Wednesday, May 29, 2013

GATSBY--THE MOVIE




Finally got around to seeing the movie—with Rita and Sara Grace. I never expected Baz Luhrmann to capture the magic of Fitzgerald’s brief story that became a masterpiece partly through the brilliance of what it left out.

Luhrmann didn’t leave anything out. In fact, he embellished all the details and left us with a story that may have lacked Fitzgerald’s  magic but made up for it in sheer drama and explosive emotions.

The high point of the movie: DeCaprio's Gatsby losing his temper and looking like a killer on the loose with his hands around Tom Buchanan’s throat. It wasn’t that gripping in the novel.  But it made Gatsby live and breath on the screen.  

Friday, May 24, 2013

MEMORIAL DAY

And I'm proud to be an American,
where at least I know I'm free.
And I won't forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.

--Lee Greenwood

Saturday, May 11, 2013

I REMEMBER MOTHER



Another in a series of coming-of-age stories.

I remember Mother as the only female in a house full of men—my father and his three sons. Even our dogs and cats were all male.

I remember Mother and the clubs she belonged to. The Book Club. The Flower Club. Her Kappa Kappa Gamma college sorority club.  

I remember Mother for all her volunteer work. The Church.  The Library. The Hospital. Serving as an Air Raid Warden during the War.

I remember Mother for teaching me how to Charleston long after the Charleston was dead. When the occasion would arise (around once a year) it would make up for my total clumsiness on the dance floor.

I remember Mother for introducing me to classical music. From the time I was 12 she took me to all the Thursday concerts with George Szell at Severance Hall—originally because my Father refused to go but later because I wanted to.

I remember Mother for the mustard plasters she used to slap on the chests of my brothers and me when we had bad colds. They were hot as blazes but they always seemed to work.

I remember Mother for constantly asking me and my brothers privileged questions about who we were dating—but seldom getting any answers.

I remember Mother for giving far more than she received. 

I remember Mother.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

DREAMS



Following the move to Brentwood, we were almost through unpacking the stuff hidden away in our garage storage area when Rita discovered a box that had forced us into holding our breath during its 10 years of concealment.

Inside was a treasure trove for both of us. Family photos behind glass in walnut frames. Newspaper articles heralding Rita’s doings helping run John Wanamaker in Philadelphia. Tom’s advertising career—the ups and downs from Madison Avenue to Locust Street and Bala Cynwyd.

And my high school football photo.

There I was, the cocky Number 48. With the nose broken three times. And a head full of exploits during my three years at Cleveland Heights High School. Playing fullback on offense and linebacker on defense. Playing nine different positions in one game.

Was I good? Not really. My biggest play—one that landed me on the front page of the Sunday Plain Dealer my senior year—was tackling Lorain High School’s  legendary quarterback Vic Janowicz, a star who would go on to twice become all-American at Ohio State. The problem was that Vic was crossing the goal line with the winning touchdown.

But the photo inspired me to think about dreams. We all have them. And as writers we use them to dramatize our carefully crafted scenes and predicaments. Dreams can get us in and out of trouble. They can make things very real. The battlefields of literature are littered with dreams.

But what about our own dreams?  I dream regularly of going back to Heights High School and trying out for the football team. I almost always make it but find myself facing guys who could be my grandchildren. I’ve also had a couple of dreams where I’ve been invited to the Cleveland Browns mini-camp for tryouts. They were actually very nice to me.

And then, of course, we have the legendary dreams about the final exam being tomorrow and we have yet to study for it. The textbooks sit there, unopened. I’m facing the teacher or professor tomorrow and I’m trying to come up with excuses for failing to attend a single class.

It’s inescapable. The dreams we have as writers connect with us in real life. And it’s one more reason I’ve moved that photo of Number 48 to a prominent place on my office bookshelf.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

WELCOME TO BRENTWOOD



When our friends heard Rita and I were moving to the Brentwood district of Los Angeles the jokes began. We didn’t have to be reminded Brentwood was the home of O.J. Simpson and the controversial trial that took place nearly 20 years ago. It had been mentioned in my novel THE MOUNTING STORM—until a bright-eyed agent made me replace it with something less controversial.
            
But Brentwood doesn’t need any apologies. Brentwood is home. Brentwood is beautiful. Brentwood is fun. And after 10 years of living next door in Santa Monica, Brentwood is where two Philadelphians are going to enjoy the Southern California experience to its fullest.
           
We don’t have the Third Street Promenade where every kid in the world wants to drag his parents and grandparents and spend the day shopping, eating, and going to the latest Harry Potter flick. Brentwood is on a smaller scale. But we do have a farmer’s market, a Whole Foods, a Ralph’s, a delightful library, and a dozen terrific coffee shops, including the CafĂ© Literati, where laptops are busy and photos of writers, living and dead, line the walls.
           
So we’re saying goodbye to the television footage of that white Ford Bronco shooting down the 411 freeway on its way to Mexico and being chased by a dozen police cruisers. Tom and Rita are here. And determined to enjoy every delightful corner of the new Brentwood.       

Thursday, May 2, 2013

"SEPTEMBER MORN"--AND THE SEXUAL REVOLUTION



(The first in a series of coming-of-age stories.)

Getting settled in our new digs in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles has meant a lot of soul-searching for Rita and me.  For example: where to hang that framed lithograph of the French painting made famous in a celebrated 1916 Chicago court case. 

This September Morn, not to be confused with the Neil Diamond album or the upcoming movie thriller, shows a naked French maiden preparing to take a dip in a cold Swiss lake.

When my grandfather tried sneaking it onto the wall of his Ohio farmhouse my grandmother would have nothing to do with it. It remained in a closet for 50 years.

Novelists today are fortunate. It wasn’t until the 1960s that the obscenity rules stifling authors were revoked (along with the introduction of The Pill) and the atmosphere changed. We take it all for granted now as we seek to top the sex scene in our previous novel.

 Of course, parents don’t just worry now. They agonize about how far their sons and daughters went after Saturday night’s high school prom. But I guess that’s the price we pay for the new freedom.

As for September Morn, it is proudly hanging next to my computer desk as I write this. And I am sure my Grandfather is smiling as he looks down admiring every delicious curve.