“The Meaning of Life”

People are always asking me: “Lisa, what is the Meaning of Life?” and I say, “Is my name Merriam Webster? – Go look it up.” Or I’ll say, “just because I look good in a bed sheet and I like boys doesn’t make me Socrates.” And one time, when I was in a bad mood, I said, “If you have to ask me the Meaning of Life, chances are you don’t have one.”

Then they’ll say, “Lisa, I’ve got a job. My kids are still in school. I’ve got a husband, a million friends, and elderly parents who depend on me. I do Pilates and go on trips. And on Tuesdays, I serve soup to the homeless. I don’t have time to sit around and think about things the way you do. You’re on Disability. You’re not married. You don’t have a boyfriend. Your kids are grown. And your 88-year-old mother has full-time help. So don’t get sarcastic and up in my face because you’ve got all the time in the world to figure-out the Meaning of Life, because I don’t.”

It’s true. Having nothing to do allows me time to ponder. Maybe they’re right? Maybe I could come up with something better than a witty, smart-aleck answer the next time someone asks me: “What’s the Meaning of Life?” And wasn’t it Thomas Hobbes who said, “Leisure is the Mother of Philosophy?”

I was riding my RASCAL to the 7-11. It was a beautiful L.A. day. The sky was the color of mango and I was choking because the air was filthy from all the forest fires. There was a dead squirrel in the street. It must have been run over by like a thousand cars. In fact, maybe it wasn’t a squirrel, because it was squished beyond recognition.

A lot of grey squirrels live and die on my street. Grey squirrels have a life span of six years, but according to the website about squirrels that I just read, city squirrels rarely live longer than a year – because they get hit by cars.

I’ve been in six car accidents, that squirrel was in one. He should have been in a Volvo. As I waited on the corner for the light to turn green I thought… Hmmmm…. That roadkill has inspired me to think about the “Meaning of Life.”  What a fascinating cathexis. One minute you’re on your RASCAL going to 7-11 for a Slurpee, the next minute you see a dead squirrel, and a minute later, you’re ruminating about the Meaning of Life.

As I entered the 7-11 the second thing that caught my eye, after the display of spicy pork rinds was the new issue of IN TOUCH magazine. Jon Gosselin was on the cover with the caption “He Had An Affair With His Nanny.”

BAM! It was like that time at Costco when a can of baked beans hit me in the head.When people ask “What is the Meaning of Life?” — they don’t want to know. What they’re really asking is, “What is the Meaning of my Life?” People have trouble being specific. For example, instead of saying “Every cell in my body hurts,” you need to say, “I can’t feel my legs.” We get all Woody Allen and existential and whiny, when we need to be specific.

The Meaning of Life is this: some lives mean more than others. Some people change the world and other people, like Jon Gosselin, are like styrofoam packing peanuts in the big cardboard box of life.

One, sometimes two, occasionally three people per century make a difference. There has been only one Michelangelo, one Shakespeare, one Einstein, one Cary Grant and four BEATLES.

Since the Dawn of Man, hundreds of millions of people have populated the earth, and 99.9999% of us live and die without fanfare or an Emmy. While I waited for Rashid, the guy in the turban, to help me at the Slurpee machine, the nagging pressure to do something important with my life evaporated.

Maybe, while we’re taking up space on the planet, it’s more important to be kind and to clean up your mess when you’re done, than look for meaning in your life. It’s like when my ex-boyfriend told me I gave his life purpose, then we broke-up and POOF! – his life had zero meaning. It’s exactly like that.

Instead of wanting to know the Meaning of Life, think about the definition of life. Life is the opposite of Dead. Life is being UNdead. Imagine you’re a city squirrel — one minute you’re scampering around the neighborhood, then before you’re a year old, they’re performing DNA testing on your remains to confirm that you were a squirrel.

A few people do important things in Life —  like create the sitcom TAXI, or invent a new cookie, or do stem cell research. But most of us are just trying to get through the day without finding a boot on our back wheel. Maybe someday, through genetic engineering, we’ll be able to eradicate all the Lindsay Lohans, Ann Coulters and Courtney Loves. But since homo sapiens showed-up, as wickedly as we have treated one another, a surprisingly few number of people have been as god-awful as Ivan the Terrible or Bernie Madoff, or my ex-boyfriend’s mother.

Life is like a 7-11, there are choices in every aisle. You could buy a quart of milk, or a Mountain Dew; a banana, or a hot dog; a VANITY FAIR or a LOTTO ticket. Or you could be the fat guy who was ahead of me in line who was getting spicy pork rinds, a hot dog, two Red Bulls and some Marlboro Lights.

I sat outside the 7-11, sucking my  Slurpee through a straw as thick as a garden hose and wondered…why is it called “7-11?” And those people — the ones who’re always asking me about The Meaning of Life? — They’re right. I’ve got way too much free time.

“A Tarantino Intervention”

INGLORIOUS BASTARDS is an action-packed World War II film in the spirit of THE DIRTY DOZEN. “The Bastards” are an elite squad of disgraced American soldiers; incorrigibles who plow through Nazi -occupied France in 1944 like the “A-TEAM.” These GIs are short on compassion and high on testosterone. And they are as cool and hip when they’re gunning-down Americans, as they are when they’re blowing-up Nazis.

The eponymous “Bastards” are miscreants, damned by their military misdeeds, but you root for them — almost from the start, until the final bloody, violent, beautifully choreographed, exquisitely shot sequence.

Sorry. Did you think I was referring to INGLORIOUS BASTERDS? – Quentin Tarantino’s masturbatory crazy-quilt of disjointed scenes and cartoon characters? The movie with two male leads, Brad Pitt and Christoph Waltz, and one (or two) female lead(s), Melanie Laurent (and Diane Kruger)? The Miramax picture that has grossed over $140 million, world-wide, as of today?

No, no, no, no, NO! I’m talking about the original INGLORIOUS BASTARDS directed by Enzo G. Castellari in 1978, starring Bo Svenson and Fred Williamson. In how many interviews have you heard Quentin Tarantino mention “Enzo Castellari?” — Me either.

Q.T.’s recycled chapters structure (not again!) fails for all the reasons Enzo Castellari’s story succeeds. Tarantino’s Basterds is a collage of vignettes lacking an emotional through-line.

Sure, Castellari sprinkles his show with a little Parmigiano-Reggiano – but so what? He’s an Italian director who made a movie about Americans and Nazis and the story takes place in France.

Tarantino has ripped-out the heart of Castellari’s film and misspelled the titled – because – apparently, he thinks he can. His spoiled, know-it-all movie nerd hubris kills this picture faster than a 30 cm Nebelwerfer.

Unlike Tarantino (who never explains the meaning of the title), Castellari reveals it in a scene toward the end of the second act when a Nazi officer refers to the boys as “bastards.” As in: “all Americans are bastards because they are mongrels.” Then he adds: “and all your women are whores.” And then the Bastards kill him.

In the ’78 version the condemned men are strangers in an truck; military prisoners in chains facing court martial. They feel nothing for the war or even for themselves. The only thing they have in common is their hate for the military. They suffer brutality and humiliation at the hands of MPs.

When the transport is hit by a German air attack, the men try to dodge the Nazi gunfire, only to be shot by the M.P.s. The five prisoners who escape are on the run. There’s freedom in Switzerland – if they can make it to the border, alive – which most of them don’t. Along the way, they become the INGLORIOUS BASTARDS.

Unlike Tarantino’s picture, that doesn’t know what genre box to check, Castellari’s misfits are developed characters with pre-war lives, real names and real flaws. They talk like dudes – quick, vulgar snd funny.

Tarantino’s comic book soliloquy-ism style, once fresh and new in PULP FICTION and starting to show its age in the KILL BILL double-feature, is now arch and predictable. The actors are divided into two groups: those who talk (and talk and talk) and those who react (and act, and act.) These guys would be more comfortable in an indie chick-flick than a blockbuster action pic. Only “Shoshonna,” the Jewess movie theater owner, gets to be a brooding, taciturn anti-heroine.

As Italian author-genius Umberto Eco points out: “a real hero becomes a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everyone else.” Castellari’s BASTARDS are selfish and charming. They don’t refuse the suicide mission because they know they are already dead. Castellari’s message is: sometimes men must fight in wars that don’t matter — to them.

I knew we were in for a rip from the start with the opening tune, “The Green Leaves of Summer.” I know this song because it was nominated for a Best Original Song Oscar, for THE ALAMO (1960), starring and directed by John Wayne. When I was ten years old I learned to play it on the paino (I still have the sheet music)! Tarantino likes to tickle himself with his mental clutter of movie trivia – whether it’s organic to the story — or not.

Another example is his non sequitur line of dialogue: “…Paris when it sizzles…” which is the title of the 1964 William Holden/Audrey Hepburn movie about a writer who’s up against a deadline, solicits ideas from his secretary in order to complete his novel.  Quentin, you cheeky enfant terrible – you’re not the only film nerd in this town with a subscription to Netflix.

Brad Pitt gets to be four characters: Lee Marvin (THE DIRTY DOZEN), John Wayne (THE GREEN BERETS), Humphrey Bogart (CASABLANCA) and Daniel Day Lewis (THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS). (There’s also a trace of Lil Abner.) But as cute as he is, Brad Pitt is no John Wayne – or Bo Svenson or Fred Williamson. And there’s a long stretch when he’s off-camera and out of the picture for almost thirty minutes.

There is no logical reason for the 2009 BASTERDS to be Jewish. It adds nothing to the story and it’s never paid-off. It’s just another random, Tarantino-istic, ego-driven conceit.

THE DIRTY DOZEN, Robert Aldrich’s iconic 1967 WWII picture, starring Lee Marvin, tells the same story as INGLORIOUS BASTARDS/BASTERDS. The performances are a master class in ensemble film acting. John Cassavetes was nominated for a Best Supporting Actor Oscar. He is mesmerizing.

On the INGLORIOUS BASTARDS DVD (2007), there is a conversation between Tarantino and Enzo Castellari. At the time they shot the interview, Tarantino hadn’t finished the first draft of his screenplay and still “didn’t know where it was going.”  Apparently, he was channeling William Holden in PARIS WHEN IT SIZZLES – without  Audrey Hepburn.

At the conclusion of the interview, Tarantino looks the elegant Italian director in the eye and says, referring to INGLORIOUS BASTARDS, “…if anyone knows this movie it’s because I told them about it. Only I know about this movie which is why I feel the title belongs to me.”  What an insufferable basterd.

The End

“Book Smart”

I went to BORDERS BOOKS because I thought BORDERS was a bookstore. Because it’s called: BORDERS BOOKS. What was I thinking? BORDERS BOOKS is now where you shop for tchotchkies like key chains, puzzles, tote bags, wrapping paper, magazines, greeting cards, calendars and coffee beans. And on Tuesday nights you can attend a recruiting session for the Peace Corps.

I remember when going to a bookstore was like going to the library, only the books and the people smelled better. Oliver Sacks said that independent bookstores reflect the culture of a city.  If that’s true BLADE RUNNER isn’t science fiction, it’s a documentary about Los Angeles in 2009.

I’ve been growing-up on the Westside of L.A. since the 1950s.  Back in the day, there were great bookstores – HUNTER’S and MARTINDALES in Beverly Hills; DUTTONS in Brentwood and THE BOOK NOOK at The Countrymart on 26^th Street. CROWN BOOKS had a couple of locations: Canon Drive in Beverly Hills and Wilshire in Santa Monica. WILSHIRE BOOKS was my favorite used bookstore on the Westside. They’re all gone now.

According to yelp.com, there are currently 525 hair salons in Beverly Hills, and one bookstore –TASCHEN, the ultra-gorgeous, German based, Philippe Starck-designed art book store. They published the most expensive book of the 20^th century: SUMO: 400 images by Helmut Newton: $15,000 for the book & the custom bookstand. Only 10,000 copies in the whole world; signed and numbered by Helmut Newton, I assume, before he died. So worth it.

BOOK SOUP is still on Sunset Blvd. – for now. (Owner, Glenn Goldman died in January.) There’s VILLAGE BOOKS in the Palisades (a schlep, unless I’m going to my doctor on Monument). And Vroman’s in Pasadena (if you live in Pasadena).

I miss a lot of things about the olden days in L.A., besides my youth, less traffic and fewer annoying people. Going to BORDERS made me nostalgic for the bookstore culture.  Bookstores were where you could enjoy your privacy in public. Where you could stroll, cogitate and browse. The salespeople were bookpeople – thoughtful and smart, like the underground society of readers in FARENHEIT 451. They were scholarly and literate people; English Lit. majors who could instantly synopsize an obscure novel for minimum wage and an employee discount.

For a writer, the neighborhood bookstore was the perfect place, outside of your bathrobe, to procrastinate. A couple of hours could ignite curiosity, humility and insecurity – which are a writer’s basic tools. Wasting time in a bookstore wasn’t like shopping at BLOOMINGDALES or going to a movie in the middle of the day – it was like meditating in a book shrine. Like when nuns visit Lourdes and think – “Okay. I get it. Now I remember why I joined the convent and married Jesus.”

BORDERS used to be a bookstore. Now it’s an indoor garage sale in a building as big as a football field. It’s a two-story hodgepodge of a lot of stuff – and a coffee bar. There are way too many shelves of Bargain Books – being all sad, tattered and grim and sloppily shoved-in, too tight. Their original prices have been slashed to a panicky, rock-bottom recession sliver. And at the cash register, you have to show them your BORDERS membership card like you’re at COSTCO.

I feel sort of responsible.  Maybe the “going under” vibe at BORDERS is my fault. I haven’t bought books there for years. I shop online from amazon. The amazon site is like ordering take-out and you can do in your pjs at 2 a.m. They’ve got great deals and super-saver shipping. I’ve got a Wish List. They make recommendations. And there is no gridlock outside my front door.

There’s still BARNES & NOBLE – at The Grove, The Westside Pavilion and Third Street Promenade. But those are shopping malls. And there’s something weird about a bookstore in a mall between a “Corn Dogs On a Stick” and a Victoria’s Secret.” If I have to be a hermit, the 21^st century is my century. I was genetically engineered to enjoy the ease and comfort of online shopping.

alibris, daedalus and Powell books are also good online bookstores. What they lack in bookshelves and salespeople, they make up for in inventory and good deals. And the book jackets aren’t shopworn, with the patina of a staph infection.

When BORDERS e-mailed me their latest “25% Off Entire Purchase” coupon I thought, hmmmm? Should I?  I weighed the pros and cons. Pro: 25% off entire purchase. Con: I’ll have to park in an underground garage. Pro: I’ll have it, today. Con: I’ll have to go into the store.

I bought a few birthday cards, a tote bag and a bag of coffee beans. BORDERS needs an emergency re-branding makeover a.s.a.p., otherwise they’re going to need to lose the “BOOKS” in their title.