His early performances were often forced, as if he couldn't quite channel his energy properly. He hit his stride in the 1960's, and once he loosened up, the full force of his charisma could not be denied. Paul Newman took the intensity of Brando and merged it with the classic, old school charm of Gary Cooper and Cary Grant. He was the quintessential star as character actor.
I love many of his fine performances, but a while back I happened to stumble upon "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" on YouTube. I was unemployed and depressed, and it had been years since I'd watched it. I worried that it might not hold up to my memory. After all, it was the ultimate late 60's pop pastiche/western, featuring not only the first teaming of Newman and Robert Redford, but also the music of Burt Bacharach. In it's own way, it was a time capsule, a culmination of an era.
And I'll be damned if that movie isn't still one of the best examples of mass entertainment ever made. William Goldman's script is airtight, filled with great, synthethic dialogue that is glib and entertaining, but also direct and often hilarious. Although George Roy Hill directs it in an overtly sentimental style, resorting to sepia tones and long musical segues, the actual content is never cloying or sappy.
Redford and Katherine Ross are in fine form, and their romance is sweet, but for me the core player is Newman. He invests his part with such good humor and zest. There's a scene midway through the film where he shows up on a bicycle and takes Ross for a ride, while B.J. Thomas' "Raindrops Are Fallin' on My Head" plays in the background. It's the kind of scene most movies would never even attempt, but the spirit of excess is perfect tonally, and the pleasure of just watching two people experience a moment of joy gives it a carefree intimacy. Newman made the act of being alive seem like a gift.
It's been a rough patch of road lately for yours-truly, as I bounced from temporary agency to Craigslist ad in search of that elusive thing known as a job. A few weeks back my meager finances had dwindled to nothing and I found myself in the lobby of an employment agency called Appleone. The woman who was supposed to interview me wasn't there, and after waiting twenty minutes, they told me to go home.
By now, my depression had the blues. I started to contemplate a life of crime, but had to reject it due to start-up costs. I barely had enough cash on hand to buy a sandwich, much less a mask, gloves and gun.
That same Monday, the phone rang. A few days prior my buddy Mark had called to say he had a friend--Carolyn--who needed someone to help do production accounting for a television show. It was her on the line. We chatted briefly and I agreed to meet with her the next day.
The interview went well, and I got the job. The pay's great and Carolyn is that rare breed: a generous, thoughtful boss. The only drawback is the office is in Los Angeles, and I live near San Diego. Every day I have to drive nearly 120 miles each way just to get to work.
This has made me slightly delirious at times. One night, I accidentally took the wrong ramp and wound up heading back the way I came. I was completely oblivious until I noticed signs for LAX (Los Angeles International Airport) and thought, "Hmmmm, they have an LAX in Orange County, too."
Also, the week ended with a bang. I was returning from mailing a check when the elevator I was in stopped and went pitch black. I banged on the door and desperately pushed buttons. The fire department came and told me to try and pry open the doors. I desperately jammed my digits into the crevice and pulled hard--nothing.
Finally, I just leaned against the wall and waited for the elevator company to come. Outside the door, I could hear the firemen and Carolyn occasionally talking to me, worried that I would freak out. I'm a little claustrophobic, but for some reason I felt calm. Once I was freed, Carolyn told me that I could have Monday off for Labor Day.
Of course, I took her up on her offer, because the drive is stressful, but the funny thing is I like working for her so much, that I felt vaguely disappointed.
TV advertising has been disturbing me a lot lately, and I don't mean the ones dealing with, say, incontinence or vaginal itching. Nor am I bothered by such commercials as the one for the ShamWow, which is clearly one of the most brilliant inventions of this century.
The ads which get me riled up somehow offend my delicate sensibilities, often asking me to believe something that is clearly preposterous. For example, there's the one for Frosted Mini-Wheats where they are animated and perched on the backpacks of kids heading off to school, jabbering about how they provided them with a nourishing breakfast.
Just imagine, you're a Frosted Mini-Wheat and you've been granted consciousness, and all you can think to do is surrender your existence in the stomach of some ravenous child? What a bunch of dumbasses those Mini-Wheats are! They're the cereal equivalent of suicide bombers!
Another ad which pisses me off is for a listening device that allows people who are hard of hearing to turn up the volume in an ear piece connected to a highly-sensitive microphone. Apparently, one of the extra benefits of this gear is it can allow them to listen to private conversations from across the room. Intermixed with shots of Grandpa enjoying his favorite TV show are examples of him snooping on unsuspecting couples.
It's bad enough that our government has stripped us of our rights and put us under unwarranted surveillance--must we surrender what little privacy we have left to the elderly?
But the ad which truly leaves me agape is the one for the National Collector's Mint $20 Silver Leaf Coin-Certificate commemorating the 9/11 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. The announcer actually touts the design of the Freedom Tower on the back as a "silvery tribute to all who were lost on that tragic day."
It's like the answer to a "Jeopardy" question: "What is the crassest way to profit from a national tragedy?"
The front of the certificate is adorned with the statement "We will never forget!" I think, as a bonus, they should offer tiny figurines based on the people who jumped to their deaths. Maybe add a soundcard to duplicate the roar of the airplanes as they crashed into the building, along with the screams of the victims.
But then I'm just naturally sentimental. I wonder what you think. Have you seen any of these ads? What commercials rile you up?
I'm currently sequestered in a house in Southern California, staying in the guest room of a dear friend. She's occasionally gone on business, and as a courtesy I help take care of her beautiful dog, Lazarus. I'm not sure what the specifics of Lazarus' heritage are, but the picture above gives you a sense of what he looks like--a powerfully-built type 'A' critter who looks like he would devour babies whole, but who is actually well-behaved and quite gentle.
His owner was a little leery of leaving Lazarus in my care, as she has had a rough year and the thought of something happening to him was unimaginable. To that end, she wasn't going to let me use the retractable leash for fear that it might break and he would bolt into traffic.
To be fair, he had been hit by a car unexpectedly before. However, several years back I'd watched a friend's three dogs and cat, and while it was occasionally a zany experience (you haven't lived until you're yoked to three big, aggressive dogs while carrying a baggie full of their wet feces), not a single animal was harmed.
The first night she was gone, I took Lazarus for a walk to the local dog park. As we approached the gate to the cordoned-off park, we encountered a cluster of people exiting with their dogs. Lazarus got excited and moseyed toward the other pooches. I thought to pull him back as a precaution, but he pulled taut on the retractable leash and jerked me into their orbit.
It was then that I noticed the old woman with the curiously jet black hair who seemed to be the only person standing there without a dog. She was looking down at Lazarus but talking to me. "You need to dominate him," she said in a Rain Man-like trance. "You need to give him less leash."
I looked at her impassively, but said nothing, nor did the other adults. I tried to reel in the leash, but it's a notoriously tricky device and Lazarus was too strong. Then she said, "You need to talk to him loudly. His mommy knows how to control him. We love Lazarus!" So, she knew him! Which meant she also knew that he was no threat.
I stayed silent and brushed past her. The retractable leash clicked into place and shortened as if on cue. "See," the old woman cackled, "less leash."
I was finally ready to leave Chicago. I was getting ready to take a train to Flint, Michigan, to see my family one final time before heading out west. So I packed the two unwieldy bags I'd brought with me from Argentina with all of my stuff, and left the slum apartment in Chicago run by the grief-stricken lunatic landlady. For a guy not into possessions, I seemed to have a lot weird, bulky things, and each bag seemed like it was jammed with dismembered torsos.
My friend Larry drove me to Union Station, and I was aghast to learn that Michigan doesn't allow bags to be checked in advance. You have to take it onto the train. This alarmed me since Larry wasn't allowed past the main gate, so I would have to lug everything alone. Also, these bags were not going to fit in any overhead compartment.
I'm sure I was quite an amusing sight as I dragged both bags along the pillar-laden platform. At one point I fell, but my strangely inert bags just stayed in place, slumped like sacks of mutant potatoes. By the time I got to the proper train car, people were busily trying to climb aboard, and seemed overly perturbed that I would delay them even slightly. A woman in the front row graciously moved her shopping bags to make room, and I was soon seated, huffing and puffing, brow sweating, dreading the inevitable moment five hours later when I would have to quickly yank everything off the train or face the horrendous fate of being stuck all the way to Port Huron.
It's fair to say that I made no effort to distinguish myself in Chicago. I had deliberately shunned human contact and did my best to just blend in. It helped me to deal with my emotions by pretending that I didn't have any.
On the train, I was disrupted from my daydreaming by a young African-American girl seated across from me. She couldn't have been more than 15, and she had sketched a pencil drawing of my profile. I tried to make small talk with her, but she seemed shy and tight-lipped. I didn't know how long she had been waiting to give me the drawing, but I let her know that I was extremely flattered. It felt good to be noticed again.
My First Annual Larry King Three Dot Column
Category: Blogging
(Larry King used to write a column in USA Today full of random observations separated by three dots. It's in honor of his dubious achievement that I have written the following...)
Mayonnaise on french fries is delicious--it's about time Belgium offered us something other than their fantastic waffles...When I wear a cashmere sweater, I feel like a kitten...I see a Will Ferrell movie once and I'm good...I can't tell the difference between a crocodile and an alligator...That Angelina Jolie is a looker, let me tell you...Whenever someone's whistling you can bet they're harboring a dark secret...Why do they call it a training bra--are breasts on a learning curve?...Every time I eat pizza, it's like the first time...Van Halen was right about jumping...If there's anything scarier than a doll that's missing an eye, I don't want to know...They say the kind of gum you chew determines your personality, so that would make me a Bubble Yum...If Angelina Jolie were vomiting in my toilet, I'd hold her hair back...There's nothing gravy doesn't enhance...Swimming is really just a way to avoid drowning and shouldn't be an Olympic sport...The one thing you can say about Hot Dog, Archie's mutt in the comic books, is he was nobody's fool...If I had to choose between saving a car full of baby orphans and Angelina Jolie, I'd choose the latter, because you can bet the way that baby orphans would show their gratitude would be disappointing by comparison...
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Blogger
Category: Life
Every Saturday, outside my window, skull-rattling Mexican music plays from 10 a.m. until 10 p.m. While I'm sure the words change, the plaintive wail of the singer, the instrumentation (including that most cruel accompaniment, the accordian), all combine to form what sounds like one long song of woe. Punctuated by occasional hollars from the adoring crowd, I finally went down to see where this was coming from. It turns out it was the next door neighbor who plays his truck stereo at full blast, while he sits in the front seat drinking beer and giving everyone who passes the thumbs up.
If I could sum up my recent time in Chicago, this would be a perfect illustration: too much of a bad thing. On it's own, Mexican music is fine. On his own, the guy next door in his truck is fine. But combined at extremely high decibel levels over a twelve hour period, they are both intolerable.
While I don't regret seeing and spending time with family and friends here in the midwest, I think I have overstayed my welcome. The winter was exceptionally brutal, as I spent more hours than I care to count waiting in blistering wind chills for buses and trains. I can recall one extremely cold night when I stood on a platform waiting for a train for an hour before I realized I had misread the schedule and it wasn't coming. Shivering under the heat lamps, I desperately tried to figure out how I was going to get home, the cold numbing my body and rendering my brain a frozen block of gray Jell-o.
It was during this cruel winter that I wound up living under the roof of the worst landlady I've ever encountered. My initial sympathy over the sudden death of her 26-year-old son became a weakness she exploited through violent, angry outbursts over such mundane things as a key to the mailbox and laundry room, and heat for my apartment.
Recently, she asked me if I could leave the sublet a week early to accomodate her new, in-coming tenant. When I said I didn't think I could, she insisted on it, posting an eviction notice on my door. When I asked a tenants rights organization what recourse I had, the lawyer said on the one hand I could stay the week since it would take longer than that for her to evict me, but if I caused the new tenant to cancel their agreement, I would be liable for the loss. Perfect.
The final straw was losing the temp assignment I was working a month early. I had hoped to work through June to earn enough money to fund my upcoming move back to Los Angeles, to resume the life I'd left behind two years ago when I moved to Argentina. I have since been unable to find work. This has mirrored my first month here when I had similar difficulty finding employment.
So it comes to this. If I belonged to a church or some other organization, they might hold a bake sale to raise funds to help me along on my journey to a new beginning. But I don't belong to a church. However, I have built up some measure of good will here on MySpace, with all of you. Thus the icon below for PayPal donations.
In spite of my woes, I realize that I'm far luckier than most (say, a soldier in Iraq, or even my landlady's poor, cancer-stricken son). I have perspective. If you want to help a fellow blogger out of a tough spot, it would be greatly appreciated. If not, I think you're all aces just the same, and I won't hold it against you if you cuss me out in the comment section (that's what it's there for!).
"Hosted by Howie Mandel, 'Deal or No Deal' is an exhilarating hit game show where contestants play and deal for a top prize of $1 million...Each night, the game of odds and chance unfolds when a contestant is confronted with 26 sealed briefcases full of varying amounts of cash ranging from a measly penny to $1 million. Without knowing the amount in each briefcase, the contestant picks one -- his to keep, if he chooses - until its unsealing at game's end.
"The risk element kicks in when the player must then instinctively eliminate the remaining 25 cases - which are opened and the amount of cash inside revealed. The pressure mounts as in each round, after a pre-determined number of cases are opened, the participant is tempted by a mysterious entity known only as "the Banker" to accept an offer of cash in exchange for what might be contained in the contestant's chosen briefcase - prompting Mandel to ask the all-important question - Deal or No Deal?
"As each case is opened, the likelihood of the player having a valuable cash amount in his or her own case decreases or increases. Viewers will see if, truly, fortune favors the bold. The contestant knows that as long as the larger cash prizes haven't been opened, the Banker's deals will only get higher. And if the conflicted contestant accidentally opens a case with a bigger cash value - the Banker's offer could suddenly evaporate."
---NBC.com website
I like to think that I'm not an elitist. I don't tuck in my shirt, and I enjoy a good sloppy joe. I occasionally like to go bowling, and I wept when that doctor who helped Tony Stark survive in "Iron Man" died. But every once and a while the culture throws me a curveball, and I'm left feeling like I'm bonny Prince Charles off to cruise the world in my giant balloon ship.
Such is the case with NBC's "Deal or No Deal." When I first saw the show, it scarcely seemed true. First of all there was the resurgence of Howie Mandel, an annoying comic whose most memorable bit involved blowing up a surgical glove and putting it over his head. Now shorn of hair, his manic energy dialed down to suit the seriousness of his new occupation, Mandel plays it alarmingly straight as a game show host.
The website says the show format airs in over 35 countries, but to me it seems distinctly, mindlessly American. The numerically inclined could potentially calculate the odds of any given situation, but no contestant I've seen has ever employed any kind of system, and it's still a random guess when all is said and done. Basically, people choose case numbers based on such superstitious things as birthdays and the ages of their children.
The perverse thrill for the audience comes from watching people make stupid mistakes, egged on by loved ones, as they all get lost in the temporary vaporlock of greed. Few actually bargain down to the final amount in the case they've chosen, usually accepting a lowball offer from the villainous Banker (seen only in shadow). Afterward, Howie then asks them to say which cases they would've chosen if they'd continued to play, and we see the Banker's subsequent offers, potentially making what they settled for seem foolish by comparison.
In this rank game of humiliation, it strikes me as funny that the contestants feel a bond with Howie and the models who open the cases. Sure, they seem to express sympathy for them, but in truth they are in collusion with the Banker. Howie's only real objective is to stretch the game out to the alloted time via endless commercial breaks, and silly stunts like having a scoutmaster change into a uniform or a hairdresser shave a man's back; humiliating acts requested by the Banker to pad time and build false suspense. The models may act like cheerleaders, but they are really just there to sugarcoat the ugly reality of the dollar amount in their cases.
I guess "Deal or No Deal" is a necessary step in game show evolution for a culture that can barely look itself in the mirror. Why tax the mind with trivia as in "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" Finally, there's a show for people who know how to count to 26.
Now, if you'll excuse me. The Queen mum is feeling airsick and I'm afraid we're going to have to jettison one of the servants to regain altitude. All hail Brittania!
Sometimes the act of parenting can become like footprints in the snow. You can try to retrace your steps, but they're gone and nothing will ever bring them back. What makes the act of fatherhood worthwhile is what is remembered and brought into the present. When that's forgotten, a father is just a man who once shared an address.
I called my father today and we talked about nothing much. We don't have a lot in common, but we make the effort. I used to have a lot of grudges and complaints against him, which even when brought to his attention didn't seem to change anything. I learned to accept that through the years, but I never liked it.
I can remember a time when I was boy and I made the distinction between like and love. I would say to him or my mother, "I love you, but I don't like you!" It was a linguistic trick. I was often dumbfounded by my own brilliance.
Anyway, I like my father. He's a tough, funny old guy, and he's had a rough life providing for his family. He's in failing health and in his 70's, but he still works a day job often in punishing Michigan weather. He's reliably crusty on world issues; the only time I watch Fox News is when I'm in his house.
When I was home for the holidays, we did our usual bantering. I was the guest liberal and he was the conservative grouch. As we playfully sniped, I realized that he actually respected me. I was never sure about that, as I've always gone my own way and it has been decidedly not the direction he wanted.
We were much closer when I was a boy and I parroted his wish that I one day become a doctor. Once I made it clear that wasn't the plan--that I had no plan--things became difficult. That's why this recent epiphany of mutual respect is so gratifying. I love my father and I never doubted that he loved me, but there were times when I wasn't quite sure he liked me.
Classic Rasak: A Friend is a Stranger You Wish You’d Never Met
Category: Life
(I've been blogging on MySpace for almost three years now, and so much of what I've written should be burned to a fine crisp, but a few things make me glad I've done this. Thus I am instituting a Sunday feature called "Classic Rasak," which reprints a blog post I wouldn't burn.)
A Friend is a Stranger You Wish You'd Never Met
(originally posted on October 19, 2005)
I put on the Nixon mask and cocked my pistol, as Chico swung the Escalade onto the freeway. I was determined to make a good impression on my new, fast friends, whom I had met yesterday at the unemployment office. When they suggested an afternoon outing, I was hoping the four of us could go to a movie or maybe a ballgame, but they decided we would rob a bank instead.
Now that we were heading to the bank, I started to feel a little sick. Spyder slapped my cheeks. "Hey, man," he said. "You don't look so good. You ain't going to pussy out on us, are you?"
Lamar clapped his hand onto my shoulder. "Not him, bro, he's got nerves of steel. Did you know he killed a man once?"
It's true, I had said that, but by "man" I actually meant my turtle Curlie, and by "killed" I meant that I hadn't left him enough food to eat while my family vacationed in Canada. Still, I didn't cry when I found his lifeless, upturned body; it always made me wonder if, deep down, I was made of ice.
"Fellas, I can't do this!" I blubbered. If I was made of ice, it was melting fast. "Killing a guy is one thing, but robbing a bank is another."
"Yeah," Chico said with a snort, "robbing a bank is easier."
"You ain't gonna let us down, is you?" Spyder asked, applying more peer pressure than I'd ever felt as a teenager. This was like high school with guns and ethnicity.
"But I've never learned a foreign language--" I said, surprised that this was the greatest regret I could think of under the circumstances.
"Nooooo, you ordered that burrito at the truck outside the EDD in Spanish," said Lamar reassuringly.
"That's the only Spanish I know. I can order a steak burrito with cheese and sour cream. That's it. It's lucky I like that so much, since I can't order anything else." I crouched into the fetal position. "Oh, sweet baby Jesus! I have a bad feeling about this, guys. And to think, I've never seen the Great Wall of China, or slept with an Olsen Twin."
Spyder laughed. "You never would, anyway."
"Which? The Great Wall or the Olsen Twin?" I started to shake and the Nixon mask began to chafe my skin. "Guys, listen to me, I lied. I am not a crook!"
Chico pulled off the freeway and stopped the car. "I can't believe my ears. You lied to us? Get out! And if you tell anyone about this, you're a dead man!" Spyder and Lamar looked away, refusing to make eye contact.
I nodded and jumped out, and they peeled off in the Escalade.
"A little early for Halloween, ain't it?" Said a man selling oranges by the side of the road, as I walked by. "I got it--you're Richard Nixon."
I pulled off the mask and hurled it, along with the revolver, at his feet. "Mister, you don't know Dick."
