Six Degrees of Michael Keaton

I figure it's only a matter of time before I bump into Michael Keaton, the star of Mr. Mom, Multiplicity, Beetlejuice, and a slew of other light-ish comedic films. He also had one of those lo-o-o-o-ongterm relationships with what's her face from Friends who ended up married to David Arquette. Courtenay Cox.  Or however it's spelled.

Anyway, several years ago a screenwriter I'm related to told me a story about his experience with Michael Keaton, which ended badly from the screenwriter's point of view.  Let's just say he thinks Mr. Keaton owes him a boatload o' dough for a script.  That by itself, in the six degrees of Kevin Bacon world we all live in qualifies as a mere couple of degrees of separation between me and Michael Keaton.

Fast forward a few years to a good friend who now lives right outside Bozeman, Montana.  She's out driving around somebody's back forty when a bunch of cows decides to cross the road and she's stuck waiting for them to saunter from one side to the other.  So is someone else in a big red Dodge pick up.  They get to chatting and he introduces himself -- I'm Mike, by the way.

Michael Keaton.  Driving around looking for some property to buy.  

Another two degrees of separation. A small cosmic moment.

Fast forward to just a couple of weeks ago in a building where I do a lot of editing.  Lots of movies and tv shows that are being made in Chicago set up shop in this building for the duration of the shoot.  Prison Break is the one name you might know.

Recently another movie crew moved in on the floor below.  They've got a month or two of location shooting to do. According to my source, who is working as a local producer for the group, the director and star of the picture is, you guessed it, Michael Keaton.  

Up until this point he's been geographically separated by a lot more than six degrees.  Now, working in the same building, the degree of separation is close to zero. I'm beginning to think that me n' Mike are destined to meet one of these days.  Not that I've been rehearsing what I'm going to say or anything.  "Yeah, hiya," comes to mind.  

Hearing that he's not only in Chicago, but in the same building I often frequent, I thought my chances might be good to run into the guy on the elevator. But, I've been told he always takes the stairs.

Then, yesterday, while relating this story to a friend, I was told he had just seen Mike [I think I can call him Mike] at a sporting goods store the day before.  

It's not like I've had a crush on the guy or anything.   He's enough younger and shorter to preclude that. Not to mention I don't think we travel in the same circles. Although those circles seem to be getting smaller.

Frankly, I feel like I'm being stalked. The guy is hanging around the perimeter of my life a lot these past few years.

Should I be on the safe side and get a restraining order?

Reflections on a Misspent Life

Here's the thing about spending last week in LA:  From the mild weather, save for the occasional mud slide, raging fire, or earthquake, to the exotic flora, most of which have been trucked in, including the palm trees, to the plethora of certified organic, all natural comestibles [no Wonder Bread in that town]  to the astonishing age of the Mercedes Benz sedans that stop next to you at a light -- fifty years is not out of the question -- to the view of Catalina Island which appears after rain washes away the smog, to the blue sky and bright whiteness of the sunshine in the rigor mortis of winter, even to the number of enterprising homeless people who travel the sidewalks with their possessions in grocery carts, and finally to getting on a plane and heading home, only one question comes to mind -- why did I decide to live in Chicago in the first place?

Really.  This place gives January, February and March a bad name.



 

We're Number One in the Number Two Business

That was the slogan for the original Kitty Litter, if I remember correctly. I found myself repeating it like a mantra each day for sixteen days recently, as I carefully shoveled feline doo doo with a slotted spoon into a plastic bag. This was then followed by placing the material into a second plastic bag, in case the first one broke, followed by dropping everything into a heavy duty third plastic bag, for ultimate disposal into the outdoor garbage can.

I like to think I took my stint as a cat sitter for someone who was on a cruise in New Zealand very seriously. In a Zen and the Art of Shoveling Poop kind of way.

As my readers may have noticed from a comment I made in the previously entry, I was fascinated to discover that there have been significant advances in cat litter technology since the eyewatering, ammonia filled days of my earlier pets.

After the urine was transformed into the intriguing little petrified thingys which may some day show up on eBay as objets d'art, I could remove them without fear of nostril annihilation. This was followed by the adminstration of a white powdered deodorizer over the top of the cleaned up litter, yet another innovation, which I stirred into the pan, not unlike a Duncan Hines brownie mix, it seemed to me. Afterward, in a final burst of smell control, I would spray a load of scented Lysol around the area as a finishing touch.

The experience was enough to remind me why I no longer want to have pets, as much as I love animals. Yes, the EEEWWWW factor has been reduced by a multiple of seventy-five. However, you still have to do it.

CONTACT

This time of year LA feels like another country. Usually it just seems like a different planet.

I left Chicago about a week ago. The temperature was in the single digits. The wind chill was even lower. There was about eight inches of snow on the ground. I was so cold I got on the plane wearing lined snow pants, a turleneck, a sweatshirt and a polar fleece jacket.  

Four hours later, I got off the plane and there were flowers blooming. People were wearing shorts. The wind chill was 70 degrees.  Soon, I was having a chat on the veranda of The Georgian Hotel watching palm trees sway in the breeze overlooking the ocean.

For the last few days I've been doing the focus group thing in Marina del Rey. This means sitting in dark rooms for hours and hours watching a moderator present dozens of concepts for new products that I've written, while paid respondents give their feedback. Second only to brain surgery in importance.

When you consider the power that six people you don't know can have on the success or failure of your new product idea, be afraid.  Be very afraid.

One of the things that particpants are asked to do is rank each new product concept we present to them with a score between one and five. Today some guy said he gave one idea a score of three instead of just a one because he felt sorry for it.  

I don't want to put too fine a point on how hard we work, since no one I know has ever lost their life in the defense of marketing or advertising, but one of our team members got so sick last night he had to go to the hospital today.

Afterward, I went to a friend's house out near Pepperdine for some much needed R and R.  Four days of M and M Peanuts, chocolate chip cookies, Thai food, Chinese food, Sushi, and beverages with a high incidence of caffeine can take their toll.

It's been so long since I've done an entry I'm getting blisters on my fingers.  Next time I'll fill you in on the two weeks I spent with the kitty cats.  Did you know they've got cat litter that turns cat pee pee into little round hockey pucks for easy disposal?  

Later.

Hello, hello, is this thing on?

I think the sound was turned off.  So I guess you haven't heard anything I said the last couple of weeks or so. 

Why Da Bears Lost

I can only talk about this now. You may have noticed.

Scratch any Bears' fan and you'll get a million reasons why Da Bears lost the Super Bowl. Bad Rex showed up. Benson got hurt. Personally, I thought Devon Hester's return of the opening kick off for a touchdown was the kiss of death. Oh no, the team's going to expect special teams to pull this one out. 

The Bears were wearing their dark shirts. The Colts were in white. The jersey karma was on the Bears' side.  Their uniforms were lined up for a Chicago victory. 

But then I checked the cover of Sports Illustrated.

During the bye week Peyton Manning was on the cover. Aha!! Bad news for them, I thought. Na na na na na. Except there was no game the week he was featured. 

It wasn't until the game had started that I discovered that Urlacher was on the cover of SI for Super Bowl week. Chicken bleep.

If you recall the Mrs. Linklater theory of who wins the game, it goes: red jerseys beat black/blue jerseys.  Black/blue jerseys beat white jerseys.  But, in the end, the Sports Illustrated jinx beats them all.

That's why I stopped watching the game at halftime.

Okay, there, I finally talked about it. .