Shot-Gun Buzz Aldrin: "Good Luck, Mr. Armstrong!"

All bid fond adieu to Neil Armstrong today in a solemn and private Ohio ceremony - our dignified American hero and first man to set foot on the moon.  No greater glory than this moment of human achievement.  I never met Neil...

Buzz, Buzz and BEYOND

But I did meet Buzz Aldrin! 

My team interviewed him for the Discovery Channel CD-ROM "Beyond Planet Earth" in 1992 and I got to know just what a hard-charging self-promoter this gent was.  We parked him in the studio at Capitol Video on Wisconsin Ave., and he delivered the goods.

Buzz: Moon as Steppingstone to Fame

He did lots of work for Discovery Channel in the early years, and on and on - appearing on-air, on the road, and in special events when we had space-theme programming to sell.

As gracious and reserved as small-step Neil was, that's how eager to make a giant leap for the limelight was ol' Buzz.  Since we were always looking for publicity, it suited us just fine.  Still, when I spoke with him, it seemed almost as though Buzz wanted us to forget that Neil had been down the steps ahead of him.

He'd ridden in the side-car, and it bugged him no end.

So I never met Neil, although when my friend David pointed out Neil's house up the block from his own in Spring Valley, DC to me, we stood in the road and gaped.  Like you and everybody else, I kept a scrapbook, drank Tang and watched TV rapt all night in July, 1969 as Apollo 11 touched down.

The Armstrong family has asked us all - everyone who looks up to the sky to dream, to wonder, or to fall in love - to peek at tonight's Blue Moon and think of Neil.  I will see you there.

"Ad Astra Per Aspera"

The eulogy that wasn't...

The legacy we love to believe...

And Buzz: Keep On Truckin' !

Ted Koppel Out-Ran My Wife !

Shopping Cart Week BONUS:

During our courtship, the current Mrs. Porter often noted for me that her choice in men ran to the cerebral...

No sucker for good looks or a glib line she, I was reminded again and again: she appreciated a man with a strong intellect.  Notwithstanding her passing references in unguarded moments to hunks like George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and their ilk, she pressed this point - that what really excited her was a scholarly man.  Her ideal swain: Ted Koppel.

Koppel: Cerebral

Perhaps this was her way to assure me that, while I must not consider myself a handsome nor captivating escort, I could take consolation and think myself a wise man - after all, what else could explain her wanting my company?

Koppel: Shana Keppola (That hair!)

Now, any canny hyperbole aside, she truly had a "thing" for Ted Koppel.  My theory: I counted my wife among those millions Koppel had no doubt put soothingly to sleep in his days as NIGHTLINE anchor, with that reassuring, somnolent cadence and that trance-inducing 11:30pm timeslot.

Now, in the spring of 2000 I was working closely on an internet (bubble) news venture with Tara Sonenshine, who'd been Koppel's longtime producer at ABC News.  Through Tara, I learned Ted was a neighbor in Potomac, MD - but due to good breeding, I'd never have dreamed of trading on our friendship for a cheap 'hit job.'

Koppel: Dapper

Not so my dear wife. One Friday evening, as we were in the Sutton Place Gourmet supermarket in Bethesda to grab a few items and head home, there in the crosshairs among the flatbread, flavored oils, and porcini mushrooms: TED KOPPEL.  My wife gasped, spluttered, and tried to drag me toward him.  I slipped her grasp.

She closed the gap to six feet and cried out (I liberally paraphrase): "Mr. Koppel, Mr. Koppel! Ohyouaresuchagreatjournalist!!  Ooh,oh! And I always say that if I had to be stuck on a desert island with only one person and it couldn't be my husband, I'd pick you, you, YOU!"

Koppel: Pincer move

Koppel looked quizzical for a second, then my wife blurted out "I'm picking up a few things for shabbos. You too?" (gambling, using the Ashkenazic pronunciation, reaching for the Jewish connection). Oy... 

The picture of grace, Ted cheerily responded, "I'm sure you'll have a wonderful evening - Shabbat shalom!" as he wheeled on his heels to briskly charge away down the nearest aisle before giving any chance for reply.

I helped my wife to catch her breath and make it to the car.  We carried our groceries home, and enjoyed a lovely evening.

Bedtime Hypnotist Koppel

But at 11:30:05 that night, did I catch her standing a-twinkle at the window, looking at the moon....

And seeing . . . Ted?

"... this just in ... " :  ABC moves Nightline to 12:35am

R.I.P. Mike Deaver, My Old Neighbor

Shopping Cart Week, III:

Mike Deaver, credited as the master media magician who helped to create the Reagan mystique, died five years ago today.

Mike Deaver, Deputy Chief of Staff to Ronald Reagan

A loyal conservative of whom Nancy Reagan said, "He was the closest of friends to both me and Ronnie in many ways ... he was like a son to Ronnie," Deaver's association with Ronald Reagan dated to California days.  Mike reportedly saved Reagan's life during a flight aboard a campaign plane in 1976, using the Heimlich maneuver to dislodge a peanut stuck in the Gipper's throat.

Shocked, I tell you!

Although I was not a fan of Deaver's at the time he served, and was not impressed by his perjury conviction afterward, he seemed to be a gentle and humble chap when we would run into each other in the SuperFresh grocery store at Yuma and 48th streets, NW - a block from the home where I lived from 1990 to 1998.

Everyone who's Anyone ... at SUPERfresh

As lone cart-pushers, we passed each other in the aisles so many times that, after a few years of this, we took to acknowledging each other with a standard-issue grin-and-nod.  Once, to finally break the ice I said to him, "I was hoping you'd be here!"  He laughed.

The next time we met in the cereal aisle, Mike said to me "I've been expecting you!"  I replied with the question "What time will we be shopping next week?"  Eventually, we introduced ourselves - "Mike" and "Tom," no last names.

We'll go no more a-shopping: Mike is gone, the SuperFresh market is gone, and I am long gone from Washington DC.

Rest In Peace, Public Servant

The Men in the Sharkskin Suit: Cheskin, Bunting and Hendricks

We interrupt Shopping Cart Week, to bring you:

Today it's big business, 

Discovery Channel HQ, in search of prey...

... but I was witness to the whim and the surprising early success of Shark Week, now 25 years old this week, and fortunate to work closely with all of the people who made it happen, including the gentlemen profiled here in the Atlantic's telling of the apocryphal story of the brainstorm and the cocktail napkin.

Discovery was a budding enterprise in (correction: not '88 but) 1987, fewer than a hundred employees, and that summer's Shark Week represented an early programming "stunt" as Discovery ganged-up (anthologized) 22 hours of shark programming off the shelf.  Sharks had always gotten big ratings, but were sprinkled throughout the checkerboard prime-time schedule.  Yes, these shows always did best as one-offs in the summer... so why not package, promote and see what happens (cue "Jaws" theme music) ?

"Sharkskin" Steve Cheskin - our Fred Silverman

Clark Bunting is the hero of the Atlantic profile, and it is nice to finally see him get the credit he deserves.

The entire time I worked for Clark he insisted it was young Steve Cheskin of the UMD Mafia from whose fertile mind the concept came.  He's right. And Steve was indeed right in the thick of the mix at inception (which took place, the article neglects to note, at a hotel in downtown DC). He perceived the long legs this stunt could have from the outset, and absolutely did realize the concept effectively with his unique genius.

Mr. Cheskin has since unspooled many a week-long stunt for DCI (then known as "TDC"), as well as for TLC ("Alien Invasion Week!"), Travel Channel ("Bikini Beach Week!"), etc., etc.  But none as beloved nor groundbreaking as ol' Faithful: Shark Week.  And Steve and Clark were the impresarii who made everything come together.

Discovery Channel Shark Marketers, c. 1990 (yours truly, far right)

Nice work, guys!

Through the Phantom Tollbooth with Norton Juster

Shopping Cart Week, II:

Amherst Celebrity Juster

Like you I'll bet, I had the unique and magical, private, literally wonder-ful experience entering another world of logic and absurdity to absorb Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth's fantastic images, clever ideas, and delightful illustrations.

Only after I left town for college did I learn that this much-beloved author is by training actually an architect and planner, and has been on the faculty in the old home town, professor emeritus of design at Hampshire College.

I was eleven years old when I first read the book.  We were in Rome for spring holiday when I stepped into the incredible Red Lion Bookshop (then a block or two to the right off the bottom step at the Spanish Steps in Rome; later around the corner from its original spot), where in a number of visits I found Penguins a-plenty, acquired several Moomin-books and the entire Narnia Chronicles, and stepped out to take the first steps on an amazing mind journey with Phantom Tollbooth in hand.

The Portal

We now have a great local organization in town, Reader to Reader, that works to provide books and learning materials to underprivileged schools and libraries in the USA and around the world.  Professor Juster endorsed this tremendous organization and its literacy mission from the outset, and has been an outspoken supporter all along.

My connection and fond memory of Norton is from our conversation at founder Dave Mazor's 2010 event for Reader to Reader:

My #1 daughter was along with me that day.  She was approaching seventeen, and her reading of Phantom Tollbooth was in the past, but vividly so.  As I spoke with Norton, she came by and I made the introduction - and I watched her beautiful face transform from teen jade to pre-teen, wide-eyed purity: "Oh, WOW!! YOU wrote the Phantom Tollbooth??  REALLY????"  He was kind and funny as we traded a few dear favorite memories from the book, although no doubt this sort of thing must happen to him all the time.  A gracious and tender man.

It is hard to imagine many other books that can elicit such swooning favor, such longing for the transport and possibility of childhood.

Next stop: through the Tollbooth in Milo's toy car...

I've run into Norton pushing a shopping cart in Stop & Shop, raised a glass to see him honored at a Children's Book Illustrators' event at Rich Michelson's fabulous gallery in Northampton, and seen him line up on my parents' side of the street in a recent (2005) battle over the structure of town government (Amherst went, to its detriment, for Town Manager form rather than Mayor - and has been sliding downhill ever since).

Long Live the Mayor: Mayor Juster of Nonsense-opolis

Norton Juster is a local treasure of worldwide renown.  He puts Amherst, MA - our never-ending Nonsense-opolis - on the map.

Read a fine essay in NYR by Michael Chabon, on the fiftieth anniversary of the 1961 publication of "The Phantom Tollbooth," and this story of how the book came to be; listen to the author's tale of "My Accidental Masterpiece from a radio interview on NPR's All Things Considered.

Where Am I ??

At the Deli Counter with Mrs. Vice President

"You call that LEAN ????!!!!"

A Shopping Cart Communion:

There I was, fourth in line at the delicatessen in the hurly-burly of Katz's Kosher Supermarket on a Saturday afternoon in Rockville, MD.  Each of us yanking our broken-down carts back and forth, waving our paper tickets, and craning our necks for a clear view of the goods behind the glass.  Jockeying for position....

... when up on the left flank a cart and driver flash past me, and swerve right up the the counter.

"Joey! Bring that box in from the car!  They'll be here any minute!"

Annoyance: sure, everyone is pushing and shoving, but to have the chutzpah to actually cut the line so brazenly - who would try that, in such a tough crowd?  From behind, the hair looks familiar... still, it's an awfully pushy move.

But lo, the counter guys all dropped their towels, brightened their punims, and fawned and teemed to hang their paws over the glass-top like so many Kilroys - literally elbowing each other like Kurt Rambis and Bill Laimbeer under the hoop, to wait on this lady.  "Yes, Yes! It's all ready - won't be a moment!  Yes, allow me! Just wait - here it is, Here It Is!"

Vice President Lieberman

Up from the kitchen comes a huge, 4-foot by 2-foot cardboard catering box, with the name LIEBERMAN along the side in big hand-lettered magic marker.  Instantly I was in her thrall, a Portnoy among the Kilroys.  Less than a year earlier, I'd voted for Gore/Lieberman, and brought my new two-day-old home from G.W. Hospital and right through the middle of the pitched 35-day turf war between Bush and Gore supporters outside the Naval Observatory on the way up Massachusetts Avenue.

Hadassah Lieberman could have been (should have been? may have been?) the Second Lady of the U.S.A.

Hadassah had class, charm and integrity that I admired during the campaign, and as she collected her havdallah nosh, wheeled from the counter to head home and prepare for company, and passed me at close range, I could swear she had a twinkle in her eye for ol' Portnoy himself.

Pas de Deux with Chris Blackwell

Millie's Boy, "Lollipop"

Chris Blackwell is a dashing and charismatic creative genius, superior businessman, and has an incredible life story.  He discovered, published or managed some of the biggest acts to break out in music from the 60's to the 80's, most notably Bob Marley and U2, but also favorites Jethro Tull, Free, Traffic, King Crimson, ELP, Cat Stevens, Melissa Etheridge, and on and on.

Dapper Gent Chris Blackwell

When I met Chris, it was 2002 and we were dancing to the music of potential merger - he with Palm Pictures, and my colleagues and I with Artist Network Ventures.

Anyway, back in 1972 Chris had produced the soundtrack to "The Harder They Come" starring Jimmy Cliff and had made it a supreme international hit, and a major steppingstone in the popularization of reggae in North America.  Through my father I knew Ekweume Mike Thelwell, author of the 1980 adapted novel based on the earlier film.  But our connection to Chris here was made through Jimmy Cliff, who by now was on our label in London.

Marquee: Hendrix Ate Here

We first met in NYC for discussions about connecting Chris' Palm - and its movie, music and publishing businesses - with ANV.  We Art-Venturers were cultivating a small stable of UK-based musicians, developing television concepts, and renovating the storied Marquee nightclub venue in London.

We were also trying to develop a Napster-like service and, separately, a wildly weird installation module concept featuring 5.1 Surround Sound egg-chair listening stations for Barnes & Noble's college bookstore business... but I digress.

Talks lasted for a few rounds, and Palm was at the time involving itself with former colleagues of mine at National Geographic Society in Washington DC - connecting Palm's 'world beat' and 'indigenous' musics with NatGeo's various exoticisms.  Think "Koyanisqaatsi," Philip Glass' avant-masterpiece from Palm-predecessor Island.

Blackwell in his element, digging new music, 1982.

Ultimately, the only transaction that resulted from all this speed-dating was not between Palm and ANV, nor, really, between Palm and NGS, but rather between a junior executive of Palm placing himself into the NGS firmament... but I digress.

Anyway, on a sojourn to DC, Chris was to visit NGS and I was his envoy.  He and his entourage stayed at the new, trendy Hotel Rouge, where we sipped highballs in the dark at happy hour on Friday and then all went off together to the evening's film screening.

Kate Simon's Marley Portrait, Govinda

I asked Chris to entrust his Saturday morning to me and to trust my judgment.  Being of notoriously impeccable judgment himself - he did!  And he wasn't sorry.

My wife and I returned Saturday morning to schlepp Mr. Blackwell to the finest rock photography gallery in the US - my acquaintance Chris Murray's Govinda Gallery on 34th street, NW in Georgetown.  We enjoyed a fantastic exhibition rife with exquisite Dylan, Hendrix and other 60's/70's iconic imagery - some instantly recognizable, much deliciously unique and unforeseen.  Chris lingered and studied, immersed in the beauty of the prints and paying special attention to a set of b/w Rolling Stones images from 1964.

Coda:

Knowing Chris Blackwell and working with him, just a brief while, was greatly inspiring.  He's a decent, enthused and remarkable man with an incredible ear for talent.  And what's more, I learned something from him about keeping one's principles, even in the venal and cutthroat star-maker machinery of the business of music.  Although he'll do plenty fine without my well wishes, Chris is a super nice guy and I do wish him well in the resort biz - 

For old time's sake,

here's a beautiful video set to Bob Marley's "Waiting In Vain."

To Rome With Love - and an Espresso with Vincent Gardenia

The Path to Celebrity Begins on the Via Veneto...

My first youthful brushes with Celebrity involved chance encounters with actors Vincent Gardenia and Jim Nabors (no, they weren't together) - the latter at the then-stately-later-tawdry-now-defunct New Haven Motor Inn, and the former on the always-grand Via Veneto.

At the time - long before People Magazine begat Entertainment Tonight begat E! network begat The Kardashians and their appalling ilk - as a kid from the provinces I was jolted by, then later conditioned to celebrate, the honor of having luckily shared space on mortal ground with "somebody famous."

"Birds fly to the stars, I guess . . . "

The meeting with, rather sighting of, Vincent Gardenia occurred one beautifully sunny spring afternoon in April, 1970 as our family strolled away to the southeast from the Villa Borghese and down the Via Veneto on our Easter-time Roman Holiday.

Passing the glorious Hotel Excelsior,it was la mia cara madre, native of Avella in the Campana province inland of Naples, who spotted the star.  Signor Gardenia, nee Vincenzo Scognamiglio and also a Naples paesano.  He was sipping an espresso at an outdoor table and "watching the world go by."  E anche noi: he watched us go by too.

Perhaps Vincenzo was studying a script as he sipped, for his upcoming project, Norman Lear's Cold Turkey, to shoot that summer in Des Moines.  Co-staring with an incredible cast that included among many others Dick Van Dyke, Tom Poston (as town tippler), Jean Stapleton and evil Bob Newhart, our Signor Gardenia would play the Mayor in this fantastic farce.  Among later work, he is well recalled as Frank Lorenzo from All In The Family, Mr. Mushnik in Little Shop of Horrors, and Cosmo Castorini in Moonstruck.

Mayor Wappler Goes for Broke, as the Clock Strikes Midnight

And while we're in Rome together, . . .

[ - SPOILER ALERT -

I will explain the crux and creative impetus of "To Rome With Love," as it will of me, a questo punto: ]

To Rome With Love treats the Woody Allen fan to a comic collage of four (five) parallel plots involving ten+ relationships (the term "relationships" being understood to span a continuum of consummated human interactions).  Comedy and pathos abound - it's a good Woody film, nearly on par with Midnight in Paris, not as 'whole' but rather a rollicking mash-up, and equally effective as una posta-carta magnifica (senza francobolli), for the national tourism industry - in this case, the Italians.

Quando dico che ti amo . . .

The common thread?  Celebrity.

Its pursuit by Monica destroys Jack's earnest but illicit dreams; its unaccountable appearance makes Leopold a reluctant, anonymity-craving sensation - and its disappearance drives him mad; its allure leads Giancarlo to allow Woody/Jerry to parade him naked and soaking wet across Rome's Teatro dell' opera stage; and its attraction mesmerizes la paesana Milly into forgetting her new marriage on the chance of bedding down with film star Luca.  To a degree, everyone - even the pro-bono idealist and hard-leftee Michelangelo - succumbs sooner or later to the lash of celebrity.  Nearly everyone, that is: the one honest, psychologically 'healthy' line of the film is uttered by il Rapinatore, the hotel thief (who 'also dabbles in break-ins and hold-ups').  As screen star Luca Salta weakly protests robbery, saying "Don't you know who I am?" the thief retorts, instantly and con forza: "I Don't Care!"

I encourage everyone to see To Rome With Love.  Any film in which Alec Baldwin ("I'm here from Downtown - I'm here from Mitch an' Murray!") plays the foreseeing conscience, the angel Clarence, is going to be a winner in my book [Note: Baldwin's character, architect John Foy, does not really exist - or, probabilmente, he is the only character in his vignette who exists].  But moreso, To Rome With Love a splendidly entertaining and inventive paean to the fickleness, elusiveness and risk of celebrity - and our obsessions with it.

Arrivaderci, Roma!