Crashing Mr. Shriver's New Movie or How a Star was Born

Our story this week begins in 1982 towards the end of my junior year of high school in American Life class. We drew names to do a speech/presentation on a famous American from the 1920's. I drew golfer Bobby Jones and my estranged friend (whose father's name actually was Bobby Jones) much to her dismay drew Babe Ruth. She immediately voiced her displeasure, "Who is Babe Ruth?" she asked. When I told her he was the most famous and arguably the greatest baseball player who ever lived, she looked disinterested and unimpressed.

I on the other hand was fairly pleased with my luck of the draw. Bobby Jones was the father of the Masters, and giving an entertaining speech was secondary to the wonderful thought that I would finally get to appear in public with my knickers on. I quickly got all my research done, and got my speech written. My estranged friend asked me for help and basically I ended up writing her speech for her, somewhat envious that the figure of her speech (so to speak) was a person who was easily presentable, who you couldn't help but get a high grade talking about.
Flash forward to November 1987, as Minnesota was abuzz over the homecoming of our World Champion Minnesota Twins who finally managed to lift the burden off years of professional sports ineptitude. Being a die hard Twins' fan for many years this was a bittersweet moment for me. I was in the middle of my long drawn out "blue" period/funk and not even the excitement of the ultimate success of my favorite team made me feel much better. Add on to that the crowding of the hordes of now "lifetime" Twins fans who discovered the team way back in September of 1987 and it all seemed a bit frustrating. As I stood along the packed streets of downtown St. Paul trying to get a decent spot to see the parade, I noticed the person at the front of the throng was none other than the high school actress who read my speech on Babe Ruth to great success a few years earlier. Yes indeed there she was, the big baseball fan, frantically waving her little homer hanky. That may have been the moment my lifelong skepticism soured into cynicism. Didn't matter though, not the jostling and pushing of the too many people, not the hypocrisy, not the chill. The thrill of the moment, the dream come true, filled me with a warmth that I felt as a little kid with all those summers of frustration and wonder listening to all those far away Twins games.

Last week a new friend revealed to me that she was going to be discovered, that it was meant to be that she was going to be in Arnold Schwarzenegger's movie being filmed in downtown St. Paul. As a kid, she used to hang pictures of Arnold in her room, and had remained an admirer over the years. We planned and plotted the best way to actually getting to see Arnold, and better yet to become an extra in the movie. We scoped out the area the movie was going to be shot, and she boldly asked one of the people working on the set, and later a police officer when and where the movie was going to be filmed.

So we gathered among a crowd of people trying to see Arnold. We scouted the best area and made our way past the blockades and security over to the front of the Museum of Art. We stood with a bunch of people all wrapped up in winter clothes (the movie takes place during the Christmas season) and my friend spotted someone she knew. He happened to have an extra winter coat so she borrowed that, and I tried to look as puffy as I could in my little windbreaker. We stood behind a lamppost and whenever someone would ask if we were extras we nodded our heads.

The crew of the film barked out orders to all us extras, telling us to stand where we had been before lunch. We stood there as Arnold drove up puffing on a cigar and looking just like he does in the movies (though a bit shorter than I had pictured). My friend's enthusiasm, and pure excitement got me excited. I just had to smile as she exuded joy over being so close to her favorite star. Just like a kid. Like learning to breath again, or inhaling the freshest air you ever breathed.

But we had a job to do. As the director yelled "rolling" and then "EXTRAS!" we all began to move forward, a part of a make believe parade as Arnold ran by us and away from TV's Robert Conrad who was playing a cop. We did this single take several times. Each time my friend and I tried our best to sneak our way a little bit behind where we started, in the line of the camera shot. When they get back to looking at and editing the film they probably will shout out "Where did these two come from?" But I believe on this day a star was born. Thrilling, positively wacky, spontaneous and perfect. Not even the cold weather nor the sudden rain could ruin the charge, the infectious life of her experience now forever captured on celluloid. I looked at my friend and her smile was even bigger than Arnold's infamous charismatic grin. And for an all too brief and rare moment so was mine.

Looking for Arnold While Trying to Clean Out My Desk

It's through this world you ramble, it's through this world you roam, and you have to learn to take the bad with the good and keep a watchful eye out for both.

Regular readers of the newsletter might have noticed I was a bit steamed last week, a wee bit disgruntled, and downright pissed off. It was a long week at the office. It only seems like when things go wrong, they all go wrong at once.

So it was a bit nice to discover that Max the Cat did me a huge favor. After closing on my house, my funds were a bit down and it didn't help matters any that I forgot to notify the state's finance department of my move and thus they sent my last paycheck to my old address. With a car payment and other bills due, it was looking a bit bleak financially. Luckily, last week I got my damage deposit back for my apartment and it was much larger than I expected. Seems I had forgotten the cat deposit I had made all those years ago. So all the bitchin and moanin I did over the years about the cost of cat food, shots, miscellaneous toys, catnip and supplies, forget all that. Max saved me this past week big time. Thanks little buddy... That was the good news.

The bad news? I put in a day and a half extra work just to keep my head afloat. By the end of the week I was so tired I barely had enough energy to sweep my lawn (a homeowner's duty I never envisioned).

The good news? I was the benefactor of some fine customer service this week. I ate at Bruegger's Bagels downtown and was served with a smile by a pleasant woman who joked about herself as she struggled to put my turkey bagel into a bag. It made me realize that I am so accustomed to indifferent or bad service that I now almost expect it. Just a smile, a nod of acknowledgment can really make a difference.

Bad news? Mr. Puckett's still blurry vision, diagnosed as Glaucoma. Mr. Carew's daughter losing her battle to cancer. Two of my baseball heroes going through tough times.

Good news? I began getting ready for the upcoming softball season by whipping a Nerf ball against the living room wall. The arm is slowly coming around and it looks like my curve ball is still there.

Bad news? ABC deciding to postpone this week's episode of the Muppet's Tonight with guest host Sandra Bullock. Seems they were going to do a spoof of Speed (mad muppet bomber) but the episode was scheduled to air on Friday, the one year anniversary of the Oklahoma bombing. Another Friday night shot.

Good news? I got an unexpected phone call that same Friday night from my friend who just called to tell me she had noticed I seemed a bit down during the week and just wanted to chat. Sigh. Made me feel like I wasn't so mired in the primordial muck and that there are those out there just as sweet as the next wine tasting.

Bad news? The Man is out on the road again but he isn't coming anywhere close to Minnesota. So far the setlists are very similar to last year's with the exception of the wonderful inclusion of This Wheel's On Fire from the Basement Tapes. Soundcheck included Seven Days and Watered Down Love yet to be played during the concerts.

Good news? I swapped a rice krispie bar for a brownie and both of us enjoyed the deal...

It's Not a House, It's a Home

Well the new newsletter offices are pretty well setup and looking nifty and spiffy. We apologize for the makeshift lower quality of the past two issues of this publication. Things are finally settling down and we can get back to the business of producing the high quality, non sucking newsletter all of you have become accustomed to.

First of all let me describe the new place for you if I may. Unlike the old place where we pretty much ate, slept and worked in the same area, this spatial palace has separate rooms for most of life's activities. The main office has immaculate wood floors and for the first time in years we actually have our turntable set up. Having accumulated a large amount of vinyl from the days when I worked in one of the stores, this means a sudden blossoming of the choice of music we have to choose from. (Currently we are enjoying George Jones' Homecoming in Heaven). Man this is choice! Music sure is neat. On the back wall of the office hangs a print of Magrite's La Clairvoyance which one could say is the painted version of what these pages strive to be every week.

The living room also has shiny new sanded wood floors, with a nice view of the fairly steady traffic on Hamline Avenue. The home entertainment center (TV, VCRs) is setup up in the corner meaning that watching television while producing the newsletter is no longer an option. (Next big budget purchase: a laptop.) Max the Cat has been a bit lost with all the change but I'm sure he'd give the new place a big thumbs up if he had thumbs.

The other room worth mentioning is the bedroom which also has wood floors, but they are of the old variety (not having enough in the budget to get that room done). This room has nothing to do with the newsletter other than the nights that aren't spent tossing and turning are spent dreaming our little dreams which then become fodder for these pages.

We had quite the adventure getting our fancy newsletter equipment back on-line however. The problem was diagnosed as a bad video card so I had that replaced. I was very happy the problem wasn't with my hard drive which probably would have meant some major expenditures. So happy was I that on my way to pick up the repaired computer I promptly and quite solidly hit a pothole and blew out my tire and jarred all the fillings in my mouth. Wah. I brought my computer back home after getting my tired fixed only to discover that I couldn't get into Windows. Tires, windows, I could feel the doors of my own little sanity slamming shut. But being a firm believer in Tom Kelly's philosophy of doing the best that you can with what you are given, I went into the Windows setup menu and fiddled with the video options. Nothing worked, so I dragged the machine back to the shop and they found a virus which was causing the current problems. Back at home everything seems to be working OK computerwise except my modem (always has to be something)- so for all of you who contribute via e-mail, please be advised that you must get your contributions to me during regular business hours.

Well enough about my scrawny little problems. I guess if there is a moral to the story it's that life is an odd combination of deceptively smooth roads full of dangerous potholes, and the windows you take for granted someday may be surprisingly shut on you at the most inopportune times. There is always another obstacle, another nagging problem to try to find a stop gap, band aid sized solution for, and no matter what you do you will always be just across the borderline. So don't let your morale falter, just keep fighting the viruses and irritants that come your way, and enjoy the fruits of your labors. Oh yes, and the most important lesson of all? Cats don't have thumbs.

New and Old Alliances, Green Roast Beef and No Popcorn

As the world turned, the moral of the never ending story, the effect of all this on those of you with Albert Einstein hair, as reported in the seven part series of New York Times articles on the downsizing of America was that without balance and equilibrium one not only never knew where one stood, but also never knew where one should stand. One could even go as far as saying without balance, one might not be able to stand at all. It's rare to find or replace the one who can be moved to tears, who feels the undercurrent of significance by a visit to a Southern Plantation. And loyalty? The only one to be loyal to was yourself. To expect, to assume others will appreciate something you might have accomplished yesterday, or even something you may be capable of doing tomorrow, or heaven forbid, something you are doing today, takes a blind leap of faith, the close your eyes and hope for the best, variety.

On the same day that the foundation that you had been trying to build for the last few years began to show some definite cracks, you had the luck to strike up a new friendship, someone with her heart in the right place. A long distance runner, a realist that could help return you to where you ought to have been all along. She reminded you just how much you had been missing at the same time she was shining a different light and perspective on where you had been and where you might be going. You enjoyed your conversation, limited as you made it, because it was the old fashioned kind, not focused on where your conversation had been for too long. Miracle Whip vs. Mayonnaise. Balance.

As irony would have it, later that night you would see someone from the past, and the still open, but not recognized as such, wounds were soothed as you actually had a decent enough conversation with her, decent enough to remember why you found her in the first place. You put the hard feelings aside, if only temporarily and looked at her like you used to look at her. Cars and dogs. The words didn't come easy as they never did, and they never did last. The meek shall inherit something, somewhere down that long and winding road. For some time you hadn't seen the sun peek out from behind the clouds, now on the same day you got to see both the sun and the moon. The balance had shifted, the foundation was false and the feelings remained. And it all seemed sort of dangerous.

They never suspected and you never could share. You decided to keep your head down, do your best, try your hardest, and celebrate any small triumphs along the way. Were you doing well or were you pretending? You can't be inspired only by policies and procedures and the rigid structure of so called security. You just as soon realized a lot of it was out of your control, out of your grasp as your own faith so often depends on someone else. You hope you have a choice, you believe in choices, the direction of things to come. You have always left yourself with at least two choices and as you look back you are often amazed that choices aren't momentary, they often linger longer than they are supposed to. But you aren't sure what those choices are and you may not even have any choices or may be looking at the wrong series of choices and the past catches up to you just as the future seems within your sight. Present? It's a gift. Anatomy of the story? Keep your head, check your heart and keep your feet moving at all times.

The day you had been waiting for, looking forward to for so long, is finally but a week away. Now uncertainty comes to the forefront of the mix, the balance, and you really aren't sure how it all is going to land. Certainly an end to one chapter and hopefully a beginning to a new one.

For Max the Japanese American Gray Haired Kitty on St. Patrick's Day

Everything I learned about teamwork, conformity, competition, creativity, harmony, love, inspiration, and jealousy I learned in junior high band. And as the kids of the Ramsey Junior High School band showed last Thursday night in their spring concert, the lessons are still being learned.

Under the direction of Maestro Bruce Maeda, the kids of Ramsey put on a performance full of the emotions, skills, squeaks and squawks of the best of junior high bands, orchestras and choirs. With the musical notes swirling in the air, I couldn't help but remember back to my own days as the first chair trumpet of Parkview Junior High.

Being the youngest member of a musical family, by the time I studied under the sleepy eye tutelage of Mr. James Kelley, it was just expected that I would be a talented musician. While lacking the technique of my brother or the discipline of any of my sisters, my talents depended more on my ability to stand apart from the rest. One of the first reviews came from Mrs. Sally Olson who commented to her son (later to be my best friend) Steve, that the band sounded good but all anyone could hear was the little oriental kid on trumpet.

The best part of junior high band was the camaraderie and the shared times. The worst part was having to try to sound like all the others around you and before you. Though I later learned to better blend my sounds with the rest of my bandmates, I never quite mastered the styles or the behaviors that were expected of me. I was good enough to stay out of trouble but rebellious enough to keep the band from being better than it was. I remained one of the more recognized leaders of the band, along with our wonderful first chair clarinetist, the fabulous Susan Weiss. One of the major reasons to be involved in music was to have an outlet for expression for all the emotions roaming inside. For me, Sue was the compass, the inspiration behind and for whom my musical attempts were meant to reach. Many days of junior high and senior high were made much easier listening to the dulcet tones of Ms. Weiss, and making eye contact and realizing no matter how much angst existed inside, one should never take themselves, or their teenage life too seriously.

Playing in a band was much like playing for an athletic team. Early in the process, we sounded rough, trying to find the right notes, the right balance, the right way to interpret our sounds together. Through practice and repetition and the molding of Mr. Kelley's vision, we somehow turned the notes on the paper in front of us into something uniquely our own. Individually Mr. Kelley had to allow us a little freedom (I forever frustrated him with my posture and unorthodox style) while still melding the sounds of the many into something coherent. One person could screw up all the rest.

Later on my attitude suffered so much that Robbie Hanson and I spent most of our junior year of high school improvising our parts and adding a dissonant sound to the rest of the band. I never found the right combination between being myself and being part of the group. Now I understand that contradiction, then it was just one mass of confusion. How can you be what you think you should be when it doesn't mix with the rest of the group? The one time it worked, the one memorable moment of productive triumph was during one of our final concerts in our performance of The Russian Sailors Dance when Mr. Kelley cut us off four measures earlier than he was supposed to, or from what we had practiced and were used to. Some of the band stopped, some did not and the mixture of sound and silence left a horrified look on everyone's face including the usually calm and serene Susan Weiss. Nobody knew what to do. Should we skip four measures ahead, regroup and hope we all ended up together? Or should we stop and end the piece right then and there? I took a look at Ms. Weiss and could swear she smiled and nodded as I jumped in and started playing. Sue joined in and the rest followed and somehow we all survived the chaos and the mess and maybe no one in the audience ever noticed it wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

Elvis Shot it Out

She stayed just long enough to get covered with cat hair. And after she went, I turned on the TV and thought about what are my five favorite pictures coming from that 27" screen.....

5) The McLaughlin Group- Critics say it's a show about five blowhards screaming at each other. The host is downright goofy. Yet if you were to choose one show to watch for your political/current events information, this might not be a bad choice. The weakness of American journalism is the silly creed of trying to be "objective." On this show you get a variety of opinions and agendas thrown out (yes- often with raised voices) and you learn to pick and choose what you want to believe. The show lost a lot when Pat Buchanan chose a bigger arena to spout his views, because the current representative of the "right," Freddie "the Beadle" Barnes is just a weenie, and doesn't have Pat's articulate wackiness.

4) Savannah- It appears that the airwaves are about to be inundated with Aaron Spelling shows, and unfortunately only one can star his daughter Tori... What separates this show from Melrose Place and Beverly Hills 90210, is the location which lends a historical ambiance to the material and not the slick gloss of Southern California. The three Southern Belles and their intertwining innocence, evil and backstabbing have already made for some delicious plots. Yes ladies and gentleman, it is no longer merely Sunday, it's now SAVANNAH SUNDAY!

3) One West Waikiki- Cheryl Ladd was always my favorite Angel, and she even has a couple of LPs in our record bins. But once a minor league Farah Fawcett, always a minor league Farah Fawcett. This is a show that didn't last in CBS's prime time lineup and got banished to late night where nobody knows anything of it. Basically it's Quincy (produced by the same producer, Glen Larson) with the annoying posturing of Jack Klugman replaced by Ms. Ladd's spunky battle with middle age, while still solving all those mysterious deaths highlighted by the beauty of our 50th state. Proof of inspiration? This show is often what's playing in the background during the writing of this column. 'Nuf said.

2) The Late Show with David Letterman- Dave is now third in the late night viewing wars. The show hasn't come up with a great bit in a long long time (the Quiz Machine had potential but went nowhere fast- proving that Dave ain't a prop guy. Witness the "giant doorknob" of years back). And while the show no longer makes fun of its medium, the host, when he is on, is still the funniest man on television. The imitators have caught up and Dave has responded by getting louder and less patient. But damn it, the man has shaped so much of our current TV landscape, and night after night the show still is the most entertainment one can get from one's entertainment buck. Let Dave be Dave and people will come back.

1) Murder One- The show's premise obviously was inspired by someone's insight that America was at the very least intrigued by the day by day events of the OJ Simpson trial. The beauty of the premise is that it allows the show to do what no other one hour dramatic series has ever done- examine a single subject with depth and wisdom. What has been a pleasant surprise is that the show isn't so much about the murder case, it's the best entertainment examination of the eternal battle between good versus evil since the first Star Wars movie. On one side you have Ted Hoffman's wonderful vignettes explaining his world weary moralism. On the other side you have Richard Cross, the purest embodiment of evil ever portrayed on prime time television. The examination of the process of our justice system plays against this philosophical battle between good and evil and gives the show its wonderfully quirky spiritual undertone. It will be interesting to see if ABC allows this show to find its audience and to continue to grow into its potentially great self. Few are watching and it's not exactly a show a casual viewer can tap into without a little effort. (By the way, for those of you scoring at home, Neal Avedon will be found not guilty.)

Night of the Fishies

Last Tuesday I had dinner at Macalester College with three graduating seniors. I was participating in an alumni/student affair where the students (that would be them) could meet and eat with an alumni in their field of interest (that would be me). I offered them typical "David" advice, incomprehensible, irrational and totally unusable. Their questions ranged from "What do you do?" to "Do you stay in touch with your classmates from Mac?" I was a bit rattled being back on campus. The place was the same only the names and faces were different. Less colored hair and more body piercing. A lesson I've often learned is don't try to mix periods from your life. It don't work. With some unfinished business still occupying brain space, it was rather like opening a tomb. None of which was of any interest to any of the students (or you). All in all an odd experience. When I got home I listened to Bob Dylan's Day of the Locusts, a song about Bob's experience in accepting an honorary degree from Princeton University. So it was in that spirit that the following poured out of me as I sat down to write about my evening:

Walking down that path of eternal forgiveness. A long long journey, a trip after I fell. Give in, give up, get up and go on. The echoing sound of a ringing bell. Grace the fishy swam, off in the distance. Grace the fishy swam, off in the sea. Grace the fishy swam, in his polluted fish bowl. Grace the fishy swam, and he was swimming for me.

I walked past the music department, and heard a note of sadness. I walked past the geography department, history too. Passed the past of once forgotten places. The scent of a jean jacket that I once knew. Grace the fishy swam, off in the distance. Grace the fishy swam, off in the sea. Grace the fishy swam, in his polluted fish bowl. Grace the fishy swam, and he was swimming for me.

I watched for the traffic before I crossed Grand Avenue. The cold metal doors of Kagin opened wide. The lights of the campus, were beginning to wake up. The shadows of time stood right by my side. Grace the fishy swam, off in the distance. Grace the fishy swam, off in the sea. Grace the fishy swam, in her polluted fish bowl. Grace the fishy swam, and she was swimming for me.

I thought someone said they saw a sellout. I was at my alma mater, where I returned my degree. In a familiar place with all those strange faces. I didn't know what they could want from me. Grace the fishy swam, off in the distance. Grace the fishy swam, off in the sea. Grace the fishy swam, in his polluted fish bowl. Grace the fishy swam, and he was swimming for me.

Words of advice was what was expected. A drip of wisdom that never left my mind. The clinking of sounds, echoed and haunted. Separated from one who has been so kind. Grace the fishy swam, off in the distance. Grace the fishy swam, off in the sea. Grace the fishy swam, in her polluted fish bowl. Grace the fishy swam, and she was swimming for me.

Walking down that path of eternal forgiveness. A long long journey, a trip after I fell. Give in, give up, get up and go on. The echoing sound of a ringing bell. Grace the fishy swam, off in the distance. Grace the fishy swam, off in the sea. Grace the fishy swam, in his polluted fish bowl. Grace the fishy swam, and he was swimming for me.

Swimming for me. Yeah swimming for me...