I once told Steven Spielberg that ET was the greatest film ever made.
I had managed to crash a post BAFTA Awards party by crawling through the legs of people queuing to get into the venue. Once inside, I hovered by the late, great Bill Cotton, who introduced me to the director, who had just won an award for Schindler’s List.
“I know you’ve just won an award for another film,” I said, “but I have to tell you that I think ET is the greatest film ever made.”
“Gee,” said Spielberg. “D’you know, I was thinking about that film last Friday, and I think you could well be right.”
I maintain that it is still the greatest. It has all the monumental themes: separation and loss; life, death and resurrection; survival, friendship, science versus the heart, and, in its final denouement, the need to belong: ET, phone home; ET, home, home, home.
“Come’” says ET to Elliott, as they stand beside the waiting to depart spaceship.
“Stay,” says Elliott. In those two words, you have it all: we want to hold on, we need to let go.
That scene remains, for me, in just two words, the greatest in cinematic history.
I’ve been thinking about it again this week, as the pull of home grows strong once more. I’ve been here 15 months, and each time I go back to the UK, it is harder to return. I see family and friends, spend time in my house, surrounded by my familiar things, and never does my identity feel so strong as it does when back in Wales.
Usually, my mother comes to stay with me when I return, but this time I visited her. She lives in the house in Bristol, where she and my father moved after my brother and I left school. My Dad died a little over 20 years ago, but there are still signs of him everywhere: photographs on the mantelpiece and the wall; the Capodimonte Romeo and Juliet his firm gave to Mum when he died; the G Plan dining room suite my parents were so excited to buy decades ago, and which still looks perfect.
Walking up the stairs is to climb the family tree. My brother and I are there in our university caps and gowns; the beautiful face of my dear cousin Sarah, who died at just 34 nearly five years ago, looks out with her mischievous smile; aged aunts and grandparents stain the wall in their sepia colours.
In my bedroom (we still call it “mine”), the oaky smell of the square wooden jewellery box in which I stored my first trinkets, still permeates the room; the white bedroom furniture that arrived over 40 years ago and thrilled me so much with its in-built electric light, is still standing (and operational).
In my mother’s office, there are the books I left behind. A Course in Miracles; a poetry compilation the size of two bricks and whose title I cannot see, as neither my mother nor I will ever be able to reach it; dog-eared cookery books.
Downstairs, I go through the LPs that I want to load onto a memory stick from the system Mum bought me for Christmas. Richard Burton reading Under Milk Wood; the Misa Criola and African Sanctus, which Mum played incessantly when she returned from a drama course at Barry Summer School; Elvis and the Beatles; Roy Orbison and Tom Jones; Shirley Bassey and Abba. Our family’s past, imprinted in vinyl.
Mum cooks me dinner (a “mam” dinner, as we call it – real food, with gravy) and we drink tea from two of the many mugs she used to buy from Ewenny pottery, always insisting that we stop off there on our way back from the beach (beach, two hours; pottery, four – that sort of thing).
It was a miracle there was even room for the purchases, given what she used to pack for our weekly trips to Southerndown, near Bridgend, where I grew up.
Beach chairs, table, Lilo, Floatina, wind-break, lounger, deck chairs, towel wraps, Tupperware containers of squash and sandwiches, flasks of tea – the tide was so far out by the time we reached the coast with our second home, we needed a compass to find it.
I think of the many dinners Mum used to cook – meat and two veg, plus a pudding every day – all of it coming back in the rise of the steam as she tips the potatoes into the colander. And I think how much I love my mother and the life she and Dad gave me and my wonderful brother Nigel.
And suddenly I know that much as I try, much as I am energised by my new life, I cannot start making a new history, especially in a country that barely has one of its own, and that I miss the history of which I am already a part: a history still in the making, with friends and family celebrating new ventures and achievements, and children (many of whom I have known since they were babies) growing into adults and just starting to make their way in the world.
But also people close to me, young and old, falling sick, suffering; some dying. I don’t want to regret not being there to spend whatever time any of us have left together.
There is so much to love about California. I admire the spirit of optimism, the belief that anything is possible and, of course, I adore the weather. As a writer, I try to cram in as many experiences as I can, and this, despite heartache along the way, has been one of the best. I have also completed two books here, one of which will be a compilation of these blogs.
I have made good friends and I do not rule out keeping on my apartment. But at the moment, the longing for the homeland that the Welsh call "hiraeth", tugs at my heart. Who knows, if I had crawled through enough legs, Hollywood might have held more allure, but I have found this small part of the city, with its detritus of mostly broken Hollywood dreams, a little sad.
Next week, it is a year since my good friend and mentor Blake Snyder, who was so instrumental in my coming here, suddenly died; and that, too, has been a salient reminder of how quickly everything can be snatched away.
I divide my life now into BB and AB – Before Blake and After Blake, and I am not the same person who came here in April 2009.
But in the words of the song about that great hero of my youth, Andy Pandy: Time to go home, Time to go home.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Is That A Truncheon In Your Pocket, Or . . . 7/20/10
You know you’re getting old when the policemen start getting hornier.
Maybe it’s the warmer weather, maybe it’s the fact that the LA cops just all seem to have walked out of the movies, but they really are a pretty hot bunch.
Until I came to LA, uniformed cops never really did it for me; I simply have too much of a terror of authority to be able to think of the police as anything other than people who will put me in chains for getting out of bed the wrong side (I once woke my parents up in the middle of the night, devastated that I had forgotten to pay my three-pence to Brown Owl in the weekly Brownies meeting, which gives you an idea of how law-abiding I have always felt the need to be).
Doctors, yes (love the white coats and any man in scrubs); firemen, yes (although mainly for their props – sliding pole, hoses, that sort of thing); but never coppers (despite their truncheons).
Well, unless you count actors who play coppers.
My first job as a TV critic coincided with the launch of the ITV show The Bill and, being in my twenties, it was hard not to be drawn to these rather fit young men who launched the series.
Now, the actors are 103, the show is being axed, and everyone wants to see real life coppers in reality shows, which to me isn’t the same thing at all.
But there is just something about the Beverly Hills cops, who will rush to your aid in about 30 seconds flat, no matter how small your problem.
Hilton Hotel too noisy? Call the cops. Nasty man in Vodafone shop, threatening to come back and shoot everyone because his SIM card doesn’t work? Call the cops.
They are pretty strict about road etiquette, which can be a bit scary (do not, and I mean do NOT cross unless the white man is showing on the lights), but their constant patrol, both on foot and in cars, makes you feel extra safe which, for a woman walking alone in a big city (yes, I am still the only person who walks in LA), is always a good thing.
I suspect, however, that the real reason I am fancying the cops is the ongoing absence of any decent men here. The arrogance and rudeness of most blokes I meet makes even the most misogynistic of Brits seem like groupies in the Germaine Greer Appreciation Society.
The guys with money treat you like dirt because they just want a piece of eye candy on their arms (which they know they can get); the high end business guys can’t bear it when you’re not impressed with their status; and the tough guys . . .
Well, I have to be careful what I say about them, for obvious reasons. I haven’t met many, but when I was told that “the real life Tony Soprano” had entered one establishment I frequent, naturally I was curious.
Tony Soprano? The guy looked as if he had eaten three Tony Sopranos for breakfast and still had enough room for three small cousins. Initially friendly, he and his mate then decided that sometimes guys just had to be guys and women got in the way.
As they high-fived each other in their mutual appreciation of each other’s wit (I use the world very loosely), I was yet again left wondering where the smart, creative men hang out.
Having now lived in five different countries (Wales, England, France, Spain and the US), it’s fairly safe to say that I’ve given the male species more than a good onceover.
I have really close male friends, so I don’t have an anti-man thing going on. But all those men were nabbed long ago, and even those who broke up with their partners were quickly snatched up the second or third time around.
Really, you have to start looking in August if you’re hoping to have a date on New Year’s Eve (take note: Windows 2011 is just around the corner), although I suspect that all the men I would really like to meet are so busy working, they have to schedule the pulling of a Christmas cracker three years in advance.
Meeting a man was never my aim here; I came to work and, having just about finished my book (writing, not reading), am pleased with the progress I have made. But some male company along the way would have been nice.
I have met some wonderful Europeans, all really into their work and loving the LA lifestyle. I have met great women, too, both American and European. But the American male is a species I just don’t understand.
People tell me that the East Coast is very different, so, who knows, maybe that’s where I’ll head next.
Or maybe I’ll just aim for a wild party in LA at the end of 2010, have the cops called in, and see in the New Year in handcuffs.
Maybe it’s the warmer weather, maybe it’s the fact that the LA cops just all seem to have walked out of the movies, but they really are a pretty hot bunch.
Until I came to LA, uniformed cops never really did it for me; I simply have too much of a terror of authority to be able to think of the police as anything other than people who will put me in chains for getting out of bed the wrong side (I once woke my parents up in the middle of the night, devastated that I had forgotten to pay my three-pence to Brown Owl in the weekly Brownies meeting, which gives you an idea of how law-abiding I have always felt the need to be).
Doctors, yes (love the white coats and any man in scrubs); firemen, yes (although mainly for their props – sliding pole, hoses, that sort of thing); but never coppers (despite their truncheons).
Well, unless you count actors who play coppers.
My first job as a TV critic coincided with the launch of the ITV show The Bill and, being in my twenties, it was hard not to be drawn to these rather fit young men who launched the series.
Now, the actors are 103, the show is being axed, and everyone wants to see real life coppers in reality shows, which to me isn’t the same thing at all.
But there is just something about the Beverly Hills cops, who will rush to your aid in about 30 seconds flat, no matter how small your problem.
Hilton Hotel too noisy? Call the cops. Nasty man in Vodafone shop, threatening to come back and shoot everyone because his SIM card doesn’t work? Call the cops.
They are pretty strict about road etiquette, which can be a bit scary (do not, and I mean do NOT cross unless the white man is showing on the lights), but their constant patrol, both on foot and in cars, makes you feel extra safe which, for a woman walking alone in a big city (yes, I am still the only person who walks in LA), is always a good thing.
I suspect, however, that the real reason I am fancying the cops is the ongoing absence of any decent men here. The arrogance and rudeness of most blokes I meet makes even the most misogynistic of Brits seem like groupies in the Germaine Greer Appreciation Society.
The guys with money treat you like dirt because they just want a piece of eye candy on their arms (which they know they can get); the high end business guys can’t bear it when you’re not impressed with their status; and the tough guys . . .
Well, I have to be careful what I say about them, for obvious reasons. I haven’t met many, but when I was told that “the real life Tony Soprano” had entered one establishment I frequent, naturally I was curious.
Tony Soprano? The guy looked as if he had eaten three Tony Sopranos for breakfast and still had enough room for three small cousins. Initially friendly, he and his mate then decided that sometimes guys just had to be guys and women got in the way.
As they high-fived each other in their mutual appreciation of each other’s wit (I use the world very loosely), I was yet again left wondering where the smart, creative men hang out.
Having now lived in five different countries (Wales, England, France, Spain and the US), it’s fairly safe to say that I’ve given the male species more than a good onceover.
I have really close male friends, so I don’t have an anti-man thing going on. But all those men were nabbed long ago, and even those who broke up with their partners were quickly snatched up the second or third time around.
Really, you have to start looking in August if you’re hoping to have a date on New Year’s Eve (take note: Windows 2011 is just around the corner), although I suspect that all the men I would really like to meet are so busy working, they have to schedule the pulling of a Christmas cracker three years in advance.
Meeting a man was never my aim here; I came to work and, having just about finished my book (writing, not reading), am pleased with the progress I have made. But some male company along the way would have been nice.
I have met some wonderful Europeans, all really into their work and loving the LA lifestyle. I have met great women, too, both American and European. But the American male is a species I just don’t understand.
People tell me that the East Coast is very different, so, who knows, maybe that’s where I’ll head next.
Or maybe I’ll just aim for a wild party in LA at the end of 2010, have the cops called in, and see in the New Year in handcuffs.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Cleanest Bottom In Hollywood 7/5/10
Wolfgang’s toilet.
They’re not two words I ever expected to write in the same sentence, but the receptacle of which I speak has to be one of the seven great wonders of modern technology (on a list that includes the Eurostar and the i-Pad).
Wolfgang’s Steakhouse is one of my favourite haunts in Beverly Hills: a large steak restaurant with a long bar down one side, and delightful staff that never make me feel less than hugely welcome.
It has the lovely Adolpho on the piano, some really good European wines (difficult to find in LA, with its excess of California plonk, which I loathe), and a sociable clientele who make it easy to make friends if you’re sitting by yourself.
But the toilet. Oh, the toilet.
The first thing that strikes you is how warm the seat is. It’s like going back to the womb; that in itself makes you reluctant to get off.
But then there are the various dials to your right on the wall: the first two say “REAR CLEANSING”, with five small vertical dots under the one, and four dots and the word "SOFT" written under the second button.
Next comes “FRONT CLEANSING”, with two sets of four dots in a diamond shape underneath. Then you have “PRESSURE” and “POSITION”, with a plus at the top and a minus below. I tell you: the place is a veritable theatre.
I didn’t know which bits to wash first, nor (not having entertained myself in this manner before), how much pressure to go for.
Was it like an Indian restaurant, where you ordered the Vindaloo and then realised, too late, that you had over-estimated how strong your constitution was?
Then there was position to consider. Did you have to take the size of your rear end into consideration when deciding whether to sit more towards the front or back of the seat? Or did the position button take care of all that for you?
In the time it was taking me to weigh up my options, a lengthy queue was doubtless forming outside the door, impatient customers who had yet to discover what an adventure the emptying of one’s bladder and bowels could be.
In the end, I tried all options. I could take the Vindaloo force on front wash, but had to take it easy on non-soft rear wash, which, on full pressure, made me feel as if an elephant had decided to empty its trunk into my back passage.
Front cleansing was an easier and far more pleasurable operation altogether, but then that was something I had already learned long ago.
The only thing I didn’t manage to do was flush the damned thing. When I put the lid down, the array of lights and paraphernalia turned the bowl into the Star Ship Enterprise. I pressed, I tapped, I looked in vain for a flush, but nothing.
When I questioned Ron the manager about this (adding my compliments to the plumber) upon my return to the restaurant (days later, it seemed, and a lot cleaner than when I had gone in), I was assured that even if you haven't managed to work out the logistics, it flushed automatically once you left the cubicle.
It wasn’t until I got back to my seat that I realised I hadn’t actually done the very thing I had gone in there for – namely, the evacuation of my supper; there were just too many other things to do.
Quite what governor Mr Schwarzenegger would think of it all is anybody’s guess. California has been suffering from a water shortage for some time now, and if the entertainment offered by Wolfgang’s toilet starts attracting bigger audiences than it already does, that shortage is only going to worsen.
I suppose they could try using the same water, recycling it and purifying it in some way, but I suspect that would probably negate the “cleaning” part of the operation.
I’m also curious as to what goes on in the men’s room at Wolfgang’s. Presumably, they have the same bowl and dials for longer performances, but I’m curious as to what their urinal is like.
Is there a small shower for testicle cleansing, a foreskin wash, added pressure for the less sensitive circumcised organ? Do men have to change position according to the size of their anatomy? Do very large penises have to be done in shifts?
There are so many unanswered questions about Wolfgang’s toilet, but at least I have information about the most important one – can I get one installed in my apartment?
Apparently, they only cost about $1500, which, when you compare it to the price of going to the theatre, is a really good deal, considering how many toilet performances you are going to attend in your lifetime.
I’m going to ask my landlady to look into it and try to convince her of the benefits of having the cleanest tenants on the block.
And when it’s installed, I might invite my 25 year old Italian next door neighbour to the premier. Maybe we can share a Cornetto in the interval.
Ready for my close-up? You bet. I already feel flushed with success.
They’re not two words I ever expected to write in the same sentence, but the receptacle of which I speak has to be one of the seven great wonders of modern technology (on a list that includes the Eurostar and the i-Pad).
Wolfgang’s Steakhouse is one of my favourite haunts in Beverly Hills: a large steak restaurant with a long bar down one side, and delightful staff that never make me feel less than hugely welcome.
It has the lovely Adolpho on the piano, some really good European wines (difficult to find in LA, with its excess of California plonk, which I loathe), and a sociable clientele who make it easy to make friends if you’re sitting by yourself.
But the toilet. Oh, the toilet.
The first thing that strikes you is how warm the seat is. It’s like going back to the womb; that in itself makes you reluctant to get off.
But then there are the various dials to your right on the wall: the first two say “REAR CLEANSING”, with five small vertical dots under the one, and four dots and the word "SOFT" written under the second button.
Next comes “FRONT CLEANSING”, with two sets of four dots in a diamond shape underneath. Then you have “PRESSURE” and “POSITION”, with a plus at the top and a minus below. I tell you: the place is a veritable theatre.
I didn’t know which bits to wash first, nor (not having entertained myself in this manner before), how much pressure to go for.
Was it like an Indian restaurant, where you ordered the Vindaloo and then realised, too late, that you had over-estimated how strong your constitution was?
Then there was position to consider. Did you have to take the size of your rear end into consideration when deciding whether to sit more towards the front or back of the seat? Or did the position button take care of all that for you?
In the time it was taking me to weigh up my options, a lengthy queue was doubtless forming outside the door, impatient customers who had yet to discover what an adventure the emptying of one’s bladder and bowels could be.
In the end, I tried all options. I could take the Vindaloo force on front wash, but had to take it easy on non-soft rear wash, which, on full pressure, made me feel as if an elephant had decided to empty its trunk into my back passage.
Front cleansing was an easier and far more pleasurable operation altogether, but then that was something I had already learned long ago.
The only thing I didn’t manage to do was flush the damned thing. When I put the lid down, the array of lights and paraphernalia turned the bowl into the Star Ship Enterprise. I pressed, I tapped, I looked in vain for a flush, but nothing.
When I questioned Ron the manager about this (adding my compliments to the plumber) upon my return to the restaurant (days later, it seemed, and a lot cleaner than when I had gone in), I was assured that even if you haven't managed to work out the logistics, it flushed automatically once you left the cubicle.
It wasn’t until I got back to my seat that I realised I hadn’t actually done the very thing I had gone in there for – namely, the evacuation of my supper; there were just too many other things to do.
Quite what governor Mr Schwarzenegger would think of it all is anybody’s guess. California has been suffering from a water shortage for some time now, and if the entertainment offered by Wolfgang’s toilet starts attracting bigger audiences than it already does, that shortage is only going to worsen.
I suppose they could try using the same water, recycling it and purifying it in some way, but I suspect that would probably negate the “cleaning” part of the operation.
I’m also curious as to what goes on in the men’s room at Wolfgang’s. Presumably, they have the same bowl and dials for longer performances, but I’m curious as to what their urinal is like.
Is there a small shower for testicle cleansing, a foreskin wash, added pressure for the less sensitive circumcised organ? Do men have to change position according to the size of their anatomy? Do very large penises have to be done in shifts?
There are so many unanswered questions about Wolfgang’s toilet, but at least I have information about the most important one – can I get one installed in my apartment?
Apparently, they only cost about $1500, which, when you compare it to the price of going to the theatre, is a really good deal, considering how many toilet performances you are going to attend in your lifetime.
I’m going to ask my landlady to look into it and try to convince her of the benefits of having the cleanest tenants on the block.
And when it’s installed, I might invite my 25 year old Italian next door neighbour to the premier. Maybe we can share a Cornetto in the interval.
Ready for my close-up? You bet. I already feel flushed with success.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Talking Sport Bollocks 6/23/10
If you had told me two years ago that I would be cheering for the USA in anything, other than its drowning in the sandwich of its two oceans, I would have laughed.
Not only laughed, I would have bet my house, my every worldly possession and even my entire family against it.
Yet last week found me yelling for the Lakers, who won the NBA Basketball, yesterday cheering as I watched their celebratory parade and, today, shouting for the USA soccer team in the World Cup.
Landon Donovan’s goal gave them 1-0 up against Algeria and put them top of Group C, the first time since 1930 and ahead of runners-up England (alas, they beat Slovenia, so the ghastly fans I wrote about in my last but one blog must have been particularly gross today).
Nine of the USA goals have been scored after the 86th minute, which is a tribute to the team’s incredible nerve.
You see what has happened to me? I can now talk sport bollocks with the best of them.
A year ago, I didn’t even know that the Lakers were basketball and the Dodgers baseball. I hated the “guy” culture, with men in my gym high-fiving each other, shouting at the TV screens on the treadmill when a player missed whatever ball he was trying to hit or land. I was constantly irritated by the non-stop talk about whatever game had been played the night before (and there always seemed to be one).
Every day, I was bemoaning this sports-obsessed nation and, in particular, its obsession with baseball and basketball. But I have come to love the latter. There is something incredibly beautiful about the 3-point shots that land so cleanly through the basket, and the energy that sustains itself throughout these fast games is breathtaking.
I love the squeak of rubber on hardwood, the intensity in foreheads pouring with sweat. And the muscles. Oh, the muscles of those players. I’m not sure my bones would emerge intact after a night in a dark hotel room with any of them, but these bodies are works of art.
“Go, Lakers, Go!” I posted on Facebook throughout the game, as my friends back in the UK wondered whether I had completely lost my sanity. I was in my favourite restaurant, Enoteca, in Beverly Hills, chatting to locals about individual players, and querying why the Lakers were taking so long to shoot.
“Shoot! Shoot! we chorused. It was an exhilarating three hours and, by the end, I was exhausted. I felt as if I had been up against the Boston Strangler, not to mention the Boston Celtics.
I have never been much into soccer, as I have always been a die-hard rugby fanatic, and English soccer in particular – the arrogance of its players, the thuggish fans - leaves me ice cold. But I’ve got into the World Cup purely as a result of the emotion the USA team has been generating.
Their soccer has been pretty impressive, and today I found myself welling up as Donovan spoke after the Algeria game about the “journey” he has been on the last four years.
They are very fond of their journeys, these Americans. If you haven’t been on one, you are an emotional retard, and in LA especially, you can find every kind of tool - emotional, spiritual, physical or mental - to help you on your way.
Worried about the future? See a psychic. Need physical enhancement? Join a gym or see a plastic surgeon. Looking for God? Join a church or give all your money to a nutter who reckons he/she can save your soul.
The city is a veritable Louis Vuitton warehouse, when it comes to things you need for your journey.
Now the soccer players are talking about their journeys. To date, only Donovan has appeared on the David Letterman Show, but you can bet your bottom dollar that many more will be on talk shows in the forthcoming weeks, regaling us of their respective journeys and the various means of emotional transport it took to get them there.
It’s not just the journey clichés that came out of the closet today; every cliché in the American constitution (with a small “c”) emerged after this surprise World Cup success. An outsider could be forgiven for thinking that the USA had already won the Cup.
It was everything “we” Americans were about (I was even counting myself among them, so carried away was I by the occasion); it was the American dream; having President Clinton there to share this moment was surely everything any player could ever want – yes, it was even a moment to forget that Clinton is no longer President.
The Americans are constantly criticised by the Brits for their excessive emotion, but after yesterday’s emergency budget in the UK, and the promise of even tougher times ahead, the Brits could take a leaf out of the USA book.
There is nothing inherently wrong with your heart being touched and letting people know it. Donovan cried in front of the TV cameras and took several seconds before he was able to start his interview.
Moments like this are reminders that we are all human in a difficult world.
But remember Gazza’s World Cup tears in the UK? They were the subject of ridicule and even made it into a TV commercial. Well, he’s crying again, and it ain’t so funny anymore.
The Brits may think that the way to cope with diversity is by adopting the stiff upper lip. But with governments that keep punching them in the mouth, sooner or later that lip is going to crack, and it won’t be a moment too soon.
In the meantime, I’m behind the USA and praying for the dream journey’s end. I doubt that they will make it, but boy, am I enjoying their belief that they will.
One way ticket to Dreamland, please.
Not only laughed, I would have bet my house, my every worldly possession and even my entire family against it.
Yet last week found me yelling for the Lakers, who won the NBA Basketball, yesterday cheering as I watched their celebratory parade and, today, shouting for the USA soccer team in the World Cup.
Landon Donovan’s goal gave them 1-0 up against Algeria and put them top of Group C, the first time since 1930 and ahead of runners-up England (alas, they beat Slovenia, so the ghastly fans I wrote about in my last but one blog must have been particularly gross today).
Nine of the USA goals have been scored after the 86th minute, which is a tribute to the team’s incredible nerve.
You see what has happened to me? I can now talk sport bollocks with the best of them.
A year ago, I didn’t even know that the Lakers were basketball and the Dodgers baseball. I hated the “guy” culture, with men in my gym high-fiving each other, shouting at the TV screens on the treadmill when a player missed whatever ball he was trying to hit or land. I was constantly irritated by the non-stop talk about whatever game had been played the night before (and there always seemed to be one).
Every day, I was bemoaning this sports-obsessed nation and, in particular, its obsession with baseball and basketball. But I have come to love the latter. There is something incredibly beautiful about the 3-point shots that land so cleanly through the basket, and the energy that sustains itself throughout these fast games is breathtaking.
I love the squeak of rubber on hardwood, the intensity in foreheads pouring with sweat. And the muscles. Oh, the muscles of those players. I’m not sure my bones would emerge intact after a night in a dark hotel room with any of them, but these bodies are works of art.
“Go, Lakers, Go!” I posted on Facebook throughout the game, as my friends back in the UK wondered whether I had completely lost my sanity. I was in my favourite restaurant, Enoteca, in Beverly Hills, chatting to locals about individual players, and querying why the Lakers were taking so long to shoot.
“Shoot! Shoot! we chorused. It was an exhilarating three hours and, by the end, I was exhausted. I felt as if I had been up against the Boston Strangler, not to mention the Boston Celtics.
I have never been much into soccer, as I have always been a die-hard rugby fanatic, and English soccer in particular – the arrogance of its players, the thuggish fans - leaves me ice cold. But I’ve got into the World Cup purely as a result of the emotion the USA team has been generating.
Their soccer has been pretty impressive, and today I found myself welling up as Donovan spoke after the Algeria game about the “journey” he has been on the last four years.
They are very fond of their journeys, these Americans. If you haven’t been on one, you are an emotional retard, and in LA especially, you can find every kind of tool - emotional, spiritual, physical or mental - to help you on your way.
Worried about the future? See a psychic. Need physical enhancement? Join a gym or see a plastic surgeon. Looking for God? Join a church or give all your money to a nutter who reckons he/she can save your soul.
The city is a veritable Louis Vuitton warehouse, when it comes to things you need for your journey.
Now the soccer players are talking about their journeys. To date, only Donovan has appeared on the David Letterman Show, but you can bet your bottom dollar that many more will be on talk shows in the forthcoming weeks, regaling us of their respective journeys and the various means of emotional transport it took to get them there.
It’s not just the journey clichés that came out of the closet today; every cliché in the American constitution (with a small “c”) emerged after this surprise World Cup success. An outsider could be forgiven for thinking that the USA had already won the Cup.
It was everything “we” Americans were about (I was even counting myself among them, so carried away was I by the occasion); it was the American dream; having President Clinton there to share this moment was surely everything any player could ever want – yes, it was even a moment to forget that Clinton is no longer President.
The Americans are constantly criticised by the Brits for their excessive emotion, but after yesterday’s emergency budget in the UK, and the promise of even tougher times ahead, the Brits could take a leaf out of the USA book.
There is nothing inherently wrong with your heart being touched and letting people know it. Donovan cried in front of the TV cameras and took several seconds before he was able to start his interview.
Moments like this are reminders that we are all human in a difficult world.
But remember Gazza’s World Cup tears in the UK? They were the subject of ridicule and even made it into a TV commercial. Well, he’s crying again, and it ain’t so funny anymore.
The Brits may think that the way to cope with diversity is by adopting the stiff upper lip. But with governments that keep punching them in the mouth, sooner or later that lip is going to crack, and it won’t be a moment too soon.
In the meantime, I’m behind the USA and praying for the dream journey’s end. I doubt that they will make it, but boy, am I enjoying their belief that they will.
One way ticket to Dreamland, please.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
That's Jaci With A "J", Not Liza With A Zee 6/13/10
I am Liza Minnelli. It’s official.
When I recently walked into a friend’s party, there was huge excitement generated in one corner when they believed that Liza Minnelli had just arrived.
Their delight quickly turned to disappointment upon discovering that no, it was just some short Welsh bird with a similar hairdo, but at least I had my moment in the LA spotlight.
The Liza thing has been following me for some years now. Apart from the fact that she looks about 104 (she’s actually 64, but the years and substances have taken their toll) and old enough to be my grandmother, it’s something of a compliment.
We are both small, we both have short, dark hair and brown eyes, and . . . Well, that’s it, really. I have also had my voice trained, and although I can’t confess to being as good as Ms Minnelli, I have a strong pair of lungs and can belt out New York New York quite convincingly.
On Saturday, a man in the King’s Head in Santa Monica told me that not only should I play Liza in a musical of her life, he could make it happen.
These People Who Can Make It Happen crop up all the time in LA. They know someone who knows someone who once met someone who made it happen for an extra in Star Wars – that kind of thing. They never carry business cards and don’t want to tell you who they really are (or they would have to kill you), but they insist that fame and fortune lurks just around the next corner for you.
Last month, a man at the bar in Mastro’s restaurant told me that he could get me into Days of Our Lives. This is a daytime soap opera featuring impossibly glamorous people on sets that look as if they will blow down if a character so much as whistles.
This man reckoned that Days of Our Lives was just waiting for a Welsh female character and promised to get in touch.
Sure enough, he rang the next day, giving me the number of Bill, who he said was waiting for my call “to do an interview”.
Eh? How did I go from being the new star of the show to interviewing Bill about his own stardom?
It reminded me of my demotion when I was an extra in Kenneth Branagh’s Frankenstein. I was cast as one of eight grieving widows in the church, but was quickly deemed too short to be a widow.
Despite my protests and querying whether there was a height restriction on grief in Dr Frankenstein’s day, I was sent out into the courtyard to be one of a hundred starving peasants.
The widows were in the nice warm church; I was in the minus four degree weather outside in a thermal vest, surrounded by people boasting about their moment of stardom in a Swiss cheese commercial; so I could see the way my debut on Days of Our Lives was going.
I think I stand more of a chance on the Liza front, even though my new manager hasn’t given me his name, doesn’t know where to contact me, and could only tell me that a planned film about Judy Garland’s life has just been cancelled.
He seems to think that this makes it more, not less, likely, that a Liza project would get the green light. I told him, however, that I don’t want to play the fat, drunken years, although quickly realised that this would probably limit my options.
One tiny thing on my side is that I once met Liza’s co-star Joel Gray, who played the MC in Cabaret. It’s not a huge claim to fame, but I have discovered in this town that you really have to talk up your part in every area of life, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem.
So, this morning, I’ve been standing in front of the mirror with my hairbrush in hand, belting out Maybe This Time, and, between verses, penning my Oscar acceptance speech.
I don’t think I’ll be getting the award for Days of Our Lives, and much as I love soap opera, even I am having difficulty seeing how the South Wales plot could easily be woven into the current storylines.
But Liza’s life story could be my way onto that podium. My only real worry is whether I would have to play the David Gest months and, more to the point, who they would get to play him.
I know that you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince, but even I have my standards.
Anyway, for the moment, I’m just going to practise getting into character. I’ve dyed my hair a darker shade of brown, endured sleep deprivation to get heavier bags under my eyes, and watched the Wizard of Oz, just to get something on the family background.
Now, where did I put that corkscrew?
When I recently walked into a friend’s party, there was huge excitement generated in one corner when they believed that Liza Minnelli had just arrived.
Their delight quickly turned to disappointment upon discovering that no, it was just some short Welsh bird with a similar hairdo, but at least I had my moment in the LA spotlight.
The Liza thing has been following me for some years now. Apart from the fact that she looks about 104 (she’s actually 64, but the years and substances have taken their toll) and old enough to be my grandmother, it’s something of a compliment.
We are both small, we both have short, dark hair and brown eyes, and . . . Well, that’s it, really. I have also had my voice trained, and although I can’t confess to being as good as Ms Minnelli, I have a strong pair of lungs and can belt out New York New York quite convincingly.
On Saturday, a man in the King’s Head in Santa Monica told me that not only should I play Liza in a musical of her life, he could make it happen.
These People Who Can Make It Happen crop up all the time in LA. They know someone who knows someone who once met someone who made it happen for an extra in Star Wars – that kind of thing. They never carry business cards and don’t want to tell you who they really are (or they would have to kill you), but they insist that fame and fortune lurks just around the next corner for you.
Last month, a man at the bar in Mastro’s restaurant told me that he could get me into Days of Our Lives. This is a daytime soap opera featuring impossibly glamorous people on sets that look as if they will blow down if a character so much as whistles.
This man reckoned that Days of Our Lives was just waiting for a Welsh female character and promised to get in touch.
Sure enough, he rang the next day, giving me the number of Bill, who he said was waiting for my call “to do an interview”.
Eh? How did I go from being the new star of the show to interviewing Bill about his own stardom?
It reminded me of my demotion when I was an extra in Kenneth Branagh’s Frankenstein. I was cast as one of eight grieving widows in the church, but was quickly deemed too short to be a widow.
Despite my protests and querying whether there was a height restriction on grief in Dr Frankenstein’s day, I was sent out into the courtyard to be one of a hundred starving peasants.
The widows were in the nice warm church; I was in the minus four degree weather outside in a thermal vest, surrounded by people boasting about their moment of stardom in a Swiss cheese commercial; so I could see the way my debut on Days of Our Lives was going.
I think I stand more of a chance on the Liza front, even though my new manager hasn’t given me his name, doesn’t know where to contact me, and could only tell me that a planned film about Judy Garland’s life has just been cancelled.
He seems to think that this makes it more, not less, likely, that a Liza project would get the green light. I told him, however, that I don’t want to play the fat, drunken years, although quickly realised that this would probably limit my options.
One tiny thing on my side is that I once met Liza’s co-star Joel Gray, who played the MC in Cabaret. It’s not a huge claim to fame, but I have discovered in this town that you really have to talk up your part in every area of life, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem.
So, this morning, I’ve been standing in front of the mirror with my hairbrush in hand, belting out Maybe This Time, and, between verses, penning my Oscar acceptance speech.
I don’t think I’ll be getting the award for Days of Our Lives, and much as I love soap opera, even I am having difficulty seeing how the South Wales plot could easily be woven into the current storylines.
But Liza’s life story could be my way onto that podium. My only real worry is whether I would have to play the David Gest months and, more to the point, who they would get to play him.
I know that you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince, but even I have my standards.
Anyway, for the moment, I’m just going to practise getting into character. I’ve dyed my hair a darker shade of brown, endured sleep deprivation to get heavier bags under my eyes, and watched the Wizard of Oz, just to get something on the family background.
Now, where did I put that corkscrew?
'Ere We Go - And I Wish They Would 6/13/10
The Virgin Upper Class lounge at Heathrow has been turned into a discotheque.
At least, that’s what it seemed like as I waited to board my Los Angeles flight on Thursday afternoon.
As always, I arrived several hours ahead of schedule to get full benefit of the free goodies on offer (well, “free” once you have paid several thousand pounds to enjoy the benefits), and enjoy a period of calm before the long haul across the Atlantic.
But having told the staff at the reception desk how much I looked forward to this part of the journey, I was in for a great disappointment, when my ears were instantly bombarded with loud, banging music of the kind I had hoped never to hear again after the age of 14.
Three hours of the stuff. Incessant. Noisy. Gross. It even managed to penetrate the one allegedly “quiet” zone.
What have you done, Sir Richard?
There was worse to come. I used to enjoy a 15 minute massage before boarding. Now, you can pay and have a longer massage, which in theory sounds good, until you discover that along with the “upgraded service” comes a new kind of massage.
“What’s that noise?” I asked my masseur, as what seemed to be a herd of plastic bags descended on my ears.
“It’s a wheat bag,” she explained.
“A what?”
I turned around to see just that in her hand – a round lump of linen, packed with wheat grains, that she had been using to pummel me.
“Could I have the usual deep massage with fingers?” I asked politely, only to be sniffily told that this was the new massage, so no, I couldn’t.
Apparently, this new massage has been dictated by the powers that be at Gatwick, and it is truly dreadful.
My masseur then started to thwack said wheat bag up and down my back.
“It’s like being hit with a sack of Tesco shopping!” I squealed.
If it ain’t broke, why try to fix it? Being beaten up with a pile of shopping in the middle of a roaring disco is not my idea of relaxation before a long haul flight, and whoever these powers that be are at Gatwick, they need to get real, get off their wheat bags, and consult customers as to what works for them.
The flight itself was the usual joy that it always is on Virgin, and I heard a very interesting story about a well known English footballer who had pressed unwelcome kisses on a 16 year old girl on a flight a couple of years ago.
The American woman who told me the story had no idea who he was, but the girl’s parents wanted police to be standing by when the plane landed. The American woman made the footballer apologise, and the authorities were not called; but the name would come as no shock to any British person.
If the behaviour of some of our so-called national heroes comes as no shock, the behaviour of some of the people who idolise them should be no surprise either.
But on Saturday, I was genuinely horrified by England fans gathered in the King’s Head in Santa Monica to watch the England vs USA match.
I’m very fond of the King’s Head, but to say that there was standing room only is a gross understatement; there was barely any breathing room. Making it from one side of the bar to the toilet on the other required camping equipment, the journey was so long and arduous. Not even an ice-pick would have penetrated the wall of bodies next to the TV screens.
I have never felt so many men pressed against my groin, backside, thighs – in fact, I didn’t know that there were so many positions of which a man’s body is capable.
It was all very good-hearted, though – until the teams came out. At their first glimpse of the USA team, the English supporters started chanting: “You’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay!” I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. And there was more. “You’ve got Aids, you’ve got Aids, you’ve got Aids!”
When the ex-Welsh rugby captain Gareth Thomas recently announced his homosexuality to the world, those of us who had known for years were surprised that it had taken him so long to go public. Although rugby supporters are a different breed from soccer supporters, I suddenly realised why, in the sporting world, players are reluctant to be open about their sexuality.
When I confessed my disgust to a couple of supporters, they told me that I was being “too serious” and that it was “just banter”.
The small number of Americans in the bar were as stunned as I was by the chanting, as, indeed, any civilised human being should be.
Alas, this so-called “banter” is just the tip of the very big iceberg that is the racism, homophobia and thuggery that is still central to the world of British soccer.
While there are, of course, many decent, good people who enjoy the sport, the collective hatred that can be generated and harnessed by the minority is fundamentally disturbing. You only have to look at Hitler’s Germany to know why.
It’s the main reason I am not supporting England. Yes, I’m Welsh, too, and as ours is the only flag not represented on the flag of the United Kingdom, I have no qualms about not sharing in the “united” part of the hysteria surrounding this lacklustre English team.
But it’s a secondary reason when placed alongside the main one: that there are a lot of thick, violent, nasty people among the English supporters who get their kicks from bullying and inciting hatred and intolerance.
And while other fans continue to condone it in the name of “banter”, British soccer will remain the national disgrace that it has always been.
At least, that’s what it seemed like as I waited to board my Los Angeles flight on Thursday afternoon.
As always, I arrived several hours ahead of schedule to get full benefit of the free goodies on offer (well, “free” once you have paid several thousand pounds to enjoy the benefits), and enjoy a period of calm before the long haul across the Atlantic.
But having told the staff at the reception desk how much I looked forward to this part of the journey, I was in for a great disappointment, when my ears were instantly bombarded with loud, banging music of the kind I had hoped never to hear again after the age of 14.
Three hours of the stuff. Incessant. Noisy. Gross. It even managed to penetrate the one allegedly “quiet” zone.
What have you done, Sir Richard?
There was worse to come. I used to enjoy a 15 minute massage before boarding. Now, you can pay and have a longer massage, which in theory sounds good, until you discover that along with the “upgraded service” comes a new kind of massage.
“What’s that noise?” I asked my masseur, as what seemed to be a herd of plastic bags descended on my ears.
“It’s a wheat bag,” she explained.
“A what?”
I turned around to see just that in her hand – a round lump of linen, packed with wheat grains, that she had been using to pummel me.
“Could I have the usual deep massage with fingers?” I asked politely, only to be sniffily told that this was the new massage, so no, I couldn’t.
Apparently, this new massage has been dictated by the powers that be at Gatwick, and it is truly dreadful.
My masseur then started to thwack said wheat bag up and down my back.
“It’s like being hit with a sack of Tesco shopping!” I squealed.
If it ain’t broke, why try to fix it? Being beaten up with a pile of shopping in the middle of a roaring disco is not my idea of relaxation before a long haul flight, and whoever these powers that be are at Gatwick, they need to get real, get off their wheat bags, and consult customers as to what works for them.
The flight itself was the usual joy that it always is on Virgin, and I heard a very interesting story about a well known English footballer who had pressed unwelcome kisses on a 16 year old girl on a flight a couple of years ago.
The American woman who told me the story had no idea who he was, but the girl’s parents wanted police to be standing by when the plane landed. The American woman made the footballer apologise, and the authorities were not called; but the name would come as no shock to any British person.
If the behaviour of some of our so-called national heroes comes as no shock, the behaviour of some of the people who idolise them should be no surprise either.
But on Saturday, I was genuinely horrified by England fans gathered in the King’s Head in Santa Monica to watch the England vs USA match.
I’m very fond of the King’s Head, but to say that there was standing room only is a gross understatement; there was barely any breathing room. Making it from one side of the bar to the toilet on the other required camping equipment, the journey was so long and arduous. Not even an ice-pick would have penetrated the wall of bodies next to the TV screens.
I have never felt so many men pressed against my groin, backside, thighs – in fact, I didn’t know that there were so many positions of which a man’s body is capable.
It was all very good-hearted, though – until the teams came out. At their first glimpse of the USA team, the English supporters started chanting: “You’re gay, you’re gay, you’re gay!” I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. And there was more. “You’ve got Aids, you’ve got Aids, you’ve got Aids!”
When the ex-Welsh rugby captain Gareth Thomas recently announced his homosexuality to the world, those of us who had known for years were surprised that it had taken him so long to go public. Although rugby supporters are a different breed from soccer supporters, I suddenly realised why, in the sporting world, players are reluctant to be open about their sexuality.
When I confessed my disgust to a couple of supporters, they told me that I was being “too serious” and that it was “just banter”.
The small number of Americans in the bar were as stunned as I was by the chanting, as, indeed, any civilised human being should be.
Alas, this so-called “banter” is just the tip of the very big iceberg that is the racism, homophobia and thuggery that is still central to the world of British soccer.
While there are, of course, many decent, good people who enjoy the sport, the collective hatred that can be generated and harnessed by the minority is fundamentally disturbing. You only have to look at Hitler’s Germany to know why.
It’s the main reason I am not supporting England. Yes, I’m Welsh, too, and as ours is the only flag not represented on the flag of the United Kingdom, I have no qualms about not sharing in the “united” part of the hysteria surrounding this lacklustre English team.
But it’s a secondary reason when placed alongside the main one: that there are a lot of thick, violent, nasty people among the English supporters who get their kicks from bullying and inciting hatred and intolerance.
And while other fans continue to condone it in the name of “banter”, British soccer will remain the national disgrace that it has always been.
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