When you read history of the classical era, you encounter wonderful epithets like this one, about a coddled philosopher during the reign of Marcus Aurelius: “…this scrimshanking, duty-dodging exponent of hypertrophied egotism….”
Plus: doubtless, no fun at parties.
I’ve been going to my barber Ed for a couple years now. He’s a likable guy who does a good job. In the time he’s been my barber, I’ve learned about his ex-wife, various old girlfriends, his favorite music and movies, and his somewhat misspent youth — in which, he told me, a teacher spared him the miseries of greater responsibilities in adulthood by advising him to go to barber school, where if you were good you could do okay.
I’ve been going to see Ed usually every three weeks, sometimes four. He told me that he’s surprised that my hair grows so fast, and that I have a strong healthy head of hair.
I last saw him at the end of the holiday season. I know this because I wanted that haircut to tide me over during my weeklong trip to Costa Rica at the beginning of January. So really, I was due for another haircut two weeks ago, but I didn’t have time.
Yesterday I called the barbershop where Ed and three other barbers have been cutting hair for years to make an appointment. One of the other barbers answered.
“I’m calling to make an appointment,” I said.
“Of course. Do you have a barber here?” he said.
“Ed,” I said.
There was a slight pause.
“I’m sorry to inform you, but Ed passed away.”
At first, I thought this was a joke. Truly. Barbers are known for joking around, and this sounded like a variation of “Ed’s dead,” which is the basis of lots of songs, movies, books, and so forth. Look it up. (And here’s a link to the musician known as Ed is Dead.) So I said the thing most people would say:
“What?”
“Yeah, Ed died two weeks ago.”
I got some of the story out of this barber, who told me that Ed had complained of stomach pains, and his wife wanted to take him to see a doctor, or even, one night, to the hospital, but Ed put it off. Then something burst in his abdomen, which caused internal bleeding… and he died from it.
“I’m sorry to hear this,” I said. “I really liked him. How old was he?” I asked.
“57.”
“Oh, man,” I said, again stupidly. Big, strapping, kinda good-looking, affable Ed, dead at 57. I wished he’d let his wife take him to get checked out.
“Yeah, I know,” said the barber.
“What’s your name?”
“Albert,” he said. “I’m the barber who cuts hair to the right of Ed. Um, used to cut hair to the right of Ed.”
“Well, Albert,” I said, “Can I book an appointment with you?”
So today I went for my first appointment with Albert. He and I recognized each other. When I sat down, I noticed a large banner newly affixed to the wall directly in front of me at eye level. “We will always miss you, Ed” it said, with a beaming photo on the right of handsome Ed, who had cut hair in this barber shop for 15 years.
One day, someone you know is here. The next, they’re gone. Best to appreciate them while they’re here.
I’ll miss Ed.
Glad to have Albert.
Once upon a time, I wrote book reviews for the Los Angeles Times — including for the holiday book section, which made recommendations for Christmas gifts. (Remember book sections?) Each review had to be 100 words or fewer.
So, while I’ve written in 100-word spaces before, and even shorter (winning awards for captions and headlines in a previous life), I never thought to sum up my entire life in 100 words.
But that’s the challenge issued to me by longtime pal Mike Folie, who is a talented and heartfelt playwright and writer whose work I’ve always admired. (His one-man show about his sadly departed wife was breathtaking. Seriously. I gasped at the end.)
Mike shared with me that Garrison Keillor did this exercise: Tell your life story in 100 words or less.Here’s Keillor’s example, shared by Mike:
My parents were in love with each other, had six kids, I was third, an invisible child. I had no interest in crashing into people so didn’t play football or hockey and avoided brain damage. I dabbled in poetry and when I was 14, I read A.J. Liebling and decided to be a writer. I went into radio, which requires no special skill, and took the sunrise shift, which turned me toward comedy, listeners don’t want grievous introspective reflections at 5 a.m. I told stories for forty years and still do. I married well on the third try.
And here’s mine:
I grew up woods-adjacent, with a barren stretch of highway for frontage and endless forest and train tracks and no people behind me. Comics and books became my only friends, and I switched schools a lot. Accordingly, I became a writer. In my teens, I started getting published and started my first business, and discovered theatre in high school. I married a good woman and had three good children and after a long long while married a different good woman. I also did a lot of teaching, some of which I’m proud to say stuck on some writers.
Mine may require an update or appendix in years to come — and I certainly hope so.
What’s yours?
In a paradox worthy of Schrodinger and his cat, I’ve now seen the film “Eno” twice — except really I have seen, once each, two films named “Eno.”
That’s because “Eno,” a documentary about the brilliant music producer and musician of sorts Brian Eno, is constructed anew on every viewing. Yes, every single time it is screened, a computer with the name Brain One (you’ll easily figure out the anagram) pulls from 30 hours of interviews with Eno and 500 hours of film from his personal archive to assemble this latest version of the movie.
(For more about all this, click here.)
Meaning that what two friends and I saw in Glendale in March and what I saw with one of those friends, plus my fiancée and my son, two weeks ago here in Los Angeles, are related but different. They’re cousins of the same film.
They were also both fascinating, enjoyable… and uplifting. Because while most of the press has been about the process, the true star is Eno himself: his disruptive creative process, his interest in both nature and electronics, and his pragmatic optimism.
My friend Trey and I are decades-long fans of Brian Eno and his work, as a founding member of Roxy Music, as a solo artist, as a collaborator with David Byrne, John Cale and others, and as a producer for Talking Heads, Devo, U2, Ultravox, and countless others. We also, some years ago, went to see Eno’s installation at California State University Long Beach of “77 Million Paintings,” which featured endlessly randomly generated paintings with endlessly randomly generated music by Eno himself. We also caught his talk about that and other things (like his Long Now movement).
So we are fans. Big fans.
After seeing “Eno” a second time, we both walked out saying we’d like to see it again. Unfortunately, it usually involves getting to the right place at the right time — because Brain One has to be onsite to work its magic.
Until now.
Now we, and you, and everyone, can see “Eno” thanks to this special showing:
On January 24th, there will be a global streaming event, “Eno 24.” Anyone, anywhere in the world, including viewers in any time zone on the planet will be able to watch multiple iterations of the film and much more.
Here’s the link: https://www.ohyouprettythings.com/new-products/eno24
Ready to start off feeling energized and productive with your writing?
Come join us when we reconvene the Words That Speak playwriting workshop just six weeks from now!
Come join us for 3 hours a week, every Saturday from 9:30 to 12:30 IN PERSON at a real theatre as we share pages and fellowship and have a lot of laughs and learn and grow together.
Every week you’ll bring about 7 pages of your new play, hear them read out loud, and gain helpful, positive feedback from other writers committed to your success.
Just $345 gets you a weekly session with a circle of writer friends – plus outings together. (We’ll pick some plays to see together and discuss afterward.)
Questions? Let’s talk. Email me or text me at 818-288-2417 and we’ll have a call.
Best,
Lee
Workshop details:
How to sign up:
First, always get a good cut. Most supermarkets allow dogs in, but they don’t offer it themselves in the meat department. Not a problem, though: If you aren’t fattening one up yourself at home, you can usually pick up a stray, and your local pound has plenty of dogs for the taking at very reasonable prices. One way or another, every dog has its day.
Once you’ve procured some dog, shave off all the hair. You do not want the hair of a dog that bit you. Sure, it would burn off in the grill, but you want to season the meat.
Dog is quite fatty and extremely fragrant, like a cross between beef and mutton. You can lean into that by sticking with kosher salt, rosemary and thyme, or a good lemon marinade will have you barking up a different tree. It depends on your individual taste.
Make sure you remove the giblets. You can roast those for breakfast or snacking later, or feed them to other dogs as part of fattening them up. It truly is a dog eat dog world.
As for cooking, roast it like a side of lamb, or section it for the grill. Don’t deepfry. Even if your cut was mean as a junkyard dog, you want it tender on the plate.
Serve it with red wine (a nice burgundy should do) and potatoes and invite some friends. This is a doggone good dinner that’ll leave your guests howling.
I’m staying solo at what seems like a motel campground, the sort with separate little bungalows and maybe a play area for kids and a firepit where all the bikers and meth heads gather ‘round.
In my room, I notice water coming out of the wall outlet flush with the nightstand. At first it’s a trickle. I start gently brushing away my pocket detritus – notes, receipts, dental picks, gum, a few coins. Then the water begins to surge, then shoot out of the outlet. I can’t figure out how this is happening. Is someone playing a trick of some sort? Is there someone on the other side of the wall with a hose or even a power washer? Water is flying across the room, bombarding the opposite wall.
I go outside and walk around and see that my room is, like the others, a standalone — there is no one playing a trick, because there is no adjoining room behind mine. The little utility shed, which might include the water works, is far off. This really is a mystery.
So I go back into the room, avoid all the water, and call the front desk. Whatever is happening isn’t affecting the phone. They promise to send someone over. When he arrives at the door, I’m surprised to see it’s raining outside. We’re having massive fires (again) in southern California right now, and rain would be welcome. He’s wearing tie-dye, and is someone I’d been hanging out with at the firepit. (Of course I was hanging out at the firepit. No meth for me, though.) He looks at this situation with mild interest, making me think this has happened before, and says I can ask the front desk if they can give me another room. This, because I think he doesn’t know what’s happening here, let alone how to fix it.
Then I woke up.
It took a full minute to realize that that had been a dream and that no, I didn’t need to deal with water gushing into my room.
Throughout my school career, I could never get my locker to open, at any of those schools. Oh, I always knew the combination to my combination lock, but just could never get the lock to work. In my second high school (yes, I went to two — and didn’t like either), my friend Tyndall would just unlock the damn thing for me and save me the aggravation of the struggle and him the irritation of having to hear about it. Finally, in my adulthood, I wised up and started buying locks that work off letters and that don’t need some dial to be turned; you just rotate the letters into position to spell out your secret word.
Proving yet again that I’m more of a word guy.
I share my background intentionally before relating this anecdote.
Not too long ago at the gym I belong to, there was a young guy in the locker room struggling with his lock. Trying the combination on the lock again and again, then spinning the dial to start over, and still not getting it. I could see he was about an inch away from heading to the front desk to ask them to get the bolt cutters.
Then he yelled out, “I got it! I got it!”
Then he added — and you’ll see I noted this — “I got it! 41-12-36! It opened!”
The good news: Well, next time he has this problem everybody who was there will be able to help.
The bad news: Well, we’ll see if they help themselves sometime he’s not there.
With apologies to the band Oasis for paraphrasing one of their album titles, I will definitely maybe (not) be seeing them on their reunion tour.
That’s because I saw one of the two Gallagher brothers in the band, the far less talented one, Liam, five years ago at the Hollywood Bowl, as the opener for The Who.
I wrote about that experience — including paying forty-eight dollars for two pretzels and two beers! — back here, but figure I’ll quote my appraisal then of Liam:
Let me just say, whoever booked Liam Gallagher to open is a genius, because he and his band are so terrible that they make The Who look all the more brilliant! Large barnyard animals sing better than Gallagher and bring more to a stage presence as well, and his band did nothing to hide this fact. He seemed to have two drummers on stage — one of them also named Gallagher, so I’m assuming that particular drummer isn’t on the tour purely on talent — and I’m reasonably certain I can play drums better than they… and I don’t play the drums.
I’m shocked that, ten years after the final death knell of Oasis, Liam still has a career. Of sorts.
I well remember enduring Liam’s off-key (well, flat) delivery and his utter lack of stage presence (him bent over unmoving like a broken-winged crow for the entire 45 minutes) until finally my friend Bridget and I just started laughing about it. I’ve seen many bad acts in my life (have I mentioned late-stage Meat Loaf lately?), but Liam is the only one of them mounting a mega-reunion under the false pretense that he can hit a note.
Meanwhile, as I noted yesterday, I saw (Jeff Lynne’s) E(lectric) L(ight) O(rchestra) on Saturday night, and having just seen that phenomenal show that was Well Worth The Fee I Put Out For It (for two tickets rather close up on the floor), I have no intention of squandering any ducats on Oasis, no matter how much I happen to admire a song or two despite Liam Gallagher’s undeserved high self-regard.
To those who admire Oasis, have at it, especially my friends in the UK and Ireland and Europe; I have no judgment. I honestly hope you enjoy your champagne supernova.
Meanwhile, I’m mystified that the far superior Blur, arch-nemeses to Oasis, were reduced to playing the Glass House in Pomona, California recently, capacity 800. It’s perhaps best to remember, Don’t look back in anger.
With drive-through fast-food joints, it’s like it’s their way or the highway.
I don’t go through a lot of these, but in just the past three weeks I’ve gone through two of them at night neither one of them got things right.
A couple of weeks ago, my fiancée K. and I were coming home from Orange County at about 8 o’clock on a weekend. We’d had a glorious time in the pool and the jacuzzi with her sister and some friends at a private club down there, and lunch now seemed like a long time ago, so we went through the drive-through of a nearby McDonald’s. I ordered a plain cheeseburger with mustard, a small fries, and a small Coke with lots of ice.
I was a block away when I took my first sip of the soda and identified it as diet Coke. Plus, it was medium-sized.
Drove back around and took it inside (seemed quicker) and politely told the young man behind the counter that this was diet and not — and before I could continue, he just thrust an empty cup at me.
Okay, so I filled it with Coke and ice and dropped the other into the trash.
Got back into the car, sipped it a bit, drove a mile or two, dug into the sandwich and discovered that it was some sort of burger with everything on it. I figured I’d just eat it because now I was onto the freeway. Where my fiancée asked, reaching into the bag, “Did you order Chicken McNuggets too?”
So: I’d been given the entirely wrong order. Somewhere, someone was unhappy with a small Coke and a plain cheeseburger with extra mustard and no fries while I was gnawing away at Chicken McNuggets I hadn’t ordered.
Last night, we were heading back to the hotel from seeing Electric Light Orchestra or ELO or Jeff Lynne’s ELO or whatever name they’re going by these days in the Palm Desert opening night performance of their tour in what I tell you was an absolutely stunning, phenomenal performance of great songs sung and played very well indeed and accompanied by a fantastic video- and-laser show. Just incredible, and one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to.
Having had just a bit of salmon and salad for dinner, I was pretty hungry by 11 p.m. when the show ended. So I found a nearby Wendy’s and went through the drive-through. Given my earlier experience (different franchise, different town, but, as with the toddler touching the hot stove, the experience was seared into my brain) I would have gone in, but at 11 p.m. only the drive-through was open. I ordered a plain single but with lots of mustard, a small fries, and whatever they call their little chocolate shake that’s actually just soft-serve ice cream.
The voice at the drive-through says back to me, “Plain single with extra mustard, small fry, medium chocolate Frosty.”
“Yes,” I say, noting that it’s called a “Frosty.” I hear the amount, pull up, and pay.
After a bit, I’m handed back the medium chocolate soft-serve Frosty, then a bag. I look the youngish woman in the window in the eye. “This is a plain single but with lots of mustard, right?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Plain but extra mustard?” I say again.
“Yes.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I drive a mile down the road and when I get to a traffic light I bite into the burger. It’s a double with cheese and no mustard. Zero.
Meanwhile, in the passenger seat, K. is thrilled that I’ve gotten ice cream, or what passes for ice cream. “You know ice cream is my favorite!” she squeals.
I’m glad someone is happy.