The Book Within Me

Some people think big. Big hopes, big dreams and big efforts to make those hopes and dreams come true. Me, not so much. I think modest at best, small more often than not. It’s just my basic nature, and always has been.

dulcolax-imagesMy great pal Alan, though, has a different opinion about my abilities. For example, he has urged me a few times to write a book. He, one of the handful of faithful who to my amazement truly seem to enjoy at least some of the stories I’ve been lobbing into cyberspace via this blog, believes I have it in me to design and bring forth a thriller. He has suggested that the plot be set on Cape Cod, a region I know well. Alan is a dreamer. Does he have any idea how I often strain and sweat like the King Of Constipation to squeeze out a blog entry of a mere 1,000 or so words? Alan, if you’re reading this, believe me when I say that daily doses of Dulcolax wouldn’t make those articles emerge any easier. So, a book, you say? Hey, man, are you joking? My inner strength and energies would have to quadruple before I’d be able even to begin entertaining the notion. Basically, fuhgeddaboudit.

Hmmm, on the other hand maybe I speaketh too hastily. I often do. No doubt writing a book is an alluring idea. Could it be that Alan is on to something? Has he peered deep into my core, à la Superman, and spotted an alternative me? As in the bestselling me. The me whose tightly wrought and pulsating fictional offering projects me into television and radio studios presided over by the likes of Charlie Rose, Terry Gross and Jimmy Fallon. Yeah man, I can dig it! Who wouldn’t? I mean, the royalty checks will be pouring in. The invitations to swank A-list parties will arrive by the dozens. Gorgeous girls will mob me on the streets. Yeah, I definitely can dig it.

OK, Alan, you’ve convinced me. The book is within me. Somewhere. I think. All I have to do is birth it. What should the first step be? Oh right, there needs to be a plot. Well, in that regard I’ll try not to think about what another of my great pals Dave once said. He and I went to high school with Arthur Agatston, who years later became famous as the author of The South Beach Diet books. Dave was wowed by Arthur’s success. “Neil, I’d write a book too,” Dave said to me back then, “except for one thing: I’ve got nothing to say.”

img_0370Ouch! Like I mentioned I’ll try not to think about Dave’s insightful comments. I’ve got plenty to say, don’t I? And placing the action on Cape Cod, a 70-mile-long spit of land filled with villages, sands, marshes and trees, surrounded on three sides by majestic, endless waters, is certain to inspire my writing. Think, Neil, think. What’s the most unusual and intriguing aspect of The Cape you’ve come upon over the years? I know — the dune shacks, those 20 or so primitive structures scattered among the ridiculously huge dunes of The Cape’s outer regions. Folks like Eugene O’Neill and Jack Kerouac and Jackson Pollock used to squirrel away in the shacks, seeking their Muses and churning out product. These days the shacks are in governmental hands, and are rented to modern-day hardy and artistic types (click here to read about the dune shacks). The shacks are isolated, not easy to find. The perfect scene of a crime.

Ah, the crime. What shall the crime be? Who will be the perpetrator, and who the victim? And what will be the reason that the crime occurred? You know, I believe it’s all coming together for me. Suddenly I’ve been zapped with a giant squirt of inspiration. Here goes:

img_0383I’m going to model the narrator/possible victim upon myself. Why not? I’ve gotten up close and pretty personal with several of the dune shacks over the years, walking around them, peering inside through their windows and admiring their no-facilities ambience. And for years I’ve been dreaming of the day when I’ll be spending substantial time in one of the shacks and its surrounding desert-like wilderness. Oh, the joy of peeing and dumping in sand pits or in the Atlantic Ocean! My life needs a major dose of that kind of back-to-nature reality.

Anyway, getting back to the plot. The time is autumn 2016, a Monday at 9 PM. The narrator, who goes by the nickname Cod Man, has been living for seven weeks in a shack located close to where the dunes peter out and meadows of beach grasses take over. A hop, skip and a jump beyond the grasses is the roiling Atlantic. Cod Man’s stay, per the rental agreement, is slated to end in one week. That situation is making Cod Man very nervous, because he had been confident that his shack experience would result in the creation of the book he’d put on the back burner for the past 10 years. Instead, the book, a novel about a Pennsylvania man whose world falls apart when his dog abandons him to take a job as chief mascot in Moscow’s Grand Hotel Trump, simply isn’t coming together. The reams of paper upon which Cod Man has been writing are, he fully knows, filled with dreck. “Holy crap!” Cod Man yells from his wobbly writing desk. “I’ve been out here for two months and have zilch to show for it. I’m bummed. Totally bummed.”

Moments later comes a pounding on the shack’s door. Standing outside in the moonlit night, a loaded pistol in his right hand, is Dick Hedd, Cod Man’s next door neighbor in Pennsylvania. Dick has tracked down Cod Man and is out for revenge. You see, three years earlier a friendly two-man game of Scrabble at Cod Man’s house had gone highly sour when Cod Man, upon throwing down two seven-letter words (halfwit and jackass) in the course of the evening, began to gloat. His gloating grew louder and wilder, reaching insane heights. Dick Hedd, certain that the seven-letter words were meant as commentaries on his personality, fumed. He stormed out the door before game’s end. And he never forgot or forgave Cod Man’s arrogance. The gents hadn’t talked since then. All the while, Dick waited patiently for his moment to avenge the foul deed. Among Cape Cod’s dunes that moment had arrived.

Little more need I say at this point. I have the book’s remaining plot lines worked out quite well. Everything fits. Everything is meaningful and believable.

Now all I have to do is write the entire story. Soon I shall begin.

 

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(Cape Cod photos by Sandra Cherrey Scheinin)

My Amazing Interview With Julia Roberts And George Clooney (Money Monster Is Their Latest Movie)

Charlie Rose, you’ve got company. You’re not the only one who can get big name celebs to sit around a table and gab. You’re not the only one who hopes to ask probing questions. For sure, I’m not even remotely in your league. Still, last week there I sat at my dining room table. And sitting across from me were none other than the mega-stars of a cracker jack new movie, Money Monster. That’s right, Julia Roberts and George Clooney were in my house.

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An hour before they arrived I took a look at my notes about Money Monster. My wife Sandy and I had seen the flick a couple of weeks before, and it needed to be fresh in my mind. Wow, it’s a good one, a tight thriller. Jodie Foster directed. Clooney plays Lee Gates, the star of a full-throttle television show about finances called Money Monster. Gates’ show is a glitzy production, with bells and whistles and bright lights up the wazoo, dancing girls, and sometimes-party-hatted Gates making stock picks and handing out financial advice as he prances around the stage.

Doing her best to orchestrate the semi-madness is the show’s director, Patty Fenn (Julia Roberts). Good thing that someone with steel nerves and observant eyes is behind the scene, because one day a young, armed guy named Kyle Budwell (Jack O’Connell), who lost all of his money on a Gates stock tip that went bad, finds his way onto the studio set while the show is in progress and takes Gates hostage. The cameras remain on. The whole world is watching.

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“George,” I said out loud, rehearsing a question I planned to ask. “Money Monster takes a hard look at corporate greed and dishonesty and how hard it is for the little guy to stay afloat. Did you agree to do the movie because of empathy you have for the average Jill and Joe?” I knew that he’d like that query.

“Julia,” I then said to the air. “The hostage situation in Money Monster forces some of its characters to drop their facades and take deeper looks at themselves than they have in ages. Have there been circumstances in your personal life that caused you to do the same?” I imagined Julia thinking deeply before giving me an eye-opening response.

I was ready.

The doorbell rang at 1:00 PM. George Clooney and Julia Roberts smiled at me from my doorstep. Their limo, with its driver, was parked in my driveway. Who’d ever have thunk that a day like this might arrive? Here’s how it happened:

Not long after seeing Money Monster I’d read that Clooney would be in Philadelphia the following week to promote MM on a few of the city’s television and radio shows. A lightbulb went off in my head. I did some Googling and uncovered the phone number of George’s manager, Doris Do-right. I called her and, to my astonishment, she picked up. “Doris, my name is Neil. Rhymes with schlemiel, which is kind of what I am. I’m getting deep into my retirement years. Spend half my life intertwining my fingers in interesting patterns and binge-watching old episodes of Wheel Of Fortune and The Match Game on Netflix. And when I’m not doing that I bang away on a computer keyboard, writing articles for my blog. Anyway, one of the things I write about is movies. I loved Money Monster. Is there any chance that George Clooney would want to step outside the normal public relations box while he’s in Philadelphia and do an interview with an online publication — mine — whose readership is so low it’s pathetic?”

Amazingly, Doris didn’t hang up. I gave her the name of my blog. She said she’d get back to me. And she did, only 40 minutes later. “Schlemiel, I mean Neil, George is a go. He loves the idea. You live just outside Philadelphia, right? And is it okay if he brings Julia Roberts along? The girl doesn’t get out enough. George thinks that a visit to the Philly suburbs might be just the ticket for her. How about next Tuesday at 1:00 PM?”

As I mentioned, the doorbell rang. “Hello, Schlemiel, I mean Neil,” George Clooney said, extending his right hand to shake mine. Starstruck, I barely could raise my hand to meet his. He stepped in, and Julia Roberts did likewise. She gave me a peck on the cheek. “Humma . . . humma . . . humma,” I elegantly stammered. Luckily, Sandy was there to save the day. She greeted our guests perfectly, made small talk with them and then led them to the dining room table where a spread of cheeses, breads, olives, beer and wine awaited. We all sat down, began to nibble and sip, and then I flipped the switch to record the conversation.

My composure more or less had returned. “Guys,” I said. “Your new movie is terrific, and it’s an honor having you here. You’re doing me a big favor. My blog needs a shot in the arm. I’d be correct in saying that readership is down, except for the fact that it never was up in the first place. But a meaty interview with George Clooney and Julia Roberts no doubt will turn the tide! George, I’ll start with you.” I gazed into his luminous brown eyes and said: “Money Monster takes a hard look at corporate — ”

“Hold it, Schlemiel, I mean Neil,” George exclaimed, his eyes twinkling as he gave Sandy a sly wink. “We’ll get to the movie in a few minutes, but there’s something important I want to say. When Doris Do-right told me about the conversation she had with you last week, I got the feeling that I might be able to help you out a whole, whole lot. And I don’t mean in terms of your blog. I mean you.”

He reached into the left pocket of his sport jacket and pulled out a bottle filled with a truly dark liquid. “Neil, if you’re tired of  being a schlemiel, the contents of this bottle are all you need.” He turned its label to face me. It read I Don’t Wanna Be A Doofus No More.

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“I started taking this wonderful stuff, one teaspoon each morning, about 30 years ago. It’s a life saver. You think that I was always a dapper, sharp guy? Uh uh, pal. I was a stumblebum. Just like you’ve been all these years. Girls couldn’t have cared less about me. My career was in Nowhereville. Forget it man, I was lost. Then I saw an ad for I Don’t Wanna Be A Doofus No More in the back of Cool Dude Magazine, and I ordered a bottle. It’s expensive, but it works. The company gets the ingredients from Amazonian jungles. They boil rare orchid petals in river water to extract their essence and add dried dung from giant bats and pulverized teeth particles from crazed boars. I turned Pitt, Damon and Affleck onto I Don’t Wanna in their struggling days. If I hadn’t, they’d be flipping burgers at Mickey D’s right now. Those guys used to be useless.”

My jaw had dropped so low I had to push it back into place. I started to speak, but Julia cut me off.

“What he says is true, Neil. He forgot to take his morning dose one day when we were filming Money Monster, and nobody could believe the change in him. George was shy, listless. The makeup and hair styling girls on the set were worried. They came to me and told me he’d had almost nothing to say to them, wouldn’t make eye contact. And when filming began later that day he couldn’t remember half of his lines. George and I are old friends, and he had told me about I Don’t Wanna a long time ago. So, finally I figured out what the problem was. Back to his dressing room we headed, and down the hatch a teaspoon of the magic potion slid. Minutes later, all was well.”

“Holy crap,” I said. “It’s a miracle that the two of you are here with me.” My eyes were misting. I stood up and walked to the opposite side of the table and embraced these people who had gone out of their way to do a good deed.

George and Julia were choked up, too. “I’m sorry Neil, but we gotta go,” George said, reluctantly, a few moments later. “I’m taping an interview at 3:30 at one of Philadelphia’s TV stations. And Julia needs to get back to her home in Manhattan. Schlemiel, I mean Neil, it really has been a pleasure.” He gave me a knowing tap on the shoulder, planted a big kiss on Sandy’s forehead, and left the bottle of I Don’t Wanna Be A Doofus No More on the dining room table. Julia, after hugging me and Sandy, led the way out the door.

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