me for these past three years, letting Lois and me and, later, me live with them. With my doggie. They say I’m “family”, that I will always have a place to live with them. Jan gave a wry smile when I told him of my choice. “That sounds right to me,” he said. “You’ve always been more of a New Yorker than a Nashville person”.
And he’s right. I got off the plane at LaGuardia this afternoon, found my way immediately to the airport bus to Port Authority Bus Terminal, walked home up 9th Avenue after stopping at the local market for a can of Progresso soup and some Lipton tea bags.
Now I’m here. I’m home. Like slipping on an old familiar well-worn glove. No idea what’s next. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have one or two ideas. But I don’t really know what’s in store. But I have full confidence that it’s something good.
Last Thursday morning as I was getting on a commuter train at Penn Station, I had this flash of insight. It was a word from God. Now don’t get all weird on me. I didn’t hear an audible voice. But I had this impression on my heart that went like this:
“You’re exactly where I want you to be. Keep on doing what you’re doing and I will direct you.”
So what I need to do is keep on plugging, sharpening my spiritual hearing and go where the Boss says to go.
Pretty cool, isn’t it?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Thursday, January 21, 2010
They Can Do WHAT?!!
NEW YORK, NY – Jan. 21, 2010 – Unless you’re a serious gamer, you have no idea of the connectedness of the world online.
Right now, data is available identifying the location of your computer, even more accurately than a GPS. It gives you a spooky feeling, doesn’t it?
The speaker was Kevin Slavin, a bright, energetic young man who’s head of Area/Code, a boutique design and software firm involved in computer games. He spoke at an early-morning meeting of the New York Television Academy, one of the many reasons that I wanted to be here in New York.
Beyond the technology lies an unresolved philosophical question. Is this good for the society? For a person’s social skills?
He says yes. “It’s a stylized form of social interaction,” he argues.
Here’s a mind-boggling example:
An online game “Guild Wars” has – ready for this? – 11 MILLION players. They get together in small groups, get to “know” each other, and spend an average of 4 hours a day playing. And it’s making the game’s creator hugely rich. It costs $50 to buy the DVD then it runs another $25 a month to stay active online. Not a lot for an individual but just imagine the revenue stream to Area/Net in Seattle!
And the technology spills over into education. Slavin’s company Area/Code developed "Sharkrunners" for A&E Television to bring aware of the network’s shark series. It was highly successful for A&E. But it lives on! High school science classes now use the software to study the movement of real sharks which are fitted with small transmitters signaling their locations on the North Atlantic.
The benefits of such connectedness are truly awesome. It opens up education to a new level of experience. For example, the government asked Slavin’s company to develop a budget game, Budgetball. It’s just a game. But it is an entertaining, engaging way of experiencing the economy. Sounds boring. But it’s not. And that’s the point.
Is all this “stylized social interaction” a good thing? You could argue that there’s no substitute for eyeball-to-eyeball communication, hearing the subtleties in the other person’s voice, sensing the spiritual presence around them, their aroma, their touch. (That’s where I am.)
You could also argue that it brings together people around the world, often speaking to each other on headsets, creating a bond among disparate ethnicities.
And they’ve just scratched the surface in medicine. Slavin said the government is using a form of video gaming to treat victims of PTSD. It allows them to re-experience the traumas they may have suffered in Iraq or Afghanistan and in the end rehabilitate them.
Think about kids with ADHD or other neurological disorders.
I came away with my head swimming. How will this technology/philosophy trickle down into transmission of news and information? Will people develop even fewer social skills?
I don’t really have an answer. But it certainly brings up a headfull of questions.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Right now, data is available identifying the location of your computer, even more accurately than a GPS. It gives you a spooky feeling, doesn’t it?
The speaker was Kevin Slavin, a bright, energetic young man who’s head of Area/Code, a boutique design and software firm involved in computer games. He spoke at an early-morning meeting of the New York Television Academy, one of the many reasons that I wanted to be here in New York.
Beyond the technology lies an unresolved philosophical question. Is this good for the society? For a person’s social skills?
He says yes. “It’s a stylized form of social interaction,” he argues.
Here’s a mind-boggling example:
An online game “Guild Wars” has – ready for this? – 11 MILLION players. They get together in small groups, get to “know” each other, and spend an average of 4 hours a day playing. And it’s making the game’s creator hugely rich. It costs $50 to buy the DVD then it runs another $25 a month to stay active online. Not a lot for an individual but just imagine the revenue stream to Area/Net in Seattle!
And the technology spills over into education. Slavin’s company Area/Code developed "Sharkrunners" for A&E Television to bring aware of the network’s shark series. It was highly successful for A&E. But it lives on! High school science classes now use the software to study the movement of real sharks which are fitted with small transmitters signaling their locations on the North Atlantic.
The benefits of such connectedness are truly awesome. It opens up education to a new level of experience. For example, the government asked Slavin’s company to develop a budget game, Budgetball. It’s just a game. But it is an entertaining, engaging way of experiencing the economy. Sounds boring. But it’s not. And that’s the point.
Is all this “stylized social interaction” a good thing? You could argue that there’s no substitute for eyeball-to-eyeball communication, hearing the subtleties in the other person’s voice, sensing the spiritual presence around them, their aroma, their touch. (That’s where I am.)
You could also argue that it brings together people around the world, often speaking to each other on headsets, creating a bond among disparate ethnicities.
And they’ve just scratched the surface in medicine. Slavin said the government is using a form of video gaming to treat victims of PTSD. It allows them to re-experience the traumas they may have suffered in Iraq or Afghanistan and in the end rehabilitate them.
Think about kids with ADHD or other neurological disorders.
I came away with my head swimming. How will this technology/philosophy trickle down into transmission of news and information? Will people develop even fewer social skills?
I don’t really have an answer. But it certainly brings up a headfull of questions.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Armed Camp on Wall Street
NEW YORK, NY – Jan. 19, 2010 – “Do you know where is the New York Stock Exchange?” she asked in heavily accented English. The slim, attractive woman standing in the shadows on Wall Street, speaking furtively into a cell phone, was clearly Russian. I could spot her even before she spoke. I’m not sure how I knew but I did. And when I heard her speak, I was right.
“Right down there and make a left,” I told her.
We won’t have to worry about her causing any mayhem, though. This place is an armed camp! Back in my crazy days in the 70s, well beyond the statute of limitations, late one evening I scrawled some arcane graffiti on the polished metal door of the New York Stock Exchange.
“Who is John Galt?”
It was gone the next day. It’s a line from Ayn Rand’s famous book Atlas Shrugged which I was reading at the time. And the broad-tipped Magic Marker in my pocket cried out for expression.
But you won’t be doing that these days. Oh no! You can’t even TOUCH the door. Guards prevent your even walking down that side of the street. A metal spiked fence runs down the middle of Broad Street. And around the corner on Exchange Place, a large metal contraption prevents vehicular traffic. Reminds you of a World War II tank trap.
And elsewhere in the Financial District, in front of buildings along Wall Street, large metal obstacles dot the sidewalk, I suppose to stop terrorists.
And unruly smart alecs with their Magic Markers.
Drat!
“Right down there and make a left,” I told her.
We won’t have to worry about her causing any mayhem, though. This place is an armed camp! Back in my crazy days in the 70s, well beyond the statute of limitations, late one evening I scrawled some arcane graffiti on the polished metal door of the New York Stock Exchange.
“Who is John Galt?”
It was gone the next day. It’s a line from Ayn Rand’s famous book Atlas Shrugged which I was reading at the time. And the broad-tipped Magic Marker in my pocket cried out for expression.
But you won’t be doing that these days. Oh no! You can’t even TOUCH the door. Guards prevent your even walking down that side of the street. A metal spiked fence runs down the middle of Broad Street. And around the corner on Exchange Place, a large metal contraption prevents vehicular traffic. Reminds you of a World War II tank trap.
And elsewhere in the Financial District, in front of buildings along Wall Street, large metal obstacles dot the sidewalk, I suppose to stop terrorists.
And unruly smart alecs with their Magic Markers.
Drat!
Reaching Out
NEW YORK, NY – January 19, 2010 – I’ve been hugely touched and blessed by the volume of encouragement and support that I’ve gotten on this late-in-the-day foray into Big City media.
A few weeks ago, back in Nashville, pastor Steve Fry said something that connected with me in a very deep place: “When you encourage other people¸ you give them power. But you lose your leverage to control them.”
That explains why some people cannot explain technology in an understandable manner. They don’t WANT you to know what they know! As a teenager, I was guilty of that. I knew a lot about photography. But when adults would ask me something, I would overwhelm them with such confusing data that they learned nothing.
Jerky kid!
But I redeemed myself. When I was in TV news in Nashville, I was the interns’ best friend. If they really wanted to know what I knew, I’d gladly share everything with them, even let them ask an interview question, give input when I was writing.
The scripture “That which ye sow, ye also shall reap” is certainly bearing fruit for me now. I’ve got friends in media around the world who are responding to my requests for names or introductions at big media here in New York.
Most encouraging. Exactly the sort of thing I would do.
There was one exception, a former New York Times reporter from my home town who bathed her remarks in discouragement. “They’re laying people off. Big media is changing.”
Ah, gloom! Doom! Discouragement!
That kind of stuff is like a dirty picture on a billboard: you can linger over it or let it go and move on. I choose the latter. I’ve always operated on the assumption that I’d get the job, get the nice apartment, get the pretty girl.
I did all three! If you never saw Lois in her 30s, you know what I mean. She was drop-dead gorgeous!
I don’t see that string of blessing changing now.
Why should it?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
A few weeks ago, back in Nashville, pastor Steve Fry said something that connected with me in a very deep place: “When you encourage other people¸ you give them power. But you lose your leverage to control them.”
That explains why some people cannot explain technology in an understandable manner. They don’t WANT you to know what they know! As a teenager, I was guilty of that. I knew a lot about photography. But when adults would ask me something, I would overwhelm them with such confusing data that they learned nothing.
Jerky kid!
But I redeemed myself. When I was in TV news in Nashville, I was the interns’ best friend. If they really wanted to know what I knew, I’d gladly share everything with them, even let them ask an interview question, give input when I was writing.
The scripture “That which ye sow, ye also shall reap” is certainly bearing fruit for me now. I’ve got friends in media around the world who are responding to my requests for names or introductions at big media here in New York.
Most encouraging. Exactly the sort of thing I would do.
There was one exception, a former New York Times reporter from my home town who bathed her remarks in discouragement. “They’re laying people off. Big media is changing.”
Ah, gloom! Doom! Discouragement!
That kind of stuff is like a dirty picture on a billboard: you can linger over it or let it go and move on. I choose the latter. I’ve always operated on the assumption that I’d get the job, get the nice apartment, get the pretty girl.
I did all three! If you never saw Lois in her 30s, you know what I mean. She was drop-dead gorgeous!
I don’t see that string of blessing changing now.
Why should it?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Monday, January 18, 2010
My Furry Friend
NEW YORK – January 18, 2010 – My furry little friend has taken up temporary residence in New Jersey. And I miss her.
Bekka’s charming habit of howling when she wants attention was not sitting well with Ari, the guy I’m sharing this apartment with. And peeing on the kitchen floor did not further endear her to him. I mean, it’s his apartment so I need to do what I can to maintain peace in this somewhat Oscar-and-Felix pairing.
But I have options. I am most fortunate that for the first time in about 30 years, I’m in the same area with my younger sister Dixie and her husband Richard. More like 30 or 40 years really. Since San Francisco in the 70s. They have a dog and a house with a fenced yard. They agreed to take Bekka for a week to try her out.
First thing, she left a welcome offering on the rug, despite the fact that I’d just walked her. Drat! My fallback position is to buy a $258 roundtrip plane ticket to Nashville and take her as carry-on. I’ll get a small case that fits under the seat. Much cheaper than hiring someone to transport her. But I hope I don’t have to. I’m hoping to have my own place within six weeks and she and I can both howl as much as we want.
Well, within limits. There are neighbors to contend with.
We walked in the mist last night down to Penn Station to catch a train to New Jersey, her inside a shoulder bag with her little grey schnauzer head sticking out. She was so charming! Strangers smiled at us. Well, at her actually. I don't think they noticed me. And despite the new and strange mix of sounds and aromas inside Penn Station, she was a good little trooper.
Once aboard the New Jersey Transit train to Elizabeth, Bekka was the highlight of our car. A working-class lady from Colombia chatted with me in Spanish about my “amorcito” (little love). Interesting that my nascent knowledge of Spanish is growing. And having a charming little dog stimulates conversations with strangers.
This whole area is such a wonderful mix of ethnicities. I went to church yesterday at Times Square Church and the huge choir had a dozen different races and colors and nationalities. The murmurs around me were in a UN-style of languages. Delightful.
The church meets inside a former Broadway Theater, the Mark Hellinger. Interesting setting.
I met a very nice lady there. About my age. A little younger. She’s lived in The City for 24 years. And her apartment is only a block from mine. Lunch and a long, lively chat at an Afghan restaurant on 9th Avenue. She knows someone at ABC Sports who is well connected. Interesting coincidences are coming into play. I guess that’s what “networking” is about, though I never really set out with that in mind. But if there’s an opportunity, why run from it?
Not really feeling inspired this morning. Words are dribbling from my fingers with little impact. As Linda Ellerbee used to say at the end of a poignant story, “And so it goes.”
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Bekka’s charming habit of howling when she wants attention was not sitting well with Ari, the guy I’m sharing this apartment with. And peeing on the kitchen floor did not further endear her to him. I mean, it’s his apartment so I need to do what I can to maintain peace in this somewhat Oscar-and-Felix pairing.
But I have options. I am most fortunate that for the first time in about 30 years, I’m in the same area with my younger sister Dixie and her husband Richard. More like 30 or 40 years really. Since San Francisco in the 70s. They have a dog and a house with a fenced yard. They agreed to take Bekka for a week to try her out.
First thing, she left a welcome offering on the rug, despite the fact that I’d just walked her. Drat! My fallback position is to buy a $258 roundtrip plane ticket to Nashville and take her as carry-on. I’ll get a small case that fits under the seat. Much cheaper than hiring someone to transport her. But I hope I don’t have to. I’m hoping to have my own place within six weeks and she and I can both howl as much as we want.
Well, within limits. There are neighbors to contend with.
We walked in the mist last night down to Penn Station to catch a train to New Jersey, her inside a shoulder bag with her little grey schnauzer head sticking out. She was so charming! Strangers smiled at us. Well, at her actually. I don't think they noticed me. And despite the new and strange mix of sounds and aromas inside Penn Station, she was a good little trooper.
Once aboard the New Jersey Transit train to Elizabeth, Bekka was the highlight of our car. A working-class lady from Colombia chatted with me in Spanish about my “amorcito” (little love). Interesting that my nascent knowledge of Spanish is growing. And having a charming little dog stimulates conversations with strangers.
This whole area is such a wonderful mix of ethnicities. I went to church yesterday at Times Square Church and the huge choir had a dozen different races and colors and nationalities. The murmurs around me were in a UN-style of languages. Delightful.
The church meets inside a former Broadway Theater, the Mark Hellinger. Interesting setting.
I met a very nice lady there. About my age. A little younger. She’s lived in The City for 24 years. And her apartment is only a block from mine. Lunch and a long, lively chat at an Afghan restaurant on 9th Avenue. She knows someone at ABC Sports who is well connected. Interesting coincidences are coming into play. I guess that’s what “networking” is about, though I never really set out with that in mind. But if there’s an opportunity, why run from it?
Not really feeling inspired this morning. Words are dribbling from my fingers with little impact. As Linda Ellerbee used to say at the end of a poignant story, “And so it goes.”
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Memory
NEW YORK, NY – Jan. 17, 2010 – I walked past a swanky hotel last night and was hit by a wave of memory. The hotel is called something else now but I knew it in the 70s as the Southgate, across the street from Madison Square Garden on Seventh Avenue. Back then, I was a volunteer with a new-age group called est and we held many seminars at the Southgate. I knew all its back hallways.
Last night, I instantly recalled a beautiful woman I met there (she still is beautiful), personal interchanges, the aromas and sounds of the hotel ballroom, even snippets of conversations, one of them with a well-known actress.
Ever wonder what happens when our memory drive gets full? The one in our brains. On my laptop computer, it tells me that I’ve got to delete something in order to save new data. Since that’s not an option with our brains, then what?
Just think of the details you can recall. I remember my first kiss. (Quite well!) And before that my first day on the air at a radio station. Working backward: playing a bassoon, attending a funeral, getting baptized, getting tickled by my grandfather Papa Lewis, saying goodbye to my father as he left for the War when I was three years old.
If you added them all together, there would be thousands. Perhaps millions. So how much memory space do we have anyway?
And what about the other kinds of memories? The unresolved resentments, simmering anger from slights (real or imagined) from years back. Ex-spouses, teachers, school bullies. If you lived long enough and amassed enough memories, wouldn’t you run out of room? Maybe that’s why children can learn a foreign language easier than adults.
Is that perhaps a factor in Alzheimer’s? The memory chip is full?
Since it’s not practical to “forget” memories like first kisses and grandfatherly tickles, maybe our only option is to let go of the resentments and simmering anger. That would certainly create more memory space. I try to clean out those “files” on a regular basis but I see people on the subway who’re carting around a whole head-full of spiritual and emotional goop. You can see it on their faces. They’re barely able to see for all the distracting images from the past that cloud their vision.
Their glasses are not rose-colored. Theirs are brown and stinky!
I’m not aware of any studies linking Alzheimer’s with unforgiveness. But it would be interesting to see if anyone has done any correlation between the two.
And maybe there is none. But just to be on the safe side, as they around here, "It couldn't hoit!"
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Last night, I instantly recalled a beautiful woman I met there (she still is beautiful), personal interchanges, the aromas and sounds of the hotel ballroom, even snippets of conversations, one of them with a well-known actress.
Ever wonder what happens when our memory drive gets full? The one in our brains. On my laptop computer, it tells me that I’ve got to delete something in order to save new data. Since that’s not an option with our brains, then what?
Just think of the details you can recall. I remember my first kiss. (Quite well!) And before that my first day on the air at a radio station. Working backward: playing a bassoon, attending a funeral, getting baptized, getting tickled by my grandfather Papa Lewis, saying goodbye to my father as he left for the War when I was three years old.
If you added them all together, there would be thousands. Perhaps millions. So how much memory space do we have anyway?
And what about the other kinds of memories? The unresolved resentments, simmering anger from slights (real or imagined) from years back. Ex-spouses, teachers, school bullies. If you lived long enough and amassed enough memories, wouldn’t you run out of room? Maybe that’s why children can learn a foreign language easier than adults.
Is that perhaps a factor in Alzheimer’s? The memory chip is full?
Since it’s not practical to “forget” memories like first kisses and grandfatherly tickles, maybe our only option is to let go of the resentments and simmering anger. That would certainly create more memory space. I try to clean out those “files” on a regular basis but I see people on the subway who’re carting around a whole head-full of spiritual and emotional goop. You can see it on their faces. They’re barely able to see for all the distracting images from the past that cloud their vision.
Their glasses are not rose-colored. Theirs are brown and stinky!
I’m not aware of any studies linking Alzheimer’s with unforgiveness. But it would be interesting to see if anyone has done any correlation between the two.
And maybe there is none. But just to be on the safe side, as they around here, "It couldn't hoit!"
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Dog's-Eye View
New York City - Jan. 16, 2010 - She’s Queen of the City!
Bekka is oblivious to the fact that she’s a small 12-pound miniature schnauzer. When we walk along West 42nd Street, just off the theatre district, she prances along like she owns the place, not pulling at the leash or darting left and right.
And in a way she does own the place. Certainly she charms more than one passer-by who stops to pet her. (She is most obliging.) I could have been a serial killer but with my little escort, we are both approachable.
But what I find astounding is that she’s showing herself to be a Big City Dog who’s been locked up in a Small City Dog’s body all her 10-plus years. She’s usually skittish as a young colt. Shakes uncontrollably during thunderstorms. Spooked by any unexpected loud sound.
Not here! Out on the street, none of that fearful behavior is in play. The grinding construction machinery doesn't faze her. Nor the crush of people. Nor the din of passing trucks, buses and cars. Her coloring makes her look like she’s prancing even when she’s not. Salt-and-pepper overall but from her knees down, all white. Kinda like disco boots of the 60s. But she absolutely struts! A show dog.
Imagine if you or I were suddenly immersed into a society of Goliath-sized people. We’d creep safely along the outer margins. Not her! She’s in-your-face, come on let’s boogie! She’s an absolute inspiration.
Maybe she was put here for just such a purpose?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Bekka is oblivious to the fact that she’s a small 12-pound miniature schnauzer. When we walk along West 42nd Street, just off the theatre district, she prances along like she owns the place, not pulling at the leash or darting left and right.
And in a way she does own the place. Certainly she charms more than one passer-by who stops to pet her. (She is most obliging.) I could have been a serial killer but with my little escort, we are both approachable.
But what I find astounding is that she’s showing herself to be a Big City Dog who’s been locked up in a Small City Dog’s body all her 10-plus years. She’s usually skittish as a young colt. Shakes uncontrollably during thunderstorms. Spooked by any unexpected loud sound.
Not here! Out on the street, none of that fearful behavior is in play. The grinding construction machinery doesn't faze her. Nor the crush of people. Nor the din of passing trucks, buses and cars. Her coloring makes her look like she’s prancing even when she’s not. Salt-and-pepper overall but from her knees down, all white. Kinda like disco boots of the 60s. But she absolutely struts! A show dog.
Imagine if you or I were suddenly immersed into a society of Goliath-sized people. We’d creep safely along the outer margins. Not her! She’s in-your-face, come on let’s boogie! She’s an absolute inspiration.
Maybe she was put here for just such a purpose?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Friday, January 15, 2010
Almost There
Elizabeth, NJ – Jan. 15, 2010 – I’m not quite there yet. But in about four hours, I will be. The Big Apple awaits. La Grande Pomme. Oz.
There’s a lot of reasons that I’m glad that I’m here. And right at the top of the list is the fact that I have family – blood relatives – right across the river in New Jersey. I’d kind of fallen out of communication with my sister Dixie and her husband Richard. We’d always been close. But not frequent. But now that I’ll be just a train ride away, I look forward to birthdays and occasional Sunday dinners together. I spent Christmas here and it was most rewarding to be so welcomed into the bosom of family. Children, grandchildren, spouses. I was the Uncle James, a ghostly presence that they’d only heard about. (Heavens knows what they'd heard! I don’t want to know.)
Noon today is our target time to arrive on West 47th Street. Bekka and I will move into the apartment we’ll share with a retired gentleman who’s a former IRS agent. Delightful, energetic fellow a little older than I am. Dixie is going to drive my pick-up as Bekka and I crowd into the front seat. My meager belongs in the back seat. Not much stuff!
So what’s on the horizon? Plenty! I just don’t know what it is yet. But I figure that 15 years in TV news may have taught me a thing or two about media. And then there’s radio. And photography.
We’re talking WORLD MEDIA HEADQUARTERS! If I can’t get something going in New York City, it’s time to pull the covers over my head and call it a day.
And I’m not ready to do that.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
There’s a lot of reasons that I’m glad that I’m here. And right at the top of the list is the fact that I have family – blood relatives – right across the river in New Jersey. I’d kind of fallen out of communication with my sister Dixie and her husband Richard. We’d always been close. But not frequent. But now that I’ll be just a train ride away, I look forward to birthdays and occasional Sunday dinners together. I spent Christmas here and it was most rewarding to be so welcomed into the bosom of family. Children, grandchildren, spouses. I was the Uncle James, a ghostly presence that they’d only heard about. (Heavens knows what they'd heard! I don’t want to know.)
Noon today is our target time to arrive on West 47th Street. Bekka and I will move into the apartment we’ll share with a retired gentleman who’s a former IRS agent. Delightful, energetic fellow a little older than I am. Dixie is going to drive my pick-up as Bekka and I crowd into the front seat. My meager belongs in the back seat. Not much stuff!
So what’s on the horizon? Plenty! I just don’t know what it is yet. But I figure that 15 years in TV news may have taught me a thing or two about media. And then there’s radio. And photography.
We’re talking WORLD MEDIA HEADQUARTERS! If I can’t get something going in New York City, it’s time to pull the covers over my head and call it a day.
And I’m not ready to do that.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tight Grip
Roanoke, VA – Jan. 13, 2010 – Nashville did not give up easily the grip it had on us. My schnauzer Bekka and I were originally going to leave Music City early. Seven-ish. Then a long coffee chat with Robert pushed it back to 8, maybe 9. Although I was pretty well packed, various little fiddle-faddles slowed us down. Then gassing up the pick-up at Kroger. And returning a library book.
It was finally 12:42 PM when we finally hit the road!
Walking a cute little dog like Bekka can be an instant friend-maker. Someplace around Knoxville, we stopped to “do our biz” at a big rest stop beside I-40. A grizzled truck driver, the kind you walk across the street to avoid, instantly warmed to the cute little dog. Turns out, he had his own little charmer, a Yorkie. I never knew the fellow’s name. He was one of those ”single-service” friends. But he did spill his life story. Sixty years old. Less than a year away from retiring from over-the-road truck driving. His wife’s about to become a CPA and he’s going to ride motorcycles the rest of his life. Or so he says.
This new-found ability of mine to warm up to people is kinda neat. Somewhat like discovering, late in life, that you have perfect pitch. (I don’t. That’s meant as an allegory.) And having Bekka along just amplifies the connect.
She’s a good traveling doggie. Although our other dogs logged thousands of miles, this is the longest she’s ever been inside a vehicle. I brought along her familiar little dog bed and placed it on the passenger seat. She curled right up, just like she was at home under the chest in the entryway.
Is she lonely? Does she yearn for Jan and Debbie’s place? Or does she miss playing with Bella, their schnauzer?
No!
I steadfastly maintain that it is folly to anthropomorphize dogs. That’s such a good word. I should make you look it up. But I won’t: “to attribute human form or personality to things not human”.
Like dogs. Now understand that I love the little darlings. Lois and I had dogs all our time together, a total of five of them. But I never really thought they could think. Or feel emotions like embarrassment when they try to jump up on the bed and hit their noses on the frame. That’s not embarrassment. That’s pain! They’ve bonked their sensitive little schnozzes.
But it is comforting to have a doggie sitting or lying beside you. They don’t talk. Don’t make demands on you or run up credit card bills. Don’t make suggestions about your writing. They just are. They’re the quintessential be-here-now existentialist. No distractions from the past. Or worries about the future. They don’t fret over whether they’re advancing their career or whether God loves them or if they should trim their beards.
They just are. I like that. I think I’ll become a dog.
Woof.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
It was finally 12:42 PM when we finally hit the road!
Walking a cute little dog like Bekka can be an instant friend-maker. Someplace around Knoxville, we stopped to “do our biz” at a big rest stop beside I-40. A grizzled truck driver, the kind you walk across the street to avoid, instantly warmed to the cute little dog. Turns out, he had his own little charmer, a Yorkie. I never knew the fellow’s name. He was one of those ”single-service” friends. But he did spill his life story. Sixty years old. Less than a year away from retiring from over-the-road truck driving. His wife’s about to become a CPA and he’s going to ride motorcycles the rest of his life. Or so he says.
This new-found ability of mine to warm up to people is kinda neat. Somewhat like discovering, late in life, that you have perfect pitch. (I don’t. That’s meant as an allegory.) And having Bekka along just amplifies the connect.
She’s a good traveling doggie. Although our other dogs logged thousands of miles, this is the longest she’s ever been inside a vehicle. I brought along her familiar little dog bed and placed it on the passenger seat. She curled right up, just like she was at home under the chest in the entryway.
Is she lonely? Does she yearn for Jan and Debbie’s place? Or does she miss playing with Bella, their schnauzer?
No!
I steadfastly maintain that it is folly to anthropomorphize dogs. That’s such a good word. I should make you look it up. But I won’t: “to attribute human form or personality to things not human”.
Like dogs. Now understand that I love the little darlings. Lois and I had dogs all our time together, a total of five of them. But I never really thought they could think. Or feel emotions like embarrassment when they try to jump up on the bed and hit their noses on the frame. That’s not embarrassment. That’s pain! They’ve bonked their sensitive little schnozzes.
But it is comforting to have a doggie sitting or lying beside you. They don’t talk. Don’t make demands on you or run up credit card bills. Don’t make suggestions about your writing. They just are. They’re the quintessential be-here-now existentialist. No distractions from the past. Or worries about the future. They don’t fret over whether they’re advancing their career or whether God loves them or if they should trim their beards.
They just are. I like that. I think I’ll become a dog.
Woof.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
New Day - Sort of a Saga
Nashville - Jan. 13, 2010 - Ah, a new day dawns! Got the dog groomed (and me, too), car topped off with brake fluid and clothes packed in a big suitcase.
It's off to The Big Apple!
Every time I leave a place, I do so with some reluctance. I left my sister's family's place in New Jersey last week with some reluctance. I was already there. Comfortable. Settled in.
Same with the hotel in New York City. And certainly with Jan and Debbie Esterline here in Nashville (and our friend Robert). Robert and I sat and chatted this morning over coffee, a lingering goodbye.
So is this it? Is this a final goodbye to an era? Perhaps. I'm not sure. Back in my early 30s, when I moved to New York City from San Francisco, it was goodbye West Coast, hello East Coast. And it stuck.
But now, I'm feeling a little like a "bicoastal" person. They literally have a place on each coast. In my case, it's a place in the South and one in the Northeast. I'm not leaving Nashville with the kind of finality that I had back in the 70s.
Unless that's what develops.
I have these early-morning conversations with God when I walk out into the yard to get the morning paper. "Good morning, Lord," I speak aloud. "Thank you for the gift of a new day. Let me claim this day to your glory."
But yesterday, something surprising popped out of my mouth. "And thank you for this assignment in New York City."
What!? Where did that come from? I can't claim that it was prophetic. But then I can't claim that it's not, either.
I'm working the "old-boy network" all I can. I got in touch with a preacher friend who's well-connected at the national media. I've discovered that a referral from someone they know puts you right up there in the top 5 percentile. Basically, it's someone vouching for you.
So I leave Nashville today with warm memories. And a few poignant ones. Lots of Lois lingers here. But then, Lots of Lois lingers in New York City as well. When I was there last week, I walked past a hamburger joint she and I liked and got a whiff of her scent, a sense of her presence. I'm sure it was imaginary. But to me at the time, it was real.
My baggage is light. I'm moving to New York City with only two suitcases and a dog. No furniture. (I don't own any!) No big-screen TV. Just a laptop.
Anything else I need? Well, they have stores there. It's not a third-world country.
The Great Adventure continues!
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
It's off to The Big Apple!
Every time I leave a place, I do so with some reluctance. I left my sister's family's place in New Jersey last week with some reluctance. I was already there. Comfortable. Settled in.
Same with the hotel in New York City. And certainly with Jan and Debbie Esterline here in Nashville (and our friend Robert). Robert and I sat and chatted this morning over coffee, a lingering goodbye.
So is this it? Is this a final goodbye to an era? Perhaps. I'm not sure. Back in my early 30s, when I moved to New York City from San Francisco, it was goodbye West Coast, hello East Coast. And it stuck.
But now, I'm feeling a little like a "bicoastal" person. They literally have a place on each coast. In my case, it's a place in the South and one in the Northeast. I'm not leaving Nashville with the kind of finality that I had back in the 70s.
Unless that's what develops.
I have these early-morning conversations with God when I walk out into the yard to get the morning paper. "Good morning, Lord," I speak aloud. "Thank you for the gift of a new day. Let me claim this day to your glory."
But yesterday, something surprising popped out of my mouth. "And thank you for this assignment in New York City."
What!? Where did that come from? I can't claim that it was prophetic. But then I can't claim that it's not, either.
I'm working the "old-boy network" all I can. I got in touch with a preacher friend who's well-connected at the national media. I've discovered that a referral from someone they know puts you right up there in the top 5 percentile. Basically, it's someone vouching for you.
So I leave Nashville today with warm memories. And a few poignant ones. Lots of Lois lingers here. But then, Lots of Lois lingers in New York City as well. When I was there last week, I walked past a hamburger joint she and I liked and got a whiff of her scent, a sense of her presence. I'm sure it was imaginary. But to me at the time, it was real.
My baggage is light. I'm moving to New York City with only two suitcases and a dog. No furniture. (I don't own any!) No big-screen TV. Just a laptop.
Anything else I need? Well, they have stores there. It's not a third-world country.
The Great Adventure continues!
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Friday, January 8, 2010
Manhattan Reflections
Jan. 8, 2010 – Some reflections as I wind up this, the first phase of the Great Manhattan Adventure.
GRAND CENTRAL STATION – I had dinner last night with some old friends who are former circus clowns. You probably wouldn’t want to invite them to speak to your Sunday School group. Rowdy guys. Stories from the road about women who have fantasies of getting chummy with a clown.
CALVARY BAPTIST CHURCH – It’s the same church that Lois and I attended as baby Christians back in the mid-80s. But I now find it a bit dull. Fanny Crosby hymns with everyone singing down into their hymnal. No music leader at all. I’d forgotten. It was always that way. And certainly no arm waving or shouts of joy.
WEST SIDE STORY – A wonderful, tear-provoking musical production. First thing I noticed was that the male dancers actually looked like and moved like street toughs from the 50s in Hells Kitchen. Looking that butch must have been a challenge for some of them. Voices. All the musicals I saw (three altogether) had their singers wearing small microphones. Back when I saw “Hair” in London, they had to project their voices. Seems a little like cheating. And with one singer in “West Side Story”, I strongly suspected they were using Autotune on him to keep him on pitch. I asked the bassoonist and he said no, they weren’t doing that. Still, I’m suspicious.
MONEY MATTERS – Yeah, it’s expensive to eat in New York. Or anywhere else, for that matter, when you’re traveling and eating out all the time. I’ve finally devised a routine here in New York. I have coffee, the New York Times and a breakfast sandwich at Starbucks around the corner for about 7 bucks. I’ve had breakfast at some sit-down restaurants and paid 3 times that amount. But I had the same problem in Paris. My place on W47th has a kitchen so I can prepare my own eats.
SENIOR DISCOUNTS – Someone finally told me about senior discounts on the subway. Well dang! Why didn’t they tell me sooner? It’s a dollar a ride instead of $2.25. And it’s good indefinitely because it has a magnetic stripe and it debits your credit card account every time you use it. (Gosh, I remember when it cost a dime to ride the subway.)
FRIENDS, LOVED ONES – Relationships are extremely important to me as I get older. And I know the reality that if I leave Nashville, I’ll probably not be hearing from some people anymore. And with others, we likely won’t have the depth of communications that we do now.
OPPORTUNITIES – The reality is that I‘ve worked in television for 15 years and I’m highly skilled. Now to test that out in the dog-dirt reality of the NYC job market. I’ve made contact at a TV network and a radio station. I’ll be cutting some demo material as soon as I get back to Nashville and I’ll e-mail an mp3 attachment.
FEAR & UNCERTAINTY – Adventure, danger, excitement. They all fit into the same cup of emotions. I don’t know what the future will hold as I return here to New York City. In Nashville, there is predictability. But maybe that’s a bit stultifying? My sister Dixie and her husband Richard lives just across the river in New Jersey. She gave some welcome encouragement. “As Richard says, we live somewhere between excited and terrified, and it changes from moment to moment. You are not alone.” Good to hear.
OTHER TEMPOS – I’m not as full of energy was I was when Lois and I moved away from here. But heavenly days! That was over 20 years ago! Bodies change. If I need to schedule a break for myself, I’ll do it. I do know that drinking and staying up late don’t work for me anymore. The bounce-back factor is more like a “clunk”.
GRAND CENTRAL STATION – I had dinner last night with some old friends who are former circus clowns. You probably wouldn’t want to invite them to speak to your Sunday School group. Rowdy guys. Stories from the road about women who have fantasies of getting chummy with a clown.
CALVARY BAPTIST CHURCH – It’s the same church that Lois and I attended as baby Christians back in the mid-80s. But I now find it a bit dull. Fanny Crosby hymns with everyone singing down into their hymnal. No music leader at all. I’d forgotten. It was always that way. And certainly no arm waving or shouts of joy.
WEST SIDE STORY – A wonderful, tear-provoking musical production. First thing I noticed was that the male dancers actually looked like and moved like street toughs from the 50s in Hells Kitchen. Looking that butch must have been a challenge for some of them. Voices. All the musicals I saw (three altogether) had their singers wearing small microphones. Back when I saw “Hair” in London, they had to project their voices. Seems a little like cheating. And with one singer in “West Side Story”, I strongly suspected they were using Autotune on him to keep him on pitch. I asked the bassoonist and he said no, they weren’t doing that. Still, I’m suspicious.
MONEY MATTERS – Yeah, it’s expensive to eat in New York. Or anywhere else, for that matter, when you’re traveling and eating out all the time. I’ve finally devised a routine here in New York. I have coffee, the New York Times and a breakfast sandwich at Starbucks around the corner for about 7 bucks. I’ve had breakfast at some sit-down restaurants and paid 3 times that amount. But I had the same problem in Paris. My place on W47th has a kitchen so I can prepare my own eats.
SENIOR DISCOUNTS – Someone finally told me about senior discounts on the subway. Well dang! Why didn’t they tell me sooner? It’s a dollar a ride instead of $2.25. And it’s good indefinitely because it has a magnetic stripe and it debits your credit card account every time you use it. (Gosh, I remember when it cost a dime to ride the subway.)
FRIENDS, LOVED ONES – Relationships are extremely important to me as I get older. And I know the reality that if I leave Nashville, I’ll probably not be hearing from some people anymore. And with others, we likely won’t have the depth of communications that we do now.
OPPORTUNITIES – The reality is that I‘ve worked in television for 15 years and I’m highly skilled. Now to test that out in the dog-dirt reality of the NYC job market. I’ve made contact at a TV network and a radio station. I’ll be cutting some demo material as soon as I get back to Nashville and I’ll e-mail an mp3 attachment.
FEAR & UNCERTAINTY – Adventure, danger, excitement. They all fit into the same cup of emotions. I don’t know what the future will hold as I return here to New York City. In Nashville, there is predictability. But maybe that’s a bit stultifying? My sister Dixie and her husband Richard lives just across the river in New Jersey. She gave some welcome encouragement. “As Richard says, we live somewhere between excited and terrified, and it changes from moment to moment. You are not alone.” Good to hear.
OTHER TEMPOS – I’m not as full of energy was I was when Lois and I moved away from here. But heavenly days! That was over 20 years ago! Bodies change. If I need to schedule a break for myself, I’ll do it. I do know that drinking and staying up late don’t work for me anymore. The bounce-back factor is more like a “clunk”.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Be Free
January 5, 2010 - New York City
Old Times, New Times
She asked me why I was going to see a stage performance of the musical “Hair” for the fourth time. We decided to meet for drinks at a lovely restaurant located on the East Balcony of Grand Central Station. Called Metrazul. It was quite nice. The waitress was extremely discrete and did not pester us with attention or try to upsell us to appetizers or a meal. Or even another drink. She left us the hell alone. An enchanting quality in a waitress. (I tipped her generously.)
And so my friend and I were free to talk quietly. I’d last seen her about 30 years ago. And, as with some other relationships with women back then, it did not end well. I was, shall we say, a jerk. And so it was about making amends, but doing so not through a formal announcement but rather an amiable chat, a reconnect, a catching up. And so it was.
She has a lovely British accent although she is not from England but one of the commonwealth countries. There she sat, well into her 70s, but with the clear, piercing blue eyes that I’d remembered so well. Intense, the kind that burn through your skull and touch something inside. And despite her years (and mine!) she still has a playful, flirtatious quality. But sophisticated, not at all smutty.
This story is not going anywhere down a romantic path so you can just stop what you’re thinking. She’s been married for nearly 30 years. And I’m not looking to complicate my life.
But she and I had way of connecting that was special. One of those eyeball-to-eyeball things. And I was surprised and delighted to discover that it was still there. I nearly took her hand at one point but squelched the thought. There was definitely something there, though.
And so she asked, “Why are you going to see ‘Hair’ for a fourth time?”
I didn’t really have an answer, as I had no answer to her question about my fascination with Germany. I originally saw “Hair” in Seattle, even jumped up on the stage afterward and danced with the cast members, as the audience was invited to do. And I saw it in Frankfurt and London. Oh! And I saw the movie, too. So tonight was actually the fifth time I’d seen it.
But that doesn’t answer the question, does it? The show was as funny and lively and raucous and sexy and fun as I’d remembered. I kept reminding myself that these very attractive and talented performers had no personal experience of the times they were depicting: the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, the Sexual Revolution. That all happened about 20 years before they were born!
So what’s my fascination with "Hair"? Since she had just asked me, it was on my mind. As soon as I walked into the Al Hirschfeld theatre, I drank in everything. The seats, the ceiling, the set, the costumes, the choreography. Looking for the answer to her question.
The answer was in the text! I heard it near the end of the first act:
”Be free!”
It spoke to my heart, to my spirit. Back in Seattle in 1970 and in New York City in 2010.
Be free.
Now there are certainly some wrong ways to go about that. And believe me I’ve done them. But now to me, a born-again Christian trying to live a life pleasing to Jesus, and nearer to 70 years old than I’ve ever been before, “Be Free” has a different meaning. It’s about looking beyond the front yard, beyond the obvious, letting yourself climb over the fence of the mind and see and feel and taste things anew, even if you’ve seen and felt and tasted them before.
And so I prepare to move back to New York City. There! I’ve said it. I’m gonna do it. I made a deal today to sublet a place for 6 weeks starting January 15th, just 9 days from now. I’ve got the money, the desire and the freedom to do it. So I’m flying back home to Nashville on Friday and I’ll pack up my Mazda pick-up, load my doggie Bekka in with me, and head back up here. I’ve already started inquiries at the networks (CNN and Fox News). I would love to work on the international desk.
My impending return to New York City is like reaching out and taking the hand of someone I once loved and somehow drifted away from.
My friend and landlord Jan Esterline in Nashville said, "I'm not too surprised. You're certainly more a New Yorker than you are a Nashvillian."
WHADDAYA MEAN BY THAT?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Old Times, New Times
She asked me why I was going to see a stage performance of the musical “Hair” for the fourth time. We decided to meet for drinks at a lovely restaurant located on the East Balcony of Grand Central Station. Called Metrazul. It was quite nice. The waitress was extremely discrete and did not pester us with attention or try to upsell us to appetizers or a meal. Or even another drink. She left us the hell alone. An enchanting quality in a waitress. (I tipped her generously.)
And so my friend and I were free to talk quietly. I’d last seen her about 30 years ago. And, as with some other relationships with women back then, it did not end well. I was, shall we say, a jerk. And so it was about making amends, but doing so not through a formal announcement but rather an amiable chat, a reconnect, a catching up. And so it was.
She has a lovely British accent although she is not from England but one of the commonwealth countries. There she sat, well into her 70s, but with the clear, piercing blue eyes that I’d remembered so well. Intense, the kind that burn through your skull and touch something inside. And despite her years (and mine!) she still has a playful, flirtatious quality. But sophisticated, not at all smutty.
This story is not going anywhere down a romantic path so you can just stop what you’re thinking. She’s been married for nearly 30 years. And I’m not looking to complicate my life.
But she and I had way of connecting that was special. One of those eyeball-to-eyeball things. And I was surprised and delighted to discover that it was still there. I nearly took her hand at one point but squelched the thought. There was definitely something there, though.
And so she asked, “Why are you going to see ‘Hair’ for a fourth time?”
I didn’t really have an answer, as I had no answer to her question about my fascination with Germany. I originally saw “Hair” in Seattle, even jumped up on the stage afterward and danced with the cast members, as the audience was invited to do. And I saw it in Frankfurt and London. Oh! And I saw the movie, too. So tonight was actually the fifth time I’d seen it.
But that doesn’t answer the question, does it? The show was as funny and lively and raucous and sexy and fun as I’d remembered. I kept reminding myself that these very attractive and talented performers had no personal experience of the times they were depicting: the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, the Sexual Revolution. That all happened about 20 years before they were born!
So what’s my fascination with "Hair"? Since she had just asked me, it was on my mind. As soon as I walked into the Al Hirschfeld theatre, I drank in everything. The seats, the ceiling, the set, the costumes, the choreography. Looking for the answer to her question.
The answer was in the text! I heard it near the end of the first act:
”Be free!”
It spoke to my heart, to my spirit. Back in Seattle in 1970 and in New York City in 2010.
Be free.
Now there are certainly some wrong ways to go about that. And believe me I’ve done them. But now to me, a born-again Christian trying to live a life pleasing to Jesus, and nearer to 70 years old than I’ve ever been before, “Be Free” has a different meaning. It’s about looking beyond the front yard, beyond the obvious, letting yourself climb over the fence of the mind and see and feel and taste things anew, even if you’ve seen and felt and tasted them before.
And so I prepare to move back to New York City. There! I’ve said it. I’m gonna do it. I made a deal today to sublet a place for 6 weeks starting January 15th, just 9 days from now. I’ve got the money, the desire and the freedom to do it. So I’m flying back home to Nashville on Friday and I’ll pack up my Mazda pick-up, load my doggie Bekka in with me, and head back up here. I’ve already started inquiries at the networks (CNN and Fox News). I would love to work on the international desk.
My impending return to New York City is like reaching out and taking the hand of someone I once loved and somehow drifted away from.
My friend and landlord Jan Esterline in Nashville said, "I'm not too surprised. You're certainly more a New Yorker than you are a Nashvillian."
WHADDAYA MEAN BY THAT?
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Saturday, January 2, 2010
On Broadway with Scarlett and the Usher
Jan. 2, 2009 - NYC - Between Scarlett Johansson and Leah (more about her later) it was a special day at the theatre in New York.
It was a perfectly marvelous production of Arthur Miller's classic drama “A View from the Bridge” with Johansson and Liev (“CSI”, “X-Men”) Schreiber. Fabulous work all around! Such a delight to see such professionalism. The beautiful set, the lighting, and most of all the acting. Over the years, I’ve kind of despaired at seeing live theatre because it’s often kind of “stagey”. I usually prefer movies because they’re more realistic and believable. But this was an exception. It was absolutely thrilling. Not a false note from anyone.
I didn’t know that Scarlett Johansson started out on stage when she was 8 years old. Although she’s best known from movies, she’s quite good on Broadway. It did take a little suspension of disbelief to accept her as 17 years old, the age of the character she played. But apart from that, I believed her as Catherine, the niece for whom her Uncle Eddie (Schreiber) has an unhealthy attraction.
At every Broadway theatre, they have these people confirming your seat, handing you a program, telling you to turn off your cell phone and making sure and don’t take any pictures. Ushers, I guess they’re called.
My usher was a delightfully outspoken lady named Leah. As with everybody that I chat with when I travel, she volunteered her life story. Leah, who reminds you a lot of Aunt Bea, has been a professional Broadway usher for 42 years. She’s 68. Unmarried. Born in what was then Yugoslavia but her family had to suddenly leave because they were Jews and the Nazis were about to nab them. (See, I told you! No one escapes my investigatorial inquiry.) My seat was on the aisle so we could exchange wisecracks.
At the intermission, we swapped stories. “You’re cute,” she said.
Hmm. Been a while since anybody told me that.
“Here, take my number,” she said. “We’ll get together for dinner. I live right near the theatre.”
And so we shall.
It was a perfectly marvelous production of Arthur Miller's classic drama “A View from the Bridge” with Johansson and Liev (“CSI”, “X-Men”) Schreiber. Fabulous work all around! Such a delight to see such professionalism. The beautiful set, the lighting, and most of all the acting. Over the years, I’ve kind of despaired at seeing live theatre because it’s often kind of “stagey”. I usually prefer movies because they’re more realistic and believable. But this was an exception. It was absolutely thrilling. Not a false note from anyone.
I didn’t know that Scarlett Johansson started out on stage when she was 8 years old. Although she’s best known from movies, she’s quite good on Broadway. It did take a little suspension of disbelief to accept her as 17 years old, the age of the character she played. But apart from that, I believed her as Catherine, the niece for whom her Uncle Eddie (Schreiber) has an unhealthy attraction.
At every Broadway theatre, they have these people confirming your seat, handing you a program, telling you to turn off your cell phone and making sure and don’t take any pictures. Ushers, I guess they’re called.
My usher was a delightfully outspoken lady named Leah. As with everybody that I chat with when I travel, she volunteered her life story. Leah, who reminds you a lot of Aunt Bea, has been a professional Broadway usher for 42 years. She’s 68. Unmarried. Born in what was then Yugoslavia but her family had to suddenly leave because they were Jews and the Nazis were about to nab them. (See, I told you! No one escapes my investigatorial inquiry.) My seat was on the aisle so we could exchange wisecracks.
At the intermission, we swapped stories. “You’re cute,” she said.
Hmm. Been a while since anybody told me that.
“Here, take my number,” she said. “We’ll get together for dinner. I live right near the theatre.”
And so we shall.
Tennessee Williams - Thwarted Talent
Jan. 2, 2010 - NYC - "Loss of a Teardrop Diamond", a movie written by the late Tennessee Williams and just released this week.
A preacher named Mansfield once preached a sermon that really stuck with me, about people who “waste their talent”.
Mansfield said that even before we are born, God has determined our destiny, our calling. It might be music or art or literature. And, of course, He wants us to use it in godly ways, building people up, enlightening them.
But the enemy, aware of our destiny, does everything he can to stop it, to subvert it, to thwart the destiny that God set out for us. Thus we have a Maplethorpe who was an acknowledged creative genius but who, it can be argued, used his photographic genius the wrong way. Or a talented film director who works in pornography. Or a talented leader who becomes a Hitler or a Pol Pot.
Or, one could assert, a talented playwright who writes plays and movies which depict women in roles not entirely likeable. This would be, to continue this stream of thought, the explanation for Tennessee Williams’ misogynistic themes. Williams had the God-given talent for creating believable drama. He had the genius for capturing the minute detail of behavior so that in his dramas, you got more a slice of life. I never thought his stories had a very strong narrative. But then, you’re talking to an old news writer to whom narrative is everything.
In this, the latest Williams creation on the screen, “Loss of a Teardop Diamond”, we see multiple female characters who are harpys, shrews, self-centered little snots whom we want to just slap silly. It had the feel of a low-budget film. No high-dollar performers. No dazzling special effects. The cinematography took some strange turns, changing gthe light during a scene. More a stage lighting technique.
It was delightful to see Ann-Margret. I always felt a connection with her. I have a picture I took when she was on the set of her second movie, “State Fair” with Pat Boone. She and I are about the same age so all the more I marveled at how well preserved she was. (I haven’t held up as well. But then she had more to start with.) Her character, as the rich aunt, was not entirely despicable.
The main character, Fisher Willow, despite some good acting cred and bloodline by actress Bryce Dallas Howard (her father is Ron Howard), turned on the histrionics in “Teardop” so that make you want to commit mayhem. And that’s not all her fault. Well, you could fault her for taking the role. Or you could fault first-time feature film director Jodie Markell.
Or you could go all the way back to Tennessee Williams’ tortured childhood. His father was often gone from the family. As a young boy, his mother discouraged him from playing with other boys. So the females in his scripts were often compared with his mother or his aunt. Fractured statues on the mantelpiece.
Howard died her red hair black and got a page boy cut after Elizabeth Taylor’s in another Williams movie, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”. She said she leaped at the role.
She told the New York Times, “I realized that Fisher Willow is like Blanche DuBois 15 years earlier, when she still has a chance. I felt this is a film about a woman struggling with herself and with whether she’s going to find a way to be happy in traditional Southern society or is going to give herself over to her delusions. That really raised the stakes for me.”
This movie is not something I went to see because I thought I’d like it. I almost never liked any Tennessee Williams movies or plays, even though my ex-wife Elizabeth was in one of his plays in New York. No, I went to see it as a piece of culture, a societal curiosity. The script, set in the 20s, has been sitting in a drawer controlled by the Williams estate since Williams’ death in 1983 and no one had produced it up until now. It’s the first Williams movie in almost 20 years so if for no other reason it’s worth seeing for historic reasons.
Williams was born with a destiny of being a great communicator. And so he communicated.
Just a quick note about some of the supporting characters. Ann-Margret was joined by another film veteran, Ellen Burstyn.
And the handsome young swain, played by Chris Evans, was the attractive hunk that the debutante Fisher wanted. He looked real pretty. And sleepy.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
A preacher named Mansfield once preached a sermon that really stuck with me, about people who “waste their talent”.
Mansfield said that even before we are born, God has determined our destiny, our calling. It might be music or art or literature. And, of course, He wants us to use it in godly ways, building people up, enlightening them.
But the enemy, aware of our destiny, does everything he can to stop it, to subvert it, to thwart the destiny that God set out for us. Thus we have a Maplethorpe who was an acknowledged creative genius but who, it can be argued, used his photographic genius the wrong way. Or a talented film director who works in pornography. Or a talented leader who becomes a Hitler or a Pol Pot.
Or, one could assert, a talented playwright who writes plays and movies which depict women in roles not entirely likeable. This would be, to continue this stream of thought, the explanation for Tennessee Williams’ misogynistic themes. Williams had the God-given talent for creating believable drama. He had the genius for capturing the minute detail of behavior so that in his dramas, you got more a slice of life. I never thought his stories had a very strong narrative. But then, you’re talking to an old news writer to whom narrative is everything.
In this, the latest Williams creation on the screen, “Loss of a Teardop Diamond”, we see multiple female characters who are harpys, shrews, self-centered little snots whom we want to just slap silly. It had the feel of a low-budget film. No high-dollar performers. No dazzling special effects. The cinematography took some strange turns, changing gthe light during a scene. More a stage lighting technique.
It was delightful to see Ann-Margret. I always felt a connection with her. I have a picture I took when she was on the set of her second movie, “State Fair” with Pat Boone. She and I are about the same age so all the more I marveled at how well preserved she was. (I haven’t held up as well. But then she had more to start with.) Her character, as the rich aunt, was not entirely despicable.
The main character, Fisher Willow, despite some good acting cred and bloodline by actress Bryce Dallas Howard (her father is Ron Howard), turned on the histrionics in “Teardop” so that make you want to commit mayhem. And that’s not all her fault. Well, you could fault her for taking the role. Or you could fault first-time feature film director Jodie Markell.
Or you could go all the way back to Tennessee Williams’ tortured childhood. His father was often gone from the family. As a young boy, his mother discouraged him from playing with other boys. So the females in his scripts were often compared with his mother or his aunt. Fractured statues on the mantelpiece.
Howard died her red hair black and got a page boy cut after Elizabeth Taylor’s in another Williams movie, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”. She said she leaped at the role.
She told the New York Times, “I realized that Fisher Willow is like Blanche DuBois 15 years earlier, when she still has a chance. I felt this is a film about a woman struggling with herself and with whether she’s going to find a way to be happy in traditional Southern society or is going to give herself over to her delusions. That really raised the stakes for me.”
This movie is not something I went to see because I thought I’d like it. I almost never liked any Tennessee Williams movies or plays, even though my ex-wife Elizabeth was in one of his plays in New York. No, I went to see it as a piece of culture, a societal curiosity. The script, set in the 20s, has been sitting in a drawer controlled by the Williams estate since Williams’ death in 1983 and no one had produced it up until now. It’s the first Williams movie in almost 20 years so if for no other reason it’s worth seeing for historic reasons.
Williams was born with a destiny of being a great communicator. And so he communicated.
Just a quick note about some of the supporting characters. Ann-Margret was joined by another film veteran, Ellen Burstyn.
And the handsome young swain, played by Chris Evans, was the attractive hunk that the debutante Fisher wanted. He looked real pretty. And sleepy.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
Friday, January 1, 2010
New Year
NEW YORK CITY - January 1, 2010 -- Happy New Year.
What a wonderful way to start the new year: at a church service at Calvary Baptist Church on West 57th Street, just across the street from Carnegie Hall.
I saw a few familiar faces. But it’s been 21 years. Gone is the senior pastor, Don Hubbard. In his place is Rev. David Epstein. He’s Kathy Lee Gifford’s brother but he doesn’t look a thing like her. Or act like her.
Walking in, I stopped and just looked. At the pews, the podium up front, the choir loft up above that. A wave of emotions hit me. This is where Lois and I attended for over three years. It’s where we began our Christian walk, helped by some extremely good teaching on Sunday mornings. We'd been starved for something real and the cult we’d been members of wasn’t it.
I sat in the pew where she and I always sat, on the second row right on the aisle. She was a spirit-filled flashy blonde and enjoyed showing off. And I enjoyed showing her off. Some of the blue-haired ladies looked with askance. She was covered, actually more than some of the t-and-a shows I see in some churches. But dang did she know how to strut!
After services tonight, I walked almost all the way back up to my hotel on the Upper West Side. The temperature was mild, 34 degrees. No wind. A gentle mist coated the streets with a light sheen. I flashed back to an ABC radio show in the 50s called “Imagination” with Milton Cross. I was working in radio while I was in high school in Southern Oklahoma and heard his word pictures and yearned for a piece of whatever that was in New York City.
Tonight, I looked all around me and realized how much I love New York City. Much more than Berlin. As I walked, the mist became fog and the tall buildings along upper Broadway were magically shrouded in a coat of gray. It was a painting come to life. And even though it was New Years Eve, it was calm. Peaceful.
Peaceful, yet exciting at the same time.
I popped into the Europa Deli at Broadway and 70-something and had a large coffee and a toasted bagel with cream cheese. Wonderful way to welcome the new year.
Would I like to live here again? Yes.
Am I going to pursue it? No.
It’s gotta pursue me. But if it does, well, we’ll see.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
What a wonderful way to start the new year: at a church service at Calvary Baptist Church on West 57th Street, just across the street from Carnegie Hall.
I saw a few familiar faces. But it’s been 21 years. Gone is the senior pastor, Don Hubbard. In his place is Rev. David Epstein. He’s Kathy Lee Gifford’s brother but he doesn’t look a thing like her. Or act like her.
Walking in, I stopped and just looked. At the pews, the podium up front, the choir loft up above that. A wave of emotions hit me. This is where Lois and I attended for over three years. It’s where we began our Christian walk, helped by some extremely good teaching on Sunday mornings. We'd been starved for something real and the cult we’d been members of wasn’t it.
I sat in the pew where she and I always sat, on the second row right on the aisle. She was a spirit-filled flashy blonde and enjoyed showing off. And I enjoyed showing her off. Some of the blue-haired ladies looked with askance. She was covered, actually more than some of the t-and-a shows I see in some churches. But dang did she know how to strut!
After services tonight, I walked almost all the way back up to my hotel on the Upper West Side. The temperature was mild, 34 degrees. No wind. A gentle mist coated the streets with a light sheen. I flashed back to an ABC radio show in the 50s called “Imagination” with Milton Cross. I was working in radio while I was in high school in Southern Oklahoma and heard his word pictures and yearned for a piece of whatever that was in New York City.
Tonight, I looked all around me and realized how much I love New York City. Much more than Berlin. As I walked, the mist became fog and the tall buildings along upper Broadway were magically shrouded in a coat of gray. It was a painting come to life. And even though it was New Years Eve, it was calm. Peaceful.
Peaceful, yet exciting at the same time.
I popped into the Europa Deli at Broadway and 70-something and had a large coffee and a toasted bagel with cream cheese. Wonderful way to welcome the new year.
Would I like to live here again? Yes.
Am I going to pursue it? No.
It’s gotta pursue me. But if it does, well, we’ll see.
Copyright 2010 James C. Lewis
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