"Here I Go Again. My My"

Against the advice of wiser friends, I finally succumbed to a screening of Mamma Mia! No, I didn't go to the sing-along version. Why should I be the one singing after paying money for the ticket? Isn't that what the professionals are there for? Instead, I went to one of the second-run places and paid only about six dollars or so to watch what almost everyone else has already seen.

And now I'm feeling a bit depressed. It isn't that the film is bad (although it certainly isn't good). I mean, I do like the ABBA songs and all, and they seem to fit the storyline much more smoothly than I would have ever imagined. There are even some scenes that border on the truly exceptional, such as Meryl Streep's singing of "The Winner Takes It All." And I do love the musical performances after the ending of the narrative but before the full credits start to roll. If you go, you should stay to see them.

No, what's got me feeling down is seeing yet another Hollywood fantasy and realizing, yet again, how much of a gap exists between it and reality, at least in my case. Of course, movies shouldn't have as much of an impact on our emotions, but they do. We are heavily influenced by these ideas of romance, so much so that many people start to live their lives according to what the movies say about love and devotion and romance and reunions and such. If it's not like they see in the movies, then it must not be love, I suppose.

The plot of Mamma Mia! is simple enough. A young woman who's about to be married writes letters to three men who may be her father. Her mother had romantic evenings with each of them at about the same time, so any one of them could be the father. They all show up together, of course, and much confusion and singing and dancing and overacting occurs. The ending, naturally, has to be happy, and that's perhaps what gets to me the most.

I don't need a lot of sympathy here, and I hope you don't feel that's where I'm headed with this. But I've had dates cancelled on me the past two weekends by the same guy. Last weekend it was the day before we were supposed to meet for dinner. This weekend it was the day--the very day--that we had planned to meet. I do understand that crises arise, and he has been dealing with his mother's health issues of late. She's had to be hospitalized. I'm not so self-centered to think that he should be paying more attention to me than to his ailing mother, so please don't misunderstand. I would do the same thing if I were in his situation.

Here's my dilemma. This is the best I have going for me at the moment: a guy I can't even meet for dinner. There's nothing else on the horizon, and there hasn't been anything on the horizon for quite a long time, frankly. I haven't any old flames--particularly, not three of them--who are likely to show up any time soon. I have friends, sure, and I do love them, but they aren't quite the same as a romance. Maybe I just need to stay away from romantic movies or romantic comedies or lighthearted musicals for a while. I'm still, perhaps foolishly, waiting for a happy ending, and it seems like that's unlikely to occur at this rate.

A friend of mine told me this week that his company has decided to relocate its headquarters to Indianapolis. This is just after he bought a house near where he works. So he faces the prospects of having to sell his new home and relocate from southern California, which he loves, to the Midwest. He told me that he isn't unhappy about his job or his life, but he wishes he were happy about something. I know what he means. I've been feeling like I'm somewhere in the middle of late myself. I'm not unhappy, particularly, but I've known much happier times than this as well.

Yes, I realize that there's nothing wrong with living by yourself. Some of us have gotten used to it, perhaps too much so. However, there's also nothing wrong with finding someone to live life with you either. Another friend of mine suggested to me a few years ago that perhaps I was too anxious about finding someone, that maybe that was stifling my efforts. He said that I should just concentrate on other aspects of life, and the romance would happen when it's supposed to happen. I'm not sure that I agree. I just don't know how I'm supposed to forget that I'm single when even a mediocre film like Mamma Mia! can remind me of it so vividly.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...

This afternoon I went to the Westside Pavillion to see The Duchess (more on that later, perhaps). It's playing at the Landmark Theaters, and they've become one of my favorite venues, what with the reserved seating and all.

On my way to the movie theater, however, I happened to walk through the Macy's store. On display, already, were Christmas items. Yes, dishes and such with poinsettias and other holiday motifs. And some striped peppermint candy. Christmas stuff. Already.

Today is September 28. That's almost three full months before Christmas. Why are we already thinking about this holiday? We still have Halloween and Thanksgiving (and Veterans Day) before us, and I'm not even concentrating on them yet. Is the economy in such dire straits that the stores are pinning their hopes on Christmas even earlier this year?

Is anyone ready for Christmas shopping? It's been 90+ degrees many days this past week. The sun has been blazing down. We're supposed to be thinking of snow and Christmas trees? I guess I'll have to start listening to "White Christmas" even earlier than usual.

Blue Eyes

Consider this (partial) list:

• The Long, Hot Summer
• Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
• The Hustler
• Hud
• Sweet Bird of Youth
• Harper
• Cool Hand Luke
• Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
• The Sting
• The Towering Inferno
• Slap Shot
• Absence of Malice
• The Verdict
• The Color of Money
• The Hudsucker Proxy
• Nobody's Fool
• The Road to Perdition

You could add half a dozen more films to that list and then perhaps begin to understand why the loss of Paul Newman is so great. And then factor in those blue eyes and that smooth chest, and you'll remember what a real sex symbol should look like. How odd that Cinemax was playing Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid early this morning, and I taped it for The Oscar Project. It must have been on at almost the same time that the newspapers announcing Newman's death at age 83 were landing on the doorsteps of the residents of Los Angeles. (Yes, I know hardly anyone reads newspapers any more, but some of us still do.) I don't know now if I am quite ready to watch it yet.

How sad to wake up and discover that one of the best actors of his era is no longer with us. I know he hadn't really taken on many roles in recent years, save for the TV drama Empire Falls, but even hearing his voice in the animated film Cars made me feel nostalgic for the days when he could command your attention with just one of those sly smiles of his. I could sense him smiling almost all the way through that voice performance.

I have a couple of favorite performances of Paul Newman's. One of his best is in the film version of Tennessee Williams' Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Clad only in pajamas for much of the film and playing opposite Elizabeth Taylor in a slip, Newman manages to bring to the surface what the Production Code wouldn't allow: the repressed feelings his character Brick feels for his boyhood friend. It would certainly be a different film if it were made today, but Newman lets us all in on the secret. My other favorite is one that I've not seen in a long time. In The Verdict, Newman plays a lawyer who's obviously past his prime in the courtroom but who takes on what seems like an unwinnable malpractice case against the Catholic Church and its hospitals. It's a stunner of a performance, particularly when you see how Newman has changed over the years, older but still handsome.

Interestingly, both of those roles called for him to portray an alcoholic, but he gravitated toward portrayals of complicated men throughout his career. There's also the cowhand in Hud and the title convict in Cool Hand Luke and the architect of the title building of The Towering Inferno and the hockey player-turned-coach in Slap Shot and the con man (reunited with his buddy, Robert Redford) in The Sting and, of course, Fast Eddie in The Hustler and The Color of Money. Very few actors have brought so many indelible performances to life. Perhaps he was trying to keep the attention averted from his good looks by taking on so many "outsider" parts. By playing against the type that his features would have demanded--romantic leading man--instead he became anti-heroes, men you looked up to even though you shouldn't. It was through Newman's talent that we saw the good in these men. Today's generation should take a lesson. Learn your craft, and apply it well. That's the legacy Newman leaves behind him.

Time's Winged Chariot

I went to the box office today to get tickets to our college's production of Romeo and Juliet. (It's apparently set in modern-day Afghanistan, so I'm curious to see it.) The tickets are free, of course, because I'm a faculty member, but I happened to glance at the prices while I waiting in line. Reasonable, I think, only about $12-$15 or so per person. It is, after all, a college production even though our college has a reputation for the quality of its theatrical offerings. Some are much better than professional performances I've seen.

But back to the ticket prices...

I happened to notice that seniors get a discounted rate. That's no surprise, really. Lots of places offer senior discounts. It was the age that's considered "senior" that caught me off guard: 55. Even that doesn't seem all that unreasonable. I think that's probably about the age that most senior discounts begin.

What caught me off guard was how close I am to being eligible for the senior discount: 10 years now, one decade. Yes, I know I will still be getting tickets there for free. That's not my point. I can't believe that time is going by so quickly. I've fully adjusted to the notion that I'm middle-aged. That doesn't even bother me all that much. However, the thought of being considered a senior? I'm going to need more than a decade to get ready for that.

Of course, my friends who are already above the age of 55 are probably going to be merciless about this, and they probably should be. But I'd venture that even they drew themselves up short a bit when they first realized they were considered "seniors." And it had to be a bit of a shock when they realized that they were getting close to that particular designation.

I'm not saying that it's bad to reach that milestone. It's going to happen whether I like it or not. That's not even an issue for me. I am a pragmatist about growing older. It isn't as if I'm Dorian Gray or even Benjamin Button. I just wish it could slow down just a little bit. That's all. And that I could stop having these moments of startling clarity or, at least, stop having them so often these days.

When I Grow Up...

maybe I'll finally be smart enough to understand why "Cracklin' Rosie" is "a store-bought woman."

To back up a bit, let me share with you what I'm doing this semester for entertainment. I've been bringing my iPod to campus each day, and I listen to it whenever I'm in my office. I know that doesn't sound unusual so far, but I decided before the semester began that I was going to listen to all of the songs in alphabetical order. I just got to the D's today, so you can tell that I've had quite a few songs in the early letters of the alphabet. (Classes started five weeks ago.)

There are always unexpected surprises when you take what should be an orderly approach to a project like this. For example, you might be listening to a couple of pop songs from the 1970s when, suddenly, a contemporary country song will begin. Or perhaps a rockabilly tune from the 1950s. Or maybe a quasi-orchestral piece. Or avante garde rock. You never know. You may go from Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66 to Madonna to the Runaways to Billy Joe Royal (and I did). It's not quite like a Shuffle because it isn't random. Not at all. It's actually quite rigid when you think about it. Yet the same sort of delightful juxtaposition as you find with a Shuffle is happening.

I'm also finding out some very interesting trends. I have a lot of versions of some songs. I have two versions of "After the Gold Rush," both of them exquisite (k.d. lang on one; Dolly, Linda, and Emmylou on the other). I have a country version of "Almost Persuaded" (David Houston) and a blues/soul version (Etta James). I have three versions of "Cry Me a River." Yes, one of them is the Julie London version. I also have three different versions of "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?"--a fact of which I am not particularly proud. The champion, so far, is "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered." Five versions, all different artists: Barbra Streisand and Rufus Wainwright, my two favorites, among them.

There's also the intriguing phenomenom of different songs with the same title. An obvious one would be "Crazy in Love." Perhaps you know the one by Beyonce (with an assist by Jay-Z). However, I also have the earlier country song with the same title sung by Conway Twitty. That's quite the interesting pairing. And I have four--yes, four--different songs--yes, all of them different--entitled "Call Me." Of course, one of them is the Blondie song.

So, earlier today, Neil Diamond showed up singing "Cracklin' Rosie," and I heard again a line that has puzzled me over the years, the one where he tells her that she's "a store-bought woman." My friend C says that it suggests that she is upper class, a better sort of "product" than she might be if she were "homemade." I can see that, but it would sort of depend upon your attitude about "store-bought" versus "homemade," wouldn't it? Store-bought clothes would be preferable to the alternative, but homemade cooking always seems better to me. I'm still puzzling over that one, and I'm sure there are many more puzzles to come.

A New Administration

Apparently, the ability to see Russia from one's home state qualifies a person to be the next Vice President of the United States. With that frame of reference, the Stephanie Miller Show this morning asked people to determine future cabinet posts and other appointments based upon what they can see. There were lots of good, funny answers, but some of my friends felt like contributing to a new administration in ways that draw upon our experiences as well. We just want to help.

My friend C is building a home on an island in Washington State. From that location, she can see Canada. She's a shoo-in for the head of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, don't you think? I mean, she's already fluent in Canadian and everything.

My friend S ordered seafood paella the other night when we out to dinner. I think that qualifies him to be the head of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services. I doubt he's ever had a mooseburger, but he's pretty open to trying new stuff. I would say he's "game" for a challenge, but that's pushing a bad pun too far, isn't it?

My friend N is spending the semester teaching in Italy, so technically, I guess she's already the ambassador to that country. But with such vast international experience, she's an obvious pick to be the new Secretary of State.

My student facilitator this year has watched TV and, when he still had a truck, often listened to music on the radio. Sounds like a good fit for the head of the FCC.

I myself own a pair of camouflage shorts. In fact, they are clearly visible on top of the dresser in my bedroom. I'm thinking I must be ready to be either the Secretary of the Army or, better still, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Are we as a country seriously going to accept these kinds of answers as legitimate? Aren't we going to question the qualifications of someone who thinks that mere proximity counts as experience and/or knowledge? Especially if the nonsense keeps getting repeated as if it were a significant accomplishment? Look, I live in Southern California. I'm not all that far from the border with Mexico; I've even been to Tijuana a couple of times, and I've drunk my fair share of tequila. However, I would never try to pass myself off as some sort of international expert on, say, immigration policy. And I would expect that someone would point that out as fraudulent if I did.

Yep. Still Southern.

I went to dinner with a friend the other night, and after I placed my order, the waiter asked, "Where are you from?" I get that question a lot. The first two days of classes this fall had me answering that question at least five times from students (five classes, five times). I always tell them a little bit about myself on the first day, but that's the one detail they have to know first. Sometimes, I don't even get through the discussion of the course requirements before someone raises a hand to ask.

Whenever I'm introduced to someone new, the subject comes up. New faculty, new staff members, new managers, a friend of a friend--you name it. And sometimes salespeople can't help but ask. I don't usually talk that much when I'm buying a pair of jeans, but even those few words are often enough to "arouse suspicion." I suppose there is still something unusual or "exotic" about people with regional dialects. Everyone tries to guess your birthplace--most of them incorrectly thinking Texas--as if to clearly indicate to you that you're an outsider. You're definitely not native to California.

I realize that I have a strong accent. I was raised in Mississippi, after all, and lived there the first 27 years of my life. I never tried, after moving here, to get rid of the accent. I know several people who have, thinking that they have to sound like they are from "nowhere" in order to fit in better. I always assumed I wouldn't fit in for one reason or another, so why not let it be for the accent instead of something else? (And, yes, I know that people think those of us with Southern accents are stupid. As comedian Jeff Foxworthy says, most folks want to deduct 100 IQ points when a Southerner opens his/her mouth. I just don't care; I seem to prefer being underestimated these days.)

I do think it has lessened or "flattened out" a bit over the years. However, if I talk to my friend B on the phone for one of our marathon sessions, it comes back pretty strongly. And you probably don't want to be the first person to talk to me after I've returned from a visit with my family. You'd need someone to translate or perhaps subtitles in order to keep track of the conversation.

There are still times I forget that I come from the South. I do think of myself as a Los Angeleno, having spent the last 18 years of my life in or near this city. I live here, I have friends here, I shop here, I eat here, I go to the movies here, I read the Los Angeles Times (though not for much longer, perhaps), and I think of it as my home. I don't have a particular desire to move back to Mississippi or Alabama, and if you asked my family, they'd tell you that I don't even like to visit. Still, whenever I start to imagine myself as having fully become a part of California, someone reminds me that isn't the case.

The question itself always reminds me of the old joke about two freshmen who meet at their university's orientation session for incoming students. One goes up to the other and introduces himself and asks, "Where are you from?" The other student, obviously taken aback, replies, "I'm from a part of the country where we don't end sentences with prepositions." The first student quickly apologizes: "I'm so sorry. Where are you from, asshole?"