Paul Newman, Revisited, Part 2.

I've been thinking a lot about it, and it's bothering me that I didn't mention in my last bloggle post a very big deal this past summer.

I went on a date in early June -- something Ms. Grice never does, or doesn't like to do. This boy took me to the Museum of the Moving Image. In Astoria, Queens! It was such a trek that I thought to myself, "Well, self, if this boy doesn't get that making me go all the way up here is a big to-do, we know where he stands."

However, I got there and holy Toledo. This was a palace. If I could've found a nook to sleep where I wouldn't be found, I'd have been sleeping there every night for the past 4 months.

Best part was, I ran up to the ticket-taker, and he gave me the paper listing out what exhibitions were on display.

The guy says: "Yuh know, it's Paul Newman week."

My jaw dropped down to the floor and I swallowed many mosquitoes.

"Ahbadabada, whaaaaaaat?"

"Yeah, we're playing The Hustler and The Color of Money tonight. For free since you already paid for your entrance ticket. [$10!]."

I felt like I had stumbled into my Heaven.

The date after half an hour of bumbling around said: "So, let's go get dinner?"

Me: "Uhh, no. Yeah right. Did you hear that guy? The Hustler AND The Color of Money?"

He looked at me curiously; I stared back, my Texas spine finally putting itself to use. "Nah, good to know you," as I furrowed my brow. "But, I gotta go see Paul."

In between films, I called Mama G and told her about my good fortune. She was so excited for me -- until I told her I gave up on a date. Then: "MORGAAAAAAAAN!!!!!"

Paul Newman, Revisited.

A couple weeks ago, I was tossing and turning in my bed, per usual, thinking about something inevitably inane. I was probably trying to think about the efficiency of euphemisms. Or something. All the sudden, something struck me. No, not "struck me" -- came hammering down on me like a ton of Anna Karenina-sized bricks.

What I remembered was that it was mid-September and: Yesterday was the third anniversary of Paul Newman's death.

If I'm honest with myself, and you, my lone reader, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about Paul Newman. Maybe I'll watch a movie of his (my first born will be named Lucas); someone will joke about my love for PN, thereby reminding me; I'll glance at my a/c and see his handsome face smiling at me from an autographed still from Cool Hand Luke -- doesn't matter. Each and every day, something comes up where I'll stupidly reference a phrase from his movies or dote on him, just because.

I'll just re-post my first, initial reaction:

Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).

I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.

It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.

Then, there was last year's post:

Today is the second anniversary of Paul Newman's death. Crestfallen.

I'd been thinking about this day all month, ever since I visited a friend in Westport, CT for a few days, where Paul Newman lived until his death. As we drove from the train station to my friend's home, he pointed out the window through the trees to the Westport Country Playhouse, where Newman's wife Joanne Woodward was artistic director and where Newman himself was part-owner of the restaurant next door.

It took a dozen swallows to loosen the knot in my throat.

And, now it's year 3 of no more Paul Newman. "Just passin' time, Boss."

Breaking the Bloggle Hiatus and Remembering Paul Newman Two Years Later

When I awoke this morning, I had a most unusual feeling -- one I hadn't felt in months: I really want to write today.

Considering my short stories from the past few years have all but fallen by the wayside, as I sink ever quickly into the acknowledgment that I may never be a real writer, I figured that maybe I'd unlock the old bloggle and toss some words out into the Interwebs.

But, still, it was curious that I had such a hankering. I've been seeing more movies than ever lately; the past couple of movie weekends have included triple features. First, there was "Machete," "Scott Pilgrim vs. The World," and "The American." Then, "The Town," "Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps," and "Easy A" (couldn't help myself on the last one).

And, a couple weeks ago, I wrote a few film reviews for Bloomberg, my old favorite place of employment. Yet, while I had -- as always -- much to say about the films, I thought maybe I'd outgrown the little bloggle (several of my jerk friends would be relieved!).

As I sat down to tip-tap away about how amazing Danny Trejo is in "Machete" and how I relished director Robert Rodriguez's racist treatment of my people (The Mexicans) -- and treatment of my other people as trigger-happy racists (The Texans); or, how disappointed I was with George Clooney for making me want to stick toothpicks in my eyes to stay awake during "The American"; or, how overrated "The Town" is, just as "Gone Baby Gone" (Affleck's directorial debut) was three years ago -- my Favorite Food Critic signed on and reminded me what today is.

Today is the second anniversary of Paul Newman's death. Crestfallen.

I'd been thinking about this day all month, ever since I visited a friend in Westport, CT for a few days, where Paul Newman lived until his death. As we drove from the train station to my friend's home, he pointed out the window through the trees to the Westport Country Playhouse, where Newman's wife Joanne Woodward was artistic director and where Newman himself was part-owner of the restaurant next door.

It took a dozen swallows to loosen the knot in my throat.

But, somehow I'd forgotten the significance of today this morning, or how I felt two years ago when Brother G called to tell me the news. I was in such a sad place at the time, that the blow of my One True Idol dying made me more depressed than I'd have imagined.

From the morning of Paul Newman's death:

Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).

I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.

It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.

Thankfully, I'm much happier than I was two years ago, but as my all-time favorite "Cool Hand Luke" plays in the background -- the beloved scene where Dragline beats poor Paul into a pulp, but he won't stay down ... because he's Luke -- I'm sure I'll cry a few quiet tears throughout the afternoon.

And, for anyone interested, Roger Ebert's article on Newman is amazing. Upon reflecting on his obituary, Ebert writes:

I never really thought of him as an actor. I regarded him more as an embodiment, an evocation, of something. And I think that something was himself. He seemed above all a deeply good man, who freed himself to live life fully and joyfully, and used his success as a way to follow his own path, and to help others.

And, of his third meeting with Newman, he writes:

Never mind what happened in 1969. I'll dig up the old magazine and put it on the web site. Let's move forward to 1995, and listen very carefully. When I walked into his room, he said, "Aw...it's you again." The point is not that he remembered me. The point is how he said "aw..." Imagine it in Paul Newman's voice. It evoked feelings hard to express in words. The "aw" wasn't "oh, no," as it sometimes can be. To me it translated as, "Aw, it's that scared kid, grown up." Whatever it meant, it put me right at home.

Oh, no, the tears. At least it gave me a reason to write. Silver-linings.

Slice: New Paul Posters, Abalone Shells, "The Sting," Etc.

It's been a good while since I've done some doting on him.

I've spent the past couple weeks fixing up my new Brooklyn digs, and I've been surprising myself at how adept at adult life I've managed to be. I wended my way to IKEA by myself, after standing underneath a Crooklyn overpass, where I heard none other than:

"Baby, you can't take me ANYWHERE without a condom and some money. I know, KNOW, you don't got either of that. bye bye!"

At that, i almost started to run for fear of some airborne VD, but then the bus came and i went to IKEA. I took a car service home.

But, I bought a desk, a lamp, a trash can, etc. and managed to tote it home all by myself. Might've sprained my back (nothing like a fractured femur!) getting everything up the four flights, but, nothing a little bed rest couldn't cure -- a bed I'd managed to get up those same four flights alone.

While I twiddle my thumbs, thinking of what should adorn the wall facing my bed, there's only one thing -- one man -- I want to wake up to every morning.

The large prints are ordered, the frames will be bought today -- I'll get to wake up to Paul every morning, staring at me, as I stare back into his dreamy blue eyes.

Some good Newman clips -- oh, how I miss him being around this dreamworld.

"Cool Hand 1":



"Cool Hand 2":



"The Sting":

Tried to Turn the Lights Off, But Then I Wanted to See My "Friends"

What can you do when you can't sleep, per usual? If only I could take medicine. But, then how would I stay up for dozens of hours, looking up at my walls dreaming of adventures?

"Nah, she ain't a sweet chile" - Paper Moon

"Paper Moon"



"Cool Hand Luke"

"Let'im hit you in the nose, get some blood flowin'." - Cool Hand

Cool Hand Luke, Brother Grice, Killing Time -- and a Little "Total Recall"

"I didn't go to sleep until 'bout 5:30am this morning, after your horrible gift," Brother G said.

"My gift of giving you my online Netflix account info?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Yes, you horrible Sister Woman. I could see what you watched and I was able to route it to the TV -- I looked through your queue and saw you went on another Paul Newman binge, and I couldn't help myself but follow the tracks."

"'Snot my fault you're weak-willed," I responded.

"You even re-watched Cat on a Hot Tin Roof! Lord. Why? What possessed you to walk down that trodden path, after having just watched Cool Hand -- again -- what was your reason?" he asked, dumbly.

"Because I wanted to hear the 'mendacity' line, senior idioto. After rubbing my index finger over Paul Newman's face a few times during Cool, I wanted to see him fight against his father and say terrible things. Can I get a break?"

"God, I hate you," he said.

"Same," Me.

"See you in a couple weeks," Brother.

"Can't wait. Love you," me, begrudgingly.

"Love you too," said an unknown source.

You can watch Cool Hand Luke, here.

Only two weeks, Brother G, two little weeks. And then we have some fun.

Thanksgiving, Pseudo-Bout With Sadness, Then a Couple of Grifters

Man, oh, man. I thought it was going to be a sad Thanksgiving: I had to work the Wednesday and Friday flanking this great Thursday, while most every one of my other friends got to go home for their holiday. And last year's T-giving was spent without my former Favorite or my family; I thought I was due for another ill-fated day.

Wrong. First, I ran into an old friend while waiting in a grocery store line yesterday evening -- it resulted in an invite to a potluck Turkey Day dinner. Second, I awoke to a wonderful gift from AMC (the channel).

It was 8:30am, and what do I see the moment I hit the remote's "Guide"? "The Sting." I flip to it, and the movie's trademark score is bellowing out to me, telling me I've the good fortune of catching the flick from the start. Shortly thereafter, my Paul (Newman) is seated drunkenly at a cards table, assuring me that I should be thankful for a Thanksgiving spent alone, watching him.

At the first commercial break, reliable old AMC tells me they're playing the Godfather trilogy post-Sting. Oh, how the gods work in mysterious ways.

Also, I have great rationalization skills. I love "The Sting," or any collaborative efforts by Redford and my sweet Mr. Newman. They make great Grifters. And it's been much too long since I've seen Marlon Brando on the small screen. Happy Turkey.

Boss's Email, Newman's Own, New Halloween Decision

Bossman just sent me a note regarding the signature in my work messages.

Everyone puts a little quote, or a funny saying -- my beloved work neighbor, the 52-year old man who keeps me sane and makes me laugh, changes it every day: "R.I.P. [insert famous person]" after checking one of his favorite sites, a Celebrity Death Beeper.

My boss just wrote: "You're still mourning Paul Newman???"

"Still. I've had an empty box of his [Newman's Own] raisins that David brought me over a year ago sitting on my desk. He's angled so he can watch me type. I was in love with him for more than half my life. :'-("

(My first reaction was to send Boss my blog post about the morning I found out. "Ooohhh, another reader," she shamelessly thinks. Thankfully, I let that idea sit on the brain for a minute and thought better of it.)

It made me sad, again.

But, it spurred the inspiration for my Halloween costume. I'm going to be a shackled Cool Hand Luke, I believe. I was going to be Chigurh from No Country, but where would I get that kind of weapon? Lofty goals, Grice. Shackles, I think I can handle.

A terribly sad, famous 00:40 seconds:

More on Killing Luke (Over and Over) and Groundhog Day

I had a long advisory talk with Friend last night about my short story on Killing Luke. He's my biggest L.A. advocate (My resolve to move changes with whichever way the wind's blowing, it would seem. Sigh. One of these, the longer I wait, the less inclined I'll be to go. But, just how imprudent can I be at this age? Things with reviewing seem more promising at work? Double sigh.), so I have to temper his optimistic thoughts on the story somewhat. But he liked it and he's one of only two people I've released the strangehold grip I have on whatever I write and has read it.

You'd think given my ability to ramble on a blog, I'd have less feelings of insecurity when I show someone something I've written. Nope.

Anyway, so after the Lengthy Discussion, we came to the conclusion that I'd have to insert some kind of thread that would play out in each iteration where we kill him. Not sure exactly what it will be. Maybe some motivating power of love -- though, I sort of want to steer clear of "feelings." Maybe the sense he gets is some sickness. Maybe we're in some variation of The Truman Show. It will be fun to figure out why he's got to die Groundhog Day-style. Maybe he's not even dead? But then why does he fantasize so vividly (if I do say so myself, ha.) about his imminent death? That could work, maybe.

I wrote all afternoon and evening, and managed to kill him 5 times. Progress.

"I have a great body, and sometimes I go months without looking." A short, cute scene from "Groundhog Day."

David Letterman's Paul Newman Tribute

I really wasn't going to write more on Paul Newman, but I just had to highlight this David Letterman tribute. I've been trying to figure out Twitter and I ran into this link after starting to "follow" a fellow Newman mourner.

Letterman has a surprisingly sincere and thoughtful opening where he shares his personal stories about PN and explains just how generous he was. He says that he was a saint. I agree :'-(

The actual tribute starts at about 07:30, which is really worth watching.

Okay, it's time to get myself moving on and out of this grieving process!

`I have steak at home, why go out for hamburgers?'

He said, of his wife.

This morning's "Today Show" did a surprisingly sweet and thoughtful piece on Paul and his wife of some-50 years, Joanne Woodward. I won't bore you with their real-life love story that I already know way too much about; but here's the piece if there's any interest.



(As an aside, it was a pretty bleak morning for lady Grice. A thought occured, though.

Occupational hazard of working from home alone, aside from sense of loneliness and isolation: Having no fear of judgment if you find yourself standing in front of the stove making mac & cheese at 9 a.m. Not for later, but for right then. But it’s so cheap and there’s so much left! When I die of gout, those were my final words.)

`Paul Newman died. I already talked to mom, and she said you should call her.'

Re-fracture my femur? “Oh, things could be worse – I could’ve broken my neck with that kind of fall!” I tell myself. Lose a one-and-only? “Love’s for the birds … I’ve got my movies!!!” I think, licking my wounds. Hurricanes flooding Mama G’s house? “Come on, with the economic wreckage, it’s just a drop in the old bucket.”

I like silver-linings. And while I’ve been throwing myself pity parties aplenty lately, nothing was like Saturday morning.

I awoke to a buzzing phone beneath my ear. Who’s calling at this ungodly 9 a.m. hour?? “Brother” blinked on my ancient, 80s-style cell phone.

“I’m so sorry, Sister.” (For what? For calling me at dawn?)

“You haven’t heard.” (Yo, bro, I told you last week that we have a very fallible Interweb connection at the moment; even if I’d WANTED to hear anything, it’d be slow-going).

“Paul Newman died. I already talked to mom, and she said you should call her.”

Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).

I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.

It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.

I checked my phone after I got off with Brother, and 5 people had already texted extending their condolences for my loss, as it were. I normally cringe at my effusive movie-talking, but in this case I’m proud of it. He deserves all my romanticizing of him; it was the saddest Saturday morning that I can remember. :’-(

Making me tear up, as I copy the YouTube link! Good lord, get ahold of yourself, Grice.