I was watching the Emmy-award winning series Inside the Actors Studio, last night hosted and executive produced by James Lipton.
With no baseball, I have to find something to occupy my time for three hours before going to bed. ESPN, at least for one night was traded in for Bravo. I didn’t even know we had Bravo. For all I know we have Bravo 2 and BravoNews.
James Lipton, who died in March at the age of 93, made his name conducting in-depth interviews of actors, comedians, filmmakers, and others on the long-running series. Though Lipton could come off as self-important or sycophantic and was parodied more than once, there’s a reason the show was a hit. He knew what he was doing and kept things moving.
There he is with Bradley Cooper. The first question, the very first question he asked was, “So when you were growing up, what movies did you watch?”
This is a great question because it shapes James Lipton, the interviewer, to understand if Bradley Cooper rattles off great titles this was probably the reason, he wanted to be an actor.
Cooper, of course, rattled off the usual. “Godfather Part II, Citizen Kane, Psycho, Casablanca, The Graduate.”
James Lipton smiled. “Those are great answers. Brando at his best, Orson Wells masterpiece, Alfred Hitchcock.”
He never hesitated. Is it because he always wanted to be an actor? Maybe he really is a movie freak. Maybe they gave him the questions in advance. Maybe Bradley Cooper and his people, famous people have people, watched several James Lipton interviews, and prepared good answers in advance to many questions. Memorize answers? He’s an actor.
Now, if it were me, the first thing I would do is sweat, followed by a Ralph Kramdon-Esque stutter, hamina, hamina, hamina and pray Mister Lipton would pepper me by asking, “would it be The Godfather, Pulp Fiction, The Manchurian Candidate?” I could then nod as we moved on and my brain freeze melted.
I know my luck. He would do no such thing and my mind would be blank while blurting out, “Die Hard, Lethal Weapon, and Top Gun.”
Working on preparing
Back in the second grade, I decided one afternoon to work on my math homework. It took about an hour, but I did it. I answered question 1. I had all my side work completed and could explain how I arrived at my answer. To double-check, I walked into my older brother’s room and he told me everything was correct.
“Maybe you should do another question,” I thought looking up at my clock radio.. “It’s four thirty. Time for the Flintstones. Nah.”
The next day found me sitting at my desk when Miss Cohen, my teacher, said, “Okay everyone please take out your math workbooks. Who wants to come up and explain problem one?”
I had waited all morning for this moment. It was my time to shine. My turn, finally to get a gold star. Seriously. A gold star. If answered properly and explained to the class, Miss Cohen placed a gold star in your workbook next to the problem with a script, “Good Job!”
Oh, how I wanted this. I was going to walk home with my gold star proudly placed in my workbook and show my parents. “We are so proud,” they would say. “We’ll celebrate with a party on Saturday night. “
My time to shine was tarnished in an instant when Miss Cohen pointed to Lisa in the front row. You know Lisa. The girl who always has the correct answers. All of her sevens are the same size. Lisa, the one who memorized the preamble to the constitution for fun, reciting it to the class while stumbling on nothing. Lisa stole my question. She has the answer to problems 2, 3, and 4. Why does she have to take my moment?
But, as I was to learn, my life took a direct hit as Miss Cohen smiled and said, “Oh great. Steven. We haven’t heard from you in a while. You certainly are showing a great deal of excitement. You can come up after Lisa and explain the answer to Problem Two.”
And there it was. The key to my life. I had no answer for Problem Two. I had Problem One. It was perfect. Not Problem Two. In fact, if you looked at Problem Two in my workbook, you’d see it was empty. Totally blank. I had Plan A. I had no Plan B.
“Excuse me Miss Cohen,” I said interrupting Lisa’s perfect handwriting on the blackboard. “Can I go to the nurse please? I have a stomach ache.”
Not prepared or just lazy?
So, it explains why when Mister Lipton would hear my answer, I would get the look, you know the one, disappointment, followed by a sigh and the eyes rolling.
“It’s no wonder I live in a cave. I can watch Die Hard (or any of the sequels, even the one where John McClain ends up in Russia and kills a bunch of a bad guys with his son) or Top Gun every time they are on. Roadhouse was shown on Netflix two weeks ago and I spent the week watching it, drinking beer, and saying, “right boot.”
Last Memorial Day was no better. AMC featured a Lethal Weapon marathon. No beach for me until I heard those immortal words uttered by Leo Getz, “they f— you at the drive-through.”
Heaven forbid I’m out with people and I rattle off those movies or how I just heard this great interview with Charlize Theron on Howard Stern, or I watched every episode of Parenthood and cried during the series ending.
At this point in my life, I should be able to say what I want to say. But no. I cover it up in fear of the look. So, if I did go out with people, or was being interviewed on the Today show, I would have to prepare the night before as if I were taking my SAT’s.
“So, Steve,” Savana might say, “you have just completed your fifth novel, once again a New York Times bestseller. What books, which authors inspired you when you decided you wanted to be a novelist?”
“Oh, Savannah. You know that is such a thought-provoking question. Hemmingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. I loved you when I saw you today and I loved you always, but I never saw you before. … or Fitzgerald and of course Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. A guy needs somebody to be near him”.
Now, do you really think I could sit there and say, Mickey Spillane or Scott Adams, the guy who wrote Dilbert? What about National Lampoon and Mad Magazine? Truth be told, that was where my writing bug began.
I looked in the mirror this morning and was creeped out by what I saw. The guy looking back at me was hideous. I heard two voices. One asked who cares what you look like? You’re closer to death than you ever have been. Does it really matter?
The other was the one in the angelic voice saying, “Shave. Shower. Put on a clean shirt. You never know who you might run into. And remember to be prepared. Have a good author’s quote ready to go.”
The second voice won, but I have no idea why. I’m 59 years old and I still have this odd view of the world and that nothing I say or do really matters. I still think the way I did in high school, that I look like a dork and girls will look at me and smirk or totally ignore me.
I wanted to be a writer because I know I have something to say but do not have to go in front of people. If someone speaks to me and I have very little to say, it’s not because I don’t want to respond it’s because my mind goes blank.
My lack of self-esteem sees rejection and disapproval even when there isn’t any. Danger always lurks that I will make a mistake, use poor judgment, do something embarrassing, exposing myself to ridicule, and behave immorally or contemptibly.
Case in point, I stopped into Starbucks recently. As I was placing my straw in my Triple, Venti, Soy, No Foam Latte, somebody I had not seen in about five years asked me what I was up to.
“Oh,” I replied. “I have been writing a novel.”
“Wow. What’s it about? What’s the genre? When did you change careers? Who’s your favorite author? What do you think of today’s writers?
And that was my a-ha moment.
I stared at my blank phone turning for the exit. “Hey. It’s been great running into you. Let’s catch up. Stay safe.”
“Stay safe.” That sounds kind of, well, like I know what’s going on. It’s totally something that you say in today’s pandemic world. It got me out the door without feeling further like a failure.
My mind went blank. I performed horribly on the SAT; I was unprepared. The sweat was pouring off my brow as it hit me. I need to be prepared every time I leave the cave.
“How is it possible,” I asked myself as I walked just fast enough down the avenue not to have to worry about my old friend seeing me, “to have no answers about what you do every day or why you do it.”
I bet Lisa would have a good answer.