Cinema Paradiso

Do you know how you can tell when you really love a certain piece of music? I mean, really love it with all of your heart? That's the moment when you can not only hear it in your mind, but also in your heart, which is where it matters the most. Tonight I was wandering around in a bookstore, listening to a ballgame on my brand new IPod Touch, and this piece of music kept playing in my aortic jukebox. It needed to be heard, and heard again, and finally shared. So I hope you don't mind...

A Pigeon Doesn't Care About The Emmys

Consider the Emmy Award Ceremonies last night in Los Angeles, if you don't mind. And imagine all the celebrities and personalites emerging from the ceremony either sad and thoughtful from the disappointment or aglow in victory's aura. Now imagine a flock of pigeons hovering about seventy feet off the ground, and one of those pigeons pooping on one of their heads. What do you think that celebrity will do? Would he call his attorney on the iPhone that never leaves his sight and sue the zoo? Possibly. But do you also think he'd look up and get the message--"You're not that special." I'm willing to bet that at least one of these celebrities would.

You see, a pigeon has no sense of human accomplishment, and I've touched on this in other ways. A pigeon could care less about the Escada gowns, the Harry Winston jewels and the Armani tuxedoes. A pigeon has no idea about Oscars, Emmys, Tonys, Razzies or whatever else. Pigeons don't poop on your head out of spite; they don't punish, reward or pass judgment. We do all that.

I just wanted you to sleep on that, folks.

A Modest Suggestion for Football Fans

Just about a year ago on the blog, I wrote a poem called "College Football". It was, suffice to say, anti-college football. And now that the people who play it and talk about it are pawing at the dirt to start anew, rather than denigrate football anew, I would like to offer a suggestion for helping you deal with it.

Some years ago, I read an interview that famed New York Times columnist Ira Berkow conducted with one of my most beloved actors, the late Walter Matthau. Matthau and his son Charlie came to any number of Los Angeles Lakers games over the years and had courtside seats. When the Lakers were on the road, you know what Matthau would do? Depending who the commentators were on teevee, he'd turn it down and put on a Mozart record. To Matthau, Mozart was a perfect background score as the men jumped and ran and danced around.

So this is what I suggest to the men and women who watch football this fall--if you find yourself tiring of the commentators who can't decide if they are unctuous, pompous or both at once, turn them down. But don't turn on the local radio broadcast, if you can help it--a quarterback sack would send him into an almost orgasmic wail. Turn on light, soothing, and mellow music. Anything will do, from most of the canon of Chopin to Ennio Morricone. You know what doing this does? It re-frames your thinking. You go from being inconsolable when Wossamatta U loses to just thinking, "It's only a game. They'll beat the Mud City Manglers next week and all will be right with the world again." Trust me. You'll thank me when you've got your child on your lap first thing Monday morning and you're smiling and not frowning.

But I also know that some of you don't do mellow, light or soothing. You're in luck; I'm willing to compromise. I hear Metallica makes some pretty appropriate football music...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xisIVhc64Ng

Poem From a Facebook Comment

Is it just you

and me

and all who comment

upon these comments,

but are we paying the price

of the foibles

of the irresponsible,

the immature,

the inbred and

the ignoble?

Thoughts some thirty minutes after leaving one of those phoney-baloney Irish pubs in the Carrollwood section of Tampa, FL.:

-- Perhaps no American in the past thirty years has walked into a phoney-baloney Irish pub and started to read "Gas From a Burner" by James Joyce and lived to talk about it. Perhaps no such person exists. And anyway, no one goes to a phoney-baloney Irish pub to hear James Joyce. They all want to watch sports on teevee, at least nowadays.

-- It can get awful loud in certain "Irish Pubs" on any given Friday night. What you may think is the quietest corner of the place could face the band that has no idea how to sing "Margaritaville". The speakers sometimes are turned so far up as to render intelligent, articulate conversation virtually impossible. And all you hear is NOISE! NOISE! NOISENOISENOISE!! LOTSOFGODDAMNNOISE! IT'S SO NOISY! WHERETHEFUCKISTHEKEYTOTHEHOUSE?!?!?!

-- And because it's so noisy, just try picking up a woman in an Irish pub. Likely, you can't. You may have to start the most enthralling and passionate relationship of your life by using Morse code.

-- If anyone who runs an "Irish Pub" wants to attract more customers than he repels, he could do several things. He could offer more than just the usual bangers & mash on the menu, which I believe is an English dish anyway. There would be an actual thatched roof on top of the pub itself--there is in one bar in the Downtown Tampa area, which, if I were as smart as I would like to think that I am, I would have gone to. Maybe an actual Irish fiddler could play on Friday nights, or a singer could sing "The Jolly Tinker" or "The Bold Grenadier" and really endear himself to the patrons. Maybe there could be staged fights between two white-haired lads named Kevin and Timothy, kind of like the sausage races between innings--you know, maybe Kevin will win one night and Timothy the next. Just a thought.

-- And anyway, you can tell you're in the wrong "Irish Pub" for your temperament if you're on your way out and wondering when to schedule an appointment for the kind of cochlear implant that Rush Limbaugh has. This is exactly what I thought when I came up to my car and saw two women in the space next to me about to go inside. One of them was wondering if she should leave her belt on or take it off. (For the record, it came off.)

Slainte!

The Limey

I think this is what I was trying to say in the last poem.

THE STAR OF THE SHOW

The lights come up

and the curtain is raised.

The tawny platinum blonde

is firmly in place.

How she's dazzled and

hypnotized all those

poor saps in the audience for

the past two hours.

They stand and cheer,

they hoot and holler

and throw themselves at

her feet.

They throw her roses,

bathe her in white light

and anoint her as a god.

Out of the glare,

out of the limelight,

there I am, in costume,

rueing her.

I'm far more talented,

tons more expressive,

and a whole lot better at

what I do

than she.

But I'm just shrewd enough,

just kind enough,

and just enough of a pro

not to let her know.

My day will come.

And I'll bide my time.

Soon the light and love

will be mine.

I’m Not Just Anyone


I’m not just another car
In a traffic jam.

I’m not an anonymous rear end
To be kicked around.

I’m not a Social Security Number
Or another credit score.

I’m not just a member
Of the faceless, unwashed masses.

I’m your son.
I’m your father.
I’m your brother.
I’m your nephew.

I’m the one I want you to love.

I’m not cut with a cookie cutter.
I’m not just one of the guys.
I’m too talented, too good, too wise.

Just because my voice doesn’t always rise
Doesn’t mean I don’t have one.

I’m not average.
I’m not ordinary.

I’m extraordinary.
I’m unexpected.
Not just the usual unusual.

I’m capable of such magic.
If only you’ll let me wave the wand.

I have such love in me,
I want to give it all to you.

Because I’m more than the voice
On the other end of the phone.

Because I’m greater than the sum
Of the words on your computer.

And I’m so much more than
The smiling face in the photo.

I’m not just anyone.
I’m yours.

Off My Chest...

One of the people commenting on this clip (or more accurately, the first two plus minutes) from The Crossing Guard refers to Nicholson as "royalty among pawns."

Lately, it's getting harder and harder for me not to feel the same way. I find myself walking through shopping malls three or four beats faster than the other mall-walkers, or more accurately, mall-dawdlers. I get caught behind people in traffic driving some fifteen miles below the limit, and it's all I can do not to turn into one of those road rage people you hear all about on the six o'clock news. Almost everyone speaks in monotones, cliches, obscenities--they just seem so goddamn trivial.

Yet I would like to think of myself as loving, caring, compassionate and good-hearted. I would like to think I am living up to my reputation as a decent, good man.

You know what set me off yesterday into perhaps the most acidic poem I have ever written? Sitting in Borders, looking around at everyone else in the little coffee bars. They seemed almost stuck in the same mold--in their late sixties and seventies, wearing Hawaiian shirts, golf caps, and their various infirmites like a second skin. Ordinarily I would not notice that so acutely. Yesterday, I shuddered. I could not conceive of such a fate waiting for me. That's why I wrote that poem. I was excited about it at the time. I felt a little like Jack Nicholson. ..

WHEN I’M SEVENTY

When I’m seventy years old,

I’m not going bald.

I’m not trimming ear hair

And I’m not putting in my false frigging teeth.

When I’m seventy years old,

I’m going to hear every word you say.

And I don’t want to hear you say

I’m going in a home

That ain’t my own.

When I’m seventy years old,

Sorry, but no Hawaiian shirts and

Golf hats for me.

I’m staying in Philly Town

And hitting your golf balls

With my baseball bat.

When I get to be that age,

My wife’s going to be

The foxiest, tallest, sexiest,

Most goddamn gorgeous woman

In the world.

No matter how old she is.

Want me to drive a
Mercury Grand Marquis

With crushed blue velvet seats and

Only a tape deck?

Sure.

If I’m allowed to push it off a cliff.

You think Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra

And Rosemary Clooney (especially her)

Are going to sing me sweetly to my grave?

Think twice.

When I’m seventy,

I’m driving a Porsche.

I’m wearing de la Renta every day.

I’m getting laid every night.

I’m gonna fall into the golden autumn leaves

And make me a snow angel.

I’ll remember everyone I love

And everything I don’t.

Oh, and by the way,

I ain’t doing winter,

Spring, fall, summer

In Florida.

When I’m seventy.

Okay?

CHASM


There’s a wedge between us
You could drive an ocean liner through.
So hard to repair
To make our dreams come true.

The needs of the angry mob
I must tend to first.
But their rage and stupidity
Could make my mind burst.

Other people’s forgetfulness and greed
Have become my responsibility.
But I want to focus on you
To the best of my ability.

They push me one way
And pull you another.
They want nothing more
Than to set us asunder.

My eyes burn with anguish
And I think my ears could melt.
Nothing for me to grab onto
Not even a belt.

I want to fly across the chasm
That keeps us apart,
And fly away with you,
Never to part.

Bali

I'll bet anything that when you go to Bali

The flight attendant won't chew you out for

opening the overhead bins

before your plane stops.

I'm sure there's at least one McDonald's in Bali

but no one punches the cashiers

and breaks the drive-through window.

Of course there are laws and lawyers in Bali

But perhaps no one brings you your divorce papers

while your child is standing next to you.

Sure, it rains in Bali.

But nobody's scared of it

by a weatherman in a plaid jacket.

Days go by when Bali is

Preferable to anywhere else

on Earth.

It has to be.

Just has to be.

What's the news in Bali?

Same as it's always been.

Happiness and joy

and a life higher

than this.