Update 2-18-03


Hi,

Strange weather week:  Blizzards on the East Coast.  Floods on the West.  Slush in between.  And a high national security alert, especially intense in the Northeast Corridor.  Still, a couple of social notes:

From Ellen Epstein Silver:  Paul DeMartino was able to visit with us in Dallas while he was here on business.  We had a lovely visit and discussed a possible mini-cruise for our 40th reunion.  Wouldn't that be fun, adventurous and something to really look forward to?  We wouldn't have to worry about disturbing hotel guests next to our hospitality suite as there would be lots of room for us to mingle.  There are so many possibilities -- Mexico, Bermuda, the Caribbean, anything but Nebraska (Sorry, Jerry).  It would be nice to get some feedback from our classmates, to see what the majority would like to plan.  (Ellen also sent a picture of her and Paul smiling in what could be her den.  But the technology here is a bit primitive to start including photos.)

From Paul:  Just to let you know that I visited with Ellen and Alan Silver while I was in Dallas on business.  They were very gracious hosts, and put up with me for two dinners at their beautiful home in the suburbs of north Dallas.  The warm weather was especially nice -- in the 60's.  Then, of course, I had to return home to temps in the teens and twenties.

From Barbara Blitfield Pech:  Speaking of senior moments, have I already asked this three times or just think I have -- does anyone know the whereabouts of Ken Getnick, class of 64?  I'd like to write to him.
      Also, I just shared my first -- and second -- "three-way"...  Well, an Instant Message group conversation, Saturday night.  First, with Robin Feit and Gayle Ulrich.  Then, again today with Ellen Epstein and Robin.  Anyone interested in joining our party, just add us to your Instant Message list.  It's not as much fun as the hot tub, but it's great for eye-hand coordination -- typing fast!

Also from Barbara, part of a longer joke:  I've always dreaded old age.  I can't imagine anything worse.  So last week, I decided to visit my new neighbor -- elderly, recently widowed -- to brighten the old guy's day.  When I rang the bell, the "old guy" came to the door dressed in tennis shorts and a polo shirt.
      "Sorry I can't invite you in," he said.  "I'm due at the Racquet Club.  I'm playing in the semifinals."
      "That's all right.  I just baked you some brownies."
      "Great!"  He snatched the box.  "Just what I need for bridge club!"
      "I'll go across the street instead," I told him. "Visit Granny Grady."
      "Oh, she's not there.  I just called to remind her of our date tonight.  She mentioned at breakfast that she had an appointment for a tint job."
      So I went home and called my mother's cousin, age 83.  But she was in the hospital -- working in the gift shop.
      I called my aunt, age 74.  She was vacationing in China.
      I called my husband's uncle, age 79.  He was on his honeymoon.
      I still dread old age, now more than ever.  I just don't think I'm up to it.

Part of a newspaper column written by Naomi Patterson, forwarded by Nancy Garfield:  When I was very young, I sang songs for the neighbor lady, invented stories for my brothers, and a friend and I danced to records...  Eventually, we encountered at least one person who reminded us that it was time to grow up.  They implied, you're not a dancer, writer, or a singer, and if you can't do something with a certain degree of expertise, you shouldn't mess with it at all...  Sadly, under the pressure, some of us crawled into the adult box assigned to us, packing ourselves away with the modeling clay, harmonica, tap shoes, and sketchpads.  And why?  Today, I dare us all to dance in the kitchen, sing off key, rhyme some lines.  Whittle and sculpt.  Paint pictures for children to hang on their refrigerators.  Get out the old trombone and frighten the neighbors.  Or just whistle.  As one philosopher explained, "An artist is not a special kind of person.  But every person is a special kind of artist."  Reclaim the joy.

Linda Cohen Greenseid sent a Math problem that ended with everyone imagining Danish kangaroos eating oranges.  Write her for the details.

Some birthdays I remember:  Andy Dolich's, Alan Finder's, mine, my kid brother's, Vanna White's.

The latest New York Times/CBS News Poll, from February 14th:  Three-quarters of Americans see war with Iraq as inevitable, and two-thirds approve of war as an option.  But fifty-nine percent of Americans said they believed the president should give the United Nations more time.  Sixty-three percent said Washington should not act without the support of its allies, and fifty-six percent said Mr. Bush should wait for United Nations approval.

Financial advice, from New York magazine, February 17th.  James J. Cramer reminds us that:  If you think the worst time for a stock market is wartime, think again.  The worst time is the wait, as in right now... I can recall the rally-decline-rally-decline moments leading up to Iraq War I.  Every rumor of peace brought buying, every thud of disappointment brought selling, until the market simply caved in...  (But) it was straight up once the shooting started.

Finally, while we wait for Allen Moss to report on Africa, some more localized color:
      People who work outside Hollywood, which is to say the entertainment industry, seem to think that everyone in it knows everyone else in it.  That's not true, and I don't regularly share beers with Sandra Bullock.  But it is a business, that, like theater, as Barnet Kellman taught me some years ago, lets gossip spread indiscriminately.  So I'll be carefully vague in what I write next.
      A friend of a friend of mine just starred in a TV movie.  It's February Sweeps, which means the networks trot out all their stars and former stars and slip them into movies to boost the ratings that set advertising scales.  This particular star is a former Broadway musical comedy third lead with a couple of minor cult movies and a weak-though-insistent sitcom in her credits.  Her third husband's a second tier TV producer, which, traditionally, puts him under everyone of that status in film, and over everyone like him in music.  The movie aired last week, and friends and family were invited to their gated-community home for the screening.  I went along, as I have before, for someone for my friend to talk with.
      The house is large, but no bigger than my brother's in New Jersey or my cousin's in Virginia.  That night, the den was filled with merely thirty people, rather than the hundred-or-so invited at Christmas.  There was still too much good food -- there always is -- and the bar was stocked with the best product-placement brands.  Most of the people really were family and friends, and I was the lone outsider.  The star and her husband have four kids:  one from his first marriage, one for each of her two previous marriages, and one from their present, relatively long-term, reasonably-stable marriage.  Each of those kids had at least two friends in attendance -- the older kids, people they were dating -- so that made up a dozen people right there.  Everyone else was in the business.
      The party started at 5:00 which means everyone was there by 7:00 for the screening.  We weren't actually watching the telecast; we were watching a tape, edited free of commercials.  It was also high definition TV, set for a widescreen monitor.  But technology couldn't help this movie.  It had been made fast, during the star's three-week hiatus from her regular show, and the script couldn't have taken more than ten minutes to type.  Any novice writer could have improved it in an afternoon.  So could the star's ten-year-old daughter -- or my dog.
      I don't usually watch this kind of movie, so it offered some fascination.  I kept trying to figure out if a less awful director could have made it less worse.  Or if less plastic casting could have helped.  Or better hair.  It was one of those all-of-a-piece stinkers that even had the star's family and friends howling.  I, of course, had to be more polite.
      "I don't think the producers intended it to be that funny," the star's husband told me at one point.  Later, I overheard him tell other people the same thing.  Still, after it was over, everyone, easily, assured the star, "You was the best thing in it."
      Well, actually...
      No, she probably was, which is frightening -- more frightening than the plot ever intended to be.  "Why did she make the movie?" I quietly asked my friend.  "Is she trying to move out of sitcoms?  Does she honestly think she has a wider range?  Is any first step better than no step at all?"
      "You analyze too much," came the answer.  And I probably do.  But I'm way too far on the edge of the industry to try and figure out why this star actually made this movie.
      The day before, I'd spent the morning at the TV Academy, screening student films for awards that would be called the Student Emmys except for copyright infringement.  Five of us -- two producers, a director, a writer, and me (a set decorator) -- saw five short films, and any one of them was better than that TV movie.  But just because they were student movies doesn't mean they were made by amateurs:  two came out of USC, one from NYU, one from Florida State, and the last from Berkeley -- all these schools have powerful film programs.  And just because they were movies didn't automatically make them better than what's on TV -- product is fairly interchangeable these days, which is why these film school productions were up for TV awards.  Still, not one of these five, talented directors, or the polished teams they worked with, could probably have helped that TV movie.  And maybe when it was broken into five-minute bits, separated by commercials, it wouldn't seem that terrible.  And maybe when people were watching it at home, while also eating, talking, cooking, and doing who-knows-what-else around the house, it would seem just fine.  After all, they got to see one of their favored, comfort-inducing stars, out of her normal shiny setting and off on a new adventure.  Maybe that's all they wanted.  Maybe that's why the star's family and friends could honestly assure her she'd been terrific.  And maybe that's why I could sagely be told I think too much.

The home page:   http://hometown.aol.com/falcons1965a


Rich