Monthly Archives: June 2018

Paul Krugman on The Fall of the American Empire. I usually wince at apocalyptic phrases like that but Krugman makes a darned good case that that's possible.

Forty years ago today, Jim Davis's cranky cat made his debut in a whopping 41 newspapers across the nation. 41 is not a bad number to start with but if you want to make a living off your strip, you'd better get that number up and soon. Three years later, he was well in the safety zone and by his fifth anniversary, in 1,000 papers. Today, Garfield's furry face is in more newspaper strips than any other strip.

In 1987, much of my writing work was on Saturday morning cartoon shows and I was having a problem: I was running out of studios to work for. I quit several of them. I sued one. A couple didn't want me on the premises. I left the biggest one — Hanna-Barbera — because I felt so uncomfortable arguing, as I so often found myself doing, with Joe Barbera. He not only had his name on the building, he was Joe Barbera and it didn't look like that was going to change.

My last major assignment before I hooked up with Jim Davis's pussycat was developing a Saturday morning series with Michael Jackson. I could fill this blog forever (but won't) with tales of that unpleasant experience and why I eventually moonwalked off it.

When all was said and done, I felt I owed CBS some money for work they'd paid me for but which I was declining to do. Instead, a terrific lady named Judy Price who was the Vice-Prez of Saturday Morn for them suggested that instead of giving it back, we apply it towards my price for the next project she wanted me to tackle…a Saturday AM series of Garfield. I said sure; I liked Garfield and had since I'd first laid eyes on the strip.

Soon, I was meeting with the man who would produce that series, Lee Mendelson — a gent who has more Emmys than I have toes and who turned out to be the best and most honest producer I have ever worked for. I liked him. Then I met Jim Davis and I liked him, too. Let me tell you one of the first things I liked about Jim…

I had worked for years for companies and people who owned or controlled great properties, including characters I loved when I was a child. To most of these people, they were properties first and beloved characters, second. Sometimes, it was a rather distant second. One of the things I argued about with Mr. Barbera was because I often dealt with the men who managed the merchandising for his company and who had, I thought, no grasp or concern for the integrity of Yogi Bear, Huckleberry Hound, The Flintstones, The Jetsons, etc.

On my first visit to Jim's offices outside Muncie, Indiana, this happened: We were meeting and talking about the creative direction of the show. An aide to Jim interrupted to ask him if he could sign off on the prototype for a Garfield alarm clock that one of his licensees was about to start producing in large quantities. Jim's OK was necessary and they needed it right away because the factory was poised to begin making them by the zillions and there were deadlines that had to be met to ensure on-time delivery to wholesalers and retailers.

Jim inspected the prototype and he said, "No, they still don't have Garfield's eyes right." He picked up a Sharpie and indicated on the model just where those eyes should be.

The aide said, "If they have to break the molds and redo them, it will cost them thousands of dollars and they'll miss their shipping dates." To which Jim said, "So?"

Jim doesn't know how close he came at that moment to getting a big, wet one on the lips from me. I had worked for way too many companies and individuals — including people who'd created the characters who were about to be done wrong — to not be delighted by his attitude. Later, he told me his philosophy and he's also said this in interviews: "If we take care of the cat, the cat will take care of us."

I've now been involved with Garfield for more than thirty years and I'll tell you a few things about Jim Davis, one being that he believes that credo. I have seen him turn down more money than most of us will ever see because some lucrative proposal might not do right by Garfield.

Jim also works very hard. True, others do a lot of the artwork on the strip but Jim writes and sketches things out and keeps an eye on every aspect of the strip and also of the voluminous merchandise. Early on in our association, I'd be about to knock off work and go to bed at 3:15 AM here in Los Angeles…and in would come a fax from Jim who had just started his workday in Muncie. And I know why he's able to put in that many hours a day. It's because he really loves what he does…and that has a lot to do with why Garfield has been around so long. It's why when people find out I work on Garfield, it gets the reaction it does. They just love that cat.

So happy birthday to the lasagna-eater and I feel like closing this with a song. Here's an appropriate excerpt from an old episode of Garfield and Friends…

What's 29? Well, that's the number of days until Comic-Con International kicks off in San Diego. If you're going and you have your passes and transportation and lodging all set, mazel tov! I'll see you there. If you still lack one, two or all of those things, please do not call or write me. I cannot help you.

And don't write to ask if I can help you get a panel or other program item on the schedule. That ship sailed long ago.

Since you are a wise, decent human being — you wouldn't be coming to this page if you weren't — you are appalled at what the United States Government is doing to immigrant families and you want to see it stopped immediately and never done again. Here is Jonathan Chait making a very important point about this noxious policy.

The observation that needs to gain more traction is what a total coward Trump is. Everything bad that happens is somebody else's fault, someone's lie, someone's doing. No one believes his insistence that it's the Democrats that are forcing the current separation of children from their families…and Trump refuses to even sit down for a one-on-one interview with anyone who'll challenge him more than that lobber of nerf balls, Steve Doocy.

Someone once noted that after a few disastrous attempts to actually discuss issues with someone who was not one of his dittoheads, Rush Limbaugh learned to never debate without having his finger on a button that could mute the person he was debating with. Trump never answers real questions without a route of immediate escape behind him.

Tom Hanks is appearing in the Shakespeare Center of Los Angeles production of Henry IV playing the character of Falstaff. The June 13 performance had to be halted because an audience member took ill and required treatment, which made for a long, awkward delay and some other audience members roaming out and about. To bridge the lull, Mr. Hanks came bounding out to keep the crowd entertained and there. Take this video full-screen to see what he did…

Matt Yglesias explains that Trump's immigration policies — you know, the ones they alternately brag about but claim they don't have — are based on cruel lies…you know, like just about everything in this administration.

It's been a long, hard struggle but we've reached the last installment of our series on a recent trip I took with my loyal friend Amber to Las Vegas, Philadelphia and New York. If you're just joining us, you'll want to read about Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, my Philadelphia Addenda, Day 7, Day 8, Day 9 and Day 10. Whew!

Friday, June 1, 2018

Okay, last day. We packed, checked out of the room, checked our luggage at the bell desk and headed out into New York for a few hours before the limo would pick us up back at the hotel. But before we did all that, I had to deal with the whereabouts of that package I shipped back to Los Angeles just before we left Philadelphia…

As you may recall, I thought I was so ingenious. Before we left Philly, we put all our soiled Vegas and Philadelphia clothing into a big box. I sealed it up and carried it down to a 24-hour FedEx-Kinko's in the lobby of the Philadelphia Marriott where we were staying. This would free us from having to tote all that laundry around for the rest of our journey.

Since my tuxedo and Amber's party dress were in there along with other costly-to-replace items, I put $500 of insurance on the package. This meant that it would have to be signed-for on the other end. They told me it would arrive at its destination on Friday, June 1.

Problem: My house-sitter might not be around a goodly part of that day so there'd be no one to sign for it there and then. So, clever me, I had them ship it to my mail drop — an address I have for packages 'n' stuff. There'd be someone there all Friday to accept delivery, plus it's a FedEx affiliate so they stop in there anyway. Smart, huh?

During the week, I tracked the package online and at some point, the Estimated Delivery Date turned into Saturday, June 2. Don't know why, don't know how but it did. New Problem: My mail drop is only open a half-day on Saturday and there's no FedEx pick-up. Ergo, there might be no one there to sign for it. I called FedEx and a nice lady said I could switch it to my home address (where I would presumably be all day, unpacking and recovering) for fifteen bucks extra. I went for this and you will read later why this was not a good idea.

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Our hotel was near Times Square, which is now quite different from what it was when I visited the area in the seventies and eighties. Then it was mostly hotels, restaurants, Broadway theaters, strip joints and porn shops. Now, it's mostly hotels, restaurants, Broadway theaters, national chain stores and tourist hustles. Some might argue the value of the upgrade.

I like it better because in the seventies, to walk three blocks there was to be solicited by twenty-four hookers. (The math was like three blocks x eight hookers per block.) Now on each block, you get accosted by three people who want you to buy a bus tour of the city, a guy pointing to a nearby store that can upgrade your cellphone, at least one person hawking tickets to some Broadway show, two different guys trying to sell you tickets for a comedy club that evening, a couple who just plain want handouts…and a couple of versions of Elmo who'll pose for a photo for a good tip.

The area is full of costumed characters selling photo-ops and even a few uncostumed ones. The famous Naked Cowboy (he actually wears tighty-whities) was there and he may even be franchising the bit because at one point, I think I spotted two of him. There are also "showgirls" wearing g-strings and shoes with the rest of their outfits consisting of body paint. If I were a woman, I think I would tell my parents I was doing porn or hooking or maybe even working as a Trump spokesperson before I would tell them that I was spending my days standing topless in Times Square with my chest painted blue, charging people ten bucks to take a photo with me. Then again, given what I do for a living, maybe I have no right to criticize someone else's career choices.

Speaking of Trump: He was there, at least as a reasonable facsimile, and someone told me there were a couple of him — guys dressed as The Donald, posing for photos. While Amber dashed into the Walgreens for something, I found myself sitting on a bench next to a pretty good Trump imitator. He had the suit, the too-long tie, the body language, the hair and the smirks just about perfect. I said to him, "Okay, what percentage of the people who want a photo with you love Trump and what percentage hate him?"

He responded it was 20/80 — 20% want to pose proudly with him as if they met the genuine article, 80% want to be kicking or strangling him or giving him the finger. A few, he said, splurged to pose with him and one of the topless showgirls. He said he was pretty sure that the 20% were from way-outta town. A third party hearing our chat said, "And the 80% are all New Yorkers?" He said no. He thought very few New Yorkers availed themselves of his service at all but that the ones who did were all in the 80%.

The other person asked what he charged for a photo. He said, "Five, ten, twenty…whatever someone wants to give me" and I made some smartass remark about how he was just a good negotiator as Donald. Wish I'd gotten a pic with him to post here.

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Amber and I went to the Marvel offices and went out to lunch with Senior Vice President of Publishing Tom Brevoort and Senior Vice President of Business Affairs and Talent Management David Bogart. If you want to know what someone who has either of those titles does, I think it means they go to lunch with people like me. There are probably other responsibilities but that's the vital one.

We talked 'til it was time for them to go do those other, less-important things and for us to head back to the hotel and from there to JFK Airport. Figuring a late Friday afternoon drive there could only be a monstrosity of unmoving vehicles, I allowed plenty of extra time but it wasn't needed. We arrived way ahead of boarding time.

The flight back was great. I keep reading online how JetBlue, our favorite L.A./N.Y. conveyor, is cutting back on service, cutting back on legroom, etc. If they are, they haven't gotten around to every flight yet. It was all very comfortable…and the flight attendants were delightful. If every flight I took was that pleasant, I'd travel a lot more.

The next few days were taken up with (a) sleeping, (b) unpacking, (c) catching up on mail, (d) sleeping some more and (e) trying to find out where the hell my FedEx package was. The lady on the phone on Friday had said that if I paid the fifteen bucks extra, they'd re-route my package to my house for Saturday delivery. When it didn't show on Saturday and the online tracker kept saying "Delivery Date Unknown," I began speaking to FedEx reps, the supervisors of those FedEx reps, the supervisors who supervise the supervisors of those FedEx reps…

All told me that I had it all wrong; that when you change the delivery address of a package, everything starts over. One insisted, "You couldn't possibly get delivery on Saturday because when you change the delivery address on Friday, it's like you shipped it out the next day…and the class of mail you selected isn't delivered on the weekends on Monday. The soonest you could possibly have it is Tuesday."

The online tracker was never updated but I finally found the package on my front doorstep late Tuesday afternoon. No one had signed for it and the box looked like they'd just had a cargo plane do a fly-by of my house and dropped the package from a thousand feet. Luckily, there's not much you can do to dirty laundry so my tux, Amber's dress and all the other stuff were intact.

It was a great trip but I don't think I'll do that again — hit three cities in eleven days. It didn't strike me until we got home how tiring it was…and how much of my time it consumed. To the eleven days, you have to add what must have totaled four or five days of prep time — making reservations, buying things that were needed for the trip, packing, etc. — and at least a week of operating at half-speed and two-thirds awake upon our return. I never got jet-lag before but we've now been back for more than two weeks and part of my brain is still on Eastern Daylight Time. My foot though is all better.

Amber enjoyed every minute of our journey too…and she was real good, as not all of my traveling companions have been, of being ready to leave for things as per the schedule. A large part of the fun was watching how much she enjoyed the shows, the meals, the sights, the get-togethers. About the only thing I regret is that I didn't take more photos…but I have two to share with you. The first one is of Amber across the table from me in the dining area of the Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia…

The other is of the other most beautiful thing that was in my field of vision at that moment: The turkey plate I got there…

Thank you for coming along on our trip with us, at least the way you did. Sorry I didn't save you any turkey…and I'm even sorrier I didn't save me any of it, either.

Groucho with the perfect song for today…

This first ran on this blog of 8/4/13. In honor of Father's Day, I've decided to run it here again. All you need to know is that my father was one of the nicest people who ever walked on this planet…

When last we left my father, he had finally become convinced that his son could make a living as a professional writer. Still, he found reasons aplenty to worry about me. There were big worries and small worries but this is the story of, by far, the biggest. Bigger even than his worry about my chosen career.

In 1970, I turned 18 and as was required, I registered for The Draft. The selective service office where I did this was in the same federal building (the one over on Wilshire near Veteran) where he went to work each day for the Internal Revenue Service. So after registering, I went up to that floor to say hello to him. Even though he'd see me a few hours later at the dinner table, he was glad I came by so he could introduce me to some of his co-workers. From them, I learned he'd done an awful lot of bragging in the office about his son, the Professional Writer who was — believe it or not — actually making a living at it.

But he was chilled by the reason I was in the building. The next few days, I noticed him looking pale and older, like he wasn't sleeping. Finally one evening, he sat me down for what was easily the most serious father/son talk we ever had. He said, almost trembling, "I need you to do something for me. If you love your father, you will do this. You will not give me an argument or tell me not to worry about it. You will do this because both our lives, mine and yours, depend on it." I couldn't for the life of me imagine what he was talking about.

Then he told me: "I want you…I need you to do everything that is humanly possible to avoid being drafted. I swear to God, if you get a draft notice…if there's the slightest chance of you being sent to Vietnam, I will have a heart attack and die."

I tried to tell him that he wouldn't but he got so upset that I was afraid he would, then and there. He'd had a heart attack a few years earlier and he also had a bleeding ulcer — mostly, it seemed, from stress at the office.

"You must do everything. Go to lawyers. Talk to counselors. Whatever it costs, I will come up with the money. I am even prepared to quit my job here, sell this house and move us all up to Canada if I have to. But you must…not…be drafted." I can still hear how he said that, pausing between words.

I said, "Well, not everyone who's drafted goes to Vietnam…"

He said, "If you were drafted, I would never sleep again. I would be up all night worrying that wherever you were stationed, they would suddenly decide to send you off to war. I haven't even been able to sleep since you signed up for the draft the other day. That's how much this upsets me."

I promised him I would do everything possible to not get drafted and that was the end of the conversation. That night.

Some context is necessary. In 1970, America was slowly turning against U.S. military action in Southeast Asia. It wasn't anywhere near a majority viewpoint then, which is why Richard Nixon was able to win a landslide re-election two years later. Still, it was growing, especially as Nixon's '68 campaign promises — that he had a "secret plan" to end The War — seemed increasingly illusory. The War wasn't ending. It was multiplying and dividing and every week, there were new stories of massacres and dead Americans and it was harder and harder to explain our objective over there.

My parents had been against it from about half past Lyndon Johnson's term in office. I was slower to come around. It may be impossible for readers of my blog to believe now but back in the sixties, I was pretty conservative. Which is not to say I ever liked Nixon or Ronald Reagan. Even if I did side with most of the causes they espoused, I thought they came at them from the wrong angles with selfish motives instead of selfless. Just because you believe in the message, it doesn't mean you have to respect every messenger who carries it or even his arguments for it. You should always be embarrassed by at least a few of the people on your side.

In high school during the Johnson administration, there were occasional well-attended demonstrations against The War and some pretty feeble, poorly-attended counter-demonstrations in support of it. I was one of the kids leading the counter-demonstrations. Like everyone who finds himself in such a minority of his peers, I congratulated myself on not being part of the mindless majority; of having the courage to buck the crowds. Eventually, I decided that wasn't a particularly good reason.

Neither was that from my viewpoint, the friends of mine backing The War were my smarter friends and the "other side" was full of the dumber people, few of whom seemed to even understand the issues. It seemed to me they were all jumping on that particular bandwagon for the same reason they were all buying bell bottom pants and listening to certain musicians: Because they were "in," because they were what our generation was doing…and in some cases, just because they pissed off our parents.

But sometimes, the folks around you aren't a representative sample. It always helps to remember that remark attributed to various East Coast Liberal types after the '68 election: "I can't understand how Nixon won. I don't know anyone who voted for him." For a time, I didn't know anyone I thought was intelligent who opposed The War. Then by '70, the year I entered U.C.L.A., I knew a few and by '72, I knew enough that I saw the error of my thinking and joined the protest marches. My root distrust of Nixon and his cronies also did a lot to get me to the other side as did many of his actions.  If you ever bomb Cambodia, I'll lose my last bit of trust in you, too.

The point is that in '70 when my father asked what he asked of me, I didn't know how I felt about The War. I did though know how I felt about The Army. With all my might, I wanted no part of it.

My aversion to the Army had nothing to do with any possibility of being sent to fire guns at people who were firing at me. That wasn't going to happen.  I wasn't going to volunteer for that and no one would have been dumb enough to send the guy who would soon be writing Super Goof comics into combat.

But just being in the service seemed utterly incompatible with me. How would I sleep? I was used to having my own room. How would I eat? I had all my weird, defy-all-medical-analysis food allergies. Even Basic Training seemed impossible. One evening, I watched some news footage of fresh recruits on their first day. They were climbing ropes (I couldn't do that) and scaling walls (I couldn't do that) and slithering on their bellies (I couldn't do that) and eating Army Chow (I really couldn't do that). No high school student ever hated Gym Class as much as I hated Gym Class…and even the simplest, non-combat Army life seemed to me like living 24/7 in Gym Class.

I understood all about serving your country. I just didn't think our current leaders were serving that country very well, nor did I see that I could possibly be of any use to them. I wouldn't even have made a good hostage.

One night during this period, I actually had the following dream: I'm drafted but they immediately call me in and some fancy general-type who looks like George C. Scott says, "Evanier! We've looked over your qualifications and we've decided you can best help America by staying here in Los Angeles, dating that cute girl friend of yours and editing a line of comic books designed to educate and entertain the military!"

And then in the dream, so help me, he added, "This being the military, we believe in drastically overpaying for everything so we're going to give you a budget of several thousand dollars a page. Hire anyone you want, pay them whatever you want…and, oh yes, keep the change!"

How much did I not want to go into the Army? Here's how much: Even if that dream had happened exactly as dreamed, I probably still would have packed up my comics and moved to Vancouver.

My father's plea for me to avoid conscription was not because he opposed The War. He did but it was a lot simpler than that. He just had nightmares about his only son being killed. In later years, he would worry the same way because he knew I was on an airplane or driving on the Santa Monica Freeway at rush hour. As much to make him happy as to save my own skin, I went to see some Draft Avoidance Counselors. That was the job description at least one of them had on the door.

There were several such services then operating in Westwood Village, which was adjacent to my current place of learning. They were all free and in each case, I met with a serious, committed volunteer who believed The War and The Draft were both immoral. They looked over my family situation, my health, my next-to-non-existent religious background, my academic record — everything — and suggested applications for deferments, doctor notes I might be able to get, financial hardship forms, etc. I do not recall what I filled out or what I did but I'm sure I didn't do as much of it as my father wanted, though I assured him I had. I did undergo some kind of brief government physical in which I emphasized the flatness of my feet and the expensive special shoes my podiatrist then had me wearing.

And I do recall one moment with one of the draft counselors that stuck with me. I filled out a ridiculous number of questionnaires and he looked them over and said, "I don't think you have much to worry about. You went to University High."

I had to ask: "What does that have to do with this?"

He said, "Uni Hi is primarily white and wealthy. Kids from white and wealthy areas have ways of not getting drafted."

I didn't believe that. I also didn't believe that all the forms I'd filled out and exemptions I'd applied for would make any difference. It was all going to come down to my number in the draft lottery. In a few months, they would be drawing for males born in 1952 and the way it worked was that your date of birth was your lottery number. If your number was drawn in the first hundred, you were likely to go. If you were in the next thirty or forty, you were unlikely to go but it was vaguely possible. And anything over 140 or 150, you were safe. I just knew I'd be safe.

An odd "calm" settled in on me about the topic: No panic, no worry. I was certain, with no basis in reality, that it would never come to that. It was like, "Me? In the Army? It'll never happen." I didn't fret about it because I knew that Fate would never do such a thing to me. And on August 5, 1971, it didn't.

I had thought so little about The Draft that I was unaware of that date, the date they drew the numbers for my birth year. My mind that morning was on what I was going to do the following morning, which was to drive down to attend the second of what we now call Comic-Con Internationals. My friend Tony Isabella was staying with us, in from Ohio, primed to head south to San Diego with me.

But though I didn't know when the drawing was, my father did. He got up early and sat down in the living room in his pajamas to watch them pick the numbers live on The CBS Morning News and, I suppose, other programs. When my birthday of March 2 was assigned #184, he let out a whoop.

I was in my pajamas too, talking with Tony about the con when my father burst into my room and began hugging me, saying over and over, "Thank God, thank God." At first, I honestly didn't know what he was so happy about. Then he told me and while I was pleased, it wasn't because it meant that I would probably never have to go into the military. It was more like the way you're pleased when something you know is not going to happen doesn't happen. Sometimes, it's just plain reassuring to know you were right.

In later years, I got to know and talk with a number of guys my age who did serve in Vietnam. I respected the hell out of them for their service and to some extent envied their ability to do something like that. I know I couldn't…any more than I could have played pro football or become a police officer. I respect the hell out of police officers, too. None of the veterans I spoke with, I'm happy to say, ever had a problem with my not having served. Most were jealous and one even said, after I'd told one of my zillion tales of incompetence at anything besides writing silly stories, "I'm glad you weren't in the Army. You would have gotten a lot of us killed."

None of these vets I knew were guys from my old high school. At our 25 year reunion, I got to talking with one of the organizers of the event. He had put together a display/tribute to honor those of our classmates who didn't live to be at the reunion. There were about 18 in a class of more than 600. I asked how many of the men had died in military service and he said, "None. Almost none of our classmates even went into the service." I had assumed that based on the way the lottery worked, about 30% of males my age were drafted but he said, "No, not with our class. It was less than ten and I think most of them enlisted. The rest whose numbers were picked…they all found ways to get out of it."

So maybe there was something to that "white and wealthy" business.

I think that morning of 8/5/71 was the happiest I ever saw my father. He actually danced a little in the kitchen with my mother, twirling her about to unheard but very joyous music. He seemed younger, too. He was still happy that evening and he said to me, "Maybe we should go out to dinner this weekend and celebrate."

I told him, "We can celebrate if you like but it won't be this weekend. Remember, tomorrow Tony and I are going down to San Diego for that comic book convention."

He looked suddenly concerned and he asked, "You're going by freeway, I assume?" I told him we were.

He paused a moment then said, "Please…do your father a favor and be real careful!"

Lewis Black on a recent Daily Show, discussing school shootings. I don't believe Mr. Black writes the material he delivers on this program but whoever does it does a good job of capturing his style and attitude…

A lot of folks obviously are irate about families being torn asunder in the name of enforcing immigration laws, and by Trump's implied threat that this country will keep on treating immigrants like animals until Democrats give him his Wall and every single other thing he wants in order to be a hero with his base. I don't have to tell you what I think about this.

What surprises me is the number of people who would describe themselves as evangelicals and are for this because, after all, Jeff Sessions says it's Biblical to do this. Then this afternoon, I read this posting by Alan Jacobs, an Anglican Christian who is said to be a respected author for the true evangelical audience. Here — I'll save you clicking over there and quote the part that interested me most…

The lesson to be drawn here is this: the great majority of Christians in America who call themselves evangelical are simply not formed by Christian teaching or the Christian scriptures. They are, rather, formed by the media they consume — or, more precisely, by the media that consume them. The Bible is just too difficult, and when it's not difficult it is terrifying. So many Christians simply act tribally, and when challenged to offer a Christian justification for their positions typically grope for a Bible verse or two, with no regard for its context or even its explicit meaning. Or summarize a Sunday-school story that they clearly don't understand, as when they compare Trump to King David because both sinned without even noticing that David's penitence was even more extravagant than his sins while Trump doesn't think he needs to repent of anything.

Many moons ago, I attended a political seminar where a gentleman spoke…and I'm sorry I don't have his name but he appeared to be a wizened scholar of The Bible and a man deeply critical of those who, in his view, misused that book for political purposes. He said — and this is an approximate quote — too many people know ten or twelve quotes from the Holy Book and whenever they want to try and pull rank on others over some matter, they trot out one of those quotes whether it fits or not, and throw it down as if to say 'God is on my side so it's settled.'"

He then went on to add, "If you are unable to recognize these corruptions of Scripture, it's probably because you are doing the same thing."

We're reliving a recent trip I took with my sensational friend Amber to Las Vegas, Philadelphia and New York. Day 10 was our last full day in New York but before you read about it, you'll want to read about Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, my Philadelphia Addenda, Day 7, Day 8 and Day 9. In that order.

Thursday, May 31, 2018

As has been noted on this blog, Amber loves Benihana and especially the fried rice they make. So on a drizzly Thursday, we subwayed our way to 56th and 5th and met my pal Rick Scheckman for a Benihana lunch. I first knew Shecky (as so many call him) when he was working on Late Night with David Letterman on NBC. He was in the select group of employees that Dave took with him to CBS so I also knew him all through his employment on Late Show with David Letterman.

Since I'm showing you videos of some of my friends, here's a segment from Dave's NBC show from August 24, 1988 that used staff members as actors. Shecky's the guy playing Elvis and he probably also secured the clip from The Terror of Tiny Town featured in the first bit. Finding clips and doing occasional on-camera roles were among the many things he did for Dave. When I visited him in either office, he also seemed to be the only guy on staff who knew where everything was and how to make quick computer repairs…

We move in a lot of the same circles especially around film experts, so we talked about late night TV and about old movies and about the comedy business as Amber consumed — what was it? Thirty-eight or thirty-nine bowls of fried rice? Whatever it was, she enjoyed meeting another one of my friends.

When Amber first began the dangerous practice of hanging around me, I told her, "You're going to meet all my friends and you might not like all of them because I don't like all of them. But you'll like most of them." She's met an awful lot of them now and after almost every one, she turns to me and says, "When do I get to meet the ones I won't like?" The streak continued with Shecky.

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After lunch, we walked down to Rockefeller Center and I showed my rice-consuming friend around that place and told her some of its history. Then she ran off to get a broken nail repaired and I hustled over to the offices of Sirius XM Radio to guest on John Fugelsang's fine program Tell Me Everything on the Sirius XM Insight channel. As I walked in during a break, John told me, "We're going to be talking about the Samantha Bee thing," which was fine except that I'd been away from TV, radio and the 'net all day and hadn't heard a thing about whatever the heck "the Samantha Bee thing" was.

But I got up to speed (sort of) and much of the discussion was carried by John, his fine co-host Frank Coniff and another guest, author David Feldman. John also had me talk for a while about Jack Kirby…and I'm getting to be like a Chatty Cathy doll that way. Pull a ring on my neck and I talk about Jack Kirby…though with great joy and undiminished admiration. The wonderful thing about that is you can talk for days on end about Jack and you'll never get anywhere near exhausting the subject.

A fellow wrote me today, as we all prep for Comic-Con in (gasp!) 32 days. He's hosting a panel there on which he'll be interviewing several people and wanted some pointers on how to do that. I am better at it than some people but worse than most…and the secret to getting better at it is to study the most. I don't much like being on camera but I enjoy being on radio for a simple reason. Minus the visual issues, I can focus on what's being said and I am often very aware of how the interviewing is steering the conversation. My friend Paul Harris is really good at this. I learned a lot being on his radio shows and now when I listen to him talking with others, I'm aware of the skills on display.

They involve keeping things moving and asking questions that are answerable. Most questions that end with "What was that like?" are vague so they lead to vague answers. A good interviewer also poses questions in a way that gets the interviewee to the point A.S.A.P. and follows up when the interviewee omits some vital detail or says something that begs for amplification. John Fugelsang is a terrific stand-up comic but that skill, which involves working alone, does not necessarily go with playing well with others.

In fact, I've known stand-ups who forget that they're supposed to let the other person talk. John isn't one of them. On this visit to his show, since I felt more comfy there, I was more aware of how expertly he choreographs the verbal dance of three other people in his studio plus the caller on the phone. Some day, I might like to try a show like that but I know I'm not ready yet.

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While I was up at Sirius XM, I ran into my friend Christine Pedi, who is one of the main hosts of their Broadway channel. You may remember her from Day 7 of this endless Excellent Adventure. She was just finishing recording her show so she came along to play audience for me on John's show and later we walked out together. I just realized that I showed you videos of some of the other people Amber and I spent time with on this trip but I didn't embed a video of Christine…so here's one. The gent with her is Seth Rudetsky who also hosts on the Sirius Broadway channel. As you'll see, he plays a mean piano and she's an incredible mimic…

As we left, Amber called and we had one of those "How did we exist before cellphones?" moments. She didn't know where I was and I didn't know where she was…so she texted me a link to a map and I followed it to a little delicatessen a few blocks away where she was enjoying a smoothie. We walked up Fifth Avenue to a subway station and in a New York minute, we were at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Times Square, heading to hook up with Charlie and Rachel Kochman in Shubert Alley…

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This revival of Hello, Dolly! at the Shubert originally starred Bette Midler and David Hyde Pierce and then they left it and were replaced by Bernadette Peters and Victor Garber, who'll be in it until mid-July when Bette and David return to do six weeks. Then the show will close. This has apparently surprised many who remember how David Merrick kept the original production running forever and ever via stunt-casting…bringing in new Dollies every few months, hiring superstar Divas. I guess it was assumed the producers of this version would try something like that but nope. Midler and Pierce come back and that's it. It's kind of a shame because it's a beautiful production with great sets, costumes and choreography.

Watching it, I formed four opinions, the first being what I just said about how it had great art direction and staging. They other three are…

2. Bernadette Peters is absolutely wonderful as Dolly Levi.
3. Victor Garber is even better as Horace Vandergelder. I mean, he's really terrific and the audience absolutely loved him.
4. The songs in Hello, Dolly! are for the most part wonderful but the better the production is in other ways, the more obvious is that it's a very silly, pointless story. Has anyone seeing it ever cared whether the two clerks who work for Vandergelder ever get to kiss a lady? Does anyone have any idea why all these different characters keep running into each other?

Don't get me wrong: I had a great time. We all did. But it's one of those shows where the actors dutifully utter lines that convey the plot and nobody gives even half a damn about that plot. The audience we saw it with was ecstatic from curtain-up to curtain-down but they'd have been even happier if in the Second Act, they'd tossed the storyline and just done the "Hello, Dolly!" number over and over.

I love Bernadette Peters. Remind me one of these days to tell you a story from around 1980 of the one and only time I met her. If I had been cool and witty and charming, I would have told this story long ago. As it was, I was flustered and clumsy and I made a ridiculous fool of myself. This was close to four decades ago and I'm still cringing from it.

And that's right: It's been like 38 years since that happened. Why did she only look about twenty years older on the stage of the Shubert? It was an exciting evening of everyone in the place loving her…and maybe loving Victor Garber a tad more. He was crusty and funny and he alone managed to rise above most of the lines he was given. As I said, it's not a great show but it sure was a great show.

After, we went to John's of Times Square where they have great pizza and we didn't have the pizza. It was a fine, albeit long day and I've tired myself out just writing about it. So come back tomorrow for the much-briefer story of the last day of our trip…with Special Guest Star, Donald Trump! Well, actually it was just a guy who looks like Trump but that's almost the same thing.

Click here to jump to the last day of our trip

Fred Kaplan on Donald Trump's concept of international diplomacy: You get buddy-buddy with Putin and then ask him, "Would you do me a favor and get out of Syria? Would you do me a favor, would you get out of Ukraine?" Yeah, that's how it works.

• The government told Paul Manafort's parents they were just taking him for a bath and instead, they threw him in jail. What is this nation coming to?

Needless to say, I agree with what Stephen Colbert said on his show last night about our government separating families…