My friends at Warner Brothers invited me and a couple hundred other folks to a screening last night on the lot of the new Alfonzo Cuaron film Gravity. I don’t make it my habit here to review movies, but I have to say, it’s a spectacular movie. The special effects are spectacular, and the action is 100% filled with grabbity and doesn’t let go. I would say the most astounding special effect is 50-year-old Sandra Bullock’s perfect figure, except that’s for real. There are some scientific slips — not to spoil anything, but in the one scene the one astronaut wouldn’t be pulling the other into danger because at the moment there’s no force and no gravity — but if you notice these, please ignore them. It’s a fantastic film, and the sort of one that encourages seeing in the movie theatre.

In my adolescence, I was fortunate to meet the right person at the right time. I’m speaking of my mentor, Rich Roesberg.

There’s no one who has made a greater influence on my cultural life.

Growing up in the Pine Barrens and surrounding environs of southern New Jersey made artistic and intellectual engagement hard to come by. People who, last decade, abhorred the encroachment of big-box chain bookstores, to the supposed detriment of small independent bookshops, had no idea what it was like growing up in a place with no bookstore nearby. If there had been a Borders bookstore anywhere near me when I was growing up, it would have been a godsend.

As it was, though, I had my own godsend. One day my mother went into a Hallmark greeting-card store in a strip mall to buy some cards. The store also carried books — in fact, it was called Blatt’s Books — and I found in the back some secondhand comic-books. What I discovered when I took them to the front counter was the assistant manager, an elder in his late 20’s named Rich Roesberg, and a conversation about comic books that over the 35+ years since then has broadened into art, music, politics, and much, much more. “Uncle Rich,” as my gang and I started calling him, became my oasis.

Here’s an abbreviated list of what I found through him during my impressionable adolescent years:

1. A deep admiration for Brian Wilson, Van Dyke Parks and the Beach Boys
2. An appreciation for dada and surrealism
3. R. Crumb
4. John Cage
5. Cut-up (Brion Gysin’s technique)
6. Soupy Sales
7. The Bonzo Dog Doodah Band
8. Jean Shepherd
9. Bob & Ray
10. Steve Ditko (it was Roesberg who made me see how wonderful his work is)
11. Bill Irwin
12. Ernie Kovacs
13. Steve Allen
14. Uncle Floyd
15. Charles Bukowski
16. John Fante
17. Alfred Jarry
18. William S. Burroughs

Here’s a joke I’ve shared with friends for years: When I die, I’ll know I’ve made it to Heaven if someone there says, “You’re just in time. We’re screening the new Buster Keaton film.”

Today, I almost got that wish. (Except without the dying part.) Someone has unearthed a different version of Keaton’s 1922 short, “The Blacksmith,” that’s a European version — one that is substantially different, with different scenes, than the ones we’ve seen.

Read the story.

Then imagine my jubilation. I can’t wait to see this restored.

Make sure you turn on the sound when you check out this bizarre thriller. The music just adds to the sinister ambience. Much like the video itself, it’s seemingly cute — but laced with menance.

I got my first newspaper job at age 14, taking classified ads over the phone. I did that all through the rest of high school, and went full-time for a bit right after high school.

While in college, I started stringing for Gannett. I wrote for two daily newspapers and five weeklies, and was sometimes syndicated more widely by the company. That’s because at the time, Gannett owned newspapers across the U.S., including the Detroit News and USA Today. (Now it bills itself as “a media and marketing solutions company.” I understand why; I truly do.)

After that, I was hired by the Press of Atlantic City (which some of us remember as The Atlantic City Press) as a copy editor. I thrived in that role, partly no doubt because the hours were 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.

After moving to Los Angeles in 1988, I kept freelancing for newspapers and magazines for five or 10 years, including some of the papers I had worked for, plus the Los Angeles Times, the Arkansas Democrat Gazette and others. Gradually, both the theatre and other interests related to changing the world (business, politics) swept me away. But to this day, I read the Los Angeles Times and the Wall Street Journal daily, and check in on other newspapers frequently.

All this background is by way of telling you how much I love newspapers. Many of my plays feature newspapers, much to the detriment of their lastability.

This is also by way of preamble to something I saw last night that should have come as no surprise, but which confirmed everything that has happened to journalism in recent years.

My daughter and I are watching House of Cards on Netflix. I saw the original British version on PBS back in the 90s, and again about six years ago. This new version stars Kevin Spacey as a conniving Congressional majority whip who beds a budding journalist named Zoe and uses her to further his ends. The young reporter’s rash behavior puts her at odds with the executive editor at The Washington “Herald” (which seems much like The Washington Post, right down to the plummy female publisher), who fires her. Upon being fired, the reporter fires off a tweet mentioning that the editor called her “a cunt,” and that action, backed by the exclusives she’s been landing thanks to her relationship with the majority whip, lands her her choice of new positions elsewhere.

So, of course, she takes a job with something called Slugline. Slugline, it seems, is like Politico, as done by TMZ. That’s implied both in words by the reporter Zoe and by the actions of the “editor” who hires her. To wit:  Zoe submits her first story to the editor for editing and review; the editor comes out and tells her that she can write — and post — what she wants, with no editorial review needed.

Zoe gets this message, by the way, while sitting on the floor in a large common work space, a space where writers sit on the floor or on bean bag cushions. No offices, no desks, no chairs, no file cabinets. No editors. I’m aware of this sort of workspace, naturally, and have seen some of them. But seeing it depicted as the next generation of journalism made my heart shrivel. It also helped me understand, again, why so much in the news is wrong and so quickly:  no editors. Not for grammar, not for spelling, not for names, and not for facts. That isn’t the case everywhere, and it never will be, not so long as major news organizations want to preserve their reputation. But I will note that two weeks ago I gave a speech in Glendale, and the local paper came to cover it. The little writeup was riddled with errors, right down to my company’s name:  “Counterintuity LCC.” An “LLC” is a limited liability company; what’s an “LCC”? It’s an admission that you have no editor. Who owns the paper? The Los Angeles Times.

Legendary southern California broadcaster and on-screen tour guide Huell Howser died unexpectedly today at age 67. I don’t know if his death was unexpected to those in his personal sphere, but it certainly seems to have been unexpected to the rest of us; right up until his recent surprising retirement, he seemed as robust as ever.

For three decades, Mr. Howser brought gosh-golly-gee-whiz introductions to the lesser-known highlights of southern California: little eateries and specialty shops, the misbegotten weed-entangled park beloved by one local caretaker, the guy whose job it is to paint the bridge, and the local bee-keeper and such. (The photo above is from his visit to Pie n’ Burger, also in Pasadena.) He delivered all his stories with remarkable enthusiasm, couched in a Huckleberry Hound accent, but every iota of it was genuine. He was genuinely adored by “Simpsons” creator Matt Groening, who saw fit to feature Mr. Howser in not one, but two, episodes of his show. In small towns and backwaters throughout southern California, a visit by Huell Howser meant redemption of some sort.

For those outside the reach of local Los Angeles telecasts, this may help in understanding the odd appeal of Huell Howser:

That’s him two years ago, belting one out on behalf of his beloved adopted state.

Below you’ll find a 5-minute video from a 1988 episode of his early show “Videolog” (pronounced as “Vid-EE-oh-LAWG,” with molasses poured around it). This 5-minute bit, of Howser touring a peach-cobbler shop in Pasadena, sticks with me for several reasons. First, it was one of my earliest exposures to the bewildering phenomenon that Mr. Howser was to become. (I moved to this state in 1988.) Second, I was struck then, as I am now, by how little story there is to be had in the tale of this cobbler shop, and how little he does to find more. His journalistic approach was terribly zen. Third, of course, I was bowled over by his rampant enthusiasm, which surely had to be faked (evidently, it wasn’t). And finally, because I was newly here, and in grad school, and didn’t have children and didn’t own a business, i.e., because whims were my coin of the realm, I got into my car and drove out to Pasadena specifically to sample the wares of The Cobbler Factory after seeing this bit on TV. Here’s what I discovered: The peach cobbler was okay. It was nowhere near the mystical constructs rendered by Mr. Howser in his television program. In fact, I thought it was too sweet — brutally sweet.

I’ll miss knowing he’s around, and catching him on TV now and then. The world has grown a little dimmer without that 1000-watt smile. Thankfully, we still have the Internet. There is a great deal of Huell Howser there for you to enjoy.

I thought I’d seen everything possible at LAX.

But I’ve never seen this.

Below you’ll find video footage of what is probably the worst New Year’s Eve coverage ever attempted on a television station.

KDOC is an independent broadcaster here in Los Angeles. One of its investors was Pat Boone (yes, that Pat Boone), and here’s some typical programming from its past: conservative commentator Wally George and televangelist Dr. Gene Scott. (Bear this in mind while you watch the video below — all 6 minutes of it please.)

This year, someone at KDOC decided that it would be a good, interesting idea to do a broadcast of a New Year’s Eve event that the station would create, originally programmed, that would wind up being sponsored by Carl’s Jr. (Another well-known conservative entity. Bear this in mind.) And that, wait for it, it should be done live, because, after all, New Year’s Eve requires a countdown.

Here’s what they wound up with:
 

• a sloppily dressed and ill-prepared emcee who never knows when he’s on-camera or off-, and who casually throws around fine-inducing obscenities
• a visibly very drunk or high washed-up singer, completely unrecognizable from her brief moment of success, singing flatly and, for some reason, without a band playing behind her
• a hip-hop group slamming that f-bomb around on stage
• unexpected blackouts and cutaways
• and a televised event that closes with an on-stage brawl.

It’s not to be missed.

I do want to add one thing:  My heart goes out to the people at KDOC who didn’t know what to do with this event in the moment or how to control it. Almost 15 years ago, I was involved in a significant live event that, before it finally got going, went almost this badly. It was no fun, and it can happen to anyone any time doing a live event. That’s why one hires professionals to do it. (As I had; circumstances — a brand-new major facility without any understanding yet of how to run a performance at the brand-new major facility — were against us.) I’m sorry that this happened to the people doing the event at KDOC. It makes for cringe-inducing television. I do have to wish I could see the reactions of Pat Boone, Wally George, Dr. Gene Scott, and Carl Karcher to it.

On Saturday night I took my friend Richard to see The Monkees (what’s left of them) at the Greek Amphitheatre.

Part of my interest was in seeing Mike Nesmith. I like his voice and I like his songs. I’d seen him once before, with the other Monkees, about 20 years ago when they played Universal Amphitheatre (no idea what that’s called now — and now it’s been covered, so it’s probably not called “Amphitheatre”) and Nesmith ran on to do two songs, to thunderous applause, before going back to everything else he’d rather be doing than playing with his former bandmates.

Part of my interest was ghoulish:  seeing what they’re like without Davy Jones. (So shoot me. But hey — the Beach Boys in May were fantastic, minus two dead Wilson brothers. So I figured: who knows?)

So here’s how it was:  Odd. Have you ever been to a funeral where the family didn’t seem to miss the deceased? This was like that. Advance publicity had it that there would be a “tribute” to Davy Jones. If by “tribute,” his surviving bandmates meant that occasionally a song of his would come on and they’d leave the stage while the band played along to the video, and that they’d draft a completely tone-deaf woman from the audience to sing his biggest hit (“Daydream Believer”)  and that never once would they acknowledge his death or that they missed him, well, yeah, then there was a tribute. One could be excused for thinking that rather than being absent due to death, Davy had just failed to catch a cab in time.

There were oddities in the audience, too. Richard and I had the smack-dab last seats in the audience, Row D on the benches, way in the back, just slightly north of Mexico. We had these because if I was going purely for reasons of morbid curiosity, then I wasn’t paying more than 10 bucks a ticket. This low-low ticket price (less than the cost of some six packs) meant, though, that some people felt they could show up, drink heavily and behave themselves like they were at a drive-in movie in the 1970s. In front of us were two families — two sets of middle-aged parents, one with one girl of about 10 and the other with a girl of about 14 and another of about 10. Both sets of parents were drunk. I mean, smashed.  Obliterated. Like I haven’t been since I was… 24 at the most. Like you don’t get if you’re past 24, unless you’re Mickey Rourke. The guy in front of me, an English guy looking like an older, poorer, stubbled Phil Collins with a goatee and cheap eyewear, stumbled his way up to his seat, then later tottered way way way down the steps to get more of whatever they were drinking (something clear in a clear glass bottle — like moonshine), falling down on his way down, then repeated the effect later, then of course fell whammo into a whole section of the audience both those times and when he was trying to leave. The mother was in a similar state and kept trying to engage me in conversation until my frozen stare got her to direct her attentions to my friend instead. But the most appalling thing was the spectacle of how they treated their daughters. The guy sat to the right of her and throughout much of the show leaned in on her, caressing her long golden hair,  whispering in her ear, hugging her close to him, and bestowing all sorts of attention and favor; the mother did the same, from behind. The daughter basked in all this attention and played it for all it was worth. The other daughter, younger, brunette, to the left of the chosen one, got nothing. She sat there abjectly ignored. It’s nice that Mom and Dad got smashing drunk and showed everyone how they really feel about each of their  kids.

All of that was far more camaraderie than there was on stage. The song list was carefully parsed out:  First a Mike song, then a Mickey song, then a Peter song. (At least, before they ran out of Peter songs.) The first Peter song was truly wack-a-doodle, “Your Auntie Grizelda,” which was embarrassing in 1967 and has become even moreso as the millennium turned. The kindest thing one can say about it is that Peter Tork’s singing isn’t as bad as his dancing — and, yes, he did an odd skipping shuffle during the song. If I could somehow wipe this memory from my brain I would, except I like to think there are things to be learned from the embarrassing public displays of others. Here are two:

1. when it’s 45 years later, realize that 45 years have passed and that what was cute when you were 24 now looks like an Alzheimer’s episode; and
2. if you’re going to bring the kids out for your big public drunk, at least buy enough for the rest of the audience, because otherwise we’re not enjoying a bit of it and you’re just a boor.

I enjoyed many of the songs, and indeed, the concert overall. It was great to hear the Mike Nesmith songs played live this once; I doubt there’ll be another opportunity, and even if there is, it isn’t one I’ll be taking. Mike shone when singing and playing his songs; Micky is in good vocal form and really delivered his; and Peter Tork was there. But the band never played like a band — which is fitting, because in some ways, put together by chance as they were, they never really were one.