Let me state up front and unequivocally: I was not yet on planet Earth during the forties. Or much of the fifties, for that matter. That said, I did grow up with parents who loved the music of the 1940s, an era of the big world war, big world leaders and of course, big brassy bands.
I say this because last week my wife and I had the pleasure of escorting her parents to Glendale’s historic Alex Theater to see the matinee performance of “In the Mood – a 1940s Musical Revue.” The beautiful art deco auditorium of the 1,413-seat Alex was packed to the top row of the balcony.
Besides making me feel much younger than I have in a long time, the capacity audience last Monday afternoon was a fascinating mix of men and women in their, shall we say, golden years. (I’m sure some in attendance had already graduated into their platinum years – and I mean that in the nicest possible way.)
I’ve never seen so many walkers, canes, wheel chairs and oxygen tanks outside of a medical supply warehouse. Before the show began, and during the intermission, the conversations we overheard all around us sounded more like we were at a hospital medical review than a musical revue; from, “Did you hear about Henry’s hip replacement?” to “Oh, I’m doing okay except for my bladder infection,” to “Poor Betty’s dementia is getting much worse, poor dear!” and much worse. (What is it about age that makes people talk about each and every body part that hurts or leaks or doesn’t work any longer?)
In the few quiet moments before, during and after the performance, there was a constant white noise of wheezing, coughing and hearing aid feedback. But the music on stage easily overpowered all such ambient sound coming from the geriatric gathering.
But God bless ‘em all, these well-seasoned citizens were out and about, participating in life in spite of their various infirmities and limitations. I certainly hope to be able to do the same when and if I reach such advanced years. But I’m already starting a list of non-medical conversation topics to have on hand when the time comes.
With a couple of exceptions, the show’s band members were considerably older than singers/dancers – not surprising since it’s easier on the body to play a trombone or trumpet than to dance the jitterbug while singing four-part harmonies. To use a contemporary term, the show’s 40-song “playlist” included such timeless classics as “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” “There I’ve Said It Again,” “Tuxedo Junction,” “It Don’t Mean A Thing,” “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You,” “Moonlight Serenade,” and of course, “In the Mood.”
Several of the songs in the second act were an homage to our country’s role in fighting WWII, including “Over There,” “This Is Worth Fighting For,” “Bugle Call Rage,” “When the Lights Go On Again,” and others. The show ended with a tender and touching tribute to military veterans, with any vet in attendance being asked to stand (some had to be helped by those on either side – a tear-producing sight if ever there was one) when their branch of service was called so the rest of us in the audience could applaud their service.
As we listened to the lyrics about fighting with honor, sacrificing home and heart for a cause bigger than you (what a concept!), I wondered what such a show would be like for subsequent wars. Sure, a revue about the Viet Nam “conflict” would surely include such groups as the Doors, Creedence Clearwater, Jimi Hendrix and many others. But the theme would certainly not be one of pride or patriotism – more like cynicism and suspicion. Sigh.
And what – heaven forbid – would a musical revue based on the more recent Iraq and/or Afghanistan wars sound like? Honestly, I think I’d rather sit and hear about someone’s gallstones and urinary tract infections, thank you very much.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
One of the easiest things anyone can do once every four years is to sit on the couch, watching TV coverage of the Winter Olympics and carp, complain and generally criticize the genetically blessed, gorgeously fit athletes who don’t live up to media-generated expectations.
So here I go.
With the mountains of hope and hype heaped on the U.S. Olympians, there was bound to be some disappointments. But I can’t remember another Winter Olympics during which so many “destined for the podium” athletes not only didn’t turn in medal-worthy performances, they didn’t come close; Shaun White, Shani Davis, Julia Mancuso, Ted Ligety and many other names unfortunately come to mind.
For the past almost two weeks it’s gotten so that as soon as I hear the label, “strong gold medal favorite” or “favored to win it all here in Sochi” attached to any U.S. Olympian, I fully expect to see them finish several positions lower and slower than even the winner of the bronze. Many of the Chosen Ones haven’t even finished in the top ten.
To be fair, there have been several well-earned, come-from-behind surprises for Team USA, like Andrew Weibrecht taking the silver in the Men’s Super G ski race ahead of his own “destined for gold” teammate, Bode Miller. Wait, Andrew who?
As frustrating as it’s been to see so many disappointing results, the most disgusting moment of the games by far was last Sunday night’s badgering of the above-mentioned Bode Miller by NBC hack reporter Christin Cooper. Ms. Cooper was relentless in asking the bronze medal winner questions about the loss of his younger brother, Chelone, who died from a seizure last year. Miller, in full emotional breakdown mode after being asked numerous different ways about how it felt not to have his brother there to see him race, finally took a knee behind a partition where the incessantly insensitive woman couldn’t get to him. Luckily for NBC, however, there was yet another camera at snow level that was able to stay with the visibly shaken Miller as he sobbed. A tweet later that night with the hashtag #NBCFAIL said it all: “Christin Cooper wins gold for worst human on the planet.”
A few other Olympic observations before I run out the clock:
You know the games are in trouble when one of the more riveting stories has been whether or not NBC’s Über-anchor Bob Costas’s would turn in a DNF due to a world-class case of pink eye.
It was a kick watching Crescenta Valley’s own Kate Hansen boogying to Beyoncé before her Luge heats. While the 21 year old La Canada native ultimately didn’t make it higher than 10th place overall, her teammate, Erin Hamlin went on to win the first ever medal for a U.S. luger. You go, girls!
Speaking of Luge. Who in the wide world of weirdness came up with the idea of Doubles Luge, an event featuring two grown men lying on their backs, one under the other, sliding down an ice chute at 80-plus mph on less than a trash can lid? Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the spectacle.
The motto of these games is “Hot. Cool. Yours.” Well, hot they got. But they could have used a lot more cool. Might as well have held the games in Los Angeles for all of the winter conditions provided by the tropic-like Sochi region.
And so, with the closing ceremonies of these 2014 Winter Olympics only a couple of days away, couch critics like yours truly will have to wait another four years until the “destined for gold” athletes and others gather again in PyeongChang, South Korea on February 9, 2018. I’m already setting my DVR.
And if anyone thought security was an issue in Russia this time around, just wait until game organizers have to deal with whatever trouble that nut-job-northern-neighbor-with-nukes, Kim Jong-un, dreams up. Let the games begin, indeed.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
This week I fully intended to write about the spectacle of the ongoing Sochi Winter Olympics. Then, a little before 9:00 pm last Tuesday night our house phone rang. There’s a song with a lyric that says, “We’re all only a phone call away from our knees...” This was one of those calls.
On the other end of the line was Jeri, my oldest brother Bob’s wife, calling from their home in Folsom, CA. Jeri never calls. And oh, how I wish she hadn’t called last week. Because the news was what I knew it had to be as soon as I heard my sister-in-law’s voice. Bob had just died. He’d had some sort of massive heart attack, or aneurism, or stroke or something catastrophic while sitting and watching TV after work. The paramedics had arrived within only a few minutes and worked on him all the way to the hospital. But he was already gone. Just. Like. That.
As the oldest of four siblings, the age gap between Bob and me was large enough that I never felt the usual sibling rivalry. Sure, we disagreed about many things – especially as we both grew into adulthood. But sibling fights? I honestly can’t remember even a single one.
I was in Monte Vista Elementary School when Bob attended Crescenta Valley High. He was a strapping, physically fit, all-American guy with good looks and a crew cut that made all the girls giggle and grab their compact mirrors whenever he walked by. Back then, Bob had been into mountain climbing (the insane sport involving cliffs and carabineers!), had been an avid backpacker, was an Eagle Scout, a leader in his youth group at church and many more impressive things. As a young boy, he was the kind of guy you wanted to grow up to be.
Years later when I was in high school and my rock band was booked by the Dept. of Parks & Recreation to play a weekend gig on Catalina Island, we couldn’t go unless we had a 21-or-older chaperone along with us. Bob volunteered and all of our parents said okay. Silly parents. All I’ll say about that weekend is that no one got arrested. Or caught. Forty-plus years later, it is still one of the fondest memories of my brother.
Born and raised here in the Crescenta Valley, Bob “escaped” our arid heat and monotonously boring seasons years ago for the cooler, wetter environs the Western Sierra Nevada foothills. He would regularly badger me about pulling up my own anchor and moving north, particularly when I’d grumble in a column about lack of rain and/or too much heat.
As newlyweds, my wife and I would regularly visit Bob and Jeri when they lived in a tiny apartment in a bad part of Reseda in the San Fernando Valley. We'd have game nights together and laugh ourselves off their ancient dining room chairs playing Pictionary until well past midnight.
On several precious weekends, we'd share our love of motorcycling by riding out of town for a weekend away taking only what we could carry in our bikes' saddlebags. Good, good times. Bob and Jeri gave up motorcycling years later when they were rear-ended by a hit-and-run maniac in Northern California and left for dead on the side of the road. They both survived, thankfully, but the bike was a total loss and Bob never again swung a leg over a motorcycle seat. But I could see the sheen in his eyes whenever a full-dress motorcycle would pass us by in later years.
I already miss getting multiple emails a day from him, passing on some hilarious (often risqué or politically incorrect) emails and memes or links to funny or amazing YouTube videos that he wanted to share with me and vice versa.
Bob was also always the biggest fan (and critic!) of my writing – letting me know when he’d seen a commercial of mine or heard a particularly funny radio spot or just appreciated or disagreed with something I’d written. Of the almost 300 columns I’ve written now, Bob read and commented on every single one, good or bad. I cannot express how much that has always meant to me, nor how much I will miss his opinions.
In the week since Bob’s sudden passing, I’ve caught myself countless times thinking that I don’t have my big brother any more. But I know that’s not really true. I still have wonderful, funny, cherished memories of our times together both in person and via phone calls or emails. And really, Bob isn’t gone. He’s only gone home. I can’t possibly be sad about that. I only wish he could still get emails up there.
Until we meet on the other side, dear brother, I’ll miss you every day.
note: If you'd like to read Bob's obituary in the local paper, you can read it here.
(Note: I will continue soon with Part 2 of my lamentations on the technological tempests involved with operating our new car. But first, this commercial break.)
Last Sunday there was an annual televised spectacle that millions of viewers tuned in to watch. In every corner of the world, large and small groups of people gathered in front of their wide screen TVs in rapt attention as the competitors gave it their best shot in hopes of winding up a winner.
Oh, and in between the commercials I’m pretty sure a football game was held, even though every time I actually paid attention to the game, the score seemed to indicate that one of the teams didn’t show up. But I digress.
Since my primary career is writing advertising copy for clients all over the country, I couldn’t let the mother of all advertising events pass without at least minimal commentary – especially since this year’s marketers paid a whopping $4-million for every 30-seconds of TV time that aired. That’s $133,333 per second, good or bad. And there was a lot of bad.
For example, the much-hyped Budweiser spots featured a non-celebrity named Ian Rappaport who is whisked away for an evening of strangeness including ping pong with a wig-wearing Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was just that – strange. As was the 60-second mess promoting Maserati’s “Ghibli” car. At least I think it was a car.
The Honda recap was only a painful reminder of all the annoying “Helpful Honda Guy” ads we suffered through last year. Help me by going away, please. T-Mobile used Tim Tebow (get it, “T.T.” for T-Mobile?) in a spot I rated ‘T’ for terrible. In other spots, the cellular company spent a lot of green simply to promote the color pink.
Toyota’s commercial crowded a bunch of Muppets into their Highlander SUV only to remind everyone watching of how much Jim Henson’s imagination and creativity is missed. H&M treated us to David Beckham without his clothes on. Yawn.
Kia was the latest advertiser to produce yet another lame sendup of the ancient Matrix movies (“choose the red car key or the blue car key”). Speaking of rehashing old ideas, Axe Peace body spray spent a huge amount of money to encourage world leaders to make love not war. It stunk.
One of my least favorite commercials promoted Subway’s new “Whole Enchilada” menu item (I’d bet Jared Fogle won’t be eating this doozy). The spot was stale and cheesy, to say the least.
On the other hand, some of the TV spots were engaging, funny, memorable or different in such a way that they brought a smile or a tear (or both) to this ad veteran’s face. In this category I include Volkswagen’s “Wings” spot in which a German engineer earns his wings each time a VW hits 100,000 miles on the odometer. It’s a brilliant concept perfectly executed and the creative team at Volkswagen’s agency deserves its own set of wings for the effort.
Radio Shack produced a brilliant spot announcing that “the 80’s called and want their stores back!” (Sure, but is my Free Battery Club Card still valid?) Doritos – as has become the tradition – aired a couple of “homemade” commercials which were far superior to many of the professionally made spots. Heinz Ketchup also had a funny entry that earned bonus points with me for the fart noise coming from granny’s almost-empty ketchup bottle. Gets me every time.
The most popular commercial of the game turned out to be Budweiser’s “Puppy Love/Best Buds” entry telling the heartfelt story of a too-cute puppy and his Clydesdale companions. Completely predictable but perfectly produced. The only way to improve the spot would have been to have the puppy find the ETrade talking baby who was missing from the commercial lineup this year. Maybe he knew it wasn’t going to be a good year for football or commercials.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
