Since You've Been Gone

After spending three months in New York, I returned to LA to find things have changed. Three things, principally. First, my bank was bought by a larger bank and nothing is the same. Second, the sales tax in California has jumped to 9.75%. Third, all the trees on one side of a street near my home have vanished.

It took me years of bouncing from one bank to another before I found Washington Mutual. It seems that every time I was happy with a bank, they would be bought by a larger bank and suddenly I would be hit with all kinds of fees I never had to pay before. The new owners would change all the things I liked about my bank and so I would leave to find another. I’ve never liked bullies and don’t enjoy seeing proof that the most successful corporations are, in fact, bullies.

Washington Mutual was a big bank, but felt like a small one. They were friendly. They did not charge me to access my own money. I liked them. Now they are gone, and almost immediately I’ve noticed less costumer friendly policies being instituted. The most interesting change, however, appeared as a red sign. Several red signs, to be exact.

While standing in line at the newly remodeled branch near my house, complete with what appears to be bullet proof glass separating teller from costumer, I noticed a red sign in the window of each vacant station. It read:

I apologize
Next window please

Strange. Why apologize for the window being closed? Why not just say “Window Closed”? Or maybe just the part about using the next window? Even more strange, who is I? Shouldn’t it be we? We apologize, we are sorry for the inconvenience, we’ll be right back?

When I worked as a cashier at the A&P as a teenager, we had a sign that was attached to the counter on an arm which would come down like at a railroad crossing. The sign was a picture of a cash register with a red circle around it and a red diagonal line slashing across like on a road sign. No crossing zone. I loved those closed signs, and when they stopped using them, I took one home to hang on the wall over my bed. I used to dream every night about being at work, and thought perhaps that sign would indicate a “no work while sleeping zone.”

Anyway, it was a clear sign. No ambiguity. Register closed. The customers could figure out the rest. Why does this bank need to apologize to me, and in the first person? Time will tell, but perhaps it already knows it’s about to start screwing me with fees and penalties. “I’m sorry, but I no longer view you as a valuable customer. Can’t say I’ll miss you when you leave to find a smaller and weaker bank, one more suitable for a pauper such as yourself. Have a nice day.”

Standing at the cash register at Big Lots, I was momentarily confused. The wonderful Dearfoam slippers I was buying were marked down from $32 to $12. (They really are incredible. Picture one of those high tech space foam mattresses, in miniature, inside a sheepskin lined suede cloud. As you lift each foot, it puffs back up so that each step is cushioned. Perfect for rainy nights in front of the fireplace. My old slippers were falling apart from wear, and I discarded them before leaving for New York in October.) Why was the cashier asking for thirteen dollars and change? When I looked at the receipt as I left the store, it was the 9.75% which rose off the slip of paper and laughed out loud maniacally, before floating away down Daigon Alley.

All those tea baggers who are up at arms over the income tax have misplaced their ire. Are we to have a VAT and an income tax in the state of California? The income tax laws may be complicated, and may be designed to allow people to take advantage of the system, but they are no more unfair than what amounts to a tithe with every purchase. The guy making several hundred thousand a year (and paying lower income taxes than the average middle class shmoe) does not feel the extra dollar out of ten. It’s the struggling middle class shmoe that feels it. The starving actors who can barely pay their rent. We feel it.

Why not charge every one the same income tax rate, getting rid of the loopholes and deductions, and lower the sales tax? An income tax based on a flat percentage would guarantee that the dollar amount paid would be more for those who have more, and less for those who have less. Pretty simple, no? A sales tax is like a toll which everyone pays, no matter how much more expensive it is to those who are already stretching the dollar just to get by.

When I lived in New Jersey, the sales tax was only three percent, and non existent on clothing. Very smart. People from New York would flock across the Hudson in droves to take advantage of the lower tax, bringing business into the state and helping the economy. What river do I have to cross in LA to do the same?

As I was wading across the ford which was Hazeltine before the rains began this past week, I noticed something strange along one stretch of sidewalk. Something was missing. Some things. Trees. All the beautiful flowering shade trees which lined the street were gone. Now the horrible 1960s apartment complexes were fully exposed. Now the unfortunate occupants of those ugly buildings were robbed of what little privacy and sound insulation they had. Now all the people who parked their cars in the shade of those beautiful flowering trees will be forced to return the their metallic ovens after they have been baking in the merciless sun for hours.

This is something I have noticed happening in my neighborhood since I first moved here. One by one, street after street, the trees are being chopped down. Property values are sure to fall as quickly. Who doesn’t want to live on a tree lined street? Who actually prefers a desolate corridor of cement?

It is something I cannot understand. Trees provide beautification (to quote LadyBird.) They grant the inhabitants of the nearby houses shade, privacy, sound insulation, lower heating costs in the winter and lower cooling costs in the summer. Yet, year after year, I notice more trees vanishing.

One moron at the end of my block removed a row of Cyprus trees which towered over fifty feet tall. Those trees must have been a hundred years old. They were replaced with a white plastic fence. Now I can see the Bloomingdale’s sign from my driveway. Charming. A year later, this short sighted murderer sold his house and moved away, probably to destroy nature someplace else.

While performing at a party in Sherman Oaks, I commented to the homeowner about the spectacular Sherman Oak soaring high above his house. He complained that he wanted to chop it down, but it was protected by law. After glaring at this idiot for a full minute, I smiled politely and walked away, knowing at least one magnificent being was safe from the mindlessness of humans.

Why aren’t all trees protected? Why are people allowed to kill whatever trees they like and then flip their houses, leaving the new owners with a barren canvas, pounding sun and pervasive traffic noise? Maybe M, Night Shyamalan had it right. Maybe the trees should fight back.

Three unpleasant changes made in my absence. Welcome back to LA. I apologize, but screw you.

No Parking

It used to be that I knew all the best places to park in New York City. Having a car was an advantage I had over other actors who did not. I could travel into Jersey and find work that would require four wheels to transport me to rehearsals. In fact, other actors would often ride with me, which would help cover the fuel costs, and save them the train fare.

Having a car also gave me a way of doing kind things for those other actors who did not. I could drive people home at night, not at all bothered by crossing boroughs. It was a nice thing, knowing I could do something with so little effort, something which was always appreciated by actors who viewed a ride home as a rare treat.

Parking in the city was a game of strategy. Getting into the right neighborhood just before the signs changed. I took pride in my parallel parking skills, which are first rate. I also took pride in never paying for parking, except perhaps at a meter when it was absolutely unavoidable. It was knowledge those of us with cars accumulated over years and guarded carefully. If too many people found out all the secret places to park for free, then they would be even more scarce than they already were. However, they were. They existed. Parking in New York City could in fact be done for free.

Well, no more. Not well. Just no more. I was performing at Le Bernadin over the weekend, on the day the snow was due to arrive. Tough part of town to find a space, but I knew where I could get a spot not too far away. Or more accurately, I knew where I used to get a spot not far away. Not anymore. In the handful of years since I move to Los Angeles, everything has changed. All the signs have been re-written. The meters have been re-set. Parking has become a scam. A major source of income for the city, as well as for the vultures and sharks who prey on the people who drive their cars into Manhattan, hoping for the once possible. A free place to park.

Where the signs used to say no parking Monday through Friday from 8am to 6pm, they now say no parking any day any time at all. Where meters used to be in use until 7pm except on Sundays, they are now in use until 10pm, including on Sundays. What's more, the meter system itself has changed. Instead of putting coins in a meter, you now pay at a meter station in the middle of the block, and leave the receipt in your car window.

Sounds efficient? Think again. It's crooked. As in devised by crooks. It used to be that you could pull up at a meter and find there was still time on it. Or, you could pull away and leave time on it for someone else. Not anymore. Now, no matter how much time you have left, the city charges the next person as if from scratch. So, in essence, they are charging twice for the same space at the same time! Crooks, criminals, thieves.

Knowing it would be tough to find a space near Le Bernadin, I got into the area a full hour early and began snaking my way between 11th and 8th avenue, from 52nd to 81st street, before finding a space! It took me an hour and fifteen minutes, and I was now forced to take the subway back down so I would not be late.

The last time I rode a subway, the fare was $1.50, which I already viewed as outrageous. Imagine my surprise when I found that a single ride now costs $2.25! How is this possible? It took a hundred years to go from a nickel to a buck fifty, how can anyone explain the huge increase in just six years? When you think about the millions of people who ride the subway, a raise of a single cent will produce an enormous boost in revenue. Why then do they jump to such obscene percentages? Where the heck does all this money go?

The same can be said for the tolls. When I lived in Jersey, the Holland Tunnel cost four dollars. That was six years ago. Now it costs double that! Double! Not a dollar more. Not two dollars more. Double! This is just plain outrageous. It is not at all fair to struggling actors who do mot make the same salary as high powered business executives who continue to commute at the higher cost without feeling a thing. Struggling actors who have cars with which they can find work in Jersey and help out others who do not cannot say the same. We feel it. The higher tolls, the inflated fares, the crooked parking fees come out of our already meager income. Percentages work against us. More of our pay goes into the greedy hands of the corrupt city officials who decide to raise whatever fees to whatever heights they choose.

Do you know it costs eleven dollars to cross the Verazzano Narrows bridge? It's a spectacular bridge, for sure, but eleven dollars? You can see a movie in a theatre for less!

After my gig, I walked the thirty blocks back to my car. The snow had begun falling, and I was grateful the city looked so pretty. It took my mind off the crooks who are running it.

Man on the Moon

Forty years ago, a man walked on the moon for the first time. (Unless you believe in conspiracy theories and Kirk Cameron, in which case you may as well stop reading here and pick up the more comfortable work of fiction by the Sarah who is not on a box of dessert, but could just as well be.)

Forty years after a manned flight to the moon, I sit in the top floor slanted ceilinged bedroom of my grandparent's Cape Cod. Rain is making music on that slant. High above that rain, an astronaut is at work at a space station, floating in orbit around the Earth. A camera films him. A live signal is beamed down by satellite to the silver laptop on my desk. I gaze at the images and marvel at how easily we accept this as commonplace.

In 1969, a young boy may have had this room as his bedroom. It isn’t difficult to imagine him in his pajamas with stars and planets on them. His collection of Robby Robot toys on the floor. A mobile of the solar system suspended from the slanted ceiling. I can picture him staring out the window, up at the night sky. Imagining those men walking on the moon.

How far will science have taken us forty years from now? Will my own grandson be sleeping in this room, sending text messages to his best friend on board a spacecraft from another planet? Will things we now consider far fetched be accepted as commonplace to him? Time travel, transporters, extra terrestrial beings? How far fetched does something have to be, before it can safely be considered beyond the range of possibility for longer than a person can imagine?

Almost everything in Jean Luc Picard’s world is either already in ours or soon to be. There are exceptions of course, but for how long? Looking back at how quickly science has emerged from science fiction, it seems silly to write anything off as beyond that range.

I can almost recognize how much effort it must take for our own higher consciousness to stay immersed in this world. On a higher plane, we must already realize what more there is to discover. Before coming into this world, perhaps we were well familiar with other worlds, and only agreed to forget all of that in order to be fully present in this one. How strong must be the temptation each night, while we dream, to step out of the accepted limits of this world at this time and go freely to explore those others? How much we must love this one to keep coming back, perhaps bringing with us a deeply stored recollection of some piece of the future. How else does it come into being?

Rain on the roof. Robby Robot on the floor. Astronaut on the laptop. Transporter in the closet?

Words

Words howled across echoless canyons

Falling heavy weighted liquid lead

Drowning while dropping fathoms through empty air

Voiceless screaming wind

Grasped with clutching fingers spread

Desperate searching frozen dead

Blackness beating silent sinned

Sounds and letters shot from cannons

Piercing staining bloody red

Secrets uncased in deep places where

Nothing resides unshadowed unharbored unhid

You never loved me. You never did.

True Dat?

“True dat,” said the anchorman, in response to a comment from a reporter. True dat. From an anchorman on the six o’clock news. A white anchorman. Dressed in a suit. Not the colorful sportscaster, nor the ditzy weather girl dressed for clubbing, but the man behind the desk. The one whose face the network hopes we will regard as trustworthy. Whose voice we will rely on to present the events of the day in an unbiased and responsible way. True dat.

At first, I was not sure I heard him correctly. Did he really say “True dat?”

Now, I am white. I have always been white. Even when I was a kid, I was white. I expect that I shall always be white. I feel no reason to apologize for being white. I know that caucasian is probably more accurate a term, because my skin tone is not actually white, but I take no offense when I am referred to as white. It is what I am, and it does not seem likely to change. It would be foolish of me to try to be anything other than white. I might play a character on stage who is not white, but in real life I know that I am, in fact, white.

That can probably be said about every white person I have ever met, or will ever meet. I’m sure there may be exceptions, but for the most part, anyone who started out as white will end up as white. That should be a given.

Why then, am I confronted daily with white people speaking in gangsta rap slang? White people from the suburbs. White people who are old enough to have grown children. Even white people on the news. Trying to sound, what, young? Cool? Black?

How is it cool to sound black? When did ebonics ever sound anything other than ignorant, whether being spoken by a white person or a black one? I cannot understand why any white person in their right mind would choose to speak gangsta rap. For that matter, I cannot understand why any black person in their right mind would choose to speak that way.

None of the black people I know speak in ebonics. They view the gold toothed gangsta rappers in the same way that white people view shirtless trailer park drunks running from the cops on those reality shows. As embarrassing stereotypes. Ignorance is not subject to interpretation according to cultural differences. Ignorance is ignorance, and it should not be something toward which we aspire.

Imagine an Asian person dyeing their hair shocking red, having their face tattooed with freckles, walking around with a cane and speaking like the Lucky Charms leprechaun. “Top O the mornin’ to ya!” Going on and on about “potaters” and their saintly mum, and drinking “a wee bit O whiskey at the pub.” It would be no more ridiculous than the hordes of white suburbanites pretending to be black gangstas from the hood.

The only people who should be speaking like gangstas from the hood are gangstas from the hood. If someone grows up in the projects, where surviving past the age of nineteen is considered an accomplishment, then it is perfectly understandable why education might not be a top priority to them. That of course is a shame, since education is a sure way out of that scenario.

A young kid who’s parents grew up in the same rough environment, and is surrounded by other kids who know nothing different, cannot possibly be expected to do anything other than emulate his older brother, who must seem awfully cool in his gold chains and signifying colors. Once up and out of that world, that same young kid will most likely change the way he views the importance of being cool.

I was never cool. I was the kid named Melvin who carried a stack of books around, was always humming something classical from orchestra practice, and who wanted desperately to be accepted by the leather jacket crowd. They were known as dirtbags. They were the tough kids who cut class to hang out behind the cafeteria to smoke cigarettes. Being something that I was not was appealing at that age, but once I left high school, I left that misguided desire behind. Those kids no longer seemed cool. They seemed limited.

I grew up speaking with a thick New York accent, but Shakespeare, Noel Coward, Moliere, and Agatha Christie removed any trace of that. I can still speak New York when I want to, mostly when angry or when punctuating a comic line. When I turn on the tv and see some mafia lughead saying “bada bing” and “yous guys,” I file him under the same category as PP Puffy Doggie. Just another uneducated bozo perpetuating an unfortunate stereotype.

What is far more mystifying to me are the young white people who combine ebonics with text speak! I have to laugh when I read something online that is peppered with “gurl” “wuz” “wit” “aight” and other configurations, all appearing like the sound effects a cartoonist might use in his comic strip. What is puzzling is how some of these abbreviated slang words actually require more time and effort to type than their English equivalents!

Take “wuz,” for example. Now “cuz” might at least make some sense, as it saves the typist from the apparently unreasonable labor of spelling out the entire word “because,” but “wuz?” W-a-s takes a fraction of a second to type, as the three letters are touching on the keypad. So, to use “wuz” requires effort and intent. Baffling.

I cannot even begin to explain the girl whose online comments I struggled to decipher the other day. She was using the collection of letters “khan” and “khant.” Your guess is as good as mine, but I think she was attempting “can” and “can’t,” and can only assume she is from a country which does not encourage it’s citizens to learn English.

Like ours. True dat, indeed.

Does the Curse Count if it's Texted?

A friend of mine sent me some information about a play reading being done at an istore in some other city. Was it San Francisco? Maybe Seattle. Not sure, but it was definitely not New York. It’s one of those gimmicky play readings. Shakespeare, but with a twist. A catch. A way of making the language accessible to a modern audience. A modern audience, presumably, which is so dense and limited in both intelligence and attention span that they cannot possibly be expected to understand material which has been almost constantly in production for four hundred years.

As anyone who knows anything about theatre is sure to tell you, material which has been almost constantly in production for four hundred years must not be accessible as is, and cannot possibly be performed without a gimmick. In other words, as written. The way the author intended. The way audiences for hundreds of years have been seeing and hearing it performed. Almost constantly.

The big gimmick for this production at an istore is really an igimmick: an iphone. Several iphones, to be more exact. One for each of the iactors, and possibly one for each iaudience member, although those would have to be provided by the iaudience themselves (perhaps purchased at the aforementioned istore?) The iactors will be reading the text of Shakespeare off their iphones. No need to learn the lines in advance, or even to have read the lines in advance. Why be bothered with such archaic methods? Modern marvels save us from having to do any work of any sort, after all. Isn’t that the point of having them?

What’s more, the audience is being encouraged to read along (assuming the presumably dense and limited in both intelligence and attention span modern audience is capable of reading) with the text of Shakespeare. As anyone who knows anything about theatre is sure to tell you, giving an audience the script is always a good idea! That way, they can detect every tiny deviation in the dialogue. Although, it must be difficult to find an actor who would not object to having the audience gazing down at the script (or the tiny screen of an iphone) rather than up at the actor on the stage. Even an actor who is doing nothing more than reading off the tiny screen of an iphone.

The name of the play chosen to be given this gimmicky treatment? The very bloody Macbeth. With an emphasis on the mac. As in imac. What better script is there, to read on an iphone in an istore? Makes perfect sense, and it’s one way to be sure the actors don’t pronounce it Mick-beth (a common mistake.)

I wonder, though, if the iactors are reading from their iphones, will the language be in the ubiquitous text speak? Is the iaudience to be subjected to the nightmare of “2mro n 2mro n 2mro”? Four hundred years later, and we are still at the mercy of illiterate individuals taking it upon themselves to spell words however they see fit in the moment.

To be fair to the producers of this gimmicky promotional stunt, the play reading is meant to advertise an application which will make Shakespeare accessible for downloads onto mobile phones. Hard to argue with that. How nice to consider that a geeky, high-tech computer nerd has devised a way for geeky, low-tech theatre nerds to have the complete Folio at their fingertips, wherever they are throughout the day.

That is indeed a very good thing, but does it follow that it would make good theatre? Not unless an iphone can bleed.

A Man of Peace

Okay, but isn't it a bit too soon?

President Jimmy Carter practically qualified for Sainthood before he was finally awarded the Nobel Prize for Peace. President Obama has been given one already, after only a few months in office, and with very little international experience before reaching the White House. This is perplexing.

I voted for Obama. I believe he is a truly brilliant and obviously impressive man. I cheer for him in every news piece, about whatever issue. He speaks beautifully, thinks far ahead of the pack, and carries himself as a man with deep morals and principles. It would be very difficult to find fault with this man, and it is very easy to discredit those who try.

Even so, I have to wonder how it came to be that he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize? Is the rest of the world so glad to be rid of the little man with the little mind that they are willing to throw awards at whomever came next? It may say a great deal about just how low our country's image sank under the weight of the wrong doings of the previous administration. Or, was it that becoming President as a black man in a largely racist country is deemed an act of peace?

As much as I love to see a worthy man be recognized for his accomplishments, I have to wonder, in this instance, just what those accomplishments were? What's more, or less, is that now all those racists who rant and rave, outraged and foaming at the mouth, about the foundation of our nation being destroyed, and our future being forever tainted (tainted black) will never shut up.

I would love to see President Obama win the Nobel Peace Prize at some point in the future. After he has proved that a gentle countenance, a mastery of words, and a confident yet humble bearing will go far toward disarming conflict and creating peace. Which he will, I am sure, but give the man a chance to be great. To do great things. Then crown him with Laurel. Name streets for him. Put his face on a coin.

Just not yet.