Friday, February 06, 2004

 

Mr. Smooth

When I was eleven, Ms. Holmstrom gave me a red velvet smoking jacket. She was Belgian, so she taught most of the foreign language classes out our middle school. She was kind to me, and hailed from a short breed, as did I. I was about the same size as her son, about 4’10”. There was this red velvet smoking jacket he didn’t want. I was a natural candidate to receive it. Ms. Holmstrom and I got along very well. She gave me this red velvet smoking jacket.

I loved it. I wore it to all the parties. For those of you too young to remember, there was no red-velvet-smoking-jacket craze in the 80s. I was out-of-fashion. Short, and out-of-fashion. But I didn’t care. I knew I was Mr. Smooth, even if no one else could see. I put on a matching grey cap and scarf. If the ladies didn’t recognize that I was Mr. Smooth, well, forget them. They had no taste in smoking jackets.

I didn’t smoke, by the way. The jacket was smoking in a “SMOKIN’!” way, as far as I was concerned.

Still, the jacket brought a lot of snickers from the world, so eventually I closeted it. I think I sold it in a garage sale, just before I moved to New York.

I have never owned another garment that made me feel as stylish as that jacket.

I’m not saying that I wish I had it back. After all, it fit me when I was under five feet, and I’ve grown since then. It might fit my wife. I’m just saying that if I wore a red velvet smoking jacket now, I think people would appreciate it more. Maybe it’s the age. Maybe it’s the city. Maybe the fashion wheel has gone that far around again.

Anyway, here I am in the jacket, on the left, circa 1985:


image courtesy my man Mike. That’s him on the right.

My expression doesn’t do justice to how the jacket made me feel. This photo was taken at Farrell’s, and we were drunk on clown sundaes and Dr. Who reruns.

posted by Dan 1:54 PM
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Thursday, February 05, 2004

 

I Know

Hasn't been quite the same Venal Scene the last few months. Not so much a "Scene" as a "Blog". I will be doing more "scene" writing later, after production, when I have the energy to write said "scene." 'Til then, this page is slightly redefined.

posted by Dan 1:35 PM
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Friggin' Jacksons

On Google News, I saw this:



First Thought: Wow, the whole family’s getting in on the plastic surgery act.

Second Thought: Google News is still beta.

posted by Dan 1:18 PM
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The Rosenbergs Got Screwed

From the Daily Telegraph.

Musharraf pardons atom bomb 'traitor'
President Pervaiz Musharraf has pardoned the founder of Pakistan's nuclear programme for selling atomic weapons technology to rogue states.

So...that’s it then, Mr. Musharraf? Sold his country’s nuclear secrets, gets a pardon?

Let me see if I understand. In your country, if a woman was even suspected of having an affair, she'd get killed by her male relative. But if she'd sold nuke plans, she'd get a pardon.

Hold on, I’d like to sort this out: Be gay, go to prison. Be a nuke-selling traitor, get pardoned.

O-kay.

Way to go, Pervaiz.

I’m certain we’ll never regret this alliance.

posted by Dan 12:57 PM
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Wednesday, February 04, 2004

 

How Producing Has Changed Me

(A rehearsal room. DAN, in pinstripe suit, sits in a plush red velvet chair. He smokes a long Cuban cigar, and shovels handfuls of salted nuts into his mouth. Gathered about his feet are actors in his show. They stare up, fearful yet adoring, like his little children.)

DAN
mmmyespuffpuffcrunchcrunchcruchmmm so it seems that David O. Selznick was chatting up a young Miss Elizabeth Minnelli during the intermission of his “Toot the Yankee!,” when Dorothy Parker was heard to remark, “If all the girls at Vassar were laid end to end, comedy’s hard!” mmmmyesmmmpuffcrunchpuffpuff of course the young Miss Minnelli turned to her companion and inquired gaily, “Was that John Barrymore?” to which that old fox Selznick rejoined, “Your paycheck, my dear!” crunchcrunchmmmpuffpuff something like that anyway puffcrunchcrunchcrunch -

(A nut enters his bloodstream, travels to his brain, and has little noticeable effect.)

posted by Dan 11:50 AM
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Tuesday, February 03, 2004

 

Here Comes The Heat

Today I fulfilled a dream.

Every American man has this dream. Maybe he first has it while playing with his red Tonka ladder-and-hose truck. Or maybe he first has it when his father hoists him on his broad shoulders, to wave at the men in their helmets and uniforms riding by in the parade. For me, this dream began about a month ago, and today I passed my final test, and became a New York City Fire Guard.

I’m glad that city regulations required me to become a fire guard in order to produce an evening of plays. Called to duty, I found that it grew me as a man. Oh, it’s not glamorous work, don’t let the TV fool you. Yet I feel a little taller walking down the street. A little less lonely, too, knowing that I walk side-by-side with the Bravest. People throw around the word “hero” a little too easily these days, so let me do it: I’m a hero.

New York City Fire Guards (or “nice-figs,” as we call ourselves ‘round the station house) are a special breed. Not just anybody can become one. First of all, you need twenty-five dollars, or they don’t even let you in the testing room. Second, you need a letter from your employer, stating that you are a responsible person in good physical health, which I am, and gorgeous too. Third, you need to read a manual that explains the complexities of safety and prevention. For instance, did you know that blocking a building’s hallways with garbage is a fire hazard? It’s through rigorous study that I was able to master this and two other concepts, including:

• When evacuating people from a building, do not shriek instructions in a high-pitched voice, in between sobs of panic. This will not inspire confidence.
  
• Counterintuitive as it sounds, your primary duty as a fire guard is to guard against fires.
  

Now I’m a part of that brigade standing between civilization and the wrath of Prometheus’s gift, the Fire Guards. And no one, not even the little red label on my ID card that says “NOT AN EMPLOYEE OF THE NYFD” can take that away from me.

P.S.: You know the story that it has an effect on women? Well, let’s just say that if I flash my ID card to the wife any more, there’s gonna be a few more little Fire Guards ‘round the station house (or as she calls it, “our apartment”).

P.P.S.: Janet Jackson & Justin Timberlake! Just thought I should put that in.

posted by Dan 5:49 PM
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