'Telling it like it is'

 It’s too bad that CBS dropped the idea of finding someone to be another Andy Rooney, the old stick-in-the-mud curmudgeonly journalist who used to complain humorously about inequities of today.

They should have hired me. I fit all those qualifications!

If Andy Rooney was alive today, here are some of the things he would complain about:

--What’s with QR codes at restaurants? Why do I have to point my phone at that silly picture to get something to eat? Why not just say: “I’ll have the usual, Fran, medium well this time.”

--Why do I have to use a password to pay my doctor bill online? They are afraid somebody else will pay it?

--Why does every electronic gadget chave to be black? When I put my black phone or glasses case on my black car seat, I can never find them.

--Why is It so hard to open packages anymore? You need a chainsaw  to open anything sent by FedEx.

--Are they making buttons bigger and buttonholes smaller?  Or is it just my arthritis?

--Why do they close the bathrooms and mop the floors at restaurants when I am there? Why can’t they do this in off hours?

--Why did they replace removable caps on toothpaste with attached caps? I never close them completely and the toothpaste gets all over the place.

--Why are there so many electronic gadgets in cars today? What ever happened to the buttons? When it rains, I can’t figure out how to turn on the windshield wipers.

--Does anybody ever read the pages and pages of “terms and conditions” they have to approve? When I sign it, I feel like I am lying. “Of course I read it.”

--What’s all this about artificially intelligent machines? How about some real intelligence from real people for a change?

-o-

I certainly respected Rooney’s opinions, but there was one thing I could never forgive him for: he refused to give up his typewriter for a computer. I don’t know anyone who ever tried a computer and went back to a typewriter.

But we do miss him. I’ll bet a good replacement would “tell it like it is.”

 

 

 

 

"Anothr openin', anther show'

It starts with the germ of an idea. Double Nickel Players can’t decide what to perform next: a murder mystery, or a group of skits called “Sunday Funnies.” Somebody comes up with an idea: “How about two one-act plays?” says Leslie Pipan. I second the motion: “A great idea!” I say. And it happens.

When the Clarksville Fine Arts Center is booked solid with kids’ shows in the summer, our seniors group practices at St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church. Our director, Monica Walter, pushes back chairs and tables for what you could hardly call a stage.

There is gunplay and skirmishing in this play, “The Potman Spoke Sooth.” Old people falling on the floor. They fall very gently. Or they pretend.

Finally, the theater stage is available. Two days a week in the mercilessly hot days of summer. Then three in the last month. A 20-mile drive each way for me. Juggling doctor’s appointments, exercise classes and social gatherings to be able to get there. Whatever for? What’s the payoff?

I come up with an illness and Holly Barden becomes my understudy, but somehow I recover. As showtime gets closer in September, it gets a little more intense. People with 130 lines are still struggling to remember them. Tempers flare a little. But the most fun of all is the group trying to fake its way out of missed lines with their own ad-libs.

Finally it is opening night for your show, and “Frankenstein Slept Here.” Stomachs churn a little. Friends are coming.

You have 14 people staying at your bed & breakfast, most of them friends from long ago, most who didn’t even know about the play.

At the theater, there’s camaraderie backstage as you get makeup and people get into costumes. The stage crew is friendly and wonderful! You don’t fear forgetting lines as much as your microphone falling off because it isn’t taped on tight enough. Sound check is always a thrill—just like they do it on Broadway.

You look out at the theater and there are maybe 150 people there! Holly’s publicity worked! Your 37 lines come back to you automatically after that drilling over all those months. There are a few slips, but your stagemates chip in and help you recover.

You already know when to pause your lines for laughter. And it comes at the right times. It worked! Stage bows afterward are such a thrill. The audience responds wonderfully, and your friends are supportive.

The second performance goes through much more easily. And there’s a cast party. It’s always the same. You want the fun to go on. You don’t want to lose these people. But in our case, we won’t. Double Nickel Players will do another show of some kind in the spring.

 

A day no one forgets

9/11. Twenty-five years ago this week.  I remember it well.  So does everyone else.

I had just arrived for work at my job at the Kiplinger Letter in Washington, D.C. Someone told me to come to the conference room and see the TV reruns of a plane crashing into the World Trade Center.

It must have been a terrible accident, we all concluded. Then another plane hit another tower. No accident. History changed at that moment.

We all gathered there, except for a top manager, who fled to the garage and drove home right away.

The Pentagon was hit next. Only two miles away. There were rumors on TV (later shown to be false) of bombs at the nearby Washington Mall and the White House.

Fortunately, I had ridden my bike to work and decided I would leave too. Things were getting too close. The subway shut own and the roads were jammed with traffic.

The scene riding home to Arlington was like a war movie. Smoke curled up to the skies from the Pentagon as everyone was trying to flee town. I think a Korean War film once had a scene just like that, but with carts and animals instead of cars.  Could this really be happening here?

I talked to Pickett, who was still at her preschool, and we both picked up daughter Sara at her school.

After I had left work, the staff put out a special edition of the Letter, just as they did after Pearl Harbor. I felt somewhat guilty about leaving my post as a newsman. But I was really editor of the Kiplinger California Letter, which was not involved in this. As a 25-year-old I would have wanted to dive in. At 59, I wanted no part of this story.

Should I have stayed? No! One of the planes crashed in Pennsylvania before it reached its target: either the Capitol or the White House. Since the White House was only two blocks from my office, I felt like I did the right thing.

Next came the anthrax attacks, a poisonous substance mailed to high-profile buildings such as government offices and newsrooms. Someone told me not to worry—few places were targeted. “Oh, I remember. You work in a news office. Well, that’s different," he said. They eventually traced the letters to a worker at a-government lab making anthrax, but he killed himself before he could go on trial.

The shock from these events continued for years. Security was beefed up not just at airports but at banks, shops, offices and homes. Two unsuccessful wars followed, and the U.S. was never the same.