Apparently, the old guard in Hollywood was just waiting to get through this year's Oscars. Milton Berle, Dudley Moore, and Billy Wilder saw Halle Berry win Best Actress, and figured it was time to shuffle loose the mortal coil.
If any of the three had still been working, I would have said that Billy Wilder would be the one I'd miss the most. I was never much a fan of Uncle Milty – especially after B-Fest this year, and his appearance in Hieronymous Merkin. And Dudley Moore? Well, let's put it this way: when I saw Berle's huuuge photo on the front page of today's paper, my first thought was, "Annoying guy from Arthur – also dead." Then I started thinking that perhaps it was the shock of Liza Minelli's wedding that did him in, and reminded myself that speaking ill of the dead is rather tacky before I really got to chuckling.
Wilder, on the other hand, was a master of his craft. The Apartment is darn near my favorite film. He regularly tops lists of respected American film directors. But let's face it, he hadn't directed anything since 1981. Since I didn't know the man, it's tough to say that I'll miss him any more than I'll miss Dudley Moore. But I certainly feel his passing more keenly than I do that of a diminutive British comic who rose to fame playing a sloppy, drunken millionaire.
Take me out to the – oh, you know.
I had planned to spend the evening proofing over the book one final time before printing it all out and packing it up for the printer, but convinced myself to take some time outside and went to (what I think was) the last spring training game of the season with Trent, Heather, and Bryan.
If any of the three had still been working, I would have said that Billy Wilder would be the one I'd miss the most. I was never much a fan of Uncle Milty – especially after B-Fest this year, and his appearance in Hieronymous Merkin. And Dudley Moore? Well, let's put it this way: when I saw Berle's huuuge photo on the front page of today's paper, my first thought was, "Annoying guy from Arthur – also dead." Then I started thinking that perhaps it was the shock of Liza Minelli's wedding that did him in, and reminded myself that speaking ill of the dead is rather tacky before I really got to chuckling.
Wilder, on the other hand, was a master of his craft. The Apartment is darn near my favorite film. He regularly tops lists of respected American film directors. But let's face it, he hadn't directed anything since 1981. Since I didn't know the man, it's tough to say that I'll miss him any more than I'll miss Dudley Moore. But I certainly feel his passing more keenly than I do that of a diminutive British comic who rose to fame playing a sloppy, drunken millionaire.
Take me out to the – oh, you know.
I had planned to spend the evening proofing over the book one final time before printing it all out and packing it up for the printer, but convinced myself to take some time outside and went to (what I think was) the last spring training game of the season with Trent, Heather, and Bryan.
This is the view from where we were sitting.
The park (Florida Power Park, home of Al Lang field, formerly just "Al Lang Stadium," which we always called "All Angst Stadium") was fairly full for a Thursday night; I guess even the Devil Rays and the Tigers can draw a crowd when the training season is coming to a close.
This cute kid was stealing the show a bit. Certainly she was more interesting than Raymond, the official Rays mascot.
Heather and Trent seem to be enjoying themselves.
Now that I've given you a few thousand words' worth, I find I'm exhausted. More on the weirdness that was packing up the book on the morrow.
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