Jew Eat Yet?

Charlie's First Passover

 

Here is a picture of my son at his first seder, paying homage to his great-great grandfather Itshe Meyer Korolnek. I always loved Passover—or Pesach as we called it. Some of my earliest memories involve the two seders we would attend each year at my grandparents’ apartment on Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive. My orthodox grandfather’s seders were true marathons. He wouldn't dream of skipping a single word (in English or in Hebrew) in the Hagaddah, the ritual book that is read during the seder. We savored every morsel of the boiled potatoes in salt water we ate at the beginning of the seder because we knew it would be hours until we had any more food. The potato filled the seder's “Karpas” requirement, the green vegetable for which most people use parsley or lettuce. This was a remnant from my family’s past in the shtetls of Poland where  green vegetables weren’t available at that time of year. “These are so good,” my mother would always say, “why don’t we eat them all year round?” I recall the hefty chunks of raw horseradish my grandfather would make us eat for the bitter herbs, sending us all into dramatic gasps and coughing fits. I dream of my grandmother’s unparalleled gefilte fish, matzah ball soup, and brisket. And I remember how my grandfather placed a call to his parents in Toronto towards the end of the evening so they could sing together the Pesach songs from his childhood—“Chad Gadya” sung in Hebrew, Yiddish, Polish, and Russian!

As befitting the holiday, Charlie went straight for the sickly sweet Mogen David wine. All guests must down four cups of the stuff in the course of the seder. We started drinking that fermented Kool-Aid at an early age. Replacing our grape juice with the hard stuff  was a rite of passage we all looked forward to. One year, my cousin Jerry and I drank so much wine we were falling-over drunk by the time Dayyenu rolled along. My memory is hazy on what happened next but I know at some point, I think just after we ate the hard-boiled eggs, Jerry punched me in the nose, sending streams of blood pouring down over my concord grape wine moustache. Oy.

There was no violence at our seder this year but plenty of excitement as we joined Jewish families around the world in retelling the story of the Hebrew slaves’ exodus from Egypt. As usual, I couldn't stop myself from pointing out characters and moments from the classic 1956 version of “The Ten Commandments,” the definitive cinematic treatment of the Passover story. I’m sure I invoked Charlton Heston, Yul Brynner, and Yvonne De Carlo more often than the names of the actual biblical sages.

Last year Passover fell in mid-April. Kendall was pregnant and couldn’t partake in her beloved Mogen David (she’s the only person I know who actually prefers this wine to all others!). Of course we had no idea that just two weeks later our boys would be making their own exodus, four months ahead of schedule and in the most traumatic of ways. What we went through last spring made this Passover all the sweeter, as we passed around Charlie in all his roly-poly glory. I winced every time a mention was made of the plague in which the first-born son of each family must die. It was hard not to think of our own first-born boy who was taken from us last April. Did we forget to mark our doorpost with lamb’s blood?

I always use a fairly traditional Hagaddah but this year, hours before the seder, I suddenly craved more meaning, more connection to our lives today and the challenges we are facing. I found a wonderful progressive Hagaddah online, removed some of the pages that I found too P.C., and ran to Kinko’s.

To give you a taste of a Hagaddah that would NOT have been used in my childhood, here’s the reading that ended our seder:

Tonight we have acknowledged our ancestors. We vow that we will not allow their stories, their experiences, or their wisdom to fade. These are our legacy, which we will study and teach to our friends and children. The task of liberation is long, and it is work we ourselves must do. As the Talmud tells us: “It is not incumbent upon us to finish the task, but neither may we refrain from beginning it.”

And then, before chanting the traditional, L’shana ha-ba-ah b’Yerushalim!” (“Next Year in Jerusalem!”) we read together these words from feminist author Judy Chicago:

And then all that has divided us will merge  
And then compassion will be wedded to power  
And then softness will come to a world that is harsh and unkind  
And then both men and women will be gentle  
And then both women and men will be strong  
And then all will live in harmony with each other and the earth  
And then everywhere will be called Eden once again.  

Wishing all of you a Happy Passover as you explore your own personal liberation.

Light Up the Sky Like a Flame

 

Do you remember the 1980 movie “Fame?” I loved it at the time even though I was older than the intended demographic. Still, at 20, I was about the same age (or younger) than most of the actors playing high school students in the film. Maureen Teefy, who played nerd-turned-hipster Doris Finsecker, was 27 when she made the film. Barry Miller, who played Ralph Garci (aka Raul Garcia) was 21, and the rest of the cast was between 18 and 20.

“Fame” tells the story of a group of students during their four years at New York’s High School for the Performing Arts.” The breakout star of the film was Irene Cara as Coco Hernandez, an aspiring young singer of Hispanic and African-American heritage. Cara, who is exactly my age, was a child actor on Broadway and then starred as one of the kids on “The Electric Company,” one of the great PBS children’s shows of the 1970s. She had a role in “Roots: The Next Generation” and then catapulted to stardom playing Coco in “Fame,” winning all sorts of awards for the film soundtrack’s hit single, “Out Here On My Own.” She sang that song and “Fame” at the 1981 Academy Awards, the first time in history two songs from the same film were nominated (“Fame” won) and Irene herself won an Oscar a few years later for her song “What a Feeling” from the movie “Flashdance.” I have no idea what happened to Irene Cara since the mid-80s although I remember that she won a bitter lawsuit against her managers who had bilked her out of tons of money.

Leah appeared in a stage version of “Fame” last weekend playing none other than Coco Hernandez. (Who better to play Coco than my red-haired, blue-eyed daughter?) Street dancer Leroy Johnson was also played by a white girl, who did a great job, I have to say. The real Leroy, Gene Anthony Ray, was very close to his character in both the film and TV version of “Fame.” Ray sadly died in 2003 at the age of 41. Like his character, he actually attended the High School of Performing Arts in New York, but was kicked out after a year because of behavior problems.

Other cast members of the original “Fame” included Paul McCrane as the closeted Montgomery MacNeil. I saw McCrane a few days ago (his kids go to Leah’s school) and I remember him as the obnoxious Dr. Romano on “ER” who loses his arm in a helicopter accident. Lee Curreri continued his role as Bruno Martelli in the TV series “Fame” which lasted from 1982 to 1987 (which would make him 26 and still in high school). He ended up marrying the sister of Laura Dean, who was great as the dancer Lisa in the film. The teachers in “Fame” included stalwarts such as the brilliant Anne Meara who played the English teacher, Mrs. Sherwood; Albert Hague, a composer who wrote the song “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” and took his role of music teacher Mr. Shorofsky to the TV series; and Joanna Merlin as Miss Berg. Merlin’s first movie was Cecil B. De Mille’s “The Ten Commandments” and she created the role of Tzeitel in “Fiiddler on the Roof” on Broadway. She currently appears as a judge on “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.”

The only actor who appeared in the original 1980 movie of “Fame,” the TV series, AND last year’s awful movie remake, is Debbie Allen. It was Allen’s words that began every episode of the TV series, and they also appeared in Leah’s play:

“You want fame. But fame costs. And right here is where you start paying…in sweat!”

As I listened to this line again, thirty years after first hearing it for the first time, I suddenly hated the message…and the title of the show. Fame? They want FAME? Why? Aren’t they really there to express themselves creatively, to experience the joy of performance, to touch an audience? I hope so…but I guess “Fame” was a catchier title for a film than “The Joys of Creative Expression.” There were no so-called reality shows in 1980, the concept of fame wasn’t as devalued as it is today with completely talentless people becoming famous for nothing at all. Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, and the cast of “Jersey Shore” wouldn’t last a New York minute in the real High School of the Performing Arts.

As Leah was rehearsing this show a month ago, the cast had a special evening with Dean Pitchford, who along with Michael Gore, wrote many of the songs from the movie and won an Oscar for “Fame.” The cast sang “I Sing the Body Electric” for the songwriter. I always loved that song, the title of which was taken from a Walt Whitman poem.

I sing the body electric  
I celebrate the me yet to come  
I toast to my own reunion  
When I become one with the sun.

It’s poignant watching young people (especially my own child) singing about the “me yet to come.” When the film came out, I was a month away from college graduation and that me yet to come seemed so full of promise, wonder, and uncertainty. It still does at 50, but in a much different way. While “fame” isn’t what I’m looking for, I feel much more able today to celebrate myself and the challenges that will always lie ahead then I ever did at the age of 20. 

Charlie came with us, of course, to cheer his sister on. Here he is in the theatre, just before the show began, excited as ever. Of course he was so excited that he started singing along with Leah during her “Out Here On My Own” solo. Oops. It’s thrilling for me to see all that Leah gets out of performing. Again, it’s not about “fame,” but the joy of creation, the pleasure of collaboration, and the gift of moving an audience to places they couldn’t always get to on their own. 

Here is my daughter as Miss Coco Hernandez:

The Unconventional World of Kendall Hailey

 

Earlier this week my mother-in-law brought over an article about Kendall she had clipped out of the Los Angeles Times 22 years ago this month. Betsy thought Leah would be interested in this story about Kendall and the book she wrote about her decision to leave the high school that Leah now attends a year early and to educate herself instead of going on to college with her friends.

If it weren’t for Kendall’s wonderful book, “The Day I Became an Autodidact,” which I just happened to read a few months after it came out, I never would have approached her all those years ago at a wedding at the Bel Air Hotel and we wouldn’t be together today. And, of course, Charlie would never have been born. Talk about a book that changed my life! I wasn’t the only one. I knew Kendall’s book was popular when it first came out but I was still flabbergasted to see how much space was devoted to this profile of a the 21-year-old first-time author. The article appeared on the front page of the new defunct View section of the L.A. Times, took up most of the page, and continued inside the paper. It was written by Itabari Njeri who went on to win an American Book Award for her own memoir, “Every Good-Bye Ain’t Gone.”

 

It makes me sad to see that lovely portrait of the Hailey family and realize that three of the six are now gone—Kendall’s dad, Oliver Hailey, her beloved Uncle Thomas, and her grandmother Hallie May. I’m grateful I knew all three of them. Oliver has been gone the longest, he died in 1993. Our son Oliver was named for him and seeing the trio of Oliver, Thomas, and Hallie May standing together in this photo, I can only pray that they are taking care of our boy now.

It’s a wonderful article—how many young authors get such an esteemed writer to pen a lengthy profile? The article includes plenty of quotations from Kendall’s book:

It was her uncle, Kendall Hailey writes, “who sparked my first battle with formal education..One day when I was in kindergarten, I decided to paint a picture of his wheelchair.”

Her teacher told her it was the most depressing thing she had ever seen, “and wouldn’t it be nice to put some yellow in it?”

“At the age of 5, I did my best to explain that the painting was a true rendering of my uncle’s wheelchair, not a comment on my life.”

Kendall must have been thrilled that the journalist compared her to two of her favorite actresses in the article.

Kendall Hailey resides in a once-upon-a-time setting, a shaded, woodsy place in Studio City reached by a long, narrow footbridge whose sides are blanketed with ivy. It seems a fitting place for this young woman fired by the world of the imagination.

Were she to run to you across the footbridge now, in the diffused light of the late afternoon, her hands clutching a sweater draped around her shoulders, she might conjure images of a gentle, charming, young Dorothy McGuire.

And when she crossed the bridge and finally spoke, her voice would come with the hyperbolic rush of the romantic, like Jennifer Jones in “Love Is a Many Splendored Thing.”

When Leah read the article this morning, she was interested to see the roots of her stepmom’s late-night habits:

Her distinctive voice—she speaks from the back of her mouth—is almost uncontrollably effervescent, but strong. Disembodied, one would guess it belonged to an older woman—women: maybe Jean Arthur, Katharine Hepburn, Carole Lombard; any one of a number of great voices soaked into her subconscious over the years.

She plays classic Hollywood films at night as she writes—“midnight until 4 or 5 a.m. Those are my work hours. I put on an old movie and Norma Shearer is there keeping me company.” The black-and-white certainty of time caught on film, unchanging, repeatable, is psychologically comforting. It leaves her free to “concentrate and explore.”

Sometimes the article seems more like therapy than an author profile:

She concedes that she is more comfortable with the past than the present. Of contemporary culture, she says, “I still haven’t quite got a grip on it.”

Why not?

“That’s a good question. I don’t know. I suppose I don’t want the past to be forgotten by people my age. I feel like I’m going to hold out. Until they pay attention to the past, I’m not going to even look at the present,” she explains in a rush of words punctuated by laughter.

After Hailey decided to stay home and teach herself, George Furth—playwright, actor, family friend—wrote her a letter, which she published in her book.

See, you are shy, And you are sheltered. And you are suspicious. And a little bit fearful. But so is everyone. But going off on your experience into newness will eliminate all that. I guess what I’m saying is, either go away to college or go away to explore. But move.

You have it in you to nest and hide out and stay protected and the reason for this letter is to beg you to begin the journey in your mind that soon you will begin in your life. Move figuratively and literally.

Kendall didn’t take much of Furth’s advice. I remember when Kendall and I ran into the late author of “Company” and “Merrily We Roll Along” years later in Farmers Market, he was still hocking Kendall to get out from under her family’s influence.

I was very surprised to see the former Assistant Secretary of Education, Diane Ravitch, author of the just-published book, “The Death and Life of the Great American School System: How Testing and Choice Are Undermining Education,” weighing in on Kendall’s decisions:

Noted educator Diane Ravitch confirms the obvious about Kendall Hailey. She is unusual. “I would say it is very rare that anyone can successfully educate themselves. There is nothing to replace a great teacher.” Having said that, Ravitch readily offers, “I think that most people can look back and count on the fingers of one hand the great teachers that they have encountered from kindergarten on.”

The other side of all this, Ravitch says, “is that no matter where you’ve gone to school or how much schooling you’ve had, the only way you can be really be educated is at some point in your life to become an autodidact. Because the most valuable learning is the learning that you come to out of self-motivation. So what Kendall has done is terrific for her. I don’t think it could be considered a pattern for large numbers of people. It’s not accidental that someone like Hailey is able to teach herself,” says Ravitch, who points out that Kendall is self-motivated and comes from “a richly cultured and intellectual background.”

The article later goes into a riveting psychological analysis of Kendall’s family:

“I think I worried more than Oliver,” Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey says about her daughter’s self-education. Growing up, she says, “I made all the conventional choices, until I met Oliver. And that threw open all the doors.”

“Oliver was always the rebel,” his novelist wife continues. He recognized early that his oldest child “just will never get along in a regular school. ‘We’re going to have to get her a tutor,’” she recalls him saying. The playwright admits to selfish reasons for wanting her home. “My daughters and my wife are my three best friends. And I want them with me as long as I can keep them.”

Indeed, his daughter says, “my father is a Mr. Bronte.” Her mother says, “I do think…because Kendall has always known our friends and been part of our lives that she may have been sheltered physically, but emotionally she’s been exposed to a great deal more than I had been at her age.”

Not many young girls had intimate chats with Joan Hackett who taught her family the pleasures of frozen grapes. Or been told what it means to be an actress by Mildred Dunnock: “It’s an awful business, but if you have to, then there’s nothing else.”

That Kendall Hailey seems to have so few people her own age in her life doesn’t bother her mother. “This whole idea of peers is nonsense, anyway.” College is “the only time in your life when you are forced to associate with people your own age. I mean, I was very bored in school. I couldn’t wait to be 21 and have life get started.”

Her daughter speaks, the singular voice shaped by stars here and gone: “I spoke the other day at a reading group and this one elderly lady came up to me and said, ‘Oh, but you’ve got to know people your own age.’ I felt so sad,” Hailey says, “because now her only friends are people her own age. And they are slowly dying. I want to always have friends. I’m cultivating 3- and 4-year-olds now.”

So here’s to my eccentric and fascinating wife, whose toddler friends from this article are now in their mid-20s! Keep marching to your own drummer, Kendall, and don’t let anyone make you lighten your pictures with some yellow. I'm thrilled to join you on your unconventional journey.

Peter Graves Saves Chicago!

 

I was sad to hear that actor Peter Graves died yesterday at the age of 83. And a little embarrassed that to mark his death I had just written a post about feminine hygiene products! Gulp. What would Jim Phelps think?

I admit my first thought when I heard Graves had died was not his iconic role in “Mission: Impossible” (although I LOVED that show) or his wonderfully deadpan performance in “Airplane!” (“Have you ever seen a grown man naked?”). No, my first thought was of my favorite sci-fi flick as a kid, the outrageously absurd “Beginning of the End” in which giant grasshoppers destroy my home town of Chicago. It is so deliciously bad it is a must-see. Befitting the typical Cold War fear-mongering scenarios of the time, Peter Graves plays Dr. Ed Wainright, a scientist at the Illinois State Experimental Farm, who accidentally exposes some common grasshoppers to atomic radiation causing them to grow to gigantic proportions and go on a rampage in downtown Chicago. The effects are so bad that at one point you can see grasshoppers walking off a postcard of the Wrigley Building (which they are supposed to be devouring). Behold the trailer to this glorious classic:

Check out Graves’ rapid-fire delivery of “We may be witnessing the beginning of an era that will mean the complete annihilation of man.” You try saying that ten times! Or his retort, “You can't drop an atom bomb on Chicago!”

Peter Graves made many science fiction movies in the 1950s. usually playing the straight-man PhD trying to explain the weird phenomena. Although his big brother was James Arness, who became a big star in “Gunsmoke,” this did not open many doors for the young actor when he followed his brother to Hollywood from Minnesota. “Jim met me at the train station and said ‘Go back.’ I wouldn’t so he checked me into the Hollywood YMCA, which is a far cry from the Hotel Bel-Air, let me tell you. Jim gave me a copy of the Hollywood Reporter and said ‘Go.’” Graves’ first big break was when he got cast in Billy Wilder’s “Stalag 17,”

Graves appeared in three forgettable TV series in the early 1960s before he was pegged to replace Steven Hill in the brilliant “Mission: Impossible.” It’s easy to forget these days that Graves was not part of the cast during its first year. CBS was a little worried about the switch but Peter was not. “It’s a good spot for me,” he said just before the second season began in 1967. “After shooting four episodes, I knew I fit in artistically with the others. I recently finished a movie with Doris Day, which will be out in the fall. This TV role makes me more of a debonair type. You should see the apartment they’ve set up for Jim Phelps. It’s really posh.” Graves’ presence in the cast catapulted the show in the ratings from 40th to the Top Ten. “That,” insisted Graves, who did not want to grab the credit, “was because we switched to a better time slot.”

“Mission: Impossible,” in my opinion, was the best ensemble acting on television in the 1960s and early 70s. It was also ground-breaking in that the Impossible Mission Force included a woman (Barbara Bain) and African-American (Greg Morris) without making any big deal about it. I was hopelessly in love with Barbara Bain’s Cinammon Carter. I think my favorite episode was when Cinammon was captured by the enemy. Bain was great, and of course, was eventually rescued by Peter Graves. I’m horrified to think that many people today probably think of Tom Cruise, not Peter Graves, when they hear “Mission: Impossible.” I’m also horrified that in the Tom Cruise abomination, they turned Phelps into a traitor who had murdered three of the IMF staff. No way in hell would Jim Phelps turn to the dark side. Peter Graves was also disgusted by the treatment of his character and chose not to reprise the role in the films (Jon Voight played Phelps).

Back in the 1960s, the 6-foot 3-inch Peter Graves was like a real-life Don Draper, always making the best-dressed lists. “I, personally, like good clothes. I appreciate a fine tailored suit and I’m impressed with the expansion of color in men’s wardrobes,” Graves told the American Institute of Menswear in 1968. “While I’m hampered a bit as Jim Phelps in that I must wear black and shades of gray, the character does call for a well dressed individual. Phelps is an urbane man, not rich-rich, but with money and taste who’s learned how to dress.”  Graves enjoyed wearing the new style of turtlenecks that had just become popular in 1968. “I had several turtles before they were in. People seemed to think they were funny. Now everyone in wearing them practically every place. I think that’s real fine, but I don’t agree they should go to a formal affair. Turtlenecks with dinner jackets seem ridiculous to me.”

Graves stayed married to his childhood sweetheart for over 60 years. He had three daughters and six grandchildren. I'm so glad he got to celebrate getting his star on Hollywood Boulevard just a few short months ago. Sadly, he collapsed yesterday after enjoying a pre-birthday brunch with his family. He would have turned 84 this Friday. Our good friend Barbara Rush played Graves’ wife on the TV show “Seventh Heaven” for several seasons a few years ago. They were the most gorgeous and hip grandparents you can imagine. Barbara was devastated to hear about Peter’s passing yesterday and said he was a joy to work with. “One of my most successful marriages!”

Rest in peace, Peter Graves. And don’t worry, the Secretary will not disavow any knowledge of your actions.

Ladies, Do You Feel Clean and Fresh?

 

I’ve been thinking all weekend about the biggest fraud perpetrated on American women during my lifetime. Can you guess what it is?

Douches and vaginal sprays.

Oy, let me explain—I didn’t just wake up Sunday morning obsessed with feminine hygiene. On Saturday night we were at my mother-in-law’s house in Studio City. She was clearing out an old cabinet that had to go because of a new heating unit. Many of the items in this cupboard had not been touched in four decades. Included in the dozens of old cookbooks, cassette tapes, and newspaper clippings were six Ladies Home Journal magazines from the year 1970. I started leafing through the magazines and was immediately struck with the bizarre preponderance of ads for vaginal douches and sprays. I’m not talking tiny little blurbs hidden in the back of the magazine. No, these were full-page (often double-spread), expensive full-color glitzy ads in the front of the magazine worthy of Don Draper and his costly staff.

1970 must have been the most successful year in history for feminine hygiene products. While vaginal cleanliness was not exactly on my radar screen that year (I was ten years old), I do remember seeing Summer’s Eve bottles in my house at that time. And the Feminique spray in the ads looked very familiar. The ads in the Journal tried to use jargon from the women’s liberation movement that was in full flower in 1970, but today they come off as blatant signposts of patriarchy. What else can you call the concerted effort of Madison Avenue to falsely convince American women that they were just not okay down there?

Let me just give you a sampling of the dozens of douche and vaginal spray hard sells present in these magazines:

Your douche may make you smell nice. But, do you know what it’s doing to you? Inside? Like a good douche should be, Jeneen is gentle, while it helps clean away stubborn odor-causing bacteria. More than that, it gets at elusive odor causing bacteria other douches might miss. Which means, when you feel very very clean and very very pretty after douching with Jeneen, you really are. So, be nice—not only on the outside!

Now for every woman: the SECOND deodorant you may need whether you know it or not!  Sure, your underarm deodorant protects you. Under your arms. But what about an even more serious odor problem—internal feminine odor? For that you need Norforms, the second deodorant! It’s every woman’s worry. Germs inside you every day cause internal odor—an odor different from the one on the outer vaginal area. So even regular bathing or feminine sprays won’t solve the problem. They can’t get inside to give protection where this problem starts.

Today’s woman recognizes that vaginal odor can be a problem any day of the month. But it’s a problem you can banish with Bidette. Instantly, easily. For complete, full month feminine assurance, keep Bidette handy and deal with a woman’s problem like a woman. Discreetly.

Five years ago most women would have been too embarrassed to read this page. This is about a product that would have made your grandmother faint and your mother blush. All it should do to you is make you happy. Very happy. Because now that “The Pill” has freed you from worry, “The Spray” will help make all that freedom worthwhile. “The Spray” is called Feminique. The name is feminine, which is precisely what this product will make you. Feminine in every sense of the word. From now on, when you bathe, don’t neglect the most important part of you. And don’t risk using your harsh underarm deodorant or your strong perfume on that most important part of you either.

What does douching with Demure have to do with your husband? A lot. Every husband wants his wife to be feminine. And Demure Liquid Douche lets you discover how completely feminine you can be. Demure deodorizes so thoroughly, so pleasantly, you know you’re the woman your husband wants you to be. Feminine…in every sense of the word.

Unfortunately, the trickiest deodorant problem a girl has ISN’T under her pretty little arms. That was solved long ago. The real problem, as you very well know, is how to keep the most girl part of you—the vaginal area—fresh and free of worry-making odors. Now, finally, there is a new way. It’s called Pristeen. Pristeen is a brand-new vaginal spray deodorant that’s been especially developed to cope with the problem. It works externally, because that’s where the trouble starts. Tension and pressure can cause it. So can getting all hot and perspire-y. So can your own natural body functions. No matter. Whatever starts those troublesome vaginal odors, Pristeen stops them. Pristeen is very nice to use. It feels light and dry. (Your hands never touch it, or you.) And it has a sort of pink chiffon smell that blends in with you and never competes with your perfume or anything like that. Why take chances? Starting today, make Pristeen as much a part of your daily life as your bath or shower. It’s just as essential to your cleanliness. And to your peace of mind about being a girl. An attractive, nice-to-be-with girl.

Enough, I can’t bear to type the word “problem” or “trouble” one more time. Ladies of 2010, did you know you had such problems? And that you could solve them easily, without “touching you?” I love that euphemism—was everyone in 1970 just terrified of vaginas? When did the speculum-wielding mirror-looking wave of feminism take root? Of course all such “hygiene” products would soon be discredited by medical professionals as completely unnecessary for most women and even harmful if used excessively. Today the U.S. Department of Health warns against most feminine hygiene products as interfering with the vagina’s normal self-cleaning and eliminating the natural bacterial culture of the vagina that helps to prevent infections. 

Apparently douching was a uniquely American phenomenon, and is still used by small numbers of American women. At the risk of extreme TMI, I’ve never known any woman who douched and they certainly did not suffer from any “troublesome” odors that prevented them from being “nice-to-be-with girls.” As I looked at these insane ads, I was surprised there was never a spray for male hygiene in the 1970s. When I tried to research this through Google, I came across a current product for men called NodorO. The copy sounds like it was written in 1970:

“Why is it that no matter how much time and effort I put into washing my penis in the shower, I still get that awful whiff of a rancid smell throughout the day, or even right after a shower?” Let's be honest, unpleasant smells are a turn off for anyone, and the last thing you want is for a fishy smell to be coming from your own penis. Don’t worry, you are not alone! NodorO removes and prevents male genital odors. Be happier. Be more confident. Smell FRESH, smell CLEAN, smell PERFECT. Shipped and billed ANONYMOUSLY for your privacy. 

Yikes. Turnabout is fair play, I guess.

Oscars 2010: The Ten Commandments

 

For the first time in ages, not a single winner thanked Jesus in their acceptance speech. What gives? Is Hollywood losing its spiritual edge? With that slight in mind, let's look at last night's Academy Awards presentation in terms of the Ten Commandments God reserves for the annual telecast.

1. Thou Shalt Not Debase the Oscars in the Show's First Thirty Seconds. I like Neil Patrick Harris, but besides the jarring experience of seeing him open the awards instead of the heavily promoted co-hosts, I found his glitzy musical number horribly written and executed. Sorry, Neil, I usually love splashy and sarcastic numbers like that but it was too soon in the show and way too weak. The day before, hyperbolic producer Adam Shankman called it “the most dynamic opening, from drama to spectacle to humor, that has ever been staged.” Um…no. The near-naked showgirls were over-the-top and meaningless (if they really wanted to get our attention, why not gyrating showboys to accompany the openly gay star?) and the references to things like masturbation and prison rape (hello?) were just not funny. I like ribald as much as the next guy but come on. Did he really just mention Dolly Parton’s hooters? Hey, Neil, 1983 called—it wants its joke back! This was one of the worst beginnings in Oscar history and almost makes me long for Rob Lowe’s infamous duet with Snow White. Maybe Hugh Jackman could have pulled it off.

2. Thou Shall Not Squander Great Talent. I thought getting Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin to host together was an inspired move and they didn’t disappoint. Except they were barely there. Remember when a host was really a host? Think Bob Hope, Billy Crystal, even Johnny Carson. They used to hold the show together, providing continuity and recovery from the frequent cringe-producing moments. Baldwin and Martin disappeared for most of the overlong show. When they were there, they were usually funny, even when they were reading dumb jokes. I admit I laughed out loud when Steve introduced “that damn Helen Mirren.” “Not damn,” Alec replied. “It’s DAME!” In general I found the writing subpar this year (where was the biting political commentary that is usually sprinkled throughout the show?). But the little clips of Alec and Steve in bed and watching the show in their Snugglis were spot-on.

3. Thou Shalt Not Sell Your Soul to Get a Better Demographic. I was scared by the producers’ frequent comments leading up to the show that they were trying to attract a younger crowd this year. My worst fears were realized by the vapid teen stars they dragged out throughout the show who had absolutely no business on that stage. I don’t mean to be ageist, and believe me, there is a long list of amazingly talented young performers that should have been up there, from Abigail Breslin and Saoirse Ronan to Mia Wasikowsa and anyone from the “Harry Potter” cast. So why trot out people like Miley Cyrus, Taylor Lautner, and Kristen Stewart? Is their presence really going to make young people watch this show? I think not. Compared to them, Zac Efron, also on hand for the teens, seemed like Laurence Olivier. Oy. Memo to Young Hollywood: SPIT YOUR GUM OUT before going on national television! Yikes. I'm surprised they weren't texting from the stage.

4. Thou Shalt Not Humiliate Yourself in Front of a Billion People. The only truly embarrassing moment came after “Music for Prudence” was named Best Short Documentary. Director-producer Roger Ross Williams had just started an eloquent speech when producer Elinor Burkett burst onto the stage and cut Williams off, Kanye West-style. She mumbled something about women never getting to speak which seemed totally bizarre for the moment and then launched into her own rambling speech, never giving Williams the chance to finish his thoughts. Ouch. Until this morning I believed this was just an accident caused by the over-excitement of the moment. I was surprised to hear that it was all quite deliberate, that Burkett was disgruntled over the direction the film had taken and felt she should have been given the award because it was her original idea. Burkett claimed that Williams rushed to the stage and that his mother tried to block her with her cane. Oh well, this ugly moment may make people remember the mostly unseen film.

5. Thou Shalt Not Be Smug or Ungracious. Again, I want to give the offender the benefit of the doubt and chalk her faux pas up to nerves, but when Sandy Powell won the Oscar for Best Costume Design for the wonderful film “The Young Victoria,” she looked blandly at the award and said “I’ve already got two of these at home so I’m feeling greedy.” It doesn’t sound that bad in print but it didn’t go over well on the Kodak stage, causing me to shout, “So give it back! How about Colleen Atwood for ‘Nine’ or Catherine Leterrier for “Coco Before Chanel’?” Then she dedicated her Oscar to other costume designers but again, her sentiments fell flat. “This one’s for you but I’m going to take it home tonight, thank you.” Oy, Sandy. I think it's a given that multiple award winners should never refer to their previous Oscars in front of hundreds of people who would sell their mother for a single one. 

6. Thou Shalt Not Hire Gratuitous Street Dancers. In my opinion, the most appalling sequence of the entire night was the series of interpretive dances to the Best Film Score nominees. Let me be clear: the dancing was extraordinary, no doubt about it, but the dances had absolutely nothing to do with the style or content of the films they were depicting. We know this number was producer Adam Shankman’s baby, he of “So You Think You Can Dance” fame, and I hear that many of the dancers came directly from that show.  But why? For this they took away all performances of the Best Song nominees? It added absolutely nothing to the telecast and was a muddled, stylistically incoherent mess. Paging Debbie Allen! At least her dance extravaganzas attempted to relate to the films at hand.

7. Thou Shalt Not Dishonor the Dead. First of all, I love James Taylor, but can we end the practice of a live performance during the clips of people who have died during the year and instead just focus on the video? The problem with the performance is that the camera focuses on that individual with the video screen in the background and we are unable to read the names of the people being memorialized. But the real travesty, as usual, were the omissions. Where, I ask you, were Farah Fawcett and Henry Gibson? Sure, they rose to fame in other mediums (hello Michael Jackson, who WAS honored) but Fawcett and Gibson were both excellent actors who did some wonderful work on the screen. Outrageous.

8. Thou Shalt Not Play Favorites with the Dead. I’ve got nothing against director John Hughes, who died way too young and who made some excellent iconic films, but what was the deal with the loooong tribute to the deceased director? Former Hughes favorite Molly Ringwald looked bizarre and terrified as she haltingly talked about the director with Ferris Bueller himself, Matthew Broderick. Then, in this never-ending sequence, the curtain opened to reveal several members of Hughes’ 1980s Brat Pack along with some stars of his other films. Apart from the shock value of seeing how some of the Brat Packers had aged, I found the whole tribute a bit out of place. Especially since the Academy decided to brush off this year’s living honorees, Lauren Bacall, cinematographer Gordon Willis, and director Roger Corman in an untelevised event. Why? So we can watch Shankman’s dancers breakdance the diffusing of a bomb in “The Hurt Locker” sequence? At least they showed a clip of the dinner with Bacall screeching, “The thought that when I get home I'm going to have a two-legged man in my room is so exciting I can hardly stand it!” But when they came back to Bacall at the actual Oscar telecast, they practically had to beg the audience to acknowledge her.

9. Thou Shalt Not Fuck Up the Clips Segment. What, in God’s name, was the salute to horror films about? Or, as pronounced by incompetent Pretty Young Presenters Taylor Lautner and Kirsten Stewart, “Whore Films.” Couldn’t they at least have made up a reason for this out-of-place segment? The hundredth anniversary of the first silent horror film? The 50th anniversary of one of Hitchock’s classic films? No reason, other than to shove gratuitous scenes of the shirtless studs from “Twilight” (gotta get that young demographic!) in between clips of well made horror films and a slew of films that didn't belong there at all. The clips features are often my favorite part of the show, but they absolutely need a proper context. Can we all agree that there’s no reason to bring back this year’s producers, Bill Mechanic and Adam Shankman? I’m not saying it’s an easy gig, I just think all their instincts were dead-wrong. Who produced last year? That was one of the best shows in a long time, and not just because goddess Kate Winslet won for Best Actress.

10. Thou Shalt Not Patronize Half the Population. Seeing rare Oscar attendee Barbra Streisand appear to dish out the Best Director award, I thought maybe it had leaked that Kathryn Bigelow was going to win and become the first woman to get the prize. Why else would Babs be there? (Am I the only one who thought she should have won the Best Director prize for “Yentl”?) The way Barbra and the announcer kept stressing this year the Best Director Oscar could go to the first woman or African-American actually had me feeling sorry for James Cameron (not an easy feat). Oh, yeah, and those other two white guys, whoever they were. Bigelow did win, gave a classy speech, and I’m sure was most worthy of the award (I still haven’t seen “The Hurt Locker”), but who made the asinine decision to have the orchestra play “I am woman, hear me roar!” as Streisand and Bigelow left the stage? Jesus Christ. Would they have played “We Shall Overcome” if Lee Daniels had won?

I give the overall show a solid C, even with the appealing team of Baldwin and Martin at the helm. That said, I have no problem with the winners, and I correctly guessed on all but one of the awards. I knew picking Gabourey Sidibe was a long-shot and I did it only because I couldn’t bear to imagine anyone who starred in last year’s execrable “All About Steve” winning the Best Actress Oscar. I still haven’t seen “The Blind Side” but I thought Sandra Bullock's speech was perfect. Jeff Bridges was very deserving and very sweet, Christoph Waltz sincere and a little scary, and Mo’Nique intense and moving. I found trotting out the nominees at the top of the show unnecessary and the bit of having the actors' pals pay tribute to them as their award was being announced probably sounded better in the planning stage (it didn’t hold a candle to last year’s beautiful moments when five former winners of that category talked about the nominees). Ben Stiller’s Naa'vi bit was mildly funny but what was the deal with Tom Hanks not even mentioning the ten nominees (too many!) for Best Picture and just blurting out “The Hurt Locker” as the winner? Talk about an anti-climax!

 

Oh well, at least Charlie enjoyed his first Oscars, even though he was deeply disappointed that his favorite actress Penelope Cruz didn’t win. There's always next year, Charlie!

Oscar Death Shroud

 

Yesterday Leah and I went to the opening day of Tim Burton’s new version of “Alice in Wonderland” at the El Capitan Theatre in Hollywood. The El Capitan is directly across the street from the Kodak Theatre, site of tomorrow’s Oscars presentation, and it was just insane getting into and out of this gridlocked area. All of Hollywood Boulevard was closed to traffic and hundreds of workers were in the throes of preparation for the big day. As always, it was interesting to see the gigantic Oscars in their plastic shrouds, extra thick this year because of the rain that is predicted all weekend.

As the Oscars are being wheeled into place, the Kodak always takes on the air of an Emergency Room triage. The Teamsters shlepping the behemoth awards start looking like EMT workers, especially in this shot I snapped of a man seemingly giving CPR to the golden statue. It’s always strange seeing seedy Hollywood transformed for public consumption and this year even more of Hollywood Boulevard was blocked off from the prying eyes of pedestrians. But I did manage to see several behind-the-scenes moments such as the parade of burly men wearing signs around their neck stating which Supporting Actress nominee they were standing in for during tech rehearsals. I think the Vera Farmiga guy was giving me the eye.

Leah and I walked the plastic-covered red carpet that the A-list stars will traverse tomorrow afternoon. I fantasized aloud to Leah how it would feel if one day she was nominated for an Oscar. Then I wondered if Charlie might take a similar interest in performing. Wouldn’t it be amazing if they were both nominated for an Oscar one day? Leah gave the proper response—that she loves to act but doesn’t care about awards. But that got me thinking about siblings who have been nominated for Academy Awards. The most famous sibling rivalry on Oscar night had to be sisters Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine competing for the Best Actress prize in 1941. Joan won that night (for Alfred Hitchcock’s “Suspicion”) and was famously snubbed by her sister but competitive Olivia had the last laugh by winning the Oscars in 1946 and 1949. Amazingly, both sisters are still with us, among the very last movie stars from the 1930s. I’m convinced their decades-long rivalry is keeping them alive—each sister refuses to be the first one to die.

This year Maggie Gyllenhaal joins the short list of sibling nominees since brother Jake was nominated several years ago. Lionel and Ethel Barrymore both won Oscars (surprisingly brother John was never nominated but his granddaughter Drew may well be one day). Jane and Peter Fonda were both nominated several times but only Jane has won. Joaquin and River Phoenix are the only brothers to get acting nominations. Besides Olivia and Joan, sisters Meg and Jennifer Tilly have been nominated along with multiple nominees Lynn and Vanessa Redgrave. In 1966, the Redgrave sisters were up against each other for Best Actress but both lost out to Liz Taylor. Rounding out the brother-sister nominees are Julia and Eric Roberts and, of course, Shirley MacLaine and Warren Beatty. Can Leah and Charlie Miller be far behind?

We fought our way through the Oscar chaos and finally made it inside the beautiful El Capitan. That theatre has such special memories for me. Leah’s mom was downing castor oil in the El Capitan’s bathroom just hours before Leah was born. My daughter and I have probably seen over a hundred movies at this Hollywood showplace. When Leah was a little girl, Disney showed a different classic movie every Saturday morning at 10 am and we went to see nearly every film, from “The Parent Trap” to “Song of the South.” I hope they start up such showings in time to educate Charlie on Hayley Mills' oeuvre and other important artistic achievements.

The new version of “Alice in Wonderland” has been getting mixed reviews but we enjoyed it. The always interesting Johnny Depp was surprisingly restrained as the Mad Hatter but Burton spouse Helena Bonham Carter chomped down every square inch of scenery as the crazy and deformed Red Queen. She was great. Anne Hathaway played her sister, the White Queen. Burton said that he based this characterization on British cooking goddess Nigella Lawson. Kendall and I are both obsessed with Nigella, in part for her delicious meals (I’ve made a fair amount of them) but mostly because of her haunting beauty and wonderful if slightly batty joie de vivre. As Burton said, “She's really beautiful and she does all this cooking, but then there's this glint in her eye and when you see it you go, ‘Oh, whoa, she's like really ... nuts.’ I mean in a good way. Well, maybe. I don't know.”

 

Now that we’ve clawed our way out of Hollywood, stay tuned for my annual Oscars post-mortem. I’m a little scared about tomorrow’s telecast since I heard the producers saying how they were hoping to attract a younger audience. Yuck—that usually means an endless parade of vapid young TV stars as presenters. I stand by all my predictions of last month although I still think Gabourey Sidibe’s win is wishful thinking on my part.

Charlie has already picked out his outfit for his very first Oscar telecast—a formal onesie. He thought that Mo'Nique was excellent in "Precious" but he’s hoping that Penelope Cruz will win for “Nine.” Poor thing—I had to tell him his favorite actress doesn’t stand a chance.

Donuts n’ Formula

 

The above photo was taken this morning at Farmers Market in Los Angeles. Located at Third and Fairfax, I’ve been going to the 75-year-old institution almost daily since I moved to L.A. in the mid-1980s. It’s a fantastic place to write, people watch, and eat all sorts of delicacies. I’ve mentioned the place dozens of time on this blog and, indeed, have written many of these posts from there.

Charlie and I have a ritual of going to Farmers Market early in the morning, letting his night owl mom get a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep. He loves it. I often take photos of our reflection in one of the store windows as a souvenir of our visit. This morning we were there long before most of the shops opened. We enjoyed some coffee and formula in the East Patio, with a little treat from Bob’s, which I once named the best donut place in Los Angeles. I love that a lot of the Farmers Market employees and regulars now recognize Charlie. He never fails to flash everyone in his path a killer smile. 

As I’ve mentioned, the place attracts an unusual blend of foreign tourists pouring out of buses, “Price Is Right” hopefuls wearing their oversized nametags from next door’s CBS studios, locals who have been going to Farmers Market for decades, and celebrities. This morning the table next to me and Charlie was soon occupied by director Paul Mazursky and his daily coffee klatch of writers, producers, directors, and actors. Mazursky has been coming to Farmers Market for ages. Today he was regaling actor George Segal and other friends with his review of Roman Polanski’s latest film. A few minutes later, a semi-regular from the TV show “Lost” walked by and pronounced Charlie “absolutely adorable!”

At some point Charlie and I walk through the neighboring outdoor mall called The Grove where we usually come across a group of high-powered only-in-L.A. ladies jogging with their baby strollers. I call them the “Healthy Moms” and often have to dodge them as they charge down the main drag of the Grove at breakneck speed. They all wear expensive designer sweats and wheel their babies in the most exclusive sporty strollers money can by. Today we watched as the ten or so women parked their babies in a line in front of the Victoria’s Secret window. Each of them whipped out a jump rope and one of the women faced the others and led them in a vigorous aerobics class. The babies looked on, glumly. I felt like going back to Bob’s for another donut. 

 

In a few weeks, Charlie will reach another huge milestone. He’ll have been home with us longer than he was at the NICU. Since things have been going so well with him (poo, poo, poo!), it’s almost tempting to pretend as if the traumatic first five months of his life never happened that way. But we don’t pretend, we’re acutely aware of it. I am so incredibly grateful for every second we spend with our happy, healthy, good-natured son. I don’t even have the words to describe what he brings to our lives. When Kendall was pregnant, I secretly dreaded the infant months that loomed ahead—I loved when Leah was an infant so many years ago, but the concept of going through those sleep-deprived months at MY age with a tiny being who is so dependent on you for his very survival didn’t seem appealing to me at all. Couldn’t babies be born at three years old, I wondered? God, was I wrong. What is more fun than a baby? There hasn’t been a single second that Charlie has been home with us that hasn’t been filled with love, gratitude, and fun. Do I sound like a Stepford Dad? I’d probably be puking if I read someone else saying these things, but today I just wanted to express my endless gratitude for Charlie’s miraculous journey from a 1 lb. 4 oz. baby barely clinging on to life to the robust super-baby he is now. 

We lost one of our sons ten months ago under horrible circumstances. I’ve been in touch with many parents of babies that were in the NICU before Charlie, during our time there, and some whose babies are struggling there right now. I’ve been reading the blogs of parents whose children are fighting awful diseases, including a little two-year-old girl in Texas who only has a short time left and whose parents have received an outpouring of support on their blog and on Twitter. I feel for Marie Osmond and her ex-husband as well as Star Trek’s Walter Koenig and his wife who lost their sons to suicide last week. I read about people who have lost one or both of their twins and try to reach out if I can. I don’t follow these people out of some morbid curiosity, I do it because I feel like I’m now in some kind of brotherhood of parents who have faced the worst and lived to tell the tale. When Charlie was in bad shape at Cedars, and so many people sent good thoughts or prayers for him, I KNOW that these people helped our son get to where he is today. 

Thank you.