Stairway to Heaven... or Heaving

75 floors. 1700 steps. The tallest building west of the Mississippi. Guess what I'm going to be climbing up on September 28th?

Did you guess the U.S. Bank Building?
You are kee-rect!

I'm going to be a part of the 2012 Stair Climb for the Ketchum-Downtown YMCA. It's an annual fundraiser for their inner-city programs. They do a lot of good for kids & families: after-school programs, summer camps, affordable preschool and daycare, teen counseling... I've been a member of the Y for quite a few years, and I've always been intrigued by the Stair Climb Challenge.

I had a bucket tear!

It's actually pretty amazing that I'm stepping foot on those stairs at all. Around 2008 I was jogging barefoot on the beach and rrrip went my right meniscus (that little colloidal cushion under your knee). Knee surgery followed. I asked the surgeon what I could do post-op. He suggested leg lifts, say, 50 a day.
"For how long?" I inquired.
"Oh, for the rest of your life."
"Anything else?"
"Hmmm... no."

Luckily I found an amazing physical therapist (Derek Plonka, Insight Physical Therapy in Santa Monica) who gave me a wee bit more to work with than that. Through a regimen of icing and strengthening exercises he got me back on track.

Then the other meniscus tore. This time, I opted for no surgery, only physical therapy.

After a year, I was solid on my two feet.

And then my back went out. Bulging lumbar disc. Back to Derek.

GETTING OLD IS SO FUN!!

"Let me sample that creme anglais
one more time, okay?"

After two years of timid exercise and overzealous baking classes, things were getting, let us say, out of proportion.





I needed a change, so I swallowed the "Results and Recovery" Kool-Aid of P90X guru Tony Horton. Surprise surprise, with his exercise programs I achieved both results and recovery! All the dread plyometric exercises made my leg muscles stronger than ever, and my knees feel protected and safe. Awwww....

Before THAT all goes south (really, I'm just two lemon meringue pies and a Bûche Nöel away from disaster) I thought I'd give myself a challenge and go stepping for a cause. I've been running up and down the stairs across the street from where I live, and just last week I trained with the Hollywood Y up and down the CNN building--15 floors five times. I made it!

But I need your help. I'm part of a grand team: author Sally Nemeth (who, as a veteran of these climbs, is the Van Helsing of our group), voice-over goddess Kari Wahlgren, and housekeeper extraordinaire Nubia Avendaño. We call ourselves TEAM TURTLE. Slow and steady! Slow and steady! Our team has to raise $500, and we'd like to get it to $700 by the generosity of our friends. Could you throw a few bones our way to give us incentive? Go to my pledge page, it's really easy. Any amount will help.

Thanks so much.

Update: Due to the incredible and RAPID generosity of a few people, we've blown past our goal and have moved the goalposts (is that a thing? ) up to $1000. Thank you thank you!

The City Mouse Chills Out

You can hardly blame me if I had reservations. A canoe trip. In the Ozarks. 107 degree temperatures. With in-laws. Chance of storm showers. Sound like fun to you?

I am, by nature, not to be found in Nature. I am much more likely to be found in Coffee House. Preferably one with wifi.  I am a creature of concrete and meters, with very occasional forays to a temperate beach. Doug's whole family knows this about me, and yet, with perverse delight, insist I come with them. So, we made the trek to Southern Illinois. Two days in Godfrey, and two days camping three hours south in Missouri. "Can't wait to see you camping," his mother told me with uncharacteristic glee, as she welcomed me to her home. You and me both.

Illinois was in the midst of an unprecedented heat wave. Even Benjamin lasted only minutes in the sun. I sought solace in a nice iced frappuccino, and this was when I realized, to my infinite horror, that Godfrey Illinois differs from Los Angeles in one crucial aspect: it is bereft of coffee establishments. I entered "coffeehouse" into my Yelp iphone app and it diverted me to St. Louis. I pled with Siri: "Where can I get a cup of coffee?" and she pretty much shrugged. I may have also heard a faint metallic snicker.

Starbucks! Starbucks!
Why hast thou forsaken me?

The City Mouse is dumfounded. Truly, it is beyond urban comprehension. I could throw a stone in any direction from my house and it would land in a grande soy double-shot mocha. Surely, people drink coffee in Southern Illinois. Made to order, overpriced iced coffee beverages are a basic human need, right after food, clothing and internet access. How could there NOT  be a coffee shop? Where do all the wannabe screenwriters sit and check out their Twitter accounts? And what about Starbucks and their evil corporate pursuit of world domination? Isn't Godfrey, Illinois deserving of evil corporate domination? Don't folks here know what they're missing? Do we need to organize a "Coffee for Godfrey" benefit concert? By all that is good and holy, get me a frappuccino!!! (1 pump, no whip).

(The caffeine crisis was averted by a trip to Schnucks, which sold bottled Starbucks. I was later told that there is a perfectly nice Panera not too far away. I took this, much like the white ovoid robot in "Wall-E" views the green seedling, as a sign that civilization is possible.)

I was duly caffeinated when we made our trip to the southeast Ozarks. THE SOUTHEAST OZARKS. Somewhere, in the back of my lizard brain, I heard the ominous buzz of giant mosquitos and twanging banjoes. My inner Ned Beatty was frightened. Luckily, I had my ten-year-old son with me, and I had to show him, by example, not to be frightened by new experiences and that challenges were to be embraced. It was not unlike me encouraging him to handle the worms in my compost bin without him knowing that I, in actuality, have a mortal fear of earthworms (childhood annelid trauma, best left for another post).

The day was sunny, but not lethal. Montauk State Park is not the desolate wilderness I was expecting, but more in line with the Pocono Mountain camp I used to attend every summer in my remote adolescence. Ah, Spruce Lake Christian retreat, if you could see me now! I have fond memories of that camp; when we weren't being converted or testifying, we had a full slate of outdoor activities and cookouts. I can remember all those Christian camp songs to this day, and will unleash them, full-throated, upon Doug if he provokes me. I also recall with fondness how I would get asthma attacks at 2 am whilst sleeping in the communal tent, and how the next morning the other boys would exclaim "Last night did you hear that woman screaming?"

This time, there is no tent in my future. While Doug's siblings and their families were pitching tents in the campground and his mother was staying at The Lodge, Doug had reserved us a cabin. This proved to be a good move; as we arrived at the campgrounds the promised rainstorm began. We left his family to hurriedly erect their tents and drove to our "cabin." This "cabin" was more like a rental condo in the woods, four units to a building. We had a full kitchen, living room with a Pullman bed for Benjamin, bathroom and a separate bedroom. Air conditioning. Balcony for grilling.

It was roughing it! We had no cable!

The City Mouse is overjoyed.

Dinner was cooked and eaten out of the rain in our "cabin," and though there were twelve packed into the space it didn't feel too crowded, not when there was another room to retreat to. Our phones got no reception at all and there was no wifi, but I was perfectly happy with this conception of Roughing It. I got a LOT of reading done. We slept, slightly warm and unassailed by bugs, Facebook posts or the New York Times daily crossword.

And the day of the float trip? Miraculously, the rain had cooled everything down and it was a perfect 85 degrees and SUNNY. We were driven to the dock site in a repurposed school bus driven by a man with questionable teeth and a growth in the back of his neck the size and shape of a Mandarin orange. Doug, Benj and I were in one canoe, Doug steering in the back and me up front finally using the muscles God and P90X has granted me. We set off.

It was a revelation. I hadn't realized how much of a Californian I've become until  this float trip. The ocean is in constant, roiling motion; the sound and movement of the water is a reminder of the ever-changing nature of the world, the steady pulse of destruction and creation. The journey down the Current River offered a meditation of a completely different sort. For long stretches it was completely still and serene. My paddle dipped quietly in the current. Each small movement—the sudden eddy around a stone, the fish flicking on the surface, the rustle of a river otter along the bank—commanded my attention and kept me in the present. I was in Nature, and I was part of Nature, one with the muskrats, snakes and crawdads. Sure, there were lots of others on the river: families on kayaks, raucous high school kids, old-time fishermen, even a pod of giant women lounging with beers on inflatable rafts, but a dozen strokes later the canoe sailed around the bend into silence once more. Peace.

And the water! So crystalline. We swam in a section where spring waters merged into the river, and jumping in was like drinking a tall glass of cold water on a hot summer day, but WITH YOUR ENTIRE BODY. It was also the oddest phenomena to come up to the surface and realize that it tasted, not like salt, not like chlorine, but like, well, WATER.

My brave boy...

The best part? Watching Benjamin soak it all in. He saw other kids jump off a twelve-foot cliff into the river and without any hesitation followed them in, then made instant friends on a rope tied to a tree swinging out into the water. This, I thought, is what a summer vacation looks like. 


The City Mouse is converted.

* This post written at the Starbucks at Gower & Sunset, southwest corner *

Literary Nonsense

Damn, June has just sped on by. 


It's been a deluge of activities from most sectors of my life: as a father (the endless end-of-the-school-year events); as a brother (my sister's wedding, which was so beautiful and magical we felt we were in a Nora Ephron rom-com); as an actor (hosted a party for the Kung Fu Panda folk--hey, we won four daytime Emmys!); as an Alien aficionado (I liked "Prometheus"—shut up!); as a writer—


Uh, in that sector, not so much. 


Because of my scriverly neglect, I thought I'd offer you a little smorgasbord of academic fun, something for the intelligentsia in all of us. Don't worry— no "Prairie Home Companion," I promise.


First off, from The Onion, an apocalyptic warning from the poets of America. The printed version may actually be funnier than the video, but you can get both here (I tried to embed the video but it's being cranky—sorry). I cringe and laugh at the same time while watching this.

Next up, something for you "Fresh Air"fans, a side of Terry Gross you may not have seen before:





Have you tried "Wordle" yet? It's a website where you can upload the entire text of whatever writing you're working on, and it'll generate word art based on the words you most frequently use. The program disregards the small words, so you don't end up with an image full of prepositions and conjunctions. It only takes a second to work, and you can spend HOURS adjusting the colors, the format, the orientation of the words... you wonder where my time goes. I put in my manuscript of "This is How It Begins" and here's what came back:

Besides looking super cool (especially printed up on photo paper) I like how it makes you view your writing by condensing all the 84,000 words you've written into just the top 100 (or 150, or whatever you designate). For instance, I knew Emily would figure largely in the design, but I thought Liberace would be a bit more prominent, given how much he figures in the story. I love how the accordion is nestled right above Emily's name. 


For those of us forging ahead with their writing projects, my sister Susan found a great site which offers up a marvelous list of writing tips from famous authors: http://www.openculture.com/2012/01/writing_rules.html

The authors include Neil Gaiman, Henry Miller, George Orwell and Margaret Atwood. I especially liked Miller's #3, 6 & 10:

3. Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.
6. Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
10. Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.

—And Atwood's last two:

9. Don’t sit down in the middle of the woods. If you’re lost in the plot or blocked, retrace your steps to where you went wrong. Then take the other road. And/or change the person. Change the tense. Change the opening page.

10. Prayer might work. Or reading ­something else. Or a constant visual­isation of the holy grail that is the finished, published version of your resplendent book. 

Walking the dog yesterday morning, I came upon a young coyote nestled in the leafy ground of a front yard one house away from me. The front yard! He was supremely unconcerned that a man and his slavering dog were coming towards him; indeed, he didn't even get up from the little bed he had made for himself. I thought at first that he must be hurt, he was letting us come so close, but then, when Rowdy made a sudden lunge towards him, the coyote got up, walked two steps further, scratched, and then settled himself down again. He was six feet from the road! I imagine he knew I have not been working on my coyote book for a few weeks now, and was telling me, "If you're not going to make an effort, I certainly won't!"

He's right. It's back to work. Joyously!

Getting' My Monk On

Smooth head.

I like the feel of a perfectly shaved head, but poor Doug visibly recoils whenever his hand accidentally grazes my shiny noggin. Yes, I admit it feels a bit... reptilian in its smoothness, I'll grant him that, but it can also look hot, yah? I've gotten positive feedback from two of the gay dads at school pick-up... 

Doug's not buying it. "Get some hair on there," he commands.

In a way, guest-starring on this tween sitcom is a lot like theatre. In hour-long dramas, you jump right in. One quick rehearsal for the camera, touch up, do the scene, set up the reverse angle, shoot again, and move on. Here, we've got a whole week of blocking the scenes, rehearsing them, having a run-through, playing for the Powers That Be (which are legion), getting notes and a new script the next day. Lines come, lines go. You try not to take it too personally. Sometimes people disappear during this week, too, but luckily our posse of guest-star monks survives intact.

You'd think my Buddhist practice would help in playing a monk (though they call them "warriors" in the script for what I'm guessing are politically sensitive concerns), but it's a mixed bag. Yes, I know how to bow, how to sit in meditation, how to hold my hands, only— it doesn't make much of a difference. They are not too concerned about verisimilitude, here, especially when they've got us Shaolin monk warriors learning how to hip-hop dance.

Yes, hip-hop. Oy. My younger shaved brethren jump into it with great aplomb, and the older Grandmaster does his own shaking to great effect, but my body doesn't quite get the popping and the locking. I desperately try to stay out of the scene ("Oh, I think I'm getting the robes at this point...") but escape it I cannot. It's a shuffle move I've seen Benjamin doing perfectly without any thought at all; with me it's like I'm having a seizure while doing the Charleston. Oh, couldn't we all just waltz a little? I decide that I'll be the confused senior monk warrior who's not quite "down with it." Comedy gold, people! Comedy gold!

Everyone is unfailingly polite, the crew, the stunt people and most especially the young stars. Young, the operative word is YOUNG.  One of the teenagers offers me a fist to bump and I just stare at it blankly. What's that there, Sonny? You want I should I hit it on on the top or the side or what? Who's can say? "You have much to teach me, young grasshopper," I murmur politely.

Everything runs smoothly except... there's one line of Cantonese.

Those of you know have read of my last desecration of the Chinese language would think I'd have a plan down. I did, gentle reader, I did! The line said "(In Cantonese gibberish)" and I thought, huh. At least they were honest about not caring what was said as long as it sounded good. So I called my sister Michelle and we worked up an easy line in Mandarin. So far, so good.

Wise Monk? Or Dr. Evil...?

That line lasted a day.

The second day of rehearsal, the second AD called me over and asked if I knew any Cantonese or did I have a friend who did? Seems they did want something authentic, but, as per usual, there was no one to come up with a translation. Sigh... sound familiar? The writer found something with Google Translate, but that is not a very reliable creator of the spoken language. Luckily another cast member who also had one line of "cantonese gibberish" put out a status update on Facebook, and one of his friends called in with a translation. She sent him an email with it written out in English as best as she could do figure it, and then did me a huge favor of calling me on my voicemail and saying it over the phone.

This version lasted the entire four days of rehearsal, plus the weekend off, with me drilling it, drilling it in my head (side note: why is it so damn hard for me to learn one line of Chinese? I've learned French, I'm working on Spanish; I even learned Greek for bit... usually I consider myself good with languages— why is Chinese such a bitch? I'm beginning to think it's me. Ah, that'll be at least two sessions worth of therapy...) I played the line on tape, pretending it's a Pimsleur lession. When the first day of taping came around, I thought I had it down.

Then came the taping.

Taping the show is simultaneously ridiculously fast and and agonizingly slow. They tape the whole show in two days, never leaving the giant soundstage for any piece of it. Cameras wheel back and forth between sets, while technicians speedily dress the next scene. Using four cameras, there's little need for multiple takes of the same scene, and because the lighting stays virtually unchanged, there's no waiting for a lighting set up. Rehearse with cameras, and go! They get enough to piece together a scene and then BOOM! It's on to the next setup.

Because everything runs swiftly, though, you are expected to be close by (ie. in the soundstage) while you wait for your scenes to come up. No retreating to your dressing room to catch up on Facebook and watch Downton Abbey.  In theatre terms, it's like having a tech, an opening and a closing, all in two long days.

On the first day of taping, I'm in my orange robe and pants, feeling very open and monkish warrior-ish, filled with inner peace. I bow to all and mean it. Then I'm introduced to Standards and Practices. This friendly woman  (a dead ringer for Michelle Obama) informs me that they've learned I don't really speak Cantonese? and that they want to make sure that what I'm saying is really accurate so would I like to meet with someone tomorrow before the scene who knows Cantonese to go over and refine what I have and would that be okay?

Inner peace, inner peace, inner peace... WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?

I explain about how I wish this person could have been there, oh, five days before, how I need time to work on it, to make it sound as authentic (translation: not laughable) as possible, and for the good of the shoot I should get this new version as soon as possible. She says she'll try to arrange for it to happen later on that day, but I've got this horrible feeling of dread welling up.

And here is where serendipity rears it's lovely bald head. One of the Shaolin monk warrior extras (atmosphere, we like to call 'em) who is standing by as I freak out to this woman, actually knows Cantonese. He offers to listen to what I've got and correct it, in advance of my meeting with the studio. He listens to my Asian butchering, and gives me the actual, correct words. Lets me know what each cluster of syllables means, so I'm not just making it up. He records the line into my iPhone. 
Good karma! Good karma!

Turns out the words are not too far from what I've been saying, and they're easier to study because I actually know what I'm saying. It passes muster with the studio and I have a night to work on it.

The next day, it turns out I speak the Chinese on my last scene of the day. You'd think that would be easier, that it would give me more time to study, but actually it's worse. In the morning you're fresh, you're focused. After seven hours of waiting and taping, not so much. There's no relaxation between scenes—"Must. Study. Line...", and I have to avoid the post-lunch stupor (I eat very little, no flan for me). I have that sentence rolling around my head all day long it starts to become this dread behemoth.

Finally, we reach the scene. Three takes and BOOM we're moving on. The director's happy. the writer's happy, and, most importantly, S&P, who has come down to watch, is happy. I don't know how she would quite know if I nailed it, but eh, it was a good approximation. More sense, less gibberish. Big sigh of relief, and I am instantly, insanely hungry. 

Yes, the orange robes were fun to wear, but— man, do I love voiceovers. 

Monk-y Business

Many of you know my deep and abiding ambivalence towards on-camera acting (what? being in front of the camera is not an ideal career for an introvert? Imagine!), as opposed to the almost-constant pleasure of voiceover acting. I say no a vast number of times more than I say yes to TV auditions. And yet, there is sometimes the case where I've got to go. There is a kind of role that I have a particular affinity for: Buddhist monks. I played one for "Family Law" about seventy years ago and have always hankered to put on the saffron robes once again. I maintain that it's because it puts me in touch with an inner stillness; Doug insists it's because it gives me license to shave my head. Both, I must admit, are correct.

This monk was of the Shaolin variety, for a  tween TV sitcom (rather foreboding non-disclosure rules prevents me from being more specific). You know, one of those after-school shows, ubiquitous on the Cartoon Network, Disney and Nickelodeon featuring a uniformly pretty and/or geeky cast genetically designed to make you feel REALLY REALLY OLD. Luckily, I was auditioning for one of the higher-up, senior monks, which on this show meant I was over thirty.

I had a good laugh at myself driving to the audition because of a particularly egregious oversight I had made. I was going over my sides— I had a really good voice for this elder, all gravelly and crusty— when I happened to look into the rear-view mirror. Ten blocks from the studio, I remembered: this isn't a voiceover audition. You can't sound like a 65 -year-old wizened sensei when you look like you're in your 40's. Oops. I adjusted accordingly. Ten years younger!

When I got there, there was the usual panoply of Asian men, all shapes and sizes. A few  of them were wearing full martial arts regalia, some had on the traditional Chinese frog-buttoned jackets. I had opted for a simple T-shirt and white pants because, well, Doug had made me change out of a more character-driven yoga pants and peasant-brown sweatshirt. I have to admit (yes, get out your scorecard, Doug) that he was right: if you get too costume-y in these general auditions, it tends too look a little... desperate. I don't know where everyone else stands on this issue; certainly I've known some experienced people to pull on a lab coat when making the "CSI" rounds...

The auditions were run by kids who I swear were not much younger than my son Benjamin. They seemed amused by my character, or, to put it more exactly, they liked my eyebrow-arching, which pretty much sums up my character. It was silly, and it was fun.

And I got the part. 

I'm going Telly Savalas, Doug! Who loves ya?

Speaking of monks, here's my contemplation of the Buddhist precept on gossip:

Precept #6: Do not Talk about Other's Errors and Faults

Gossip—

so sweet.

The tastiest morsels dripped

into eager mouths

gaping like baby birds. 

Huddled groups

of two, or three adults

on the school playground

after the kids have left

the playing field.

We're wide-eyed, listening 

to the latest parental downfall: who 

has slipped down the slope this time?

Heads shaking, frown-smiles

like we were saddened,

not delighted, by the news. 

A sharp intake of breath:

"Did you hear?—"

and onto another round. 

"Can you believe it?" we ask,

feeling better about Ourselves, 

for not being Them.

With a friend, I recount

the latest bulletin from Crazytown:

"Wait til you hear WHAT

my mother did THIS time!" 

We bond over the sad state

of affairs known as Family.

I'd like to think it helps,

this sharing, to make sense

of chaos, to make us feel less

alone. 

Our small coffeehouse table

affords a space to release 

woes, make them manageable—

humorous even— with a chance to hear 

a different perspective, lovingly laid out, 

a lesson learned, together. 

Sometimes, though, 

I feel like Homer, trotting out

the same epic saga, again

and again, for entertainment,

never letting it go. 

In the Meditation Hall

we learn mostly by mistakes.

What to chant, how to walk,

where to bow and when.

There's a lot to remember.

In the beginning, I was like

the new dancer, always two steps 

behind the rest of the chorus.

I'd get a lot of corrections:

a tap on the shoulder;

a finger pointing to the spot

I should be standing in;

sometimes a quiet voice

from across the room

cutting through the silence :

"Wait to stand!"

These directions were given,

never sweetly, never angrily,

just given.

At first, I would feel shame rising, 

I thought it was a black mark

against me; now I see it

for what it is:

a correction of a mistake,

a teaching given in the moment,

and then dispersed, 

allowing me to better join

                  the wholeness of the sangha, 

                  contemplating a formless field 

                  of benefaction. 

Next: On the set!