Camping in Los Angeles

Going off to camp for the summer when I was a kid was a real East Coast thing. Growing up in LA, and living in the city, when I was nine my parents sent me to something called “Day Camp”. The “camp” was essentially a bus.

Every morning it picked me up and the first camp activity was driving around the Fairfax district for an hour picking up other campers.

Once we assembled with the other buses at the Big Town Market parking lot on Pico we set off for our daily adventures, which varied depending on the day and traffic.

Sometimes the bus would drop us off at a swimming school sandwiched between a beauty parlor and real estate office. We’d swim for a couple of hours and get back on the bus. We’d stop at a park and have lunch. Afternoon activities might include going to Griffith Park to go horseback riding, the Lido Theater on Pico Blvd. to see a movie, the La Brea Tar Pits (hours of fun there), a museum, and once a week – the beach. But the best was when we talked the counselors into stopping at the Rexall Owl Drug Store on Beverly and La Cienaga where we bought comic books and baseball cards.

These were all fun activities but half the day or more was spent commuting to these venues. At first the counselors (teenagers all) tried to get us all to sing rousing camp songs. That lasted three minutes. We were not a Kumbaya crowd. The resourceful counselors had a Plan B. They turned on the radio to KFWB, the big Top 40 station at the time. We could sing along to the hits of the day. Except we were eight and nine and few of us listened to rock n’ roll radio. None of these songs were familiar to us. The only music we recognized was commercials. So there we were – your typical campers – barreling down the 405 Freeway singing the Winston cigarette jingle.

We didn’t have a chance to write “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah” sob story letters to our parents. We went home every night. I guess if they still have Day Camps, disgruntled campers could send “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah” texts.

Still, Day Camp was preferable to just hanging around the neighborhood and doing nothing. And I accidentally grabbed one of the coed counselor’s breasts in the pool one day. At the time it meant nothing but a few years later I realized the magnitude of that event and was aroused for weeks.

My older cousin, Jeff went to sleep-away camp that summer and I went with my aunt to pick him up at session's end. The camp was in nearby Malibu canyon. We drove in, I got my first look at the facilities and HOLY SHIT!! There was a swimming pool so large it had a little island in the center. There was a baseball field and an arts & crafts cabin. At night they roasted marshmallows around a giant on-site campfire. There were rocks to climb, a handball court, and a dining hall. WHAT THE FUCK?! This was camp!

Over at Earl Pomerantz’s fine blog he’s been regaling us lately with his remembrances of going off to summer camp in Canada. Poignant, funny, and wistful tales of cookouts and activities at the lake and parent visiting days. Helping the counselors change a flat tire on the bus or getting lost on the way to Lion Country Safari and winding up in Newhall doesn’t exactly stack up.

But that Rexall Owl Drugs is still there (under a different name) and a few months ago I had occasion to stop in. They still sold comic books. And suddenly I was that nine-year-old boy again, excited and completely care free. God, it felt so good to once again commune with nature.

Is Jennifer Aniston really a slut?

Saw HORRIBLE BOSSES recently. A lot of funny stuff. But one thing that didn’t work for me at all was Jennifer Aniston. As a foul-mouthed sex crazed slut I didn’t believe her for one second. I know it’s not fair to presume. In real life maybe she’s the whore of whores (so no disrespect), but on the screen that’s just not who she is. And every time she let fly a ration of raunch it was not just unconvincing (and unfunny) but uncomfortable.

Here’s what it felt like to me. A calculated move by Jennifer and/or her handlers to change her image so she’ll be offered a wider range of roles in the future – a future that is unjustly unfair to all actresses who have the audacity to turn 40. I wanted to yell at the screen, “Jennifer, you don’t have to do this! We love you and always will -- even when you start playing moms and business women.”

Jennifer is not alone in this. Remember when cute, pert, effervescent Meg Ryan decided to alter her persona by doing IN THE CUT? Yes, I was curious to see wholesome little Meg naked… for the first minute. Then it was like I had accidentally seen my cousin taking a shower. Creeee-py. (On the other hand, can you imagine how awful HOW HARRY MET SALLY would have been had it starred Sharon Stone?)

Many actors come with an image and it’s the Faustian Contract they sign with the devil to become stars. In LARRY CROWNE we’re supposed to buy that Julia Roberts is this caustic, bitter, world-weary woman. Yeah, right. Julia Roberts. With that smile (that you know she’ll be flashing at some point in the movie).

And producers, just because you have a chance to get a star – if he or she is not believable in the role you are not doing yourself a favor. 50 year-old Kevin Spacey playing 20 year-old Bobby Darin is a glaring example. I don’t think there was a scene in HOSTEL more squirm-inducing than Spacey as Darin coming on to Kate Bosworth who’s young enough to be his daughter. Ugghhh!!

I’m sure you can think of other instances, but here are some other actors who were mis-cast in roles. Kevin Costner as Robin Hood. What were they thinking? John Wayne as Genghis Khan in THE CONQUEROR. That one is truly stupefying. And then there was Denise Richards as a renown nuclear physicist in the Bond movie THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH. Holy shit!

Jennifer Aniston’s casting in HORRIBLE BOSSES is nowhere near that level of wrong, and to her credit, she does commit to the crude. But it’s not real. It’s Rachel with Tourettes. Seriously, Jen, we love you. We’re still here even after your last Adam Sandler movie. We’re not going anywhere. You can even do television again. (Oooh, I think I just heard her say “Fuck!” and that time it felt like she really meant it.)

Amy Winehouse 1983-2011

When you first heard the news that Amy Winehouse had died I bet you weren’t remotely surprised. And to me that says it all. Because when anyone dies at the incredibly young age of 27 it should be an utter shock. But Amy’s battle with drugs and alcohol and probably any other substance that comes in a container with a little skull and crossbones on it was so relentless and so public that no one needed a SPOILER ALERT to see this one coming.

Ironically, Amy joins Rock n’ Roll Heaven headliners Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, and Kurt Cobain – all 27 at the time of their deaths.

I don’t know the exact age but I remember reading somewhere that the life expectancy of any rock star is somewhere in the 50’s. Granted, they pack 90 years of living in those 50+ years but still. That’s waaaaay too young.

And it brings up the question – is it worth it? The fame, the girls, the money, the highs? For me, absolutely not. But that’s really easy for me to say because I had no shot whatsoever of becoming a rock star. When the Beatles first burst upon the scene and every kid scrambled to learn how to play the guitar I took the lazy route and tried to master the harmonica. (Hey, John Lennon played one. And so did Bob Dylan. Of course, they played other instruments and were also talented.)

But looking back, it was a blessing. Amy Winehouse was given an enormous gift, which proved to be a deadly curse. It’s easy to say she made a lifestyle choice but that’s not entirely fair. Without her extraordinary voice would she still have gone down the same path? I couldn’t say. I never met Amy Winehouse. With no music in her life perhaps she would have lived another seventy years happily selling handbags at Harrod’s. Or her demise might’ve been two years earlier.

One thing for certain though -- rock stardom takes its toll. The demands are high. Touring, recording, losing Grammys to Milli Vanilli. Some handle it better than others. Not everyone dies. Some go on to become AMERICAN IDOL judges or golfers (Alice Cooper). But others, like Amy Winehouse, are not so fortunate.

Now come the tributes, the shrines, candlelight vigils. Her CD’s will top the charts, seventeen unauthorized biographies will be available by next week (each claiming to be the real story, even the one that blames her death on corn syrup in baked goods), the E! TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY will play on a continuous loop until the next rapper is gunned down, and the movie will be released next May. Talk about the part Lindsay Lohan was born to play.

Amy Winehouse crosses over from troubled, fucked-up rock singer to icon, martyr, legend.

I’m sorry but all of this makes it hard to mourn. I kind of hate admitting that but it's true. And that's almost as sad to me as her being only 27 and none of us being surprised.

Classic Sam Denoff

As a follow-up to my recent post on Sam Denoff, here are two classic DICK VAN DYKE SHOWS written by Sam and his partner, Bill Persky.  The first is "Coast to Coast Big Mouth", the script I first saw in a book.  And the second is "That's My Boy", which contains one of the greatest payoffs in sitcom history.  Enjoy. 

Coast to Coast Big Mouth






That's My Boy

I'm represented at Comic-Con!

I used to make fun of Comic-Con, especially the elaborate costumes and get-ups some attendees would wear.  But no more.  Not after seeing this.  Finally!  Someone has the good sense and taste to dress as Dancin' Homer.  Whoever you are, sir, I salute you.

Thanks to reader WillieB for the heads-up.

My favorite weekend

Yes, I'm dipping into the archives but it's one of my favorite all-time posts, so what the hell?  I've picked up a few new readers since it first ran three years ago. 
The Thursday Calendar section of the LA TIMES always has a feature called “My Favorite Weekend”. A celebrity is asked to describe his or her favorite southland weekend. It’s always bullshit, but now it seems they’re running out of real celebrities. At one time it was Sharon Stone. Now it's one of the models who holds briefcases on DEAL OR NO DEAL. Like anyone gives a crap that she likes to go to Catalina with friends on Sunday then have dinner at someone’s house and let his chef prepare the meal.

So I wrote up my favorite weekend. Or at least, a typical weekend for me. And God bless the TIMES, they ran it. Here it is again just in case you're looking for something to do today and tomorrow.

Friday I like to get an early start and hit the cockfights in Tijuana. I enjoy the action and it’s fun to see all the young couples out on their first dates.

From there I’ll go to the Hotel Del Coronado for a swim to wash any blood off.

There’s a Stuart Anderson’s Black Angus restaurant in Oceanside right off Interstate 5. They have a three-course dinner for two that includes two sides. And on Friday you can get their signature clam chowder, just like the cowboys used to make.

Saturday morning I power walk from Westwood to Malibu, get the paper, then power walk home. Along the way I may stop at an artist friend’s house and pose for a bust.

For lunch I’ll meet some ex car thieves at Bob’s Big Boy in Toluca Lake. Their Big Boy hamburger is an LA classic, but I order their Super Big Boy hamburger because that one has meat in it.

After lunch and checking to see that one of my dining companions didn’t steal my XM radio, I amble over to the Twin Swallows Oriental Massage Parlor in nearby Inglewood for some pampering at negotiated rates.

Once that ends happily I head back home to work on my “project”. It’s been a ten year labor of love. I’m assembling a table I bought at Ikea in 1998.

For drinks at sunset, especially in the summer when the sky turns an awe inspiring crimson, I prefer the bar at the Shangri-La motel at the beach. Only wish it had a window so I could see outside.

If I went whale hunting the week before I’ll come home and grill it for dinner. I’ll invite some close friends I met on MySpace and we’ll eat, discuss the theater, sample fine wines, and toss water balloons at the useless neighborhood watch patrol car.

Early Sunday morning I reserve for calling back everyone who called me during the week. For some reason I usually wind up leaving messages on their voice mail. I’ve yet to reach my dentist.

For breakfast I’m cutting down on eggs so it’s back to the Shangri-La motel bar for a Ramos Gin Fizz. Those eggs can kill you.

Next I steal a horse and play polo at Will Rogers State Park. The guys love me because I usually bring the little orange juice boxes when we break for snacks.


I love star watching so for lunch I zip out to the Motion Picture Country Home and Hospital in Woodland Hills. Last week I saw the remaining cast members of MCHALE’S NAVY.

Sunday afternoon is culture time. You can’t be well informed if you don’t read. Currently I’m poring through Helen Reddy’s autobiography.

Sunday evening is sushi so that means Angel Stadium in Anaheim. There’s nothing like watching the Halos duel the Kansas City Royals and hearing that vendor come down the aisle yelling “Hey, sushi right here! Get yer yellowtail!”

I get home, use the neighbor’s Jacuzzi if he’s not home, watch the CELEBRITY FIT CLUB and then it’s time for bed. The great thing about LA is that it’s not just me – EVERYONE here has weekends like this.

Can Emmys cause tension on the set? Does Raggedy Ann have cloth tits?

More Friday questions for your mid-summer pleasure. What’s yours???

Wendy M. Grossman gets us started with an Emmy question:

I note that one of my favorite shows, The Good Wife, has multiple nominees in a couple of categories. Do the actors manage to be genuinely happy for each other and regard it as a joint reward for a team effort, or does it cause strain when this happens? I imagine a lot depends on the general atmosphere on the set - and TGW is full of experienced stage actors who are (I would think) more geared to thinking of themselves as a team. But it has to be tricky on the night.

Can’t speak for THE GOOD WIFE but on some shows Emmy competition can cause tremendous tension. When Christine Baranski won an Emmy for CYBILL and Ms. Shepherd didn’t that merely set off World War III on the set.

From what I hear, on MODERN FAMILY no such friction exists.  I have a feeling it's that way on THE GOOD WIFE too.  There was never a problem I observed on CHEERS or FRASIER.

I was directing an episode of EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND that began production the day after that year’s Emmys. Both Ray Romano and Patty Heaton were nominated. Ray lost and Patty won. This was my first directing assignment for that show. I didn’t know what to expect but I was holding my breath. Ray could not have been more gracious. He gathered the entire cast and crew to congratulate Patty and celebrate her win. No wonder everybody loves that guy.

Steven asks:

I recently started watching episodes of Cheers again and one thing that struck me as peculiar was the camera angles and how on many episodes there will be scenes where you can clearly see the edge of the set and background of the studio (i.e. one being the episode where 'John Hill' has a heart attack and in the scene where 'Carla Tortelli' visits him in the hospital room you can clearly see about a foot off the set to the left). Is there any reason for this or was it just an error in production?

I’m guessing you’re now watching the episodes on HD. Those shows were filmed before HD. They’re framed for the traditional TV set. The HD borders are larger and that’s why from time to time you may see off the set.

By the time I was directing BECKER in the ‘90s I had to frame shots for both and at times that was very difficult. The HD picture would look fine but horribly composed for the traditional frame. Heads were cut off, little things like that. But if I set the shot for the traditional frame I’d encounter that same problem of shooting off the set. And if I compromised, neither shot looked good. At the time I cheated more towards the traditional frame. Today I would do just the opposite.

Back when we had a multi-camera pilot in the late ‘70s, one of our cameramen was maybe the worst ever. He pulled back for a master so far that you could literally see the guy on the catwalk perched over the set. And we didn’t know this until we screened the dailies. There was no video assist back then. We had to rely on the camera operators to tell us if they had missed a shot. I guess seeing a guy in the catwalk did not qualify as an unusable shot to this moron.

From bettyd:

You have called baseball for both the National League and the American League. You also said you didn't like interleague play (although I assume the World Series is OK with you!). Which league do you prefer to call, or doesn't it matter?

It doesn’t matter. It’s the particular game itself rather than which league it’s in.

There’s more strategy in the National League, which is fun. But there tends to be more scoring in American League games due to the Designated Hitter so I get more highlights on postgame show, and really, isn’t that what it’s all about? I’ll be back on the air with the Mariners starting August 1st for nine games, by the way.


And finally, from Steve J.:

As a Cheers viewer, it always bugged me when there'd be an episode where Sam and Woody would be off having adventures, as I pictured poor Carla tending bar and waiting tables all by herself. Then, of course, there were also episodes where all three of them would be away from the bar at the same time, presumably leaving it either closed or unmanned.

Was there ever a temptation to explain on the show how Cheers stayed in business when the staff was constantly skipping out? A throwaway line about other employees at the bar we just never saw or something? Or were you fine with not overthinking it?

Oh, this is a topic came up almost weekly. We decided to not try to cover this inconsistency since there really was no plausible explanation.

But trust me, someone in the writers room was always saying, “So who’s running the bar? Is Cheers on the honor system?”

Billy Wilder used to call it "Movie Magic".  I prefer to go with that.