"'Lateline' By-Product - Experiencing The Other Side"

Shuttling between L.A. and New York for my job on Lateline provided me with an unexpected insight into television executives, one I would, otherwise, have never experienced. For one moment in time, and, possibly, for the first time ever, I saw television executives as people.

I freely admit that I don’t understand television executives, both network and studio. What I mean, specifically, is I have no understanding as to what it was that propelled them into show business.

My reason for not understanding why television executives go into show business is that their skills – and they do have skills, I readily admit that – have, as far as I can tell, nothing to do with entertaining the public.

I have creative abilities; show business nurtures creative abilities; I go into show business. That makes sense. That I can understand.

Television executives have different abilities – they’re charming, they’re socially at ease, they dress beautifully, they are administratively skillful – these are commendable attributes. I don’t happen to have any of them, but others do, and good luck to them.

I just have no idea what they’re doing in show business.

I have a theory about the adversarial relationship between “creatives” and executives. Executives are envious of “creatives”, because they want to do what “creatives” do – have fun being creative – but they can’t, because they’re not creative.

“Creatives”, on the other hand, or a vast number of them, can’t do what executives do. But they’re not envious, because they don’t want to do what executives do. Who would? It seems like a terrible job.

The problem is, the executives are in charge. And part of their job is to pass judgment on the work of “creatives.” “Creatives” hate that. Why? Because, one, who wants to have other people pass judgment on your work? And two, look who it’s coming from?

People who aren’t creative.

Moving on.

I’m in Los Angeles, sitting in a tiny room at Paramount Studios, watching a closed circuit television monitor. I am in the company of two Paramount executives, the President of Paramount Television, and the executive assigned to the show.

What we see on the television monitor is the cast of Lateline, plus the production staff, gathered around a table at Astoria Studios in Queens, New York. The script for this week’s episode is about to be read. There’s a closed circuit camera in the room, so that the “table reading” in New York can be watched by the executives in Los Angeles. I’ve been invited o the viewing, because, though I’m currently in Los Angeles, I am the Consulting Executive Producer on the show.

So there we are. Me and two studio executives in a tiny room in Los Angeles, watching a Lateline “table reading”, taking place in New York.

The reading goes how it goes. There are good parts, and parts that need fixing. The reading ends; the room in New York empties. Lateline’s Executive Producers, Al Franken and John Markus, repair to the Writers’ Room. There they will receive a call from the Paramount executives in Los Angeles, during which the executives will delineate the “concerns” they wish to have addressed during the upcoming rewrite session.

The Paramount executives put Al and John on “speaker phone”, so everyone on our side can hear them. We, in turn, are on their “speaker phone” in New York. The Paramount executives begin with the obligatory, “Nice work, guys”, then start in with their litany of “concerns.”

From the moment the Paramount executives start talking, Al and John shoot down every comment, observation and suggestion they make. Their most frequent responses are, “No-o-o!!!, “That’s crazy!” and “What are you talking about!”

I know how Al and John are feeling. The main thing they’re feeling is exhausted. Throw in beleaguered and horribly overworked. And now, as a result of this phone call, you can also add creatively second-guessed and personally attacked.

Al and John’s battered feelings trigger impatience, belligerence, irritation and rudeness, as they continually interrupt, and talk very loud. I’ve been there. I’ve behaved the same way myself, and worse. Often. And I felt justified in doing so. Now, alone with the executives, I would see what the experience felt like from the other side.

The executives looked stricken and bewildered. It’s like they’d been hit by a truck. A truck driven by a member of their family. You could see the hurt in their faces. They didn’t understand it. They were trying to help, and people were yelling at them.

It was an uncomfortable sight to behold.

So, there. Now, nobody can say I’m never sympathetic towards executives. They can say I’m rarely sympathetic towards executives, but they can’t say “never.”

Because I just was.
---------------------------------
In response to the question concerning “The Traveling Six-Gun, yes, it was the same gun Dennis announced he was transporting in his “Carry on”, along with the exquisitely hand-tooled leather holster. But he had to check it.

Feel free to ask any questions you want. Sometimes, I not as clear as I think I am. Or as comprehensive. If you want me to elaborate on anything, just ask. I’m prickly, but I’m accommodating.

"Earl Fantasy Number One"

It’s my birthday today.

I’m 65.

Once again, this is the oldest I’ve ever been.

But it’s getting scarier. My grandfather was sixty-five. That’s old.

Unless I live to a hundred and thirty, I have gone way past the half way point. Way, way past.

I’ve noticed the changes. And I’m not just talking about the galoot I see in the mirror. My playful banter with the ladies behind the checkout counters has officially consigned me to the “Aww” version of the “adorable” category. Not that I had any intention of following through. But there’s a saddening certainty that, without coming into of billions of dollars, sixty-five sets me permanently on the bench.

When you reach the age where the government pays for your medicine, you realize there are certain things you will never get to do. For me, these are not realistic things I would do if I only had the time or the money or the guts. These were just harbored fantasies. They were never going to happen. But when you’re younger, you have an easier time fooling yourself that they might.

Before abandoning these unlikely but, until recently, imaginable possibilities, I have decided to file them for posterity on this blog. I don’t know how many of these fantasies there are; I keep some secret even from myself. But I’m kicking off the series with this one:

Earl Pomerantz – Performing at the Cowboy Hall of Fame

I come onstage, dressed as “cowboy” as my spouse will allow me to appear in public, and in a voice, more energetic than melodic, I open my mouth, and I start to sing:

He cleaned up the country

The Old Wild West country

He made law and order prevail

And none can deny it

The legend of Wyatt

Forever will live on the trail.

Wyatt Earp, Wyatt Earp

Brave, courageous, and bold

Long live his fame, and long live his glory

And long may his story be told…


Back when the West was very young

There lived a man named Masterson

He wore a cane and derby hat

They called him Bat

Bat Masterson…


Who was the tall, dark stranger there

Maverick is the name

Ridin’ the trail to who knows where

Luck is his companion

Gamblin’ is his game…


Whistle me up a memory

Whistle me back to where I want to be

Whistle a tune that will carry me

To Tombstone Territory…


“Have Gun – Will Travel”, reads the card of a man

A knight without armor in a savage land

His fast gun for hire meets the calling wind

A soldier of fortune is the man called

Paladin…


They sing of Yancey Derringer on every danger trail

On river boat, in manor house

And now and then in jail

They say that Yancey Derringer

Had ruffles at his wrists

Brocade and silver buckles

And iron in his fists…


Ringo, Johnny Ringo

His fears were never shown

The fastest gun in all the West

The quickest ever known…


Johnny Yuma was a rebel

He roamed through the West

Did Johnny Yuma, the rebel

He wandered alone

He got fightin’ mad, this rebel lad

He packed no star as he wandered far

Where the only law was a hook and a…


Lawman

The Lawman came with the sun

There was a job to be done

And so they sent for the badge and the gun

Of the Lawman…


Cheyenne, Cheyenne, where will you be camping tonight…


Sugarfoot, Sugarfoot

Easy lopin’ cattle ropin’

Sugarfoot…


Bronco, Bronco, tearin’ across the Texas plains

Bronco, Bronco – Bronco Lane…


He roamed the wilderness, unafraid

From Natchez to Rio Grande

With all the might of his gleaming blade

He fought for the rights of Man.

Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie

He was a bold, adventurin’ man

Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie

Battled for right with a powerful hand

His blade was tempered and so was he

Indestructible steel was he

Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie, Jim Bowie

A fightin’ and fearless and mighty adventurin’ man…


Keep

Movin’, movin’, movin’

Though they’re disapprovin’

Keep them doggies movin’

Rawhide

Don’t try to understand ‘em

Just rope and throw and brand ‘em

Soon we’ll be livin’ high and wide

My heart’s calculatin’

My true love will be waitin’

Be waitin’ at the end of my ride.

Get ‘em up, move ‘em on

Move ‘em on, get ‘em up

Get ‘em up, move ‘em on

Rawhide

Ride ‘em in, cut ‘em out

Cut ‘em out, ride ‘em in

Ride ‘em in, cut ‘em out

Rawhi-i-i-i-i-i-ide

Hyah!

And the crowd goes wild.


Coming Soon: Earl Pomerantz Entertains at the White House”

"Story of a Writer - Part Twenty-Nine C"

Lateline was not a successful television series. We filmed nineteen episodes, but less than half of those were aired on NBC. The remaining episodes were ultimately broadcast on the cable network, Showtime. Both Paramount and Showtime are owned by the same company, Viacom, so it was arranged to, as they say, “burn off” the remaining episodes there, extending them from their network broadcast length of about twenty-two minutes to a cable-mandated thirty minutes by having Al conduct comic interviews with actual politicians before each episode was shown.

One of the pleasures of working on Lateline was my getting to meet prominent politicians. This is a big deal for me. I know those guys. They run the country.

Once, when Dr. M and I visited Washington, we had the opportunity to have lunch in the Senate Dining Room. I looked around, and there was Teddy Kennedy (wearing a dark suit a house slippers), John McCain and Kay Bailey Hutchison. These guys were superstars. To me, it was like eating in the old MGM commissary, and spotting Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy and Jimmy Durante.

Lateline specialized in delivering political heavyweights as guests. The list included Senator (and future presidential candidate) John Kerry, Representative Barney Frank, Democratic House leader, Richard Gephardt and Clinton Secretary of Labor, Robert Reich. Sadly, none of their appearances helped boost the show’s ratings.

My biggest thrill by far was accompanying Lateline’s creators, Al Franken and John Markus, on a visit to the White House, which included a half-hour meeting with Vice President, Al Gore. One reason for our visit was to try and persuade Gore to appear on Lateline. We argued that it would show off Gore’s lighter side, which could help with the electorate, should he decide to run for president. Who knows how history might have changed had the Vice President agreed to our proposal?

One of Vice President Gore’s pet projects involved shortening and simplifying the language in regulations, making them more understandable to the regular person. While in the White House, Al Franken made a comedic plea before Gore and a substantial press gathering, opposing editing the regulations, as the process would destroy the efforts of Franken’s (mythical) uncle, Abe Franken, who had written the regulations in the first place. Heading to the White House, Franken asked us to brainstorm on some ideas for his speech. I remember contributing the line,

“Not all our regulations are too long. The Second Amendment could have used more words.”

Al delivered the line impeccably. It got a huge laugh.

I just thought I’d throw that in.

As far as the show itself is concerned, I liked Lateline, primarily for its efforts to do a comedy about something that mattered, rather than about dating problems. Not that dating problems don’t matter, I just don’t care about them. I also thought Lateline was funny, primarily due to Al’s wide-ranging comic sensibility. I will return to that shortly.

From a conceptual standpoint, Lateline had fundamental identity problems, stemming from the fact that it was a political satirist’s version of a sitcom. I don’t want to be pedantic here, or more specifically, boringly pedantic, or dogmatic, or more specifically, boringly dogmatic, but a television series’ success hangs almost exclusively, not on its agenda, but on whether or not the audience cares about the characters in the show.

A funny series can fail, unless the show’s characters are appealingly drawn (they don’t have to be likable – See: Seinfeld), and the characters are played by actors the audience warms to.

There’ve been a small number of sitcoms set in a newsroom. The Mary Tyler Moore Show was one of them. I’ve watched the Mary pilot a number of times, looking to see if “Mary Richards” applied for the job at WJM, because she was interested in the news business.

From what I could tell, that wasn’t the reason. She just answered an ad in the newspaper. Her interview for the job with Lou Grant had nothing to do with the news – it was more a Mary-Lou tangle concerning Mary’s typing skills, her age and her religion.

My point is, the news element on The Mary Tyler Moore Show merely served as background. What Mary was really about was the plight of a single woman of thirty living in Minneapolis. We remember the characters – “Mary”, “Lou”, “Ted”, “Murray”, “Rhoda”, “Phyllis”, “Sue Ann” – that’s what made us watch. Why? Because we truly cared about those guys. Also, the Mary show was consistently funny.

Murphy Brown centered on a 60 Minutes-type show. I don’t remember Murphy Brown that well, but what stays with me is "Murphy Brown’s" prickly persona, how she kept firing her assistants (there was a different one every week), and that there was a painter redecorating her house who never finished the job. Again, it’s the characters that stay with me.

In its favor, Lateline did stories never before seen in the history of television. In one episode, Lateline presented a show-long tribute to the wonderful comedian, Buddy Hackett, who, it was reported, had recently passed away. The only problem, as it turned out, was that he hadn’t. You don’t see episodes like that on Cougar Town.

Another episode, involving the ne’er-do-well son of an African dictator, who happened to be a college classmate of Lateline’s intern, Raji, ended with the son’s returning to his homeland, where he was subsequently torn to pieces by the country’s rebels. This episode clearly had dark undertones, but because of Franken’s ability to extend the boundaries defining “what’s funny” – a product of Al’s broad comic sensibility and his experience on Saturday Night Live – the episode was hilarious. For me, that’s what made Lateline stand out. The show took risks unimagined by its tamer contemporaries.

My favorite episode of Lateline was based on a story I suggested. The episode was filmed, single-camera – documentary style – and this was before The Office. Al’s character, “Al Freundlich”, is asked to play a small role, as a newsman in a hundred million dollar movie. The documentary (chronicling “The Making of a Blockbuster”) brings to light how Al, with the purest of intentions, continually points out factual inaccuracies in the script, the corrections of which result in such costly delays and extensive re-shooting that the production is inevitably brought to its knees and is finally forced to close down.

Aside from the idea, which tickled me, and is entirely consistent with “Freundlich’s” character, I marveled at the lavishness of the episode’s production (insisted upon by Al), which included highly paid guest stars, such as Rob Reiner, Vanessa Williams and Martin Sheen, who was cast here as the President, before playing the same role on The West Wing. Who knows? It may have gotten him the part.

I’m proud of the work we did on Lateline. The experience was amazing, the working conditions – especially the living-in-a-hotel part - See: Yesterday's Post – surpassed anything in my career. Plus, I learned a ton about writing comedy from Al Franken.

A favorite comic strategy of Al’s is repetition. Al’s crazy about repetition. Saying the same thing again and again – in other words, repetition – Al just loves it. Al finds it hilarious to say the same thing again and again. Repetition? He can’t get enough of it. Not Al. Not Al Franken. Not our Alsy Boy. Not Senator Al.

It works pretty good, doesn’t it?

And Al would do it more.

"Story of a Writer - Part Twenty-Nine B"

We filmed six episodes of Lateline in Los Angeles. I believe I worked full time on those. We then filmed thirteen additional episodes in New York. On those, I served as a consultant, reading drafts of scripts e-mailed to me in Los Angeles, and making suggestions for ways of making them better. It turned out, however, that Lateline’s creators, Al Franken and John Markus wanted a greater participation from me. They therefore proposed an additional element to my job.

What they offered me was a schedule, wherein I would fly to New York during Lateline's hiatus weeks – every third week of production – and work full time, helping revise already written scripts, as well as co-writing original scripts with Al and John.

There would be six trips in all, ranging from nine to sixteen days in length. I’d be flown to New York First Class – with limo service to and from the airport – be put up at the Trump International Hotel, directly across from Central Park, and all my expenses would be covered.

I said I would do it.

You know what? I’ll talk about the work tomorrow. Today, it’s the perks.

Flying First Class. Ample legroom. Ice cream sundaes. And a cookie when you land. You also get to see famous people enjoying the same treatment as you are. (Which, inverted, to highlight the significance, means you’re enjoying same treatment as famous people.) I once saw Minnie Driver giving Matthew Modine a soothing foot massage. I had the faint hope that Minnie would be moving about the cabin, dispensing soothing foot massages to all of us. But no. It was just Matthew Modine.

The Trump International is, or at least was a decade or so ago, a hotel where famous people were put up, primarily so they could avoid the crowds. The building itself was unimposing. (Though “The Donald” might disagree.) No oversized lobby, it was not particularly showy on the outside (as compared, say, to the Waldorf Astoria). The Trump looks like a building of condos – half the building actually is condos. It’s also where they put people up who’ve been brought to New York for extended work stays, and the “they”, whoever “they” are, are paying.

Denzel Washington was there when I was there. Mike Tyson. And the hot teenie-bopper group of the day, Hanson. Although the venue was meant to insure privacy, the word had clearly gotten out, resulting in rotating teams of thirteen year-old girls, huddled across the street, on “Twenty-four hour Alert”, ready to report to the faithful, and scream rapturously, at the first glimpse of a “Hanson Sighting.” I’d emerge from the front door to looks of extreme pubescent disappointment.

The Trump International is a suites hotel. Every unit includes a living room, bedroom and a kitchen. There was no room service, although you could order up from the five-star restaurant on the ground floor. I avoided doing that, because it was ludicrously expensive, and not covered by my deal. Once I splurged and ordered a lemon tart. I believe it was twenty-two dollars.

I like hotel rooms with their own kitchens. Having a kitchen means you don’t have to go out for every meal. And when you order in, there’s a fridge available for storing the leftovers. In my situation, there was yet another bonus.

I was there over Thanksgiving, and Dr. M and Anna flew in for the long weekend. Taking advantage of the kitchen, after purchasing the appropriate cookware, Anna, then in her teens, proceeded to produce a perfect pumpkin pie and a chocolate-pecan pie, which she presented to the Frankens, our hosts for that year’s Thanksgiving dinner.

Sometimes, I’d run into famous people at the Trump. One evening, heading out to dinner, I found myself sharing an elevator with Denzel Washington, dressed in sweats, and heading for the hotel’s basement gym to work out. (Denzel needed to be in shape, as he was shooting Hurricane at the time, playing a character who had once been a top middleweight boxer.) I offered that it took a lot of discipline to go exercise at that time of the day. Denzel agreed.

“I’d rather be going out for a steak and a glass of wine,” he lamented.

We reached the Ground Floor. As I stepped out of the elevator, I turned back to Denzel and I said,

“I think I’ll have that.”

And I left him to his exercising.

The Trump International was extremely security conscious. When I had Chinese food brought in, the “Front Desk” always called upstairs to see if I’d ordered Chinese food, fearing, perhaps, or at least making sure, that the man carrying steaming bags of Chinese-smelling ingredients had not actually come there to kill me, or to snap my picture for the tabloids. I always appreciated their concern.

Was the arrangement perfect? Almost. One problem, however, did arise.

During a couple of my extended stays, I had availed myself of the hotel’s laundry service. This, it turned out, set off huge alarm bells at the studio.

Upon returning to L.A., I was ordered to present myself immediately to the office of the Paramount’s President of Television. When I got there, I was confronted by an agitated President of Television holding a serious-looking memo.

Apparently, my laundry expenses had been the hot topic of the studio’s most recent “budget meeting.” My hotel laundry bill – I actually knew this already, but I wasn’t paying, so “So what?” – was obscenely high. Setting aside the important issue of filmmaking, it was decided that, from now on, I’d be required to take my laundry to the local Dry Cleaners.

Which, on my following visit, I did.

The next day, I picked up my laundry from a Dry Cleaners’ a couple of blocks from the hotel. Tearing open the wrapping, upon returning to my room, I discovered that all my underwear had been shrunk to a size suitable only for very small Vietnamese children. I had to throw everything away.

The hotel’s laundry prices may have been exorbitant, but when you factor in the bill for replacement underwear, and it was pretty much – you should pardon the expression – a wash. I did not, however, charge the studio. Who needs to be the topic of another budget meeting?

The Lateline job conditions were a dream come true. I had always wanted to live in a hotel, ever since I saw “Paladin” do it on Have Gun – Will Travel. When I checked out for the last time, I gave everyone who’d been helpful to me during my multiple visits an appreciative tip. The Trump International had made an indelible impression on me.

A half a dozen years later, when I was visiting New York for Anna’s graduation from college, I asked if we could stroll by the Trump for old-time’s sake, and Anna agreed. As we passed the hotel, the doorman, who resembled the actor David Schwimmer, called out,

“Hello, Mr. Pomerantz. You haven’t been around for a while.”

Though hardly its most celebrated visitor, I had apparently made an impression on the Trump International as well.

"Story of a Writer - Part Twenty-Nine

It’s important for a writer to remain productive. It’s especially important for a writer being paid weekly under a studio “overall deal.” If a writer’s not productive while being paid weekly under a studio “overall deal”, the studio “overall deal” goes away, and the writer is sent home, languishing grumpily until somebody invents blogs.

Okay.

One afternoon, while napping in my long, narrow office (I never liked that office) in the Clara Bow Building on the Paramount Studios lot, I am informed that there’s a call for me from (now Senator) Al Franken. I get up and head to the phone, hoping not to sound like someone who was just recently asleep.

I had met Al Franken once, about a quarter of a century earlier. He was working on the writing staff of Saturday Night Live – our meeting took place during the show’s first season – and I was visiting, at least partly, to see what I’d passed up. (I’d been invited to write on the show, but had turned the offer down.)

I had brought Lorne Michaels a crate of oranges from L.A.’s Farmers Market as a present. (A Californian bringing his New York-based buddy some oranges in the winter. What I guy!) Looking for a place to put the crate down, I ran into Al in the SNL offices, and he gave me a hand.

I introduced myself. Hearing my name, Al’s immediate response was:

“Oh. You’re the guy who wouldn’t work for us.”

My decision seemed stupid at the time. The show was on magazine covers. It was a national phenomenon. Reminding me that I’d turned down working on a national phenomenon struck me as Al’s saying,

“Oh. You’re the guy who’s really stupid.”

Al’s comment had remained with me for twenty-five years. And now, here he was again. I was apprehensive about picking up the phone.

It turns out, what Al was calling about was a series idea he’d come up with that he’d recently sold to Paramount. He was wondering if I wanted to develop it with him. (I imagine a Paramount executive had suggested he call me, due to my sitcom experience, and also due to the fact that I was not currently productive.)

Al explained that the series he had in mind was a multi-camera, half-hour comedy concerning a fictional news-interview show, modeled after ABC’s Nightline.

Al’s show would be about putting a nightly news-interview program on the air. The series “regulars” would include a hierarchy of producers, a team of news gatherers, and a host.

Al’s enthusiasm rose noticeably as he described his intention of including actual politicians as guests. It peaked when he explained that the show would stay current by injecting material at the last minute, commenting on the top new stories of the week.

Regular readers know that I am not a person who sees the glass as being half full. For me, the glass is always chipped, cracked and mildewed, and whatever liquid fills half of it is seen as terminally murky and crawling with germs.

I told Al I wasn’t interested.

Why? I just said why. I invariably vote "Nay." But if you want actual reasons…

The biggest upside of Al’s project was Al. He knew politics, and could be counted on to deliver a show that was smart, pointed and extremely funny.

I knew Al could come through with the political guests, because he knew these people – especially the Democrats – personally, having written jokes for many of their campaign speeches.

(As I later learned, Al is fearless about calling people, and he always thinks big. Al originally wanted Jerry Seinfeld to do the warm-up for the pilot episode of this series. He ended up with me. He also invited Neil Simon to write an episode for the show. He ended up with me.)

The biggest downside of Al’s project was Al. First, although unquestionably a funny writer, Al had no experience writing half-hour comedies, where, in the final analysis, creating strong, identifiable characters is more important than the funniest jokes.

Writing broadly drawn sketches, based on some clever comedic concept, with one-dimensional characters and, often, inconsequential endings, is hardly the ideal training ground for writing what are essentially televised one-act plays. (He harumphed, in a condescending tone.)

Also, having worked almost exclusively on a show that did inject jokes at the last minute, commenting on the top news stories of the day (in their Weekend Update segment), Al ignored the fact that the “lead time” between a sitcom’s production and its airing on television – at that time between two and three weeks – would prevent his most cherished element of the concept from ever happening.

One final problem that precluded our working together was that Al lived in New York and I lived in Los Angeles. Why is that a drawback in the era of modern technology? It isn’t, really. It just gave me another reason not to do it.

I wished Al “Good luck”, and went back to my nap.

A few months later, I get a call from John Markus, a writer I had hired for The Cosby Show, who had remained in New York – where The Cosby Show was produced – after his participation on that show had ended.

John explained that Al Franken had contacted him about the project I had said “No” to, and John, a man of considerably more optimism, had said, “Yes.” They had written first draft versions of four scripts for a show, now called Lateline, and John wondered if I’d be interested in reading them.

I said I’d be very much interested in reading them. (Partly out of interest, and partly, once again, to check out what I'd passed up.)

I received the scripts, and I read them. They were fresh and exciting. They also made me laugh. I called John and complimented him and Al on their work. John asked if there was any way I could see myself participating in the show. I said I would consider being a consultant of some sort. And John, with Al’s approval, said “Great!”

That’s how I became a consultant on a news-themed situation comedy called Lateline.

More on that later.

"At Least Show Us Some Respect"

Though I never like being fooled, there’s a certain variation of “being fooled” that makes “just being fooled” feel barely worth making a fuss about. I’m referring to the situation where the people trying to fool me do so in an insultingly transparent manner. Not only are they trying to fool me, they’re insulting me by putting shockingly little effort into pretending they’re not.

Two examples. One trivial, one important. I’ll let you decide which is which.

My cable television package includes a Westerns Channel. The channel broadcasts old western movies and TV series. You will not be surprised to hear that I watch the Westerns Channel a lot.

I confess I don’t restrict myself to watching the better westerns and TV shows. I watch them all. I can’t help it. I have always found myself soothed by the sight of horses appearing on the screen.

So I’m watching this B-level 1950’s western called Sitting Bull. In a scene setting up the climactic battle, an Indian lookout spots the U.S. Cavalry on the move. He immediately mounts his pony, to race off and warn his people that the “Blue Coats” are headed their way.

The lookout’s pony has a brightly colored blanket spread across its back. Indians traditionally ride bareback. No saddles.

However, when the Indian “lookout” mounts his pony, he puts his foot

Into a stirrup.

I have never seen a blanket with a stirrup. I’ve seen saddles with stirrups. In fact, that’s generally where you expect stirrups to be.

Well, I’m no dummy. What I’ve just witnessed immediately tips me off.

“I’ll bet there’s a saddle under that brightly colored blanket.”

It’s the logical thing to believe. A saddle under the blanket; hence, the stirrup.

But what about the illusion? Indians are supposed to ride bareback; hence, the blanket.

Reality Check.

What we’re obviously looking at here is an Indian, or rather an “Indian” – meaning a non-Indian actor playing an Indian – who, unable to ride bareback, is receiving a little “help”, in the form of a saddle hidden beneath the blanket. (I don’t mean to stereotype here. I imagine there are a few actual Indians who can’t ride bareback either. But this is unlikely the case here. In movies produced in the 50’s, one of the rarest elements in an “Indian picture” – even an Indian picture called Sitting Bull – was an actual Indian.)

Okay, we’re not children here, although some of us occasionally need to be accompanied to the doctor’s. I’m aware that actors playing Indians in 50’s westerns often required assistance when pretending to ride bareback. So fine. Slip a saddle under the blanket. No problem. There’s a big lump the middle of the blanket? I’m okay with that. I’m buying the illusion.

Until…

You show the guy putting his foot into a stirrup!

At that point, I’m out. The illusion has been irreparably shattered.

Could they not pretend “The guy’s riding bareback” a little better than that? Would it have been so hard to have the “Indian” vault onto his pony, as if he were riding bareback?

Or if the “Indian” actor lacked the ability to vault, could they not have had him begin to get on the pony, cut to a long shot, so that a stunt man could be inserted to vault onto his horse for him, then cut back to show “Indian” actor riding off to warn his people?

Some illusion-preserving effort. Is that asking too much?

I find a guy who’s supposed to be riding bareback putting his foot into a stirrup to be highly insulting. It’s like they’re telling the audience:

“We’re not even going to pretend to fool you. We don’t have to.”

It’s not just me, right? That’s really insulting.

The second example?

It happened the same day I was watching that western.

The Supreme Court announced its decision, allowing corporations to spend as much money backing political candidates as they want to.

With this five-to-four decision, and others like it – such as the Bush v. Gore decision which originally gave George W. Bush the presidency – the Supreme Court, voting entirely along party lines, exposed itself as, not a thoughtfully deliberative judicial body impartially weighing the evidence before them, but as partisan politicians in black robes.

The legal justification behind the majority’s decision – that in the area of campaign financing, a corporation should be accorded the same rights as a person – besides ignoring a century of normally binding precedent, sends its opponents an unequivocal, in-your-face message.

“We’re not even going to pretend our rationale has legal standing. We don’t have to.”

Judging by their tepid reactions, it appears that Americans don’t mind being insulted.

Or maybe they’re just used to it.

"Changing Fashions"

I didn’t have a blog when I first noticed this. So I’m writing about it now. What “it” is, I’ll return to shortly.

Things change. “Fashion” is constantly on the move. Wide ties, narrow ties; short shirts, shorter skirts. This is nothing new. “Changing fashion” has been with us forever. (Men’s hats with buckles, men’s hats without buckles.)

Sometimes, the changes in fashion are behavioral. For example, for the majority of my lifetime, you held a closed fist up to your ear, and it meant, “I’ll call you.” The simulation mimicked using a landline telephone, where you hold the receiver to your ear.

Everyone understood what it meant – closed fist to the ear – “I’ll call you.” Not to say that the “miming technique” began with the telephone. I imagine, before phones, people rapidly jiggled their “pointer” finger, and it meant, “I’ll telegraph you.” And before that, people mimed using a feather, indicating, “I’ll write you.” And before that, it was the patented hammer and the chisel gesture - "I'll send you a tablet."

Of course, I don’t know for certain it was like that. I wasn’t there.

With the advent of cell phones, the “I’ll call you” signal inevitably changed. “I’ll call you” was now, hand to the ear, with the three middle fingers curled under, the “pinkie” finger pointing downward, and the thumb pointing up.

Since I rarely leave the house, I have little use for cell phones. As a result, I find myself still using the old “I’ll call you” signal. The problem is, when I use that signal, especially with younger people, they don’t know what I’m doing. To them, I’m a guy holding my fist to my ear.

Probably quite soon, with cell phones quickly being bumped into obsolescence by I-Phones, the “I’ll call you” signal will change again, the “thumb up-“pinkie” down gesture supplanted by an empty hand held to the ear in a claw-like configuration, approximating a five-tentacled octopus attacking the side of your face.

When this changeover takes place, I will officially be two “I’ll call you’s” behind.

I have a hard time pinpointing the precise moment that fashion changes occur. They seem to show up out of the blue, like the new Yellow Pages. Maybe some cultural icon gets the ball rolling, and it eventually filters down to the rest of us. I mean, it’s not like there’s an announcement in the paper, or some massive e-mailing:

“We’re doing ‘I’ll call you’ like this now. Pass it on.”

Of course, I get the reason for this fashion change. Change of technology, change of “I’ll call you.” There’s an understandable rationale behind it.

On the other hand, here’s a change that, at least to me, has no rationale whatsoever. (This is the thing I’d have written about if I’d had a blog when I first noticed it.)

Growing up, I watched a ton of cowboy movies and TV shows. I watched war movies. I watched gangster pictures and detective series. As a regular viewer of mayhem (though never the most violent versions), I witnessed hundreds, possibly thousands, of people firing guns. They always did it the same way. They pointed the gun at whomever they were trying to kill, and they pulled the trigger. This seemed to work pretty well.

For decades, centuries, if you’re talking about real life, people seemed entirely happy with this technique. You point the gun; you pull the trigger.

Then, one day, it all changed.

At some un-pindownable moment in time, shooters continued to pull the trigger. But before they did so, they turned their guns

Sideways.

It doesn’t make sense. As a result of my years playing with toy cowboy guns, combined with all my movie and TV watching, I am aware that at the end of most – maybe all – gun barrels, there’s this thing sticking up from the top of it called a “sight.” You use it for aiming. It helps you hit things.

If you flip your gun sideways, the “sight” goes sideways too. At which point, it becomes entirely useless.

Now, if shooting your gun from a sideways position makes aiming more difficult – and I have to believe it does – what exactly is the advantage of shooting your gun sideways?

I can’t believe this innovation originated in movies and television. I imagine that, just before the Big Shootout was about to be filmed, some “consultant”, hired to add authenticity to the proceedings, took the director aside and said,

“On ‘The Street’, they turn the guns sideways.”

And the director went, “Cool.”

After which he instructed his actors – at least the ones playing the criminals – to shoot their guns sideways.

This explanation, however, simply moves the question back a step. Why did they decide to shoot their guns sideways on “The Street”?

It’s possible the change resulted from the fact that, during some real-life gun battle, someone shooting sideways had a really good day. Maybe, in the heat of battle, some participant momentarily went crazy, they swiveled their gun-holding wrist ninety degrees to the left, and, more through luck than this altered position, they mowed down a substantial number of people.

The story inevitably got around, and “sideways” rapidly became the shooting method of choice. The fact that it rarely worked was irrelevant. When “fashion” takes hold, the negative consequences become secondary. (Think about six-inch heels.) You do it because it’s “the latest thing.”

And yet, at some point, you’d think there’d be a “Reality Check.” During the aftermath of their most recent gunfight, when they’re taking stock of how things went, you’d think somebody might observe, “We hardly killed anybody. Why are we shooting sideways?”

I’m really interested in how this gunfighting technique attained its cachet, and why, despite its ineffectiveness, it remains popular. You know I’m always grateful to hear from any of you. But today, I’m appealing specifically to my gangsta readers. Clue me in, gangsta readers,

Whassup with the “sideways?”