L.A. Rain

rain.

standing outside your car, maxwell playing on the stereo, doors open, arms up, and rain on your long eyelashes. sumthin' sumthin' lashes reaching touching

us.

sorry is not your word, moving on is your world, not looking back, save for that once upon a time story i see in your eyes. something of what could have

been.

still see you, still see us, at the museo de espana, arms up, dancing those sevillanas, around a forgotten reflection in the plaza pool. listening to

sam cooke.

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1979 ... The Summer Between

Languid onshore breezes are blowing this afternoon here in Los Angeles. The palm trees, some 100 feet tall, grow with a certain katana blade shape because of these winds. As sometimes happens on windy days, I think back to earlier childhood times. It's the rustling of the wind in the fronds that sort of lulls me to daydreaming, and remembering, and ignoring the article I'm supposed to write (for JustLuxe.com); the one that sits on my desk, mocking me, waiting for another ham-fisted attempt by yours truly. What shook loose from the palm trees today, though, was a memory from 30 years ago. The summer of 1979 was an odd and ungainly one, transformative for me and my friends in a lot of ways.

This was the summer going from jr. high to high school. When bodies became long and thin, and parents worried a bit more about where you were, what you were doing, and more importantly, whom you were with. This was the summer/era of going from disco to punk, Carter to Reagan, from boyhood to wanting manhood. From innocent indolence to focused fury of pubescence.

Most of the time during the summer of 1979 I worried about being "big" enough to play football (my dad said I wasn't allowed to play b/c he thought I was too small. I can actually remember exactly where we were as I teared-up silently, staring out our Cutlass Olds). My core friends didn't play football, so I didn't perseverate on the topic too long because they wouldn't hear of it anyway. I was able to participate in the other things we were doing that summer -- like playing poker late into the night; camping out in backyards; swimming in pools and at the beach; joy-riding on my brother's Ducatti when my parents were in Europe; sneaking out and riding skateboards at 2am when my parents were sleeping in their room upstairs above mine -- and decided to let my body determine on its own if I was going to be able to make the team (which I finally would, thank God).

A huge pastime, obsession, constant reminder for us, as one could imagine, was girls. Just about anything to do with girls was on our minds: our best friend's sisters, their moms, the lady who gave out cookie samples at Von's Grocery, the Farah Fawcett poster (RIP -- the actress not the poster). We had several very mature freshman/sophomores who (unfortunately for them and fortunate for us) weren't old enough to drive and so had to stick around our neighborhood in the canyon that led to Malibu, nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains like a kitten in the crook of an avacado green couch.

One of the girls who received our affection and attention was the niece of a legendary rock band drummer (who would die the next year, as all rock drummers seemed to be doing back then). She had a sizable German Shepherd who needed to be walked every day, twice a day, on account of the rather sizable "her-shitza-poopoos" (as they say in doggie German) that her mom was getting tired of cleaning up.

Ms. Barbie, with her shock of auburn hair, would walk that dog up and around the hilly streets of our tract, and the half-dozen of us boys reported on her whereabouts as regular militia spying on enemy troop movements. Whether we were playing football, shooting hoops, riding our skateboards up the 10 ft ramp we built at the end of the cul-de-sac, or just sitting on the wall next to the pomegranate tree eating our purloined fruit, when she would sashay by, we would think up any excuse to make small talk with her. We even tried try to shake her hand with our purple stained fingers, and she'd just sort of laugh at us. Now that we were all good and embarrassed, she'd keep walking, telling her dog jokingly, "watch 'em!" Looking back to 1979, that was not a bad way for a matriculating 8th grader to spend a summer.

The other girl was Tammy. Tammy looked 23. When you're 13, and somebody looks 23 ... well, let's just say nobody ever talked to Tammy. Not even the next year when she became a water girl for the football teams. Tammy was TNT, nitroglycerin, and C4 all rolled into one sophomore ordinance shell. She was rarely around because the junior and seniors routinely picked her up to go to the beach. She'd wave, though. Just sort of smile, shake her blond hair, and flick her fingers in our direction. Either she was waving, or something was stuck on her finger. I think she liked being noticed, and was probably waving to us, even if it was a silent soliloquy of "so long, suckers." And we were. Suckers. For her and for Ms. Barbie.

1979 was the year that "Magic" Johnson won the NCAA basketball championship (and was coming to L.A. to start showtime) and John "the Duke" Wayne passed away. That year, 1979 and thereabouts, was weird because there was a couple of serial killers on the loose in Southern California. One was targeting women, and the other young boys. The police found the body of one 14 or 15 yr-old boy in a dumpster at the end of the street by where we rode our skateboards. I can't remember exactly the order of these events, but it happened something like this, I swear. We (3 or 4 of us) were riding in an old abandoned skatepark near the 101 fwy, and a creepster dude stopped his VW van and asked if he could take some pictures. Nick (who looked like Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers) said "sure" and proceeded to take his shirt off like a total a-hole and ride around one of the bowls (looks like an empty swimming pool) working up a good lather of sweat. Greg and myself (and I think my little brother) immediately got out of the bowl and told Nick to "Come on, dude! We gotta go!!" Nick, thank God, eventually got out and came over to where the rest of us were standing with disbelief on our faces. We then ran like hell to get back home, thinking we saw that VW van at every turn and corner. That night I happened to tell my friend John about the creepy-creep; his dad (unbeknownst to me) happened to be on a special California task force looking for this serial killer of young boys. Before the next morning, every kid at that old skatepark had been interviewed by the task force, the vehicle identified, and the creepster photog taken in for questioning.

Turns out he wasn't the guy, but, thank God, they did manage to catch the guy. He was convicted and became one of the first murderers to be put-down by the renewed death penalty in California.

That summer was also noticeable for the slow, yet rhythmic death of disco (you could dance to it). People were actually spray painting "disco" with an exclamation on the bottom of stop signs, reading "STOP disco!" Music is such an important conduit for transporting us back to those sepia memories of our youth. I actually like certain disco again, e.g., KC and the Sunshine Band ("party hand" in the air, y'all!). That summer of 1979 also showed the remarkable growth of punk. Man, did I love the music of the late 70's and early 80's: The Ramones, The Police, Devo, The Buggles, The Talking Heads, The Cars, X, AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Steely Dan.

Those awkward moments of junior high were about to become awkward years in high school. When the Ayatollah would toss out a Shah, and an actor would toss out a peanut farmer from the presidency. When the West would begin to face the challenge of radical Islam. The times were changing with Disco, the "Duke," and avocado green and burnt orange interior design colors all passing their stale dates. KROQ was becoming cool, yuppies were being born like litters of puppies, and interest rates were starting to come back down to earth. Everything was old, yet it all was new, too. Good ole 1979.

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One Man's Illicit Penumbra is Another's ...

I noticed right away her standing in the corner of the restaurant bar. She was with a cadre of admirers, mostly local surfers and cool consultant MBA types from Pepperdine who were working for hip (and over-hyped) Internet companies. Her ex-boyfriend (whom I suspected of actually being her current beau) was playing pool in the next room with a sniper's view of what she was doing. She said she would expect me, but only half-believed that I would show up. I don't know why I did. I didn't know why I was doing a lot of things that year.

Malibu and the South Bay have a lot of nouveau riche restaurants that are as expensive as their names are pretentious. Then there are the sushi, wine bars, Tex-Mex (those Texicans make good eats) and Thai numbers that are really quite good and reasonably priced. I was broke (even the local hobos had a net-worth greater than mine) and I was bummed: the perfect alchemy for a nasty case of depression. No money and nothing to distract you from your misery. What could make that killer combo worse? How about going for the trifecta and dating someone that works for you and is 14 years your junior. Gawd, was I feeling old. Just a few klicks on the south side of 40, and now with this "dick move" that I was about to make, I was truly on my way to becoming a cliche in his late-thirties.

If you're depressed, out of work, in relationship hell, do not pig pile onto your misery by having strong drink. You are writing yourself a prescription to make bad decisions. What's our baseline here for measuring bad decisions? How about this for our evening's barometer: Drinking and driving? (we're clearly at dumb.) Getting into a bar fight? (moving onto bad now.) Inviting a beautiful family friend to a nice sushi dinner when you know you might end up "running into" and then making-out with a 24 yr-old consultant, who works with your division, in the bathroom? (Ding-ding-ding. we've arrived at TDM -- total dick move.) Throw the entire hodge podge into the works and you have my night from bad decision hell.

But -- and here's the nasty, ugly, and profound truth of it all -- when your life is suckey, and fate is pissing bucket fulls of ouch and woe's me onto your head, you sometimes feel that you're owed and entitled to a good time, darn it. That little man in your pants (or your purse, or your hat-box, or wherever it is you keep your id) who sits on your shoulder from time to time in his little red devil costume with the bifurcated tail, shouts into your ear, "You need to buy another $150 round of drinks for all these people -- the ones you don't know and will never see again." Or he tugs on your elongated lobe on the other side and whispers, "The "W" is the coolest hotel in L.A., and you're supposed to flirt and jest and wear the nearest lamp shade as soon as is humanly possible. You're a recent divorcee; act like it, J.G.!"

Your intoxicated syllogism slots itself into your dome thusly: If I'm miserable I am owed this good time, and the little man with the pitch fork is encouraging me, and if the beautiful babies are laughing at my jokes, and if my car goes 100 mph at 2am with the windows down, then yes I will have one for the road and drop off my oldest and dearest friend at her hotel and then drive back to the newest and vapid 24 year-old's condo at 3am because she tucked her address into my pocket and her tongue into my ear whilst we were waiting in the bathroom line at the sushi house overlooking the Pacific. There, you now have your second profound truth (I'm feedin' ya pearls here, Franky! Pearls!) or at least well-worn maxim for this piece: Misery loves company. I wanted her company, and I found out that she was miserable and alone and wanted mine (that is to say, my company), as shocking as that sounds.

This went on for about three months, the misery and the wanting and the intoxicated logic and logistics. We ate out and drank Starbucks every morning on the way to work like an old married couple, and went clubbing vis-a-vis my quickly depleting funds like two college kids thrice nights weekly. She watched me play the court jester and I watched her smoke like a European model and we hung out with those with much trendier wardrobes than mine. We went to Laker games in VIP style. She was hit-on/insulted by Ozzy Osbourne at The Ivy, "Ooh, Sharon, look at that lil' strumpet!" I was sleeping less than 4 hours per night, and frankly because I had a bit more training at this frenetic pace than she, I held my own for about a month or two. And then like every marathoner knows (I am somewhat familiar with this because I've seen the Olympics on television), you hit the mother of all walls that only the most skilled can work through the pain and the nagging little voice that says, "What the hell have you been doing with your life, you stupid miserable bunghole, poor excuse for a man!?!" Yes, the wall talks to you and hurls insults at your drunken visage resplendent in 20-something hottie vigor, because the better part of your senses has been squandered like a biblical bowl of porridge sold off to a hairy, red-headed twin.

By the end of our supposed romance, I had given her: 17 of my favorite dvd's that I doubt she appreciated; a yellow Waterman fountain pen that she would lose and I would steal back; one lame arse trip to a lingerie shop; and one piercing on her left nostril by an "artist" named Rimshot (I kid you not). I regret a lot of this time in my life, but, not the learning (I'm all about the acquisition of wisdom, dear reader). Sure, I was embarrassed by hanging out with someone so young, but not half as embarrassed as she must have been being seen with one so mediocre and, gulp, fast approaching middle-age. Yet, no one even knew we dated; it was all on the "DL" as the kids say these days. For a bit I thought, "So this is how Bruce Willis must feel?" ... or at least Seth Rogen. And, now I just sort of cringe at how I behaved. Our time together floats in my memory like an illicit penumbra for one summer's sunset and then faded off into the surf like an old man looking for his dog Lucky that died 10 years earlier.

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"If" by Rudyard Kipling (Father's Day)

When I was in high school, I was given a book of poetry. My favorite poem from this anthology would become Kipling's "If," which meant a great deal more to me after reading the biography of a missionary who was killed (and eaten) by the very people he was trying to help somewhere in Micronesia. This was also his favorite poem, and "If" helped him overcome obstacle after obstacle in his life, until one day he finally did become that true man, as the poem full of condition precedents predicts.

Today, on Father's Day 2009, I offer this to my sons, and wish them well on their journey into "if's" and "doubting's" and "becoming's." I tore this out of that thin little book 20+ years ago and have kept it with me since on every desk I've owned.

Happy Father's Day to all of you as well who share this Sisyphean yet wonderful burden and blessing.

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The Brothers Bloom, A Film Review

Brothers Bloom

In screenwriting, it’s kicking in the teeth of the first 10 pages that is crucial in getting your script read and passed on to an actual decision-maker (rather than just some note-taker providing coverage). Writer/Director Rian Johnson clearly understands this maxim as was evident in his remarkable freshman effort Brick and his latest offering The Brothers Bloom. The hook is indeed set quickly in The Brothers Bloom's first 10 minutes through a voice-over in rhyme (by Ricky Jay) as we see the brothers’ troubled foster home beginnings, and how they'd move from town to town trying to figure out the angles. (If you'd like to see it, just click here!) Jay, you might recall, is the skilled veteran of the sleight-of-hand and a David Mamet regular featured in the classic grifter film, House of Games.

It’s this nascent development of their huckster skill-set that the brothers will need to pull off future long-cons. We discover how the brothers become streetwise survivalists, revealed in almost fairytale fashion that has the younger brother (confusingly called Bloom) believing/hoping, even if fleetingly, that their first elaborate “con” against the local kids might just actually prove to be real. The older brother (Stephen) is protector of Bloom secundus and he suffers for it, taking punches meant for his younger brother. Nonetheless, Stephen embraces this sibling call upon his life, viz., acting as buffer against the world and spinner of yarns for Bloom, who is always looking for the real pot o’ gold at the terminus of the long-con rainbow .

(NOTE: The Brothers Bloom had its distribution date pushed back to this past weekend, and has been in the can and making the rounds of the festival circuit since 2008. Usually this sort of start-date push back spells doom for a film, but Summit Entertainment (and Endgame Entertainment) felt that this summer would give the film a bit more room to find an audience; it goes wide next week.)

Fast-forward 20 years, and we find the brothers (Mark Ruffalo and Adrien Brody) once again setting up a mark (Rachel Weisz) who is a housebound billionairess and collector of hobbies. The brothers are fresh off several elaborate, Russian-novel-intricate confidence scams elegantly executed. But, Bloom wants out; he wants to finally live an unwritten life after many years of playing a role under the stage direction of writer Stephen. But, will Bloom ever really be free to choose?

And, here's the rub, dear reader: Director Johnson is clearly influenced by Wes Anderson (no crime there), and we see where Johnson has actually out-Andersoned Wes Anderson and lifted liberally from Rushmore, Royal Tenenbaums, Life Aquatic and even Darjeeling Limited. From the production and set-design (graphics and art design), to costumes and music choices (the soundtrack is quite good). From the color choices, to the character story arcs, we see precocious children wise beyond their juvenile delinquent years mapping out events weeks in advance. We see characters in love with and practicing the fiery art of pyrotechnics. There are prop guns and squibs. We even have a character wearing eye goggles, and voyage aboard a ship at sea, all

similar to what a viewer has seen in Wes Anderson films. As a huge Anderson fan, I was okay with this. What really bothered me, though, was that there was no real mystery in this film like a good crime-caper/grifter movie requires. We know where Brothers Bloom is going, except for perhaps one twist at the end. But this plot development arrives too late, like a Christmas present a week after the 25th.

Although the casting is strong, Rachel Weisz is especially good, it just wasn’t enough to make up for a weak 3rd act or lack of it. Ruffalo and Brody are two of the best actors of their generation (sorry for the over used bon mot). Interestingly, Adrien Brody is finding himself the actor-traveler of antiquity. In King Kong he travels by steamer, then by rail on an ancient train in Wes Anderson’s Darjeeling, and then again by steamer in Brothers Bloom. The chemistry amongst the three leads is solid, with a fourth especially fun turn by their (silent) partner-in-crime, a mimed performance by Japanese actress Rinko Kikuchi (Babel) who provides some much needed comic relief (and the best line of the film) as "BangBang."

I really wanted to like The Brothers Bloom, but it just didn't quite work for me. It's a fine bit of stylized cool with great costumes in worldly cities, if only Mr. Johnson could have focused a bit more on the last 10 pages of his script as he did the first. But, you tell me what you think if you see it!

Here is an interesting article on Slate Magazine that discusses Wes Anderson's influence on Post-WWII America.

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Shakespeare and David Kelley?

QUICK NOTE: this article was written during my last semester of law school.

C.S. Lewis once lamented that the modern enlightenment authors were "very small beer and bored [him] cruelly." (1) During my last semester of law school, however, I had a vastly different experience regarding a very "enlightened" professor. Professor Samuel Pyeatt Menefee provided this writer with very fine port indeed - from William Shakespeare to Harper Lee - showing many a law student along the way how little we knew, while nonetheless thoroughly charging us with an inspired challenge for the well-read life. The venerable Menefee, with degrees from Harvard, Yale, and Cambridge, taught a very rigorous Law and Literature survey course that was very popular with the handful of students who fancied themselves soon-to-be-literati. Although I enjoyed the majority of the material assigned throughout this course, Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice was, for me, a favorite. Inevitably, as one whose career path is leading toward the field of entertainment law, this author tends to view and interpret story lines through the lens of a camera. As such, it seemed interesting, if not appropriate, to compare the timeless work of the Bard with that of a successful, erudite and talented writer of today: David E. Kelley, creator of Ally McBeal and The Practice.

While perhaps of slight importance, it still may be of some interest to the reader to know that Mr. Kelley and Shakespeare share some common background information. While Shakespeare s believed to have been the son of a wealthy glove maker, Kelley is the son of a wealthy glove person as well - of sorts. (2) David E. Kelley is the son of hockey great and former Pittsburgh Penguins president, Jack Kelley. (3) While not determinative, growing up in homes with successful, well-healed fathers must certainly have had an impact on these two gentlemen. Kelley and Shakespeare both got their professional starts and first writing successes in their mid-twenties. Both Shakespeare and Kelley (married to the fetching actress Michelle Pfeiffer) sought after a modicum of privacy for their families - both with a set of twins. While the previous trivia obviously do not stretch one's credulity, they're offered merely as shared introductory background information.

Without question, two of the most prolific writers in Hollywood recently have been William Shakespeare and David E. Kelley. An agent in "the business" can scarcely throw his cell phone across town without hitting some of their work sitting on a studio head's or network exec's desk. As any writer can attest, there is a vast difference between being a working writer and being a paid working writer.

As such, it is axiomatic that the odds of Hollywood buying one's manuscript are stacked heavily against the average writer. It speaks volumes, then, that the works of David E. Kelley and William Shakespeare are today ubiquitous on the big and small screens. (4)

Indeed, one could argue that Kelley and Shakespeare, with their prolific writing abilities, set the standard as Hollywood's prototypical writer - nay uberwriter. (5) 


Notwithstanding the several-hundred year time-span that separates the Bard from Mr. Kelley, there are many similarities between the two writers apart from their background, viz., their prodigiousness, importance as writers, and commonalities in their work.

William Shakespeare's return to popularity is really quite remarkable, especially if considered in light of recent academic history. As David Gates of Newsweek eloquently expressed, it was believed that the “multiculturalists had supposedly frog-marched [the Bard] out of school curriculums.” (6) But, Shakespeare, of course, has not always been out favor on American campuses. It wasn’t, as historian Lawrence Levine evinces for us in his Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America - until the Academy appropriated the Bard that he became passé. Thenceforth, Shakespeare's greatest works became elitist protean projects to be dissected, deconstructed, and finally denounced because of their dead, white, patriarchal author. To challenge the canon became a cause celebre, with Shakespeare and his works fodder for the PC movement. While it still de rigueur in most circles academe to stomp on Shakespeare's work - if not his grave, cold these past 400 years at Trinity Church - there seems to be a brief respite from the PC tempest on some American college campuses.

Harold Bloom of Yale University (an institution not steeped in conservative thought) has gone so far as to say that Shakespeare is indeed "the center of the canon. (7) In fact, Bloom's book, Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, has become an unlikely bestseller with well over a hundred thousand copies sold to date." Could the rise in popularity of Shakespeare and the ebb of the PC deluge have, in some small way, something to do with the recent string of Hollywood releases? Shakespeare's work is being adapted for the silver screen with amazing aplomb and alacrity. In the last few years alone, almost a third of the Bard's plays have been produced for film or are on current studio production schedules, including: Twelfth Night, Hamlet, (9) Othello, Richard Ill, Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Titus Andronicus, Love's Labour's Lost, Macbeth, As You Like It, Henry V, and Much Ado About Nothing. In fact, it was Kenneth Branagh's film-version of Much Ado that really brought the Bard back into favor with Hollywood. Branagh today stands as the number one proponent (and beneficiary) of the Shakespearean adaptation. (10) Besides Much Ado, he will have produced, written, starred-in or directed at least eight projects. (11) Amazingly, Shakespeare had not been produced (at least successfully) since Zeffarelli's Romeo and Juliet almost thirty years ago. (12)

While some are given to hyperbole, calling this prodigious production schedule a recent phenomenon, in truth, the Bard, from the industry's humble beginning, has consistently been a rich source for many a producer to mine. One could argue that Shakespeare has been an indispensable lingua franca for the film industry from its infancy when filmmakers produced some fifty films based on Shakespeare's work (between 1908 – 1911), without having to pay a nickel’s worth of royalties. (13)

To the reader it is probably patently obvious the important role William Shakespeare plays in relation to Western Culture, let alone the United States, so just a quick few words. As Bloom stated supra, and as many would quickly agree, Shakespeare is the fulcrum of today's feckless canon. His writing, especially if viewed in light of recent popularity, is a wonderful atavistic body of literature returning decade after decade, evincing its import to the latest generation discovering his preternatural iambic pentameter, story-telling ability, and love of the English language. With over three dozen plays to his name, the Bard has displayed an oft-unappreciated ability to write the comedy as well as the tragedy.

Amazingly, his works have survived and are still performed on stage and adapted for the screen some 400 years after William Shakespeare put quill to parchment. Perhaps there was something about the environs and climes of 16th and 17th century London that inspired his writing. Shakespeare wrote at a time when the "middleclass" was still a few hundred years from its post-Industrial Age emergence. While there may have existed a small class of individuals not as wealthy as royalty nor as unfortunate as the poor, they were nonetheless, far richer - and smaller in number - than what one would today call middleclass. Shakespeare's milieu, by all accounts, was a bifurcation of rich and poor; his audience was one afternoon royalty and the next "drunken punters," or both. (15) As Australian director Baz Luhrmann posits, "Shakespeare was a relentless entertainer. When he played the Elizabethan stage, he was basically dealing with an audience . . . selling pigs and geese in the stalls. He played to everyone from the street sweeper to the Queen of England." (16)

Shakespeare, as David E. Kelley is wont to do, pulled from the events of his time, putting his unique worldview and indelible imprint on his characters whose words then resonated with the audience, reflecting the zeitgeist of the writer's time. Shakespeare's plays were so skillfully written, imbued with transcendent themes, that they impacted America's culture from its foundation. His works were "a staple of popular culture, as he was in his own era, with [his] plays being performed extensively in working-class theaters and even in makeshift circumstances in Western frontier towns and mining camps. (17) Shakespeare, co-opted this century by certain ersatz intellectuals, has always reached the common man with universal truths. The editorial staff at Cineaste has said "there's no question that the cinema serves as today's Globe Theatre for moviegoers." (18) Pace to the editors of Cineaste, but if there was ever a forum for Shakespeare today, with its drunken minions selling pigs in the aisles, it is none other than The Jerry Springer Show. The appropriate analogue, all joking aside, seems not to be film, but rather television. Over the last two decades there has been a noticeable movement afoot in the American polis (and its well-to-do enclaves) where certain film-going (i.e., the art house with its pandemic sub-titles) has become extremely elitist - or at least bourgeois - with lecture series and cocktails accompanying showings by certain avant-garde filmmakers. Nonetheless, there is little question regarding the impact that the collective works of Shakespeare have had, and continue to have, on the medium of film.

Likewise, there is little doubt regarding the impact that David E. Kelley is having in the television industry - today's Globe Theatre. Although no one would readily confuse Kelley's television writing with the great works of the canon, he is nonetheless the bard of television. While most would not be willing to label Kelley a Shakespearean scion, when one compares the two writers, however, he's far and away the closest television has yet produced, with intriguing similarities evident in their work, influence, and business acumen. David E. Kelley got his first big break, as a writer, on L.A. Law due to his ability to write gripping dialogue and his uncanny instinct to draw plot from the day's headlines. (19)

Kelley is a graduate of Princeton University and Boston University law school. Schooling finished, Kelley then went on to practice as a litigator for three years before he found the law less appealing than the first screenplay he was working on. His break into the business came through Executive Producer Steven Bochco of LA Law/Hill Street Blues fame; Kelley's nascent ability caught Bochco's keen eye. (20) After quickly becoming head-writer for L.A. Law (the show that is rumored to have single-handedly caused the greatest increase in law school applications than any other event in modern US history), Kelley then moved-on to pitch, create, produce, and write several highly successful television series: Doogie Howser, M.D., Picket Fences, Chicago Hope, Ally McBeal, The Practice, and Boston Legal. Remarkably, Kelley's work is seen on three different networks.

While the typical Hollywood producer is lauded and perceived to be successful with only one hit show, Kelley has the Midas touch on every show with which he has been associated. (21) Shakespeare's greatness is self-evident after a multi-century ride atop the Western Canon. And while time will tell regarding the staying power of David E. Kelley, he already is among the most praised and awarded writer/producers in television history. Kelley's success to-date is due in large part to his amazing ability, like Shakespeare, to write both the comedic and dramatic piece. Kelley virtually multitasks each week as he writes two days for Ally McBeal (dramedy) and two days for The Practice (drama) - both hour-long shows.

While most shows have a team of writers (each making over $5,000 per week), Kelley is virtually a one-man show, writing over 40 episodes each television season (not counting other shows he's producing or writing for, plus screenplays). In spite of this prolific output, the quality of the show is insouciantly maintained each week. (22) Camryn Manheim, an actress with a theater background and one who has won both an Emmy Award and a Golden Globe Award because of Kelley, has said that "a lot of plays aren't written as well as David Kelley's scripts are .... It's not hard for me to appreciate what a genius he is." (23) His actors are not the only ones that acknowledge his talent. Kelley, in his early forties, remarkably has also received TV Guide's imprimatur, being chosen as "one of the 45 figures in television history" to have made an impact. (24)

Kelley's impact on television is both immediate and still to be felt. He recently pulled-off an industry coup of winning Golden Globes for comedy and drama in the same year - a fait accompli unequaled in television history. Robert Thompson, head of the Center for the Study of Popular Television at Syracuse University says that Kelley, "[w]ithout question ... is the most interesting, most accomplished, most subtle and most literary writer that this medium has ever produced.” (25) Contemporaries, critics, actors and even network presidents acknowledge the talent of Kelley: "One of the most gifted writers today" - Peter Roth, Fox Entertainment President; "He's the Michael Jordan of TV"- Sandy Grushow, President Fox TV; "Brilliant and prolific" - Jamie Tarses, ABC Entertainment President. (26) "He's a pure writer, a savant. Most writers take two weeks to write a first draft, David takes two days" - Ed Redlich, writer. (27) "He's extraordinary, he should be getting into the [Emmy] Hall of Fame much earlier than any of us did because ... he writes comedy with his left and drama with his right hand" - Carl Reiner, comedian. (28)

Kelley's impact is still to be felt. In a business where reaching 100 episodes is time to celebrate (when syndication deals are their most plum and where networks and production companies make back the money they "front-loaded" to underwrite the series in it's inchoate state), Kelley already has three series in syndication, with two very hot shows guaranteed to soon join them. Kelley says that TV, unlike plays or a movie, is similar to a marathon; that to live in television perpetuity, one must first get to the magical 100^th episode. (29) The revenue streams off of his shows, not to mention his royalties as a writer, are bound to keep Kelley around as an influential player for decades. Because of his success, Fox (the network that airs Ally McBeal) has recently awarded Kelley a multiyear agreement with his company to produce shows for Fox on a newly constructed studio lot in Southern California (twenty-two sprawling acres called Raleigh Manhattan Beach Studios). (30) This turnkey operation will bring Kelley Productions another $30 million, plus unprecedented network freedom and support.

It is Kelley's role as a producer that again parallels Shakespeare, this time as businessman. At the turn of the 17th Century, the Bard garnered an equity position with the Lord Chamberlain's Men, a distinguished company of players whose business affairs he managed. (31) David E. Kelley and Shakespeare have both benefited from their strong business acumen. They both have displayed the ability to shrewdly establish ownership positions (not merely intellectual property rights) in the production and presentation of their works -- arguably the surest way to maintain the integrity of one's work product. For Kelley, the best way to protect the quality of his shows would be, above all, to write, retaining his signature mark on his shows that audiences recognize. Kelley admits, "[w]hen you throw out all the titles, I'm a writer .... What I do the most is write; what I enjoy the most is writing. "32 Whenever Kelley has turned one of his shows over to other writers, the resulting thud has been a moribund series plummeting in the ratings. His voice is so unique and has such élan that the audience knows something is missing. While Kelley was at LA Law for five seasons, the show garnered four Emmy Awards; when Kelley left, the series floundered (to-date, Kelley's shows have received some 15 Emmy Awards. (33) When Kelley left two of his other shows, Chicago Hope and Picket Fences, the results were not quite as drastic, but felt nonetheless. Kelley, like Shakespeare, is a shrewd businessman whose quality writing has allowed him unparalleled business security and success.

Aside from the similarities these two gentlemen share in their personal background, professional awards, and business acumen, there are also some interesting similarities in their work, specifically when comparing Ally McBeal to The Merchant of Venice.

The first thing to strike the casual observer in looking at Kelley's television show and Shakespeare's play is that both have wonderfully colorful ensemble casts, each with approximately nine principal players. Indeed, many of these characters come from disparate backgrounds and have interesting quirky personality defects. Upon further inspection of the two works' general reception, both are rather polemical. Ally is a show that many either love or hate (usually because of its too fantastically bizarre comedic special effects: tongues stretch several feet for a quick lick on an ear lobe; eyes "bug-out"; when couples break-up, the dumpee is summarily picked-up by a trash truck and throw into the back; and babies have been known to dance their way into a few scene stealing moments). The show has stirred-up controversy not only because of its topical nature (religion, relationships, sexism, feminism), but also because of its double entendres, "adult" humor, and hemlines.

Likewise, as Editor John Andrews says in his introduction to the Merchant of Venice, "Merchant is a drama that has frequently occasioned controversy." (34) It has drawn criticism primarily because of Shakespeare's presentation of anti-Semitism, especially highlighted by Shylock's forced conversion at the close of the infamous trial scene. In an age of politically correct sensibilities, such a scene rubs obsequious PC lemmings not only the wrong way, but straight over the nearest thought-police cliff. Nonetheless, the two authors deal in straightforward fashion such topics as those mentioned supra. But how do they deal with the American "hot potato" of the 20th Century: racism?

Race relations in Merchant are dealt with in a manner representative of the author's time: prejudices are mentioned, acknowledged, and accepted. Classifying Judaism as a race, the barbs traded between Shylock and his gentile counterparts are in fact tame compared to what one might overhear in one of the boroughs of New York City between its callused citizenry (insert here your own favorite stereotype). When the Prince of Morocco fails in his attempt to win Portia as his wife, she, in the parlance of today's urban slang, "kicks him to the curb" with a pejorative statement about her not wanting any of "his complexion" to win her hand. (35) Nonetheless, as a prince he is allowed to accept the posthumous challenge of Portia's father and its attendant strictures and consequences. (36) While Shakespeare deals with racism head-on; Kelley in his Ally, conversely, doesn't even acknowledge its existence. Indeed, such a stand has raised many-an-eyebrow, and incurred the delicious wrath of a few social critics. National Public Radio commentator Callie Crosslie:

"It's just not authentic ... I find it offensive when he chooses not to deal with race on [Ally McBealj. It's like the ... white elephant in the middle of the room that no one talks about. It's insulting. " (37)

Kelley's show, a view that many support, chooses not to make race an issue. While Venice is the setting for Merchant, with its systemic prejudices, Boston, arguably this country's hotbed for racial tension, is the backdrop for Ally. And yet neither Ally, Greg (Ally's black boyfriend) nor Renee (Ally's black roommate), have ever discussed race as an issue or a problem. (38) Kelley has said that:

We are a consciously colorblind show. In the history of the show, we have never addressed race. The reason is simple. In my naive dream, I wish that the world could be like this. Since Ally lives in a fanciful and whimsical world, there are not going to be any racial differences or tensions. All people are one under the sun. (39)

While Ally's world for the most part is colorblind, Ally's firm did have a client whose skin had accidentally been turned "orange" and was subsequently discriminated against by her employer because of her horrifying hue. In its final adjudication, the court found that the plaintiff’s "orangeness" did not qualify as a protected class, thus the discrimination against her client was not invidious. This suit was one of the few that Ally's firm has actually lost.

While Merchant and Ally have dealt with racism on very different terms, they both have handled interfaith dating as well. In Merchant, Shylock, as any orthodox parent would be, is crushed to learn that his beloved daughter Jessica has eloped, marrying the gentile Lorenzo. Shakespeare portrays Jessica as never even considering how her faith might play a role in her happiness - which seems especially impolitic in that she's to marry someone of another faith. Jessica's impertinent actions illustrate how blind she is to all but the love between herself and her betrothed. She disdains the faith of her father, saying after he has left for the evening, "[f]arewell, and if my Fortune be not cross'd, I have a Father, you a Daughter, lost." (40) Jessica casually references her willingness to adopt a faith antithetical to her father's (cross'd, i.e., the Cross of Christ). While Jessica enters imprudently into inter-faith dating and marriage, Ally turns out to be quite thoughtful and comparatively intellectually honest in her approach to Judaism.

After rejecting a series of suitors because they are not physically appealing, Ally is rebuked by a friend for being "snobbish." After some pensive moments, she decides to date a Rabbi whose previous amorous advances she had initially rebuffed. Ally's approach is also much more enlightened than Portia's. While Portia dutifully entertains the Moroccan Prince (who probably was Muslim), her heart is dead set against him as a suitor, a fact seemingly confirmed when Portia pleads with Bassanio for him to take his time before attempting to choose the correct casket: "I pray you tarry, pause a Day or two, Before you hazard, for in choosing wrong I lose your Company: therefore forbear a while." (41) In comparison, it's not that Ally is not equally desperate to marry, in fact in one episode she muses: "I want to change the world; I just want to get married first. " (42)

Ally and Portia have more in common, however, than just the way they deal with their beauty, multiple suitors, and mutual anguish over their love lives. (43) They both have had incredibly interesting cases of first impression in the courtroom - both dealing with a pound of flesh.

Portia dresses as a man in order gain access to the court where the Duke of Venice is presiding. (44) She appears in court in order to aid her husband's friend, Antonio, who has put up security for Bassanio so he may gain Portia's hand in marriage. As part of the loan of 3,000 ducats, Shylock asks not for usury, but instead for "an equal Pound of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your Body pleaseth me." Antonio, the guarantor of the loan, replies, "Content in faith, 111 seal to such a Bond, And say there is much Kindness in the Jew." (45) This issue before the court would have been a challenging and vexing conundrum for any legal counsel, but nonetheless, with abounding aplomb, Portia volunteers to come to Antonio's defense. (Was she perhaps studying evenings at Padua University Law School?) She, of course, saves the day, using the law to "catch" Shylock as he perseverates on his revenge. Ultimately, she procures half of Shylock's fortune for the disinherited Jessica and Lorenzo (All's well that ends ... contrived?).

Ally, on the other hand (foreshadowing here), was hired by a client to defend him on murder charges. His alleged crime? Chopping off his wife's hand, murdering her. In this episode, the client is madly (obviously) in love with his soon-to-depart wife. When she dies, the client, in an insane moment, decides he must keep something of hers; something personal that meant a great deal to him. Ally, in her closing argument to the jury, evokes a nostalgia for first love - for that once-in-a-lifetime Shakespearean type of love - and actually convinces the jury that each of them could have acted in similar manner had they been blessed with this type of spousal devotion. It should be noted here that the murder charge was pretty weak to begin with. The question to be decided was whether the wife was actually dead when her limb was dismembered. Does anyone actually chop-off their wife's hand for the sole purpose of murder? Mayhem, yes. Murder, probably not.

1. C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy.

2. All biographical information regarding Shakespeare is from The Merchant of Venice: The Everyman Shakespeare, William Shakespeare, John Andrews's Editor Introduction.

3. Rob Owen, Kelley's Kingdom, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 5 February 1999.

4. NOTE: It would be interesting to calculate the current market value of the film rights to Shakespeare's plays that have been adapted - some would argue abused - liberally due to their public domain status.

5. NOTE: The amazing fact of Shakespeare's work antedating Kelley by some 400 years is not lost on this writer.

6. David Gates, Shakespeare: Dead White Male of the Year, Newsweek, 30 December 1996.

7. Ibid.

8. Jay Tolson, The Return of the Bard: As the World Goes Virtual, We Crave His Earthy Genius, Science & Ideas, 1 February 1999.

9. NOTE: A personal friend from graduate school is the cousin of Chris Devore who wrote the screenplay adaptation for this recent Mel Gibson project. Mr. Devore, was also nominated for an Oscar for his extraordinary screenplay, The Elephant Mall, back in the early '80s.

10. NOTE: Branaugh, in fact, recently received an Oscar nomination for his beautifully shot, four-hour adaptation of Hamlet ... without changing a single word of the play. Easy work if you can get it, I guess.

11. Hark! Branaugh is Bringing More Bard to the Screen, Hollywood Reporter, 2 October 1998.

12. Editorial, Cineaste, 22 December 1998.

13. Cineaste, 22 December 1998.

14. NOTE: The author here adroitly circumvents any discussion surrounding the "true" identity of Shakespeare (or authorship of his works) to those erudite pedants who are much better equipped to debate such minutia.

15. Maclean's, "Souping Up the Bard: Shakespeare is Hollywood's Latest Hot Ticket." Brian D. Johnson, 11 November 1996.

16. Ibid. NOTE: Baz Luhrmann directed the recent Romeo + Juliet starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes.

17. Cineaste, 22 December 1998.

18. Ibid.

19. A Change in the Script, Pittsburgh-Post Gazette, 5 February 1999.

20. Kelley's Kingdom, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

21. Lynette Rice, Michael Jordon oj TV Dancing Big Time, Baby, Hollywood Reporter, 11 September 1998.

22. A Change in the Script. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. NOTE: Kelley admits that it was his "procrastinate and publish" habit of waiting until the last minute to write his term papers in college that helped develop his ability to produce under pressure (plus a need for external motivation).

23 Ibid.

24 Don Aucoin, Kelley Scrawls His Way to Top: Prolific Writer-Creator Keeps Producing Hits, San Diego Tribune, 18 April 1999.

25 David Bianculli, Kelley's King of All TV Writers: Awards Galore are Further Proof that Scripter is Best Ever, New York Daily News, 26 January 1999.

26. Lynette Rice, Michael Jordon of TV Dancing Big Time, Baby, Hollywood Reporter, 11 September 1998.

27. Benjamin Svetkey, Kelley's Heroes: He's Hot, He's Sexy, He Used to be a Lawyer, Entertainment Weekly, 25 September 1998.

28. Dusty Sauders, Writer Kelley Scripts Formula for Hits, Denver Rocky Mountain News, 19 January 1999.

29. Kelley's Kingdom, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

30. Kelley's Heroes, Entertainment Weekly.

31. John Andrews, Merchant of Venice: The Every Man Shakespeare, 1991.

32. Robert Bianco, David E. Kelley Has Hockey Dreams, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 17 March 1995.

33. McBeal Makes Sense David Kelley Has Golden Touch, The Calgary Sun, 13 June 1998.

34. The Merchant of Venice: The Everyman Shakespeare, William Shakespeare, John Andrews's Editor Introduction

35. Merchant of Venice, Act IT, vii, 80.

36. NOTE: Shakespeare seemingly "projects" his own racism onto the Prince in his soliloquy in the form of self-loathing. He has Morochus ask Portia not to dislike him due to his complexion. The Bard then has the Prince say he would change his hue for Portia's thoughts.

37. Greg Braxton, Colorblind or Just Blind?, Variety, 15 February 1999.

38. Ibid.

39. Ibid.

40. Merchant, Act II, v, 55.

41. Merchant, Act Ill, ii, 1-4.

42 Benjamin Svetkey, Everything you Love or hate About Ally McBeal, Entertainment Weekly, 30 January 1998.

43 NOTE: This paper purposely (perhaps at its peril) leaves out a rather lengthy discussion on Ally and Portia in light of modem feminism. In fact, Calista Flockhart (the actor who plays Ally) was recently on the cover of Time; the magazine suggests that perhaps Ally is the "New Face of Feminism."

44 NOTE: Cross-dressing and gender/sex role reversals are used in both Merchant and Ally to mislead others. Jessica, Portia, and Nerissa all dress as men to advance their plans. Ally has had some crossdressing, but for more pragmatic purposes (dance partners); however, Ally has feigned lesbianism, actually kissing two of her co-workers, to evade potential suitors.

45. Merchant, 1, iii, 150-154.

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Crookshank: the Prequel Prologue

At 53 years of age, Crookshank hadn’t set foot or sneaks on a basketball court in almost 25 years. He had become a shell of a man of what was once a life in full. His wife and baby daughter died tragically during labor when he was 28, and the loss of his great love and the little girl who had already stolen his heart before she was born, devastated Crookshank. Where once he loved and was loved, he now was aloof, occupied simply with busying his life with work. Young Crookshank moved kicking and screaming to Kentucky to live with his father when he was in high school. He found love there and then lost it. It was clear that life had lost its flavor for Crookshank, like chewing the same piece of gum on a long bus ride to California, and things like basketball and friendships were not as important to him as they once were.

That doesn’t mean that Crookshank hadn’t touched a basketball or shot around during that time; because he had. Every day, or almost every day, weather and schedule permitting. It was the one thing he allowed himself to do. But it was on the hoop hanging on a pole out behind the garage in the dirt. And, shoot he did. First his 100 free-throws, right-handed of course. Then his shoot around. Though no longer in his father's jersey as he once did as a boy. Crookshank played ball in work pants and boots, in his shirt and suspenders. And he still never missed. Or rarely.

He eventually became a gentleman farmer like his forebears and father before him, and worked as an accountant for many businesses in Prospect, Kentucky. His mathematical skills that he strengthened as a “sinister” left-hander in school had served him well. So, along with his seasonal farming duties, Crookshank also had seasonal book-keeping duties. But, it was the winter months with no duties -- the loneliest season -- that had their harshest impact on Crookshank.

When Crookshank looked in the mirror each bitter and cold morning before starting his day at 5:45am, he saw a bug-eyed, balding, middle-aged man with a crooked spine and splotchy skin -- sun spots where his hair had once occupied valuable real estate. This poor wretch of a man routinely wore a weathered blue suit with scalp detritus positioned accordingly on strong yet slumped shoulders. Crookshank walked the streets of Prospect, Kentucky with a limp from his crooked spine, and one could swear that an audible, painful groan, though ever so faint, could be heard every other step as Crookshank placed one size-13 black laced-up wing-tip in front of the other.

Of course, none of this was reality; this twisted visage was all in his mind. What was once a random thought, or a feeling sorry for himself had slowly become Crookshank's self-image and "reality." This poor, poor wretch (I say wretch, because that’s what he allowed himself to become) of a man needed help. Not the sort of help from a psychiatrist or group therapy session (though those are quite helpful and appropriate at times); but the sort of help one gets from oneself when you decide to take a stand. To make a mark or draw a line in the dirt of one’s life and say, “it changes right here, my life.” He needed that kind of change.

But, someone else needed help more than Crookshank did, and it was only Crookshank who could assist this person if only he could get out of his own way. If Crookshank could see and face reality as a whole man should, and must, in fact, if he is to help his family, community, church or neighbor.

And, here’s where the legend of Crookshank begins again. I sort of get a lump in my throat because I’m very happy to share this story with you, dear reader. It’s the kind of story that makes your parents happy, and your little brothers cheer (loudly, in your ear). And, it makes you glad that you didn’t make the same mistakes that Crookshank did. The minor legend of Crookshank started when he was 13 and came to its glorious and humble fruition when he was 53. That’s 40 years separation – almost two generations of Crookshanks were born and around to see their most talented Hoosier warrior grace the homestead. Let’s go back to when Crookshank was 13 to set the stage once again, again. Well, one more time. You know what I mean! Shall we?

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Batman Begins, a Movie Review

Note: This review originally appeared on LuxeMont.com

Honesty alert. I never connected with the original Batman series from Warners. Sure they brought in hundreds of millions of dollars at the box office, but the moribund franchise also went off the rails long ago, almost committing seppuku in the process of exploiting itself.

It’s not that Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer, and George Clooney

 did sub-par work; they were great as the Dark Knight. But, the overall vibe and feel of the Batman pictures were too otherworldly. A darker world that Tim Burton, et. al., delivered in their mildly disturbing comic book interpretations. They just sort of creeped me out. Directed by Christopher Nolan (Memento, Insomnia), Batman Begins is all about character development, creating a nuanced backstory, and of course, establishing a new vehicle from which a new and improved franchise can be launched. And Nolan succeeds like no other director before him in fleshing out a superhero on film. His Batman is a real man dealing with familial trauma, living in a real city. As soon as the 3rd reel ends, you want to stay in your seat and watch it again. I had no expectations – none -- about this film, and was blown away by the sets, story, and direction. Christian Bale (Little Women, American Psycho) is perfect as the billionaire playboy who by night attempts to keep the crime balance in Gotham.

The film of course has de rigueur explosions, unreal tumbles off of buildings and cliffs, and one-against-twenty fight sequences. But, here, you believe the action. Suspended disbelief works wonders, especially when you see the Batmobile, Batsuit, and Wayne Manor. It all works, and you ask yourself ala Jack Nicholson, “where does he get those wonderful toys!?”

Michael Caine is fantastic as Alfred the butler who provides Bruce Wayne with more of a father figure than simply a footman offering avuncular advice. Morgan Freeman, Gary Oldman, and Katie Holmes all deliver reeled-in performances, allowing their characters to meld in perfectly with the exposition. They execute the material in front of them, and we all benefit from their character performances. Nolan’s Batman is about fathers and how they shape the lives of their sons, even from the grave. The loss of his father impacts Bruce Wayne’s life in a profound way. We see young Bruce rescued by his father a couple of times, and in the tragic scene where his parents are murdered, his father tells Bruce “don’t be afraid.” This is one comfort that Bruce is able to hold on to, loving fatherly advice; his father’s protection even in the end.

Batman Begins is Nolan’s interpretation of how Bruce Wayne would attempt to rid himself of the survivor guilt that profoundly shapes him. As he matures, Bruce seeks the courage to avenge/face/heal from the loss of his parents, by embracing a wanderlust that takes him in to crime-infested prisons and criminal gangs where he can face his fears. Before he can become Batman, Bruce must be able to “not be afraid,” keeping the connection with his father very much alive in Bruce’s heart. It is Bruce’s attempt to understand the criminal mindset that leads him to a mentor to help him harness the fear, anxiety, and anger that have plagued him.

Henri Ducard (Liam Neeson) offers Bruce what he lacks: peace of mind and self-control. Here we see the beginnings of the Dark Knight. Facing his fear of bats, death, and the unknown, Bruce even faces down the evil crime lord of the League of Shadows, setting up the showdown that always takes place at the end of every superhero movie. This is the birth of Batman. Bruce overcoming his fears, no longer being afraid, and finally embracing the Wayne legacy left him by his father.

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Crookshank: the Homestead Years

Settled in the early 1800’s on the edge of what would become Hoosier National Forest, Resolute, Indiana, today is a city of about 13,000 residents with tree-lined streets, rolling hills, languid breezes, a lazy river through the center of town, pies cooling on windowsills, still-working antique gaslight lamps, and friendly face after friendly face of all hues and colors. It is dear reader, a magical place to grow up; to be forced to leave here would be a sad thing.

A large portion of the homestead was annexed into the park by an Act of Congress in 1913, meaning that 2/3 of the ancestral home of eleven generations of Crookshanks and their heirs would be protected from being taken by the state or city governments for their uses. Almost 2,000 acres were under the protection by the grand daddy of all governments, the federal government, for better part of 100 years. Although most of their land was now included in the park, the Crookshanks and their kin would forever have free reign on their land -- and they made full use of it. There were vacation homes (more like tiny lodges) that sat on smallish lakes, creeks, and even the Ohio River. These were built over the many years by various cousins, aunts and uncles, and a few great, great grandfathers and grandmothers.

But, the one structure that received the most attention from Wes and his family was the raised basketball court with a large ‘C’ painted at center-court. It had a wood floor (built from the hardest, longest lasting wood from local trees), and was set 18 inches above the grassy field located behind Trip’s large barn. A colorful canvas canopy towered 50 feet over the court, like a giant geisha's fan, providing a much-needed sun shade. There was also (equally as important to the 47 first-cousins of Wesley Crookshank) a stream conveniently nearby that hot, sweaty players of many sports would routinely jump into to cool themselves down (along with several dogs, an occasional raccoon, and one very fat bunny).

Although born in Kentucky, 13 yr-old Wesley Crookshank's heart and soul (and large hands and feet) belonged to Indiana through and through. Though still in junior high, Wes could already palm a basketball with one hand and could score from all over the basketball court at-will: lay-ups, shots from the top of the key or behind the backboard. He was a fluid machine of arm movement, jumping ability, proper arc on his shot, and follow-through with his hand snapped-down just so. He didn’t really shoot the ball so much as toss it in with the skill of a supremely confident Army sharpshooter. Wes didn’t fire that often, but when he did, it was deadly accurate and sometimes bodies were bloodied and egos bruised.

Under the direction of “coach” Trip Crookshank, young Wesley could already shoot a basketball right-handed better than most ball players in Indiana. But, Wes was left-handed. His grandfather Trip (and Wally his dad) encouraged young Wes to throw a football and baseball right-handed since before he could walk. And, yes, shoot a basketball too, in spite of his being sinistral (which is not such a nice word for left-handers, derived from the root word for sinister), Crookshank would practice shooting right-handed in middle-school as he would for the rest of his life.

Far from being sinister, Wes was indeed a natural lefty. His grandpa would tell anyone within earshot that the reason for this was that when Wes was a baby in Kentucky, he must have always been reaching towards Resolute to get back home again to Indiana because on the map, the Hoosier State would have been on his left. Being a lefty made writing with the fountain pen that school required him to use that much tougher, as one would invariably smear ink both on the page and your palm. So, Wes began to favor math over English because when working math problems, one could write top to bottom, figuring out the solutions neatly. Whereas in English class, it was a messy mess of green ink on his shirt at least once a week, and he’d feel the fool walking around school with evidence of his left-handedness on his sleeve for all the school to see -- an emerald letter 'L' of embarassment.

Being the grandson of a Methodist minister, Wesley scored points with the frugality commensurate with his faith. The game was never about Crookshank or his stats; he played out of loyalty to his team, and more importantly to win. It's not that Wesley played-down to his competition (like a weaker player might); it was simply that Wes was confident in his abilities (even if no one knew how good he was) and content to be unheralded. But, when scoring was needed, Wes could pour in the points like one turns on a spigot, as his cousins knew all too well.

Each afternoon, like clockwork, Wes would put on his well-worn sneaks, and pull-on his father’s over-sized basketball jersey -- after completing his homework, of course -- to shoot 100 free throws from the free throw line, aka, the “charity stripe.” He would wear the jersey over shirts, sweaters, even his jacket if the weather was freezing. From the charity stripe Wes would shoot with 97% accuracy each practice session, sometimes making 100 in a row. His talented cousins could shoot 80 or so in a row, but none ever matched the centennial mark from the line. After his 100 daily free-throws, he’d "shoot around" for another hour. On weekends, after chores on the farm were done, Wes and his cousins played hours upon hours into the friscalating twilight until they were called for supper.

Wes missed his father, more than he would ever let on to his grandparents. If Wes was sitting in class and heard a familiar Ford truck drive past, he'd crane his neck to see if it was his dad's green machine (only his closest friend, and cousin, Jerome knew what he was doing). And when his dad would come home for visits, Wes never let him out of his sight.

It was on one of these visits home that the Crookshank cousins played their uncles in a grudge match game that to this day is talked about with reverence. It was the beginning of the legend that was Crookshank, Wesley Ellis, and the first disagreement between Wes and the man he adored.

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Crookshank: Wesley Ellis

In 1968, 12-yr-old Wesley Ellis Crookshank was one of hundreds of Crookshank cousins within six counties of the town of Resolute, Indiana. In the late 1940's and early 50's, with the return of brave Hoosier men after World War II, there was a population boom to say the least. As a result, it became more than a little monotonous to hear roll called around the various schools and their classrooms with hundreds of Crookshanks in attendance: "Darnell Crookshank?! Jeremy Crookshank!? Justin Crookshank?! Sally Crookshank!? Silvia Crookshank?!" (See what I mean? Completely obnoxious, right? I'm ready to pull my hair out just writing that sentence.) Kids were constantly rolling their eyes each morning, and the Crookshank name began to wear out its welcome, which was quite unfortunate because there wasn't a more hospitable bunch in all of Perry County and its environs to be sure.

A meeting was held at the homestead, and soon all Crookshank kids were no longer enrolled with their last name; they merely used their first and middle names. And, so it was that Wesley Ellis Crookshank simply became: Wesley Ellis. Or, Wes to his grandpa and friends.

It is said that a Crookshank can recognize a cousin (even one they’ve never met or haven’t seen since childhood) as far removed as 3rd cousins. The distinctive ears (not unsightly, just especially familiar to one used to seeing the elongated lobes staring back in the mirror); the bountiful head of hair; penetrating stare looking for clues seemingly at every glance for some mystery that could erupt without notice; and the smile ... the especially kind smile. There it was. The one trait all Crookshank cousins possessed and that their parents cherished.

An unwritten and unspoken ritual began with Crookshank men doffing their cap (or taking them off completely for women) and acknowledging a passerby as far back as the 1800’s. The Crookshank smile was one that had a dimple on one cheek and a smile line on the other. Always, or almost always, seemingly pulling one on the other with each smile. (One should always not say always, dear reader. Well, you get my meaning.) The ritual would begin when a Crookshank might recognize a relative, he or she would slightly turn their head, smile, and nod a little hello. When the return smile revealed a familiar dimple and a smile line, good manners required one to stop and make the proper introductions. So, on dozens of school campuses in Indiana, Crookshanks using their first and middle names could spot each other fairly easily.

Wesley Ellis had it, and he recognized the smile on more than a dozen kids on the school yard also. And they all recognized him as a Crookshank in good standing with his family and community. He was good stock as they would say. Even for a boy who was born in Kentucky, and whose dad still lived in Prospect driving around in his old green pickup truck.

The conversation eleven years earlier between Wally and his parents Trip and Fiona Crookshank took all of ten minutes. All three knew that Wally had returned to ask his folks to help rear Wesley Ellis while he continued to make a living and a name for himself in Kentucky. The baby needed stability, a women's influence, and family. In Resolute, Indiana, on the original Crookshank homestead, he'd get all three, especially the family.
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(Part III cont'd)

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