Hey, There's A Dead Guy in the Living Room

Interview Answers, Self-promotion, and a Sappy Love Letter

Jeff Cohen

A couple of weeks ago, in a post about interviewing, I invited readers to post their own questions to me about interviewing, and promised to answer them. We got a few, and this is a good time to address them, so let's begin, shall we?

Robin Minnick asked: Okay, Jeff, you said you don't like to lob softball questions, and I agree, those are boring to answer. You've interviewed several celebrated people. What question, or perhaps type of question, do you consider the hardest for you to ask an interviewee? What question is either difficult to get past your lips or has you fretting about the answer in advance? 

Good question (or questions), Robin. I don't like to ask personal questions; when I pitch an interview to a publication, it is generally of a person whose work I admire and respect, and the interview will be about the work. When I interviewed Phoebe Snow, for example, I wanted to talk about music. The magazine I was writing for (which I ended up suing for other reasons) wanted me to ask about her life. I was not comfortable asking about her daughter, who was born with a severe brain injury, and when I started to say, "I wish I didn't have to ask this," the late Ms. Snow replied gently, "Just say, fine."

Cindy Smith asked: You say you don't like to ask the ho-hum typical questions when doing an interview, but do you have a favorite question that you always ask because you figure it will generate an interesting answer?

I've already sort of addressed this in comments to you, Cindy, but let me elaborate. No, I don't have one question I'll always ask, because I think the interview should be specific to the subject. I can't think of two people I'd interview whose questions would be exactly the same. But having said that, I do have a few that I'll ask of more than one person if I think it applies to their work. For example, I like to finish an interview by asking, "What do you know now that you wish you'd known then?" I've gotten some interesting answers, and if I could remember one, I'd tell it to you.

Elaine Charton asked: Is there anything you absolutely refuse to ask in an interview?

Again, Elaine, I try to stay away from personal questions, because I don't think they're relevant and I don't find them interesting. But when the publication that's paying me insists on some things being covered, I'll cover those things. I don't remember ever flat-out refusing to ask a question, but that's because I don't remember being asked to use a question I found absolutely inappropriate or offensive. 

After I mentioned that the favorite interview for which I was the subject was conducted by famed journalist Linda Ellerbee, Donald A. Coffin asked: What did she do that leads you to list her as the best interviewer you've encountered? Was it her prepared questions? Her ability to follow-up on your answers? Some combination of things that are difficult to disentangle?

First, I was flattered Linda accepted the invitation to conduct the interview. But I found her questions to be insightful, she had obviously read my books, which is a refreshing change of pace, and her questions were about process but were also fun and interesting to the reader. They were not so "inside baseball" that someone who wasn't a crime fiction writer wouldn't care. She had obviously put thought into the interview, and that was what made it a good experience. Another really good interviewer who talked to me was David Skibbins, a fellow author and life coach, and we did a half-hour telephone interview that was a ton of fun. 

Brenda asked: Is there anything on your bucket list that (a) your readers can't imagine that you'd care to share or (b) that you are anxious to share?

My bucket list? I'm not sure I have one, but one thing is to have a novel published outside the crime fiction category, just to see if I can. Working on that. Something my readers (both of them) can't imagine I'd care to share? Read on to the bottom of this post.

ROCCO asked: What made you decide to switch gears and go from a trilogy about a guy who ran a 'comedy-only' theatre to writing about a woman who owns a Jersey Shore home? Did your love of classic movies (ala TOPPER) figure into it, or were other factors involved?

Thanks for asking, Rocco. I was persuaded to "switch gears" when my publisher informed me that Elliot Freed's services at the comedy movie theater Comedy Tonight would no longer be desired, and then asked if I'd like to do something else, using a name other than the one on my birth certificate. I was glad they asked, and from that came the Haunted Guesthouse series, and yes, the TOPPER films and TV show were an inspiration. 

Any more questions? It's an easy post for me, and maybe a chance for you to hone your interview skills...?

 

P.S. I'll be at the Malice Domestic conference this coming weekend, and on the panel "Dirty Little Secrets: An Inside Look at the Writer’s Life” with Laura Bradford (Elizabeth Lynn Casey), Kate Gallison, Robin Hathaway and Toni L.P. Kelner. Sunday April 29 at 9:45. PLEASE drop on by, and if you see me roaming the halls, walk up and say hello--it's why we authors show up! (That, and the free tote bag.)

P.P.S. There is a woman out there (or in here, depending on how you look at it) who is among the most understanding and patient on the planet, who has inspired pretty much every novel I've ever written and maybe a few more things, who never fails to get my jokes, even if she doesn't find them funny all the time, and who once was in fact, an interview subject for this blog. And when Thursday comes around this week--the very day before I will hop into a car and drive to Bethesda for Malice Domestic--she and I will be married for exactly 25 years. I don't believe in miracles, but that comes close.

Happy anniversary, honey. Let's hope 25 years is just the warm-up.

Adapt Or Die

Jeff Cohen

It's my  half-birthday! Which is... totally meaningless. Forget I said anything.

A LONG time ago, I remember seeing a cartoon: People are seated in a large movie theater (remember those?), the lights are out, and the screen is filled with a black-and-white image of a large fancy party. People stand around in dress clothes, wait staff walk through with trays of canopes and champagne. In the foreground, someone is holding another tray, with a large book open to a page in its midsection. A woman in the audience leans over to whisper to the man next to her:

"It follows the book rather closely."

Reading Marilyn's post on Saturday, I was struck by a few things about the task of adapting a work from another medium to film or television. It's something I teach my screenwriting students about on a regular basis (more on that in a later post), and the one thing you can be sure of when you take on such an assignment is: Somebody's going to hate you for it.

Not, I should point out, that I've ever actually adapted someone else's material. I've had enough trouble adapting my own work. But I've read enough of it and done enough of it that I know what the dangers are. The fact is, those who worship the book will hate the movie if you change so much as a detail. Those who are indifferent or unfamiliar with the book will picket your house if you keep in extraneous material or quote large sections of the text, especially if it is done in voice-over narration.

Casting is beyond control of the writer, but people will blame you for that anyway. Marilyn said she'll have trouble with Tom Cruise as Lee Child's iconic Jack Reacher. Many share this opinion, although some are less thoughtful than Marilyn and simply grouse about Cruise being short. This, without anyone having seen as much as a foot of exposed film. Similar ire is being aimed at the casting of Debbie Reynolds as Janet Evanovich's Grandma Masur, which seems to be based on the opinion that as Hollywood's official Old Lady, Betty White should have had the part by acclimation. Forget that she was 89 at the time of shooting, and they were hoping to set up a film franchise that so far has sustained 19 books.

(Never mind, also, that Dashiell Hammett described Sam Spade as tall and blonde, and yet nobody seems to have a problem with Humphrey Bogart's portrayal, despite his being not so much on both accounts.)

But forget casting. The writer is responsible for the material that is handed to the director, who will ignore whatever s/he wants to and create a film. That's the director's job.

So if you're hoping to adapt a book, play or series of educational filmstrips into a movie on the big or almost-as-big screen, block out any idea of pleasing the masses. Simply follow the steps below:

1. Read the material you're adapting carefully and pay attention what makes you respond. If you write it well enough, the film will encourage others to respond similarly. If you lose sight of what you like about the original work--and you'll have plenty of opportunity to do so during the adaptation process--you're cooked.

2. Give up any allegiance you have to the original writer(s). If they were good at screenwriting, they'd be doing this themselves. You're here to write a movie, not a translated book.

3. Include the things that make this a good movie and only those. The subtext of the book was fine, but you'd need seventeen hours of film time to show them all, and you don't have that unless you work for the BBC and everybody wears way too much clothing. Cut down to the plotline. You're lucky if you can fit all that in.

4. You can make stuff up that's not in the book if it clarifies the plot or gives the audience a better read on the characters. You're creative; it's what you're supposed to do.

5. People who want the book will still have the book. They can read it whenever they want. People who go to the movie or watch on TV have only what you give them. Make it the best version of the story in a visual, moving medium. That's the job.

6. If you are successful at your task, some people who see your version will then go on to read the original book. They will find things that they didn't know existed in the story, and note that there are differences between the two. Some will be pleased. Others will be upset that the book is not the same as the movie, and will consider the screen version superior. They will be upset with the author of the original book for not sticking to the story that didn't exist when the book was written. There's no pleasing some people. 

If you're an audience member, keep this in mind: This is a movie. It's not the book. If you loved the book and want to see it translated exactly, don't go to the movie. Read the book again. There will be differences and they'll annoy you. Avoid annoyance when you can. Life is short.

Why Not Be Both?

Jeff Cohen

Are you a series, or a standalone?

What the hell, I can steal from the Mac/PC commercials. I'm shameless.

I just finished writing my first standalone book. For the uninitiated, a standalone is a book whose entire story is told in one volume, as opposed to a series, which has a new story in every book but whose characters will "recur," meaning they show up every time with something else to do.

In short, a standalone is a feature film, and a series is, well, a television series.

Think of how it works: In a feature film, the characters are all new (except for sequels, which now account for about 104% of all movies), the situations immediate and generally extreme. I tell my screenwriting students that they should be telling the story of the most important thing that's ever happened in their characters' lives. Because if there's something more important, why aren't they telling that one?

On a TV series, it would be entertainment suicide to tell the most important story in the first episode. Do that, and what reason does anyone have to tune in next week? The story here is a  much longer, more episodic, being, a thing that will take (hopefully) a very long time to tell in a tremendously huge number of installments. The story really becomes the journey, then, and those who are loyal to the series will see payoffs in a late episode that might come from seeds planted very early on. Keep reading, Haunted Guesthouse fans!

For example, throughout the three books in the Double Feature series (remember that, both of you who read it?), I made jokes about how small Elliot Freed's office was, and I did so because I knew that at some point--as it turned out, in the third and final book--I would want to include a scene in which the size of Elliot's office was the whole point. Readers who started with book one (which included a reference to book two so obscure I think my editor and I were the only ones who got it) would be rewarded in book three by the small-office scene. But it was important that new readers wouldn't feel like they didn't know what was going on.

A standalone, however, raises the stakes. Anything can happen, no future book is guaranteed, so the ending is The Ending. The reader might have a tiny bit more suspense reading a standalone because the characters won't have to recur, if you catch my drift (and if you don't, I recommend more drift practice after school). 

So there are pleasures, for the writer and one hopes the reader, in both. A standalone heightens the tension but a series provides a somewhat deeper experience for the character's development. Someone who is an irritant in book one might be a trusted ally by the time book four rolls around. You never know.

The standalone was an eye-opening experience for me. Even books I've written that haven't sold (yet) had until now been considered part of a series; I had future installments in mind while writing them and was deciding on recurring characters, threads that could be picked up later, and possible plot strands that could color the first book without even being mentioned, but would show up in later volumes so the reader would go, "Oh! So THAT'S what all that was about!"

In a standalone, there's none of that. The story is about this one incident in the character's life, and it can have all the implications I want, because there will be no sequel. Unless, of course, the book-buying public insists on one. I wouldn't want to disappoint my readers, after all.

It is also said that standalones appeal to men, while series are more popular with women. Personally, I find that an appalling generalization, but then, I know as much about marketing as the next guy, assuming the next guy doesn't know much about marketing. So perhaps writing a standalone for me was a baldfaced appeal to get more male readers. Although women have faces that are generally more bald than men, so perhaps not.

Writing a standalone was in some ways liberating as a writer--as I mentioned here last week, it was emotionally difficult because it was more intense. But I'm not at all interested in giving up series writing; I do love to see characters in new and different situations to find out how they'll react. So returning to characters I know is... I wouldn't say comforting, because it's never comfortable to write a book. But it is a way to test myself, see how much I really know about these people I made up, and find out whether readers will go with them in a new direction with each installment.

The next book I write will be #5 in the Haunted Guesthouse series, and after the standalone, it will be something of a relief to get back to Alison and her merry band. But I bet after that, I'll have the itch to write a one-and-out again. There's an exhilaration that goes with it that might just become addictive.

But first, we have to find someone to publish the one I just wrote. Stay tuned!

The Writer's Rollercoaster

Jeff Cohen

What about those Academy Awards, huh? Could you believe she won? I mean, that last thing was sure a surprise, wasn't it?

Okay, I admit it; I'm writing this before the Academy Awards airs, in fact a whole day before. I'm guessing Billy Crystal was funny and classy, the middle 90 minutes were tedious, Whitney Houston got the biggest ovation in the Memorium crawl, and The Artist won best picture (I promise I won't change that if I'm wrong). But I honestly have no idea.

Addition after Academy Awards: I had no idea when I wrote "Could you believe she won?" that Ms. Streep of the Jersey roots would take home her third over Viola Davis et al. Go figure. And there was NO applause during the Memorium crawl--you got the feeling the audience had been asked to refrain. All in all, I thought it was a pretty good Oscar show. Could have used more Chris Rock, less Ben Stiller, and Billy Crystal, while miles above last year's fiasco, looked annoyed a lot of the time. Hope he'll be back next year, though. I will.

But that's not what we'll be talking about this week. (Aside to Josh G: Don't read the rest of this post. You'll understand why when you read it.)

My wife and I went out to dinner with friends a couple of weeks ago, and I'm sure everyone was wondering why I was in such a bad mood. There was no question about it; I was grumpy. Yes, more than usual. (Very funny, wiseguy.) I didn't talk much, I wasn't trying very hard to be amusing, and when the evening was over, I just sort of shook hands, got back in the car and left.

I wasn't trying to be antisocial, but I was going through a difficult moment emotionally, one that writers have and rational people don't. I had left the character in the book I was writing in a very unsettling situation, one that was absolutely agonizing for him, and I was feeling the effects.

This is not an isolated incident, although it doesn't happen with every book. Quite some time ago when my children were small, my parents and my brother treated us to an anniversary gift: a long weekend in Bermuda. It was incredibly generous of them and we had a very lovely time. 

But I remember leaving Newark that Friday morning in a funk: I was writing a screenplay and my character and his son were in an extremely precarious position I had not been able to resolve before we left. I won't say I was grouchy the whole time we were in Bermuda, but it took me a little while to shake it.

Writers go through an emotional roller coaster when we're working. To do the job right, we have to really experience--mentally--the situations we write. For me, it's more a sense of tension when things (in the story) are going badly for the main character, even when I know how I'm going to resolve it. Once I get to the ending, there's a relaxed sensation, a satisfaction that comes and stays. Until I start the next story.

This past opus, the one I just finished (which is not part of any series and doesn't feature any character you might have read from me before) was a tough one. It's scary to start anything new, particularly in an area you haven't explored before--it's not a mystery at all--and the character I was writing had to go through some really harrowing life moments, ones that caused him a lot of grief.

It was a difficult couple of months, and I don't think anyone--not even Jessica--realized it. The draft is now done and if it is what I believe it to be, anyone who ever reads it will not imagine for one second that the author was a complete lunatic while writing it. 

Now, I'll be on tenterhooks until someone reads the damn thing and tells me if it's any good. And I don't want it to be an obligation (I'm serious about that; I don't--that's why I told you not to read this, Josh!), so I'm waiting patiently.

Except for the grumpiness. But nobody will notice that.

Oscar or Eagle?

Jeff Cohen

Think carefully, now:

Every four years, we have an interesting confluence of events in the United States, and particularly one that I think helps define the type of person you think you might be. Sure, you can look at the years whose numbers in the Roman Calendar are divisible by four and say, "Okay, there's Leap Day, but so what?" I will argue, however, that a deep psychological truth can be discovered if you are in the mood for self-reflection.

Consider: Every four years, we have a time when you can ask yourself a very telling, and in some cases, pivotal question. And the way you answer it can determine, if not the course of your life, at least the route you would prefer it take. Ready?

Which would you rather win: An Academy Award, or the Presidency of the United States?

Wait. Think before you answer. These are two races that will be dissected, scrutinized, analyzed and for all I know bowlderized before the year is over. Winners will be chosen by a select group (in the case of the presidency, too select because not enough people choose to participate) of voters. Losers will be shunted to the side, only to become the answers to trivia questions as the years pass. They will have to appear jovial and conciliatory at the moment their rivals are declared victors, and go home to lick their wounds in private, firing their closest advisors who brought upon this outrage, since the blame must certainly not be their own.

And how you answer the question will provide a window to... well, not your soul, necessarily, but certainly your megalomania. Which would you choose?

Personally, I'm going home with Oscar if I get the choice.

Every election year, voters complain that we only seem to get candidates who are out of touch with the average voter. They say the people who run for office see themselves as above the typical citizen, because of money or power or the seductive effects of both those things, coupled with the constant reinforcement they're given from sycophants who tell them everything they do is perfect.

Of course we get those people. Of course crazy people run for president. What sane person would want that job? What human being within driving distance of reality would think he or she is qualified to do it?

Nope, I'm getting an Academy Award. All that happens then is people who do the same thing you do tell you they think you did a good job. There's no responsibility. Everything that is required of the award is done BEFORE you campaign for it. After you win, you go to some parties, do some interviews, and go home (preferably) with your spouse to celebrate. Then next year, you show up to hand out the award to the next person in line, and wait for the next update of Trivial Pursuit to see if your name's made it in there yet.

Once you're elected president, you begin to age in dog years. Nobody has ever left that office looking as good as they did when they arrived. People start to complain--before you begin the job--that you're not doing it well enough. Everyone you've ever met wants a job, and will be incredibly peeved if they don't get the one they want--and a lot of them wanted to job you have now.

Then you get the first briefing from the security and defense people, where you find out what's REALLY going on, and if your hair wasn't grey before, it will be by eleven that morning. If it was grey before, it will start to fall out.

And here's how crazy most of these people are--after four years of that, they work like the Dickens to get it all AGAIN.

The presidency? You can keep it. I'd just like to get the envelope from which my name was read and the chance to thank people while Billy Crystal looks on. Or, if I don't achieve all my aspirations, a tape of the phone call when they let me know I'm in the running. I can fake not hating the winner as well as anybody, I'll bet. Just give me the chance, I say.

After all, it's an honor just to be nominated.

Which one would YOU choose?

P.S. Pitchers and catchers reported yesterday. There is hope.

Should We Award This Kind of Behavior?

Jeff Cohen

It's that time of year again, boys and girls.

The Golden Globe Awards were handed out last night. I'm actually writing this BEFORE the awards show, and probably won't watch, since I couldn't care less about the Golden Globes, but they have a certain significance, and it is not the one everybody always drones on about.

Yes, the Globes are seen as a precursor to the Oscars, which is a show I WILL watch largely because it's fun. But that's not the point. (I've actually seen a few of the contenders this year, and would root for THE ARTIST if it is nominated.) What's truly significant is that the Golden Globes represent the first shot in a seemingly endless war of awards shows in every possible branch of the entertainment biz. It is my unsubstantiated opinion that there are now more country music awards shows than there are country music artists, but it's possible I've miscounted. I was an English major.

The publishing industry, of course, is not immune to Awards-itis. And in the crime fiction field, an author can win an Edgar, an Agatha, a Lefty, an Anthony, probably a Phyllis or a Bob. There are plenty of awards out there for crime writers.

I know one very successful crime writer whose work was cited in the awards for worst sex scene of the year. When I sent him an email to congratulate him on the event, he said it was "an honor just to be nominated." Never having written an honest-to-goodness sex scene--yet--I can only imagine.

The politic thing to do around awards season (which is roughly all year except November) is to lay low. It is gauche to campaign for a nomination (and hard to figure out exactly how one would do that in the first place), and considered bad taste to admit to a hope for one. If the work is exemplary, it is implied, no arm-waving and shouting will be necessary. This is the same kind of logic which ensures that every leap year, the two absolutely smartest people in the country run against each other for president, because campaigning is unnecessary. The cream will rise to the top.

So allow me to be tasteless: Hell yes, I'd like an award for my work. I think the books I write are good. In some cases, I think they're better than the ones which actually win awards. Of course, I'm just a tad biased, and my definition of "better" might differ from that of, you know, everybody else. That's the thing--awards are incredibly subjective.

But if you're a nominator for any of the crime fiction awards and you're looking for something to read that won't make you want to slit your wrists, you could do worse than the two works I published last year, the novel AN UNINVITED GHOST (as E.J. Copperman) and the short story THE GUN ALSO RISES (as me, in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, January 2011).

Am I being tacky by admitting to award-lust? Would it be better if I were to simply trust in the voters and my own talent? 

Nah.

I've done that before. I've sat around, smug in my self-assurance that the book (whichever one) was clearly a work of superior talent (and to be fair, there was one of them that was pretty good). That positive reviews would be noticed. The power of humor would overcome the stodgy, pretentious leanings of award-givers. Surely the hard work I put into the writing would speak for itself.

My mantle, strikingly, remains unadorned. (I don't actually have a mantle, but you know what I mean.)

So this year, I'm being blatant. Yeah. I want the (fill in name) award. I think my book deserves it. I think *I* deserve it. And I'm going to scream from the mountaintops about it every chance I get. Assuming I can find a mountain near my house. It's winter, and plane schedules are iffy.

We'll see if it makes a difference (I'm betting not, but you never know). But I won't lie to you--I'd really like to get some recognition here.

Go ahead, nominate me. See if I care. Because I will.

* OLD HAUNTS will be published in 22 days.

* Pitchers and catchers report in 34 days.

But is it Art?

Jeff Cohen

Here's how oddly my mind is working these days:

Ben's post on Friday (and if you haven't read it yet, go and do so now; I'll wait) got me to thinking. The video of Harry Crews discussing what is and is not "art" really stirred all sorts of feelings in me. 

I agreed with everything he said--particularly about not enjoying writing, but loving having written--until he started defining what he did as being an "artist." Now, I'm not arguing for a moment that Harry Crews isn't an artist. 

What I'm saying is that I'm not an artist.

In the tradition of other great cowards, I'm going to qualify that statement even further: I am not suggesting that what I do isn't art in the broadest sense. In other words, I'm not saying that other authors who write the same kind of book as I do are not artists. I make no such claim for anyone other than myself.

All I can say for sure is that when I'm writing, which is most of the time, what I'm doing doesn't feel like creating art. It feels like a job, a craft. Sometimes it resembles a magic act, pulling out certain tricks that will get the point across. Other times it's a question of allowing the characters enough freedom to do what they're going to do and not getting in their way too much.

In any event, typing away with "Feel the Sun" by The Goldbergs in my headphones doesn't really seem to be the sort of solitary, solemn, serious and immortality-seeking activity art is "supposed" to be.

Part of this statement, of course, is tied to the fact that I can't really tell you much about art. I'll go to museums with my wife because she loves them, but I'll tell you the truth--I get nothing out of it. We went to Rome in 2006 and saw works by Raphael, Leonardo, Michelangelo and probably another Ninja Turtle, and while I admired the craft as something I sure as hell couldn't do, the emotion of it, the story, the message the artist was trying to communicate, all that was lost on me. Some of them were very pretty, though.

The same is true of the works I've seen by Picasso, the operas by... anybody, the great novels of Melville, Hemingway, Hawthorne and some Dickens (he could spin a tale). It's a mystery to me. There are things universally accepted as classic and artistic, and I'll prefer to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark again or re-read Flanagan's Run by Tom McNab. Or listen to The Goldbergs.

I fully accept that this is a failing of my own. I've seen many great paintings (living near New York will help you do that), and never viewed one that I didn't feel would have been better if it could have moved. I wanted the rest of the story. One frame out of a movie, no matter how brilliantly composed, never really reaches me.

This, I'm guessing, infuses my view of my own work. I read over things I've written, and I have ego enough (believe me) to enjoy them when there's enough distance between my typing "THE END" and the reading. I think I'm pretty good at what I do. I think more people should read my books. I think I fill a need.

But art? What the hell is art, anyway?

P.S. OLD HAUNTS by E.J. Copperman will be published in 29 days. I don't feel like it's art, but maybe you have a different definition. I hope it's a good story well told.

P.P.S. Pitchers and catchers report in 41 days.

Theatre, Writing, and Pictures of My Dog

Jeff Cohen

New York: One day we Garden Staters are going to be condescended to one time too many, remember you live on an island, and cut you off. I'm just saying.

First of all, for those who have been asking, we went to see THE ARTIST on Christmas Day. It was very good, different (clearly), inventive. My life did not change in a significant way, but I enjoyed it, and that's enough. Later in the week we went to see Lysistrata Jones on Broadway. Fun, breezy, very well performed. Not getting nearly enough press.

On to new business:

*I'm writing something new, without a contract, just for myself (until I finish it and send it to Josh). Not a mystery, not like anything that's come before. And it's scaring the living hell out of me. (No, it's not horror. It won't scare YOU...)

*I've been listening to music lately by Paul Melancon and The Goldbergs. Leave it to me that my "new music" is five-to-eight years old.

*Far too many of the artists I listen to are now dead. Last year I lost Gerry Rafferty and Phoebe Snow. To go with George Harrison, John Lennon, Jim Croce, Eric Woolfson, Harry Chapin, Harry Nilsson, Elliot Smith and Cass Elliott (among others), that's just too much. This is part of getting older, and like most of getting older, I could do without it.

*I can't wait for Wednesday, just so I won't have to hear about Iowa again for another four years. Except when my wife talks about her college years.

*On January 1, the New York Times printed a special section on the Oscars. Dear New York Times: That's too soon. I can still remember who won some of the awards last year.

*I won't be going to Malice Domestic this year. I'm sorry about that; I wish I could go, but it's not possible. The travel budget won't allow it, and it happens to fall on the weekend of my 25th wedding anniversary. I like being married more than I like being an author, so I'll be back at Malice in 2013. Probably not as the guest of honor, but that's understandable.

*Winter break is just long enough to get used to having the kids back home. They they go back to school and we go through the whole "empty nest" thing again. It's cruel, in a weird way.

*Dear Dick Clark: Retire.

*I've been digitizing family photos, and therefore have been looking through every picture we've pretty much ever taken. What's interesting is how the dog has aged. His snout is now almost all white. It's a preview of coming attractions for my beard.

*Where's Old Zealand? (If this is to be believed, it's an island off Denmark.) 

*To Whomever is in charge of weather: What we're getting in the Northeast right now is just fine. Don't change a thing. Until April.

*Just to mention it: OLD HAUNTS by E.J. Copperman will be published five weeks from tomorrow. A to-the-second countdown can be found here. But who's counting?

*Pitchers and catchers report in 49 days. 

*Getting ready to teach again, starting next week. I always get nervous ahead of time. Isn't that odd?

*Got an amplifier for my acoustic 12-string as a gift. Had no idea how frightening it would be to actually hear what it sounds like when I play.

*I don't understand the animosity toward the Post Office. Who else is going to carry something of yours across the country for 45 cents?

*My son's enthusiasm is persuading me that I should take a look at DOCTOR WHO. Not sure if or when I will, but his opinion is usually pretty valid.

*Josh Getzler is a really good agent. Shannon Jamieson Vazquez is an incredibly talented editor. The readers I hear from are enthusiastic and intelligent. I am really lucky.

*For those who responded: My son Josh's film SCAVENGERS has exceeded the budget amount he was hoping for--we're blown away by the response. Thank you all. Shooting will begin right after OLD HAUNTS publishes in February.

Greenest Post Ever (Recycled!)

Jeff Cohen

Well, now that that's out of the way...

It's late December, in case you've been living away from a calendar for the past twenty-five days. And in the style of all entertainment options, I feel that this week's blog should follow a time-honored tradition.

In December--and at other times when they've run out of ideas--television programs especially will provide their viewers with what is termed "a special celebration" of the program, to reward them for being loyal viewers. Sometimes, this is also called "a retrospective." 

It's a clip show.

Eschewing "reruns," (remember, kids?) which used to be utterly reviled as cheap programming and cheating by the professionals (and are now sold on DVD and Blu-Ray so that you can program them yourself whenever you feel like it) the clip show provides "highlights" from past episodes, which are meant to recall the best of the best. It also gives the writers, actors and directors a week off. Which, in December, is something pretty much everybody should get. Just because we're about to face another winter, and anything that gives you a break before that is worthwhile.

Don't get me started on "the holiday season."

So here's the first-ever DEAD GUY clip show, which I've borrowed only from my own posts, because I'm in such a lazy mood (closing in on the end of Book #4 in the Copperman series and starting something really out of my comfort zone) that I didn't even ask any of the other DEAD GUYs for their permission. So, enjoy or... come back next week. I promise it'll be all new stuff then. After all, then it'll be 2012 and everything will be way different.

Assume that each of the following entries is in quotes. Here are my personal highlights from 2011:

Reading "said" all the time, even when it's being done by a master like Robert B. Parker, who was addicted to the word, is like being hit lightly over the head with a hammer every few seconds. It's like listening to a story being told by Sgt. Joe Friday. Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts. If I want to hear just the facts, I can tune in to  The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

 

To me, the character IS the book, no two ways around it. I write mystery novels, and I put quite a bit of work into figuring out who did what to whom and why. I look for places to include plot twists and red herrings. I can misdirect with the best of them. The top 46 of them, anyway. And yeah, you might find a joke or two going on in my pages. You'd better.

But without a character I care about, I won't even type the first word.

 

"Do you realize how hard it would be to move a whole house?" I asked my six-year-old.

Without so much as a giveaway grin, she replied, "Daddy. You call a professional."

 

I should have considered this years ago. If the one thing that holds a writer back is the financial end of the business--and it is--then there's one way to eliminate the unpredictability of publishing and guarantee artistic freedom and a steady income.

That's right--I'm selling the naming rights to my next book.

 

Mr. President, I believe in the rejuvenative, therapeutic power of comedy. I think a good laugh does more for you than a ton of briefing memos (but keep reading those--I'm not suggesting you stop!) and "serious" novels. I think an amused mind is one that is more creative, more active, more useful than one burdened with problems both real--and you've got all of ours on top of yours to worry about--and fictional. 

 

If people read my books and come away thinking deep thoughts about the nature of life and how it's all hopeless, complex, depressing and above all, serious, I have badly screwed up the mission with to which I have assigned myself.

 

Contrary to popular belief, most of us who are without religion are not necessarily trying to strip you of yours. Personally, I think you should believe what you believe, and I'll continue to believe what I believe. As long as you don't try to convince me otherwise, I'll do the same in return.

 

See, laughter is not an intellectual process. It's emotional and elemental. Nothing in your brain says, "Why, that's quite amusing! I believe I'll make a sound like this--ha, ha, ha!" Laughter is much more reflexive; it's like sneezing. And it is the only emotional response that actually makes you feel better. (Yes, there is a hormone released when one is feeling love, but that's not what I'm talking about.) Laughter really IS the best medicine, except when you need an antibiotic.

 

Sung to the tune of: 

I Am the Walrus

Kindle, e-book, Barnes & Noble, Sony Reader, iBook in an iPad/

Some say that all books' gooses are cooked; I disagree/

I'm smiling.

 

Books can be on paper/

Or they can be on a Nook/

Authors write for readers, not for certain formats; read me any way you like and I will shake your hand.

You are the reader/ (Whoo!)

You are the leaders/ (Whoo!)

I'm just the writer!

Goo goog a joob!

 

 

Oscars: How soon before the Academy announces a comedian will host next year? (Ed. note: Just so I have it on the record, this was posted last Feb. 28.)

 

More often than I'm asked about my books, I'm asked if I am the actor who played "the fat kid" in Goonies  because his name is... Jeff Cohen. Um, no.

 

Personally, I resent FTD, Hallmark, 800-FLOWERS and the entire chocolate industry telling me when I should feel romantic. And since, in modern America, Romance=Sex (go ahead, prove me wrong), frankly I think it's my own business. Well, and my wife's.

 

Dunstan McNichol, an extraordinary investigative reporter covering the New Jersey Statehouse for something like the last 30 years, died last week very suddenly at the age of 54. Those who care about the state of journalism in the Garden State are understandably mourning the loss as one that cripples the free press' first responsibility--keeping government accountable to the people it represents--unexpectedly and severely.

Those of us who knew Dusty are more upset at losing his insights, his wit, his talent and his compassion.

 

In one book, I had a large number of people crowd into a room that had been described, in three books running, as extremely small. And I was called on it by a reader who believed that the square footage would not hold that many human bodies. I referred the reader to the stateroom scene in A Night At The Opera. 

 

Those are the clips I've chosen from the year 2011. If you had favorites I might have overlooked, feel free. Otherwise, we'll be back next week with an ALL NEW show!

Herding Cats

Jeff Cohen

It's that week again.

Every year, my family--that is, myself, my wife, and our children, who are now young adults--look forward to Christmas. This is because it's a day we set aside (you should pardon the expression) religiously for two things: Chinese food and a movie.

We're Jews. It's the law.

And as the children got older, there were two evolutionary effects to this tradition: First, we could stop going to the current "family" film, which quite often was charming and just as often excruciating for the parents attending. Second, each year it gets a little more difficult to find a film everyone will agree to see.

No, I'm not asking for suggestions. We do know what films are available and no, we're not just going to stay home and watch a video. We're Jews. It's the law.

This year is no exception. Negotiations similar to those which averted the fictional government shutdown have been going on since roughly August. December 25 is, as of this posting, six days away, and no agreement has been reached yet. Keep in mind that a single "nay" vote, unless the voter is swayed to changing it, can eliminate a film from consideration.

Here are the choices, and the dramatis personae involved:

1. Me. 

2. My wife.

3. Our son.

4. Our daughter.

Films:

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. No. I never drank the Kool Aid on this series, saw the first Swedish film made from it, thought it was an okay, fairly standard thriller, and am not the least bit interested in seeing this one. Do me a favor and don't comment about how "yummy" Daniel Craig is, or I'll have to banish you from the blog.

Voting against: 

War Horse. I'm a Spielberg fan, so I'll follow him almost anywhere, but the ladies in the family are concerned that the horse of the title--not the people, mind you, who cares what happens to them--might be mistreated in the story. 

Voting against: 

Tin Tin. Again, Spielberg. Action, adventure, in an Indiana Jones kind of mood. Sign me up. But there's a holdout against motion capture animation who thinks it looks "stupid." Move on.

Voting against: 

Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows. Saw the first one a couple of Christmases ago and thought it was an okay action movie, more "James Bond Wakes Up in 1886" than Sherlock Holmes. No problem with waiting for Netflix on this one. Feel like we've done it already.

Voting against: 

The Artist. A black-and-white, almost entirely silent, drama about the beginning of the sound era in film. Gotten great reviews. Sure Oscar contender. Might even be interesting to watch.

Voting against:   and the film's distributor, which has not made it available in the state of New Jersey. Apparently we here in the provinces are too stupid to understand it until next year.

The Iron Lady. I'm not going to see a movie about Margaret Thatcher or J. Edgar Hoover. I don't care how good the performances are. I'd be squirming in my seat for two hours. No.

Voting against: 

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close: A 9/11 movie in which Tom Hanks, although his name is above the title, plays someone who doesn't make it out of the towers. How much do you think Tom is in the movie? I'm sure it's very uplifting. Pass.

Voting against: 

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: An adaptation of a John LeCarre novel that Alec Guinness already did really well on television decades ago. Great reviews, impressive cast, possibly not the most uplifting ever made, few laughs. Also might not be available in the Garden State.

Voting against: 

We Bought a Zoo: Good for you. Cameron Crowe. Treacly family "fun" about a widower who's so distraught he unwittingly buys--yup--a zoo. Luckily, Scarlett Johansson lives next door.

Voting against: 

My Week With Marilyn: Never been a huge fan of Marilyn Monroe. Don't really care what it was like to spend a week with her. Think the guy who wrote the book is trying to cash in on 15 minutes (or 7 days) of fame.

Voting against: 

Mission Impossible--Ghost Protocol: If I don't even understand the title, what chance do I have with the movie? Didn't care much for the first three. Am indifferent toward Tom Cruise. I like movies that have characters. Call me crazy.

Voting against: 

Young Adult: I don't like Diablo Cody.

Voting against: 

New Year's Eve: Don't be ridiculous.

Voting against: 

Already seen (by at least one family member): Hugo, The Descendants

The Chinese food is the easy part.

My Fellow Americans--Buy My Book

Jeff Cohen

There was a Page One story in the New York Times last week suggesting that one candidate for U.S. president (I'm not naming names, but the candidate in question is named for something John Cleese once claimed to have been turned into by a witch) was in fact squeezing the whole running-for-office thing in around his book signings. It was also speculated earlier in the campaign (when a certain ex-pizza-executive was still in the running) that another was selling books while making stump speeches and doing national TV interviews.

What a brilliant maneuver. You sell your books while making a half-hearted effort at running for office, getting your name, your face (and your book) all over the media and selling a whole bunch of hardcovers in the process. You face ridiculously high odds against ever taking office, but your book will hit the bestseller list in no time flat.

So today, my fellow Americans (and those dropping in from any other point on the globe, or Venus, or wherever), I am announcing my candidacy for the presidency of the United States. And while we're at it, why not take a look at the Haunted Guesthouse Mystery series and a few others? You can find them here at the official campaign site. 

My platform is simple: I have no chance at all to win. Part of the problem (beyond the fact that I've never held any elected office nor sought one, and that nobody on the planet has ever heard of me, and that I am uniquely unqualified for the job) is that when asked a question, I will generally answer, and that apparently is taboo in the politics biz. I also have actual positions on issues, which I will not detail here because people get prickly about such things, but I'll tell anybody who asks exactly what they are.

Some planks in my platform:

1. Buy my books.
2. Everybody should be treated fairly.
3. Bad people shouldn't be treated as fairly as everyone else.
4. Buy my books.

Simple, understated, and yet without substance whatsover. But like I said, I have no chance of winning and don't really want the job, so it's no harm, no foul. Also, unless they move the White House to New Jersey, it's unlikely my family and I will move. My daughter goes to Rutgers, and we need those in-state tuition rates.

At every campaign stop, I will be happy to sign any copy of any of my books that anybody wishes to buy. And please, if you feel the need to donate to the campaign, go ahead and buy some books. You won't just be helping the future of our great country--you'll be contributing to the American higher education system. Believe me.

It's about time we had a president with a stronger sense of humor. I like the current guy but hey, his books don't need any help. So I'll be starting off my campaign in February--a trifle late, but publishing is a tricky game--once OLD HAUNTS (and you can read the first chapter here) is published. Date and time to be determined. 

God bless you and god bless the United States of America. (When you're running for president, you have to say that wherever you go: "Here are the keys, valet. God bless you, and god bless the United States of America").

And Your Little Dog, Too!

Jeff Cohen

I have always hated The Wizard of Oz. There. I said it.

When I was little, I didn't look forward to the annual showings (on NBC) of the 1939 "classic" the way my brother and our cousin from next door did. They thought it was an amazing event, something to be thought about and savored and experienced as close to the TV screen as possible.

Frankly, it scared the living crap out of me, and I dreaded it.

But as I got older, and the prospect of finding a green scary witch in a crystal ball when one was expecting a protective parental figure (that was the moment that got me most) was no longer as frightening as it had once been, I realized I still couldn't stand that movie. When I got married and had children, and the inevitable "need" for them to see the thing was pressured upon me by others, I got it over with as quickly as possible and never took the tape out again.

I consider it one of the most overrated films of all time, and I honestly and truly don't understand why it seems everyone else believes Oz to be a cherished film they could--and do--watch over and over again. If I never have to see it for the rest of my life, I'm totally fine with that.

From a storytelling standpoint, let's analyze:

1. We start out with a "little girl" who appears to be about 20. She's living on a farm in Kansas with her aunt and uncle (the parents we never even hear about), and we can tell it's drab because Kansas is in black and white. Oddly, actual people from Kansas don't see this as a slight to their home state and have embraced this movie. Go figure people from Kansas. 

2. The girl is upset because some hag from down the road is going to take her dog away. This is accomplished with the consent of the aunt and uncle, who are such dishrags it's hard to understand why the girl is so attached to them. She goes out in the back and sings a rather tedious song about how she can't fly up into the sky and change her life. Since her life consists of hanging around in black and white, arguing with nasty women about dogs and singing tedious songs, it's easy to understand why.

3. Waddaya know, the girl gets her wish. Kansas is beset with a "twister," which you think means everyone has to put their left foot on red and their right hand on green (and that's going to be a problem, since Kansas is in black and white), but no, it's a tornado. The aunt and uncle flee to safety, but the girl isn't bright enough for that and endangers her dog and herself by staying in the house, which goes for a ride in the sky. Helen Hunt is nowhere to be seen, but the house lands somewhere the girl doesn't recognize. You'd think she'd sing some less tedious song about how happy she is now to be out of Kansas. No such luck. She's going to complain the whole movie.

4. Once she opens the door (to an "effect" that's as special as a guy changing the reel of film in the camera to color), she is beset upon by exposition. Characters pop out of every nook and cranny to explain what's going on and set out the plan for the rest of the story. You'd think there'd be a great song to go with this. Instead, they chant about a road made of yellow bricks until you want to throw yellow bricks at everybody to get them to shut up. Worst part: They never even tell you why they built a road out of yellow bricks to begin with. Overacting abounds. There are also unfortunate jokes about short people.

5. The girl, who has apparently committed negligent homicide, is told to go to the nearest city and seek out an authority figure who will fix all her problems. The idea that she solve her problems herself is never raised, nor is she given bus fare--she has to hoof it. She does meet three compadres along the way, each with a lugubrious scene in which the compadre of the moment sings an identical song complaining about something he doesn't have. Once again, the plan to go to the deus ex machina and ask for magical solutions is put in play, and nobody says, "Suck it up and work out a solution yourself." There are also unfortunate jokes about gay lions.

6. The midpoint is reached when the group of vagabonds arrives at the big city. You'd think the three guys would go off in search of tin, straw, and lionine women (or men), but they stick with the girl and get dolled up--three guys in a makeover scene while the girl looks exactly the same--to go see the authority figure who apparently runs the place. This is sort of like sending a girl and three oddballs to Chicago in the 1920s to see Al Capone, who would grant them clemency in the bootlegging wars. 

7. Problem: Capone's not so quick handing out favors. You want something from him, you've got to show your loyalty first. And how does a mob boss define loyalty? He puts out a contract on an enemy, and orders the girl and her pals to do the hit. THEN they'll get what they want, he implies. So you think the girl and her posse in this children's film would tell Al to forget their requests; they'll work out their own solution that doesn't involve bloodshed. No chance--they set out to liquidate the Boss' competitor, another purveyor of magic.

8. This is accomplished with the oldest trick in the screenwriting book: The accidental murder. The girl gets mad enough to splash the witch--who looks suspicously like the old hag who wanted to put her dog to sleep--with a bucket of water, and waddaya know, she's allergic to water and melts into the floor, all the while complaining. This leads one to believe the witch is made of sugar, because my mother always told me that I could walk through the rain and it wouldn't kill me because I wasn't made out of sugar. You'd think the powerful sorceress would use her last moments to lash out with some magic aimed at her assassin, but no, she just whines and complains like everybody else in this movie. And you have to wonder why someone who can die from water would have a bucket of the stuff lying around within flinging distance in her own home. Does Superman keep a Kryptonite room in the Fortress of Solitude? I think not.

9. The girl, her dog, and the three odd men trudge back to their capo's hideout, and demand all the stuff he said they'd get after they whacked the old lady. Sure enough, he goes back on his word, is shown to be a fraud, and tries to buy them off with Seaside Heights boardwalk prizes he says are special because of the thought behind them--the very argument every kid is asked to swallow when given socks as a birthday gift. You expect them to fling all this garbage back in the guy's face, but no, they thank him for the wonderful gifts of self esteem. 

10. The girl, who has been complaining the whole time about trying to get to black and white Kansas, is now told--by someone who could have said something 20 minutes into the picture and saved us a lot of grief--that she's been able to do that whenever she wanted by clicking her heels together and chanting that she wants to go home, clearly a pitch for some Hollywood religion of the time. Once again, a reasonable viewer might expect that the girl would pull off one of those shoes and beat the speaker senseless with the heels after all the tsuris she's been through, but she thanks her "benefactor" and follows the instructions.

11. The cheapest trick in the screenwriting book--the "it was just a dream" cop-out. This ENDS the movie. No song, no big twist, just "What you just saw all took place in the fever dream of a 20-year-old pretending to be a little girl." There is some hogwash about not looking for your dreams anywhere but in your own backyard, which is apparently meant to dissuade children from ever going out on their own and following their dreams. People should be throwing popcorn at the screen.

Instead, it's considered one of the great classics of Hollywood. People dress up in costumes. They go to actual theaters for singalong revival showings. They buy the props from the movie for exorbitant fees. Some of them find "alternate takes" on the story and make bad Diana Ross movies or blockbuster Broadway musicals.

Not me. I think it's a lousy movie, and I don't care who knows it. Demand more from your storytelling, people. You deserve it. Flying guys in monkey suits? Please.

No, These Are NOT Opinions.

Jeff Cohen

1. Best Enterprise captain? Kirk.

2. Best band? Beatles.

3. Best Bond? Connery.

4. Best director? Hitchcock.

5. Best team? Yankees (I'll allow for bias here, plus 27 championships).

6. Best Yankee? Gehrig. Seriously. Look up the numbers; they're frightening.

7. Best computer? Apple.

8. Best state? The one you live in.

9. Best religion? No such thing.

10. Best political party? Independent.

11. Best American president? Lincoln.

12. Best stand-up comedian? Cosby.

13. Best television comedy? The Dick Van Dyke Show.

14. Best writing method? Yours.

15. Best American novel? That's a stupid question.

16. Best novel ever? See previous answer.

17. Best movie? There are literally hundreds.

18. Best Beatles album? Rubber Soul.

19. Best Marx Brother? Harpo. 

20. Second best (very close to being best) Marx Brother? Groucho.

21. Best Marx Brothers movie? Any from ANIMAL CRACKERS to DUCK SOUP.

22. Best current screenwriter? Aaron Sorkin.

23. Best screenwriter ever? Bill Goldman or Ernest Lehman.

24. Best action movie? RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK.

25. Best STAR WARS movie? STAR WARS. No, there's no such thing as A NEW HOPE.

26. Best sport? Baseball.

27. Best sexual position? In favor.

28. Best actor? Bogart.

29. Best actress? Not sure there's just one. Hepburn (K.), Jean Arthur, Blythe Danner... I could go on. 

30. Best TV drama? The West Wing.

31. Best Hitchcock movie? NORTH BY NORTHWEST.

32. Best ice cream? Why, is there a bad one?

33. Best current TV show? The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

 

I'm sure no one disagrees. Right?

637 Words on Being Speechless

Jeff Cohen

It has been an unbelievable three days. And I'm not using that word in the sports sense (anything that's not the usual is "unbelievable"); I mean it literally. It's impossible for me to trust what's been going on.

Sometimes just when you think you can count on people, they go and do nice things for you, and you have to re-evaluate your whole life view.

My son, about whom I have bragged fairly frequently here, is now a senior in the film and video department of the Antionette Westphal (points for those who find that clue in one of my books!) College at Drexel University. One of the things a film major must do to graduate is make a film. Seems fair.

What they don't tell you freshman year (or maybe they do, but parents are left out of the conversation) is that you have to raise the budget for your senior project as well, and once Josh and his producer had figured out his needs for the script he wrote (which I think is very good, and I'm a pretty tough critic, he'll tell you), he needed about $6000 to make the 15-or-so-minute film. That's the price of filmmaking in the modern world.

Thing is, neither Josh nor his parents had an extra six grand lying around idle. THAT's the price of having two kids in college at the same time.

So he's fundraising. And I sent around an email to as many friends and relatives as I could possibly list, pointing out the disparity between what Josh had (not much) and what he needed (see previous, re: $6000). 

Meanwhile Josh set up a blog where he describes his film, SCAVENGERS, and where there is a button marked "DONATE" where one (or hopefully more) can do exactly that.

We hoped a few friends would kick in $25 or so ($35 buys you a DVD of SCAVENGERS when it's finished, and $100 gets "Executive Producer" credit). Maybe we'd run a few bake sales, and probably Josh would have to cut the budget some (although that would hurt the film, he thought) in these austere times. 

I had underestimated the generosity of the crime fiction community by an embarrassing amount. Within 18 hours of my mentioning SCAVENGERS on Twitter and Facebook, and within four hours of my sending out the email, Josh had raised more than half his ideal budget. The amazing propensity of my fellow authors, some of who are close friends and some of whom are friendly acquaintences, to help out has been overwhelming.

Really.

People I DON"T KNOW have contributed through a Twitter link. People I know a little have sent in staggering sums. People I know well have asked why it's taken me so long to ask them. No one--NO ONE--has told me I'm annoying and should go away.

As Groucho Marx once pointed out, "I'm not much for flowery sentiment," but this has really touched me. Yes, we still have a decent amount to raise, but the amazing speed and complete lack of hesitation shown by some of my favorite authors and friends has been astonishing and lovely. I can't express it completely, but everyone who threw in even a few dollars should know that I'm deeply moved by your thoughts and good wishes. Thanks to all.

And if you're at all interested, you can click here to get to Josh's blog page. He'll tell you about the story he wants to tell and how he wants to tell it. And if you'd like to help, believe me, anything you can do will be greatly appreciated.

I had intended a really sort of snarky post for this week, and the terrific people in the crime fiction world just wouldn't allow it (don't worry, it'll be here next week--never waste something already written). 

You just can't figure people. Isn't that great?

Pounding the Pavement for Elmo and Miss Piggy

Josh Getzler

The past few months have been like paradise for my son the Muppet fanatic. During the summer the Museum of the Moving Image in Queens, NY opened an exhibit about Jim Henson’s Fantastic World, with films of interviews about the entire oeuvre and an enormous variety of Muppet paraphernalia (including the original Kermit and the Muppet designed for Mayor Bloomberg). In addition, the Muppet movie is coming out in November, and last Friday saw the release of the documentary Being Elmo, about Muppeteer Kevin Clash. Finally, we received word that Frank Oz, who is the man behind Bert, Animal, Yoda, Fozzy Bear and Miss Piggy (among many others) was going to speak at the moving image museum. It’s a good time to appreciate the fuzzy and blue (and orange!).

Now that I’ve experienced some of these events, I’ve seen some interesting things, and I was surprised at how they relate to my writers.

The Muppets movie hasn’t been released yet, though its Facebook page is counting the days (as indeed it did the weeks and months before) with interesting and not-at-all-annoying updates that don’t beat us over the head with breathless anticipation but still keep it in our heads.

Being Elmo is a bit of a different animal (hah hah!). It’s a documentary, for one, rather than a caper, and it debuted at Sundance and other film festivals. It tells the story of Kevin Clash, the incredibly talented—and tall—and African-American!—man who plays Elmo. Clash frequently tells of having people come up to him and saying “I didn’t know that Elmo is black!” to which he responds “Elmo isn’t black—he’s furry and red! I’m black.” (Side note:  A couple of years ago, we had the opportunity to visit Sesame Street’s studio in Astoria and watch the show as it was filmed. Kevin Clash was directing, and it really is amazing and disconcerting to see him act as Elmo, in that voice, finish a scene, tuck the puppet under his arm, and speak like Kevin.)

Again, I’m not sure whether it was simply a fun confluence of events, but on Sunday in the space of two blocks there was a screening of Being Elmo and the Frank Oz speaking event—the number of forty-somethings (and30-somethings, and…) in Kermit t-shirts and Fozzy caps was remarkable.

The Frank Oz event was not simply sold out—it was sold out AND the simulcast in another theater in the museum was equally packed. According to the president of the Jim Henson Legacy foundation, who introduced Oz, part of the reason for that is that he “never does this kind of thing. He never goes to the Star Wars conventions, never goes to ComiCon, never makes the rounds.” After listening for the next two hours, I think I understand better why he doesn’t. He thinks of himself as a director, a performer; not a publicist. He doesn’t feel like he needs to go on tv and be asked, over and over, to “do” Animal or Bert. He tells a great story, and is a serious artist. But the time his eyes lit up and he truly became animated was when a boy not more than eight asked if Oz would sign his Fozzy doll. Oz called him up to the stage and not only told the boy stories but showed him how incredibly difficult it is to stand there with one arm up and act.

Last night, after our weekly Sing-off watch-fest with the kids (Go Afro-blue!), my wife and I turned on Jon Stewart, who announced that his guest was Kevin Clash, who was there promoting Being Elmo. When Clash came on, he simply took over the program. He was comfortable, charming, very funny, and had no problem whatsoever telling the story, in character, of how a stewardess once asked him to tell the passengers on an airplane to take their seats, and how his daughter used to ask Elmo to ask him to buy her stuff. It was dynamite, and would have made me want to see the movie even if I didn’t have all three kids begging for it.

So where’s the lesson? Well, it’s this: I have clients who love the stage, who are willing to travel around the country to speak, who are active on social media and understand how to use it; who are effortlessly witty and charming and instinctively draw the market toward them—the Kevins, as it were. Others are more reluctant, who prefer to have their body of work tell their story, who will appear occasionally, but entirely at their own terms, who can’t stand the idea of guest-blogging or tweeting or posting regularly on Facebook or maintaining a website. The Franks, as it were. They can certainly still reach their market. You just need to look harder for them.

(For the funniest two minutes ever on the Muppet show, click below)

 

Naming Rights are Going Fast!

Jeff Cohen

I can't believe I've never thought of this before.

For years I've been a fan of the documentarian Morgan Spurlock. With an easy ingratiating charm, Spurlock has created films about the fast-food plague in America (and everywhere else) by eating nothing but McDonald's food in SuperSize Me; he's looked (obviously, before this year) for Osama bin Laden; he's created a very good docu-TV series, 30 Days, in which a person tests his or her belief system by living with someone of very opposite views, for a month. Of course, 30 Days has been cancelled. That's TV.

Last year, Spurlock made a movie about product placement in the entertainment business and financed it entirely through--you guessed it--product placement. He called it Pom Wonderful Presents the Greatest Movie Ever Sold. And the pre-mise was that by draw-ing atten-tion to the "subtle" ways in which companies get their products noticed in movies, perhaps he could best educate people to what they are seeing, even if they usually don't notice it.

At around the same time, it was reported that the New Meadowlands Stadium (a name that was destined to test truth-in-advertising laws in only a few years), the home of the New York Giants and Jets--yes, they play in New Jersey, which makes you wonder how they're the New York Giants and Jets--had sold "naming rights" to MetLife for a cool $400-million. So it gets to be the MetLife Stadium for the next 25 years (or so).

I got the point, in spades.

In fact, I did everything but smite myself in the forehead. I should have considered this years ago. If the one thing that holds a writer back is the financial end of the business--and it is--then there's one way to eliminate the unpredictability of publishing and guarantee artistic freedom and a steady income.

That's right--I'm selling the naming rights to my next book.

Now, I should be clear about this, for many legal and ethical reasons. My REAL next book, OLD HAUNTS, is already named (it's called OLD HAUNTS) and will be on a bookshelf hopefully near you in February, which isn't nearly as far off as it used to be. So start saving your pennies, all 799 of them. (That's $7.99, and only if you're paying full retail.) I'll do the math for you--if you start now, that's a little over a nickel a day. But that's not the book we're discussing here.

And no, it's not even the book I'm writing at the moment, um, along with my dear friend E.J. Copperman (oh, we're the same person--there, I said it!). That book is #4 in the Haunted Guesthouse series, to be followed by--you guessed it!--#5 in the Haunted Guesthouse series. Since those are already contracted with Berkley Prime Crime, I'm sure they'd have some say in the naming rights and--the nerve!--expect some of the money. Good luck with that.

If you or your multinational corporation is interested in having its name plastered all over the cover of a bona fide Jeff Cohen novel (and who wouldn't be?), you'll be talking about a project not yet contracted to a publisher. There are two such works currently extant, and my agent Josh Getzler will be thrilled to discuss the naming rights with you. If you don't like either of those, don't worry; I'll write more.

I have a few ethical standards (not many, but a few), so tobacco companies, weapons manufacturers and Tea Party candidates will not be considered. Wait. Maybe the Tea Party people can name the book. What the hell; by the time it comes out, the election will be over anyway.

Companies that I believe are a perfect fit (since I already use their products):Apple, Coca-Cola (Caffeine-free Diet Coke--no spokesperson yet!), Toyota, the New York Times, the New York Yankees, Disney (both Land and World), Takamine (look it up), NBC/Universal (distributors of Marx Brothers DVDs), Hershey's, Nintendo (I work out with the help of the Wii every day and have lost 30 lbs--an endorsement opportunity if ever I saw one!), and more locally, Thomas Sweets ice cream and Sonny's Bagels (those last two were two reasons I had initially gained the 30 lbs.).

But I'll discuss any company you'd like to promote on the cover of my novel. Following Spurlock's lead, if you'd like me to mention the product inside the book, we can talk about it, but that will be extra. If a character suddenly settles down behind the wheel of a Volkswagen Jetta and happens to mention the 15.5 cubic feet of cargo space, you'll know why, dear reader.

I'll be happy to appear as a spokesauthor for your product, if you like. I can drive your car (assuming you comp me out one), wear your clothes (that is, your company's; not your own--that'd be creepy), eat your ice cream, play your guitar or write my next novel on your computer, assuming you work for Apple. That Windows stuff simply doesn't make any sense.

Now, I know what you're thinking--this seems too good to be true! Authors only make a couple of bucks for each book; they're used to living on cereal (I can endorse your cereal!) and huddling around a trash-can fire for warmth. You think you can place your product on my next book for peanuts. Well, not in the new Naming Rights economy.

Consider this: I have two kids in college AT THE SAME TIME. I expect the naming company to at least cover that. So cough up. Money.

Josh will be entertaining bidders (and by that, I mean sitting eagerly by his phone; he doesn't tap dance or anything--do you, Josh?). Imagine: (Your Company's Name) Presents: A Novel by Jeff Cohen.

It doesn't get better than that. Get bidding!

Smile, Mr. President!

Jeff Cohen

So far, I have no evidence that the President has seen this post. I'm shocked. I mean, it has his name in it and everything. Perhaps we need keywords.

This is not a political blog. Don't worry.

If there's one man (other than Muammar Gadaffi, who lost his country and can't even decide how to spell his own name) who really needs some cheering up these days, it must be President
Barack Obama. I mean, here's a guy who started out on such a high, good feelings, hope and, you know, change, and look how things have ended up so far. Some accomplishments, yes, but things are still a little challenging as we speak.

Imagine how he feels: The nation's (and, to be fair, the world's) economy is not exactly in great shape. Wars are being fought. A new political season is beginning, and his poll numbers (which are, at this point in time, meaningless) are not exactly sparkling. Here's a guy who truly must require a little bolstering.

And so I begrudge the President absolutely nothing in his choice of a time to go on vacation. Anybody who thinks he shouldn't take 10 days off and doesn't complain about Congress taking 30 days off simply isn't paying attention. 

But then comes this story, which chronicles the President's reading material--other than the work stuff he still has to carry around with him--during his "off days." And I have a message for Mr. Obama, which I sincerely hope he will see and take in the spirit in which it is being offered.

Mr. President: Lighten up.

Honestly. I understand that your job requires you to think deep thoughts, and that is your nature to begin with. But I got depressed just looking at the covers of the books you're reading. Not a smile in the bunch, and you're going to read them all in 10 days? That's pretty much a prescription for a cranky leader of the free world, and who benefits from that?

You see, Mr. President, I believe in the rejuvenative, therapeutic power of comedy. I think a good laugh does more for you than a ton of briefing memos (but keep reading those--I'm not suggesting you stop!) and "serious" novels. I think an amused mind is one that is more creative, more active, more useful than one burdened with problems both real--and you've got all of ours on top of yours to worry about--and fictional. 

Those fictional ones are the problems you can easily avoid. You need to do some REAL light reading, something that will lift your spirits and get you ready for the long slog ahead. 

So I am taking it upon myself to make a few modest suggestions for your vacation reading. Don't worry; it's not too late. Robin can have some of these to your Martha's Vineyard retreat in a flash. Others, well, I'm betting Bunch of Grapes has some, or can special order. You're the President. 

Suggested Reading for a Laugh or Two (Presidential Edition):

1. In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash, by Jean Shepherd. This collection of stories disguised as a novel is not only a nostalgic--but certainly not rose-colored--look at an earlier era, it's also hilarious. Shepherd could write like a dream and had total recall. If anyone asks, you can say you're reading it because the movie "A Christmas Story" was taken from one of its chapters.

2. Tilt-A-Whirl, by Chris Grabenstein. Introducing the stand-up, unassailable, absolutely perfect Officer John Ceepak and his slacker-ish but funny partner Danny Boyle, Grabenstein's first crime novel provides a strong mystery/thriller with the unmistakable New Jersey wit of its narrator. You need some more Jersey in you, Mr. President--take it from Ceepak and Danny.

3. Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Sometimes Zeppo, by Joe Adamson. I know; it's non-fiction and a professional biography at that. But Adamson writes about the Marx Brothers with such wit and in so close to the team's own style (very Groucho-influenced) that it's the fastest 443 pages you'll ever read. You can tell people you're boning up on military strategy by studying DUCK SOUP. No. Wait. Better not tell them that.

4. Flanagan's Run, by Tom McNab. Not strictly speaking a "comedy," in that it's not going for laughs, McNab's tall tale of an early-20th-Century footrace from Los Angeles to New York is a rollicking ride full of interesting characters, hairbreadth escapes, period detail and, just in case you're feeling homesick, a stop in Chicago. You won't laugh, but you'll smile. A lot.

5. Slugfest, by Rosemary Harris. Set not too far from where you are now, in Manhattan (and not the usual Connecticut setting), Harris's latest is a little more laugh-packed than her previous ones, and they weren't exactly downers, either. You can read her previous books on subsequent vacations, or on one of those nights when you inadvertantly watch Fox News and can't sleep (happens to me, too).

6. America: The Book, by Jon Stewart and the Writing Staff of the Daily Show. I know he's taken a few shots at you recently, but you have to admit, Stewart is without question the best political satirist at work today, and his "textbook" on the country is not only a dense, riotous parody, it also has some actual information you can use to wow them at cabinet meetings (the naked pictures of Supreme Court justices are probably best left unmentioned, though).

7. I could also recommend A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole, but it's not the history of the Tea Party you'd probably expect from the title, and I've never thought it was all that funny, to be honest.

Well, that ought to be enough to start with. But if you're REALLY in the need for a laugh, well, I'd be an idiot not to recommend that you click here or here. If you like the books you find there, please let everyone know. If not, well, say so, anyway. I don't mind selling books to Republicans.

Best of luck, Mr. President--Have a great vacation, and come back recharged! 

More Lists To Annoy You (Revised)

Jeff Cohen

A little while back, I got a new comment on my lists of best and not-best things. And since it seems at least some people are still interested in a post that went up last October, I figured I'd get the arguments started once again with a few new topics that might veer a bit from the subject of crime fiction writing in spots:

Again, these are in no particular order. #1 isn't necessarily better than #8 in any category.

Best Songs Built on a Guitar Run

1. Day Tripper
2. Up Around the Bend
3. I Feel Fine
4. Satisfaction
5. What Is Life?
6. A Hazy Shade of Winter
7. Born to Run (with obvious saxophone assist)
8. Oh, Pretty Woman
9. My Girl
10. Layla

Best Actors To Watch in Anything

1. Humphrey Bogart
2. Gene Wilder
3. Bob Hoskins
4. Cary Grant
5. Harpo Marx
6. James Stewart
7. Sidney Poitier
8. Peter O'Toole
9. Alan Arkin
10. Tom Hanks

Best Actors To Watch In Their Signature Roles

1. Alan Alda (Hawkeye Pierce)
2. Anthony Hopkins (Hannibal Lecter)
3. Harrison Ford (Indiana Jones)
4. Groucho Marx (Groucho Marx)
5. Alec Baldwin (Jack Donaghy)
6. Marty Feldman (Eye-gore)
7. Robert Vaughn (Napoleon Solo)
8. Martin Sheen (Josiah Bartlet)
9. Anthony Perkins (Norman Bates)
10. Kevin Costner (Ray Kinsella or Crash Davis)

Best Actors Not To Watch in Anything

1. Zeppo Marx
2. Stewart Granger
3. George Lazenby
4. Desi Arnaz
5. Keanu Reeves
6. Ben Affleck
7. Chris Farley
8. Leonardo di Caprio
9. Keir Dullea
10. Adam Sandler

 

Best Actresses To Watch in Anything

1. Katharine Hepburn
2. Frances de la Tour
3. Jean Arthur
4. Julie Andrews
5. Mary Louise Parker
6. Barbara Hershey (except Beaches)
7. Madeline Kahn
8. Cloris Leachman
9. Mary Tyler Moore
10. Karen Allen

 

Best Yankees I Have Seen Play Live (Go ahead--argue with THIS one!)

1. Mickey Mantle
2. Thurman Munson
3. Derek Jeter
4. Ron Guidry
5. Mariano Rivera
6. Reggie Jackson
7. Willie Randolph
8. Tino Martinez
9. Graig Nettles
10. Don Mattingly

 

English Phrases That Must Be Eliminated

1. Man up
2. But yet
3. Awesome
4. Instant classic
5. Death benefit
6. Hells yes
7. Folks (this is aimed at politicians, especially when referring to terrorists)
8. Hubby (Ask your spouse if he likes this one. But make it clear he can answer honestly.)
9. All-Star Game
10. Word (as if saying, "Yes, that is true. I agree.")

Movies That Could Be Watched Once A Week

1. Horse Feathers
2. North By Northwest
3. Galaxy Quest
4. The Stunt Man
5. Casablanca
6. A Hard Day's Night
7. Diner
8. Raiders of the Lost Ark
9. Young Frankenstein
10. The Maltese Falcon

Brilliant Comedians

1. Jon Stewart
2. Groucho Marx
3. Bill Cosby
4. Lewis Black
5. Elayne Boosler
6. Steve Martin
7. Richard Jeni
8. Robert Klein
9. Bugs Bunny
10. Mel Brooks

No, I'm Serious. Seriously.

Jeff Cohen

In a recent interview in Entertainment Weekly, the actor Gene Hackman, now 81 and apparently retired from acting and writing thrillers (who knew?), lamented, "I don't think I'll ever be considered a serious writer". (It's possible "lamented" is an overstatement.)

Wow. All I could think when I read that was, "I hope nobody ever considers me a serious writer."

I mean that. If people read my books and come away thinking deep thoughts about the nature of life and how it's all hopeless, complex, depressing and above all, serious, I have badly screwed up the mission with to which I have assigned myself. I'm trying very hard to be the antidote to Serious, the kind of writer whose readers--and I know who both of you are--look forward to with a smile of anticipation. I want you to think, right before my novel is checked out at the bookstore or the library, or shows up in your mailbox, "Now, this is going to be fun."

It's easy enough to be convinced of the Serious of life. In fact, it's damn hard not to be overcome with it; Serious is everywhere. Serious lives in hospitals, in nursing homes, police stations, unemployment offices, homeless shelters, on 24-hour news stations, in courtrooms and barrooms and back rooms where deals are made. Serious is what most of us spend the larger part of our lives either trying to contain or trying to deflect. When your doctor informs you that you need tests for something, your first question is usually, "Is it serious?" You never tremble while asking, "Is it SILLY?"

Those of us who traffic in comedy are doing our very best not only to avoid Serious, but if possible to deny its very existence. We don't avoid TRUTH, mind you--comedy is at its best when it tells the truth. What we do is take Serious and make it look silly. 

Nobody believes that there are talking rabbits wearing white gloves who outwit hunters and feud with ducks. No one thinks a French detective so inept that he can't open his own apartment door without ripping his pants to shreds can constantly prevail in solving crimes. There isn't a soul on this planet who is truly convinced that a man with a greasepaint mustache and eyebrows can be president of a country or a college.

But when they think of Bugs Bunny, Inspector Clouseau or Groucho Marx, people smile fondly and they remember. They don't need to be reminded.

Everybody believes that white blood cells are called leukocytes. They're certain that Vilnius is the capital of Lithuania. They know for a fact that Congress is going to raise the country's debt ceiling before August 2. And yet, when they consider any one of these serious matters, is there a fond smile on their faces? There is not.

For some inexplicable reason, people are convinced that Serious things are more important than the things that lift their spirits and make life the kind of experience it should be--an enjoyable one to be cherished. They say that things which make us laugh are "silly," as if that was a bad thing. If you say something they think is wrong, they'll tell you to "be serious." And, more to the point, if you proclaim your intention to make them laugh, they might smile and nod at you, but their respect will go to the others, who do their best to depress with Serious. It is an interesting commentary on our society that there are at least six awards in the United States for best mystery novel of the year, and a grand total of one for funniest.

I celebrate those who can successfully amuse  me. In fact, I tell others about them as a fan of opera might spread the word about an exciting new tenor. Finding someone who can make us laugh is a huge stroke of luck; it is something that must be shared. I speak their names with awe and reverence, two things I almost never exhibit. I thank them for their efforts, especially the ones that can make me laugh no matter how many times I've seen them do the same thing before. I have a great deal more respect for a good comedian than I do for any head of state I have ever observed.

So please don't ever tell me I'm a serious writer. Do I work hard at my craft? I certainly do. Do I respect the work I'm trying to create? Absolutely. Will I toil and sweat to give you a reading experience that seems like it flowed naturally and never show you the seams and the stitches? I will do my very best to achieve that goal. Will I ever write something Serious?

My god, I hope not.

The Holy Scripture of Marx (not Karl)

Jeff Cohen

Note: This post is NOT about religion or the lack thereof. Don't let the first two paragraphs fool you.

I am a non-believer. That is, I don't think there is any kind of cognizant supreme being taking care of every little detail on this planet or any of the other ones. In other words, I'm an atheist.

Contrary to popular belief, most of us who are without religion are not necessarily trying to strip you of yours. Personally, I think you should believe what you believe, and I'll continue to believe what I believe. As long as you don't try to convince me otherwise, I'll do the same in return.

But. I do completely understand why those who do believe are so fervent about and affectionate toward the bible, or whatever version of it they might read and/or carry around. I absolutely get the idea of re-reading the book on a regular basis, of quoting it extensively and of committing portions of it to memory. I am right in line with that thinking.

I understand it because I have Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Sometimes Zeppo: A Celebration of the Marx Brothers and a Satire on the Rest of the World, by Joe Adamson.

Please believe me: There is no irony intended in what I've said. This book, a perfectly written history of the greatest film comedy team in history, is my version of the bible. I read it whenever I'm not reading something else. I can easily quote you extended portions of it off the top of my head. I have not set out to memorize the book, but through sheer repetition and appreciation of it, I have large sections of it implanted on my cerebral cortex.

It's not quite as well delineated (chapter and verse) as the bible, but it's a lot funnier.

I first read Groucho, Harpo... when I was in high school, a new convert to the Temple of Marx. (And yes, I believe in comedy. I think it's therapeutic and important, and necessary. It is the thing in which I place my faith.) It's a big book--443 pages in trade paperback, the edition I'd picked up on a whim--and I was so riveted by it, I took it with me wherever I went, grabbing a page here or there until I was finished. Then I read all the notes in the back. (Some of them are hilarious, others just full of information.) Then I read the whole book again.

All right, so I won't say it changed my life, but it sure did get me interested. 

It's one thing to write, as Adamson has, a comprehensive professional biography (with some personal details, but not that much--the work is what matters here) of the Marx Brothers, who made 13 films, of which at least two were among the best ever made, six were wonderful, three were acceptable, and two were downright lousy. It's another thing to assess the work objectively and explain what went into its creation. But it's something else again to write it in a style that mirrors the subject, all the while being perfectly serious in its intent.

Consider: Adamson begins his book with a number of quotes about the Marx Brothers, the last of which is from Arthur Sheekman, who says that no book on comedy has ever been funny. Adamson then writes: 

"Arthur Sheekman is one of the Marx Brothers' better writers, and he should know. Some day he must write a book on the subject, and then his statement wouldn't be true, and then he wouldn't know, and we'd be back where we started." That in the first real paragraph of his book. So we know what we're in for. And it's a great ride.

Without taking sides in the traditional Marx debates (who's the funniest, whether the Paramount movies are better than the MGMs), Adamson imparts his opinions as he relates the facts. It's clear which is which and for more than 30 years now, I have agreed with almost everything he says (my opinion of Horse Feathers is higher than Adamson's, although I see his point).

I always pick up Adamson's book (he also wrote a very good one about Bugs Bunny) intending to read just one section, and inevitably end up going back to the beginning and scouring it from cover to cover one more time. It's infectious in its writing, even when the reader (like, for example, me) knows all the information being imparted by heart, and could in fact write a book on the subject himself. Except that it's already been done, and better.

So I get the whole bible thing. I even try to proselytize, like I'm doing here, trying to get other to see the genius that I see. Just take a look at this paragraph, about an early (in fact, the first) treatment of what would become A Night at the Opera:

"At one point, McGuinness (the writer) informs us that 'Pio returns from Rome and Lili gives him the air. He blames this on Groucho and assembles his behemoths march forth to vengeance. [That's right, Operator, assembles his behemoths march forth to vengeance.] There is nothing for it but to leave Italy at once.' In America, a furor develops over whether
Lili should be allowed to do the seduction scene from Faust on the stage, and, on the preposterous pretext that Lili is supposed to rest her vocal speaking cords, she must argue the matter in song--which progresses, naturally and inevitably, in true sports-writer-sense-of-humor fashion, into a singing argument between Lili, Groucho, and Chico. Why these two rebellious rapscallions should be offended by a seduction scene is a mystery. Almost as much of a mystery as why Lili shouldn't rest her vocal singing cords, if she's going to appear in an opera. But the best mystery is what the difference between a singing cord and a speaking cord might be. McGuinness wrote a mystery."

(And you thought I wasn't writing about mysteries this week!)

If that doesn't convert you, try this: "The sentences of Groucho Marx, like our vast, ambitious mental enterprises, lose their way, fail to accomplish what they set out to accomplish, and are proud of it. Groucho is the vicious outsider who knows all your pontificating is going to come to nothing and is dead set on beating you to it."

We true believers are enthralled.

That's Funny?

Jeff Cohen

Let me be very clear about this: I did not go to see The Hangover Part 2 this past weekend. Mostly, I did not go because I found about 1.5 seconds of The Hangover (now Part 1, I guess) amusing.

But I don't think people who liked this particular tale of drunken men in arrested stages of adolescence are stupid. I don't. I will readily concede that comedy is without question the most subjective of art forms, and is in my opinion hard-wired into your head when you're born. There are things you're going to find funny, and things you're not, and there is no power on Earth that will ever be able to change your mind.

See, laughter is not an intellectual process. It's emotional and elemental. Nothing in your brain says, "Why, that's quite amusing! I believe I'll make a sound like this--ha, ha, ha!" Laughter is much more reflexive; it's like sneezing. And it is the only emotional response that actually makes you feel better. (Yes, there is a hormone released when one is feeling love, but that's not what I'm talking about.) Laughter really IS the best medicine, except when you need an antibiotic.

So I understand when some readers don't think what I write is funny. I disagree with them; don't get me wrong. I think what I write can be hilarious at times. That's why I sat down to write it in the first place (that, and because writing an entire novel standing up would be murder on my lower back). But if it doesn't hit you the right way, honestly, I get that. 

What strikes me is the way some people think they can convince me that I'm not funny. They (and this doesn't happen very often, but once in a while) sincerely seem to believe that they can show me the error in my ways, explain in no uncertain terms why my prose is not the lease bit amusing, and that will be it. I'll simply smite myself in the forehead and turn to more worthy pursuits like writing something that will make me want to slash my own wrists.

Here's the thing, America (and anywhere else): You can't convince me. No more than I can convince you, displaying charts, dictionary definitions and quotes from scripture, that I have written something funny. I'll continue to think of stuff I think is funny and you can read it or not. In a Democracy (and almost every other system of government), nobody is required to read my books. 

By the same token, I'm not required to write something serious. It's a win-win.

As part of my screenwriting class, I show clips to illustrate points. One of them is from a Laurel and Hardy feature called Way Out West, one of the few of their features I think is really funny (others have varying opinions). The clip includes quite some time of Stan Laurel being tickled, and laughing hysterically.

After the clip was shown, one of my students looked up, blinked, and asked, "What's with that guy with the hat?"

It's subjective.

So I don't have to go see The Hangover Part 2. 

Odds, Bodkins, and Even Odder Bodkins

Jeff Cohen

I've figured out how to fix the economy, and it can't possibly fail: Let's turn the financial stewardship of the country over to the people who run the New York Yankees. Think about it: Every year they spend money like drunken sailors, and still manage to make a profit so huge they can continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Isn't that the kind of leadership we need?

A word of warning: Don't expect coherency this week. That said, let's on, shall we?

What's a bodkin, and what makes them so odd? (Hint: the picture to the right is of a bodkin.)

Okay, here's the deal, people: Whether you think the country went to Hell in a handbasket in 2008 or the beginning of this month, the fact of the matter is that there will probably still be a United States of America in four years or so. Will it be perfect? Of course not. Could it be better? Hell yeah. But is the end coming? Not anytime soon. Cool your jets.

When I see reviews of a book or a movie that uses the word "devastating" or the word "shattering," I wonder what those critics think we look for in entertainment. "Let's go out tonight, honey--I understand this movie will completely shatter me emotionally and leave me a devastated wreck." "Sounds great; I'll get my purse!"

Bill Maher, whose opinions I share more often than not but whose persona leaves me somewhat cold, called out Jon Stewart for not being biased enough at the Rally to Restore Sanity. That's sort of like Dr. Sanjay Gupta complaining that Gregory House is unfairly cold to his patients. It wasn't a real political rally, Bill!

People ask me if I prefer they buy my books on paper or in e-book form. If you want to read my book, I don't care if you buy it as a series of adorable samplers. Just buy the book!

I'm cranky because it's no longer baseball season. I'm 53 years old and the lack of the Yankees on my TV screen every night unnerves me. Can therapy help ?

I have a story in the current issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (it's called THE GUN ALSO RISES, and starts on page 130, but hey, no pressure). Now, I'm aware that Alfred has been dead for quite some time now, and that he never really had much to do with the magazine even while still breathing, but having my work in anything with his name on it is a kick. I have been a Hitch fan since I was about 11 years old.

Is it ominous that reading my own writing makes me sleepy?

I practice regularly and try very hard. I enjoy the experience and I have improved. But the fact remains that I could take lessons and work day and night at my playing for the next 20 years, and I would end up as a decent amateur guitarist who can't just make the instrument make whatever sound is in my head. I remind myself of this whenever I read writing by people who do something else for a living because that other thing is what they're good at.

I'll get rid of my landline when they make a cell phone that sounds as clear and is as reliable as a landline. Or when they stop making landlines.

Every year my family goes to a movie and for Chinese food on Christmas day. The jockeying for choice of movie usually starts around Labor Day. This year, nobody's so much as suggested a title yet. Uh-oh.

By the way, on a holiday note: Chanukah starts on DECEMBER FIRST? Whose idea was THAT?

And when Santa Claus starts showing up in TV commercials before the end of the World Series, something has gone seriously wrong in this world. I realize I'm on the outside looking in, but Christians, you need to scale back. Having a 12-month holiday season would not be a healthy thing.

On the topic of baseball, this is the time of year when free agents are being wooed. They will tell you it's not about the money. It's about the money. They will tell you they have to consult their families. It's about the money. They will tell you it's always been their dream to play for this franchise. It's about the money.

They will take the money, and then some of them will be truly awful no matter what they're paid. But it was about the money.

And just to clarify--if publishers were waving tens, in some cases hundreds of millions of dollars in my face to write a book, I will tell you directly--it would be about the money. Yes, it would. And I'd be happy to cash the check.

I'm done with The Office. It's become a show about people who are serially unpleasant to each other for no discernible reason. Enough. I've just freed up 22 minutes of my week.

You should take a look at The Good Men Project Magazine. Not only is it a terrific idea that sends its revenues to excellent causes, they let me write for them on occasion, as well.

I'm writing two books at the same time, and I've never done that with two novels before. One's a spec book, so naturally I'm closer to finishing that one. And it's always exciting when you're coming in for a landing. Hopefully I'll be able to do that twice in the next six weeks.

Pitchers and catchers report in 91 days.

Why Isn't Everybody Talkin'? (Slightly revised)

Jeff Cohen

Thanks to the miracle that is Netflix, this past weekend I was able to watch John Scheinfeld's wonderful documentary Who Is Harry Nilsson (and Why Is Everybody Talkin' About Him)? I've been a loyal fan of Nilsson's since roughly seventh grade, so I knew the answer(s) to the title question(s). But it was a joy to hear his friends describe the singer/songwriter whose two biggest hits as a singer were on songs he didn't write and whose biggest hits as a songwriter were on songs he didn't sing.

It got me thinking about the art of entertainment, and how some of the greatest practitioners of that art are considered second-class in their fields because they are not "serious" enough.

If only I could have a friend/who'd stick with me until the end/and we would stay away from crowds/and signs that said 'No Friends Allowed.'

Nilsson, who was what one survivor describes as "a singer's singer," had a voice that defies description, except to say that he could sing anything and you'd want to hear it. As a songwriter, he was incapable of writing something boring. He loved melody, but he soared in harmony. One critic reviewing an album of his complained that Nilsson had not credited all the wonderful background singers who had added so much to his work. Nilsson hadn't credited them because they were all him.

Harry Nilsson was asked to write a song for the film Midnight Cowboy, and he came up with a true classic that really fit the story and the mood of the film. The producers opted not to use "I Guess The Lord Must Be in New York City," but instead took the already-recorded and released track they'd been using as a filler on the footage: Nilsson's cover of Fred Neil's "Everybody's Talkin'."

I'll say goodbye to all my sorrow/and by tomorrow/I'll be on my way/I guess the lord must be in New York City.

Nilsson wrote songs for the Monkees ("Cuddly Toy") and Three Dog Night ("One"), both of which he had recorded himself. He covered songs written by members of Badfinger ("Without You," Nilsson's biggest hit single) and an entire album of standards (A Little Touch of Schmillson in the Night, considered "the best make-out album ever made"), before that became a rite of passage for aging pop singers.

He wrote songs for children and for adults. He played keyboards, guitar, drums and who knows what else. He personally lifted songs by Ringo Starr and many others with his background vocals. He was a friend to all four Beatles, at least two Monkees, both Smothers Brothers and most anyone else involved in the music business in the 60s and 70s especially.

You gotta have soap/to wash your sins away/and you gotta have hope/that's the price you gotta pay/and you gotta give love/or your love will walk away/and you gotta stay loose/it's the only way to stay.

Harry Nilsson wrote a fable for children that resonated with adults. The Point was a brilliant rumination on being different and why people fear what is different. It was also, Nilsson liked to say, the longest pun in history, and it was born, according to its creator, as a result of recreational drug ingestion of one kind of another.

Nilsson was a very serious ingestor. He was clearly an alcoholic, used a good deal of cocaine and in the words of one of his friends, "Whatever was around, Harry would take it." Eventually, this and his lifelong addiction to nicotine conspired to attack his heart, and ended his life at the age of 52. He had seven children, and left behind two ex-wives and a loving widow. 

Sit beside the breakfast table/think about your troubles/pour yourself a cup of tea/and think about the bubbles.

During his career, Harry Nilsson created a great many wonderful songs, probably even more wonderful recordings, and one indisputably great album. Nilsson Schmilsson, which held his aforementioned biggest hit single "Without You," combined Nilsson's enormous singing and songwriting talents with those of probably the best pop music producer of the time, Richard Perry, and in one of those odd accidents that happen every now and again in entertainment, the combination at that moment was absolutely perfect.

From "Gotta Get Up," the first song recorded and the album's opening number, to "Jump Into the Fire," which was a little too long but that was okay, this was a record--yeah, vinyl that RCA insisted was thinner and better, and you had to flip it in the middle--that demanded to be listened to whether you were a fan of the artist or not going in.

There was a time when we could dance until a quarter to ten/we never thought it would end, then/we never thought it would end.

During John Lennon's fabled "Lost Weekend" in Los Angeles in 1973, he and Nilsson collaborated on some binges of legendary proportion, and also on the Nilsson album Pussycats. But during the recording process, Nilsson ruptured a vocal chord and kept the information to himself, concerned that Lennon would halt the sessions. His voice recovered eventually, but never completely.

Around this time, Nilsson met his third wife Una, and embarked on a love affair that lasted to his death in 1994. They had six children together, and although Harry would still go off on his drinking and drugging escapades, the couple had a fairly stable family life.

I'm gonna wake up every morning/come home every evening/just jump into bed/and lie there and laugh with my wife.

Harry Nilsson is not a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; he has never even been on the short list for inclusion. Although his music remains fresh and accessible, he is not mentioned as one of the more influential artists of his time. His prodigious songwriting output is not recognized for its intelligence and originality. His voice, which was universally considered among the best ever to sing popular music, is not mentioned in the same breath as Frank Sinatra's or Paul McCartney's.

There are those who will argue that aside from Schmilsson, Nilsson never made a whole classic album, and maybe they have a point (although Harry comes damn close). But I'll contend that Nilsson isn't considered a great artist because he made it seem too easy, and because his art was too entertaining. He was too good at what he did to gain recognition for the genius he brought to it.

Those who do the best work to please an audience are often overlooked until late. Until late in his life, Alfred Hitchcock was considered a director of vulgar entertainments and never received a competitive Academy Award. Groucho Marx accepted an honorary Oscar as well--when he was in his eighties. Charles Dickens was not considered a great novelist until he was dead. Crime novelists like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler were not recognized for their style and technique until after they died. In his lifetime, Vincent Van Gogh sold a grand total of no paintings to anybody but his brother. 

Why is it we don't value people who care about giving us their art and hoping we like it?

This documentary came at just the right time, maybe. If the world is ready to recognize Harry Nilsson, this should be the moment to do so. How do you start a Facebook campaign? Anybody?

Turn on your radio, baby/listen to my song/turn on your nightlight/baby, baby I'm gone.

 

By the way: If you've read this far, thank you. But you might also want to take a look at the issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine that is officially available tomorrow: It contains a new Aaron Tucker story, "The Gun Also Rises," and I'd love to hear from Aaron's loyal fans again. What do you think? Don't hesitate to let me know!

Opinions Guaranteed To Annoy You

Jeff Cohen

In no particular order:

 

The Ten Funniest Comedies Ever Made

1. Duck Soup
2. Young Frankenstein
3. Horse Feathers
4. My Favorite Year
5. Bringing Up Baby
6. Tootsie
7. A Shot in the Dark
8. The Producers
9. Singin' in the Rain
10. Sullivan's Travels

NOT:

1. Some Like It Hot
2. There's Something About Mary
3. The Hangover
4. The Pink Panther
5. Look Who's Talking
6. A Day at the Races
7. Knocked Up
8. Dr. Strangelove
9. It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World
10. Caddyshack

The Ten Best TV Shows Ever

1. Hill Street Blues
2. The Dick Van Dyke Show
3. The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (first two seasons)
4. The West Wing (first four seasons)
5. Homicide--Life on the Street
6. Star Trek (NOT the third season)
7. NBC's Saturday Night (Live)
8. M*A*S*H (first four seasons)
9. Sesame Street
10. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart

NOT:

1. The Sopranos
2. I Love Lucy
3. Star Trek--The Next Generation
4. Law and Order
5. All in the Family
6. E.R.
7. Seinfeld
8. Lost
9. Murder, She Wrote
10. Mad Men

The Ten Best Mystery Novels Ever Written

1. Yeah, like I'm going to list those.

The Ten Most Overrated Movies Ever Made

1. Gone With the Wind
2. The Wizard of Oz
3. The Hurt Locker
4. Titanic
5. Citizen Kane (dies after its terrific first hour)
6. Lawrence of Arabia
7. Schindler's List
8. The Empire Strikes Back
9. Vertigo
10. Guess Who's Coming To Dinner

(You should have seen the "Most Underrated" List I deleted because even I didn't agree with it.)

 

Unrecognized National Treasures

1. Gene Wilder
2. Jim Croce
3. Phoebe Snow
4. Laraine Newman
5. Susan Werner

Recognized, But Treasures Nonetheless

1. Jon Stewart
2. Paul Simon
3. Robert B. Parker
4. Derek Jeter
5. Carole King

Greatest Acoustic Guitar Performances

1. George Harrison--"Here Comes the Sun"
2. Maury Meuhleisen--"One Less Set Of Footsteps"
3. Paul Simon--"Peace Like A River"
4. Phoebe Snow, Jimmy Vivino--"Big Leg Blues"
5. Paul McCartney, "Blackbird"

 

Go ahead, feel free to argue. I don't even agree with them all myself.

Welcome to Orientation

Jeff Cohen

Welcome! So you've entered the publishing process and now, things look a little scary. You've heard about agents who have tiny hearts, editors who only buy one book a century, bookstores that won't buy anything without the name "Patterson" on the front cover, and cover art with unnecessary cats. So maybe you're a little overwhelmed as you enter the business for the first time.

We know it's hard to do, but relax. Things aren't as difficult as they seem. They're worse than that, but you have talent, you have determination, and you have something nobody would have predicted before--a support group of other authors who, instead of viewing you as the competition, will try to help you through the rough spots. 

Here's your orientation check list. Pay careful attention to it, and make sure you don't take the points out of order. Check each one before moving on to the next. And above all, good luck! Because you're gonna need it.

Orientation Checklist

1. Don't write a lousy book. Oh yes, we know you've turned very cliche on its ear, punctured every expectation, and written the most original book since the King James Bible. But first of all, no you haven't, and second, it had better be readable, too. 
2. Show it to people who don't love you already. Your mom thinks everything you do is terrific; she's still bragging about your fingerpainting skills from kindergarten. You think you're going to get objective criticism from your spouse? Who might want to, you know, keep living with you? Find readers who know you, but won't care about dashing your hopes and pointing out the rough spots. Friends don't let friends write bad.
3. Don't believe what you've heard about agents. They like reading good books, and will champion good books. If you think agents are mean to you, maybe you have to go back to Step #1.
4. Talk to your editor. Don't write 350 pages of something and then have the editor who bought it based on a 50-page proposal tell you that it's not what you'd agreed up. Maybe you don't need to send out 50-page chunks for perusal (the editor probably doesn't have that kind of time anyway), but at least keep in touch.
5. You're not perfect. You will receive criticism and edits from your editor (you'll recall "edit" is part of the job title). They're not always right, but they often are. Get over yourself. Sometimes, things need fixing.
6. Don't always do the easy thing. Yeah, you can fix problems with one word or one sentence--but is that the best way to do it? Sometimes it is... and sometimes it's not. Be objective in deciding which this is.
7. If you have a great premise, remember that sometime soon, you'll be stuck in the middle. And whether there are clowns to the left and you and jokers to the right, you still have to get through it. Plan ahead. That doesn't mean you have to outline every last plot point until you're blue in the pencil. It means you have to have at least an exit strategy. Know where you want to go, and then see if you end up there.
8. You don't have to do EVERYTHING your editor says, either. Sometimes, you'll find that you like your original idea just fine, and you don't see the problem. Yes, be open to suggestion. Yes, put in the work when there's a real problem. But if you think the way you wrote it the first time really does work the best, stand up for your work.
9. Have a cover suggestion ready. If you don't, you can't really complain when the artist comes up with something, you know, else. When you're asked, don't say, "Oh, I don't know. That's not my area of expertise." Think ahead.
10. Help other authors when they need it, if they ask or not. At least offer. This is a good fraternity/sorority. Don't screw it up by being selfish.

All right, you're on your way--now get out there and conquer the publishing world!

By the way: If you REALLY want the final update on the LP-(and singles)-to-Digital Conversion Project, click here. The list is complete, until I add more.

Catch This Phrase, Buddy!

Jeff Cohen

Stephen King wrote a column for Entertainment Weekly magazine (remember magazines?) a while back in which he divided the world into two kinds of families: Those that employ catch phrases from popular culture, and those that don't.

My family definitely falls into the former category. So I think Mr. King would find us passable, or something. (Steve, if you're out there reading this, first of all, hi! But also, feel free to drop on by sometime and we'll swap catch phrases.)

A good catch phrase is one that serves two purposes, at least: 1. It helps to clarify a current situation through a reference to a fictional one everyone involved will remember; and 2. It creates unity among those who "get" the reference, thereby bonding them together (and, better, excluding those who don't). That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it.

Here are a few of my family's catch phrases:

1. When one of us believes another has, perhaps, gone a little heavy on the salt or something at dinner: "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?" 
2. When a situation takes a turn in an unfavorable direction: "Could be worse. Could be raining."
3. When we're planning a family activity (even an errand we have to see to together): "We're not going there. We just put it 'round we're going there."
4. When some detail of the day needs to be coordinated: "I have a plan. A very famous plan."
5. When someone uses the phrase, "Whatever it is," it is necessary in my family to respond, "I'm against it."
6. I don't think there's a family left in America that can ask the question, "Is it safe?" without employing a German accent.
7. By the same token, words like "bump," "room," and "solved" are all to be said with a bad French accent.
8. When pointing out something incredibly obvious: "What hump?"
9. When a bon mot falls flat: "It's a joke!" (Bad Scottish accent necessary)
10. When someone orders a BLT at the diner: "You can't! There's Jews here!"
11. When getting a little agitated: "I'm hysterical! I'm wet and I'm hysterical!" This can be followed by "I'm in pain, and I'm still hysterical," if the situation is really grim.
12. When being asked to do something you don't usually do: "Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a (fill in the profession)!"
13. When disappointed: "You make me sad. Come, Patsy!"
14. When in need of a hug: "Firm embrace!" (This is best said with a slight Brooklyn accent.)
15. And of course, whenever sitting in a swivel chair and turning to face someone: "So, Meestah Bond..." (Best when pretending to stroke a cat.)

What are some of your catch phrases?

1. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid 
2. Young Frankenstein
3. Help!
4. Help! 
5. Horse Feathers (We are all Marx Brothers fans, and I could have added six or seven more from the freres, including "Atsa fine," "Get tough," "Upstart!" "Chevalier, eh?" and "              ", which quotes Harpo.)
6. Marathon Man. Duh!
7. The Pink Panther series
8. Young Frankenstein, again. I could have added "Behind ze bookcase," "werewolf--there wolf!," or a horse whinny, but I was exhibiting restraint
9. The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson (whose Scottish accent is anything but bad)
10. My Favorite Year
11. The Producers (1968)
12. Star Trek (another candidate: "You canna change the laws of physics!" and in this case the Scottish accent really does have to be bad)
13. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
14. A specific reference to Mel Brooks's appearances on Mad About You as Uncle Phil
15. I won't insult your intelligence.

The LP-to-Digital Conversion Project is over. Probably. I still have to check with my brother and my mother to make sure I didn't leave any stragglers with them when I moved out of the house 30 years ago. But if you want to see a list of all the albums now converted to CD in my collection, click here.While there, feel free to hit "follow" and find out when there's a new post. Next week, I'll post all the singles already converted.

Choose Your Marx Brother

Jeff Cohen

It's not that I don't believe in heroes. It's that I don't think anyone is perfect.

Still, coming out of the gate, most of us model ourselves--at least initially--on someone or another. Our earliest influences are usually our parents, and in my case, I was very fortunate. I had a mother who wasn't so much a role model (she was, after all, a girl) as a moral compass, but also someone I could look to for attitudes and thoughts. My mother was a huge Beatles fan when most parents were considering picketing record stores to get rid of those four "long haired" anarchists. She taught me that you don't worry about what other people think so much as what you think.

My father was my first role model, someone to try and emulate, and he was close to perfect in that regard. Perhaps the kindest man I've ever met, he taught me about helping others, the importance of family and keeping a sense of humor in all situations.

But my heroes, as they say, have always been comedians. And if I had to make one choice, I have to look to the Marx Brothers, easily the greatest comedy team America has yet produced.

Why? Because they could do anything; they could pile physical humor on top of verbal humor and never stop the jokes coming. Because they were gifted, each and every one.

Role models, however, are not simply about characters played on a screen; they're about the people themselves. What sort of example do they set, and how do you choose what to emulate and what to leave the roadside?

Let's look at the Marx Brothers individually, as men. I know whose life I'd most like to parallel, but maybe you have different tastes. Let's see:

Zeppo (born Herbert) Marx 
 was and is considered the least talented comedian of the group. But according to all accounts, including those of his brothers, Zeppo might have been the funniest of the four off-screen. In fact, when Groucho was unable to perform with his brothers following an illness, Zeppo stood in for him, and according to those there, matched his more famous brother laugh for laugh. Off-screen, Zeppo became a successful theatrical agent and an inventor after growing tired of being the butt of the jokes. He married twice times (his second wife went on to marry Frank Sinatra) and adopted three children, and probably had the most "normal" life of the four.  

Chico (Leo) Marx  certainly had the most colorful. Probably a compulsive gambler, certainly a serial adulterer, Chico was always the audience favorite at the live shows, according to accounts, and could literally charm the pants off anyone he wanted to. He married twice, once for 23 years, and once for three, and while he didn't die penniless, that wasn't for lack of trying. Chico was put on an allowance by his brothers after his insolvency forced them to make "A Night in Casablanca," a movie that Marx Brothers fans the world over wish they hadn't.

Julius Henry Groucho 
 Marx was without question one of the greatest, if not the greatest, comedian the world has ever known. His nonstop patter, lightning-fast mind and unparalleled delivery stand against any other funny person in any medium to this date. Find a brilliant comic, and Groucho could old-brilliant them. No question. 

Off-screen, Groucho might have been the most troubled. He married three times, each ending in divorce and had three children, with whom he had alternating warm and cold relationships. By the time he died in 1977 (three days after Elvis Presley), he had become frail and according to some accounts senile. He had been one of the most famous men in the world, and had amassed a healthy fortune, but he kept working almost until he died. 

Any one of these lives could appeal to an author (we are, after all, entertainers when it all comes down to it), depending on one's personality. Groucho was incredibly famous, wealthy and, finally, respected (he accepted an honorary Academy Award for the team in 1974). Chico could have any woman he wanted, it seemed, and never spent a day he didn't enjoy thoroughly. Zeppo made the money he needed in a job he didn't like, and got out, in order to pursue the things he did care about. 

But if I were to choose a Marx (other than Karl) to emulate, without question for me it would be Adolph Arthur Harpo Marx. Harpo, the second oldest of the Marx Brothers to survive (one died in infancy), was by all accounts one of the nicest men on the planet. His autobiography Harpo Speaks (written by Rowland Barber) was a bestseller, and he died peacefully, a happy, wealthy man who married once and adopted five children. 

 Harpo was successful, a brilliant comedian overshadowed to some extent by his brother Groucho, something which didn't bother him in the least. And while I love to talk and make my living with words, I would most like to be like the silent Marx if I have the choice.

Why? Because when he died, there wasn't one person on this planet who had so much as a neutral--forget negative--word to say about Harpo. He was universally beloved, and was considered even by his competitive brothers to be the best of the bunch. 

That's what I'd like--to have the kind of life I'd want and then have people say nice things at the end (of course, I'd prefer to hear the words before I check out, but we don't always get that choice). A hero? I don't know. Like I said, nobody's perfect. But something to aspire to? Harpo's my man.

Who's your Marx Brother?

LP-to-Digital Conversion Project Update: After getting through the later stages of Seals and Crofts this week, which proved to be a trial, we moved on to Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band, a pretty serious contrast. Mr. Seger was a tonic after the earnestness and proselytization of S&C, a straightforward rock and roller with nothing on his mind other than getting you up out of your chair. Two albums were enough, but it was welcome. Nice work, Bob.

After that, it was comedy week. One ill-advised album by radio/book/television personality Jean Shepherd, whose novel In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash was somehow turned in the holiday perennial A Christmas Story without losing its integrity. Shepherd did annual concerts at Princeton University, and the bits on The Declassified Jean Shepherd that were recorded at one of those affairs are charming. Unfortunately, the rest is strange inserts of "Man On The Street" interviews asking people about Jean Shepherd and odd musical accompaniment. More Shepherd, less filler would have been better.

And then the sublime career (especially the first three albums) of Mr. Allan Sherman. This song parody genius was the biggest thing in the world for a very short time in the early 1960s, hitting the singles chart with "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah," a letter from camp set to a classical tune, and unfortunately not Sherman's best work.

 On his albums My Son, The Folk Singer and My Son, The Celebrity, Sherman performed songs unabashedly from an American-Jewish point of view, turning The Battle Hymn Of The Republic into "Glory, Glory Harry Lewis" and a Harry Belafonte calypso tune into "My Zelda, she took the money and ran with the tailor." Dated? Maybe a little. But hilarious? Always. Don't listen to any of the Greatest Hits compilations, seek out those first two albums and the third, My Son, The Nut.

Great Art

Jeff Cohen

I have some screenwriter friends (no, really; I do!) who think that what I do is absolutely astonishing. They believe that writing a novel is an undertaking of such high art and seriousness that it dwarfs what they do by a factor of about twelve.

Utter nonsense, to be sure. 

Writing is a job, it's a calling, it's an entertainment, it's a source of education and sometimes, yes, it achieves the level of art. But so does screenwriting. And playwriting. And glueing Cocoa Puffs onto a piece of oaktag, if you do it well enough.

But just because a person writes, that person is not an artist. Some writers are lucky to be writers. Some novelists should be screenwriters. To be honest, some novelists should be carpet layers. 

The point is that the medium, in this case, is not the message. The level of skill, thought, and talent will determine whether something is art. So when one of my screenwriting friends or my friends who are teachers or mechanics or salesmen or newspaper reporters is impressed because I wrote a book, I beg them to read the damn thing, and then tell me whether they're impressed.

It's amazing how many don't. 

Friends of mine--good friends--come to every book launch party. They buy every book, and thank goodness for that. They smile broadly and genuinely about knowing a "real live author." And then they take the book home, put it on a shelf (or in a closet, or for all I know, under the short leg of the dining room table) and forget about it until the next book launch party.

That astonishes me. It doesn't offend me, because I feel that no one, not even my wife, is under any obligation to read my work, but it does surprise me. If a good friend of mine wrote a novel or a non-fiction book (and here I'm excluding the friends of mine who were authors before they were my friends--I read some of their books and don't read others, based on time constraints and, frankly, general interest level based on subject matter), I'd at least give it a chance. 

Like I say, I'm not offended, but I am puzzled. 

One note of note: It was exactly 23 years ago today that a very beautiful and astounding woman took my hand, walked across a field on the campus of the university from which I graduated, and told a rabbi she would love me for the rest of our lives. And there has not been a day in those 23 years that I have been anything but thrilled to pieces that she did. She is a brilliant, warm, dear person and the fact that she chose to marry me never fails to amaze me. Happy anniversary, honey. I sincerely hope you never come to your senses.

And one last note: That university will, come this September, start being home for my daughter, who is also a brilliant, warm, dear person. My alma mater was smart enough to see a gem when one was dangled, and leapt at her. I hope she's at least as happy there as I was.

LP-to-Digital Project Update: This week began with a two-record Charlie Parker compilation that merely bore out my lifelong impressions of the work: I think Parker was a breathtaking saxophonist, and jazz isn't ever going to be my thing. I just don't connect with it. I realize this means that I'm a pedestrian, small-minded, proletariat idiot, but I can't help it. 

For a strange segue, next up came a number of albums by the Alan Parsons Project, a very odd "band" that was comprised, essentially, of a record producer and a songwriter. Guest artists (although there were some regulars on every album) would show up to play through song cycles that dealt with everything from Edgar Allan Poe to the architect Antonio Gaudi.

Of the albums I converted from Parsons (who worked on the albums Abbey Road and Dark Side of the Moon as an engineer), probably the least known was my favorite. The Turn of a Friendly Card dealt with games, gambling and competition, and had a sort of Abbey Road-lite medley on its second side that is worth the price of admission. While the band's three most popular albums (including Eye in the Sky and Vulture Culture) were not converted (I already had them on CD), later efforts like Stereotomy and Gaudi offered fun pop songs in spots, but didn't hold together that well.

The next record converted was among the strangest in the whole collection: At the height of the popularity of Peanuts, the Charles Schultz comic strip, some genius got the idea to get Kaye Ballard (of TV's The Mothers-In-Law, among other things) and a stage actor named Arthur Siegel and have them act out some Charlie Brown and Lucy comic strips. It wasn't as excruciating as I'd feared, but it was still damn odd.

Next were two of my beloved wife's Peter, Paul & Mary albums, and it was surprising, after all these years, to hear how those darlings of the folk set come across as depressed kvetches on so many songs. And the song "I Dig Rock and Roll Music" is just a mean swipe at the Mamas and the Papas, almost as toxic as Randy Newman's flat-out takedown of the Electric Light Orchestra 10 years later.

And last this week, for you whacked-out Broadway cast album fans, came the Original Cast Recording of the Bob Fosse (and Stephen Schwartz, who later struck platinum with "Wicked") musical Pippin, famous for being panned by critics and selling lots of tickets by advertising on television, which just wasn't done in those days. So as you can see, this was a very bizarre week. Next up, The Pointer Sisters, Richard Pryor and a favorite band of mine, The Punsters. (The Beat Goes on, Cuz!)

Silver Screen vs. Parchment Paper

Dana Kaye

Have you figured out my truth yet?

While I do know exactly where the Ferris Bueller’s Day Off House is and I’ve driven by many times, I didn’t live next door or have the opportunity to crash a party there. And the school The Breakfast Club was based on was actually New Trier, our rival high school to the north.

But I did live around the corner from the Cusack family and Joan and John’s sister (who is also an actress) babysat for me on numerous occasions. I don’t remember the baby sitting but I do remember my dad grumbling about how those “damn Cusacks” always threw loud parties…

This week’s lying game and the fact I’m heading out to LA in a few weeks for Left Coast Crime has me thinking a lot about movies. Every author hopes, dreams for their book to be made into a movie. And rightfully so. Having a movie made out of your book is basically a guarantee it’ll be a bestseller. But I also suspect that many novel writers have movie envy, that they wish they were writing or directing the next Oscar winner. Why not, right? Your work would be seen by millions, you’d walk the red carpet, and you’d have a chance to say the words, “I’d like to thank the Academy…”

But as much as I love movies and think it would be incredible to be a part of one someday, I do think novelists have the better gig.

Though it seems there are numerous hoops to jump through to get a novel published, there are three times as many hoops to get a film produced. After the script is finalized, there are actors and directors to hire, locations to edit, scenes to shoot, producers to please and, most importantly, funding to raise. Scripts are purchased every day and that never make it to the screen, movies are in production one day and killed the next. If you’re book is taken on by a publisher, contracts are signed, and edits are made, the likelihood of your project getting killed is very slim.

Additionally, movies are a team effort. So are novels, but in a very different way. Once the script is written, it’s pretty much out of your hands. The directors and producers make changes to the script, actors interpret their roles differently, and the editors cut certain scenes. They don’t consult the screenwriter before doing any of this. In novels, it truly is a team effort. Writers work with their agents and work with their editors to make the book better; they don’t take a backseat while a team of people tears apart their work.

Lastly, novelists have an opportunity to connect with their audience in a way screenwriters and filmmakers don’t. Novelists go on tour, their fans hand them their well-worn novels and ask for a signature. That’s lost on movie fans.

Lou Berney, both an author and a screenwriter, discussed this in a great interview last week if you want to hear it from someone on both sides. Even though I’ve technically been on neither, give me a career as a novelist any day. If they want to make my novel into a film, who am I to argue?

The Flip Side

Jeff Cohen

Things I Hate That Other People Love

1. Football: I realize millions of people adore watching this simulated warfare. I just don't happen to be one of them. No, this doesn't impugn my manhood or make me un-American. It means I couldn't care less who wins a football game, and can find other things to do when it's on TV. Baseball, on the other hand, is an elegant sport that requires a whole set of skills football players don't need, and I adore it. If Baseball is a Hitchcock movie, Football is something by Michael Bay. I choose Alfred, myself. 

1a: NASCAR: They drive in a circle. Oh, boy.

2. SUVs: I've never understood the American love affair with big, ugly, gas-guzzling vehicles that are built to drive off-road and always seem to be in front of me on the New Jersey Turnpike. And I'm sorry, but the Hummer is the stupidest car ever to drive down a highway. Ever. 

3. Depressing art: Isn't it just possible that critics call something "daring" and "dark" because they're afraid they'll be wrong if they just say it's a downer? It's easy to spot a bad comedy--nobody laughs. With the more "serious" forms of entertainment, I think there's a distinct possibility that most of the stuff we're informed is bold and adult is actually just drab and awful, but there's a naked Emperor in there someplace nobody wants to annoy.

4. Rap music: You're a great musician? Write a tune and sing it. 

5. American Idol: Am I crazy, or did this used to be called "Ted Mack's Amateur Hour?" And is it not encouraging more people to trill and perform aural gymnastics instead of trying to communicate through music? 

6. In fact, all reality TV: It's just as close to "reality" as Star Trek, but Captain Kirk had better writers. What you're watching in "reality" shows is a scripted scenario usually intended to find the worst in people and splash it all over worldwide television. THAT'S entertainment! Not to mention, it seems like the only thing you have to do to be a "star" on one of these shows is show up in a bikini (mostly for women) or have more than the average allotment of children, and a desire to exploit them so you can eventually host a talk show (both genders). Someone once advised against voting since "it just encourages them." Until you stop watching, they'll think you want more of this stuff. And yes, I'm including "Dancing With the Slightly Notable."

7. The term "literary fiction": What kind of fiction (assuming it's written on paper) ISN'T literary? Does this mean that authors like Charles Dickens (who surely wrote for the masses) wasn't literary? Or that someone like Mitch Albom is? I'm a writer; I use words for a living--we need a better term, people. Get to work!

8. Political talk radio: Sports talk radio is equally stupid, but everybody KNOWS it's stupid, and it does no appreciable harm. But believe it or not, there are people out there who actually BELIEVE what Rush Limbaugh says every day, and that's not just astonishing, it's frightening as a barometer of our collective intelligence.

9. Seafood and fish: Enjoy your ocean-based dinners, fish lovers. Just don't look at me funny because I don't share your taste. Yeah, it's all kinds of good for you (as long as you stay away from the mercury), and it does wonders for your cholesterol, but you know what? I'm not eating fish. Ever. Except for the occasional tuna sandwich, which doesn't really count.

10. Christmas songs: Yes, even your favorite. There are radio stations that play nothing but Christmas songs from Thanksgiving until the first week of January. Is there any wonder there are more suicides during the holiday season than any other time of the year? And the scary part: Most of the more famous ones were written by Jewish songwriters. Go figure it out.