Sarah Palin

Just read Todd Purdom's piece in Vanity Fair on Sarah Palin, and while no one despises that woman more than I (even while ashamedly admitting I find her pretty damn hot), I have to say I found the article to be about 50% hatchet job. Which makes it 100% invalid, for me.

There are several examples where he falls back on an old journalistic technique of using the word "many" which is vague and can be misleading. He'll say things like (not a direct quote) " ...which had many people in Alaska wondering why?" My first response is, really? Many? You took out a poll? What are the numbers, please." Even the word "some" --another journalistic chestnut-- is inaccurate and vague. Often it is the opinion of the writer himself, but newspaper style calls for him not to include himself in the story, so he falls back things like " In a move that has some people questioning his sanity..." Some? Who please? If it was relevant to mention, then the names of the sanity questioners are relevant too.

The use of "many" is too open to interpretation, and I don't trust political writers to appreciate the difference. 3 people in 100 is not many when talking about people who cheat on their taxes. 3 people in 100 who are child molesters living on my block is too fucking many!

He often criticizes Palin for her sometimes capricious personality, but show me the politician who isn't narcissistic, self-important, and petty when they can get away with it. Lyndon Johnson was notoriously so--hell, even Lincoln knew how to screw over a person for an advantage. All politicians think the world revolves around them. They used to say, walk into the Senate Chamber and say "Excuse me, Mr. President?" and 100 heads will turn.

There is a peculiar anti-intellectualism in America which is, frankly, getting old. "He's got a lot of book learnin', but he ain't got a lick of common sense." Of course the people who say this don't read, and consider themselves chock full of common sense. Sarah Palin is locked into this feeling...er, feelin'. She seems rather proud of what she doesn't know. The new conservative columnist for the NY Times, Ross Douthat, draws the distinction between Obama and Palin:

"Our president represents the meritocratic ideal — that anyone, from any background, can grow up to attend Columbia and Harvard Law School and become a great American success story. But Sarah Palin represents the democratic ideal — that anyone can grow up to be a great success story without graduating from Columbia and Harvard."

Sarah Palin has always been a party of one--the Palin Party. Her history of rising through Alaska state politics on the backs for former mentors and friends is a local legend up there. Many people say so. :)

Purdum suggests she is vaguely conservative,but an Alaskan conservative is a different animal. Up there, they say a liberal is someone who owns a .357 Magnum or smaller. Her core beliefs are whatever propels her forward.

Really? And what politician doesn't reserve the right to change his or her opinion when faced with the possibility of electoral defeat? Can you say the name of that great Democratic Senator, Arlen Specter, perchance?

Anyway, as I say, I have always considered Palin a joke. She is no more qualified to be President than I am. And I, at least, have read a book. And a magazine. And a paper. And can name them. But just because she can't doesn't mean Vanity Fair can just hatchet her at will. Or...does it?

backstage habits

I have always found the backstage habits of actors fascinating, though I gotta say, much less so these days than when I first started out. These days, the thing I see most of the time are actors walking around or sitting with their Blackberries in hand, intent on whatever it is they are watching or reading. Boring. The level of conversation backstage has dwindled, to my old fogey way of thinking--the amount too. Often these days, there will be a group of actors sitting around, but all are looking down at their phones--if you didn't see the devices in their hands, you'd think by their attitudes that they were at a prayer meeting--heads bowed, hands in laps, lips moving silently. I have even seen them text each other while sitting there--no joke! I suppose that could be useful if you are pissed at someone " Dude--you are sitting nxt 2 th biggest ASS in ths cast!"

Young actors are particularly involved with their phones in a deeply profound way. I watch them come off stage and run to their dressing areas and pick up their phones first thing, even before looking in a mirror (surely the oldest actor habit since the invention of the mirror). I wanna ask--because I am a sarcastic bastard about these things--" Are you a pediatrician? Is there an emergency C-section you may have to rush off to perform at any moment?" Because, honestly, I can't think of any other reason for rushing to your phone in the middle of a show.

I know this dates me, but I don't care. I have always seen the theatre as a bubble, as an escape from the world. Once I show up, around 6:30 for an 8pm curtain, the world can't touch me. If one of my parents dies, I don't wanna know about it till after curtain call. My time there is spent getting ready, getting my head in the performance, silently running lines to myself, or quietly with my scene partners, working on makeup and costume issues, and trying to keep the engine running hot. I don't want to be taken out of that place. I can chat a little with cast members, but always with an ear cocked toward the stage, listening to scenes I am not in, or listening to myself in my head as I go over my next entrance. And if I see another actor who looks like he or she are doing the same thing, I don't butt in to chat. I leave them to their preparations. I am not saying my method is right for everyone, but I can't imagine texting my friends between scenes, or watching videos. It would interrupt the flow of continuity I need to keep things going. And, I gotta say, those actors who I do see texting between scenes?--their performances could probably benefit from a little more attention to the internal intangibles and keeping the world waiting at the door.

My backstage process has evolved over the years. I used to be very chatty, prided myself on being able to be social in the wings, then turn it on the moment I walked into the lights. But you know what? Looking back, I wasn't as good then as I am now. These days, I tend to keep to myself backstage. As I said, I try to keep the engine's RPMs running at a consistent level. That's why a part like Caliban in The Tempest (which I am currently performing), who is only in 5 scenes, leaves me exhausted at the end of the evening. Because I am not just working during those five scenes--I have done them over and over again before going out on stage to do them. I pace around, mutter to myself, stretch, run in place, do any number of things to keep hot. My mantra, to anyone who asks, is " I never warm up because I never cool off."

Back in the day, I use to watch older actors knit, or do crosswords. These were time-honored activities designed to keep busy between scenes without being distracted from their performances. Personally, I approve more of knitting, which is a mindless physical activity that doesn't get into your head--crosswords always took me away from the immediate task at hand. And maybe that's what those particular actors need. To each his own. But in any case, the world could not and did not enter, unlike with cell phones. One old school actor I knew when I first started in theatre, used to sit at his dressing table and copy out his all his lines onto a notepad. Every night. We knew not to interrupt him--when he wasn't on stage, he was writing down his lines. It was a mind-numbing thing to contemplate, but it worked for him.

I don't comment on the use of phones backstage. What would be the point? People would respond with patronizing smiles, and think, " What an old stick-in-the-mud (or whatever the latest word would be :) )--doesn't he know the world has changed, and this is how we roll now?"

I get it. But just because everyone does it, doesn't mean it is correct. Or effective. It's like I tell my kids at the high school--" You have 22 hours in the day to talk to your friends and be unfocused and undisciplined and divide your energies--why not try to devote yourself to just one thing for these 2 hours?"

Great Quote from Bernard Levin

"If you cannot understand my argument, and declare "It's Greek to me", you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger, if your wish is father to the thought, if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if youo have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise - shy, be that as it may, the more fool you, for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that is the long and short of it, if you belive that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blod, if you li low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surly you have a tougue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinkin idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut, tut! for goodness' sake! what the dickens! but me no buts - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare."

The Red Cross

Today, they threw my blood away. Yes, the Red Cross didn't need my blood.

A few years ago, a doctor mentioned to me that I had the gene for hemochromatosis, which is a blood disorder whose main feature is that iron doesn't get washed out or dissolved or whatever happens to it through the normal course of digestion. It stays in the body, collecting in the joints and, more dangerously, the organs, causing early death and annoyance. And of course, armed with this news, I promptly forgot all about it.

Flash forward to this spring, when a blood test revealed abnormally high levels of iron in my blood. It was a little unnerving. The doc showed me the sheet full of test results, and my eye immediately went past all the digits and incomprehensible abbreviations, to the bold red ink which, in all caps, sirened ALERT! It even had the exclamation point, though really, the red ink was enough for me. Punctuation was a little redundant at that point. I mean, there wasn't much chance there'd be ALERT?, was there? Or ALERT;

So, I was referred to a gastro-enterologist, which is the specialist who, in addition to your guts and pancreas and liver, also handles this hemo thing. I told her I had hemochromatosis, and after weeks of tests, which included a colonoscopy, an Upper GI, and a liver biopsy, she was able to tell me that...I had hemochromatosis.

There is no drug for this thing. It is something that affects mainly people of northern European heritage (thanks mom and dad--couldn't be Italian or Lebanese, couldja?-- you Scots-Irish-German bastards!), and is the most commonly inherited disease of that tribe, according to Dr. Wikipedia. The treatment is medieval--every so often, I go in and they drain me of a few pints of the red stuff, and that's supposed to set things right as rain, for a while. They don't use leeches, though, but that seems to be the only difference. I tried to go in a give blood back when I first saw the ALERT!, but the Red Cross turned me down after testing my blood. They said it would clot in the bag, and that I needed a prescription for them to do a "therapeutic draw."

So that's what I did today. Prescription in hand, I went to the Red Cross center, did a little paperwork, and then they drained me of a pint of my valuable, iron-laden juice. I watched the nurse take the warm bag of blood, and the tube that connected me to it, and carried them to a large trash can covered with HAZ MAT stickers, and dropped them in.

No chance to feel like a hero here. Even though I was doing it for myself, for my own health, I looked forward to getting the blood donor sticker that I could wear around for a day or two, along with my bright red gauze that, seen together, would announce to the world " This man cares about his fellow man--he donates blood!" I saw myself steering conversations around to it at dinners:

" Do you like your steak rare, sir?"

" You bet," I'd say," The rarer the better, gotta replace some of that stuff I donated, ya know."

Or maybe I'd be on the scene of an auto accident, standing there with the other rubberneckers, and the driver would be bleeding from a head wound, and I'd announce, " Too bad I can't give any blood to help this man--it's too soon after my last donation! You have to wait a few months, ya know."

But no sticker for me. I was lucky they even gave me a cookie. They didn't bother to thank me, and why should they, really? I wasn't doing anything for them. In fact, I was interfering with their proper duties, the collection of blood for local hospitals. Every time they have to bleed me, they are taking time out from the heroes who donate for selfless reasons. Those people's blood was going out to help war veterans, pregnant mothers, children in dire need of the lifesaving fluid.

Mine? They didn't need it. Didn't want it. Threw it away in a dumpster, where it will be hauled out, and either incinerated (a sort of dress rehearsal for my cremation), or shipped along with all the other selfish people's blood to a facility in New York, where some day it will suddenly wash up at Jones Beach (a dress rehearsal for my move to New York).