Dear Jodie - The Wolf of Wall Street

Dear Jodie,

My day job is in the financial industry, so The Wolf of Wall Street looked like a good choice to see.

It was, but it sure did make me uncomfortable, striking me as Caligula meets Lord of the Flies.

Goodnight-up-above, what is it about us humans that we love wretched excess, particularly when we claim to hate it?

And I claim to hate it.

Sometimes . . .

In the entire movie, I only found two sympathetic characters.  The first was Jordan Belfort’s long-suffering first wife Teresa Petrillo (not the real Jordan Belfort’s first wife’s name), and the yacht that sank on its way to Monaco. Come on!  What did that poor 175-foot yacht do to anyone?

Yet I watched.  I grimaced a lot.  I laughed in spite of myself, some of it at the male guffaws coming from various points in the theatre and the places in the movie that tickled them.

Don’t get me wrong, these are roles that actors would kill to play.  In 2007, Leonardo DiCaprio beat out Brad Pitt for the rights to the book, and had the devil’s own time getting it made. 

Heaven knows I would LOVE to have played any role in the movie . . . except Jordan Belfort’s long suffering first wife.

And the yacht.

Jonah Hill, despite having been Oscar nominated for his performance in Moneyball (2011), took minimum wage ($60,000) to do this film and work with Martin Scorsese.  By contrast, Leonardo DiCaprio got $10,000,000.00.

What can I say about the tale?

Jordan Belfort wanted his story to be a cautionary tale.  I haven’t read his book but sure didn’t see it in the movie.  I saw a cursory rags-to-riches-to-rags story surrounded by Roman orgies, excessive drug addiction with people snorting cocaine out of various body orifices and unfettered greed.

A cautionary tale would have shown the difficulty of shedding such a deep drug addiction.  We see nothing of rehab or recovery.  In fact, the movie version of Jordan Belfort said clearly that sobriety “sucks.”

Cautionary tales usually show some kind of change in the character, repentance or regret, even in the last seconds of life.  Here, we never see the victims, those poor souls who Belfort and his cronies bilked, sometimes out of their life savings, because he could “spend the money better.”  And I felt that the only thing Jordan Belfort was ever sorry for was getting caught.

Despicable.

And I cringed and laughed at it all.  Black comedy is still comedy.  I would give the movie eight out of ten, because it is excellent, and fascinating, well-acted and marvelously directed and, like Caligula and the boys in Lord of the Flies, shows a select few of the darker elements of human nature that many of us don’t ever experience, some of us might not ever see.

I would have given it 9 out of 10, but 569 F-bombs – yes, that is correct -- is a bit excessive, even for me.

I will say this.  I walked out of that theatre remembering the worst things I’ve ever done in my life, and took satisfaction that I’ve never done anything quite like that.

But I sure as hell would love to on the big screen or, hell, the small screen . . . or stage . . . or . . . ?

What do you think?  How did the movie strike you?  Check out her response here!

Osage County Hilarity

To my friend Jodie!

Dear Jodie!

Please let me offer a definition for the word "hilarious."  This comes from Merriam-Webster online.

"Hilarious:  marked by or causing hilarity:  extremely funny. "

Here's one from The Free Dictionary:  "Hilarious:  Characterized by or causing great merriment."

One of the movies I've been wanting to see this award season is AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY.  It opened across the U. S. his past Friday, but, being a longtime member of the Screen Actor's Guild, I received a screener DVD copy in the mail.  After my writing was done for the day, I put the movie on; wanting it to put a smile on my face, because the very first word I saw on the cover of the DVD screener copy was "Hilarious."  I read a couple of reviews that said the same thing.

The description you will read on the Rotten Tomatoes website begins . . . "AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY tells the dark, hilarious and deeply touching story of the strong-willed women of the Weston family. . ."

The one thing I agree with these critics was that it was an excellent movie.  The performances were amazing.  The movie went right to my heart, because, with variations, it was about my own family.  

A number of critics saw the movie as a "hilarious" comedy.

I did not.

Oh, I laughed in a number of places. Dramas should always have elements of comedy and comedies should always have elements of drama.

It bothered me that New York and LA critics saw the movie as "hilarious" and that the producers chose to put that description on the cover of the screener.

This is a movie about drug addiction, alcoholism, suicide, infidelity, incest, and potential child molestation, and critics and producers alike thought it "hilarious."  That bothers the shit out of me.  These topics to me are not "extremely funny."  These topics do not cause "great merriment" in my soul.

The movie was amazing.  I'll be thinking about it for a long time.  Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, and others give brilliant performances.  "Hilarious?"   Really?

I'd be willing to bet that had these dysfunctional families been from California or New York, the "hilarious" would have been changed to "poignant" or "profound" or "important."  Maybe "tragic?"  Do critics and producers think these issues are hilarious because they take place in the plains of Oklahoma … the state just north of my home state of Texas?  Or because it takes place in the South?  Or anywhere in "Hicksville" outside of New York or LA?  

Seriously!

I reckon so.  

Sometimes I believe that the New York and LA crowd of critics and movie producers laugh at the rest of the country, particularly those of us south of the Mason/Dixon line.

I have many friends in both areas of the country who in no way subscribe to what I just laid out, or in no way would support such an attitude.  I am only referring to movie critics, producers, and publicity departments.

There are a number of words I would use to describe AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY, many of them in support of a wonderfully creative effort.  "Hilarious" would never be on that list.

Thank you, as always Jodie, for listening to my rant!  You are amazing!

Cheers!

The Rock

56 Bum Glue Lane

Bum glue.

The most important element in a writer's determination to write, or so said author Bryce Courtenay.

I just learned today that he died way back on November 22, 2012 at his home in Canberra, Australia.  Though born in Johannesburg, South Africa, Australia was his adopted country and he set his novels in one place or the other.  His first novel The Power of One is still one of Australia's best-selling books by any author.

I first met him at the Maui Writers Conference in 1999, ten years after publication of The Power of One, a wonderful novel.  Check it out if you get the chance.  I intend to read it again soon.

Bryce was the keynote speaker at the conference, and won over a throng of nearly a thousand writers and writer wannabes with his passion, his enthusiasm, and the glow of love he radiated for every single writer he met.

To this day, I've never met any writer as vibrant, as charismatic, as enthusiastic.  I wonder to this day whether those qualities came about because he was fifty-six years old when The Power of One came out, and, because of that, appreciated his success all the more and needed to give what he had learned.

I am fifty-six years old.  This second day of 2014 finds me sad that he is not with us, but happy that I saw him speak several times and have two books that he signed to me.  He always emphasized that being a writer required ". . . bum glue.  You have to glue your bum to the chair and write."

When he signed my copy of The Power of One I mentioned how inspiring his talk was.  He looked up, flashed a huge smile, his eyes twinkling, and said, "Bum glue, Rocky.  Bum glue."

The address for my writing house during 2014 will be 56 Bum Glue Lane.

I will live there with my lovely ghost Emmie, and the sage wisdom of Bryce Courtenay.

Political Correctness and Foster Brooks

First, let me apologize!  It's been nearly three weeks since I've posted.

Here we go.

I love humor.  I am sometimes healed by it.

I understand things about political correctness, and not all of them are good.

When I grew up in the late fifties and sixties and high school into the seventies, we had a different term for it.  We called it manners.  We listened to Emily Post, Amy Vanderbilt, and Judith Martin (Miss Manners) on how to behave with our fellow humans, because according to them, manners is what keeps the human race from barbarism, from the fate left to us as described by one of the great novels in the English Language Lord of the Flies.

I, too, believe that William Golding had it right while still believing that Political Correctness (PC) can take things over the edge and has.

Manners tempers that edge to my mind.

What manners allowed for, that PC does not, is the ability to laugh at ourselves and our own foibles.  Humor.  Sometimes to laugh is to look inside and really see.  And things that we laughed at back in the day, folks would chastise us for laughing at now.

I'll offer a modest example.

Foster Brooks.

Do you know him?  If you're my age in the US, you probably do.  If not, let me give you a little bit on Foster Brooks, known in his heyday ad "The Loveable Lush."

His act was that of a drunk.

He hit the big time a number of years after he took his last drink, being well into his 50's.  During his act, he was stone cold sober, yet he forced us all to look inside, with amazing humor ... and insight.  I've met a couple of folks who said they understood their own alcoholism from watching the act of Foster Brooks.

Humor, to my mind, can do so much more than make us laugh.  It can make us look hard at ourselves and see the demons within without feeling like a cyclops in the world of two-eyed people.

What I love about manners, and hate about political correctness, is that the former allows for humor, the latter does now.  Check out this bit from the old Dean Martin Roast of Don Rickles, featuring the late, great Foster Brooks.

I know it's hard to watch with alcoholism being such a problem in the world, but do we solve it by taking away the humor?

It's just a question.  I am looking for guidance.

Please comment and let me know what you think, regardless of what thoughts you may have.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQgxS-R8TzA

My Sister's Birthday

I originally posted this during the A-Z blog challenge.  Since today, September 25, would have been my sister's 52nd birthday, I think it's a good thing to repost.
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I was born September 23.  My sister came into the world four years and 2 days later.  On the one hand, she became the best birthday present I ever had.  On the other...?

Birthdays became a "shared" event, but I never believed that.  My parents themed them for girls, Candy Land, Barbie, Mary Poppins.

I enjoyed the movie "Mary Poppins," but it just wasn't for the guys.  I complained.

"What about Michael Banks?" Mom asked.  "Burt?  Mr. Banks?  There's plenty of boys in there."

That may have been true about the movie, but not the cake, not to mention that none of my friends would come.  So I had to share a birthday cake with my sister showing Mary Poppins, umbrella over her head, flying over the rooftops of London, and the Bird Woman sitting on the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral.

The party consisted of me, my mother, my sister, and 9 of Deborah's friends.  My father stayed ten minutes then retreated into the house to watch television.

In high school, my activities on the debate team prevented me from celebrating birthdays with my family.  Oh, they sang Happy Birthday, true enough, and bought me a special cupcake with three candles.

No party.  No celebration.  No get together with friends.

I learned to mask the disappointment until I could stroll past.

Fast forward to my twenty-second birthday.  I had my own job. My own place.

Since it fell square on a Sunday (my only weekend day off work), I hoped my girlfriend would forgo her weekly visit to her grandmother with her parents and sisters, to be with me for lunch or dinner.

She couldn't.

"Well, I see y'all before Mass and we can have breakfast."

She threw her hand over her mouth.  "I'm sorry.  We're taking my grandmother out to breakfast and to Mass."

"On my birthday?"

No sale.  "I'm so sorry, Rocky.  We'll celebrate another time."

"Oh, Rocky," my mother said when I wondered if I could spend some time with her and my sister.  "I forgot yours fell on a Sunday this year. Deborah and I are going to Jefferson for the weekend.  We're celebrating hers next week.  Let's do something for you, too.  Invite Angie and her family over."

"That's not going to happen," I said, rather petulantly I'm afraid.  "They'll be at her grandmother's.  I understand family, but damn!"

"I'm sure she feels bad about it," Mom said.

I woke that Sunday so full of self-pity that it leaked out of my pours.

My roommate Greg helped.  "Chief, let's go to Mass, have a nice brunch ... my treat ... go to the movies ... my treat ... and head over to your Mom's."

"She won't be there."

He patted me on the shoulder, "I know, but we should make sure the dog's okay, right?"

I suppose.

I had a grand time in spite of myself thanks to Greg.

I offered one last wistful sigh before pulling out my key.

Mom opened the door.  "Rocky!  Greg!  What a wonderful surprise. Come on in.  Deborah's gone, but I made some tea.  Let's go to the patio."

Sure, whatever.

"Surprise!"

Everyone was there.  Deborah and my brother, my girlfriend her parents and sisters.  Damn was I surprised.

And oh, so happy.

We played pin-the-tail-on-the donkey.  We danced.  We had chocolate cake.

At the end Deborah came up to me.  "It's about time, don't you think?"

She'd made it happen.  Arranged the whole thing with Angie and her parents, and Greg of course.

I didn't have a clue.

After my forty-ninth birthday in 2006, my sister called my friend Jill wanting to set up a surprise birthday for me for my fiftieth.  Deborah died December 19, 2006.

But Jill, with my supplying information on who to invite, made sure that my sister's desire to give me a great fiftieth birthday happened.

She did a helluva job, too.

And despite what folks may think, Deborah was there as well.

The Unexpected Perfect Line

Sometimes a mere few words can topple mountains of tension.

I worked at a fast food restaurant in the late 1970’s as the night shift manager.  At the end of our incarceration at 3:00AM one crisp Fall evening, one of our workers -- I’ll call him Jack -- wanted to know if I and the other two workers -- I’ll call them Nick and Karen -- wanted to ride with him in his cargo van, spinning doughnuts in a field about two miles down the road.

“Sure,” I said.

The other two readily agreed.

Jack’s van was, to put it mildly, bare bones.  The floor and sides of the back area consisted of nothing but metal, the only other rear passenger being a loaded toolbox looking to weigh forty pounds or so.

“Are you sure this thing is capable of doughnuts?”  Nick asked.  “Seems a little top heavy to me.”

“Just sit back there and relax,” Jack said, pushing the air down with his right hand before making sure that Karen was properly secure in the only passenger seat.  “I know what I’m doing.  Don’t be a wuss.”

“And you’re done this before?”  I asked.

“Well … not in this,” Jack admitted, “but it’s going to be far out cool.”

Mmmm hmmm.


To show us the van’s raw power, Jack peeled out of the parking lot and gunned the thing until we had passed 80 miles per hour … in a 30 MPH zone.  At the time, I feared being pulled over and hauled into jail for reckless driving.

No such luck.

Jack turned into the empty field and stopped about fifty yards in, as though waiting at the starting line, his face locked into an attitude of determination.  With the van in neutral, he revved the engine until it hummed those notes that send auto aficionados into the heavens.

I took deep breath after deep breath trying to slow my heart and steady my nerves.  I didn’t like being sitting on cold, hard metal, my back against cold, hard metal, looking up and seeing nothing but cold, hard metal.

Had Karen not been there I would have told Jack that I wished them well, but I was exiting from the back, and would promise to wave and play “Aloha Oi” on the steel guitar.

I didn’t want to seem less than manly in front of Karen.

Jack back off, then put it in “Drive.”

With his left foot hard on the brake and his right hard on the accelerator, he bounced up and down in his seat like a stallion about to rear up.  The back tires spun madly and spewed clouds of dust and dirt behind us.

“Hold onto your butts!” Jack yelled, then removed his left foot from the petal, tossing us into the bosom of the Goddess Fortuna.

The sounds of flying gravel and dirt gave way to those of Karen’s squeals, and … had Nick squealed, too?  One of those horrifying and hilarious man-screams?

I couldn’t tell because the force of our takeoff threw me to the back of the van.

I’d just righted myself when Jack yelled out.  “I’m cutting the wheel at 70.”

Ten seconds later, he turned hard to the left.

The idea had been to create circles of dust as the back end spun around and around, tires churning the grass and dirt, putting us in the middle of a dust cloud

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men…

Not even Robert Burns could have foreseen my face rapidly approaching the opposite panel, crashing into it before I started rolling and flying around like a towel in a dryer, the hard pounding sounds of metal pounding into metal nearly deafening.

I couldn’t count the number of times the van rolled, but thinking back I would say at least two and a quarter complete turns (maybe three and a quarter) as we came to rest on the vehicle’s right side, the passenger side.

I took a moment to shake off the cobwebs and return to the world of real things.  A drop of something fell into my eye, and a swipe of my hand, an inhale of a bitter coppery aroma, and a peek in the light of the harvest moon confirmed it to be my blood.

I moved my hands, arms, legs, and feet, and miraculously felt little pain, most of that residing in my face and left shoulder.

I looked over to Nick, who had been looking at me, both of us glancing down at the forty-pound toolbox that had miraculously missed us both, then back to each other.  Nick’s face expressed what I felt … that damn box could have killed one or both of us.

Thank you, Goddess Fortuna!

I looked to the front seat.  Jack just shook his head, then smoothed back his greasy, macho-dripping hair.

Karen fiddled with her seat belt.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and started to say something.

Karen beat me to it.  “Thank God I pee’d before we left.”

To Smile. To Really Smile

I don’t suppose I’ve really smiled since 2009 or so.  Or so the photos of me over time indicate.  I’m not going by last week’s Alfred Hitchcock photo.  No, when Phillip took that, I was focused on my stories.

No.  In fact, I thought I looked fine for an aging, fat, bald guy. 

Here’s one, I’m third from the right …

I’m smiling.  It’s a decent smile, but something’s missing.

Compare it to this one taken in 2008…

 

… and this one of me and my great friends Brent and Michelle taken in 2007.  I’m the one in the beard.

Big difference, don’t you think?

What could cause such a difference over time?

A couple of things, I think.  The minor, easily fixable one was my teeth.  For a long time after those pictures were taken, I was frightened to go to the dentist, because on a simple teeth cleaning …?  Well, let’s just say that it was the first time I’d suspected a dental hygienist of being trained at Guantanamo Bay.  Consequently, my teeth became so stained by tea and red wine that my own medical doctor thought they were rotting.  He believed it until I insisted he examine them a little closer.

He concurred.

Regardless, that he thought ... what he thought ... in the first place humiliated me.

That very day I sought out another dentist/hygienist combination, and have been quite happy with them both, fillings, crown, deep cleaning, and the blessedly gentle routine cleaning included.

It’s been six months now.

So, with clean teeth I looked in the mirror and tried to smile like I did in the above pictures.  I couldn’t make it happen naturally, try though I would.

So I stepped away from the mirror and looked inside.

Took awhile, but I found something lurking in the dark like a black widow spider filling me with a poison aimed not only at my manhood, but my humanity.

I walked through the corridor and found my sense of self in the midst of a horrible, agonizing death.

It showed in my face and through my eyes.  My mouth is starting to be permanently curved downward as though weighed down by something sinister and obscene.  My eyes are beginning to droop, too.

This is not mere age.

A little over a week ago, I decided that this couldn’t continue.  I wouldn’t let it continue.  I would reach down inside and give CPR to my sense of self.

You know from my last post that I recently visited my cousins in Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

There, I determined to reclaim myself.  Make myself fit to walk with the rest of humanity again, beginning with my weight.

Sixty more pounds.  That’s what I have to lose.  To that end, I determined to eat healthily, exercise by swimming and walking, and eliminate wine with a couple of predetermined exceptions, until I reach my goal weight.

Today is my tenth day under that program.  I’ve lost five pounds.

The difference between this time and the hundreds of others I’ve tried this is that for the first time I have a weight-loss buddy.  I won’t say who, but we have grimly determined to support each other, and congratulate each other, and cry on each other’s shoulder, and celebrate victories, of which there will be many.

I think this will be the difference maker for me, and I hope to be the difference maker for my buddy.

You see, I’m determined to recapture those smiles of earlier days.  That they come from an older body won’t matter to me.

Only that they come.

I’ll keep everyone posted.