Petty Resentment and Parenting

 

resentment - noun - a feeling of indignant displeasure or bitterness toward someone or something perceived as a insult, injury, or unfair treatment. (Merriam-Webster.com)

Petty resentment, especially toward a parent, can linger in one's subconscious and come out when necessary to be used as evidence to strengthen or justify an argument. 

Although I loved and love my deceased mother dearly, she wore the pants in the family and could be dictatorial, benevolent or malevolent, depending on the situation. To say that she was strict might be an understatement. For example, because she dreaded anything possibly related to funerals, my sister, two years older than I, and I were prohibited from wearing black: no black jeans, no black T's, no little black dresses. You get my gist. To even out the score, once I became emancipated from my parents, I wore black all of the time and still do. Could my defiance be a robe, black or otherwise, covering up a petty resentment that I have toward my mother?

Yesterday, my own adult daughter, hungry and tired from celebrating the Knicks' victory the night before, accused me of being a hypocrite for volunteering to man my church's booth at the annual Culver City Pride Festival. As a stage actor since 1965, I've always had close gay friends (even before they themselves came out of the closet) and have loved and accepted all without reservations. In fact, there are two whom I would marry tomorrow if they would consent because they are perfect. Oddly enough, my daughter knows this, so why the unfair accusation? Apparently when she was thirteen, I didn't let her watch TV's "Will and Grace." Although I do not remember this dictate at all, if I had kept her from the series, it was because I thought she was too young to understand some of the adult themes, not because I am or was homophobic. Clearly, the beef had nothing to do with my leanings, one way or the other, but with resentment. Because I had told her no and my reasoning wasn't sufficient for her, she never forgot it so that at present, it is filed under the nomenclature of "Petty Resentment Toward Mom." And she can take it out and use it as a weapon even though it may or may not be justified. Ouch. At present, I am wondering what else she could resent me for. Maybe I'll ask her sometime before it comes out to bite me when I'm driving. 

The aforementioned, young people on the fence about becoming parents can use to justify not having children. Those of you who already committed to parenthood know that it isn't easy. Raising kids to love unconditionally rather than to resent might just be the hardest thing you've ever done. After all, there wasn't a guide book handed to you in the maternity ward stipulating how to keep your kids from harboring ill will toward you. You just had to wing it the whole way, doing what you thought was right to protect the little suckers (sometimes, literally), and you took the risk of their hating you for it.

Yet maybe it all boils down to balance. You and I resented our parents for something petty, so our offsprings now have the opportunity to hit us in the face with the same Boston cream pie, an apt metaphor as there is bittersweetness here. Parenthood can be painful and so can childhood, yet there are usually so many rewards bestowed by both parties so that overall, there can be no regrets. 

Let's hope that true love outweighs petty resentment in the end.

#resentment, #parenting, #adolescence, #blog, #blogging, #personal-essay

  

Do Black and White Mix to Create Bland?

 

bland - adj. - anything lacking strong features, stimulating characteristics, or distinctive flavor (Merriam-Webster.com)

Yesterday, as my daughter and I were driving to the New Beverly Cinema here in LA to see a screening of The Beatles' classic A Hard Day's Night, she remarked how the majority of cars before us in traffic were tinted either black or white. As she was driving, I had more of a safe opportunity to concentrate on the vehicles around us. With the exception of an occasion red or blue sedan or SUV, muted colors (gray, black, white, brown) were primarily represented, making our view on the bland side. I told her I missed the abundance of colors when it came to the paint on cars. I also missed the variety of makes and models that were once available. Once upon a time, people ordered their vehicles and had a choice of not only multiple colors but also at least a half dozen accessories. Which is generally not the case today since most buy their autos off of lots. 

But do black and white consistently create bland? When it comes down to cars, yes. When it comes to classic films, no. Case in point, the previously mentioned Richard Lester 1964 comedy shot in black and white, accentuating the phenomenon that was The Beatles, was and still is far from lacking in anything. Way back in 1964 when I was five, I had convinced my dad to escort me to the local movie theater, the Rialto, so that I could be one hundreds of young Beatles' fans supporting Beatlemania. Reluctantly, he agreed, but most likely regretted taking me as the screaming in the theater during the feature made it impossible to hear the musical soundtrack or the dialogue. I, of course, did not care. In terms of their looks and mannerisms, the Fab Four were so colorful that I don't think anyone noticed that the print was not in Technicolor. John, Paul, George, and Ringo exuded Technicolor just by being themselves. Last night, my daughter and I were treated to New Beverly Theater owner Quentin Tarantino's personal, flawless, print of the work in 35 mm. Like the film itself, it had not aged at all. Afterwards, I remarked to my daughter that even though many of the sets and costumes were dated, the boys themselves were not. They were and still are, timeless, part and parcel of their genius, anachronisms who were way ahead of their time. 

Black or white or otherwise, there are few music creators out there who exude the same colors as The Beatles. Which is why the New Beverly was packed and totally respectful last night. There wasn't a cell phone in sight. Most of the audience was made up of people under forty, meaning they weren't around when the band was actively making music. Which leads me to believe that all, regardless of age, are craving another natural phenom like The Beatles, who made it the hard way via working dark, dank clubs sans the opportunity to advertise on social media. 

As a singer-songwriter myself, I am very much aware that there is way too much content out there so that if another group like The Beatles were to be born, most likely they might never be discovered unless the members had wealthy or influential parents to finance their rise so that their needle might fall out of the haystack and be found. 

Because life is a balance, I hold onto the hope that maybe I'll see another incarnation of real, unmistakable, far-from-bland musical talent. However if I don't, it's okay as I have a DVD of A Hard Day's Night and a working DVD player so that I can cue it up, lie back on my queen-sized bed, and be immersed in all of the black-and-white colors of the rainbow. 

#black and white films, #The Beatles, #film, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #music

Relating Reciprocation to Bed Rot: A Stretch?

 

reciprocation - noun - the act of responding to a gesture, feeling, or action with a similar or equivalent one.

(www.dictionary.com)

It's hard to escape ubiquitous technology. Like it or not, it has taken charge of our lives so that more than a few are beginning to sit up and take umbrage, especially those whose livelihoods A.I. has erased. (I was just asked to contribute to the musical mind of A.I. recently. Guess what I answered? No, no, and no!) I could go on and on, but when it comes down to keeping abreast of cha-cha-cha-changes, I tend to let the New York Times to do my bidding for me. 

I am a big fan of the publication. Always have been. What can I say? I admire exemplary, objective (and occasionally subjective) journalism underscored with articulate intelligence. The other morning, I was listening to a podcast featuring Yale psychology professor Laurie Santos while I was preparing my daily fruit smoothie. The conversation broadcast had to do with happiness, a concept that can be easily intellectualized but rarely understood as readily attainable. Santos, a young member of the intelligentsia, mentioned "bed rot," a term that I had not heard prior to listening to her thoughts. For those of you who, like me, are oblivious to most of the modern lingo, bed rot is a condition associated with those who spend exorbitant amounts of time lying in bed surfing social media platforms, like Instagram, for instance. According to Ms. Santos, these individuals are not only experiencing loneliness but also unhappiness as the two are correlated. (Again, this finding is not new; it's common sense. Since so few have it, it is often erroneously seen as being synonymous with genius.)  

To defeat loneliness and/or unhappiness (neither of which I have time for), I tend to reach out to real friends, not A.I. creations, and invite them over to my place (a one-bedroom apartment) for dinner. Most are enthusiastically accepting of my generosity and reciprocate by offering to enhance the meal by way of contributing additional items of food or drink. Which is kind and decent of them, kind of like taking baby steps, though, as when it comes to reciprocating fully, taking giants steps forward, they don't, meaning virtually no one I know will return the favor and host the next gathering at his or her apartment or home. I can't help but ask whether bed rot has anything to do with it. Does allowing one's mind to rot via endless online activity cut in to the desire to return favors? Has it obliterated decency? Probably. 

Of course, every once in a while, those who continually depend on me to be the "cruise director," will assuage their own guilt by coming up with excuses as to why they can't return the favor and have us friends at their places. "I'm short of cash." Okay, fine but the invitees can supply most of the meal. "I don't have enough space." Don't invite a hundred; invite two. And let's not forget the classic: "I don't have time." Make time. What I am getting at here is that all things are possible. "If there is a will, there is a way," as my mother was so fond of repeating. By hosting folks, you might just be mitigating their loneliness and unhappiness in addition to your own, effacing the need to listen to thirty-minute podcasts like Santos's that aim to "optimize" happiness. In the time that it takes to hear all of her findings and subtle advice, you can be contacting friends and arranging a meetup. Just sayin'. You are at the helm of your own well being, not technology.

So there. I related bed rot to reciprocation. And it wasn't a stretch at all. Not bad for a common blogger.

#personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #loneliness, #unhappiness, #Laurie Santos, #podcasts, #A.I.

Delicious Delis and Accreting Writers

 

deli or delicatessen - noun - a retail establishment that sells prepared foods, cured meats, fine cheeses, and specialty sandwiches. (Wikipedia)

accreting - adjective - growing slowly over time by accumulating layers. (English Language and Usage)

Two of my favorite scenes from classic cinema take place in actual New York City delis. The first is the opening sequence from Woody Allen's iconic, black-and-white comic elegy for a hapless theatrical agent, Broadway Danny Rose, and the second is from director Rob Reiner's homage to accreting love, When Harry Met Sally. The delicatessen featured in the former is the Carnegie, now defunct unfortunately. The deli in the latter is Katz's, fortunately still a NYC staple at 205 E. Houston Street on the Lower East Side. When I resided in Manhattan 45 years ago, I would trek to Carnegie at 854 7th Avenue between 54th and 55th for a sumptuous, four-inch-thick corned beef sandwich on rye that was way more affordable than the twenty-five dollar version I might have purchased today. Although the original restaurant is no longer, devotees of the Jewish deli can still order from the menu at its Madison Square Garden location or visit the website. But neither experience would be the same. There is nothing that compares to sitting in a slightly dodgy, dusty deli, chatting with a companion or negotiating fingerprint smears on a dirty window in order to appreciate the appearances of passersby on 7th Avenue.    

For whatever reason (probably because the Carnegie used to be cheap), the aforementioned was a hangout for every starving artist looking to bite into half of a hefty sandwich at lunch and take the leftover half home for dinner. If I were still living in New York, I'd probably meet my fellow writer friend, who is hoping to snag an agent (aren't we all?), at Katz's. However, since moving to Los Angeles, I met her today at the equivalent of both the Carnegie and Katz's: the deli-restaurant Canter's, which opened in 1953 at 419 North Fairfax Avenue. Over the years, it has been a location for numerous films and TV series, especially as Television City is right down the street. The decor has not been altered much over the years, and neither has the vast selection of deli classics on the menu. Canter's also has a tempting bakery that specializes in Jewish treats, such as mouth-watering coconut macaroons. Again, it isn't inexpensive, but I did manage to get someone in the kitchen to make me a Jersey Sloppy Joe (not on the menu) for $25. I know. Yikes! But it came with a foil container so that I could tote the leftovers back to my apartment. 

What mattered more to us writers was the conversation. The deli provided the right ambience for us to share our experiences as also-rans–always the bridesmaids, never brides–when it came to finding just the right people to promote our literary talents. My friend, who just finished a manuscript for a children's picture book, has just started to query agents. I, the author of a memoir and psychological drama, have been querying literary agents for six years. I've probably contacted about five hundred by now. Unsuccessfully. The only tidbit of trivia that keeps me on my toes trying is that Ray Bradbury, whose Fahrenheit 451 is still taught in high school English classes, was rejected over eight hundred times before his work was accepted for publication. 

Will I hang in there for as long as he did? Probably not. I could publish tomorrow on Kindle for nothing and start making seventy percent of $3.99 per read right away, something thousands of writers do. But that masters in creative writing that I have keeps reminding me I just might be better than Amazon. Immodest? Maybe. But for now, I'll continue to commiserate with my writer friend over one Sloppy Joe at a time at Canter's and keep the faith that I'll win the lottery and find representation. My friend and I might just be the two in two thousand who, as accreting writers, grow slowly by accumulating layers of tenacity and patience. 

If you just happen to be like us, keep the faith and don't give up easily. 

#delicatessens, #Canter's, #writers, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #advice for writers

Mother's Day: A Redundancy?

 

redundancy - noun - a state of being unnecessary, excessive, or repetitive.

If you live in the real world, a.k.a. material, you are most likely aware of redundancies as they are ubiquitous. Just look around you or just contemplate the universe as you know it. How many examples of unnecessary, excessive, or repetitive nouns (people, places, things, ideas) can you count? Probably more than you would have thought. 

Yet are there days on the American calendar that can be considered redundant? My critics will argue that the Hallmark holidays (Mother's Day, Valentine's Day, Father's Day, Grandparents' Day in particular) are unnecessary, excessive, or repetitive because, let's face it, everyone who can personally relate to any of these should celebrate or be celebrated daily. And I can't disagree. As a mother, every day SHOULD be just for me :). 

However, we don't live in a perfect world because of pretty much one thing. Just in case you didn't already notice, there is a HUGE billboard erected on the side of the daily highway, staring the passerby in the face and screaming, "Beware of HUMAN NATURE!" Face it. Because we are fallible humans, more than a tad self-centered, we need reminders to be good to each other, and we only have ten fingers on which to tie string. Any calendar and Hallmark (the greeting card stores) are in place to give us the added impetus to remember those who have embraced us lovingly in the past, present, and/or future. We need to be glad that we can set aside one day out of 365 to honor special people: moms, lovers, dads, grandparents so that the avalanche of attention bestowed for 24 hours will last another 364 days until we can do it all over again. And if we are on the flip side, the persons being extolled, we can relish all of the attention because we know we might have to wait another 364 days to partake of it again. 

For those of you who are unfortunate enough not to be on the giving or receiving end (and there are many), I recommend that you stop thinking about how disappointed or depressed you are since you haven't been chosen for either of the teams and double up on the giving end. Find someone else's mother or father or grandparent who might actually deserve accolades and give them generously. As for Valentine's Day, adopt a less fortunate soul and buy or make him or her a card. Or just do something memorable for that person. Historically, as I am usually paramour-free (bad break-up timing on my part) around February 14th, I concentrate on remembering dear friends or acquaintances. One year way back in 1983, I gave the lonely doorman of my New York apartment building an economy-sized Whitman's Sampler just because I had a feeling that everyone else would ignore him (as was his daily plight as a sentry at the entrance). He was so delighted that he hugged me until I was nearly blue in the face. You would have thought I had given him a check for a million dollars. No doubt, I made his day, and it has been permanently registered in my mind as a favorite recollection of February 14th.

The moral of this personal essay is the following: Any and all opportunities to love should never be filed under the nomenclature of "Life Redundancies."

For all of you moms (real and adopted), I hope you celebrated Mother's Day yesterday in grand scale with smiles on your faces :). 

#Mother's-Day, #Hallmark-holidays, #holidays, #blog, #blogger, #personal-essay 

The Ephemeral Devil Wears Prada 2: A Review

 

ephemeral - adjective - something that lasts for a very short time

Box-office bonanzas like Barbie or The Devil Wears Prada 2 are ephemeral, especially considering not many people are devotees of cinema-going lately. Movies, in general, are ephemeral since so many are produced and released on the big screen as well as on the small screen. Despite not being as good as the first, The Devil Wears Prada 2 in its opening weekend garnered 234 million dollars, the highest for a Meryl Streep film, which says a lot regarding the actor's perennial appeal. That being mentioned, the film did not make it into my top ten. Perhaps waiting twenty years to make a sequel has worked against the second iteration. 

To be fair, DWP2 possesses a few redeemable qualities for a sequel. My thirty-five-year-old daughter and I both agreed that we enjoyed the on-location sequences, particularly those shot in New York, Milan, and Lake Como, which is always a treat for those of us who dream in technicolor. We also appreciated the costumes, designed by our favorite Pat Fields, known for outfitting Sarah Jessica Parker and friends on Sex and the City. Authentic celebs, particularly names in sports, making cameo appearances throughout the movie kept our interest albeit at some junctures if we weren't paying attention, we missed out. For example, I noticed Masters' winner Rory McIlroy and his wife, whereas my daughter didn't. I liked the juxtaposition of generations Boomer versus Millennial to stress the then-versus-now acceptable norms. For instance, Boomer Amanda has felt the need to juggle career, marriage, and motherhood. At the close of the film, she uncharacteristically (for a female narcissist) expresses regret at having failed at the latter. In the next sentence, she appeases her own ephemeral guilt by saying, "Oh, but I do love working. Don't you?" as if a successful career trumps and forgives all. On the other hand, Millennial Andy knows better, focusing her energies solely on journalism. Like others of her generation, she does not feel pressured to bet on the trifecta, knowing her limitations as a person. Even though she is in her forties, she is content with living her life sans a husband and children.

Where the movie goes wrong is that it doesn't have a clear purpose. It starts out extolling the materialistic virtues of superficial glitz, yet contradicts itself towards the end with Priestly's admission that fashion should be perpetuated for the sake of art and/or beauty. The intention is to carry the character over the threshold of static into dynamic, but the shift is so quick that it makes no sense. One can only suspend disbelief for so long. What else doesn't make sense is including plot elements and characters that beg for back story. The opening scandal involving Runway and Priestly is glossed over, and Lucy Liu's character is thin, literally and figuratively as there is next to no exposition on her. I missed Nate (Adrian Grenier) whose absence is not explained even though he figures prominently at the close of the original film. In addition, the pacing of the film is poor, and the proliferation of technology made me anxious, as anxious as the Gen Z students I used to teach who were addicted to their phones. Twenty years ago, we functioned well with flip phones and desktops, which the first film unintentionally points out. Today, we are consumed with everything imaginable, even AI, more fluff. I hope the filmmakers are trying to communicate this in a not-so-subtle way. (Maybe it's just me as I recently spent time on a virtually deserted island off of Fiji sans any technology at all, not even plumbing or electricity. It was heavenly.) DWP2 is an unpleasant reminder that Silicone Valley has crossed the border into unhealthy territory, a good thing if that is indeed its purpose. But again, the movie lacks a defined purpose.

But don't take my word for it. See The Devil Wears Prada 2 if only for the performances. Streep is, well, Streep, divinely perfect, what every actor ascribes to be. Hathaway returns to perky positiveness and is as wholesome (if there is such a word anymore) as a likable protagonist can be. (They should have given her a much hotter love interest, though.) I also think Blunt is consistent as the antihero Emily. And Tucci is even more lovable as an emotionally vulnerable Nigel, unafraid to show his love for Andy.

If film as art holds a mirror up to who we are in the present, DWP2 is the zeitgeist of contemporary urban life. Maybe what we need to do is examine where we are technologically and think about returning to 2006 so that we don't destroy humanity altogether. 

#Devil-Wears-Prada-2, #movie-review, #review, #critique, #blog, #blogger

Community Theater and Politics

 

politics - noun - the process of making decisions in groups involving the distribution of power, resources, and status; the maneuvering for influence within an organization (Merriam - Webster).

Say what you will. Politics is inherent in every human organization on the planet. You get x-amount of people together anywhere, anytime, or for any reason, and there will be a power play, someone grabbing for leadership. And when said person achieves power within the group (or who already has control), there will be favoritism. Some will win; some will lose. If you don't like it, you know where the door is.

Community theater is not immune to the aforementioned. In fact, politics in the production of plays is rife. I can't blame anyone in particular, just human nature. As an actor who has performed gratis or for a semblance of a paycheck, I have walked in and out of community theaters. I don't know about you, but I despise politics in all of its many forms simply because I don't like cliques or popularity contests. I believe in equity, good ole fairness, something that has gone out of fashion of late along with me as an actor. I audition (when given a chance), garner a part (usually one that no one else wants to play or can play), make my mark (or I think I do), and turn out to be the woman, not for all seasons, but for only one or two. It's not because I don't do the job well. I do. It is because there are actors in the troupe who are younger and prettier than I am of late, those whom the director favors. Granted, I used to have the same effect on directors, usually the men. In college, I fell into the elite theatrical clique and found myself being pre-cast, cast, and recast over and over again. But life is a balance. Isn't it? I should be glad I had been given a slice of the pie fifty years ago.

Nowadays, I am finding that the competition to fit in anywhere in the community theater realm is too fierce to tolerate. Here in Los Angeles, the traditional politics has continued and is perpetuated. I have found that some amateur and professional theater companies alike tend to be on the cultish side in that there is the director (or president), usually the founder of the company, who calls all of the shots. The minions kowtow to him or her in all cases as they want to keep being involved in the productions. If you don't fall into favor with the Grand Poohba, you fall out of favor, meaning the auditions cease to be publicly announced, and you are left out of the mix as the same actors keep getting contacted and cast. A public company soon becomes a repertory one, meaning a closed organization. End of story. Unfortunately, I've see it over and over again. 

Another thing that seems to be on the inequitable side is that actors who will never get paid are treated as though they should be paid. Which means that even if you are planning to audition for a community theater production, you have to be prepared to present a head shot, resume, and two monologues. Huh? What happened to reading from the sides? In addition, the rehearsal schedules are exhausting. Actors, who usually have day jobs or who attend school, are required to rehearse about 25 hours a week. I have been told that in L.A., there are so many actors vying for the golden ring, that community theaters have become showcases that agents attend looking for random talent. When this happens, all of the fun gets torn to shreds, sucked up, and diffused somewhere beyond the proscenium arches and the fourth wall. Amateur theater becomes professional sans monetary compensation.

A word to the wise: all of the above is not meant to discourage those of you who wish to participate in community theater. My purpose is just to be real and to present the truth of the matter. No matter what you do, you'll wind up contending with politics. It is just part of life. Being prepared in advance might make the inevitable a bit more palatable. Your passion for theater of this kind will have to keep you hungry. 

#CommunityTheater, #theater, #politics, #acting, #PersonalEssay, #blog, #blogger