A day at Black's nude Beach

I had to go to Black’s Beach.

Not sure of its status today, but in the swinging ‘70s Black’s was a large nude beach in San Diego. I was a weekend disc jockey at B100 in 1976 and even though I had lived in San Diego a few years before (when I was full-time at another station) I had never made the pilgrimage. But I was always curious. Who wouldn’t be? You can see vaginas without a cover charge!

I was discussing the Middle East crisis with one of the other jocks from the station one night over tequila shooters and the conversation logically turned to Black’s Beach. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Well, let’s just go.” Damn! Why didn’t I ever think of that? I had to be on the air the next afternoon at 3:00 so we decided to go at noon; giving us a good couple of hours of sunning and ogling.

Black’s Beach is located in La Jolla and -- not surprising -- it’s very secluded. To access it you had to negotiate a half-mile steep path down a sharp cliff. That five-dollar cover charge was looking pretty good to me.

We finally reached the bottom and oh my God. It was as advertised. Filled with naked people, most of them young, many of them girls.

We set down a blanket and it was showdown time. Now understand that I had a hard time in junior high taking showers after gym. That’s just embedded in Jewish DNA. My people tend not to “streak”. We’re not, by nature, a “let it all hang out and frolic” culture. But the DJ who was with me stripped down in seconds. He obviously wasn’t Jewish, which was visually apparent the minute he lowered his pants.

So I figured, what the hell? I was actually very proud of myself. I took off all my clothes. I figured, if I can eat pork I can do this.

I was surprisingly less self-conscious than I thought I would be. We tried to play it very cool. At first I noticed a few guys checking us out as they walked by. I thought, “How juvenile. Still cComparing sizes like schoolboys.” Then it occurred to me -- my friend and I lying on this blanket – we could not have looked more gay if we tried. And it didn’t help that we put sunscreen lotion on each other’s back. What a couple of idiots.

So I grabbed my towel and set it on the sand a safe distance away. The scene itself was rather remarkable. Gorgeous naked college coeds, some oldsters far more comfortable with their saggy flesh than anyone viewing them were, and a number of athletic-looking dudes on the shore tossing the Frisbee around, trying to get noticed. Ironically, there were no blacks at Black’s. My guess is the Frisbee flingers would have been far less proud of themselves if there were.

I decided to take a walk along the beach. I figured that was the most discreet way to check out the scene without seeming obvious. Y’know, I’m walking to the snack stand or the restrooms or the lifeguard station. Except… there were no snack stands or restrooms or lifeguard stations. The only reason to walk along the beach was to scope people out.

There was one girl lying flat on her back on a towel, reading PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT with her legs spread wide apart. Talk about the perfect Philip Roth moment!

I didn’t approach her. What was I going to say? “Have you ever seen so much masturbation in a book in your life?” Besides, I rationalized that even if we had hit it off and she invited me to call her, where could she write the number?

At 2:00 we decided to head back up. Our work here was done. One thing we had forgotten to consider: that steep cliff. Getting down was tricky and time consuming. Now we had to climb. Straight up.

We’re climbing and climbing and I finally check my watch and shit! It’s 2:30 already. We’re only halfway up.

So now we had to essentially sprint. I thought my lungs were going to burst. Got to his car, exhausted, and completely out of breath, and sped to the station; arriving two minutes before I had to go on the air. I’m wearing nothing but a bathing suit. I sign on by gasping.   By 4:00 the sunburn below kicked in.  I did the last three hours of my show with Popsicles on my lap that I bought from the vending machine. 

Things I learned from the experience:

Wear sunglasses. No one can tell you’re staring.

Pack a sandwich and rappelling gear.

This is what Justin Timberlake’s home pool area must look like every Sunday.

Level 60 sunblock protection means nothing to areas never before exposed to the sun. You might as well just squat over a lit bar-b-que pit.

Without wearing a cup, a Frisbee becomes a potential lethal weapon.

and finally: 

Women read PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT.

That was my one and only time at Black's Beach.   And even to this day, if someone hands me a Popsicle my natural urge is to jam it down my pants.

Dating a witch

Here's another short exerpt from my upcoming book on growing up in the '60s.  (You can bide the time until it's released by getting my other book.  Order now!)  This is the perfect post for June 15th (you'll see why).   It's 1967.  I've just gone out on a date with Eleanor.  During the date she casually mentioned that she was a witch. 

Eleanor was extremely cute. Huge blue eyes, a slight over-bite (which works for me), svelte figure, and a Dorothy Hamill wedge haircut.

Afterwards we went to Sambo’s for dessert (yes, there was an actual coffee shop chain named “Sambo’s”) and I followed up on the witch thing. Her months in bed with mono required no further details (although I would hear them again… and again… and again). I asked, “So you mean you’re like Samantha in Betwitched?” “No,” she snorted, “that show is so unrealistic.” (Really? You mean you can’t wriggle your nose and turn someone into a hamster? Why isn’t there a disclaimer at the beginning of the show?)

It’s been awhile so I hope I can recall this correctly. Jesus blessed her by making her beautiful, but with the extra attention came people who would take advantage of her, or resent her. And so, as protection, since He might find himself preoccupied with other things (like seeing that the Packers covered the spread in the Super Bowl), He also blessed her by making her a witch. Her faith in Jesus was rewarded with an interest in the occult. And she now had the power to inflict curses (which she assured me she only did when absolutely necessary). I think that’s pretty much the gist. It was always my understanding that the Christian Bible strongly denounced any occult practices because they were the work of Satan, but why quibble?

She squeezed my hand as we walked to her front door and kissed me on the lips. Suddenly she went from major nutcase to delightfully eccentric.

Such are the concessions we make for a potential first girlfriend.

We started going out every Saturday night, usually to concerts.

Eleanor was what was commonly called a D.D.H. – damn door hugger. I’m surprised she didn’t fly out of the car whenever I took sharp turns (and there were a couple of nights I took sharp curves on purpose).

I would get my kiss on the lips goodnight. I would get to put my arm around her in the movies. And eventually we made out in my car. I was allowed to grope and pet but she always had to be fully clothed. I was never permitted to learn just how cold a witch’s tit really is.

At school she very friendly but not particularly affectionate. If I held her hand she didn’t pull away, but she never offered hers. She was usually surrounded by her magpie friends. Still, I would say we were an item… if only to the keenly observant.


The spring prom was coming up and I thought, okay, finally, here’s the perfect time to really make my move. Rumor had it that lots of girls lost their virginity on prom night – it being a special occasion and more importantly, curfews were relaxed.

So I rented a tuxedo, bought her the obligatory wrist corsage, and escorted her to the elegant Taft multi-purpose room for this gala occasion. It was my first prom and I couldn’t be more under whelmed. Overdressed classmates awkwardly milling about drinking punch or standing in a long line to get their picture taken. Missing this is what drove Janis Ian to madness?

After the prom I took Eleanor to Monty’s Steak House in Encino for a nice dinner (you can’t go to Shakey’s in formal attire).   Then we drove to a secluded spot up in the hills for a little amore. At first I stabbed myself on her corsage but things improved. We were making out, she was seemingly receptive, so I reached behind to unzip her dress.

And she stopped me.

She wasn’t ready to do that (at least with me). I lied and said all the right things – I really cared about her, respected her, she was the most beautiful girl in the entire world, I would pledge to a coven. No dice. But she said it was because of her, not me. And then she explained. I must say, I’ve been given the brush-off a fair amount in my time, but no rejection since Eleanor’s could even compare when it comes to originality. She said she couldn’t get involved because of her birthday. I said, “You have to be at least 16, you’re a junior in high school.” No, no. That’s not what she meant. Her birth date.

Eleanor was born on June 15, 1950. That’s the middle of the month, the middle of the year, the middle of the century. It was her lot in life to always be in the middle, always stay uncommitted.

Even at the time I thought, “Wow, that was impressive. She’s a fucking loon but that was impressive.”

We broke up after that. My birth date is February 14th. We weren’t compatible. I was meant to gun down gangsters in a Chicago garage.

Happy birthday, Eleanor.  

Celebrity fan mail -- the ultimate cry for help

One of the most amusing and utterly terrifying benefits of being on staff of a show is having access to the viewer “fan mail”. Oh…my…fucking…God! You can’t believe the crazies that are out there. And they’re fans of YOUR show.

There are many varieties of loony mail. First off, viewers think the characters they see on television are real. So they address their letters to Niles Crane, Sam Malone, Diane Chambers, etc. And since they don’t know Sam Malone’s address they’ll just write c/o Cheers, Boston, Mass. Or Hawkeye, MASH, Korea. In the latter case, they assume (a) Hawkeye exists, (b) no last name is necessary, and (c) mail can time travel. I’d bet my house that Homer Simpson gets fan mail from registered voters.

I mean, it’s cute when your five-year-old sends Santa Claus a letter to the North Pole. But when it’s some fifty-year-old dashing off a note to Clark Kent in Smallville, that’s a little strange.

The letters themselves are beauts. Marriage proposals, invites to Thanksgiving dinners, pictures, drawings, handmade gifts, and my favorite – seeking advice.

Diane, should I change my major?

Pam, there’s this guy in the office where I work who I think likes me. He’s kind of dorky but nice. Should I give him a blowjob?

Jeff, who do I send my transcripts to to get into your community college?

Generally however, their requests are for autographed pictures, locks of their hair, their home phone numbers, and shoes.

Sometimes they’re angry letters. They feel betrayed because their favorite character wore a purple scarf.

Liz Lemon, I used to like you, but you are a whore!

Other times the missives are warnings.

Jim, Pam is a dirty little slut and will CHEAT ON YOU. Get out now!!

Alicia, your husband fucked Kalinda!

The letters addressed to the actors and actresses are only slightly better. For addresses they seem to feel “CBS” is sufficient. Or “Must See TV, U.S.A.”. The inquiries are the usual requests for pictures and adoption. And this is my favorite. Two out of three letters include this: (I’ll use Amy Poehler as an example.)

Hi, Amy. Everyone says I look just like you. You know what would be great? I could play your sister on the show . I’m sending a picture of me so you could see. We might as well be twins!”

The enclosed photo is then of a fat Haitian woman who’s at least sixty with a missing ear. These pictures look NOTHING like the stars they claim to resemble. Ever.  I want to know just who these “everyones” are that think they do. How far does the dementia spread?

I think it’s lovely that if there’s a celebrity you admire you want to take the time to let them know. I can't think of one star who doesn’t appreciate adoration (if not crave it). But some guidelines if you hope to ever actually reach them. Because usually fan mail is screened by a staff member or assistant, and only a select few are passed on to the celebrity. To be one of those:

Be brief. A thirty-page handwritten rambling treatise just screams “Cliff Clavin”.

Other than a picture or autograph, don’t ask for anything. They don’t know you. Why would they send you their underwear?

Don’t give them anything. And especially don’t give them anything for their kids if they have kids. That’s off-the-charts creepy.

Spell their name correctly.

Type.

Don't draw cartoons or doodles on the letter. 

If they’re on a show, find the location of the show and address the letter to them, in care of the show, with the street address of the studio that produces it.

If they’re a movie star, they probably have either a fan site, or a publicist, or agent. Send to the star in care of them.

Don’t address the envelope in crayon.

Provide a return address. Include the cell block number.

You may think you know them because you read the National Enquirer. But you don’t. Avoid writing anything really personal or intimate.

Don't mention that you have a shrine dedicated to them.

Don't reveal your sexual fantasies that include them.  

You do not look just like Amy Poehler.

Do not send photos of you or Anthony Weiner portions of you.  

Probably the best thing you could do is not mail them at all. Instead, they must have fan sites on social networks. Follow them on Twitter. Drop them a quick note on their Facebook page. Trust me, More than a long effusive letter, the object of your admiration will far greater appreciate a simple  click on “Like”.

My 2011 Tony Awards review

Time for my annual Tony Award Show review, or, for the 99.99% of you who didn’t watch it – a recap of what you missed. I’m joined by my adorable snarky daughter Annie and her twisted writing partner, Jon Emerson.

I had a rooting interest in the program this year. Several friends were up for awards. Bill & Cheri Steinkellner for the book of SISTER ACT (lost), John Benjamin Hickey for Best Supporting actor (won!), and Andrew Rannells for best actor in a musical (lost). Andrew, however, sang the featured song from THE BOOK OF MORMON and I think the four of you who saw the show will agree that he’s going to be a huge star. Proud to say he starred in the musical I co-wrote that went nowhere and the reading of my play that went nowhere.

Meanwhile, over on ABC, the Dallas Mavericks won the NBA Finals. But if you know who Nina Arianda is and not Dirk Nowitzki, you were watching the Tonys.

Usually I say the Tonys are the only award show where no one thanks their wives. This year, with THE BOOK OF MORMON there was the chance that winners would thank many wives. But not so. That would require Mormons to actually be involved.

THE BOOK OF MORMON won every award except the one I wanted it to win – Andrew’s. Norbert Leo Butz got that prize and I’m sure he was very deserving but shit! He never collaborated with me on any theater projects that went nowhere.

My guess is Andrew and fellow cast member Josh Gad split the votes.

The Tonys are still the only major award show that is tape-delayed for the West Coast. But considering it will take three years for the winning shows to get to the West Coast, three hours is no big whoop. Besides, everyone was watching the basketball game anyway.

Usually the ceremony is held at Radio City Music Hall. This year’s venue was the much cozier Beacon Theatre. So for the first time, the CBS television audience will be larger than the attending audience.

I didn’t cover the Red Carpet coverage because, well… there was Red Carpet coverage?

Neil Patrick Harris is the best awards host EVER. His opening number was hilarious. “Broadway is Not Just For Gays Anymore”. Of course, as Annie pointed out, five minutes later they did a production number called “The Brotherhood of Men” (from HOW TO SUCCEED IN BUSINESS).

One thing we learned last night: NEVER use Brook Shields on a live show. What a disaster. She completely bollixed her four-line stanza in the opening number and then as a presenter had to be bleeped. I’m sure another twelve seconds on camera and her nipple would have popped out.

Favorite lyric in Harris’ opening number – “Come in and be inspired/No sodomy required”. I’m only sorry those weren’t Brook Shields’ lines.

Say what you will about the Tonys -- they are for Gays… and Jews. And most people have never heard of any of the shows or performers – but there is always more actual entertainment in their ceremony than all the other award shows combined. I find it a little odd that 30 million people will watch Bristol Palin clomp around like a Clydesdale on DANCING WITH THE STARS but eight people tune in to see the finest singers and dancers in musical comedy perform magnificent production numbers.

In pre-show non-televised ceremonies, Eve Ensler, who wrote THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES received a special award for her humanitarian efforts and for reminding us that Broadway is firmly committed to social change and vaginas.

John Leguizamo is painfully unfunny. He’s the George Lopez of Broadway. Awards for Choreography and Best Score weren’t deemed important enough to air in primetime but it was okay to give this enemy of comedy ten minutes of precious air time. When he was finished they cut to a shot of Chris Rock in the audience who spoke for all of America when he mouthed, “What the fuck?”

Samuel L. Jackson, in his white jacket, black slacks, and white shoes came dressed perfectly for the occasion – if the occasion was the shuffleboard championships on the Lido Deck of the Crystal Serenity.

A big winner was the very deserving THE NORMAL HEART (a gut wrenching play about AIDS) and the big surprise later in the evening was the cast reunion of PRICILLA, QUEEN OF THE DESERT. Maybe they should have saved that “Broadway is not just for Gays anymore” number for another year.

Mark Rylance won for best actor in JERUSELEUM. But he would have won for LA BETE had he put that one up instead. One of the greatest comic performances I have ever seen.

He also gives the most unique speeches. For the second time he just read a prose poem. This one on how to walk through walls.

Thank God Al Pacino didn’t win. I don’t think I could have endured another of his rambling incoherent acceptance babbles. I’m still trying to figure out what he was saying at the 2004 Emmys.

Nikki James from THE BOOK OF MORMON gave the most frenetic speech. When she launched into some incomprehensible story about bumblebees five minutes in, I found myself yelling “Get off! GET OFF!” It’s like the first minute I’m thrilled for these people, the second minute I start getting antsy, and by minute four I want them off the stage even they’re in the middle of thanking me.

Still, the most emotional moment of the night was when Sutton Foster (who I absolutely love) almost broke down because her long-time dresser gave notice. I’d say folks in the Red States might click off at this point but who are we kidding? They were gone by the sodomy joke.

Winner Ellen Barkin gets the “Diva” award for the speech by an actor who takes themselves the most seriously. Her speech, delivered without a trace of irony, included all of the following words and phrases: profound, transformed me as a human being, one person can change the world, genius, Atlas, bravest. What she didn’t do was thank her children.

Patti LuPone was nominated for WOMAN ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN. Annie observed, “She was nominated for playing herself?”

No one was happier that WAR HORSE won Best Play than the CBS censor. One of the other nominees was THE MOTHERFUCKER WITH THE HAT. I can only imagine if that had won.

Off-stage announcer, Randy Thomas was, as usual, flawless. She should announce every award show, be the voice of my GPS, and give the starting line-ups at Yankee Stadium.

In an attempt to capture a larger audience, the presenters were all TV or movie personalities. The Tonys this year was a “No Nathan Lane Zone”. Instead you had Brook Shields, Jim Parsons, Chris Rock (who was hysterical), Marg Helgenberger, Christy Brinkley (for crying out loud), and Karl Marx. (Huh? Oh. That was Robin Williams?) I’m surprised they didn’t have Mr. Ed introduce WAR HORSE.

Whoopi Goldberg came out wearing a pirate hat the size of Lichtenstein. She really needed it because she wasn’t overbearing and over-the-top enough.

For the first time in the 65-year history of the Tony Awards, they waited a full two hours before the Sondheim tribute number.

Annie wondered why Bono and The Edge introduced their own song (from the musical SPIDERMAN), and Jon said, “Because no one else would sign the waiver”.

Sick joke alert but I laughed: When Tyne Daly was introducing the In Memoriam segment and saying the theater lost many great people this year, Jon chimed in with, “Yeah, and half the cast of SPIDERMAN”.

Frances McDormand must’ve known she was going to win. She wore her best Levi jacket. Maybe next time she’ll also wash her hair.

The show concluded with another amazing Neil Patrick Harris musical re-cap. Whoever writes these intricate numbers (obviously on the fly) is brilliant and how Harris can perform them live with no rehearsal is beyond me. All I could think was – oh please, next year let Brook Shields host.

What I learned on my first musical

Cast of the 60s PROJECT: Michael Gillis, Andrew Rannells, Megan Lewis, Maggie Benjamin, and Rodrick Covington.

The Tony Awards are tonight and in honor of that I'm re-posting a piece I did several years on what I learned on my first musical.  I spent the summer of 2006  in Connecticut where the musical I co-wrote with Janet Brenner (the 60s PROJECT) went into production at the Goodspeed Theatre, I learned quite a bit about the process. For those of you hitting the boards somewhere in our nation's heartland, here are a few things you might want to know.

By the way, Andrew Rannells, who starred in our show, is up for a Tony tonight for THE BOOK OF MORMON.  So I hope he wins.  I'm also rooting for John Benjamin Hickey in his category.  Oh, and Bill & Cheri Steinkellner for their book for SISTER ACT.  Yeah, I'm partial to people I've worked with..  But they're all very deserving, even if none of them will thank me on stage.  

So here's what I learned: 

The director must encourage everyone to share ideas. He must then discard 80% of them, especially the ones from the prop guy who's taken the liberty of writing new songs.

You need six weeks to rehearse a musical. But if you have six weeks, you'll need eight.

If the choreographer had her way, seven of the eight hours of rehearsal everyday would be devoted to the dance numbers. If the music director had his way, those same seven hours would be devoted to teaching and practicing the music. If the book writer had his way, scene work would fill the day. And if the director had his way it would be a one woman show with Bernadette Peters who could do it all in five hours.

One change, no matter how small, is like pulling a string in Penelope's Tapestry. It effects everything. If the music director adds a bar in a song, the choreographer will want to reblock the entire dance number. If the book writer changes one line it effects the underscoring, next cue, choreography, lighting, sound, background visuals, upcoming costume change, transition into the next scene, and future of the American musical theatre. So it better be a good new line.

If there's a fight scene or even fight moment there has to be a daily fight rehearsal before a performance. For West Side Story you can rehearse without the knives.

Wireless mics that stick out of cast members foreheads produce better sound and are not noticeable and distracting beyond the fiftieth row.

The cast elects an Equity Deputy whose job it is to snitch behind the director's back if an Equity rule is broken. Rules include looking at an actor with an expression that might hurt his feelings.

To learn even one dance number I would need to practice eight hours a day for six months at which time maybe I could do the whole thing without elbowing someone in the face. These kids get it down in six minutes.

You need a good drummer. A real good drummer.

See a night time performance rather than a matinee.

Actors need to yell out their dialogue. Not just speak loud, but YELL. Even if the line is "Pssst, let me tell you a secret." Only Renee Taylor can talk in her regular speaking voice.

When your wife or girlfriend needs forty-five minutes to change her clothes, just know it can be done in as little as ten seconds.

Every performer comes from a dysfunctional family but thanks them profusely in their Playbill bio.

Most people pad their Playbill bios, listing every credit since they played a kitty in grammar school. So my favorite Playbill bio remains: Jerry Belson, who wrote the 1975 movie SMILE that got turned into a musical, submitted only this -- "SMILE fulfills a lifetime dream for Mr. Belson, to get paid twice for the same script."

During performances there are nine people walking around with headsets. No one knows who they are or what they're doing.

A good running time, including a fifteen minute intermission is 2:20.

The song you loved the most before going into rehearsal is the song you need to cut.

No two people have the same script. Everyone is on stage working off different drafts.

The Teamsters are pansies compared to the Equity Union.

Actors will tell you: it's hard to be sung to. And offstage it's even harder.

When you're in the orchestra section, don't think the cast can't see you. If you're going to be Pee Wee Herman you're going to have an audience.

It's always better to say it in a song rather than dialogue. But those few lines of dialogue can galvanize the entire story.

Since there is limited rehearsal time once a show opens, it can take up to a week to put in some changes. You have to prioritize fixes, based on how needed they are and how long they will take to implement. What that means is you take notes every night and they're always the same notes.

Casting decisions are still the most important. Everything else can be fixed. Except if you want to do C-SPAN: The Musical, that idea might kill it.

Actors are not allowed to talk to conductors. There's a very strict chain of command. Book writers are not allowed to talk to anybody.

The guard at every stage door is named "Pops".

When it works, a musical can be more than entertaining, it can be thrilling. There is an electricity, a magic that is so powerful it transcends whatever's happening on stage. Yes, it's a tall order and rarely achieved but that's the goal. And if you don't hang yourself in a hotel room in New Haven it can be quite exciting.

Unless I fall asleep I will review the Tonys tomorrow.  

Superman is getting a new costume

Starting in September, DC Comics will introduce Superman wearing a new costume.  Gone will be the attractive red shorts.  He'll just be wearing blue pants.   This makes it so much easier for the Man of Steel to take cellphone pictures of himself and send them to Lois.

Not sure I like tampering with tradition.  Plus, does this mean I have to get all new action figures and replace my lunchbox?   Great Caesar's Ghost!

Clone High

You up for a bizarre animated series?  This is CLONE HIGH.  It was originally made in Canada and ran on MTV only from November 2002 to April 2003.   Here's the premise.  As a military experiment, historical figures are all cloned.  They're now teen aged and going to high school together.    So you have Abe Lincoln, Mahatma Gandhi, JFK, Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, Marilyn Monroe, etc.   There was outrage in India over the depiction of Gandhi and eventually MTV bowed to pressure (good taste?) and took the series off, not airing the final episodes.  It was created by Phil Lord & Christopher Miller. 

I'm always looking to present different styles of humor.  This week's brand is rather sick and twisted. 

What do you think?  This is the pilot.