Well, dear readers, I am sitting here like so much fish, eating Milk Duds and writing these here notes. I have decided that I shall now eat Milk Duds whilst writing these here notes – I have no clew as to why, but we don’t always know the why of things, do we? Sometimes we just do things such as eat Milk Duds whilst writing the notes, and there is nothing to be done about it. Can anyone tell me who came up with the name Milk Duds and why? When you think about it, what does the name Milk Duds have to do with the actual candy? I should think a Milk Dud would be a cow with a defective teat. A Defective Teat – that’s the title of my next novel. Why am I talking about Milk Duds and defective cow teats? Speaking of defective cow teats, yesterday was a lovelier than lovely Valentine’s Day. I got a very nice night’s sleep, got up, attended to some e-mails and such, and then toddled off to a breakfast meeting with Miss Alet Taylor. It was grand seeing her again, and we had fun, and discussed her show and how we’re going to proceed from here. After the meeting, I came home, packaged up some CDs and then shipped them. After that, I did some errands and whatnot and then toddled off to see a workshop of a new musical entertainment.
The workshop of a new musical entertainment was held at the El Portal Theatre. Miss Jessica Rush was one of its leading players. Without belaboring anything, I’ll just say that it was the worst workshop of a new musical entertainment that I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen some doozies. I couldn’t begin to tell you the point of what I saw, and that is because its creators have no idea what the point is. Oh, perhaps for them the point is to create a jukebox musical that can play Branson or Vegas or Indian casinos or the Florida condo circuit. That, of course, isn’t a real point and that kind of thinking only produces utter crap. The show’s producer/co-writer is a former record label owner and producer of some hit albums from the 80s. The show’s co-author and director/choreographer is a third-rate TV choreographer whose biggest claim to fame is a choreographer credit on a hit Broadway musical that had virtually no dancing. A director he isn’t, yet this is the second workshop I’ve seen that was directed and choreographed by him – the first being a totally misbegotten attempt to do a new version of Kander and Ebb’s The Act – which may be the second worst workshop of a musical entertainment that I’ve ever seen. After he told us what the show was (I sat, bewildered even then), the show began. All the music was prerecorded and “produced” by the record guy. All the songs were hits from various eras with cheesy arrangements. Lorenzo Lamas entered as the narrator (I’m not making any of this up) and proceeded to tell us the same thing the director had just told us – that this show was about twelve kids from a neighborhood – any neighborhood, USA, who all hung out on the street and also happened to sing and dance. And that somehow all twelve of these singing and dancing street kids went to Hollywood and became successful. The “story” involves a girl named Georgia (played by Miss Rush), and the guy she likes, who likes her but ends up going to Hollywood with a “hot” girl instead. There’s also a nerdy kid who wants to be the guy’s manager for reasons never explained. The songs were obviously not written for this “plot” and so frequently make no sense whatsoever. Oh, they try – for example, one character says, “I can see clearly now,” and then breaks into the song I Can See Clearly Now. I kid you not. And it’s downhill from there. Yes, they sing Sweet Georgia Brown and another Georgia song. The low point was when the guy gets into (as the narrator tells us) sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. The chorus of boys then come on and sing Black Denim Trousers and Motorcycle Boots. I must admit I laughed out loud and then almost threw up on the ground.
After a thirty-five minute first act (I kid you not), the director told us that this is where an intermission would go, but that they were going straight on to act two. He explained that act two would begin with a star performer doing a twenty minute set that would then be followed by the show resuming. At that point, everything became clear to me and I began to sing to myself, I Can See Clearly Now. This is some crass attempt to create a show that can have a star performer do twenty minutes (and presumably draw a crowd), coupled with a bunch of songs everyone knows sung by a cast of energetic young people, with a semblance of a story. I kid you not. In any case, we didn’t get the star, and the show resumed and we had a twenty minute second act that was simply more of the same. The audience of about fifty people were mostly friends and family but even with a loaded crowd like that the applause was tepid and there wasn’t a single laugh in the show. I did have a woman seated behind me who gamely tried to stir the crowd into “woo-hooing” but she was a voice in the wilderness. About the fifth time she did it I did contemplate turning around and hurling a projectile of vomit in her direction, but decorum prevailed. The choreography was standard issue 1960s variety TV, and not even that good. The performers were all game, except Mr. Lamas, who looked truly uncomfortable, forgot where and when he was supposed to come in, and forgot a few lines here and there. Miss Rush was her usual excellent self and the only one who sort of came away unscathed and unsullied. The producers’ friends and family were all saying how much they loved it. Marvelous. I cannot tell you how much money was poured into this workshop because it would amaze and appall you – and for what? To invite fifty of your nearest and dearest to tell you how wonderful it was? That’s not what they need – what they need is someone who’ll tell them the truth, but they obviously are not interested in the truth.
Well, I’m glad I didn’t belabor that. I just get so irritated when people with that kind of money squander said money on such awful ideas. These are guys who are in their 70s – and that’s the way they think. They’re “trying” to be hip and failing. You don’t have to try and be young – you have to BE young, young in spirit, not cocky, not a know-it-all. That’s how the best creators and directors are – they approach a project with passion and freshness and their age is never an issue – they can be twenty or they can be seventy. Well, why don’t we all click on the Unseemly Button below whilst I finish the last of the defective cow teats known as Milk Duds.
This morning I shall be meeting with Merissa Haddad to begin the process of putting together her show. I’m looking forward to it. After that, I shall hopefully deliver pages to my muse Margaret, and then I shall write and do errands, not necessarily in that order. I do not have any plans for this evening and that’s the way I want it, baby.
Tomorrow, I’ll meet with Joan Ryan briefly, then go over to the Ray Courts show to keep Bert I. Gordon and his
offspring company. There are quite a few interesting people who’ll be at the show. I’ll bring Mr. Gordon and offspring copies of The Brain From Planet X.
As mentioned, I had a lovely Valentine’s Day, and in its honor I watched a romantic comedy on DVD entitled Heaven Can Wait, starring Mr. Warren Beatty and Miss Julie Christie. What a wonderful, funny, and lovely motion picture it is. It falters only briefly with the Vincent Gardenia investigation scene near the film’s end, but everything else works splendidly. And, of course, the supporting cast of players is amazing – Buck Henry, James Mason, Jack Warden, Vincent Gardenia, R.G. Armstrong, Joseph Maher, Dyan Cannon, Charles Grodin and a host of others.
We do send all our heartfelt condolences to our beloved dear reader elmore on the passing of his father and we send all our vibes and xylophones to him and his family. Peace to all.
Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must, for example, meet, write, drive about in my motor car, and whatnot. Today’s topic of discussion: What are your favorite songs of the 70s – the last great decade for songs, if you ask me. And your favorite versions of said songs. Let’s have loads of lovely postings, shall we, and let us contemplate the history of the Milk Dud.