Summer … That desolate stretch of networks dumping cheaply-produced, mind-numbing reality shows to substitute for any worthwhile programming.  That action less void of sports TV, except for golf (yawn) and baseball (double play yawn). That miserable oven of heat and humidity (hey, this is Florida) that saps the very will to budge from your mind or body.

But here were 10 signs of relief:

11) Capping the goddamned oil well leak. Oh my god. Was there anything else for the news to cover non-stop for more than three months than this tar ball cluster fuck? And the only real story was, “It’s still leaking.” Okay, we got it; just let us all know when it’s done. THAT will be news again. But there was one ironic and funny side story. Small business fisherman who despise the government and avoid paying taxes by operating on a cash-only and no-records business were suddenly whining for a bailout and full compensation on lost wages … but got caught with their pants down by having NO RECORDS to prove what their wages actually were. “I swear I pulled a 100k last year, BP and mister government man, just write me a full check, okay?”

10) Crowded House at the Hard Rock Live. The band Crowded House played their farewell concert in Sydney, Australia fourteen years ago to a crowd of about 250,000 fans singing along to every song. My son and I enjoyed this ‘comeback’ tour from 7^th row dead center at a venue holding less than 2,500. America, unlike the rest of the world,  never fully ‘got’ Crowded House, which is perplexing, because front man/singer/songwriter Neil Finn is as close as you’ll ever get to John Lennon’s biting lyrics and hard rocking and Paul McCartney’s great voice and soothing melodies wrapped together in one performer. “Don’t Dream It’s Over (Hey Now)” may have been their only big stateside hit, but going by the enthusiasm of this show and the audience love sing along, this ‘dream’ band is very much alive.

9) “The Ghost Writer” on Pay per View. What a nifty, old-fashioned spy thriller. Hitchcock would approve. The story involves a hack writer (Ewan McGregor) hired to rewrite the memoir of a controversial former British Prime Minister (Pierce Brosnan), whose previous ghost writer died mysteriously. Needless to say, our hero soon finds what a scary, deep shitstorm he’s gotten himself into. Roman Polanski is a master director who just knows how to shoot a well-told story with a compelling, non-stop sense of unease. I shudder to think what the Hollywood studio version of this would be (loud and noisy and jerky and short of attention span - in other words; Vantage Point). And please folks, separate the art from the artist. If you removed all the music, movies, paintings and books created by assholes, jerks, criminals, misanthropes, misogynists, perverts, addicts, or just damaged egomaniacs, there’d be very little left of any worth. Sometimes it’s what they’re escaping from (the ugliness of who they really are or how they feel) that drives them so relentlessly toward crafting something beautiful, pure and masterful.

8 ) Blue Rodeo “The Things We Left Behind” on CD. Canadian folk rock band Blue Rodeo have been around for a long time, but unlike many bands who produce a few great albums early on and then coast on mediocrity, this double CD finds them still reaching for musical nirvana, and achieving it. If you like early acoustic Pink Floyd or the Eagles when they were still hungry, here’s your perfect soundtrack. It’s the only thing I’ve heard all summer that keeps finding its way back to my car CD player. There are lilting 10-minute suites, and perfect 3-minute pop chestnuts. And just try to escape the haunting mantra of “Don’t Let the Darkness in Your Head” from, well, haunting your head. It’s a chant we all need embrace to escape the bleak moods (or news) we either get stuck in, or find the strength to overcome. This beautiful double album summons that strength.

7) Mad Men on AMC. Nothing pops through the bleakness of summer television like the return of this gourmet feast for lovers of sophisticated and engrossing television. And where else (besides The Sopranos) can you find a more sympathetic heel than Don Draper, who disgusts you at the same time he compels you to root for him? That takes writing AND great acting, which this show has in spades.

6) Louie on FX. Speaking of miserable heels; Louis C.K. is to a New York comedian’s life what Larry David was to Los Angeles on Curb Your Enthusiasm. You squirm watching his embarrassing social gaffes and inevitable self-loathing, but the difference is that Louis is aware of his loser status, is trying to overcome it through fatherhood, and actually struggles to find a way to connect to other humans, whereas David is forever stuck being the inconsiderate lout who basically doesn’t seem to care beyond his own needs in the end. Louie got soul. And some awesome New York supporting actors.

5) The Virginian, Season One on DVD. Nothing provides a better escape from the reality of the present than a good, old fashioned classic television show from the past.  I always liked the 90-minute NBC show The Virginian (which ran from 1962-1969) featuring my early childhood hero Trampas (and later Hollywood ‘pal’ Doug McClure), but watching this show now I’m surpised at the good stories and great actors. Each episode is literally a mini-Western movie. Some with A-listers like Bette Davis, Robert Duvall, and Lee Marvin, and some by feature directors, such as Sam Fuller. Plus, this show was largely shot on location and not some fake outdoor set like Bonanza. If you like Westerns, hitch a ride and be transported to a time and place where old-school values and first class stories roamed and ruled.

4) Red Dead Redemption on Xbox 360. Speaking of Westerns, I bought this game for my 13 year-old son (or actually myself – it’s “M” rated) in May, and here we are three months later still not finished the main single player campaign. The graphics are realistically awesome to the point where you literally ARE transported into the old West (with some modern day gore and language) becoming part of the story. You can play the game honorably; completing the missions, saving people in distress, and only killing the bad guys. Or you can play the game as a roaming ruthless outlaw, with each version having its own consequences (it’s made by the same company that did Grand Theft Auto). I was immensely relieved to discover my son (having played hours and hours on his own) taking the ‘good’ path and achieving the highest honor rating possible. His dad, on the other hand, was not so honorable. There were a couple of scumbag unarmed villains I had to shoot even though they were already captured and hogtied.

3) Schlotsky’s Deli at the Austin Airport. We used to have five Schlotsky’s franchises locally, but they vanished years ago and the closest one is 90 miles away. Still, that hasn’t stopped me from driving there for lunch. A great vacation visiting my sister at her house south of Austin was bookended by scoring my family’s favorite round sourdough bread and minced meat sandwiches on the way in and on the way out. Schlotsky’s Deli is headquartered in Austin and part of the normal fast food landscape there, but like all treats in life, you appreciate them only more so when they’re gone.

2) “Inception.” Thank god there was one movie this summer not based on a comic book, a previous movie, television show, Disney ride, or candy wrapper. You actually had to invest some functioning brain activity to follow the plot and keep up with four simultaneous finales going on at the same time within different dream levels. And the ending was open to your own feelings or interpretation. Was he still in a dream or not? If you were still on board and paying attention, you may have noticed Leonardo’s character didn’t really care at that point, so why should we? It was a fun ride.

1) “Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole and Oliver Reed” by Robert Sellers. A writer better damn well include a book on this list, so why not one that lets us vicariously enjoy the most outrageous and salacious adventures of the best party animal actors that ever lived? Personally, I don’t think my own constitution could have matched or survived any one of these incidents or activities of mass alcohol consumption, barroom destruction, or insatiable sexual conquest. But if you read my previous blog (“Two Weeks at War”), you know I tried … God knows I tried.

In honor of my L.A. co-screenwriter buddy Michael Simmons giving me a shout out via post comment (Hey, ZooGoo), I’m posting this brief excerpt from my book on the adventure we shared writing a comedy screenplay together.

***

TWO WEEKS AT WAR

Former National Lampoon magazine publisher and Animal House movie producer Matty Simmons hired me for a second time to co-write the script Two Weeks at War for ABC Circle Films, along with his son, Michael. The studio execs were hoping a National Lampoon skewering of the army would strike as much gold as Animal House’s version of fraternities did. We flew first class to Fort Ord, California, where we participated in army mobilization exercises as part of our research. The Army thought we were doing a ’straight’ picture for ABC Films and cooperated wonderfully. They never knew we were actually from National Lampoon, and undoubtedly thought our movie would somehow enhance army recruitment. To gather inside intel, we got drunk with generals one night, and then turned around and got drunk with enlisted men the next. The generals described enlisted men in the infantry as ‘target developers.’ “You send them out to draw fire,” one general explained,” and see where their asses get blown away, and then you know where to aim your heavy artillery.” Of course, we couldn’t wait to reveal this inspiring piece of information to the enlisted men, who were mercifully too drunk to be offended. And we also couldn’t wait to see how that information in the movie would ‘enhance army recruitment.’

Once this research part of our mission was accomplished, and we were somehow still in good graces with the military brass (probably from all the booze we bought), we were escorted in a Huey helicopter directly to the runway for our flight back to Los Angeles. We walked across the tarmac to the plane and came aboard moments before our plane was scheduled to take off. The VIPs in first class looked at us – a couple of hard-partying 24 year-olds in Hawaiian shirts being escorted by helicopter to this flight – and wondered just who the hell we were. I sat in a seat across from my childhood TV western idol, Doug McClure, who played Trampas in the series The Virginian. He asked me for a job.

A week later we flew to Fort Jackson, South Carolina to experience boot camp as part of our research. Naturally, we got drunk on the plane there and Michael unfolded a Playboy centerfold and displayed it teasingly to the coach section, which, I’m sure, endeared the crew and other passengers to us. Kurt Russell in a baseball cap was sitting behind us on his way to New York to film Escape From New York. He listened to us describe the project we were working on and eagerly asked us if there were a part in the movie for him.

At Fort Jackson, we got to shoot M-16s, run through the obstacle course and play out all our military fantasies without the negative result of getting our asses blown away as ‘target developers.’ We both had narrowly escaped active duty in Vietnam by virtue of the draft being cancelled the year (1973) we had both become eligible. The film we were writing now would be about how the smart college students going into law or accounting or wherever quickly joined the reserves back in the late ‘60s to avoid the draft and then participated in a two week training course during the summer in a small town. It would presumably show how these ‘two-week warriors’ were smarter than their commanders (just as the Animal House fraternity brothers constantly outwitted the dean of their college). When they pushed too far and partied too hard, though, the commanders held one big chip against our … heroes – they could cancel their designation as reserves and send them to active duty in Nam. Again, the army had no idea we were actually working for National Lampoon. They bent over backwards for us, and we treated them like, well, South Carolina hillbillies opportunistically spotting a bent over ‘target developer.’ We spent our $750 per week studio money on booze getting officers drunk to tell us good stories. And then every morning we tried to recover from hangovers during breakfast in the camp’s bowling alley – not a good combination.

Our liaison officer, a full colonel, was unprepared for us – two wild and crazy 24 year-olds breaking free and living large, partying like rock stars on the studio’s tab. We were lavishly put up in the general’s guest cottage at the fort and responded by trashing the place as if we were dueling Keith Moons on tour with the Who at a Holiday Inn. I remember squatting on top of the refrigerator shooting a stream of water from the fire extinguisher at Michael while our liaison officer watched in helpless, fetal position horror because we had just gotten him stoned for the first time in his life on a fat joint. He was later rewarded handsomely by getting laid by a local virgin thanks to being part of our rock star status vibe and entourage.

We came back to Hollywood with all our recorded notes and stories from our exploits and interviews at Ford Ord and Fort Jackson and proceeded to toss them out and just write our own fantastic adventure about the army reserves. The script was hilariously anarchistic, but was probably way too much for ABC to swallow, even though they clearly understood they were buying a Lampoon film. Two Weeks at War, sad to say, never made it to the screen.

Stripes, a comedy skewering the army starring Bill Murray and directed by Animal House director Ivan Reitman, came out a year later and was a big success.

So, ultimately, and perhaps karmatically, you could say Michael and I found out what it felt like to be ‘target developers.’

***

(Perhaps Michael will post his own account of the experience here, or at his Huffington Post blog, which I’m sure would be wilder and crazier.)

FILM – “The Book of Eli”

It’s hard to explain why this film was good without giving away its big reveal. The big reveal isn’t what makes it good, but it retro-actively brings a dimension to the film where you think back on everything that just happened.

Okay, so what has happened? Apparently the Earth got fucked, big time. So much so that the sky is a permanent state of colorless ash, which blends nicely with the ashen landscape, and the ash-colored outfit star Denzel Washington wears throughout. Even the blood he releases from the scavenger scum he defends himself against brandishing the world’s first air-hole cooled machete … is ash gray. Color is almost wasted on this apocalyptic epic, but not quite – it somehow looks cool and different.

Survivor ‘Eli’ (Denzel) wanders westward through barren landscape and rubble cities protecting a large book from Gary Oldman, who is obviously enjoying himself in a villainous romp as the ruthless boss of one such rubble city who would do anything to get his hands on ‘the book.’ And, let’s face it, we all know what the book is before we even taken two steps into this adventure. What fascinates is, no matter what camp you come from, whether revering or refuting such book, you will be totally satisfied and equally validated. Oldman’s character needs the book to help him enslave what’s left of humanity with its Pavlovian piety (he sees it as an instruction manual to replace thought with blind devotion if you use the right ‘chosen’ words). And Eli needs the book to, well, keep the faith, brother. He simply IS blind devotion.

Action junkies will love the ninja-style scenes in which our hero dispatches scavenger scum, and Oldman’s henchmen. That 70’s Show fans will blink in wondrous double take at Milo Kunis pulling off a tough chick piece of good acting as Eli’s lately acquired road companion. And the rest of us will just get off on a well-told and visually rewarding science fiction tale with a nifty twist that makes you re-evaluate and question everything you just witnessed.

Maybe you caught this at the theater when it was released. Sadly I didn’t. Ignorantly, I was at the OTHER ash-colored apocalyptic road walking movie starring Viggo Mortensen and plainly called The Road. That one got more media hype (it was based on Cormac McCarthy’s prize-winning novel) and did better at the box office, but was so bleak it left me as cold as you-know-who’s stiff dead corpse at the end . This one left me surprised and entertained. It was definitely a ‘better’ Road Less Travelled.

Check it out and … ‘keep the faith,’ brother.

Dear Joan,

Remember this letter in the Los Angeles Times Calendar section for June 17, 1984:

HERE’S JOANY

When is NBC going to wake up and give Joan Rivers her own late night talk show? They don’t have to get rid of Johnny Carson – just put him on after David Letterman. Then Joan could have the best laughs, Johnny the last one, and we’d all be happy.

I was moved to write the letter because Johnny Carson’s show had been getting a little stale of late, and every time you had guest hosted, the energy lifted, the gossip barbs flew out like cluster bombs, and I was entertained.

And I guess my letter entertained you, because the day after it ran in the paper I got a phone call from your assistant in Las Vegas, where you were currently performing. The assistant said you saw the letter, were very grateful, and you wanted to personally invite me to attend your next nightclub show when you were in L.A.

Was I being punked? It turns out not. I got another call soon after saying I had been put on the V.I.P. guest list for your appearance at Carlos ‘n Charlie’s nightclub on Sunset Strip. Did I have any guests I wanted to bring? Well, my girlfriend, Danette, of course. We had been dating for a little more than a year, and wow, this would surely impress her.

We dressed in our finest 80’s nightclub wear; me in skinny tie and a textured jacket of multi-colors with the narrow lapels; my girlfriend with shoulder pads and the hair teased big.

When we arrived we were escorted to the front row of the club, just like the scene in Goodfellas where Ray and his main squeeze get the V.I.P. treatment. And for the next hour or so we heard you call every famous woman on the planet a ‘bitch,’ with scathing tales of venom, spite, gossip, and frankly, hilarity. Kathy Griffin owes everything in her act to you. Donald Rickles, who also knocked celebrities down to size in his act, was tame by comparison. He only called them ‘hockey pucks.’ You wielded the “B” word like a light saber. And we laughed our asses off. Or maybe we just felt compelled, since we were so conspicuous in the front row.

The show ended and, sure enough, we were invited backstage to meet you. You didn’t even wait for us to get to your dressing room. You came charging out of the room with a big smile on your face and your hand extended in generous friendship.

And that’s when it happened.

My girlfriend fired the “B” word right back at you.

“There’s the BITCH,” Danette loudly announced as you approached. I guess I forgot to mention that she was an actress, had just watched your act for an hour and a half, and probably wanted in on the fun and was playing it back to you. Don’t they say that imitation is the greatest form of flattery?

But it was something you definitely didn’t expect, and you stopped cold in your tracks like a mime hitting an invisible wall. Your smile disappeared. Your extended hand drooped faster than a granny tit from an unhooked bra. There was what seemed like an eternity of awkward silence.

But you’re a professional, and it took you only a few more moments to recover, put the hand up again and address me with gratitude.

“I read you letter in the Calendar,” you said, “And you made this old broad very happy.”

I don’t remember much past that. I’m sure you looked at Danette and shook her hand and tried to say something pleasant. But the bloom was off the rose. It was obvious at this point we weren’t going to be invited to party on any further that night with you or your entourage at the Beverly Hills Jockey Club, or go for blintzes at Cantor’s Deli, or anywhere else, for that matter.

You had been bitch-blocked. You weren’t that hot on meeting us anymore.

And for that, I’m sorry. Once you got past being playfully called a ‘bitch,’ you might have found us a fun couple. We could have had a few laughs.

But I guess you didn’t have quite the sense of humor when you were given a taste of your own medicine. What’s that they say, “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

So for possibly dampening your evening, and not being welcome to hang out longer, I’m sorry.

But there’s no way I’m sorry for my girlfriend calling you a ‘Bitch.”

That was classic.

I had to marry that girl.

Twenty-six years later, we’re still together, and we recently went to a Kathy Griffin concert and listened to her call every other more famous woman a ‘bitch’ for ninety minutes.

Despite the laughs, I won’t be writing a letter to the newspapers praising her anytime soon.

And as far as bitches go, you’ll always be our “Number One.”

Getting or keeping a tan* 

                    *(With some exceptions) …

Needing to be right.

Being accessible 24/7

Seeing a movie the first day it comes out.

Attending any event that only has Porta Potties.

Mixing alcohol with soda pop, Slurpees, Jello or other sugary confections to make it taste better.

Sleeping more than seven hours per night.

Worrying about the world ending in 2012, terrorists, or any other highly improbable risks.

Bragging.

Bungee-jumping.

Listening to people who only talk about themselves and don’t listen.

Needing six remotes to watch television.

Keeping up with fashion trends you’ve already been through.

To be continued …

What writer worth their Whitman doesn’t have a vast store of quotable knowledge or appreciation of the great poets of literature? Well, this lazy bard, for one. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I loves me some E. A. Poe, a little E. Dickinson, and the wacky dude who never had a shift key on his typewriter (e. e. cummings).  But I am woefully ignorant in all our richest rhymes, and without good reason or worthy excuse. I have the collected works of Yeats, Walt Whitman and the Oxford Book of Poetry on my shelves, but the only living things nibbling on them recently (or peeing on them) are cockroaches which must somehow be addicted to the old glue they used in the book bindings.

Which in no way segues me to Natalie Merchant’s new musical opus, Leave Your Sleep, featuring the whimsical or wizening works of a couple dozen formerly breathing poets now set to her voice and music. Just hearing about this project made me depressed and longing for the days when Merchant’s overly somber lyrics were magically lifted by the chirpy guitar playing she was straddled to in her former band 10,000 Maniacs. Left to her own production choices, it seems like she’s been on a downer ever since. Imagine my surprise when I listened to this lovely journey through dusty tomes from the crypt only to be charmed every note of the way. That’s right; the melancholy woman who once improbably rhymed ‘four poster’ with ‘dull torpor’ has been vividly inspired and revived by the dead and the decayed.

Every style of music noodles its way up from these poems and through your ears; from Chinese strings to Celtic pipes, reggae rhythms to orchestral swells, Irish jigs to New Orleans jazz, barroom blues to minute waltzes, and everything in between. And yet it all sounds so cohesively … apt and entertaining. The voice, so familiar, clear and committed, doesn’t hurt, either.  Read through the extensive liner notes and you discover she not only immersed herself in these poems, but into the very lives of the poets; including a mini-biography with every selection. This is what she felt she needed to do as an artist to choose or channel the right mood or melody for each poem. And throughout, she succeeds.

Charles Clausey. Rachel Field. Edward Lear. Mervyn Peak. Laurence Alma Tadema. Charles Edward Carryl. Arthur Macy. John Godfrey Saxe. William Brighty Rands. Eleanor Farjeon.  At some point in my lit-heavy Maryland education, I was probably exposed to some of these poets. Now, I’m ashamed to say, those could be the names of my city council members, for all I’m aware. Robert Louis Stevenson, Ogden Nash, e.e. cummings and Gerald Manley Hopkins still ring a bell, but don’t ask me to quote anything.

Merchant corrects any ignorance and makes us sit back and listen to voices long since silenced, but still eerily relevant. Here’s Gerald Manley Hopkins, who died of typhoid fever at age 45, writing a poem (to a youth named Margaret) to explain the unexplainable to a child.

And yet you will weep and know why.

Now no matter, child the name:

Sorrow’s springs are the same

Nor mouth had, no nor mind expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed;

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

Try to get through Merchant’s achingly beautiful mediation on this ode to loss with a dry eye. I dare you.

***

For no specific reason, here is Bill Murray reading Emily Dickinson to a group of construction workers.

The Pacific on HBO

At the risk of getting fragged, let me state up front that I thought Band of Brothers was no masterpiece. By the time you sorted out the characters and cared for them, they were either dead or the series was nearly over. I’ve seen much better personal stories on episodes of the 1963-66 series, Combat, which also showcased a lone platoon or band of brothers single-handedly winning World War II. Band of Brothers looked and sounded great, though, and was suitably realistic (guns jammed and ran out of ammo), and gruesome (soldiers got mutilated).  The Pacific narrows the focus to the journeys of three individual soldiers fighting the Japanese, so it’s easier to know the characters, but they’re not together and the narrative jumps back and forth between them. And it’s also gruesome, with depictions of naked soldiers going crazy in the jungles and eating their pistols, Japanese getting mowed down by machine-guns or flame-throwers, parasitic-caused bed-wetting, dysentery and foot rot. I wonder what men like my uncle, who fought as a Marine in the Pacific, would think of this show; which dwells less on the mission, and more on the misery, confusion, guilt and PTSD. Would they really want to visit that side of the conflict again? There’s a reason why all the movies done in the immediate wake of the Big War starred ‘noble’ icons like John Wayne and glossed over the horror. Now, revisionist productions make subsequent generations wallow in it, not so much because we need it to understand the sacrifice our fathers and grandfathers made, but more, I suspect, because we’ve come to expect it after being so desensitized to gore or violence on screen and in video games. The rallying cry of war depicted on film used to be “No guts, no glory.” Now, it’s “All guts, all gory.”

Nurse Jackie on Showtime

Normally, I avoid medical shows like the plague (you just never know what you’re going to catch watching one), but this show is stacked with great characters played by some terrific NYC actors. Watching Edie Falco stay calm in the middle of the ER-trauma-ward storm in her professional life, and self-destruct as a pill-popping, sack-hopping disaster in her personal life somehow provides a soothing medicinal balm for any viewer who thinks THEY’VE got problems.

Justified on FX

Elmore Leonard always understood how low life criminals making terrible decisions, botching robberies, kidnapping the wrong people, and turning on each other whenever there’s a dollar to grub like caged and starving pit bulls … makes fun entertainment. And cable television finally caught up with being able to feature most of this shit without turning the camera away during the good parts. Who doesn’t want to see a skinhead neo-Nazi redneck have his face shoved into a steering wheel obliterating his nose? (Especially if it were Jesse James!) Timothy Olyphant doesn’t exactly rock the acting Richter scale (he goes from a steel-eyed half grimace to a steel-eyed half smirk), but it’s about the closest we’re going to get to having Clint Eastwood cloned or recycled. And, if fast draw gunfights or slow drawl dialogue zingers are your thing, minus the horses, cattle and BULL, this modern day Western will … make your day.

Two hit men (one veteran, one rookie) watch a crime scene from their car,staking out their intended target – Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens:

VETERAN HIT MAN: He’s the one in the hat.

ROOKIE HIT MAN: The tall one?

VETERAN HIT MAN (after a blank look and a pause): The one in the hat.

(This just may be my new favorite show)

Fringe on Fox

God I miss The X-Files (at least the first five seasons). But until the blu-ray season sets come out and I watch them all over again, this show will have to do. And it has dramatically improved in its second season and is worth watching for John Noble’s wacky Walter alone.

Damages on FX

It’s uncertain we’ll get a fourth season at this point, but it’s definitely been worth the ride. This third season has basically been the story of tracking down the money scammed off investors in a Ponzi scheme by a Bernie Madoff-style character who kills himself before going to prison. But cast Lily Tomlin against type as the button-lipped society wife, Martin Short as the creepy and loyal lawyer, and Campbell Scott as the ruthless son, and you’re already cooking a bitches’ and bastards’ brew of tasty and unexpected drama. Glen Close plays Patty Hewes, the powerful but ethically dubious lawyer going around and below the law to recover the money for her plaintiffs. My dad was a county attorney who came from the Atticus Finch breed of idealistic and ethical upholders of the law, and would cringe at the greedy sleazebags who often demean his chosen profession, but he also enjoyed a gripping yarn, and this one grabs you in the same place Patty Hewes is grabbing the poor schmucks who defy her.

Parenthood on NBC

Based on the beloved Ron Howard movie of the same name, but having nothing to do with that film, those characters, or real life, this show tries to walk the line between either being poignant or cute, and comes off just cute. Tough, no nonsense Maura Tierney (Rescue Me last season) was originally cast to play the Lauren Graham role, and I can’t help imagining how that might have changed the whole tone of the show, but with Graham it tilts too much from believable drama to sit-com shtick. Also, listen carefully to Monica Potter as Kristina Braverman and imagine her with brown hair and a trademark giggle and you have the perfect Julia Roberts clone. It’s just something to do while passing the time enjoying an uncomplicated show that doesn’t require any heavy thinking.

LOST on ABC

Leave all the heavy thinking to LOST. Doc Jensen, Entertainment Weekly’s online recap columnist, regularly spends up to 12 pages interpreting each episode. That’s 11 pages of arcane references to existentialism, philosophers Locke or Kierkegaard or Nietzsche, Egyptian mythology, quantum physics, magnetic thermodynamics, wormholes, Chaos Theory and the Old Testament. And one page devoted to what actually happened in the episode. Here’s a typical sentence from one of his recaps: “Seen in the abstract, with the castaways representing a singular entity, the scene was a metaphor for existential consciousness: fragmented, argumentative, double-minded, self-referencing but non-reflective, inert to the point of paralysis, compelled to action only by crisis.”

I love a program that can stimulate more than 1,000 posts every week (with sub-posts) on one site debating the meaning of every single moment, reference or character. But I can’t help but suspect the show itself was all concocted by writers huddled around a hookah smoking awesome Moroccan hash, giggling incessantly, and throwing out stream-of-consciousness ideas in random moments of eureka, then starting to freak out realizing they had to somehow cobble it all together before the buzz wore off.

Breaking Bad on AMC

This show had me long before the decapitated head of the Mexican drug henchman exploded on the back of a huge walking tortoise taking out several Border patrol officers. Or before the voiceless, near-quadriplegic uncle of another drug lord began incessantly pushing a hotel bell to warn his nephew he was about to be poisoned by our meth-cooking series ‘hero’ Walter White. Or when the stolen ATM machine fell over and crushed the skull of the same lowlife who hijacked it. In between these insanely dark, tense and morbidly funny moments lays the tale of a family man/high school teacher and the American Dream going horribly sour.

Robert Culp died yesterday at 79 after suffering a heart attack on a walk near his home. I don’t do obituaries (I used to do the police blotter for a newspaper), but this actor was one of the special ones for me.

I first saw Culp in the gothic-horror-science-fiction television series The Outer Limits in my favorite episode, “The Architects of Fear,” in 1963. He played a scientist who drew the short straw among a group of peace-minded conspirators who had decided the only way to bring together the Cold War enemies of Earth was to create a threat from … outside of Earth. Culp, as Allen Leighton, would be slowly and surgically transformed into a ‘scarecrow’ alien from another world, who would land in a rocket, address the U.N., and frighten the people of the world to unite against a common enemy. Of course, the plan backfires, he lands off course, and a couple duck hunters shoot him. Dying, he makes his way back to the lab where he was transformed, only to be confronted by his wife, who had been told months ago that her husband had been killed in a car accident. As she watches this monster die before her, he makes a ‘sign against evil’ with his finger that she recognizes could only be made by her late husband, and the tragic consequences of these frightened men’s scheme unravels before her tears.

What a mind-blowing impact that story and Culp’s amazingly sympathetic performance had on me at nine years old. His performance must have had the same impact on the producers of the show, because they brought him back a few episodes later for “Corpus Earthling” to play another character dealing with space rocks that morphed into soul-stealing parasites. And, they brought him back again for still a third character, Trent, in the forever classic episode from the second season written by Harlan Ellison, “Demon with a Glass Hand.”  Trent wakes up in the future with no memories, aliens trying to kill him, and a glass computer hand missing fingers needed to complete the data base required to provide full information about where the missing six billion humans of Earth have disappeared. Imagine his surprise when he ultimately discovers they’ve all been transposed onto a copper wire embedded in his own chest circuitry – he’s a robot. And the human chick he was just starting to emotionally connect to? Not so interested anymore. Bummer.

Culp played characters that, undoubtedly like his own personality, were instantly likeable, instantly empathetic. They could connect with the deep pathos required of any role, but there was also great levity. Even in the direst of circumstances, he could find amusement or absurdity in the situation. Sure, life is serious business, but what’s the point if you can’t blow out the fun on the other end? And who wouldn’t want a buddy like that? To be sure, he played the ultimate buddy when he was teamed with comedian Bill Cosby as world weary spies in I Spy from 1966-68. Culp played U.S. spy Kelly Robinson, whose cover was a tennis player on tour. Cosby played his trainer, Alexander Scott. This show was not only notable for being the first dramatic television series to cast a black man in a co-leading role, but it showed what remarkable chemistry and improvisation both actors could create and enjoy together.  Again, it was deadly serious business, but these guys always found a way to enjoy the journey and have a blast. And so did we. They set an impossibly high standard for what the perfect buddy relationship was all about.

Culp went on to direct television episodes, star in some memorable movies, and build a whole new television generation fan base with his role on The Greatest American Hero. But, for me, those iconic early 60s roles are the ones that glisten; the ones I connect to; and the ones I still get such a kick out of every time I pop a DVD in and see that classic glint in his eye: A glint that seemed to include us as it winked, “Isn’t it great to be a thinking man in such a silly business? Wish you were here.”

You brought us along, Robert, you brought us along. Thank you. Now go in peace.

Columnist Michael Ventura, who writes the excellent Letters at 3 a.m. column for The Austin Chronicle (and used to write for the L.A. Weekly), suggested this ‘exercise in know thyself’ for the New Year:  “List the Top 10 cultural artifacts that shaped you most. Be honest and unembarrassed. That’s the dare.”

Here’s mine for the second 25 years of my life (in no special order):

10) The I Ching Workbook by R.L. Wing I can’t count the number of times this brilliant and brief meditative journal has delivered me from anxiety regarding a life situation and preserved my sanity in the process (actually, I can count – I’ve consulted it more than 391 times in the past 25 years).  The “I Ching” is an ancient Chinese philosophy on coping with change that remains spot-on today, but is greatly misunderstood by Western standards: You toss three coins, combine a couple Trigrams and come up with a number and situation corresponding to where you’re at, and where you’re headed (e.g.;  Nourishing – Advancement). How could something so seemingly random produce such profoundly personal insights? The answer is simply … it doesn’t: You do. The process gets you to actually sit down and focus your own mental energy and inner wisdom toward accepting change or resolving conflict. These inner resources are always present, but we seldom take the time or trust ourselves to look for them and listen. Someone brilliantly pointed out that prayer is like asking God for something, but mediation is about actually listening to God. The I Ching puts you in a place to listen to God resonating within yourself to provide your own best counsel. It directs you to an answer, and you provide the meaning relevant to your situation. Writing that meaning down in the workbook is powerful therapy toward acceptance or resolution, and inner peace. 

9) “GROUNDHOG DAY” I doubt director Harold Ramis ever set out to deliberately make the perfect Zen movie, but he did.  Bill Murray plays a cynical weatherman doomed to live out the same mundane day over and over again. Anyone who’s ever held a regular monotonous job or been stuck in any kind of life rut can identify with that, right? Plus, it’s Bill Murrary, for crying out loud. He IS the Everyman. But what finally snaps him out of this ‘doomed’ existence? One day, perhaps day 1,002, he finally tries a different attitude and decides to embrace every single moment of the day no matter how banal or excruciating (an insurance salesman!), and that shift – to embrace each moment – is what ultimately delivers him from his ‘hell’ on Earth. It doesn’t get more Zen than that. But the fact that enlightenment arrives in the form of this goofy comedy instead of some inscrutable Buddhist koan is what makes it … perfect.

8. “SIX FEET UNDER” on HBO Death (and dealing with death) comes out of the closet. A funeral director dies prematurely (he’s hit by a bus), and for five seasons (2001-2006) we explore the emotional fallout of his surviving widow and three adult children (six feet under, get it?). Perhaps because my father died the same year this premiered, and my mother the year after it ended, the themes of loss, coping and healing speak volumes to me. But this show is so finely tuned to the human condition, the writing so pure, the presentation so jolting, and the acting so phenomenal, anyone can find some intensely felt connection with the events or emotions of these characters during their life journeys. You laugh, you weep, you marvel, you cringe, and you bear witness to 60 unbelievably awesome hours of television, and the best finale every aired.

7) “IN MY TRIBE” by 10,000 MANIACS I haven’t heard an album this immediately interesting and catchy since, well, since this first came out in 1987. And I’ve been listening carefully ever since, believe me. Hanging out with Jack Kerouac and the beat poets. Warning your brother not to become a gun nut now that he’s joined the Army. Listening to a haunting Verdi opera playing in the guestroom next door at your family’s beach vacation. Wondering about the madness behind a child-abusing neighbor. Trying to talk sense to an alcoholic. Lamenting what a circus the city of Los Angeles has become.  It all sounds so depressing on the lyric sheet, but is positively infectious with melody, great hooks and some of the most sparkling electric guitar shadings you’ll ever hear on CD. Delivered with Natalie Merchant’s passionate and unique vocals, you have a classic that will survive any time capsule as a knowing glimpse of “our tribe” toward the end of the twentieth century.

6) “THE POWER OF NOW by ECKHART TOLLE There’s nothing new about the concept of “be here now.” We’ve all heard a hundred variations of this theme from self-help books to religious texts, and from mystics to little league coaches. But for those of us either blessed or cursed with a rational mind, this book speaks clearly, profoundly, and easy to grasp. Hell, even Oprah ‘got it.’ Once you understand that all fear is your mind’s projection of an outcome, event or piece of information that isn’t even real yet, you start to get a sense of the forces within ourselves that trap or hold us back from truly enjoying any given moment. I read this book again and again whenever I feel stuck. Or I listen to the CD to get a good laugh, because Tolle reads his own words, and he must not have been happy with the sound of his own voice because he had the tape slowed down to give him a lower, more ominous pitch. It’s a little bit creepy, but surprisingly effective, and it never fails to crack me up.

5) YOGA Okay, this is beginning to sound like a list of every New Age fad you are required to believe or buy into once you start living in California; which is fair dig, since the second 25 years of my life were mostly spent there. But two decades on from my first exposure to a Kundalini Yoga class, and it’s still an essential part of my health and exercise regimen. Oh, sure, I don’t touch my toes to the floor behind my ears while lying on my back anymore or make my head come out of my ass like the guy in this picture, but that was never really what it’s about anyway. It’s moving or stretching in ways that bring (and burn) energy to those inner places (and organs) that other exercises often ignore. Yoga translates as “yoke” or union with God, or Atman.  The poses can be a form of meditation. But you don’t have to betray Jesus or buy Buddhism to benefit. I just say, “If it feels good, do it.” Namaste.

4) “AFTER ECSTASY, THE LAUNDRY” by JACK KORNFIELD Okay, so you’ve had your great moment of enlightenment, your life-shaking epiphany, your cosmic orgasm of understanding, or maybe just the LSD has worn off; what do you do for an encore? Once you’ve peeked behind the veil of mere physical existence, how can you ignore the experience long enough to function with the daily, mundane tasks and concerns this Earthly existence requires? And how do you imbue those tasks with any meaning beyond the now drearily ordinary? Why even bother? Well, I make no claims to having meditated long enough beneath a Bodhi tree to discover everlasting nirvana, but Kornfield took the fearless leap, walked the walk, and includes a bonanza of inspiring and reassuring wisdom from some masters and teachers out there who talk the talk. And who provide enormous comfort to those of us who thirst enough for insight to listen, and who are willing to let go of the ego that separates us from God and one another. This book will never leave the shelf closest to my reach.

3) ROY ORBISON Speaking of epiphanies, I’ve never seen an audience instantly levitate from their seats and respond more ecstatically than they did to k. d. lang when she channeled the spirit of Roy Orbison singing “Crying” at a tribute concert to him at the Santa Monica Civic Auditoreum in 1989 shortly after his death. Bob Dylan was there, the Byrds reunited; all the musical icons in the constellation came to pay tribute. Because Roy Oribison’s voice came from a place not of this lowly Earth; and his songs about loneliness and yearning and the sheer jubilation of when the “pretty woman” turned and walked his way can stir your heart and rip your soul. Orbison’s first success arrived during 50s, when he shared rock n’ roll’s infant airwaves on the radio with Elvis Presley. But many of us didn’t come to discover or appreciate his ethereal gift until he was re-introduced in the 1980’s through David Lynch’s use of “In Dreams” in Blue Velvet; Or Chris Isaak’s entire repertoire of Orbison-influenced songs; Or George Harrison , Dylan and Tom Petty forming the Traveling Wilburys with him; Or lang making the hairs on the goosebumps on the back of my neck stand up that magical night of ghostly-inspired music.

2) CDs, DVDs and BLU-RAY I was an early adopter for all of these superior sound and video compact media storage systems, having one of the first Sony CD player models back in 1985. I immediately began trading in my scratched and popping vinyl LP collection and never looked back (though I saved a few choice LPs for the over-sized cover art ,or for sentimental reasons). I never collected movies on VHS because it always seemed a bulky, primitive system, with tape that would tangle and a format you had to fast forward or rewind to get anywhere. I love DVDs, and now Blu-ray for the experience of convenient, relatively cheap (remember laser disks?) and superior image on the movies I treasure and watch over and over again. Younger consumers claim to be less interested in actually owning stuff like we were, and have no qualms about downloading individual songs in compressed audio quality MP3 formats, or waiting for the inevitable streaming HD movies they can play on their computer-merged television. I still relish the feel of a newspaper in my hand at a café, or a handy hardback book on my library shelf, and love to browse the titles and art on my DVD/Blu-ray collection to find exactly what suits the mood.

1) “DEADWOOD” on HBO In the immortal words of saloon/brothel owner Al Swearengen, “Any of you cocksucking motherfuckers have a problem with this?”

(Not the same performance as the tribute concert, but around the same time)