I'm writing a story 140 words at a time and posting the results here
daily. Can I sustain interest? Will I lose the narrative thread? Find
out in this next installment of Bullets Ain't Cheap
against using you as bait. It’s dishonorable to a former colleague.”
“But you did it anyway.”
He shrugged again. “Nature of the business. I think you’ll probably hear from Burton sooner rather than later. Let him know we haven’t forgotten about him.”
“I haven’t either,” I muttered.
For a moment it looked like Michaels might offer to shake hands. He thought better of it. “Good luck, Lily.”
“Go to Hell.”
With a wave he took his leave. I glanced up at the security cameras, knowing that Telrik was far from done with following me. If I was going to find out what was on the thumb drive Kelly slipped me, I’d need to slip them entirely.
Problem was, I thought I’d been free from them this entire time. But they’d played me. Played me good. I lost my nerve.
Showing posts with label sinatra. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sinatra. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Saturday, July 19, 2014
140Story - Day 50
I'm writing a story 140 words at a time and posting the results here
daily. Can I sustain interest? Will I lose the narrative thread? Find
out in this next installment of Bullets Ain't Cheap
taken care of the phone. But I still had the pictures Telrik had given me. In my purse. I handed the envelope to Kelly, who ran his fingers along every seam. He pulled the bottom fold down, revealing a flash of tiny circuitry, printed on paper. New tech, something I wasn’t familiar with.
“Gotta admit, that’s some clever thinking,” he said. “They gave you this two days ago?”
I nodded. My face burned hot with embarrassment. They’d gotten me. From the very beginning.
“That’s a long con,” Kelly muttered. “What do we do with it?”
My first thought was to ditch it. Crumple it into a useless ball and toss it into the gutter. But I had a better second thought.
It took all of ten minutes to find a busy supermarket parking lot. Five more minutes to find the
taken care of the phone. But I still had the pictures Telrik had given me. In my purse. I handed the envelope to Kelly, who ran his fingers along every seam. He pulled the bottom fold down, revealing a flash of tiny circuitry, printed on paper. New tech, something I wasn’t familiar with.
“Gotta admit, that’s some clever thinking,” he said. “They gave you this two days ago?”
I nodded. My face burned hot with embarrassment. They’d gotten me. From the very beginning.
“That’s a long con,” Kelly muttered. “What do we do with it?”
My first thought was to ditch it. Crumple it into a useless ball and toss it into the gutter. But I had a better second thought.
It took all of ten minutes to find a busy supermarket parking lot. Five more minutes to find the
Friday, June 24, 2011
Judgement Day
This my 666th post to this blog. Really. I don't feel particularly evil but I must be since this is my 666th post. There you are, some nice circular logic to start off with.
You know we just had a judgement day come and go with nary a person raptured up into the sky. But there's another one coming - they assure us it's for reals this time - in October, just a few months away. Which got me to thinking: do I really want to chance going to meet my maker without being absolved of my sins? I've got a skeleton or two in my closet that might just keep me from being raptured, assuming they check that sort of thing. I better come clean. I'm not Catholic but I do approve of the sacrament of confession, it keeps you honest.
So in honor of my 666th post, here are my confessions, in no particular order.
I'm not big-boned, I really am fat.
I'm the one who threw the spit wad
I bought beer for minors in college. I actually made some decent walking-around money too.
You know that thing, that one time, that you thought someone else did? I did it.
I never thought Gore Vidal's articles in Playboy were very good.
I used to pee off the balcony of my apartment when it rained at night.
I don't care about the Spurs or the Cowboys. The latest plot twists of 90210 concern me more, and I don't even know what channel that show's on.
I didn't take complete advantage of the opportunities that were presented to me in college. Like Mary Ellen - her real name - I could have totally hit that and I never did.*
I stole the office chair I'm sitting in right now.
I think most newborns are ugly. Except my nieces and nephew, of course.
I was cruel to Dave when he needed kindness. But he was a real dick so it's actually not that bad.
I didn't like M*A*S*H without Frank Burns. Just didn't work.
As a font, Garamond doesn't do it for me.
Pussy Galore? Who names their kid... oooohhh... I just got it...
* words of advice given to me by a wise Okie friend of mine: 'Every piece of tail you turn down puts you one behind for the rest of your life.'
You know we just had a judgement day come and go with nary a person raptured up into the sky. But there's another one coming - they assure us it's for reals this time - in October, just a few months away. Which got me to thinking: do I really want to chance going to meet my maker without being absolved of my sins? I've got a skeleton or two in my closet that might just keep me from being raptured, assuming they check that sort of thing. I better come clean. I'm not Catholic but I do approve of the sacrament of confession, it keeps you honest.
So in honor of my 666th post, here are my confessions, in no particular order.
I'm not big-boned, I really am fat.
I'm the one who threw the spit wad
I bought beer for minors in college. I actually made some decent walking-around money too.
You know that thing, that one time, that you thought someone else did? I did it.
I never thought Gore Vidal's articles in Playboy were very good.
I used to pee off the balcony of my apartment when it rained at night.
I don't care about the Spurs or the Cowboys. The latest plot twists of 90210 concern me more, and I don't even know what channel that show's on.
I didn't take complete advantage of the opportunities that were presented to me in college. Like Mary Ellen - her real name - I could have totally hit that and I never did.*
I stole the office chair I'm sitting in right now.
I think most newborns are ugly. Except my nieces and nephew, of course.
I was cruel to Dave when he needed kindness. But he was a real dick so it's actually not that bad.
I didn't like M*A*S*H without Frank Burns. Just didn't work.
As a font, Garamond doesn't do it for me.
Pussy Galore? Who names their kid... oooohhh... I just got it...
* words of advice given to me by a wise Okie friend of mine: 'Every piece of tail you turn down puts you one behind for the rest of your life.'
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Sneezy Was Also A Dwarf
Thai food makes me sneeze, evidently.
So does the dusty inside of a disreputable muffler shop.
And being in a ship on the ocean. But being in the ocean itself does not make me sneeze.
Trying not to think about sneezing makes me sneeze. So does looking at a lit flourescent tube. Really.
Picking my nose while driving my truck past the intersection of Third and Highland in Los Angeles made me sneeze more often than not. I have no idea why, but I did test it out and the results are better than chance.
I'm not an allergic person, no pet dander, no pollen, no milk products, no peanuts, no shellfish. As far as I know I'm not allergic to anything, never have been. I'm pretty sure it's because of all the dirt my parents let me eat when I was a kid. And yet, for some reason, those things I outlined above will make me sneeze. Every time.
Why?
Would someone tell me why I can walk into a Thai restaurant and sneeze immediately even though I haven't sneezed in days? Doesn't happen for a Japanese restaurant, or Korean, or Italian, or German, or even a McDonald's. But the moment I walk into a place where the waitresses wear brocaded full-length skirts, the sneeze is on.
Is it psychosomatic? What trauma in my past life led me to associate sneezing with Mee Krob? Better yet, how the hell do I stop?
This kind of makes me wonder, what other things do I do unconsciously, things that don't draw attention to themselves quite like a sneeze does. Maybe I stare into the refrigerator? Maybe I twitch when I walk past a fudge shop? I don't know! It makes me crazy. Or maybe I was that way to begin with.
So does the dusty inside of a disreputable muffler shop.
And being in a ship on the ocean. But being in the ocean itself does not make me sneeze.
Trying not to think about sneezing makes me sneeze. So does looking at a lit flourescent tube. Really.
Picking my nose while driving my truck past the intersection of Third and Highland in Los Angeles made me sneeze more often than not. I have no idea why, but I did test it out and the results are better than chance.
I'm not an allergic person, no pet dander, no pollen, no milk products, no peanuts, no shellfish. As far as I know I'm not allergic to anything, never have been. I'm pretty sure it's because of all the dirt my parents let me eat when I was a kid. And yet, for some reason, those things I outlined above will make me sneeze. Every time.
Why?
Would someone tell me why I can walk into a Thai restaurant and sneeze immediately even though I haven't sneezed in days? Doesn't happen for a Japanese restaurant, or Korean, or Italian, or German, or even a McDonald's. But the moment I walk into a place where the waitresses wear brocaded full-length skirts, the sneeze is on.
Is it psychosomatic? What trauma in my past life led me to associate sneezing with Mee Krob? Better yet, how the hell do I stop?
This kind of makes me wonder, what other things do I do unconsciously, things that don't draw attention to themselves quite like a sneeze does. Maybe I stare into the refrigerator? Maybe I twitch when I walk past a fudge shop? I don't know! It makes me crazy. Or maybe I was that way to begin with.
Friday, February 18, 2011
OMG
You ever have one of those days when you see one thing, and then all you see for the rest of the day is that same thing, over and over and over? It'll happen with numbers, for instance, you see 37 early in the morning and then it's nothing but 37 for the rest of the day. Or you see a lady with a yellow dress and then you see the same yellow on every third person. It's either some grand synchronicity or you just have that thing on the brain. I'm putting my money on synchronicity. Why? you ask. Well, I'll tell you...
This morning I got up early to work out. As I'm walking to the gym, what do I see but some distracted woman in a minivan parked in front of the driveway of the old folks' home across the street, texting. I suppose it's a saving grace that she wasn't driving, but she was blocking out the food delivery truck. How she missed that huge vehicle in her rear-view I don't know. Unless, of course, she wasn't paying attention. Which she wasn't.
Coming out of the gym, which is by the cooking school, I see another distracted woman, a student judging by her white coat and gray pants, texting while walking across the street. She was still in traffic when the light changed. She did not get run over, but only barely.
At the grocery store, a distracted woman was texting while parked so close to my truck that I couldn't squeeze between the two vehicles, let alone open my door to get in. I did not give her finger or take a crowbar to her rear window, though I desperately wanted to. Homey don't want to go to jail, after all.
While pumping gas what do I see but a distracted woman half-in half-out of a parking space, paused to finish texting. While she was taking care of business a line of three cars formed, all of them trying to get to the pumps, which she was blocking.
Just now, in the rain (which makes all Angelenos insane in the membrane) yet another distracted woman pulled over to the side of the road, texting. Problem is, she pulled over into a red-zone bus stop, and seemed genuinely surprised and upset when the bus driver honked at her repeatedly and flashed his lights. Maybe she wanted to give everyone waiting for the bus a ride in her Lexus?
Perhaps I'm just looking for it, maybe I'm sensitive to it, or maybe it's the rain. Or a full moon. But this is just stupid. There's no text you're receiving or sending that's worth risking your life, let alone mine. Especially mine.
Kind of makes me wonder what's coming up tomorrow. Chimney sweeps? That would be cool, to see chimney sweeps everywhere. Or C.H.U.D.S. Or monkeys with tin cups full of $100 bills, ready for me to collect. That would be especially cool. Let's make that last one happen, Universe.
This morning I got up early to work out. As I'm walking to the gym, what do I see but some distracted woman in a minivan parked in front of the driveway of the old folks' home across the street, texting. I suppose it's a saving grace that she wasn't driving, but she was blocking out the food delivery truck. How she missed that huge vehicle in her rear-view I don't know. Unless, of course, she wasn't paying attention. Which she wasn't.
Coming out of the gym, which is by the cooking school, I see another distracted woman, a student judging by her white coat and gray pants, texting while walking across the street. She was still in traffic when the light changed. She did not get run over, but only barely.
At the grocery store, a distracted woman was texting while parked so close to my truck that I couldn't squeeze between the two vehicles, let alone open my door to get in. I did not give her finger or take a crowbar to her rear window, though I desperately wanted to. Homey don't want to go to jail, after all.
While pumping gas what do I see but a distracted woman half-in half-out of a parking space, paused to finish texting. While she was taking care of business a line of three cars formed, all of them trying to get to the pumps, which she was blocking.
Just now, in the rain (which makes all Angelenos insane in the membrane) yet another distracted woman pulled over to the side of the road, texting. Problem is, she pulled over into a red-zone bus stop, and seemed genuinely surprised and upset when the bus driver honked at her repeatedly and flashed his lights. Maybe she wanted to give everyone waiting for the bus a ride in her Lexus?
Perhaps I'm just looking for it, maybe I'm sensitive to it, or maybe it's the rain. Or a full moon. But this is just stupid. There's no text you're receiving or sending that's worth risking your life, let alone mine. Especially mine.
Kind of makes me wonder what's coming up tomorrow. Chimney sweeps? That would be cool, to see chimney sweeps everywhere. Or C.H.U.D.S. Or monkeys with tin cups full of $100 bills, ready for me to collect. That would be especially cool. Let's make that last one happen, Universe.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
I Got Gamblin' Fever
I want to go to Vegas.
'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.
Some highlights:
Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.
Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.
Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.
Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.
Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.
Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.
The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.
Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.
Thanks, guys. A truly great time.
'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.
Some highlights:
Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.
Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.
Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.
Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.
Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.
Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.
The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.
Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.
Thanks, guys. A truly great time.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Vega$ Opportunity
So I was stuck in traffic today - crap, crap, crapitty, crap, crap - and I was thinking that it would be really cool not to have to drive to get where I wanted to go. Driving's for chumps. And then I got to thinking about how somebody like Frank Sinatra used to take a helicopter between LA and Vegas back in the good old days. And then I got to thinking that I could really use a helicopter of my own, except that I don't have anywhere to park it around my apartment.
Then I got to thinking, why should I want to be like Frank Sinatra, when I could be him? Figuratively speaking, of course. Sure would beat what I've been doing for the past decade.
See, back in the day Frank was Vegas and Vegas was Frank. Sure, he was mobbed-up, but even if they were killers, the Mafia kept Vegas running like a top. Now it's all corporate and weaselly and about the bottom line. What Vegas needs is another Frank to come through and clean house. Since Frank is gone, God rest his soul, I'm willing to take up the mantle.
I look good in a tuxedo - really - and I like to hang out with my cronies and have a good time. I can't sing, not a note, but I'm not gonna let that hold me back. I'm gonna take Vegas by storm, you'll see posters of me where you used to see posters of Danny Gans.
And I pledge to you, the first thing I'm gonna do as the new Chairman of the Board is put a stop to this whole Celine Dion madness. Somebody has to take charge and it might as well be me. No thanks necessary, it'll be my pleasure.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 45 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 40 days
Then I got to thinking, why should I want to be like Frank Sinatra, when I could be him? Figuratively speaking, of course. Sure would beat what I've been doing for the past decade.
See, back in the day Frank was Vegas and Vegas was Frank. Sure, he was mobbed-up, but even if they were killers, the Mafia kept Vegas running like a top. Now it's all corporate and weaselly and about the bottom line. What Vegas needs is another Frank to come through and clean house. Since Frank is gone, God rest his soul, I'm willing to take up the mantle.
I look good in a tuxedo - really - and I like to hang out with my cronies and have a good time. I can't sing, not a note, but I'm not gonna let that hold me back. I'm gonna take Vegas by storm, you'll see posters of me where you used to see posters of Danny Gans.
And I pledge to you, the first thing I'm gonna do as the new Chairman of the Board is put a stop to this whole Celine Dion madness. Somebody has to take charge and it might as well be me. No thanks necessary, it'll be my pleasure.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 45 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 40 days
Friday, March 19, 2010
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned that bee keepers aren't doing enough to prevent their hives from developing a rudimentary yet malevolent intelligence.
I saw a bee truck just last night - it's the beginning of the SoCal pollinization season - rumbling along St. John Avenue. I was in the hot rod and I had the top down, so I thought that perhaps the bees might swarm out of all the hives on the truck, lift me into the air and crown me their king. Didn't happen. But I did get the impression that they were watching me with their beady little compound eyes, trying to decide what to do about the guy in the convertible.
See, I'm not afraid of bees, they're nature's little factory workers, diligently slaving away in their hives just like our grandparents used to do for Ford and Chrysler. But in nature beehives are separated from one another, you don't find queen bees building hives on neighboring branches in trees. Beekeepers, though, have hundreds of colonies all stacked one on top of another, and you can't tell me those bees don't talk to each other. And just like the labor movement brought unionization to the American auto worker, eventually bees are going to get wise and figure out there are way more of them than there are of us.
If those bees last night had been organized, if they were all working together, think of the trouble I would have been in. And then think if those bees had talked with other bees, and so on down the line. We might all end up slaves to our honeybee overlords.
I saw a bee truck just last night - it's the beginning of the SoCal pollinization season - rumbling along St. John Avenue. I was in the hot rod and I had the top down, so I thought that perhaps the bees might swarm out of all the hives on the truck, lift me into the air and crown me their king. Didn't happen. But I did get the impression that they were watching me with their beady little compound eyes, trying to decide what to do about the guy in the convertible.
See, I'm not afraid of bees, they're nature's little factory workers, diligently slaving away in their hives just like our grandparents used to do for Ford and Chrysler. But in nature beehives are separated from one another, you don't find queen bees building hives on neighboring branches in trees. Beekeepers, though, have hundreds of colonies all stacked one on top of another, and you can't tell me those bees don't talk to each other. And just like the labor movement brought unionization to the American auto worker, eventually bees are going to get wise and figure out there are way more of them than there are of us.
If those bees last night had been organized, if they were all working together, think of the trouble I would have been in. And then think if those bees had talked with other bees, and so on down the line. We might all end up slaves to our honeybee overlords.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Two-Fisted Tales
Where did Steve McQueen go?
Before you get all smarty and tell me he died quite a while back, I know that. I mean in a metaphorical sense, where did Steve McQueen go? A tough guy, who thought with his fists and led with his iron chin. A man's man, who could ride a horse, race a motorcycle, beat up the bad guy and still win the dame at the end of the day. A guy who could do stuff, who knew how to fix a car, or build a house, or take justice into his own two hands and see it delivered. What actor today knows how to do any of that stuff?
Seriously, look at all the headliners. Pretty boys, who couldn't find their way out of a paper bag if their agent wasn't around to tell them how. They didn't have lives before they became actors, their lives are as actors, so they don't know how to do anything else. If you put them on a deserted island they'd starve to death or die of exposure because they don't know how to take care of themselves. It's just embarrassing, I tell you, having our country's major cultural contribution - films - riding on the mincing posturing of sissy actors. For God's sake, the toughest guys in American films aren't even American, they're Australian putting on a convincing accent. Jeez.
Hollywood producers, put down your mirrors of cocaine and listen to me. No more emaciated metrosexuals, if you have a man's role, you get a real man to play it. Like in the old days. When Rock Hudson was a movie star.
Before you get all smarty and tell me he died quite a while back, I know that. I mean in a metaphorical sense, where did Steve McQueen go? A tough guy, who thought with his fists and led with his iron chin. A man's man, who could ride a horse, race a motorcycle, beat up the bad guy and still win the dame at the end of the day. A guy who could do stuff, who knew how to fix a car, or build a house, or take justice into his own two hands and see it delivered. What actor today knows how to do any of that stuff?
Seriously, look at all the headliners. Pretty boys, who couldn't find their way out of a paper bag if their agent wasn't around to tell them how. They didn't have lives before they became actors, their lives are as actors, so they don't know how to do anything else. If you put them on a deserted island they'd starve to death or die of exposure because they don't know how to take care of themselves. It's just embarrassing, I tell you, having our country's major cultural contribution - films - riding on the mincing posturing of sissy actors. For God's sake, the toughest guys in American films aren't even American, they're Australian putting on a convincing accent. Jeez.
Hollywood producers, put down your mirrors of cocaine and listen to me. No more emaciated metrosexuals, if you have a man's role, you get a real man to play it. Like in the old days. When Rock Hudson was a movie star.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sinatra and Shatner
During my time 'between assignments' I have a lot of time to think. I try to use this time wisely, pondering the larger questions of our existence, making the effort to tease the secrets of the universe out of our daily struggles. I made just such a breakthrough last night, when I realized that, for years now, William Shatner has been doing a Frank Sinatra impression.
As I've written about previously, I recently rediscovered classic Star Trek, the one with the red, yellow, and blue velour shirts, the one with the hippy 60's vibe. The one that became a star vehicle for William Shatner. I noticed that on the show he wasn't quite Shatner, though. That is, he wasn't nearly the hammy parody of himself that he generally plays now. Which I thought was interesting but then didn't think any more of.
Fast forward to last night, when I happened upon a PBS special featuring Frank Sinatra. The special was filmed in Carnegie Hall in 1980 (jeez, that's 30 years ago) and had never been seen before. As I watched Sinatra go through his Reprise hits, entertaining a concert hall full of jaded New Yorkers I finally saw it. Shatner's gestures are Sinatra's. His phrasing is Sinatra's. His knowing smirk is Sinatra's. Shatner has spent the last half of his acting career imitating Frank Sinatra. And getting away with it.
During one of the PBS breaks to beg for money - which they do constantly now - a biographer noted that with his singing Sinatra intended to imitate Tommy Dorsey's trombone playing - lots of sustain, fluid, semi-classical legato of phrasing, no break between two lines of the lyric. So that means Shatner is also imitating a trombone. Which explains a lot.
I'm calling you out, Shatner. I know your secret and I've just spilled the beans. Now, in the twilight of your years, you can go back to being a real actor. The ball is in your court.
One last thing: 'Send in the Clowns' sung by Sinatra isn't schmaltzy and horrible, it's sad and poignant. It makes sense.
As I've written about previously, I recently rediscovered classic Star Trek, the one with the red, yellow, and blue velour shirts, the one with the hippy 60's vibe. The one that became a star vehicle for William Shatner. I noticed that on the show he wasn't quite Shatner, though. That is, he wasn't nearly the hammy parody of himself that he generally plays now. Which I thought was interesting but then didn't think any more of.
Fast forward to last night, when I happened upon a PBS special featuring Frank Sinatra. The special was filmed in Carnegie Hall in 1980 (jeez, that's 30 years ago) and had never been seen before. As I watched Sinatra go through his Reprise hits, entertaining a concert hall full of jaded New Yorkers I finally saw it. Shatner's gestures are Sinatra's. His phrasing is Sinatra's. His knowing smirk is Sinatra's. Shatner has spent the last half of his acting career imitating Frank Sinatra. And getting away with it.
During one of the PBS breaks to beg for money - which they do constantly now - a biographer noted that with his singing Sinatra intended to imitate Tommy Dorsey's trombone playing - lots of sustain, fluid, semi-classical legato of phrasing, no break between two lines of the lyric. So that means Shatner is also imitating a trombone. Which explains a lot.
I'm calling you out, Shatner. I know your secret and I've just spilled the beans. Now, in the twilight of your years, you can go back to being a real actor. The ball is in your court.
One last thing: 'Send in the Clowns' sung by Sinatra isn't schmaltzy and horrible, it's sad and poignant. It makes sense.
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