THE WRAPTURE

At long last, the first post-production MARTINI!



Loyal readers will recall the remarkable restraint I have shown these past few weeks, denying myself the pleasures of the well-made Belvedere martini (dry, up, with a twist from may-nov, olives from dec-april, in case any of you out there are buying...) and, though it seems impossible, we are now finished production on Disney’s "HARRIET THE SPY".



In fact, we’ve just this afternoon completed editing what is commonly referred to as “The Director’s Cut”, so named because it theoretically represents the truest incarnation of the director’s “vision” for the film. I say “theoretically” because one’s TRUE vision for any film usually exists only in one’s mind - (like the computer graphics effects which have turned our Hamilton, Ontario locations into New York City) -



- unencumbered by budget, schedule, actor availability and the odd plaster Lion which might just happen to get in the way of the director’s beautifully planned crane shot, as happened on our final day of shooting.



Yes, I said “plaster”.



Granted, I’ve worked with animals before; certainly one of the oddest bits of direction I’ve ever given was “please get that other giraffe out of camera range, I only want a SINGLE giraffe in this shot!”, but that was in Africa of course, where these sorts of problems are to be expected.



However I’ve never had to deal with a beast that, in spite of being inanimate, managed to – with the help two rather ill-advised background performers - throw itself into the path of the camera and shatter the “matte box”.

(This, for the uninitiated, is that square frame which rests at the far end of the camera’s lens and seems to take an eternity to remove or replace, a task usually done when time is running out and there are only seconds to complete an entire scene before the crew dashes off to lunch or, in the case of certain unnamed members of my most recent team -



- the nearest Gentlemen’s "theatrical" Club featuring the artistic dance stylings of ladies named Misty or Chanelle.)



But in spite of that accident, our last day of principal photography went off without a hitch, and even my Producer, the indefatigable Jonathan Hackett, managed to summon a smile –



- rarer than a good John Cusack movie – as he realized that our final special effect shot, involving a series of large plaster statues toppling over and smashing around our stars, worked perfectly on Take One.

Adding to the fun was a visit from my nephew Benmont and his friend, the near-mythical Tyler Crane, both of whom were thrilled to meet one of our stars, Danny Smith, whose appearance in the cult television series "Big Wolf On Campus" seems to have struck a chord with the adolescent male viewer for obvious reasons (lycanthropy is, after all, just puberty without the acne...).



And I would be remiss if I didn't mention the many gifts placed upon the large table one of my minions had set in front of my Director's Chair, tokens of esteem from Cast and Crew bestowed upon me, their Director and, ergo, Father Figure. This of course serves a dual purpose - they get to symbolically make up for any difficulties in their relationship with their own, biological paterfamilias, and I get marvelous presents. Win-win, hm?

Cut. Print. And un-wrap!

And just in the nick of time, I might add, given that Christmas 2009 is mere weeks away.

Loyal readers will recall I have a long history of making movies during the holiday season and have barely managed to make it home by the skin of my teeth for the past half dozen years.

(And when one has a houseful of guests for Christmas week, not to mention a catered dinner party for 30 people planned for The Big Day, every moment counts!)

But this is the closest I’ve shaved it since the making of “A Dennis The Menace Christmas” – has it really been 3 years since I endured that ghastly winter’s shoot in Montreal, with everything from a mutinous First Assistant Director to a rampaging blizzard conspiring against me? –



- and although the Boyfriend is keeping a stiff upper lip, I’m very sensitive to his emotions and can sense a certain anxiety in his telephone voice, especially when he says things like “HURRY UP AND GET HOME! THE CHRISTMAS GIFTS YOU KEEP ORDERING ON EBAY WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK ARE STACKING UP IN THE GUEST ROOM AND SOMEBODY NEEDS TO SORT THEM OUT PRONTO AND THAT SOMEBODY IS YOU!”

Speaking of “A Dennis The Menace Christmas”, I received an email the other day from a dear friend of mine with a photograph attached showing that particular film of mine on sale at a discount department store specializing in overstocked items and end-of-runs.



Such is the fate of the Artiste in modern society, I’m afraid. One minute you’re at a big Hollywood premiere, celebrating your latest cinematic confection, the next, you find yourself marked down at Big Lots.



Yet one mustn’t be dissuaded from always trying to do one’s best; certainly we’ve hit a few high notes – figuratively AND literally – on “Harriet The Spy”, thanks to our star, the dazzlingly talented Jennifer Stone -



- and soon-to-be teen hearthrob Wesley Morgan (you heard it hear first!) -



- but still one never knows what kind of an impact a film is going to have on its audience.

For example, who could have predicted that an episode of television I wrote and directed back in the mid-nineties – "The Tale of the Ghastly Grinner" -



- part of a now legendary series called “Are You Afraid of the Dark” – would end up providing inspiration for a rock band in 2009?



Yes, the name of the "nerdy" heroine in that show has been taken as the moniker for a Boston based musical group.



I am thoroughly honored.

So even if the plane that I’m scheduled to board a week from now should happen to plunge into one of the nearby great lakes or suck a load of geese into its engines, I will be able to go to that great Movie Theater in the sky secure in the knowledge that I have given immortality to the name Hooper Picallero.



In the meantime, however, I’ve still got to make it through seven days of sub-zero temperatures here in Toronto; a few more meetings - including one with a remarkable young man who is planning to produce one of my own scripts as his first feature, a challenge so insurmountable in his home country of Canada (given that the movie features neither lesbians, wheat farmers nor WW1 War Heroes who say "oot") that he is either brilliantly ambitious or utterly insane -



- several cocktail and dinner obligations (it’s surprising how in demand one is when one’s name appears on the “Films In Production” list in the trades…) and an evening of music with Ms. Dianne Reeves performing a Christmas Concert should help pass the time -



- but in truth I am quite anxious myself to return to my desert paradise.

We’ve had some torrential rains recently, quite unusual for our part of the world, and I’m concerned by reports that my houseboy Panton has begun construction of a large wooden arc on the south lawn.



While I certainly admire his “Can Do!” spirit, I’m afraid that his last project, a homemade rocket ship the purpose of which was, as he told us with his usual picturesque mangling of the English language, to “Escape From Bitch Mountain” ended up causing a bit of damage.



I do hope I can stop him before he starts loading up the neighborhood, two by two.

THE WORST THING EVER

Like a starter pistol’s report, the first Christmas Carol of the season always sets my heart racing; to me, the Holidays aren’t so much “holidays” as they are an Olympic Sport, with the finish line being a crumpled mountain of gift wrap surrounding a group of houseguests drunk on the joy of giving and several gallons of Mimosas.



After all, what better way to celebrate the birth of the proverbial “King of Kings” than maxing out your credit cards AND getting your family and friends royally sloshed by noon?



So it was that I found myself grinning with delight today while enduring an endless line at the rather ominously Kafka-monikered “Shoppers Drug Mart” in Toronto -



- waiting to pay for a tube of toothpaste which would cost me 75% less back home in California (and which is, ironically, MADE in Canada, but is taxed at an astronomical rate in order to pay for, among other things, the long line ups for the “free” services at medical clinics throughout the country) -



- when over the public address system came the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby crooning “Silver Bells”; the opening aural salvo of the Yuletide season.



I suddenly felt as if the world were a fresh and shiny place, and I its freshest and shiniest citizen! Not even the rather suspicious death of a fifteen month old boy at the local Toronto airport, the mother of whom apparently lost her grip on the child and let him topple over a four foot high railing -



- plunging rather perversely from the Departures to the Arrivals level, all while she managed somehow to keep a firm grip on her shopping bags -



- could get me down. However I must admit that pondering the fact that the child was enroute to Argentina to be baptized, and therefore died, according to their Catholic faith, without the benefit of a dab of holy water and ergo will now spend eternity in Hell just because his Mother valued her Juicy Couture carry-on over her kid -



- did give me pause. But I rose above it; after all, Christmas is on the way!!



And frankly, I needed the boost after someone named Richard Lawson declared, at a website rather presumptuously called “TV.com”, that the Disney movie I’m currently directing -



- here in Toronto, Canada is, well, not to his tastes, referring to it as "the worst thing ever made"…



Now putting aside the fact that he has passed judgement on a film which hasn't even hit the editing room yet, the term “worst thing ever made” clearly also takes into account 9/11, The Holocaust AND the sex tapes of ex-Miss California/confirmed Christian/noted lying floozey Miss Carrie Prejean -



- so I suspect Mr. Lawson is speaking metaphorically – although having attempted to read some of his other writings, I’m not entirely sure he would be comfortable using a word with so many syllables.

But even if it does turn out to be “the worst”, it certainly won’t be a result of the marvelous work done by my crew -



- or my leading lady, the fabulous Miss Jennifer Stone -



- nor our "hunk" du jour, Wesley Morgan -



- these past three weeks. I've been so impressed, in fact, that at the end of Day 15 I treated the crew to a glamorous cocktail party in the Library Bar at our location hotel, The Royal York -



- one of the last bastions of glamor in this otherwise architecturally horrendous city.

(Don't just take my word for it -- the absurd and hideous "addition" to the city's historic Royal Ontario Museum, a steel and glass monstrosity jutting out of the classic original building like some sort of frozen projectile vomit -



- has recently been called one of the Top Ten Ugliest Buildings on the planet. Toronto becomes World Class at last!)

And as we reflected on what we've accomplished since we've begun, even I had to admit to a certain pride in the movie we're making.



Of course we ALL know what pride cometh before, hmmm?

So I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ve even been TRYING to find something to complain about during this shoot, but so far the biggest problem we’ve had was when the studio asked for a bit player to get rid of the fake French Accent he employed during his audition, and then expressed shock during their viewing of “rushes” (the daily scenes filmed and sent back to our Hollywood Overlords in a hurry – ie: a “rush”…) when he didn’t have a French Accent.

(And speaking of accents – I wish I could travel back in time and sharply slap the face of the first Teacher who instructed a Canadian student to say “ou” as “ewww” instead of “ow”. There is absolutely nothing as annoying to a director as watching a completely flawless scene, brilliantly acted and gorgeously photographed, suddenly turn into an episode of the late and unlamented Canadian sitcom (to use the word loosely) “The Trouble With Tracey” by an actor’s mealy-mouthed delivery of the word “house”!)

Well, there was the time when the "honey wagon", the charming phrase used to denote any trailer or mobile dressing room which houses the actors, caught fire because of faulty wiring...

And then there was our "stunt" cake which began melting under the hot lights well before its close-up...



Not to mention the creepy shirtless guy on the balcony near our exterior set who kept his binoculars trained on a female member of the camera crew to the point where we suggested that perhaps they should start picking out a china pattern for their wedding gift...

But these, along with the occasional bout of the recently renamed “H1N1” flu (the biggest pharmaceutical cash grab since the invention of VD, resulting in the production offering us all free vaccine shots which, I should report, I have declined as I have no interest whatsoever in allowing myself to be injected with something rushed through production by a drug company who did it as cheaply as possible in order to provide the lowest possible bid to the government. Hello? Thalidomide, anyone?) -



(and doesn't this Kid look just a bit TOO happy to be getting a shot? I see a serious drug addiciton in his future...)

- and the fact that our Star is, by law, only available to us for six hours a day, thus requiring the usage of various photographic “doubles” of varying sizes to fill in for her (resulting in some rather alarming physical metamorphoses from scene to scene like a Carnival Sideshow Attraction – The Amazing Thespia! See Her Hair Grow In Seconds! Watch Her Legs Stretch In The Blink Of An Eye!), is nothing more than the usual nonsense associated with the production of any motion picture, and as such is barely worth mentioning.

What IS worth mentioning however is the radio show featuring myself and my longtime co-conspirator in cultural terrorism, Michael Rowe, aka The Duchess of Milton -



- is currently available on line at www.ciut.fm.

While it was supposed to be a discussion of sexuality and horror in film and literature, it – not entirely unexpectedly – devolved into a a forty five minute stand-up routine where the two of us traded insults, launched politically incorrect assaults on sacred cows and generally misbehaved to the point where our Host was left breathless with laughter and barely able to get a word in edgewise.

But even with all of this to distract me, I still must admit to a certain amount of homesickness. A quick weekend visit from The Boyfriend helped to soothe me somewhat -



- and we managed to put quite a dent in my per diem (which is a latin word meaning "drug and hooker money") at Holt Renfrew, the only decent department store in Canada -



- but his stories of the ever-entertaining adventures of our miniature Manchester, Crawford The Perfect Dog, left me missing our desert paradise even more.



The only solution was to attend a late screening of a newly released cinematic treat known as "Ninja Assassin" starring Korean pop icon RAIN.



While it is not generally known, long before "Rain" became a music and movie star in the Asian world, he toiled for more than a few years as my houseboy, until his constant singing and "busting" of "moves" while he was supposed to be vacuuming got him fired.



It was quite interesting to watch the film, and remembering him fumbling around the house in the regulation uniform of ill fitting Adidas shorts and flip flops made me appreciate my current Ecuardorean (or whatever he is...as i've previously mentioned, we can't understand a word the poor fellow says...) houseboy even more than I do now.



Sure, Panton can't wield a sword to save his life, but at least he keeps the dust off my lampshades.

As it were.

THE LAST MARTINI

No, no, there's no reason to panic, dear reader. I have not given up the Blessed Vodka to join the rest of my gay brethren aboard that grimmest of train rides, The 12 Step Express.



While I admire those who have made it through "The Program" (and frankly, I'd LOVE to be able to blame my sometimes appalling behavior on SOMETHING other than my own stupidity!) I'm afraid my addictions sustain me and, in return, I them; besides, there are dozens of bartenders around the world depending on me to put their children through university, and who am I to deny the wee tots their education?



I am merely preparing for tomorrow - Day One of filming on my latest epic HARRIET THE SPY, featuring the utterly adorable Jennifer Stone -



- and a cast of "exciting newcomers" who are probably at this very moment tossing and turning in their little nuns' beds, memorizing their Oscar (tm) speeches in the hopes of being the next Marisa Tomei.



After four weeks of endless meetings, hours of driving around exotic Hamilton, Ontario in a mini-van to try to find locations which bear at least a vague resemblance to the upper east side of New York City -



- (we've done our best, but I'm afraid the expression "mutton dressed as lamb" does come to mind) and the seemingly boundless energy, talent and goodwill of all concerned, we are about to set sail on the good ship "Principal Photography".

Thus, to mark the occasion, I am having my final martini for the duration of the shoot as i pore over my copious notes for tomorrow's shots.



As is my habit, I do not raise even a single one of these little darlings until the final night of filming on a project is done, rather like the prize a long distance runner is given for making it to the Finish Line, or the piece of cheese a rat gets for ringing the bell at the end of the maze. For those of you who know me, can you imagine how good THAT martini tastes?

I know what you're thinking - "my GOD Ron, what kind of will power must you have?" Well, to misquote "that venomous fishwife" Addison DeWitt in "All About Eve" -



- I live in the cinema as a Trappist monk lives in his faith, and if those little hooded fellows could take a vow of silence in honor of a Higher Power then I can certainly put aside the martini shaker for a few weeks in honor of HRH Mickey Mouse.



Of course, the Monks had their wine, didn't they? So I suppose....



I mean, let's not be crazy about this.

Follow along, dear reader. For the next four weeks, we get to ignore Balloon Boys, Murderous Muslim Soldiers and all the rest of the drivel that gets pumped into our lives by the wretched mass media, and live in the FantasyLand which is A Movie. Fasten your seatbelts, to steal another quote from Mr. Mankiewicz.



The fun is about to begin...

LOCKER ROOM WHANG

For decades, people on both sides of the 49th parallel have argued about the difference between Canadians and Americans.



Some say it’s social, others say it’s political. I think it’s simpler than that; I think it has to do with underwear.



- VS., say -



More specifically, I think it has to do with how underwear is removed in gymnasium locker rooms. I saw evidence of this just recently at the “Extreme Fitness” in downtown Toronto, Canada -



- where I’ve been getting myself into fighting shape for the upcoming shoot of the movie “HARRIET THE SPY” –



- based on the classic children’s novel - for the good people at Disney.

(Sidebar note: while it’s a terrific gym, and I highly recommend checking it out if you’re ever in Toronto, I would suggest going on Sunday mornings when all the religious kooks are in church.



It is no secret of course that Christians are, as a species, wildly overweight -



- while atheists tend to be much more physically fit, likely because instead of spending all their time praying for good health and a trimmer waist-line, they are, in fact, working out.)



Anyway, there I was, desperately trying to negotiate the control pad on my iPod – am I the only one who can’t seem to get the damn thing to comprehend the difference between Frank Sinatra and Franz Ferdinand? – when suddenly there came the most startling ‘crash’ from the other end of the Men’s Changing Room.

It sounded as if someone had driven a 1986 Volvo into a crowd of pre-schoolers - not that I recommend that sort of thing, but really, given the current state of youth crime in our culture, for example, those three boys who recently set fire to a fourth over a $40.00 video game debt, which may result not only in significant jail time but also the strong possibility of future careers in the Credit Card Collection Industry -



- perhaps it’s not a bad idea to “nip it in the bud”, as it were - and I couldn’t resist following the noise to its source.

To my surprise I saw a swarthy and heavily muscled gentleman of Middle Eastern descent writhing naked on the floor next to a locker, a towel clutched in his hand and a pair of mustard colored briefs twisted hopelessly around his ankles.

Thinking that perhaps with a single kind gesture I could make up for the horrors of Abu Ghraib, I considered offering some help, but thought better of it as he glowered at me, muttering something in one of those artificial sounding Arabic languages one used to only hear in the movies – often uttered by the Bad Guy as he swing his scimitar over his head and threatened a loin-clothed Victor Mature with the “death of a thousand mongeese” or some such nonsense.



As I backed off, watching him slowly pick himself up and begin gingerly rubbing his head, I suddenly understood what had happened. In fact, I had seen something like it many times before.

Now let me make one thing utterly clear; this is not a rant against Canada.

Indeed, it’s been a year since I was last here, in my home and native land, and while I was certainly in no hurry to return, even I – die hard Beaverphobe that I am – must admit I have been having a disturbingly good time during this latest cinematic project.

The marvelous Grand Hotel – although plopped unceremoniously at the corner of Crack Whore Boulevard and Homeless Person Urine Stain Drive – has been as gracious and as accommodating as always, with a wonderful breakfast every morning and a nightly Belvedere martini so perfectly constructed as to make me re-think the ten year contract I’ve recently signed with my houseboy Panton.



(Granted, Panton has other attributes which even a five star hotel can’t match, but then again the staff of this hotel speaks fluent English, unlike Panton’s indecipherable blend of Peruvian and Sanskrit, so perhaps it’s a draw after all…)

It must also be said that the team assembled by My Producers is one of the best I’ve ever had, including my darling First Assistant Director ROBYN -



- who deftly maneuvered us through the treacherous waters of our movie “Bridal Fever” two years ago -



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQzYjjNvuS8

- and who has the kind of obsessive attention to detail that would make an autistic child feel like an under-achiever.



Then there are the actors – including the beyond charming JENNIFER STONE



- and the distractingly wholesome ex- Abercrombie and Fitch model WESLEY MORGAN -



- and of course national Canadian treasure JAYNE EASTWOOD, without whom I simply cannot imagine making a film on this side of the border –



- all delightfully enthusiastic and talented and clearly worshipful of the ground upon which I stand, which is a very admirable trait for people who wish to have their own close up shot from time to time.



Even our Writers – in this case a mother/daughter team so adorable that to just look at them is to develop a case of diabetes - have delivered a charming and deliciously ironic script which not even a GIFTED director could screw up.

Taking into account the usual bouts of homesickness for my loved ones back in our desert paradise - including of course Crawford The Dog, whose recent portrayal of a Chicken during Halloween has been the talk of the town for weeks –



- and the occasional idiots lumbering through the Hotel Bar in search of "Miller On Tap" (the mind reels; how DO these people find their way all the way here from the Bus Station?), I must admit that things have been going remarkably well.

So obviously, with all this good energy circling me, it’s only natural I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m just surprised it made so much noise when it did.

And that it sounded like a homophobic nincompoop slamming his head against a locker door.

One of the fascinating side effects of Canada’s rather liberal social construct, in particular, its embrace of the Civil Rights of its Gay and Lesbian citizenry, has been the imposition of a form of “tolerance” onto its people. Canadians, as a nation, may not necessarily “like” homosexuals, but they are forced, by law, to accept them.



This probably works for Joe and Mary Snowmobile, coming from that delightfully innocent era "before" homosexuality -



- and for whom it now exists as a kind of rare bird, seen on occasion in the wilds of downtown Vancouver or, perhaps, on the dock of a rented cabin in Ontario's “Cottage Country”. As is the way of all good Canucks, if it doesn’t interrupt Hockey Night in Canada, it really doesn't bother them.



But for the heterosexual men of a place like downtown Toronto, the Gays surely must seem to be EVERYWHERE. And in classic “straight man” fashion (and by “straight” I mean "STRAIGHT-straight", not “well, I used to be gay but then I found Jesus-straight")-



- they are apparently convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that, regardless of the fact that they may bear a resemblance to the sort of thing one normally finds living beneath a bridge and terrorizing passing Billy Goats -



- they are in fact the targets of Godless Homos who clearly want nothing more than to lead them away from the path of righteousness-



- and right down Sodomy Lane.



Thus, the Jockey brand ankle bracelets around the afore-toppled Gym Goer.

Desperate to protect himself from the staring eyes of what must have been, in his mind, a Night of the Living Dead-type hoard of Butt Pirates intent on checking out his manhood -



- this deluded fellow had, while still semi-dressed, secured his club-issued towel around his waist and then, with bodily contortions that would have put a Czechoslovakian prostitute to shame, attempted to remove his underpants from beneath the towel, thus shielding his delicate private parts from public view.



Of course, gravity always outweighs modesty and it must have got the upper hand here too, with a single misstep causing the poor fellow to slam his thick noggin against the metal locker with a resoundingly appropriate “WHANNNGGGG!”, knocking himself down to the tile floor where, ironically, his legs spread far enough apart to not only reveal his precious genitals to the entire locker room but also turn the rest of the nearby patrons into amateur, if unwilling, proctologists.



But what, my reader must wonder, does this have to do with the American/Canadian question? Fair enough. Let me continue.

Having spent the past twenty-five years circumnavigating the world, and working out in gyms on five continents, in twice as many countries, I’ve seen a lot of interesting things. Most of these I cannot share, even with you, dear reader; while I have a Sainted Boyfriend who not only endures the stresses of life with a B movie director but actually embraces them -



- even ONE of these stories would likely guarantee me “single man” status for the rest of my life. At my age, this is not only undesirable but probably fatal.

But let it just be said, in all my travels, I have never before seen such a silly and potentially life-threatening display of puritanical penis-cloaking in my life as I witnessed that morning. While the poor fellow was obviously trying to allay suspicions about his own sexuality - rather like the "rap" world's favorite new slang "NO HOMO", used anytime they inadvertently brush up against the turgid prod of homoerotica-



- and which frankly, has been asking more questions than it answers -



- he actually did the exact opposite; laying naked on a gym floor with your legs in the air is basically Gay Porn 101.



Upon further exploration, I've even found a clever Entrepreneur cashing in on the apparently horrific idea of the naked human body being exposed to the world -



- and while I applaud his ingenuity, I suspect this ridiculous product won't catch on. Certainly not in California, where I have lived lo these past twenty years; such behavior would immediately attract suspicion of a terrorist plot. Everybody knows honest, flag-waving, red-blooded American men love nothing more than swinging their genitals around, whether called for or not.



While in this case the un-toweled “slamee” may have been of the Muslim persuasion, I don’t think his religion had much to do with his unfortunate gravitational mishap. More likely it was just a twist of fate – not to mention a fairly lax immigration policy - which catapulted him from the Tehran Gold’s Gym face first into a locker door in Canada.

There is, after all, a kind of insane logic to it; with gay marriage being all the rage up here, and an almost maniacal approach to political correctness running rampant in both the government and the culture at large, perhaps the delicate dance between locker room towel and boxer brief is the last thing that heterosexual men of any race, color or creed can truly call their own.

At least being ashamed of their own bodies is a tradition that they can adhere to without fear of breaking the law.

COLD NUTS

While the 20th century may have officially ended some nine years back,



- I think there is an argument to be made that the actual curtain dropped on that most American of eras about a week and a half ago. This was the moment that the “Crocs” shoe company –



- and calling those ghastly flower pots with soles “shoes” is rather like calling a McDonald’s ground cow sandwich a “hamburger” –



- officially threw in the towel and called it a day. Apparently when the people of the United States were faced with a choice between feeding their children and owning several pairs of those multi-colored podiatric insults, the kids won. And while it is unfortunate to see any business go belly-up, one is heartened to think that perhaps this event indicates a certain sanity returning to our shores.

There have been other indicators of the end of an epoch - the death of Walter Cronkite, the most trusted voice of the century;



- the death of Michael Jackson, the most danced-to singer of the century;



- the death of Farrah Fawcett, the most imitated hair-don’t of the century –



- all of which seem to point toward a relinquishing of America’s cultural grip on the world.

But it is in the sudden rise and fall of the craze of perforated plastic footwear that one can most readily observe the idea that maybe, just maybe, the much vaunted, and in many cases well earned, ingenuity of these United States has finally been forced to face the fact that a lot of its output is, frankly, crap.



Safely ensconced behind the protective fichus walls of our desert paradise, we at dear old Six Palms have been observing this trend over the past year with something approaching – to be blunt - delight. The drivel which has been served up daily for the past decade as “popular culture” -



- has left us on occasion literally gasping for air as we tried to understand the social urges which compel our fellow citizens to follow celebrity bowel movements on Twitter, and there is much to be said for the fact that the bottom of the barrel may well have been reached when it comes to what passes for entertainment these days.



After all, if that dreadful, overly-fertile couple featured on that hideous reality show can get a divorce and manage to sling their mud with such broad strokes as to soil all eight of their children in the process, anything is possible.



One is aware, of course, of the ever-present risk of sounding like some nostalgia-swathed “Delta Dawn” sitting at the end of an allegoric bar in an old dress with a dead flower wedged firmly behind her ear, especially living as one does in a town which embraces its past like a necrophiliac lover.



But to be honest, in spite of the monthly expenses of running an historic household – not to mention the care and feeding of One Boyfriend with a Sephora Habit -



- One Miniature Manchester with a Bingo Habit -



- and One Houseboy named Panton for whom I've thrown enough bad money into "English As A Fifteenth Language" classes over the years to buy a block of downtown Los Angeles -



- there has been nothing tossed over the wall these past twelve months which has appealed to us enough to slip into our “Dog and Pony” suit and make our way into Hollywood in order to convince The Great And Mighty Oz of the remaining studio overlords that we are the perfect Hitchcock for their epic.

Until now.

Roughly three weeks ago, whilst floating in the Martini Pool and with nothing more pressing on our mind decision-wise than just where exactly we were going for dinner that night, the telephone rang with a rather interesting offer. A bit of research and a couple of meetings later, we found ourselves onboard a plane, en route to commence production on a motion picture for The Walt Disney Company – one of the last remaining studios of Hollywood’s Golden Age – based on a marvelous classic children’s novel entitled “Harriet The Spy”.



We are, of course, delighted to be working in this economy and even more so to be working on a project with a pedigree from the early 1960’s which means, to our relief, it is well-conceived, well-written and well-loved.

Not to mention it features absolutely NO Lohans.



All of these things occurred to us as we walked along the bustling street of the city we are currently calling home. And as we passed the Indian women in their brightly colored saris – invariably smiling and laughing –



- or the Muslim women in their mud hued burkas –



- invariably grim and/or struggling to negotiate the crowded sidewalk with the limited vision granted them by the patriarchal idiocy of a tiny slit in their hoods, we were struck by the fact that we could go for literally blocks at a time here without hearing a single word of English spoken.

Even the turban-wearing young gentlemen of East Indian persuasion loitering outside the nearby industrial engineering college, arguing in that loud, highly strung fashion that turban-wearing young gentlemen often do, resolutely avoided communicating in anything approaching the Queen’s Tongue and for quite a few minutes we were actually relishing the fantasy that we had ventured to a foreign land, full of exotic mystery and intrigue.

But then we turned a corner and saw the CN Tower -



- that most un-sexy of all the phallic objects thrusting up out of the solar plexus of various cities around the world, and remembered that we were, in fact, in Toronto, Canada.

We have, over the years, had a love-hate relationship with this city. When we lived here for half of the 1980’s – back when it was on the verge of relevance on the world stage – it seemed like Paris, full of excitement and wonder. Keep in mind, of course, that when one comes from our kind of humble beginnings – having been born and reared in a white trash village sixteen feet from the North Pole - living in a place where fetching the morning paper doesn’t involve eleven foot snow drifts and the threat of wolves is a relief.

But the innate smugness of a city built entirely around the idea of “We don’t want to be New York!” eventually wore on us and we began to loathe the very idea of returning here for projects over the years. Stuck as it was in some sort of endless Robert Palmer video loop -



- Toronto represented everything we hated about our homeland of Canada.



This is, after all, a place which took the appearance of a couple of second rate nightclub comics on the legendary US tv series "The Ed Sullivan Show" as a sign that they were ACTUALLY funny enough to be given their own Canadian television series for something like 75 years...



And where else but Canada would have chosen as its national animal The Beaver, an oversized rodent as tiresomely industrious and absurdly put-together as the country itself?



To be frank, when we stepped onboard the Air Canada flight to depart my desert paradise - and were promptly told by the flight attendant as we handed him our boarding pass that “you will be treated no differently than anybody else,” – we had a sinking feeling that this trip was going to be just as dreadful as all of those in our past.

But nestling down into our first class seat (where, obviously, we WERE treated differently than everybody else), with a wonderful old film noir available to view on the video screen -



- and an extremely delicious Bloody Caesar in hand – the Bloody Mary is apparently too American for Air Canada, who insist that Clam Juice must be part of one’s daily diet – it quickly became apparent that maybe, again just maybe, an era had ended.

Granted, most airlines serve WARM nuts in first class and the ones we received with our cocktail were as cold as Nancy Pelosi’s stare -



- but given the generally positive experience we decided to simply rise above it.

The flight was, in a word, marvelous, long enough to be enjoyable, brief enough to be endurable. And from the moment we were picked up by Ryan the production assistant, to the arrival at my favorite Toronto hotel – The Grand, plopped unceremoniously in a rather down-at-heel neighborhood but possessed of enough elegance and style to make up for any number of circumnavigating winos and hookers – and all the way through the gracious, encouraging and completely delightful times spent so far with the Producers and Studio Executives, these past several days have led us to believe that, perhaps, it’s not just a Cultural Era that has passed.

Perhaps it’s the end of an era of our own selves as well?



One can only admit this to you, dear reader, but is it possible that, along with this City, we have grown up too? And instead of searching for the negative in all things Toronto – indeed, in all THINGS (which is ultimately a Fool’s Game), the influence of The Boyfriend and Crawford The Dog –



- arguably the steadying power of love - has brought us to a place in our lives where only the good things about a place, about ANY place, seem important?

Time will tell.

After all, those nuts WERE pretty damned cold...