Eleven in '11 ... No. 2 (books)

London Library Reading Room

No. 2.

books.

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What can I say here?  Like so many of you, Dear Reader, I am a bibliophile.  Books on architecture or apologetics. Poetry or politics. History or mystery.  Fiction and non.  Quirky books elaborating on the minutiae of the moment, or irreverent volumes making mathematics simple.  If a writer cranks out a book done well, is well-reviewed, inspiring, particularly helpful or simply has a nice hook (or a different take on things) -- especially if it can be found in the discount bin -- chances are I'll read it.  As I like to say, two books a week is all we ask.  And, if a friend writes a book, well, dang it!, I'll buy several copies.  
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When I watched the PSA for literacy.org showing youngsters getting ready to embark on journeys to new worlds and their books stamped like a passport from the engineer who was boarding passengers, and then as the young lad begins to read the words on the page, the landscape around him -- reflected in the train window -- reveals itself as the Emerald City ... chills. 
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Imagine if everyone read two books a week.  Real books, too.  Weighty books.  Let's make a deal, you and I. Or, at least you can just placate with a polite nod of "okay" over there on your side of the Internet's conjoined computer screen.  How about we agree to read at least one book a month?  That is doable.  If modern Presidents of the United States have time to read a book or two occasionally, then why not us?  I've seen the pictures of Bush and Obama and Reagan and Clinton strutting from Air Force One to an awaiting limo toting said tome.
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President Obama Note to Y. Martel (author Life of Pi)

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One of the reasons I put up with Oprah (she's not my fave, but I truly respect the hell out of what she's built, her empire.  My ex-father in law worked with her in Nashville years ago.  They ran into each other at the Oscars, and she remembered him well.), is that she has had such an amazing impact on encouraging us to be the highest and best us, and that definitely includes her book club.  I also love that she is who she is, and she doesn't confuse herself or others with trying to be someone else that some a-hole like yours truly might want her to be.  She's real, er, real rich, but genuine to boot.
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London Library

Okay, so yes, as the big No.2 above indicates, I am a reader of books.  But, a true bibliophile holds a special place in the dusty racks and stacks of their heart for the setting that is the library.  The London Library for me is the literary locus of the printed media and book culture and erudition all festooned with a lovely British lilt. The staff exceeds all professional standards, and one can obtain with aplomb great research there.  Just ask the fictional American  research assistant, Roland Michell, from the novel (and movie) Possession: A Romance, by A.S. Byatt, both of which I highly recommend you read and view.

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When money's tight (which is usually the past couple of years), I'll get my fix from the library or via a free eReader or will gladly take a book second-hand from a friend.  You can obtain all the public domain classics on Google's free reader (or some other eReader), and we'd be busy, you and I, with a book a month for years.  And, we'd be so much better for it.  And, society would be better for having better versions of ourselves coursing through and over its causeways and byways and by the way, and not to mention, we'd be able to answer a lot more of those pesky questions on Jeopardy!  And, now, hundreds and hundreds of books later, I love crushing Alex Trebek's puny questions.  Books is brainfood, y'all!!!
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Before I list some favorite books, here are some favorite authors. I say "some" because, well, almost all of my books are in storage right now, and this is off the top of my head.  It's a little Wordle that I put together especially; adds to the sense of occasion, dontcha think?

FatScribe Wordle of Authors

These aren't necessarily the big eleven in my (very) humble little existence.  Just eleven I thought represented certain aspects of my life well.  Btw, there is one important book that is obviously missing (really a collection of 66 separate books, old and new) that we can discuss a bit later.

The Catcher in the Rye was it for me when I read it in high school (three times) because Jerome David Salinger helped me finally to recognize what a writer's voice sounded like (I know, I know ...  many of you Eastern elites were ingesting The New Yorker when you were in junior high school and understood this sophisticated patois, but for us indolent Angelinos, it was revelatory.)  Franny and Zooey, however, really placed a hand with lighted cigarette on my shoulder and said with cocktail breath, "you wanna try this? You should try this, this writing thing ole boy."   I was hooked on the story of the family Glass as it took little (to me) surprising turns, with drinks at sophisticated joints, and college sports, and all the swells rocking sweaters and overcoats and pearls, featuring rooms in NY city apartments where one could take a melancholy-induced nap. It had trains and cabs and older brothers and family drama and young person angst.  Perhaps it's trite to say that Salinger is one of those writers that influenced me the most over the last 25 years to be sure, but sometimes trite is true.  For the first time I thought that it might be nice to sit and think and create a story with fountain pen and blank page, and to set in motion ex nihilo some wonderful characters of my creation the way Salinger does.
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Harold Berman was quoted by so many of my law school professors that I went out and purchased the book.  However, it wasn't until a couple of years later that I could actually read the book with some free time.  The tome is a masterpiece, a magnum opus without peer.  When I think of the biggies here in this little category, it goes: Blackstone.  Berman.  Bork.  If you practice law, you owe it to yourself to read this wonderful contribution to the cannon.  If you don't (as I do not), you can show-up all of those lawyers who've never read a single book since law school (and there are MANY) by taking a few months to get through Law and Revolution.
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Michael Chabon, in my humble opinion, is the greatest American writer of the last fifty years.  His plots and characters are masterful. His use of language nonpareil.   I was given his first book (his master's thesis for the UCI writer's program) when I was an undergrad, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh.  His book Summerland, I read to my boys when they were small, and then my eldest read it sua sponte when he was eleven (genius, sheer genius, said his dad ... and how appropriate in light of, you know, the big play on the "eleven" theme).  Chabon won the Pulitzer for his Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.  But, my favorite book of his has to be Wonder Boys.  Steve Kloves adapted this book masterfully (as he has done almost all of the Harry Potter books for the big screen), and I put his script for Wonder Boys up as a perfect pitched game for anyone looking to see a great script.  Anyway, The Yiddish Policemen's Union is a great way for you to understand the brilliance of this writer.  And, as you might imagine, Dear Reader, he and I have absolutely zero in common when it comes to politics.  But, I love the guy anyway, er, not love love, but you get my meaning.

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This book by Allan Bloom made me decide to go to graduate school and get a master's in public policy.  I became fascinated with Bloom in high school (and his professor) Leo Strauss and a few other more conservative Chicago intellectuals.  Bloom's erudition and grasp of history and the negative implications of the wont of academia and media to practice historicism when it fits their needs, to twist it for their own expedient ends, have informed the way I view all of post-modern American politics.  Bloom took an amazing amount of heat from his fellow academicians for The Closing of the American Mind, being labeled and confirmed a neocon (a word I love, btw) for his effort.   An older friend of mine from church, who was one of ABC's political editors, had recently introduced the phrase real politik to me after a discussion we had on Bloom.  I would later name the first Internet website I developed (a very successful, student-run public policy journal) called NeoPolitique in honor of Bloom.  Highly suggested reading ... even thirty years later.

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No one can equal this dandy and his skill with the roman a clef.  I appreciate his white suits and wonderful stories and his conservative bent.  Where I loathe pretensionist novelists like Norman Mailer (RIP) and John Irving telling everyone how to live, I can stand proud that a novelist of Tom Wolfe's caliber can tell them and other Eastern sophisticates (in my stead) exactly where to get off.    My good friend (best man at my wedding) and I were in South Carolina helping his parents move into their lovely new home sitting on the 17th fairway.  My friend's dad was dying from a blood cancer, and he wanted me to take any books I wanted.  I took many good ones, but this A Man in Full was my favorite.  I read it in like two or three days, sitting late nights in the Charleston heat on the back patio, drinking sweet tea  and smoking an occasional cigar.  My friend's dad also had an amazing pen collection.  He was, truly, a man in full, who rebounded from borderline bankruptcy, who called his 30 yr-old son "sweetie" and who never ceased to provide for his family, even when he was at death's door. 

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I personally owe, and I believe the country also owes, a debt of gratitude to Shelby Steele for this work.  The Content of Our Character is THE book on race-relations.  As a father of two boys with a black mother and white dad, I am very sensitive to this issue. Have been since I was a boy and witnessed the event that was Alex Haley's "Roots" on ABC network television (that used to be a big deal back then).  When I was a boy, I can remember exactly where I was the first and only time I used the "N" word (and, no, it's not a prequel show to Showtime's The "L" Word ).  I was with the son of a Cy Young and MVP winner (a Dodger great, the second black-American to be admitted to play in the Majors), and he and I were playing a basketball game called "tip-in."  We were in junior high school, and I had just beaten him out for the scholar athlete award, and we were killing time before the bus was supposed to pick us up.  I missed a crucial shot and out of nowhere, I used the word as curse word, not as a racial epithet directed at anyone.  Don't know why I said it.  I'd never said the word before in my life, and right there in front of the son of a racial pioneer I uttered it.  He chased me around A.E. Wright Middle School for a full ten minutes before he finally said, "Goot, I'll make you a deal.  You stop running and I'll only hit you once.  Then we can go finish our game."  I stopped and he hit and we played.  We played football and basketball on our high school teams (he would later play at Stanford) and neither ever mentioned it again.  Coda: LuxeMont, the Internet company I founded a few year's back, was asked to play in an LPGA event by one of our advertisers, a company that was the official LPGA provider of private jets.  I had no idea, but it was owned by my childhood friend.  Yes, the same. 

Milton Friedman's introduction to F.A. Hayek's The Road to Serfdom was the first time I was able to read his words of economic wisdom.  After reading Hayek's book in grad school, I went on to devour everything I could get my hands on by Friedman, including any YouTube videos I could watch.  Genius, as all Nobel Prize winners are.  Well, most prize winners are.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Frederick Douglass, to me, represents one of the greatest bootstrapping stories in Western history.  From slave to publisher, from beaten chattel to feted White House guest. After his first wife passed away, Douglass would marry a white woman (to the consternation of some), and die at a ripe old age.   Douglass would hold several political and bureaucratic positions of power in DC.  Talk about your real Horatio Alger story.  

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Read State of Fear, it blows the claims of those insipid, anthropogenic-preaching, lie-disseminating and fear-mongering miscreants out of the water who want to re-engineer the capitalistic West in their radical leftist Utopian image.  I never knew Michael Crichton to be conservative, but when I read this latest tome, I had one of the most surprising aha moments in my reading life. Regardless, the prescient Michael Crichton has always been a fave.  A take-me-to-the-beach sort of fave, who nonetheless was a terrific spinner of yarns fave in terms of his techno-drenched SciFi thrillers.  His oeuvre routinely presaged the headlines of tomorrow.  With degrees from Harvard (including Harvard medical) he decided to write novels during his time in medical school.  Renaissance man he (the bastard), Crichton would break new ground throughout his life, becoming the first to have a top-selling novel, hit movie, and television show concurrently, simultaneously, and famously (he created the medical drama, ER).  His home in the Pacific Palisades was filled with art that even Steve Martin would covet and lovely comfy furnishings for his family (and to hold his 6'9" frame) as well as two unpublished novels. After his recent death at an early age, his family discovered that Crichton had produced two more novels (one completely finished and self-edited, and the other almost so).  I can't tell you how much I respect a writer of his caliber.  Here's what Crichton said in Architectural Digest about his home and his love of books:

“All the bedrooms are stacked—there are books piled in the garage, and there are books in boxes in the basement,” he says. “The paperbacks are yellow and cracked, but I won’t give them up. I can’t—I annotate as I read. At one point I calculated that half the weight and volume of what we own is books."  A house with room for books and a family—and one of the most spectacular careers on record—are more than a writer dares to hope for. Though Michael Crichton is not one to hype his domestic pleasures, he can’t deny his good fortune. “This has been,” he says, with measured bliss, “a very happy, very positive house.”

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Last but most important, The Federalist Papers.  Here is the book (another important anthology of 85 essays) that each and every one of you, Dear Readers, should read (I know, that's obnoxious, my encouraging you to read a rather old, yet important book).  The Federalist Papers informs everything about our Constitutional Republic and its formation, and the role of the Constitution in each and every one of our lives today.  TFP is a collection from three giants who decided to publish their writings with a pseudonym of Publius, mostly to keep the reader's focus on what they were writing, not on who was writing these essays.


So, there you go. 
Up next?

No. 3.

film.   

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Let's NOT Politicize Murder

Every fiber in my being (an overused phrase if there ever was one) wants to shout out in anger over the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. I have a personal response that I'll share with you Re: situations such as these: I never use the perpetrator's name. I give no satisfaction of limelight or infamy or notoriety to fools who seek attention by destroying others. I wish the media would follow suit and simply report on the event and victims and the arrest and eventual trial and execution of these maladjusted types. Instead, we will sit vigil for several news cycles as the media hordes and whores (you know the usual suspects of whom I speak) begin their preternatural muck-wallowing journalism, where they will roll around on their backs on top of the most putrid aspects of this story, like a dog would a carcass sniffed out in the backyard, all in the name of ratings.

I also was/am disgusted by media pundits (with political axes to grind) who seek to imply or impute political motives to this tragedy vis-a-vis certain political camps not of their liking. I found the following Taranto article to be thoughtful, informative and a sobering reminder of what happens when certain politicos and literati are confronted by the unsavory reality of the evil that lurks amongst us.

Click here for the --> JAMES TARANTO Piece in Wall St. Journal

We are all hurting when tragedies like the one in Arizona occur. We become distrusting, or nervous, or worst of all, inured to these sorts of tragedies. I go to a rather large church in Los Angeles, and there are times after I've dropped my kids off at their Sunday school classes, that I look around and wonder, "what would we do if a nutter walked onto our campus?" James Taranto's piece in the Wall Street Journal is worth a read if, like me, you find yourself dismayed by blubbering simpletons seeking to assign blame for this tragedy to their political enemies.

Each morning, I read several English papers (Telegraph, Globe and Mail [Canadian, actually], The Times) to whet my Anglophile appetite. Yet, all three of these fine papers were guilty of attributing, within mere hours, political motives for this tragedy across the pond or to the south. The evening of the tragedy, each had above the fold articles or opinion pieces wondering about, intimating or attributing a supposed motive to the shooting. Too soon? Yes, way too soon; they didn't have anything resembling the full facts of the situation. Nor do we still, IMHO. Bottom line, we need to support our friends in Arizona as they deal with this horrible situation, and send them our prayers and thoughts and well-wishes.

UPDATE: From Steve Kornacki, the News Editor at Salon.com (no conservative rag, she):
Article linked here: Salon.com

Headline: "Americans Get It: It's Just a Horrible Coincidence"

"CBS News is out with a new poll today that finds Americans strongly rejecting the notion that the political climate played a role in Saturday's attempted assassination of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords.

Fifty-seven percent of respondents say that the nation's "harsh political tone" didn't have anything to do with the shooting rampage, compared with 32 percent who say it did play a role. Not surprisingly, Republicans are more unified in denying any linkage (a 69 to 19 percent margin), but even a plurality of Democrats -- 49 percent -- agree that there was no connection. Among independents, the spread is 56 to 33."

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Brankton Walks Austin (p8)

Earl said, “Brankton, do me a favor and let me look into this. I'll make a few phone calls about Marcus and then call you back. In the meantime, I’ve got this.” Earl stood up from his chair, a man about to swing some of his Fred Flintstone physique around. “What is your assistant’s name?” He dug his toes into the shag white area rug that framed his desk with an extra three feet of matting. Earl was wearing his best grandson birthday party shorts and Riviera Country Club golf shirt with his sandals slipped off somewhere near the ottoman next to his desk.

Brankton's admin was still in his office occupying his $1,200 chair. “Sophia,” she said answering Earl.  She heard the door open in the “reception area” where her desk was. “Hello?” she said.  Sophia and Friday both jumped when the door slammed behind the security officer’s entrance, shaking the wall as it always did when visitors arrived.

“NBC Security!” said a beefy, recently honorably discharged U.S. Marine. "Is Mr. Brankton Newhan here?”

Brankton looked up at Moises Yauch and pointed to an area of the courtyard, asking if he could sit there on the low brick wall. The Rebbe gave him the pointer-thumb okay sign.

“Sophia, can you please put me on speaker phone,” said Earl.

The door opened again, and for a moment Friday thought security had left the office. But, a distinctly high-pitched Brooklyn accent said, “NBC Universal Security!”

The Marine security officer rolled his eyes at his security guard colleague from Brooklyn, “I just said that,” he said. “What, you don’t see me standing here?”

“Yeah, but did you mean it?” asked Brooklyn security.  Brooklyn had been at NBC for twelve years and Marine all of three months. Brooklyn held a visceral and visible chip on his narrow shoulder because some jarhead from Newport Beach, California, already outranked him and was telling him what to do. It didn’t matter to Brooklyn that he himself never graduated high school and that Marine was an officer in the Marine Corps for six years, two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, with a degree in Criminology from University California Irvine.

“Where are the banker’s boxes?” asked the Marine.

“I thought this was a priority walk-out?” said Brooklyn.

Marine walked back and opened the door a third time, “Here’s the priority: go get several boxes for this office to pack up some personal belongings and double-time it back here.” Marine gave Brooklyn wide berth to walk out the door with some semblance of dignity to carry out his assignment.

“Hello?” said Friday as she walked down the hallway toward Brankton’s office. She and Sophia looked at each other and shrugged shoulders.

Marine turned back to his assignment. He pulled out the email from Marcus Spilka’s office and re-read it to confirm the odd name of the executive he was to escort from the lot. “Is Brankton Newhan here?” he said as he walked in next to Brankton’s office looking about.

Friday with her long-legged stride met him within a few steps. She placed herself between Marine and Sophia. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know if your office was made aware of this communication, but our Security group has been notified to escort Mr. Brankton’s office from the premises immediately.” Marine held up the email.

“May I see this please,” said Friday firmly as she tried to snatch it out of Marine’s hands. She was surprised how rapidly he moved it, leaving her with an awkward swipe at nothing. “Well, no we didn’t get this communication, and I’d like to read it,” she said.

“Yes, then this must be surprising to say the least, so I apologize,” said Marine ignoring her plea to read the directive and folding the email into his back pocket. “Is Mr. Newhan here or on the campus, because we have to escort him out as well?”

Brankton and Earl Buntz were both speaking, answering Marine and asking questions of their own, but could not be heard because Sophia hadn’t put the line on speaker phone properly. “Brankton, let me,” barked Earl with some finality as to which of them would be speaking to NBC Universal Security. Brankton now quiet in Austin, and Earl Buntz with a lung full of bated breath ready to pounce; both men waited for Sophia to remedy the speaker situation.

The door opened again. A slender 5’ 7” Brooklyn stood with the banker’s boxes next to 6’2” Marine who filled every seam and stretched every stitch of his paramilitary security uniform like some ancient wineskin.

“Let’s get these filled up ladies,” said Brooklyn as he tossed one in Brankton’s office and then another down the hall toward Friday’s office. “You’ve got three and a half minutes.” Brooklyn once heard a colleague say something similar to this some ten years earlier, and it just sort of slipped out of him now, like the kid who knocks the glass of chocolate milk with his elbow and knows it's on its way to the floor and that there's nothing to be done now but watch the final results splash out in an ugly way.

“Hey, what is going on here?” Friday immediately disliked the little guy with the accent that reminded her of her first husband who also just happened to be a full four inches shorter than her height of 5' 11" without heels.

Sophia added, “Yeah, who in the hell are you?” Sophia looked down at the speaker phone waiting for a word of authority to finally emanate from her GE phone system and realized her snafu. She punched the button, “Mr. Buntz, sorry about that – you’re on speaker phone now.”

“Who the hell am I?” Brooklyn looked up at Friday as he walked past her to show Sophia exactly who the hell he was. “I’m the guy who’s going to drag your bony ass up and out of here if you don’t get to steppin’, sweetie.”

Brooklyn grabbed Sophia by the arm and hauled her up and out of the Herman Miller chair. “Ouch, hey!” she screamed not so much in pain but fear and annoyance because no asshole should be allowed touch a woman with such disrespect. Friday immediately moved to the nearest object to swing, a silver platter sitting on its edge on one of Brankton’s bookshelves would have to do. It was engraved with the first public offering information for an Idealab company that Brankton was partly responsible for early in his career: four million shares were issued in its name raising over $22 million. It had never been used for anything but proud display, and with its two carrying slats on the side, it was perfectly suited for Friday’s double grip and her French tipped acrylic fingernails.

Marine hesitated for a brief second when he heard someone barking, “This is Earl Buntz! This is Earl Buntz!” He moved to go around the desk to grab a hold of Brooklyn's arm, hopefully snapping it in the process. He imagined throttling the little jerk’s neck as well once they got this office cleared.

Friday spun and aimed for Brooklyn’s head. Having played 3 years of softball and swung a hammer for almost 7 years as a contractor, she could bring the lumber when she needed to. She swung the platter with all of her might, wanting to knock Brooklyn into unconsciousness. She caught Marine mid-step and square in the side of the face instead. Pwang! The reverberation of the impact on Marine’s head almost broke Friday’s hand. She dropped the tray writhing in pain. The former-Marine security guard just stood there. Still. Not reacting.

“Son of a bitch!” said Friday. “Oh, my gawd, I think I broke my hand,” she grabbed her hand and held it close to her body. "Oh, my gawd!"

Earl continued, “This is Earl Buntz! This is Earl Buntz! My name is Earl Buntz! I am the President of NBC Universal.” Earl had a bank of three sliding doors that lead to his veranda. They were all slid opened and the entire party heard Earl telling all who had ears to hear that he was Earl Buntz. The clowns in clown make-up; the 6 yr-olds in Sponge Bob regalia; the moms and dads sipping on beers; the Mariachi band sipping on tequila shots with hot sauce between sets; and Earl’s wife Marjorie who just rolled her eyes. For about 30 seconds, the party turned in to an E.F. Hutton commercial waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Brooklyn looked on with full satisfaction at the left side of Marine’s face that was already turning three shades of red. “Oh, that’s gonna leave a terrific mark, Col. Oliver North!” Still, Marine just stood his ground.  He had once been in a Humvee in Falluja when his squad drove over an IED and the explosion threw the 6-ton jeep upside down and over the wall of a compound.  He and his men all thankfully survived the attack and subsequent burning vehicle and rocket-propelled grenades; the noise and pain was nothing like what just hit him in the side of the head.  Six years of near-death experiences and bloodcurdling combat, no problem.  Six months back and a sixty year-old, well-endowed administrative assistant  from NBC Universal knocks the living piss out of him but good.

Sophia twisted her arm free from Brooklyn’s grip like she had learned in self-defense class, “Let go of me.” She turned back to the phone, “Mr. Buntz, security is here trying to make us leave the office and we don’t know why.” She almost teared up, but fought it with all of her might.

“Who is there with you, Sophia? Can you read me their names that should be on their uniform,” said Earl.

“Sir,” Marine spoke up, “I recognize your name from your memos. Uh, we were told by Marcus Spilka’s office to come and escort Mr. Brankton and his staff from the lot.”  Marine yawned, trying to hear right.  His hearing was muffled, except for the ringing from platter up against the side of his head.  That was pitch perfect.

Earl cut him off, “Let me stop you right there, sir. I’m going to look into this right now. And, by "this" I mean the way Security treated our NBC colleagues in Mr. Brankton’s office and the sequence of events that lead you to believe you were supposed to escort these folks from the lot. And by "right now," I mean right effing now! If it is even half as bad as what I just heard, somebody’s going to lose a job. Sophia, are you and your colleague okay?”

“We’re okay,” Sophia looked over everyone in Brankton's office, and only Brooklyn seemed unscathed by the entire incident.  He was still smiling at Marine.

Brankton hung up the phone. He had heard enough. He knew someone would be calling him back with details, even if not good news. Brankton half-expected that there was a chance he’d lose his job this year, but he didn’t think Marcus Spilka would be the one terminating his livelihood. His hands were shaking a bit, so he rubbed them on his jeans and let out a long exhale -- a nervous habit from his mom the sigher. He hadn’t noticed at first with all of the yelling back at Team Brankton HQ, but there was the unmistakable aroma in the air of a dry-rub. Mo' the Texan had fired up the grill and had whipped up a mean rub to season the tri-tip steak that was going on the grill for his afternoon meal. It smelled like carnivore heaven.

Please find part 9 here to continue reading ...

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Brankton Walks Austin (p7)

Brankton’s phone rang. He welcomed the interruption, immediately thumbing the green talk button out of habit expecting his unflappable gal Friday or the other smart one whose name he rarely said because it was the same as his ex’s. “Excuse me,” he said walking away from the Rebbe with his finger in one ear and phone to the other.

“I’m actually glad you called,” he said as he moved beneath the shade of a nearby palm on the far corner of the synagogue’s pie-shaped lot.

“Brankton! It’s Pat O’ from UTA!” Pat O’ was always yelling into phones as he was usually en route to or from his office on the Miracle Mile with the convertible top down. Apparently the uber-agent had never gotten the memo that cell phones no longer require such shouting in the 21^st century or that sunblock should be amply lathered on sun-exposed pasty skin – he had recently lost several pieces of his scalp, nose and ear to the surgeon’s scalpel. At least he was now wearing a Woody Allen-styled hat during his commutes.

“Oh, sorry, man,” said Brankton. “Thought you were my admin.”

“Yeah, no worries; not sure you’re going to be so glad about my calling though. I’ve got some news.” Pat O’ said ‘some’ as if he had just substituted it for the word bad, like he had done with the words "illness" for "cancer" when he told his aged mother about her only son's skin issues.

“What’s going on, Pat?”

“Apparently you have a script with a UTA cover on it from a cat in Austin or Nashville or someplace in flyover land?” he asked.

“Austin. Yeah, it’s pretty good. Just read it,” said Brankton lying about having read the script like most in the business in L.A. have lied to their writer friends when asked if they got a chance to read their scripts. They say things like, "Yes, of course." Or, the more inspired, "Really liked the story, thought the characters were interesting." Brankton, however, had two admins and a professional service to provide coverage for any project in need of some executive notes for the writers on the shows under his purview.

“Well, it’s not from my office, B-dawg. We never sent this -- Jack Mann project is it? -- to NBC. And you know we wouldn’t have sent it to you regardless, but over to that king of all assholes, Spilka.”   Even though Pat was in his late fifties, he could still carry himself at a Hollywood Hills soiree; and with his money and Power100 ranking, he went home with many young (and old) industry talent in skirts.  Even one or two well-known starlets, feeling it all slip away, willing to stoke the ego of a not unattractive, still slim, vapid agent, had made that walk of shame from casa de Pat.

“Marcus Spilka is on his way out, Pat,” Brankton was taking stock of the situation. “Let this play out.” Jacqueline Manon Laurent strained to hear what Brankton was saying from her own convertible. Jackie was having a hard time of deciphering it, the conversation, since it was all one-sided responses of a pissed-off Angelino.

“Brankton, I’ve only got a quick second! But, you need to know that this writer was hip-pocketed -- without approval -- by some dumb-ass assistant here, and when I find out who it was, they’re fired.”

“Pat! Just a second!” Brankton looked sideways to see if this scene he found himself in was attracting attention. “I’m here in Austin, now, and by the time we’re done working up a deal with the writer, you’ll promote this assistant, whoever he is, to agent.” Brankton considered that Pat O’ could be working with Marcus Spilka, head of NBC Universal Comedy Development, class-A douche bag rumored soon to be fired, and currently in possession of the job Brankton wanted. “Don’t bet on the wrong horse here,” he said.

“NBC’s my bet, Brankton. Gotta run!” Pat O’ hung up his cell phone and tossed it across his expansive desk in his even larger office slightly disgusted with himself. He picked up his office phone and called NBC.  Pat O' was making a bet, against his better, cancer treatment induced hazy judgement.

“Jesus Christ!” Brankton said as he walked off the grass and onto the street. Even among Texas Jews it was considered poor form to throw messianic epithets into the ether so casually. Mo and Nels Yauch raised eyebrows to each other, sharing an awkward and conjoined moment of father-son disapproval.

Jackie started the Mini Cooper, “Sit your ass down, Nels.”

“What are we doing?”

Jackie waived at the Rabbi and said, “Gotta go, c’mon!” then gave Nelson the universal and impatient sign for wrap it up.

“Dad, probably see you later tonight,” Nelson said with Doppler effect as Jackie roared down the street.

A sheepish Brankton looked up at the Rabbi, watching the rear of the dark-green British import flee the scene.

“Uh, sorry about that,” he said.

“Work?”

“Yeah.” Every sinew in his dialing thumb wanted to call the office, but Brankton’s home-brewed sui generis Sabbath conditions forbad his using any modern conveniences unilaterally. However, if work were to call him, he could respond because to his way of thinking that meant it was an emergency and was therefore granted a special dispensation. And like clockwork, his phone rang.

“Yeah!?” he said again this time recognizing the number as being NBC L.A. “What did you guys do to me with this Jack Mann project?”

“We’ve got bigger fish to fry, boss,” said his admin. “Marcus Spilka’s assistant just called looking for you.”

“Spilka can go eff himself!”

“Yes, well maybe he can and maybe he can’t, but supposedly his office just asked security to come over to our building to escort us off the campus,” said Friday also on the line, whose real name was Rosalind. Brankton came up with the nickname "Friday" for her after Rosalind Russell, although he knew it was bit ham-fisted. She liked it and the name stuck. Besides, he liked to imagine himself as playing Cary Grant the leading man in the classic His Gal Friday, with loyal support staff, and himself rocking nice suits, affecting a smooth, winning way with all who came into contact with his office, handing out cool nicknames as he went along.

“What?!”

“Yeah, apparently he’s convinced facilities that he has the power to tell us to leave the premises,” said Friday. “I know they’re short-staffed on the weekend, so maybe it won’t be for a bit, but what should we do?”

“Get Earl Buntz right now at his house and conference me in,” said Brankton. The Rabbi offered his courtyard as a base of operations with a wave of his hand. Brankton gave a non-verbal assent as he followed him up the driveway.

In Hancock Park -- an exclusive enclave of five to ten million-dollar homes in the heart of Los Angeles with old-growth trees and old-money families -- a private office line to Earl Buntz’s home was ringing before Brankton could finish verbalizing his request. The Spanish villa styled manse of Earl and Marjorie Buntz sitting on two shady acres was originally built in 1902, but subsequently gutted and refurbished according to Hollywood executive standards in 1999. Earl’s office overlooked the tennis court, pool, putting green and pergola with the wisteria climbing throughout. It was his sanctuary. Churchill had his Chartwell. Superman his Fortress of Solitude. And, Earl Buntz had his Hancock Park home-office to keep wives of 45-years, grand kids, directors from the NBC Universal Board, and pesky 30-something parvenu execs from Cast.com, the most recent company to buy Universal, all at bay. Even if only for a brief respite.

NBC Universal had several Presidents. Earl Buntz was the least sexy but hardest working. The company had changed hands no less than a half-dozen times since he began there some thirty years before, but he remained. He was the overseer of all things production. He worked out budgets like a big-five certified public accountant, and kept all the moving parts and players saluting his standard that he flew proudly over the NBC Universal campus: the unions, the consultants with their outsourced business processes, the C-Suite of execs dealing with heavy-handed Sarbanes-Oxley compliance issues and the HR staff dealing with employee demands that could sink every publically traded company. Earl became a fan of Brankton’s after a few drinks together at several company retreats, which was fine. However, more important for the problem at hand, Earl hated Marcus Spilka. Spilka was an Ivy League graduate who would tell you within two minutes of meeting you that when he “was in Cambridge recently, meeting with Obama at a private function,” blah, blah, blah. He also had family connections to the industry and a major sense of entitlement. Brankton was counting on Earl’s hatred of Spilka.

“Earl Buntz,” said the squat-heavy man sitting behind his desk.

“Mr. Buntz, I have Brankton from NBC Current Comedy on the line for you,” said Friday. Brankton in his own short time in the business had become a one-name sort of executive, with absolutely zero power or clout. Name recognition, yes.

“Brankton! How are you?”

Brankton said, “Sorry to bother you at home, Earl. Do you have a quick second?”

“Well, I have about 30 kids and their parents down stairs for my grandson’s birthday party,” said Earl. “Can’t you hear the music playing and the kids peeing in my pool?” Earl Buntz muted the company-owned MSNBC cable channel playing on three TVs in his office.

“Listen, Marcus Spilka is asking security to escort my staff from the lot. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m assuming he thinks he can fire me and my people, which as you know I have no solid or dotted-line relationship to his office.”

“That little prick,” said Earl, music to Brankton’s ears.

“Since I’m on business in Austin, I’m not there to deal with this in-person. Not that it’d do any good,
Earl. Do you know anything about this?”

A worried Friday cut into the conversation, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but we have security trying to unlock our door as we speak.”

Click here to continue reading part 8.

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