We Will Never Be The Same

Any budding pro songwriters out there are encouraged to consider these guidelines, drawn up by a major Hollywood studio, for a theme song intended for some big would-be blockbuster later this year. I, for one, am flummoxed:

"The ballad plays twice in the film. Once during the New Year's even celebration on board the ship and at the end of the film.

We first hear the ballad during the New Year's party when everyone is happy and having a great time. When we hear the ballad the second time, we see our small group is safely in the lifeboat, the ship has sunk, and thousands of lives have been lost. There is an undeniable sadness but as we look in the faces of the survivors there is also hope. Bonds have been formed which will remain forever. Dylan, the reluctant leader of the group, a devout loner at the beginning of the trip, is now forever bonded to his new “family”: Maggie and her young son Connor, who's life was saved by Dylan and in a way, they both have saved Dylan's from a lonely and meaningless life. There's our young engaged couple, Jennifer and Christian who now start their life together taking with them the knowledge that the bravery of Jennifer's dad who risked his life for the daughter he loved, has made their life together possible. As we pull back from this little boat onto the huge ocean, the sun is coming up and we see the rescue helicopters in the distance and the ballad plays once more, now with added meaning.

The director does not want not the song to foreshadow the events of the film when it plays in the New Year's party. The song does not have to reflect the story line of any of the characters specifically. This is an ensemble film where the specifics of the individual can differ but the general experience of loss and hope is something we can all relate to.

The song reflects the bittersweet experience of anyone that survives a disaster (whatever that disaster is) The loss can only have meaning if we are not overwhelmed by it and give into despair. Whenever it strikes, it's a life-altering event. We will never be the same. As in the bittersweet song of New Year's, Auld Lang Syne, we stand between the past and say good-bye to those we loved and we bring that love and experience with us and look into the future with strength and hope."

Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Fink

Something like this always happens: the night before I went to Los Angeles to see my little brother graduate from college (let's not even talk about the ramifications of this, vis a vis my advancing age/receding accomplishment index; i am, however, proud as proud can be of him), I'm flipping around channels during West Wing commercials and find my grandfather's one and only Twilight Zone appearance, "The Old Man in the Cave," which I am duty bound to watch every time it comes on (not often), despite the fact that A) I don't really like it (I can list 20 other TZs I prefer), and B) it reduces me to a blubbering mess every time I see it. His acting career was never very distinguished (nor was his father/my great grandfather's, for that matter, but Frank got a lot more work, usually as the old country doctor or the kindly old curmudgeonly doctor), but I really like him as a screen presence. (Frank, by contrast, was a terrible old ham, especially in the opening bit of Litvak's City of Conquest.) And because I never got to spend much time with him, the bit part nature of all his roles (note that his character on the episode is credited as "Man") has a weirdly acute mimetic vibe. It's safe to say I've seen him more on TV than I ever did in life. My favorite moment for him is when he chews Red Skelton out in the original Ocean's 11.

Anyway, of course this would happen the night before my trip, because every trip to L.A. is suffused with an ungovernable mix of nostalgia and sadness for every period of my life, never moreso than where family is concerned.

No need to even talk about the rest of the trip. It was full of complicated emotion, though I did see Rob Reiner driving a car.

One other thing: when buying the Sunday NY Times at Gelson's in Century City late Saturday night, the clerk asked if I was from the East Coast, and I said no, I just like to read the Times every week. He then said, "Yeah, a little flavor of old New York. You know that magazine, Los Angeles? Well, there's another magazine, called The New Yorker. I used to love to get it, just to see all the wonderful pictures of New York."

He absolutely (totes) wasn't joking. Nor was he special needs. It was just Los Angeles. I didn't know what to do or say, because every sound in my head made me feel like the worst snob in America. So I just said, "I'll keep an eye out for it."

Edward Woodward is The Equalizer

As I no doubt mentioned in some pitiful text message or other, I find lately that the degree to which I am able to become invested in sports seems to increase proportionally with the degree to which I give up on my dreams. Good times.

With that in mind, I would like to say that Ray Allen's 45-point performance against the Kings the other night was amazing, and filled me with the tiny inkling--one which I know so well, having seen it dashed so many times by Seattle's eternal gag reflex in moments of pressure or potential glory--that the Sonics could conceivably go all the way. And not just all the way to game 5. I have to tamp this idea down (not that I could claim to be hardcore anyway), but that little taste was pretty delicious.

Also, not for nothing, but by all appearances, Allen is twice the man Gary Payton ever was. Perhaps not in terms of numbers or longevity, but certainly in terms of grace and stealth. What I mean to say is that Gary is a whiny little biz-natch, and always was, even when he was the best Sonic in history. I loved watching him play, LOVED IT. But the fact is, he was a hero with the oldest tragic flaw in the book: hubris. Of course the Lakers' dynasty crumbled the year he came on board; you think you can disappoint the gods and not bring that shit with you?

Speaking of gods, can I please just say a brief word about my growing love for soccer? I can't say I love the George and Dragon Pub, but i do love going there to watch soccer. Last night was Arsenal vs. West Brom. I'm not even sure I know what "Brom" is short for. I'm not even sure I care. I just love the game, and in a way that allows me to think of it as removed from the more grating elements I typically associate with sports-enjoyment culture. There's a thrill of discovery; not of the sport itself, which I played quite a bit of as a kid, and in high school, but of the teams, the leagues, the seasons, the cosmology. It's very corny, but I equate it somewhat with my discovery of the musical underground in the early '90s--of course it had been there all along, but the sense of gaining access to the many splendors is kind of exhilarating.

Said the incredible nerd.

Speaking of indie rock, the new John Vanderslice record is astonishing. Coming out hard August 23. Which is probably around the time that the new HD record will be made available, too...