The Writer's Life 3/6 - Censorship

Here's the second of four essays I found recently on old floppy discs. It's 2000 words. about a ten-minute read. It's about ten years old, its title Brutality and Vulgarity in Entertainment.

    Everyone agrees that free speech is a blessing. It has its drawbacks, of course, as does everything in life. Pornographers use it as defense, as do those who vilify soldiers in harm's way. My concern here is the brutality and vulgarity that pervades today's arts, a brutality and vulgarity that is sometimes compelling in drama, hilarious in comedy. These few occasions form a strong argument against censorship, demonstrating why that which appalls and/or offends must be defended.

   In the last decade I've returned to all my unpublished novels and eliminated most of the profanity and explicit sex. My self-published novel, Close to the Edge, has half the four-letter words of the original manuscript. In the 26 short stories I've had published, there may not be more than a handful of cusses. It is my retaliation against the overuse of foul language, especially in film. I strove for nuance, art if you will. In one of the works I substituted what I call "Brooklyn Sicilian" terms for profanity. In another, about people who work at a commodity exchange, I decided that the portrayal would not be honest without the bluest dialogue. Still, I may have been wrong. After all, in the most famous Seinfeld episode, The Contest, only euphemisms were used. In this instance the constraints of prime time network television, which have all but evaporated in its struggle against cable, had the writers reaching for a cleverness that became art. There should be more of this. Unfortunately, modern artists prefer to bludgeon either in an effort to be hip or real or controversial or perhaps only for the sake of commercial appeal to the young. One must learn to grin and bear it. The trend may be curtailed in the future, but it will never go away, nor should it. There are many instances where brutality and vulgarity work well. Unfortunately, our elderly suffer the most. There has been a huge leap from the sanitized language and sex of pre-1960's works to today's freedom of expression. The rest of us have been weaned on permissiveness.

   In Michael Mann's Thief, Robert Prosky, the loveable second Sarge from Hill Street Blues, delivers a riveting monologue rife with profanity and bigotry as he stands over the pummeled James Caan. It is the language of a street scholar, too perfect perhaps, but this is the case with much of the great dialogue in drama. I don't know how many times I've replayed it in my mind. I am in awe of its perverse wisdom and rhythm.

   The Farrelly brothers have made several comedies of a vulgar nature. Only Kingpin made me laugh. I looked forward to their follow-up, There's Something about Mary, which was championed by the press. I was disappointed and sensed critics went overboard in its praise because they’d missed the boat on its predecessor. The late Gene Siskel was one who recognized it, naming it to his top ten for that year. I cannot pinpoint why it had me guffawing and other Farrelly films barely raised a chuckle, but I'm glad the loose standards of the day allowed them to make it. Perhaps they'll create something as good as Kingpin in the future.

   I don't laugh as readily at screen comedy as I do at that of real life. On Seinfeld, only Kramer makes me laugh, but I still find the show fascinating in its depiction of the selfishness and neuroses of moderns. I reacted the same way to Garry Shandling's turn as a fictional talk show host, which featured a ridiculous amount of profanity, and to Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm. These are astute observations of human nature, occasionally exaggerated for comic effect. I don't understand why, but I always look forward to the appearance of the potty-mouthed, shrewish wife of David's manager, who isn't the type of person one would want to meet in real life. I never objected to the content of the Dice Man's act -- I just didn't think it was funny. Many did. Comedy is the most subjective of all entertainment forms. A bit either elicits laughter or doesn't.

   In literature, Henry Miller was at the forefront in the tearing down of barriers to free expression. Although I no longer have the admiration for his work I once did, I believe all modern writers owe him a great debt. He taught us fearlessness in the depiction of sexuality, using a language that was blunt, without bull. I doubt anyone will ever make explicit sex as funny as he did, although in the end it may be merely the best pornography ever written. In queries to agents and publishers, I say of one of my works: "Can a novel be both sexually explicit and meaningful?" I'm not sure I succeeded. It may have been more a product of hormones than intellect, wish fulfillment than a frank look at a modern relationship.

   At the time, Miller’s use of profanity was fresh and daring. Profanity has now become commonplace, gratuitous. I’ll never forget the reaction evoked by Mel Brooks’ send up of the wild west, Blazing Saddles. Many walked out of the theater. The rest of us laughed ourselves silly. The content crossed a line previously crossed only in nightclubs. Today its shock value is diminished by the torrent of vulgarity that has ensued. It is not nearly as funny or exciting. Then again, a punch line is diminished once it is known. I wonder, had Lenny Bruce emerged in this era, if he would be telling clean jokes. That would be pushing the envelope these days. After all these years of permissiveness, I still believe the best sex in cinema is that which is suggested rather than explicit. A perfect example of this is the first dance Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse do during the Broadway Melody segment of Singin’ in the Rain. Without dialogue or nudity, sexuality is transformed into high art. Another example is a wife’s simple, rapid closing of shutters in Chocolat.

   Vulgarity isn’t restricted to language and gratuitous nudity, of course. It is manifested in graphic violence, gore and simple outlandishness. Married with Children had a long run. Its premise, the sitcom family that does everything wrong, promised much more than it ever delivered, too often sinking to the lowest common denominator. There isn’t an episode that is above average, but there are many great moments, especially in the zingers the cast leveled at one another. Two gleeful scenes stand out in my mind. In one Peg is making outrageous claims to an investigator of some sort, who asks how she would account for such a rich fantasy life. She gazes off screen and the camera pans to Al, who is on the couch, T-shirt rolled up, hands gripping his flabby gut, anguished look on his beleaguered mug.  Not only is this funny on a simplistic level, it’s also wonderful commentary on how a spouse’s quirks loom large over time. The second moment finds Al, a shoe salesman, trying to get an undersized shoe on a fat woman. It reminds me of the hilarious, borderline obscene moment in The Dentist, where W.C. Fields is locked between a woman’s thighs as he tries to pull a tooth. How in the world was that allowed in 1932? Fortunately it was. It will always be funny, timeless. Unfortunately, such vulgarity works only occasionally, and it may be argued that these few moments are not worth it in light of an overall coarsening of culture. Married with Children had a running joke about the teenage daughter’s promiscuity. Although it fit the overall theme of the show, I wondered if making light of such behavior was encouraging it. For years I’ve wondered if the zany vulgarity of pro wrestling was a sign of a crumbling society, and if I were contributing to the decay by secretly indulging in the guilty pleasure of it. I liken Vince McMahon to the media mogul in Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, whose cynical view of life has him cater to the lowest wants in man in a perverse sort of capitalism at the opposite end of the spectrum of the lead character, an honorable, uncompromising architect. McMahon once showed up at court in a neck brace, which I couldn’t help but wonder was done not only to sway the jury but as a shot at those who brought him to trial. He may have carried the chicanery of his oddball profession into the halls of government. If so, it was a vulgar stroke of genius. He also introduced a crazed wrestler in a frightening mask, the wacky Mick Foley, as “Mankind.” I wondered if this were more than a joke, if it were his actual view of the human race, perhaps warped by his bizarre use of steroids. Perhaps in taking them he was proving they were safe, setting an example for his charges, many of whom have died young, the latest Eddie Guerrero, “Latino Heat,” at 38. One of Guerrero’s slogans was: “I lie; I cheat; I steal.” Knowing how tightly scripted pro wrestling is these days, I’d guess this was McMahon again injecting his world view -- and the fans loved it, loved Eddie. Rest in peace, vato, you gave it your all.  

   When Sam Peckinpah first used graphic violence, he was doing it in serious films, not all of which were successful artistically. He broke a barrier and Hollywood eventually opted for such bloodletting even in light entertainment. Fortunately, this has been curbed to a large extent. Saving Private Ryan was an exception. The cinematic genius of Steven Spielberg brought viewers as close to the carnage of warfare as they would ever get. In watching it, I felt like a voyeur. Here was a depiction of an actual event – and I was deriving entertainment from the annihilation of young men. Curiously, I reacted similarly to Titanic. I recalled reading a teacher’s account of her disappointment in the fascination of the young with the cold savagery in Schindler’s List. Had these films been released when I was a teenager, I’m sure I would have reacted similarly. According to director Samuel Fuller, a decorated veteran of the Big Red One in World War II, the only way to depict combat accurately would be to have snipers behind the screen and bombs under the seats. People have told me they’ve become lost, forgotten they we watching a film. I’ve never felt that, although films have moved me to tears, brought an ache to my gut or made me laugh hysterically. Michael Mann achieved the extraordinary in his version of Last of the Mohicans. In the climactic showdown he somehow made poetry of brutality, romance of rage. Larry McMurtry’s epic novel, Lonesome Dove, is uncompromising in its portrayal of the violence and hardship that characterized the settling of America. It arouses an appreciation of what pioneers suffered, and shows modern man how fortunate he is to be living in the 21^st century, where life expectancy is nearly double that of the 19^th and early 20^th. All these works were better for not having been sanitized.

   Modern music is in love with profanity, largely in hip hop, which I know almost nothing about. Marianne Faithfull took pop to another level in her rant: Why’d Ya Do It? The song features such foul language I would listen to it only through a headset. Only a boor would subject the general public to such a screed, enthralling though it is. I doubt it would have worked as well had moderate terms been used. It is for adults only, much more so than pornography, which appeals to the adolescent in men. The notorious Green Day, an American punk band, proved its worth in the breezy opening of Longview. The blend of drums and bass is beautiful. This brief moment forgives any youthful excess of which they may be guilty. Although such groups’ works are all but gone from my music collection, there is value in hardcore for those who have the stamina for it.

   Brutality and vulgarity in the hands of certain artists becomes art. Just as in any era, we must sort through the mediocre and the muck to find gems.

   What do you think?

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The Writer's Life 3/5 - Hypocrisy

This is the first of four essays I found on old floppy discs. I wrote it eleven years ago. I believe it's still relevant. It's 1750 words, which means less than a ten-minute read. The title is In Defense of Hypocrisy:

   I once read an op-ed piece on how hypocrites were the worst kind of people. I don’t remember much about the article other than that I did not agree with its premise. The author was so adamant that I questioned whether I knew the true meaning of hypocrisy. Of course, we should try our best to avoid it, but I would argue that circumstances often lead us to it in an effort to create a greater good. It is a foible all too human and universal, and certainly far from the worst of us. Machiavelli spoke of the necessity of it in leaders. I’ll reduce it to everyday people.

   For instance, should a smoker refrain from telling his children not to smoke? As I see it, by definition it would make him a hypocrite, even if he is suffering an addiction that leaves him unable to quit a habit he knows may be lethal. Does only someone who has never smoked carry the moral weight to preach against the evils of demon weed? Has an ex-smoker gained that privilege? Does the fact that he would move to keep others from this form of rebellion, of fun he once enjoyed, make him a hypocrite? I suspect most would agree that a smoker should warn his children of the perils of smoking and that one who didn’t or encouraged the practice was negligent. And what if such reasoning is applied to the more serious issues of drug and alcohol usage? Some drug counselors were once users. AA was created by alcoholics. If they are hypocrites, I say hooray for hypocrisy.

   Many scoff at the sins of priests. Should the fact that they are as vulnerable as the rest of us preclude them from preaching against sin? Applied to the general population, such reasoning would eliminate everyone from rendering counsel. What type of world would that create? Of course, our standard should always be to refrain from sin, impossible as it is. Many often cite Jesus’ words in their own self-defense: “He among you who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.” This was not a rationale for sin, which his ensuing words to Mary Magdalene, so conveniently overlooked by what is negative in our humanity, illustrate: “Go and sin no more.” Jesus insisted to Peter that perfection was possible. He appealed to what was best in his “rock.” Nowadays we seem to shrug and accept sin as inevitable rather than as something to combat. The prevailing message of modern film and music is one of helplessness, hopelessness, of a rationale for sin.

   For the record, I’m agnostic, so, technically, I’m a hypocrite for quoting Jesus. I’m doubly so because I would never tell a child that I doubted the existence of God, as the denial of a higher authority might be troubling to the very young and might give license to aberration to those whose hormones are raging.

   Until the late ‘60’s, popular music, even in songs of heartbreak and rebellion, was almost exclusively about positive messages, chiefly love that lasted a lifetime. Somehow, the intelligent questioning of life by the likes of Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell and Bruce Springsteen has evolved to a rejection of decency by many modern artists. In the words of Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, we are “defining deviancy down.” I suppose a conservative like me is a hypocrite for citing someone with whom I’d otherwise never agreed.

   As an antidote to the ugliness that tops the current charts, I’ve taken to listening to standards. A friend has segued to modern country. Does the personal history of Frank Sinatra make his singing of a song like Bart Howard’s Fly Me to the Moon (“…you are all I long for….” “…please be true….”) hypocritical? If so, we should be grateful. The recording, arranged by Quincy Jones and backed by the Count Basie Orchestra, touches that part of the soul that longs for elevation. The best of Sinatra lives, the worst has passed. I suppose that modern artists who call to our hormones are proponents of the truth, of what is real. What is their aim – a widespread groping similar to this year’s Super Bowl halftime antics? I guess we’re already there to a degree greater than we’re willing to admit. There is abundant proof on the internet and in stories I read and hear concerning behavior in high school and on college campuses. And we shrug. We’ve even come to shrug at abortion. Only 40 years ago it was considered abomination. And many insist that we are puritanical. We are more like the French every day. In ten years what may we expect – “The Triple X Halftime Show,” and in 30 – “The NAMBLA Halftime Show”? We have created an adolescent’s paradise. Saul Bellow, writing of a previous generation, described it best: “…death is God….” – paraphrased: “Only death is real, therefore only the moment matters.” Although there was much to dislike about the halftime show, all focus seemed to be on the bared breast, an immature, desperate act designed to boost record sales, inappropriate for broadcast TV, however beautiful the breast might be. I was reminded of the promotion that preceded the debut of NYPD Blue, wherein a bared butt was deemed a sign of the growing maturity of American television. Had the butt been female, I might have made a hypocrite of myself and watched.   

   I hope these fears are just the silly hand wringing of a conservative or perhaps the envy of someone too repressed to partake in the sexual revolution. What is left for me but to hope that liberals are right? They’ve won in a rout, culturally and fiscally. Perhaps the fact that the likes of Nora Jones and Diana Krall have been able to crack the charts proves these fears are groundless.

   Does a woman traumatized by the termination of a pregnancy have the right to warn others of her travail? In the opinion of columnist Garry Wills, opponents of abortion who do not bomb clinics, myself included, are hypocrites. As far as I know, he has never dubbed as hypocrites those opponents of capital punishment, himself included, who do not storm prisons to free those on death row. The omission is a hypocrisy that condemns what he believes endangers the greater good, that is, execution. Obviously, he believes abortion promotes the greater good.

     And what about parents who have had multiple sexual partners, even those who have been faithful to their wedding vows – are they hypocritical if their counsel is more than condoms and birth control? I’ve yet to hear a single feminist complain that the actions of Mr. Timberlake might encourage hormonally enflamed males to imitate it – or to do worse. Is that hypocrisy or are they adhering to the greater good of sexual freedom? More likely, they are reluctant to attack anything left of center, where they believe the greater good lies. For years they condemned executive males who took sexual advantage of female underlings, then fell silent when their champion did so in the Oval Office.

   Am I a hypocrite when I deny each lewd or violent impulse, each slur that occurs to me? I hope it is the triumph of values and will. I always thought the measure of a man was the channeling of libido into accomplishment. The goal of many now seems strictly sexual. One reason for the invention of marriage was to allow people an outlet for the demands of the libido. This has been a foundation of civilization that has served it extremely well. What do we now call those who honor the vow of marriage: Sucker? Fool? Loser? Hypocrite? Isn’t it preferable to be a hypocrite to libido than to one’s word?        

   I worry that Bin Laden is right about us. I have the utmost confidence in our warrior class, but the rest of us seem to demand comfort at any price. And Republicans are now competing with liberals to be enablers of that comfort. Are they hypocrites or realists who try, futilely, to find the most cost-effective ways of providing programs, thus ensuring the greater good of a vibrant economy, without which we would all be lost? My hunch is that they are praying the genius of the private sector will continue to bail them out. I fear that the point of no return has been passed, that the mediocrity of socialism is inevitable. I suspect that all the money that was poured into the stock market was, other than a desire to get rich quick, a vote of no-confidence on the future of Social Security and Medicare. Hopefully, the economy will continue to run ahead of the government vacuum so that we will never have to see if morality and ethics really matter.

   I used to be a sports fanatic. I rarely watch any more. I can’t stand the behavior of many athletes. Modesty and sportsmanship are lost. It began with Muhammad Ali, who was influenced by Gorgeous George, a professional wrestler. Such behavior is appropriate for wrestling, which is a silly show, not true competition. Its entry into athletics has cheapened it. Recently, the New York Post ran a photograph from the ‘50’s that accompanied an article by Phil Mushnick, the foremost critic of modern sports culture. The picture was of battered hockey opponents looking each other in the eye and shaking hands. I immediately recalled Billy Smith, the goaltender on the New York Islanders four straight Stanley Cup champion teams. He refused to participate in traditional post-series handshakes, claiming it was hypocritical to salute an opponent one despised. He allowed himself to be governed by his baser instincts. Those two battered players rose above them, reached for what is best in man. Hypocrisy won the day.

   Although I’m 53, I still cling to the wild hope that a woman will suffer temporary insanity and have the children of this dinosaur. Although I’ve visited x-rated sites and viewed x-rated films, although I’ve written violent and sexually explicit scenes, although I’ve smoked ten cigarettes and four joints in my life, although I was fresh with women and occasionally behaved abominably on the athletic field, I would counsel my children to never do such things. I would gladly be a hypocrite in order to protect them, to show them the right path. Given modern culture, it will be an uphill fight.

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The Writer's Life 3/4 - Weird But True

I had another vivid dream. I was a member of a wedding that didn’t come off. A woman accused the bride of something regarding marijuana. I wondered if I should begin indulging, end my lifetime resistance to drugs. After all, pot is now practically legal. Then I was traveling on a train through two eastern bloc countries whose names I always misspell on quizzes at Sporcle.com. I looked out the window and saw the other male members of the wedding party waist deep in a body of water similar to Sheepshead Bay, at low tide. Someone questioned why they didn’t submerge up to their necks to get out of the cold, and a man said no one would want to sit on that murky, filthy bottom. Later, I was walking along 86th Street with a son, who was curious about a gushing sound. I pointed to sludge cascading from the elevated train tracks into a puddle that looked like oil, “Black Gold,” “Texas Tea.” If dreams are, as Freud believed, wish fulfillment, this segment taps into my guilt/despair at being childless, and my desire to see the ugly frozen masses now plaguing our streets washed away. As for the first two parts, I'm clueless.

Speaking of marijuana, the NY Post’s Weird But True column had another amusing item. I paraphrase: A DEA agent warned a local government not to legalize, citing a threat to local wildlife. He claims, while clearing an illegal farm, to have seen rabbits hooked, their healthy wariness of humans completely lost. This is an unintended consequence of legalization I hadn’t considered, although it sounds like bunk, something conjured merely to win an argument. Maybe the guy himself indulged.

Yesterday, Movies!, 113 on Cablevision, ran an Elvis marathon. I watched most of G. I. Blues (1960). It was typical of the King’s fare, inoffensive fluff, in this case a showcase for the dancing skills of his screen love interest, Juliet Prowse. I don’t understand why the music streams don’t play the title track, which is really good. I haven’t heard it once on any of those that feature oldies. It's as good as a lot of his hits.

According to an article in the Post, people are spending more time with shrinks this bleak winter. I wonder if the same is true of the citizens of Boston, Buffalo, and Maine. Since it's been so warm today, I was hoping the forecast would change. It has - for the worse! Four to eight inches expected for Brooklyn, three to six the rest of the city. Bah, humbug!
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The Writer's Life 3/3 - Negotiating

While Benjamin Netanyahu fights the existential threat to his country from Iran, the Obama administration negotiates with the latter and believes its promise of a ten-year wait on the development of the A-bomb, ignoring its vow to wipe Israel from the face of the earth, believing it to be, I assume, mere bluster. Let's hope it just that, although I doubt it. Let's hope the President is as gifted as he believes himself to be. I fear a second Holocaust is coming. I don't know how it can be stopped without an invasion of Iran. The mullahs saw Israel destroy Iraq's facilities and have taken measures to make their own impregnable, at least from the air. I don't believe politicians will find the will to go into Iran until a device is detonated, and Israel is the most likely candidate to be the sacrificial lamb.

Have you heard about the daughter who sent a letter to the management of his pro hockey team? Here it is in all its charm:

P.S. She got her wish.

Here's a police pic of a guy busted for DWI for the ninth time:

No luck selling books on the streets today.

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The Writer's Life 3/2 - Stark Truth

Here's a review I posted on Amazon this morning:
This is one of those novels where it is hard to like the main characters, but remains interesting nonetheless. Stark "Tommy" Thompson is a blueblood lawyer coasting through life until he meets Kitty Goldmark, who has clawed her way from a humble beginning to success. Stark is seduced, becomes obsessed, and eventually falls into a downward spiral propelled by greed. I was reminded of the Hollywood noir classic Double Indemnity -- with a lot more details of the crimes of the players. It is well, although maybe a tad over-written. Although the financial wheeling and dealing smacks of authenticity and experience, it is more information than necessary, at least for my taste. Still, this book has value. It deserves to be read. When I saw that it hadn't attracted a single review, I felt compelled to offer my opinion. It is a shame that the author, who has only one other book, Hollywood Requiem, in print, has been ignored. The Stark Truth is as good as most of the novels I've read the past few years. Its 300+ pages glide by. I would have rated it three-and-a-half stars if the system allowed it. It would appeal to both those who hate the rich and those fascinated by high finance. I wonder if the author surrendered after his two books went nowhere. Peter Freeborn, wherever you are -- well done. 

RIP baseball legend Minny Minoso, a seven-time All-Star while playing with the White Sox in the 1950s and 1960s. When he was traded by the Cleveland Indians to the Pale Hose in 1951, he became the city of Chicago’s first black player. There is some dispute over when Minoso was born. The team website lists his age as 92. The Cuban slugger spent 12 of his 17 seasons with the White Sox and hit a two-run home run in his first at-bat. The Sox retired his No. 9 in 1983 and erected a statue at U.S. Cellular Field in 2004. Minoso is one of only two players to appear in a game in five different decades. He had two at-bats for the White Sox in 1980 at age 54. He was also famous for getting plunked. Between 1952 and 1961 he led the league in times hit by a pitch nine times, and is ninth on the all-time list with 192. He was a career .298 hitter, a three time Gold Glover and four times finished in the top four of American League MVP voting. Well done, sir. Vaya con Dios. (Facts culled from Yahoo Sports)

Given the iffy forecast for the next few days, I felt compelled to open the floating book shop. With a stiff wind blowing along my usual nook on Avenue Z, I took the show to Bay Parkway and got lucky. I quickly shoveled out a spot that kept me out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, and basked in the sunshine, the Chase bank blocking the wind. My thanks to the kind folks who bought books, and to the Polish woman who donated another ten to the cause. Although I didn't sell any of mine, it still felt like a big win vs. this trying winter.

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Vic's Short Story Collection: http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
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Vic's 1st Novel: http://tinyurl.com/pdxwsnt

Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp

Vic's Horror Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f

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The Writer's Life 3/1 - New Toy

The second external floppy drive I ordered from Amazon arrived yesterday. It took me about 20 minutes to figure out how to get it to work. It did not require a driver installation. It’s a simple plug and play. The trick was finding the right drive on the PC, A, to get it running. Unfortunately, I didn’t find the files I’d hoped to. There was only an excerpt from Close to the Edge, not the entire novel. I must have assumed there was no need to keep it anymore, since it was in print. Who knew this Kindle thing would create a whole new potential distribution outlet? When the book contract with AH runs out, I want to move Edge to Create Space, which is infinitely more cost effective and will allow me to offer the Kindle for a buck. The e-book currently costs $4.95. Also missing from the discs: a play I wrote for my friend John’s acting company and a teleplay for a short-lived anthology program on Fox produced by Martin Scorsese. I would have liked to combine them and another one-act play, which I do have on file, into a Kindle offering. I may have hard copies of the former two, but I do remember giving copies to another actor friend, Johnny Socks. I hope they weren’t the only copies I had. I may have never transferred them to the PC. Transferring all my novels and short stories was a major task, taking at least two years. There are about eight discs. I haven’t checked them all. If they’re labeled properly, the files I want aren‘t there. C’est la vie. At least I now know. I did find three essays I may be able to use for this blog on days when I come up with nothing interesting. I’ll have to see if the subjects are dated.

I downloaded the Close to the Edge ebook. To my surprise, there was no copy guard. I transferred it a Works and now it needs only reformatting to get it ready for Kindle.

Last night I was rooting around with the remote and came upon a John Wayne western from 1935, The Dawn Rider. He banged out eight that year. He was a few years from his breakout performance in Stagecoach (1939). The villain in the aforementioned flick had a strong screen presence. I had no recollection of him, so this morning I looked him up at IMDb. Dennis Moore, who died at 56 in 1964, has 258 credits listed, and that does not include multiple guest starring appearances on shows like The Lone Ranger, The Cisco Kid, 77 Sunset Strip, and several others. I laughed out loud when I saw him billed frequently as “Henchman.” Here’s a pic of this prolific actor:

A few days ago the forecast for today was sunny, in the 40's. Not even close! Is there any reason to get excited about the projections for temperatures near 50 by mid week?

Vic's 5th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/okxkwh5Vic's 4th novel: tinyurl.com/bszwlxh

Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3

Vic's Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
Vic's Short Story Collection: http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tiny.cc/0iHLb Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kx3d3uf
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tinyurl.com/pdxwsnt

Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp

Vic's Horror Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f

Vic's Blog: http://vicfortezza.blogspot.com/

Vic's Web Site: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/