Last Friday night, my Uncle Joe died unexpectedly. He was probably the most affable and good-natured guy you’d have the good fortune to come across. Of my five brothers and sisters, I was probably the least close to Joe, and I’m pretty sure I was the only one who’d never gone to visit him at his home in Maryland. And I’m equally sure I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. Just kind of figured he’d be around to hang out with. Life is ruthlessly unpredictable, folks. Get out there and grab what you can from it. 

This post is dedicated to Uncle Joe. 

WORD

nonpareil [non-puh-rel] adj. 1. having no equal; peerless ∞ n. 2. a person or thing having no equal 3. a small pellet of colored sugar for decorating candy, cake, and cookies 4. a flat, round, bite-sized piece of chocolate covered with this sugar

BIRTHDAY

Nostradamus (1503), Spike Jones (1911), Lee Remick (1935), Patty Duke (1946), Michael Ovitz (1946), Beth Orton (1970)

STANDPOINT

Last week I commented on Allen Iverson’s return to the Philadelphia 76ers.

For the record, I like Allen Iverson. I always have. Even when, in 2002, he threw his naked wife out of their house in Gladwyne, where I grew up. Lots and lots of things happened as a result of A.I.’s actions, including causing me to be over two hours late for some family function due to the fact every TV news van in the country was trying to get into probably the least traffic-friendly town you can imagine.  

In any case, the return of Allen Iverson has left me with mixed emotions. I’m glad he’s back, but as I stated last week, I’m curious as to why everyone else is.

Philadelphia has a history of taking young, talented athletes and making them regret they ever played their respective sport. The Philadelphia Phillies‘ Mike Schmidt was deemed the best third baseman in history. Eric Lindros had a career for the Philadelphia Flyers that placed him, for much of it, in the same company as Gordie Howe, Mario Lemieux and Wayne Gretzky. On any other team in the NFL, Philadelphia Eagles‘ quarterback Donovan McNabb would be credited for being one of the best at his position in the past decade. Allen Iverson, in his first stint with the 76ers, was a diminutive individual, usually scoring more than double the points of the giants he played against.

And where did it get them? Schmidt retired as a Phillie but left here so damaged it took him almost a decade to return to the fans who booed much harder when he didn’t get the job done as they cheered when he did. Lindros’ story is much more complicated but, even with all the drama and concussions, he’s still a fringe candidate for the debate of who’s the best player in NHL history, even Bobby Clarke thinks so. McNabb still manages to come to work every Sunday and play for a bunch of worthless fans who’ve forgotten the likes of Bobby Hoying, Bubby Brister and Rodney Peete. And Iverson was one of the best in the NBA, while playing for a team that seemed content to let him try to win a championship all by himself.

Which begs the question, why would anyone come play in Philadelphia, a city where even those days when probably capable of better, and those days when you don’t live up to expectations there’s a million people leading the charge for your head? Don’t believe me? This past Phillies-Yankees World Series, I forget which game it was. I was at a bar and Phillies’ slugger Ryan Howard was striking out. A lot. And one of the morons sitting around me said, “Man, would you look at this fuckin’ bum on the goddamn television?” Yeah, genius, I was looking at the TV. At Ryan Howard. A guy who’s managed to hit 220 homers and knock in 635 runs in just five seasons. But Howard, and the rest of the Phillies, didn’t win this past World Series like they did the year before. And so, for that, Howard’s a bum. Just like every other professional athlete in Philadelphia sports’ history who didn’t give their fans the misplaced, instant gratification for which they feel erroneously entitled.

QUOTATION

 This and nothing else is the desperately sought and tragically fragile writer’s process: in his imagination, he sees made-up people doing things–sees clearly–and in the act of wondering what they will do next, he sees what they will do next, and all this he writes down in the best, most accurate words he can find, understanding even as he writes that he may have to find better words later, and that a change in the words may mean a sharpening or deepening of the vision, the fictive dream or vision becoming more and more lucid, until reality, by comparison, seems cold, tedious, and dead. → John Gardner

TUNE

I normally have something poignant to say about the song I’m sharing with you. But today I don’t. Listen to “HEERS” by Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin. It’s good. And that’s that.

GALLIMAUFRY

→ Listen up, country! The people of Houston get it. So why can’t the rest of you clowns fall in line? Annise Parker will become the city’s first openly gay mayor, making Houston the biggest city ever to do so. Is it safe to say it’s pretty fucked up when Texans are breaking new ground?

→ Tiger Woods, most likely after reading my post last Friday, has announced, “After much soul searching, I have decided to take an indefinite break from professional golf.” In what many are considering the understatement of a lifetime, Woods furthered with, “I need to focus my attention on being a better husband, father, and person.” You think?

→ OK. Let me get this straight. Donte Stallworth drunkenly drives over, and kills, a guy a few months back and gets 30 fucking days in jail. Meanwhile, New Jersey resident John Wilson is facing up to 20 years for growing 17 marijuana plants for his own personal use to treat his multiple sclerosis. I don’t drink and drive because I’m hesitant to put my life and the lives of others in jeopardy. I do, however, occassionally smoke pot in the privacy of my own home which, until now, seemed relatively innocuous. I guess I had it all backwards and turned upside-down. How naive of me.

If the title of this blog post sounds odd, it comes from two places. I’m told in the winemaking process, the extremely rare fungus that causes wine to have an one-of-a-kind sweetness is called “noble rot”. It’s a fungus, i.e. rot, and it’s noble because it’s something bad that causes something very good.

Noble Rot was also the title of a never-produced screenplay of John Belushi’s, one he’d worked on with comedy writer Don Novello (who’s perhaps best know for his Father Guido Sarducci character on Saturday Night Live).

Noble Rot was to be a comedy wine caper. The script went through many drafts and rewrites, and on deadline once, Belushi and Novello even had an all-night typing session (keep in mind, this was the day before word processors that could easily revise and print new copies).

Belushi then presented the screenplay to his agent, Michael Ovitz, and to his manager, Bernie Brillstein.

Their verdict was unanimous: terrible, unfunny and, worst of all, unproduceable. Ovitz, according to the Belushi biography Wired, even tried to talk Belushi into shelving the movie in favor of another movie project, The Joy of Sex.

Imagine that…after all that work, the script still was unusable.

Belushi was working on the script up to his untimely death in 1982 at the age of 33. The movie project died with Belushi. Even more tragic for the late Albanian-American comedian, he spent a sizable chunk of the final year or two of his life working on this script, feeling it might be his magnus opus, his piece de resistance.

Amazing how much work can be put into a piece of writing, only to not only radically revise again but sometimes start all over. And sometimes even abandon.

Director Quentin Tarantino recently released his film Inglourious Basterds. (No, English teachers, that misspelling’s not a typo). Tarantino said he spent about 10 years writing the screenplay for this film.

Stories like this make me wonder if people realize just how hard work writing can be.

Garth H. Drabinsky, who served as the chief executive of the defunct Broadway production firm Livent, was sentenced to seven years in prison on Wednesday for defrauding the shareholders of more than 500 million Canadian dollars. His former business partner, Myron I. Gottlieb, received a six-year sentence. Image: Chris Young/Canadian Press

Read today’s NYT article about the Broadway convictions involving Larry Salander-like exploits with Michael Ovitz in the role of Robert De Niro:

“The exponential growth of the company was analogous to an athlete taking a performance-enhancing drug,” Justice Mary Lou Benotto of the Ontario Superior Court said at Garth Drabinsky’s and Myron Gottlieb’s sentencing hearing in Toronto today. “The result may be spectacular, but the means involve cheating.”

Kimberly Ovitz is featured as one of the new designers to watch next season in today’s Women’s Wear Daily.   Sure, she’s the daughter of Hollywood heavyweight Michael Ovitz, but she’s no Queen Elizabeth – her resume boasts an internship at Chanel Paris and stints at cult favorites like Imitation of Christ and Ya-Ya.  Her inaugural collection is equestrian-centric, but constructed with an easy, minimalist approach.  I’m really excited about this collection and it deserves all the buzz it’s been getting.   Plus, we all know what huge fan of androgynous clothing I am…….Her line debuts her line this Spring at Curve NY and LA. 

photo courtesy of WWD

-Ax

Earth Day is Tuesday, and blue on blue at the Avalon in Beverly Hills has a special prix fixe menu featuring organic wines and dishes such as venison carpaccio and roasted halibut. A portion of the proceeds raised this week will go to Global Green USA. We’re all for it. You might as well eat for a good cause.

Lots of local restaurants are going green these days, but another color has caught my attention lately, too. What’s up with all the white? In the last few weeks, I have eaten at three L.A. restaurants with all-white dining rooms: Ortolan, Kumo and Murano. The three restaurants don’t have much else in common. Ortolan, a joint venture between actress Jeri Ryan and her chef/husband Christophe Eme, is all elegant French food featuring creative gelees, consumees (where, oh where is my accent aigu?) and confits.

Kumo, meaning cloud, is the latest Japanese venture from Michael Ovitz. Whatever you think of Ovitz–and believe me, I could share some tales of his dastardly deeds from my days as TV Editor at Variety, where I worked alongside Anita Busch–his restaurant is one of the most exquisitely designed I have seen in awhile. Above the sushi bar is a trippy anime video installation called “City Glow” by Chiho Aoshima, a student of Murakame. Still, the place could be doing a lot more business, and I have to wonder whether the town’s Schadenfreude toward Ovitz, not to mention all the press surrounding the Pellicano trial, is taking its toll.

I’m rooting for Murano in West Hollywood to succeed, if only because the talented young chef, Kristi Richey, went to the same high school as my Dad in rural Pennsylvania. Her food is far from provincial. All her pastas are made fresh daily, and the duck cannelloni is to die for. The burrata and prosciutto salad is luscious, too. Murano, with its mod design and Murano glass chandeliers, also features a swanky lounge area. The lights in the joint slowly dim, and the music gets more upbeat as the night progresses. But if you order the bread pudding–and we recommend you do–you’ll probably be so absorbed in its utter deliciousness that you won’t notice anything else. I know my eyes closed involuntarily every time I took a bite. Jenny