In New York, despite a multitude of impediments (aesthetic, financial, and otherwise), I was somehow strong. I believed whatever was making others see me in a negative light was temporary; it didn't define me and if I did what I did as if things were not in the way, eventually I'd come out the other side of this crucible of dorkiness, whole.
My relative success in L.
A. would, you'd think, have supported that view and hastened the arrival of the post-dork era. But though TV and movie gigs were coming at a rate of about once a month, I was living in a motel, falling behind in my rent, and using the acting money to pay off each month's accumulated debts.
I could never get ahead, which meant I remained inside a larger man's shoes.
And once the heels wore down, I could no longer transcend the shoes' effect on me. I walked weirdly; a confused cocktail of sliding in the vastness, tilting at the heels, and a futile fighting back.
Wardrobe from acting jobs offered glorious moments of temporary liberation, so imagine how I felt when -- playing a high school kid with a gambling problem in the final season of "CHiPs" -- I was forced to wear my own shoes, which they thought looked right for the character.
Now, I had to fight the fight on camera as well as in life.
And the fight in life was tough.
New people at The Comedy Store were meeting me for the first time just as my footwear got the better of me. They had no memory of the way I used to be.
At least cripples, comedic though their walks can be, have an excuse.
No one (well, maybe a few) thinks their off-kilter motions are definitive of their personalities.. But my inexplicable lurchings had no apparent physical source.
They seemed to represent me.
I knew pretty much immediately that the shoes were too big -- maybe even in the car with my father after buying them. And it's possible my existing shoes had gotten so cruddy that I had to get rid of them right away -- I'm not certain.
But I do know that at some point, the oversized work boots became my only shoes -- shoes in which I never quite felt stable, because there was never a sufficient percentage of my foot in contact with them.
Now, this was a period of instability and great difficulty in my life (not only from the shoes); one in which I stayed with different people; didn't have a place of my own. (Kinda like now.
) But I wouldn't let the super-sized footwear get me down. I hosted a public access talk show (guests included "Dreamgirls" director Bill Condon and Warner Bros. cartoon director, Friz Freleng), did gigs and was very much at the center of my group of friends, despite this and other impediments.
And eventually, Hollywood called. (Well, actually, I called Hollywood.)
And I returned west to audition for a pilot.
Wearing my oversized shoes.
But by now they had become not only oversized, but also worn down at the heels, so that they not only provided a more than ample cushion of nothing around my feet, they did so at an angle.
John Fleming, who reviewed my Edinburgh shows for Chortle in 2004 and 2006, commented to me that I was like his associate, Janey Godley, in the following respect -- not so amazing with five minutes at my disposal, good with twenty, and great with an hour.
This was intuition on his part, because he had only seen me do an hour, but it was very close to the mark. Actually, I'm usually pretty good at 5 as well as at 60; it's the 20 that, in every sense, falls in-between. But it's true, I work best with a large canvas on which to paint.
Now, I'm a very good MC and if I can take the room where I need it to go, everyone on the show will be great. And that's what I expected to do at Joe's Pub. But, though the MC was given as much time as the other acts (except for the headliner), it was spread throughout the show, with only five minutes available at the start.
As I said, I'm pretty good with 5, but its not enough time to set the tone for an entire show. It's only enough time to say, "Hello. This is where you are.
This is what we're doing. Here's your first act." Still, I tried to set a tone in my usual style, as if there had been a full warm-up slot, and it was a mistake.
Couldn't be done.
Okay. Perhaps I've sacrificed so that, in the future, others won't have to suffer.
'Cause I'm gonna recommend that they change this set-up. I know I would've been happier to have all my time up front and none in between the other acts (except what's necessary to reorient the crowd). And such a (standard) structure makes for a better show.
But that oft-necessary structure was not available to me.
I'm sitting on the couch in my Leesburg sister's house. She and my niece, Rebecca, are watching "Survivor".
They came home a little while ago from Friday's, where they went to eat, along with Sister Leesburg's husband, Philip (hee-hee), while I stayed here and watched 6 year-old Alexandra, which was big fun!
I used made-up songs to get her to her eat her cherry tomatoes and her apple (she just wanted cheese) and then we sang and danced between the kitchen and the dining room. (She's a great dancer -- very jazzy.
) Afterward, we watched "Molly, An American Girl" on the Disney Channel.
It took place during World War II, which gave me a chance to tell her all sorts of stuff she otherwise wouldn't have known about the period and why they were acting as they were in the film.
One cool thing was that, in the film, they were watching a Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland movie, ca.
1943, and I got to tell Alexandra that the very same Mickey is in the new Ben Stiller movie (which she'll likely see), "A Night at the Museum". Then there was a commercial for "Mary Poppins" and I got to point out that Dick Van Dyke will be in "Museum" too; in fact, teamed with Mickey Rooney, their first pairing since 1969's "The Comic". (I didn't tell her that part.
)
While we were watching, Sister Leesburg called to tell me she was running late as Rebecca's food had to be sent back three times. (I don't know why.) She didn't ask me what she should bring back for me as we had planned she would.
When she finally came home, she offered what appeared to be the uneaten remnants of a couple of appetizers -- two chicken wings and a bunch of potato skins.
Now, I would have been happy to root around in the house for something to eat but that had not been the plan. I was ambivalent about going out -- liked the idea but didn't want to spend the money -- so, I was happy to watch Alexandra.
And I didn't ask them to bring anything back. They said they would and that they would call to ask me what I wanted. (We didn't know where they were going so I couldn't choose in advance.
)
Heck, for watching their kid, they coulda brought me something good rather than their refuse.
I refused the offering without explanation.
"Christmas in Middleburg," a small town in Virginia with a well-to-do population, is held each year on (I think) the first Saturday in December.
(At least, it was this year.) The town fills the day with seasonal amusements and me, my nephew, Daniel, (both Jewish) and his friend. Mohammed (Muslim), decided to go there and get our share.
We started the day with the the 11 AM "Hunt Parade", wherein a variety of fox hunting groups mass together to promenade, on horseback, up the main street of town, in advance of their biggest annual fox hunt -- the one which celebrates Jesus' birth. This was what I was most anxious to see as fox hunting is not exactly something that frequently crosses my path. The area is, apparently, known as "hunt country" and I felt I was being offered a window into a stereotypical way of life I had previously seen only in movies and on television.
Fox hunting is banned in England now, isn't it? It's says a lot about the difference between cultures that our nations would ban indoor smoking and fox hunting in reverse order. Although I don't know that eliminating fox hunting is in any position on the nanny state's ban list over here.
I think the sheer size of the US makes the hunt demographic so tiny that the act isn't even detected by most Americans' morality radar. Then again, now that I think of it, I don't know if interior smoking is banned in Virginia, so let's just term this the "paragraph of ignorance" and move on.
We almost didn't get to the parade on time because my brother-in-law, Rich, (he's not the one who's my political adversary) decided to act as a "translator" while conveying messages between my nephew and myself.
I was supposed to meet Daniel upstairs at 10:18 and, at around 10:11 or 12, Rich called through the bathroom door to ask, on Daniel's behalf, exactly when I would be ready.
I said "a few minutes" but Rich translated this to Daniel as something along the lines of, "he's going to be quite a while." So, Daniel, instead of picking up Mohammed on the way, went to get his friend while waiting for me to be ready.
That meant that when I ascended the stairs at around 10:17, Daniel was nowhere to be found. So, we left late and got there just in time to see the horses' asses at the tail end of the parade.
The boys didn't really care, but I ran -- not quite frantically -- up the main street of town, managing to see virtually all of the hunters astride their equine collaborators before getting a fair view of the asses of the hounds at the front of the parade.
Most of the riders seemed to be women, which surprised me, but sometimes the fight for equality trumps sensitivity, I guess. Not enough of them were wearing red for my taste -- there was black, blue and even tweed -- and the horn-blowing to kick the hunt into high gear was weak and messy. But when the hunters rounded the bend and the parade part of their adventure was over, it was exciting to seem them increase the pace as they switched their orientation from pomp to prey.
Okay. Seen a fox hunt now. (Sort of.
)
So, I ambled down the street, hoping to meet up with my adolescent charges ambling in the other direction. Didn't see 'em, though, which began to worry me and I wondered what I'd do if they were nowhere to be found. (Forget about their safety -- without them, how would I get back?
) Eventually, when I was beginning to think I was in for some trouble, they turned up, and I can only thank the fortifying powers of the mulled cider generously offered -- free -- by a store along the way for enabling me to press on until this great reunion could be accomplished.
And then, oh, what a day!
I had a bratwurst from a German sausage kiosk and we saw schoolgirls ringing Christmas bells.
There was an art sale and a hay ride through town, during which I tried to shift the happy, singing riders from Christmas favorites to a Chanukah song, with little success.
I was a real merry prankster and my adolescent wards were well-entertained, although the somewhat uptight denizens of the area seemed somewhat less so. (Most of the unreservedly warm folks we encountered were black people and they were in fairly short supply.
) I "frantically" reported the doin's of some imaginary Wild West-style gang to a town sheriff. (Well, he was a sheriff.) I got out of the car at an intersection and danced to the music being played there -- then got back in when traffic was ready to move again.
The kids loved me.
And I loved this (American-born) Pakistani kid, "Mo".
We got into a good conversation about the Danish Muhammed cartoons, My nephew Daniel, of course, seemed to have not a clue as to what we were talking about.
He perked up at the idea, though -- I think he thought it was some kind of animated series about the adventures of an Arab boy named Muhammed; maybe on Nickelodeon or something.
But before that, we had some time to kill between the early activities and the afternoon's Christmas parade. So, we drove through intensely beautiful countryside (best yet) for about half an hour and found a real-looking (meaning non-chain and venerable) pizza place in which to have lunch.
Mo had refused a taste of my sausage earlier, in case it contained pork, but boy, he tore into the pizza and (adequate, non-Philly) cheese steak we ordered.
Then it was time to head back for the big-deal, small town Christmas parade. I had to argue with my sister and brother-in-law to even get Daniel permission to go to this parade.
They wanted to take away his driving privileges for the day because he had gone late to school after being warned against it and figured they were being plenty nice just letting him attend the morning's activities. But I pointed out that they were, in effect, punishing me, and I had not been late for classes in a long time.
So now, permission granted, we almost missed the thing anyway 'cause Daniel didn't pay attention to the route we had taken on the way to lunch and we had to bumble our way back to (semi-)civilization.
The good part was, we found even more beautiful country. The bad was, we got to Middleburg at the last minute again and had to park even further away than we had the first time.
No matter.
The parade was wonderful -- "dancing" horses, llamas, vintage fire trucks, costumed kids, bagpipes -- it was a blast. (The sheriff even gave me a Junior Sheriff's badge!)
We got back to my sister's house in time for me to go with her to a holiday music concert in Herndon.
(Christmas is busting out all over!)
The theater was a "black box" in a drab, suburban industrial park, surrounded by stuff like auto supply places. But inside, the wondrously corny "Herndon Town Square Singers" were more than ready to strut their holiday stuff.
(My sister usually sings with them, but she took this one off.)
It was real white bread musical Americana and very entertaining -- some of it good, some of it just watchable. (It reminded me of "The Lawrence Welk Show" -- look it up.
) The program wasn't just composed of holiday classics; the troupe did songs from the film, "Polar Express", and stuff like that as well.
Most of the men in the troupe seemed to be in their 50s, 60s or 70s. There were more women than men and some of them were young or young-ish.
The crowd was generally older as well but there was -- as always in such a context -- one hot blonde, by herself, wearing a leather jacket and checking e-mail n a Blackberry.
It was, in a word, Christmas in America. (Okay.
That's three words. But one of them was in.)
After the show, by sister chatted with some of the warblers.
My way of injecting my non-Christianity (and hers) into the heartwarming holiday chit-chat was to speak of my love for Christmas and its traditions.
I said I loved how, each Christmas, people became so kind, and if you bumped into them in a store or exchanged glances with them on a street, they would always have a warm and loving "Sim Sala Bim" on their lips, because it's Christmas. I recounted how, when I was a kid, each Christmas, we would to go to Macy's and wait in line, excitement visible on our apple-cheeked faces, to sit on the lap of "Moo Goo Gai Pa"
One guy seemed to think I was funny but an older couple behind him just seemed confused.
Do they know it's Christmastime at all?
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