rice on your head

for love of the game

Posted by cgcopy on January 31, 2014 in it's life

To me, watching someone do what they love — and do it so amazingly because of their talent and affinity for it — is truly a rush. Kobe knocking down the 3-point playoff shot at the buzzer, Peyton throwing the perfect (and perfectly impossible) touchdown pass, Shaun literally defying gravity as he rides the half pipe to gold — that kind of performance just isn’t possible without passion.

But it’s more than just a sports thing. Anyone who’s ever gone to a Springsteen concert has caught Bruce’s fever for his music, so much so that his performances cannot be contained in fewer than 4 hours. Al Pacino, as the brilliantly ruthless Michael Corleone, disappears into the character, his passion for his craft making that role utterly indelible — and utterly impossible for anyone else to play. And Steven Spielberg, with his tremendous love of storytelling, has delighted us with the sweetest alien every created — and shattered us with images of the little girl in the red coat in Schindler’s List.

It’s all about the passion, baby.

Which leads me to a 1981 Simon and Garfunkel concert in Central Park. Amidst all the excitement, the crowd noise, and the bright-lights-big-city-ness of the evening, one moment stands out — Art Garfunkel, hands in his pockets, eyes closed, singing a so-beautiful-it’s-almost-sacred version of Bridge Over Troubled Water as if it were just him, the music and the stars. In a voice so pure, so clear, so filled with the love of song, it was enough to bring half a million New Yorkers, myself included, to silence (not an easy thing to do).

Talk about perfect pitch. Talk about the perfect game. Talk about passion. And never stop talking.

Tags: music, passion, sports Permalink

6 Comments

quit clowning around

Posted by cgcopy on January 21, 2014 in coloring outside the lines

I don’t like clowns. No, “don’t like” isn’t strong enough. I despise, loathe and hate clowns. Clowns scare me to death. There’s a word for people like me — other than neurotic, that is — coulrophobic. (Hey, look at that, we’ve got our own phobia.)

It makes perfect sense to me (uh-oh, isn’t that what all phobics think about their fears?). First of all, the make-up. Really? We’re talking more garish than a costume party in hell. Then, the clothing. And again I say, who designed it — Satan? And finally, not to get too psychodramatic here, but what’s going on under all those creepy, painted-on smiles?

As a little girl, I saw an episode of some TV show where about 150 clowns all piled into a tiny circus car, but only 149 came out alive. Clearly, there was a clown killer in the bunch (either that, or the poor guy smothered on too much greasepaint). Just goes to show you why little kids should only watch kids’ shows. (Like Bozo the Clown. Not).

It isn’t that I haven’t tried to overcome the phobia (why, exactly, I’m not sure). As an adult, I attempted to watch Stephen King’s It, the mini-series based on his bestseller about a clown who terrorizes children and lives in the sewers. My attempt lasted about 30 seconds into the clown’s first appearance. My aversion to walking too close to sidewalk grates lasted for years. And my utter Bozo-phobia is everlasting.

Maybe that’s why the Mary Tyler Moore Show episode about the funeral of Chuckles the Clown (watch it here) is the only clown experience that makes me laugh. Number one — ding, dong, the clown is dead. Number two — Mary’s reaction is priceless. And number three — all Chuckles wanted out of life was “a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.”

Do me a favor. Don’t send in the clowns.

Tags: chuckles, clowns Permalink

5 Comments

matter of fact

Posted by cgcopy on January 9, 2014 in coloring outside the lines

People often ask me where I get my inspiration for my writing. And, as unglamorous as it may sound, ideas come to me most frequently in the most mundane of circumstances. Like last night, while attempting (unsuccessfully) to fall asleep and weighing whether I should just give it up and read, a random thought popped into my head.

Matt. That’s it — probably helped along by the fact that we had just watched Promised Land with Matt Damon. It occurred to me just how many Matts have enhanced my TV and movie viewing and how I adore them all.

Matt Damon. Mr. Good-Matt-Hunting. Ruthless in The Talented Mr. Ripley. Adorable in Oceans 11 (and 12 and 13). Killer (literally and figuratively) in the Bourne franchise. Vulnerable and sexy in We Bought a Zoo. Conscience-stricken in the aforementioned Promised Land. And a real-life father to 4 little girls. Could he be any more perfect?

Matthew Perry. My favorite Friend, with arguably some of the best lines in TV comedy. Loved him in The West Wing. Applauded him in the short-lived Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Charmed by him in Go On. Seems like a really good guy. Makes my heartstrings go “Bing!”

Matt Bomer. If you haven’t seen White Collar, you’re missing the smoothest, coolest, smartest thief /con man-turned-FBI-asset ever. Quick-thinking, incredibly handsome, a Renaissance man knowledgeable about a million topics — with a wardrobe worthy of GQ. Except maybe for that somewhat unique accessory — an ankle bracelet.

Matt Houston. Okay, not a real guy but a 1980s private eye (from Texas) played by Lee Horsley. This guy had all the moves, with a sexy smile and Magnum-inspired mustache to match. He always got the bad guys (and the girls, both good and bad) — all with that irresistible, Southern-gentleman style. Gave Bobby Ewing a run for the money in my book.

Add in Matthew Goode, Matt LeBlanc, Matthew McConaughey — and you do the math. We’re talking magnetism personified.

Multiplied by a factor of Matt.

Tags: actors, Matt, movies, TV Permalink

2 Comments

broadway babies

Posted by cgcopy on January 5, 2014 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

Dear Broadway:

I know. It’s been a long while since you’ve seen my face — waiting for the house lights to go down, the curtain to go up, and the world to go away for a couple of acts.

I grew up going to more of your shows than I can count — mostly the musicals — at a time when Times Square and environs were seedy and your marquee lights signaled a brilliant haven from a grimy outdoors. Without fail, whether I was 8 or 38 at the time, it took no more than one irresistible song, one great costume, or one single spot picking out the leading lady in the darkness, for me to imagine myself up on the stage.

Which is funny for more than one reason. My tune-carrying abilities are questionable. My comfort level in speaking — let alone singing — in front of large groups (translation: more than 6 people) is not much above sea level. And my tolerance for hot lights, heavy makeup and high notes is minimal.

But to be part of the cast. Part of the story. Part of your show-stopping legend. (Cue the violins.)

Of all the productions I saw, A Chorus Line affected me the most profoundly. The idea of following one’s passion, no matter what it takes, to do what one loves, is a mantra I’ve long espoused. And while I do what I love (writing) wearing Gap sweatpants and an old college t-shirt instead of gold top hat and tails, my passion rivals that of any Broadway baby.

It’s not the same in LA. The number of theaters and their proximity to each other doesn’t come close to your offerings. And in this land of infinite sunshine and stars, where movies rule, the musical theatre experience just doesn’t fit as well for me. It’s like a fabulous winter coat — it may look great in LA, but it’s not vital the way it is in New York.

So thank you, Broadway, for giving me a creative compass. An appreciation for the power of the arts. And a love for applause. Keep on singing that enchanting lullaby.

Best regards.

Tags: arts, Broadway, creative passion Permalink

7 Comments

book ’em, dano

Posted by cgcopy on December 26, 2013 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

Guilty as charged. I’m a serial reader. Seriously serial. I read several books a week, mostly novels, with a few biographies and the occasional mystery thrown in for good measure. For as long as I can remember, reading has been a passion.

If I could have any gift in the world for my birthday, let’s say, I’d ask for a gift card to Barnes & Noble. And if the offer were from a genie, I’d ask for a lifetime supply of books (ok, I wouldn’t use all three wishes up on books, but one for sure).

I can get so wrapped up in a book that you won’t hear from me for hours. Like the time B. and I were getting ready to go to a movie and he thought I was waiting for him outside, ready to leave. He locked the front door and was about to go — until he realized that I was still inside. Reading. And completely oblivious.

The library is like the mother ship calling me home. I can spend hours browsing, doing a little end-zone dance when a book I’ve been coveting is there on the New Book shelves. And our library’s used-book store. I can bring home a tiny treasure trove each week for less than three dollars. And I do.

I’m not one of those book snobs who says she’ll never buy an e-reader. But I’m not ready yet. As a writer, I’m most at home around bookshelves filled with volumes stored horizontally, vertically, and however they can fit. I’m still in love with the idea of opening a real book, turning real pages, picking it up and putting it down as necessary, and falling asleep with my glasses askew, my book fallen open, and B. gently and carefully putting it all on my nightstand, turning out the light, and kissing me goodnight. There are some rituals too sweet to make electronic.

Go ahead. Call me a bookworm.

I’ll call you back once I finish this chapter.

Tags: books, library, reading Permalink

4 Comments

kiss and tell off

Posted by cgcopy on December 14, 2013 in coloring outside the lines

It’s been said that “revenge is a dish best served cold” — I say it’s a dish best served with a corned beef sandwich. To wit:

Because B. and I grew up just a town away from each other, we knew many of the same people. In comparing who-knows-whom notes one day before we were married, he mentioned a girl I didn’t know from his old neighborhood with whom he had stayed in touch intermittently over the years. And who, by the way, lived in LA. My territorial antennae went up. “Anything I should know?” I asked. “Any romantic encounters?” B. looked at me solemnly. “Just one,” he said. “We shared a kiss in day camp. We were ten years old.” He cracked up. And ducked the pillow I threw at him.

Ms. Day Camp sent us a card when we got married. She included a postscript just for me: “I remember that B. was a great kisser! Wink, wink.” Just a harmless — if tasteless — little joke. So little it didn’t irritate me at all. Well, not any more than a tiny grain of sand irritates an oyster.

A few months later, Ms. Day Camp called to suggest we all get together. As it happened, B. and I had two extra tickets to an LA Phil concert at the Hollywood Bowl, so we invited her to bring a guest and join us, our treat.

It took B. and me about five minutes after arriving at the Bowl to realize that the evening was a big mistake. The friend (aka Ms. Snoot) complained incessantly (“My feet hurt!” Who told you to wear stilettos to the outdoor, multi-staired Bowl? “My sandwich only has mustard on one slice of bread!” You mean the sandwich to which we graciously treated you? “I can’t find a boyfriend!” Now there’s a shock.).

Ms. Day Camp, for her part, kept up a steady stream of sarcasm disguised as “just a joke.” Right. And Cruella de Vil was just a dog lover. She had really worked herself up to legend-in-her-own-mind status when she insisted on regaling the sweet older couple nearby with the day camp story. “And so I was the first girl he ever kissed!” she pronounced with unmitigated glee in what she thought was a big finish.

And it was. Although not in the way she expected. In one of those rare moments in life when you think of the perfect comeback exactly at the time you need it (thank you, goddess of quick thinking), I dropped this pearl: “You may have been the first girl he kissed,” I said coolly. “But I’m the last.”

Ms. Snoot snorted. The older couple high-fived. B. laughed outright. And Ms. Day Camp dropped her corned beef sandwich.

My message was two-fold. Don’t irritate an oyster if you don’t want to choke on a pearl.

And kiss off.

Tags: kiss off, revenge Permalink

2 Comments

i’d like to thank the academy

Posted by cgcopy on November 27, 2013 in coloring outside the lines

With Thanksgiving just a day away, it seems like the appropriate time to say thank you — not only to my dear friends, darling husband, and delightful mother-in-law — but also to those who don’t really (or even) know me but have done something especially nice for me. So, before the producers start playing my walking music, here goes:

1. To the elderly gentleman who not only held the mailbox open for me but who even checked it after the door had shut to be sure my package had made it all the way inside — you know how to make a girl feel special.

2. To the teenage boy packing my groceries who called me “miss” instead of “ma’am” — your mom is a smart woman who raised you well.

3. To the guy on the phone at the ticket agency who understood my point that “seeing Bon Jovi in concert with Jon but not Richie is like having peanut butter without jelly,” and refunded the total price of our tickets a week before the concert date (when we found out that Richie would not be appearing) — You. Are. Awesome.

4. To the mail delivery person, a woman who cheerfully takes any mail, including packages, that I bring downstairs in the nick of time — you make my day.

5. To the 20-something waiter who blushes whenever I speak to him — you are beyond cute.

6. To the bank teller who always changes my $20s for rolls of quarters with a big smile and zero attitude — you make me feel like I’m depositing thousands instead of getting change for laundry.

7. To the parking lot attendant who, because I got to the lot before the ticket machine was working, waved me through when I left with no charge — you are a gem.

8. To the pizza guy who knows our delivery order every week as soon as he hears my voice on the phone — you totally rock (as does your pizza — and that’s saying a lot).

9. To those people who let me pet their dogs on the street because I need my “fix” — you have no idea how much joy you give me.

10. And finally, to the person who invented putting whipped cream on pumpkin pie — you are a god.

Now, who called the drumstick?

Tags: thank you & you & you Permalink

2 Comments

clearing skies

Posted by cgcopy on November 19, 2013 in it's life

At the risk of dating myself, there’s a song by Dire Straits that I absolutely love called Why Worry? And it’s one particular lyric, as well as Mark Knopfler’s amazing guitar riffs, that sets it apart in my mind: “There should be laughter after pain / There should be sunshine after rain / These things have always been the same.” Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my past Saturday.

The day started not so well — the funeral of a friend’s mother. Given that I lost my own mother only six months ago, Saturday morning was more difficult than I had anticipated. Okay. That was the rain and pain part.

We then met friends and their 14-year-old daughter for an early dinner. As fate would have it, their daughter is an aspiring novelist (she was delighted to hear that I write for a living), has a huge imagination, wanted to know my tips for keeping my skin looking “so beautiful” (I was ready to adopt her on the spot), and was enamored with the idea that I had once named nail polish colors for a living. She loved hearing about Paul Simon (long story). She also wanted to know my favorite writers (she couldn’t have asked me a more favorite question) and then patiently took me through the entire Harry Potter series. She did such a good job of it that I’m tempted to hang with Harry one day. She also did a good job of making me smile. The sky was beginning to clear.

The day ended with comedy (literally) when we went to see Paul Reiser doing stand-up. He was incredibly funny and smart — I haven’t laughed that hard in a really, really long time. I’m talking tears-running-down-my-face, I-can’t-catch-my-breath laughs. Turns out, he’s also a very nice guy. It was time for the sunglasses. Finally.

From Dire Straits to Bridge Over Troubled Water to Here Comes the Sun. Call it the perfect Hard Day’s Night.

Tags: laughter, music, tears Permalink

5 Comments

the facts of life

Posted by cgcopy on November 14, 2013 in it's life

A dear friend recently lost his mother and asked for assistance in writing her eulogy. Not something you get asked to do very often (hopefully) and not something to be taken lightly. As his mom was not someone I knew well, he supplied me with background information about her life. And from there, I wrote what I hope is a worthy version of her beautiful life story.

This was a woman whose life was not an easy one but who relied on her faith — in her religion and in people — to see her through the hard times and to celebrate the good times. A woman who was always there for those in need.

Writing an account of someone’s life is humbling and inspiring at the same time. It’s also a bit of a wake-up call in terms of thinking of our own lives. Have we accomplished what we’ve set out to do? Have we spent enough time loving — or too much time working / texting / standing on ceremony? Have we cherished friendships and told our friends so? And have we created a meaningful legacy — in art, in philanthropy, in teaching, in helping and healing?

It’s easy to get caught up in the minutiae of our daily lives and not look at the bigger picture. It’s easy to spend two hours trying to negotiate the freeway, the installation instructions, or a peaceful settlement with a childish boss or a bossy child.

But we’re human, and it’s difficult — and I’m not sure always the right course — to worry about the bigger picture versus living in the moment. It reminds me of the family vacations we took when I was a kid. My dad shot dozens and dozens of photos — but it seemed he saw most of the sights from behind his camera lens instead of enjoying them fully “in person.”

These aren’t thoughts I had when I was in my 20s, 30s or even 40s. But I guess as I get a bit older the idea of finding the right balance between legacy and “live-acy” (with a certain amount of lunacy) is one I grapple with from time to time.

But then the phone rings and a friend needs support in his time of grief. And that moment — and the hours that follow — that moment becomes the priority.

I guess that’s where our lives and what we leave behind meet — at a place where we lead with our hearts.

Words to live by.

Tags: friendship, life Permalink

1 Comment

hairmageddon

Posted by cgcopy on November 7, 2013 in coloring outside the lines

Ask any woman about her hair and she’ll go on for at least two paragraphs about what she likes and hates about it. That having been said, I still find it amazing that top among recent news stories — including those about health care coverage, election results, the New York Marathon, the Red Sox World Series, the US eavesdropping on our allies, the ongoing conjecturing about Hillary Clinton (will she or won’t she) — has been the breaking news about celebs’ cutting their hair. OMG.

Apparently, there’s a new pixie patrol in town, including Jennifer Hudson, Pamela Anderson, Kristin Chenoweth and Jennifer Lawrence. All of whom have had their long, luscious locks cut into adorable pixie styles. And the earth didn’t explode (although I’m not sure how much more of a media frenzy there would be if the earth did go “poof!”).

But we might want to double-lock our doors against the end-of-the world panic brought on by the news we read yesterday — that Jennifer Aniston (yes, the goddess of the perfectly highlighted, perfectly tousled, perfectly beach-waved mane) was forced to cut her hair into a bob because of a smoothing treatment gone awry. It’s ironic, of course, that the woman who made the “Rachel” the most famous hair style of all time (go figure), and who now owns one of the world’s most prestigious hair care lines, actually has had a hair day so bad that it required cutting inches upon inches of hair off. And I’m sure, like women everywhere who go through a salon day gone bad, it had a certain amount of trauma attached to it.

But it actually makes her a bit more human – she’s finally one of us (for the moment, anyway).

If Jennifer Aniston can have the Ultimate Bad Hair Day — Hairmageddon, if you will — then women everywhere can forgive her the rockin’ body, the killer wardrobe, the millions of dollars, the golden glow, and that doorknob of a rock on her finger.

Why split hairs?

Tags: celebs, cutting hair, pixie cut Permalink

← Older posts

Newer posts →

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Post navigation