The Film Snob Quiz

Film Snob Quiz Question #1:  What is the greatest American movie of all time?  (Tip: if you even have to think about this answer, then you're going to have a tough time on this quiz.  And it's certainly not Star Wars.  Geek.)

My lovely wife and I will occasionally escape for a movie matinee, buy a bag of popcorn (large - free refills!) and a cup of Dr. Pepper (10, 2 & 4!), and settle in to our seats, ready to be entertained by the latest offering from Hollywood.

Two hours and thirty minutes later, because NOBODY except Woody Allen* makes 90 minute movies anymore, we will walk outside, stop for a moment, look at each other, and I'll ask, "well, what do you think?"

My lovely wife will cautiously ponder the question for a moment, and then say something positive such as, "I thought the acting was good.  It wasn't as violent as I thought it was going to be.  The costumes were pretty."  A movie has to be incredibly bad for my wife to trash it immediately upon exiting a theater.

I will nod to her answers and we'll start walking again.  Then she'll hesitantly ask me what I thought.  Long sigh.

"The leads were terribly miscast.  The exposition in the first act was sloppy.  The music was obtrusive and distracted from the film.  The camera work was dreadful - I detest when they constantly use those trendy shaky handheld camera shots - um, I would guess they didn't have an ending when they started shooting.  Oh, yeah, and the pacing was brutal.  You could chop 15 minutes out of that thing - EASY!"

"Well, yeah, but you're a film snob" she'll say, "most people won't see it that way."  Fair enough.  Guilty as charged.  I AM a film snob.

Orson Welles' 1941 masterpiece, Citizen Kane

Film Snob Quiz Answer #1:  Citizen Kane (right).  Orson Welles' 1941 masterpiece still holds up 70 years later.  Although it initially received positive reviews from critics, it was a financial failure when it was first released.  Loosely based on the life of newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst, Hearst did everything in his power to have the film buried.  Welles received Academy Award nominations for Best Actor, Best Director and won for Best Screenplay (co-writer).  It continues to place number one on the American Film Institute's list of greatest American films.

Fact o' the day sure to make your life more meaningless: Welles was all of 26 years of age when he co-wrote, starred in and directed Citizen Kane.  

Film Snob Quiz Extra Credit:  Citizen Kane was released by RKO Pictures.  What did the letters R-K-O stand for?  (No fair using your computer.  Or your smart phone, wise guy.)

I believe that in this day and age, more than a 100 years after The Great Train Robbery, any professional filmmaker should know how to make a film.  And if you have six months to write the script, four months to shoot it and six months for post-production, and you have vast resources to get the best actors and production people in the world,  then it should be more entertaining and skillfully shot than an average episode of a primetime TV show.

Film Snob Quiz Extra Credit Answer:  You googled, didn't you?  You have that Google look about you.  R-K-O stood for "Radio-Keith-Orpheum." RKO Pictures was the combination of David Sarnoff's/RCA's theater chain and Joseph Kennedy's distribution company, as well as Pathe's small film studio, to form the first fully vertically integrated (production, distribution and exhibition) motion picture company.  Add two points if you knew that already.

Film Snob Quiz Question #2: This one is another gimme if you are a film snob.  What is considered the "Greatest" year for American films?  And it wasn't 1977 because of Star Wars.  You would think there would be more debate on this question among film snobs, but there's a pretty solid consensus.

Cary Grant and Jean Arthur in the Howard Hawks' classic Only Angels Have Wings.  My heart flutters just looking at a picture of Jean Arthur.

Film Snob Quiz Question #2 Answer:  1939.  The end of the Great Depression and just before World War II.  The heyday of the studio era.  You would presume that with our technology, film schools and 100 years of film history to study, we would be able to crank out a few more notable films than they did just twelve years after the introduction of Talkies.  But no, the pinnacle of American film was 1939.

The Best Picture nominees that memorable year?  Dark Victory (Humphrey Bogart & Bette Davis), Goodbye, Mr. Chips (Robert Donat, Greer Garson), Love Affair (Irene Dunne & Charles Boyer), Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (James Stewart & Jean Arthur), Ninotchka (Greta Garbo), Of Mice and Men (Burgess Meredith and Lon Chaney, Jr.), Stagecoach (John Wayne), The Wizard of Oz (Judy Garland), Wuthering Heights (Laurence Olivier); and the Best Picture in 1939 went to ...the envelope please...Gone with the Wind (Vivien Leigh and that Gable kid).  Wow!  That's quite a list.  Classics all.

And that doesn't even include these other notables from 1939: Destry Rides Again, Gunga Din, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Only Angels Have Wings and Young Mr. Lincoln.

There are more films on the National Film Registry from 1939 (17) than any other single year.

For the record, my favorite of the "golden year" films of 1939 is Only Angels Have Wings.  A young Cary Grant and Jean Arthur.  Tough guy pilots flying dangerous mail routes in South America.  Directed by Howard Hawks.  Worth a viewing if you've never seen it.

Jeez, you're thinking, can't we discuss a few films that were made after I was born?  Maybe something that was shot in color?  No problem.  The answer to our next question was shot in color and made in my lifetime.

Film Snob Quiz Question #3:  Speaking of the Academy Awards, what was the last comedy to win the Best Picture Oscar™?  This is another freebie if you're a film snob.  Comedies are highly undervalued and just don't do well at the Oscars™.  Film snobs remember the rare ones that win.  Still thinking?  No, it didn't involve Judd Apatow or Will Ferrell. It was made in the 1970's, but it wasn't Star Wars.  There's a clue* up in the third paragraph.  I'll give you a moment.  La-dee-da.

Diane Keaton and Woody Allen in Annie Hall (1977).

Film Snob Quiz Question #3 Answer:  Woody Allen's Annie Hall won the Oscar™ for Best Picture in 1977, the last comedy to do so.  Allen was also nominated for Best Actor and won for Best Screenplay (co-writer), becoming the first to achieve this trifecta since - are you paying attention - Orson Welles for Citizen Kane!  A thinly veiled, autobiographical account of his relationship with Diane Keaton (Keaton's actual surname is Hall),  it was originally written as a dramatic murder mystery with a romantic subplot, but Allen expanded the romance plot after it overtook the rest of the story (Allen would go on to use the murder mystery plot with Manhattan Murder Mystery with Keaton in 1993).  Allen, of course, did not show up to win the award (he has only appeared on an Academy Awards telecast one time - to introduce a film tribute to New York City in the wake of the 9/11 attacks ).  He kept his regular Monday night gig playing clarinet with his Dixieland jazz band in New York.

Film Snob Quiz Question #3 Extra Credit:  Every year there seems to be a Best Picture Oscar™ nominee that "directs itself" - the one picture that receives a nomination for Best Picture but not for Best Director.  Can you name the picture in 1977 that "directed itself?"

So how are doing so far?  Did you have Citizen Kane, 1939 and Annie Hall?  Great!  One last question.

Film Snob Quiz Question #3 Extra Credit Answer:  Herbert Ross for The Goodbye Girl.  He was the only director of a Best Picture nominee in 1977 not to be nominated for Best Director.  

Film Snob Quiz Question #4: OK. You ready?  Last one.  Which OTHER 1977 film, a sci-fi classic, following a young boy on a quest, a princess and a renegade pilot, went on to become the second highest grossing film (adjusted for inflation) of all time?  Hint:  its success led to five sequels.  No, not Close Encounters.  Saturday Night Fever?  No, only one sequel from that one.  Need another hint?  "Let the Wookie win."

Just because I'm in the mood for a legal injunction from Lucasfilm, LTD.

Film Snob Quiz Question #4 Answer:  Yes, Star Wars!

Film Snob Quiz Question #4 Extra Credit:  What is the  highest grossing film of all time (adjusted for inflation), just ahead of Star Wars? 

Film Snob Quiz Question #4 Extra Credit Answer:  The highest grossing film of all time (inflation adjusted) is Gone with the Wind, which was made in - I hope you're paying attention - 1939!

See, even on the Film Snob Quiz you can't get a zero - just like the S.A.T.  So how did you do?  Here's how you can score at home:

1 answer correct:  You're never going to be a film snob.  Sorry.  But, hey, those Star Wars movies are pretty cool, eh?

2 answers correct:  Not bad.  You are permited to use the words "montage" and "auteur" when you describe a film.

3 answers correct:  Now we're getting somewhere.  You are definitely a cinephile.  Very high potential as film snob material.  Can't believe you didn't get the one about Star Wars.  

4 answers correct:  You ARE a film snob.  You drive your wife and others crazy after every movie.  Can't you enjoy anything?  Can't you watch a movie in color?  What's the matter with Star Wars?  It's a lot of fun and millions of people loved it.

Thanks for playing. That's all the time we have for our Film Snob Quiz™ for today.

Although I see there's a double feature of Bicycle Thief and Open City at the Rialto...

US Air 1493

The wreckage of US Air flight #1493 at LAX.

Friday, February 1, 1991 was just like any other Friday since I had become a flight attendant.  Only three weeks away from my wedding day, I needed to get as much flying time in as I could early in the month.  My three years with the company meant I was still one of the junior flight attendants in San Francisco, so I spent most of my weekends either working in an airplane, sitting in an airport or sleeping in a hotel.

It was a clear, cool evening as night fell at the Los Angeles International Airport, known around the world simply as LAX.

Even though I had flown in and out of this airport hundreds of times, I did not know that: it was ranked the worst airport in the United States for runway incursions (when a plane or vehicle moves onto a runway or taxiway that it should not be on, risking collision with another aircraft), the ground radar was antiquated and not working, the controller on duty, who had been hired right after President Reagan's infamous mass firing of air traffic controller's in 1981, was ill-equipped for the task of working in such a congested environment, and that there was a light stand in the middle of the airport - that was built to illuminate the ramp area - that actually caused so much glare in the control tower that at night it was impossible for controllers to see parts of the runways.

I was blissfully unaware of it all.

Each year in our Flight Attendant Recurrent Training, it was emphasized ad nauseum that aviation accidents were the result of not one, or even two events, but the continual accumulation of numerous moments of inattentiveness, miscommunication and lack of situational awareness.  Multiple links in a long chain were typically broken before a catastrophe would result.

I was sitting with my crew in LAX's Terminal One, behind the podium for Gate 4, waiting for US Air's Flight 1493 to arrive from Columbus, Ohio (yes, the Eastbound flight to Columbus was 1492 - those folks in Marketing are clever).  We had already flown a "San Fran. turn," starting in LAX earlier in the day and flying up and back to San Francisco.

The crew working the flight in from Columbus was finishing their day in Los Angeles, and my crew and I would replace them, and work the last leg of the flight up to San Francisco.  From there, we were scheduled to work a different flight with the same aircraft up to Reno, Nevada, where we would finally finish our long day on the West Coast.

The crew and passengers of 1493 never made it to Gate 4 that night.  And I never made it to San Francisco.

As I sat behind the podium with my crew, two fellow flight attendants and two pilots, waiting for the flight to arrive, we were doing what any airline crew does while waiting at the gate: glancing through the latest issue of People magazine, catching a quick snack on the go or finally finishing off that day's crossword puzzle in the New York Times.

The gate agents told us the inbound flight was on final approach - meaning it should land within 3 - 5 minutes - when we sat down.  Minutes ticked by and no plane.  No announcements.  More time went by.  I got up and and stood behind one of the agents at the gate and looked at the flight monitor again.  It had Flight #1493 listed as "final approach."  The status should have changed over to "landed" by now.  It just didn't add up.  I exchanged looks with the agent and he just shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "I don't know either."

I walked back to my seat with the rest of my crew and waited.  Hurry up and wait.  Story of my life.  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw our Captain briskly walking over to us behind the podium.  I will never forget the ashen, stunned look on his face.

"It's gone down," he said.  "Let's get out of here!"

We jumped up, grabbed our bags, and headed for the nearby Crew Room.  I don't even recall hearing if the agents said anything to the passengers waiting for our outbound flight.

Another view of the remains of the Boeing 737-300 at LAX.

The evening news was already on the television when we arrived in the Crew Room.  There were about 20 - 30 other pilots and flight attendants in the room, milling about on computers, checking their flight cases and looking at their mail files, as news started to spread that there had just been an accident right there at LAX involving one of our planes.

I walked over to a crew computer and immediately pulled up the names of the crew members on 1493 and printed it out.  This information would shortly be pulled by crew scheduling as soon as they realized what had occurred.  The crew was all based in Washington, D.C, except for one "extra" flight attendant, based in LAX.  None of the names seemed familiar.

I quickly called my wife from a pay phone and asked her to call my mother and family and let everyone know I was OK.  This would be hitting the evening news any second.  If you're a crew member and a plane from your airline crashes, you tend to get a lot of phone calls from friends and family.

Someone was quickly switching back and forth between all the local channels in Los Angeles to find who would break the story.  It's an odd sensation to be standing there knowing that something catastrophic had just occurred, and it would become a national news story in just a few minutes.

Word of an airplane crash at LAX finally broke through on one of the local stations, and then the other two network affiliates quickly joined the story.  One of the stations soon aired a live aerial shot of the crash scene.  The fuselage looked like it was relatively intact, and that there could have been a good chance of survival.  We didn't know until much later that another plane, a small, Skywest commuter plane, was completely leveled underneath the US Air 737.

What happened is that the controller had cleared the small Skywest commuter plane to enter runway 24L at its midpoint and then hold, waiting for permission to take off.  She lost track of this commuter plane, it wasn't visible from her location in the control tower, and she cleared the USAir 737 to land on the SAME runway at the same time.  The US Air pilots didn't even see the Skywest commuter plane until just before impact.

The propeller of the Skywest Fairchild Metroliner commuter plane is visible under the wing of the US Air Boeing 737.

Debris from the accident was strewn on the runway and taxiways on the north side of the airport.  Both those runways were quickly closed, causing an immediate 50% reduction in the operating capacity at LAX.  Flights had to be canceled, and when I ran out to grab a slice of pizza, I stood and looked at the bank of monitors in the hallway.  Half of the departures were listed as "canceled" and most of the arrivals were delayed.

We never saw any fire or heard any explosions.  I never even saw any emergency vehicles from my view inside the terminal.  It seemed like just any other Friday night at LAX, if you didn't know something had just gone tragically wrong.

We sat in the crew room silently, slowly getting numb as we watched the story continue to dribble out on the news.  Many of the initial reports we knew were inaccurate.  But the aerial shot of the burning plane was not.

The crew room filled up with employees as news spread of the accident. The mood was quiet and subdued, although everyone in that room wanted to strangle Tawny Little (a vapid L.A. anchorwoman).

Our flight to San Francisco was canceled.  Hours later, crew scheduling found us another plane and told us to fly it straight to Reno.  We boarded a somber 20-30 people who were still trying to get to Reno.  We taxied out and headed west toward the crash site, making a left hand turn right before the wreckage of the two  planes.

I moved to the empty last row of seats on the right side of the plane to get a look.  It was dark and hard to see through the smoke and flashing lights.  I could tell it had been an airplane, but I certainly couldn't tell there was a commuter plane underneath. Hazarding a guess as to how many people may have live or died was impossible.

By the time we arrived to our hotel in Reno, I learned that there were 10 passengers and two pilots on the Skywest commuter flight who perished instantly.

There were 83 passengers and a crew of six, two pilots and four flight attendants, on the US Air plane.  The Captain and lead flight attendant, both sitting on the front left side of the aircraft as it collided with a vacant building just off the runway, were killed instantly.  22 passengers, most of whom survived the impact and were able to get out of their seats, died in the aisle of the wreckage, overcome by noxious fumes from the smoke and fire.

The subsequent National Transportation Safety Board (N.T.S.B.) investigation would lead to major changes in over wing exit row seating, as well as major changes in procedures at LAX. 

In a strange coincidence, that definitively proves I can relate anything to hockey, the Vancouver Canucks' charter aircraft had landed immediately prior to the US Air plane on an adjoining runway, and the coaches and players were the closest witnesses to the collision and explosion.  Severely shaken by the event, they lost their game in L.A. the following evening 9-1, their worst loss of the season.

Mornings with Sam

A couple of months ago we finally got a 32" High Definition Television (HDTV).  We could live fine without it, but it grows on you once you have it.  What they don't really advertise when you get the HDTV is that you have to upgrade your cable box to get the HD signal and channels.  And when you upgrade to the HD box, you might as well go ahead and pony up a few extra dollars for the digital video recorder (DVR) service.  I know, I know, welcome to the 21st century, dude.  Point taken.

Ever since we made the switch, and I've learned how to work the DVR, I've reconnected with an old friend.  Have you ever had that special someone in your life that you really like, enjoy your time together, but for one reason or another - marriage, kids, work, geography - you just drift apart?  And then you get back together and it's like you were never apart?  Well, that's exactly what happened to me.

We rendez-vous nearly every weekday morning for exactly one hour at precisely 7 a.m. She tells me what's going on in her day.  We both eat some breakfast, and just spend a little time together, share some laughs.  She always picks the spot.  Sometimes it's a place I've visited before, and loved;  some mornings it's a place I've never been, and didn't really want to go, but she takes me along and makes it worthwhile.

My special friend is cute, not beautiful; friendly, but she gives you your space; she's funny and fun, but not in an obnoxious way; she loves to travel and appreciates good local food, music and Art. Her name is Samantha, but most of her friends just call her, "Sam."

My wife knows about our special morning relationship, and she's fine with it.  After all, she has Matt Damon, Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt.  And I'm fine with her flings with them.

I just have my mornings with Samantha Brown.

Samantha Brown, host of the Travel Channel's "Passport" series.

As much time as Sam and I have spent together, I really don't know much about her.  Like me, she's married and in her mid-40's and likes to travel.  Unlike me, she grew up in New Hampshire and lives in Brooklyn, which makes us bi-coastal.  I have never heard her mention kids, but I think she has a daughter.  She doesn't know a thing about me, but it's not important.  We both prefer it that way.

My travel buddy Sam on the Brooklyn Bridge.

There's something about Sam that's just comfortable and familiar.  She works hard so that you feel that way, but there's something more.  She reminds me of several of my flight attendant friends, working Moms,  I knew back in my flying days.  I might only fly with them once or twice a year, but you were always glad to see each other, have some laughs and catch up on things in each others' lives.  They were happy to get out of the house and have some adult attention, maybe go to a show or out to dinner, but that was it.  Sam would have fit right in.

We've had the new TV and DVR for a couple of months now.  The first thing I programmed was for it to tape all of Sam's shows, but now I'm starting to see more and more repeats.  Sometimes after a hectic day, if I missed the actual broadcast during breakfast, I'll sit down on the couch and check the DVR for some "Sam and Me" time.  I'm always disappointed when it's a repeat.  Someplace we've already been.  Our relationship is so special that we have to keep moving forward.  As much as I enjoyed our time in Thailand or Honduras, we can't get caught up in the past.  We need to keep it fresh.  I'm sure Sam feels the same.

I don't know what else to add, but I thought you should know about my special "breakfast time" with Sam.  Speaking of which, do you have the time?  6:55?  A.M?  I gotta' go!

(Samantha Brown in Dublin.  Now that's brilliant!)

A Company Town

The headquarters of Adobe Systems in downtown San Jose, CA.

Many people live in company towns - a term which originally meant a town literally built by one company (such as Hershey, PA), but which more commonly now defines a place where one major company or industry dominates the entire economy and culture - their entire lives.

Google's headquarters in Mountain View, CA.

Detroit (Automobiles), Seattle (Boeing, Microsoft), Orlando (Disney), Napa/Sonoma (Wine/Tourism), Hartford (Insurance), Las Vegas (Gambling/Tourism), Washington, D.C. (Government) all immediately come to mind as large company towns in the U.S.

When I grew up in San Jose, CA in the 1960's and 1970's, it was not a company town.  Even if you tried to make the argument that it was; that single industry would have been agriculture.  I remember fields and orchards sprinkled throughout the valley, and vineyards covering the hillsides.  Somewhere in the last thirty years it definitely has become a company town for High Technology: the Capitol of Silicon Valley. 

The riverside headquarters of Cisco Systems in San Jose, CA.

I often ride my bike along the Guadalupe River Trail in San Jose.  The Trail presents a backyard tour of many of the High Tech companies that now dominate the economy of Santa Clara County.

The headquarters of Cisco Systems (above right) is one of those many High Tech companies that line the Guadalupe River & Trail.

Driving or biking around San Jose and Santa Clara County today, you regularly spot headquarters and campuses of some of the most recognizable names in software, computing and the internet: Adobe, Cisco, eBay, Google, Intel, Netflix, Oracle and PayPal .

The eBay campus in San Jose, CA.

(The San Jose headquarters (LEFT) of eBay, the world famous online auction web site, that has annual revenues of nearly 10 billion dollars a year.)

I lived in a Northern Virginia suburb of Washington, D.C. on and off in the 1970's, but I was too young to recognize it for the company town that it was and is, or even to realize what it meant.

I lived in Los Angeles in the 1980's, and while it's certainly a company town for the entertainment industry in terms of culture and visibility, its economy is actually more diverse than you might think.  There are seven Fortune 500 companies headquartered in Los Angeles, and not one of them is connected to the entertainment industry.

The first time I saw firsthand what it was like to reside in a company town was when I first started working for US Air in the late 1980's, and lived in Aliquippa, PA, just outside Pittsburgh.  US Air's headquarters weren't actually located in Pittsburgh, contrary to what many people seemed to believe (they were in Crystal City, Virginia), but Pittsburgh was then their largest hub, and the location where they employed the most people.  US Air dominated the air traffic, for better or worse, at the Greater Pittsburgh International Airport, and seemed to dominate the city as well.  Everyone in Pittsburgh seemed to work for US Air, or be related to a US Air employee.  Many businesses offered discounts for US Air employees.  Local bars had "US Air" nights.

U.S. Airways pilots in the Pittsburgh airport.

The media in Pittsburgh covered US Air with a laser focus unseen in any other city.  If a flight was diverted for some mundane reason, a routine occurrence in the airline industry, or any other news, no matter how trivial, was available about US Air, it usually was on page one in the morning papers, and led the evening newscasts.

Apple, Inc. headquarters in Cupertino, CA.

Pittsburgh had long been a company town for the U.S. Steel industry.  I met several people there whose father worked in the mills, and THEIR father and so on and so on.  Hell, even MY grandfather worked in a steel mill in Pittsburgh.

And with that history came what outsiders called a"Steel Mill" mentality: this company or industry is too dominate or large to ever disappear, and I'm always going to have a job here.  An attitude that I'm sure once prevailed in other large company towns (think Detroit).

As an outsider, I could read the tea leaves in the airline industry and felt Pittsburgh was eventually going to be  a victim of poor US Air management, economics and airline consolidation.

Pittsburghers and the local media would complain about US Air's monopoly in Pittsburgh - Pittsburgh was what's known in the airline industry as a "fortress" hub, meaning one airline had such a high percentage of flights that it scared away competitors -  and the high fares that fortress hubs inevitably invite.  A valid complaint.

I would remind those who complained about US Air's monopoly in Pittsburgh that a city with a population under 400,000 people, and a declining economy, wouldn't have non-stop flights to London and Frankfurt, and multiple flights a day to such destinations as Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, were it not for US Air's hub in Pittsburgh.

Then I would assure them they weren't going to have their US Air monopoly problems for very long.  I felt the hub couldn't sustain itself, and would be gone within a few years.  Everyone from Pittsburgh just laughed and shook their heads at my predictions.  Steel Mill mentality.  US Air will always be big in Pittsburgh.  Unfortunately,  I was right.

The world's largest semiconductor chipmaker, Intel, is based in Santa Clara, CA.

When I returned to San Jose two years ago after a thirty year absence, it started to dawn on me that something was very different from the San Jose of my youth.  The vineyards and orchards had vanished, skyrocketing housing costs were among the highest in the nation and the population had doubled; sure, that was all immediately evident and all true.  But what I realized was that San Jose, and the surrounding suburbs of the South Bay that make up Santa Clara County, was now a COMPANY TOWN.

The economy, the culture, the politics, the residents were now completely dominated by the High Tech industry.  It's much easier to understand how and why things work and operate here in San Jose, if you understand that it's a company town, which it never was in my youth.

And once you reach that conclusion, the question arises if it's ultimately good for one area to be dominated by one company or industry.  Can a company town stay hungry?  Can it survive through the changes and turbulence in that industry?  Can it continue to innovate and grow, or does it inevitably develop that "Steel Mill" mentality?  

I'll let you know.  Right now, I'm still reading the tea leaves.  And there's no app for that.

Céad Mile Fáilte

Arriving in Dublin from the West, looking East to the Irish Sea.

As the power pulled back on the four massive engines of the Aer Lingus Boeing 747, I was awakened from my overnight nap by the sensation of the aircraft making its descent. Flying over the Atlantic at such velocity, I realized the six hour flight would have been a harrowing 6 week journey by sea for my ancestors of 150 years ago.

Gazing out the window to the Emerald Island below, which indeed does glisten with forty shades of green, I couldn't help the overwhelming sensation that I had come home.

I am of Irish descent on both sides of my family.  My surname, Cleary, is descended from the Irish chleirich, meaning a clerk or cleric.

Although my maternal grandparents would eat corn beef and cabbage each St. Patrick's Day, regularly play old Irish folk music albums, and have cute little Irish tchotchkes around the house, with pictures of shamrocks and leprechauns, and featuring Irish quotes such as "you're never drunk as long as you can hold on to one blade of grass, and not fall off the face of the earth," they had never been to Ireland.

They were Irish-American, which meant they wore their Irishness with a sense of pride that would exceed that of anyone back in the old country.  Still, it was quite a shock to my mother and her sisters when my grandfather, who had never set foot on the auld sod, would start to recite ancient Gaelic prayers that my family had never heard pass his lips before upon his deathbed.

An Aer Lingus Boeing 747 arrives in Dublin.

As Irish as he truly was, as Irish as my paternal grandparents had been, with the Irish surnames Cleary and Morrissey, they were all still a couple of generations removed from the old country.  And to my knowledge, I was the first of my family to return to Ireland.

It wasn't until I boarded the plane in Boston seven hours before, that it really started to hit me that Dublin would be my home for the next four months.

The gigantic plane with the distinctive, green Aer Lingus livery - the huge white shamrock on the tail - was my first reminder that I was indeed on my way to Ireland.  The flight attendants chatting with their Irish accents as they walked through the cabin, the Irish pilot making an announcement detailing our route and the expected weather in Dublin upon our arrival (the possibility of "some good sunny spells"), the safety instructions in the seat pocket written in English and Gaelic.  It was all unmistakably...Irish.

It seemed like such a short time had passed since my mother informed me that my younger brother was going to study abroad for his Junior year in Seville, Spain.  She wondered if there was some place in Europe where I would like to study for a semester.  Ireland.  Only Ireland.

The airborne behemoth continued its descent, lumbering left and right, straightening out, and then finally touched down at Dublin Airport.  Ireland.  I was now on Irish soil.

The flight attendant started her arrival announcement in Gaelic with "Céad Mile Fáilte," Gaelic, or Irish, for "a hundred thousand welcomes," a traditional Irish greeting.

Departing the aircraft and walking down a labyrinth of hallways until I came to two lines of passengers, I stopped, and then patiently stood in the shorter line to the left, labeled for Americans only,  and proceeded up to the Irish immigration officer.  I took my blue American passport from my pocket and placed it upon the counter.

"Good morning. Where are you from?," the officer asked, grabbing the document, not looking up.

"California.  Los Angeles, California," I replied.

"And what brings you to Ireland, Mr. Cleary?," he continued to query, now running my passport through a scanner next to the keyboard of his computer.

"I'm a student.  I'll be studying this semester at N.I.H.E. in Glasnevin."

N.I.H.E. in Dublin.  No expense spared on the sign.

He looked up for the first time, comparing the picture in the passport to my face.  I stared back.  Satisfied, he turned his attention back to my passport,  and reached for an instrument next to his right hand, which he raised and then brought down on my passport with a loud "thunk," placing the arrival stamp of the Dublin Airport on the first page.  He closed the passport and slid it across the counter.

"Welcome home, lad."

I was officially in Ireland.  Another subversive Yank successfully smuggled into the country.

In moments I would meet the Irish host family who had been prearranged to provide room and board during my stay in Dublin.  They would be MY Irish family, MY Dublin family, by the time I would return to America in four months.  They still are twenty-five years later.

Pinewood Crescent in Glasnevin, Dublin.

(Pinewood Crescent (LEFT) , Glasnevin North, Dublin 11.  Number 24, a "semi-detached" home - what Americans would call a duplex -  halfway down the street on the right, was my Dublin home for the Fall of 1986.)  

I stepped out of the Terminal and into the "soft" Irish morning, as they'd say in Dublin, exhausted, or "knackered," from the overnight flight; unaware that I was arriving as a young Yank, and would depart four months later as a lifelong Dubliner.

Yes, some tea and soda bread would be lovely.  Both.  That's grand.

Céad Mile Fáilte.  A hundred thousand welcomes.

We're Moving on Up!

Isabel Sanford and Sherman Hemsley on the set of The Jeffersons.

As you look at the picture above of Isabel Sanford and Sherman Hemsley, as Louise and George Jefferson, on the set of the hit sit-com The Jeffersons, let me give you an insider's tip on couches on the set of a TV show: they are NEVER as comfortable as they look on television.

I learned this the hard way during my first week on the set, when one day during a break in rehearsals, I tried to sit down on that very same couch.  I crouched down and plumped my butt on the couch, expecting a set of soft cushions to break my fall, only to realize that TV couches have a hard barrier under the outer cushions, in this case a piece of plywood, that keeps actors from falling down into the couch, and out of view of the camera.

Now take a closer look at that picture and notice that Isabel and Sherman seem to be floating right on top of the couch - they don't fall down into the cushions at all.  There's a piece of wood under those cushions, keeping them up.

Lesson learned.  Things in Hollywood are not always as they appear.

In the summer of 1982, I had just finished my first year of college in Los Angeles.  Norman Lear's hit sit-com The Jeffersons, itself a spin-off of Lear's All in the Family, was among many of his shows moving over to the Universal Studios lot.  I had worked as a tour guide at Universal that year, and was able to snag a job interview to be a page, someone who helps corral live audiences in and out of the studio for TV tapings.

The biggest sit-com producer in television in the 1970's, and into the early '80's,  Lear had recently sold his production company, and its stable of hit shows, to Embassy Television.  Things were a bit slow at Universal at the time, and they were looking for some outside tenants to occupy some of their cavernous, unused sound stages around the lot.

Different Strokes and The Facts of Life would wind up on Stage 43.  Silver Spoons and Who's the Boss would share Stage 42, and I would eventually find a home on Stage 44 with One Day at a Time and The Jeffersons.

Every one of these shows were hit network sit-coms, which meant they were a license to print money for those involved, and I wouldn't watch any of them unless somebody paid me.  Which was exactly what happened.

My stepfather loved The Jeffersons.  It was his favorite show after All in the Family.  The character of George Jefferson first appeared on All the Family.  He was basically an African-American version of Archie Bunker, the loud-mouthed, bigoted leading character of All in the Family.

I disliked both shows - I felt they were coarse, predictable and not funny.  My stepfather thought they were hilarious.  I never heard him laugh so hard as when he watched those shows.  I later understood why he would identify with characters who, like himself, worked hard every day in their own small businesses to feed and provide for their families, and were the sole voices of sanity in a world gone mad. 

The Jeffersons was broadcast for 11 seasons - an ETERNITY in network television - produced over 250 episodes, and was in production from January of 1975 through June, 1985.

It was a landmark show in its time.  Lear liked exploring contemporary social and political issues in his shows in the 1970's, and it was the only depiction of a black family on American television, paving the way for the arrival of The Cosby Show in 1984.  I believe it's still the longest running show on television to feature a black family.

I worked on The Jeffersons two days a week in my first year as a page at Universal, and then was promoted to Head Page, supervising a crew of 6-7 pages working the show each week, for its final  two seasons.  My primary responsibility was to keep the production company, and their many V.I.P.'s each week, happy with the audience.

The cast and production crew of The Jeffersons at that time were in TV's version of "golden handcuffs."  Any relevance or freshness the show ever had was long gone, but in those final seasons everyone involved was still making boat loads of money.  Brinks' trucks backing up to the house kind of money.  Beautiful women walking around your house wearing your shirts, and you don't even know their names, kind of money.

One thing I've tried to explain to my boys from an early age is that people you see in films and TV shows are just actors playing a role.  Just because an actor plays a tough guy, or a brilliant politician or a doctor, does not mean they are that person, or can do those things, in real life.  Actors are paid to put on costumes and make-up, dress up and pretend to be those characters.  Seems like a simple concept, but it's something that many adults in America have failed to grasp, resulting in some odd choices for elected office.  Sometimes it works; sometimes not.

I have never met an actor who was less like his character than Sherman Hemsley, in his role as George Jefferson (which he portrayed brilliantly).  While there were some similarities to be sure, an actor must bring something of himself for any role to be convincing, the differences were just as acute.

Sherman was the friendliest cast member on the set.  You can tell a lot about someone by how they treat the "little people."  He would walk up, introduce himself - ask who you were - and talk to anyone on the set, if there was a break or pause in the action.  He would even look you in the eye when you were talking, listen, and on occasion, ask YOU a question about your own life.  I can't emphasize strongly enough how unique it is for a famous actor to show some interest in the normal people, civilians, around them.  I was stunned the first time he called me by my first name.

I once told him how much my stepfather enjoyed him and his show,  and asked him if he would autograph a copy of a script that I could give to my stepfather.  He happily wrote a little note for him and signed the script.  He even came back later with a signed picture.  It was the only time I ever asked an actor for an autograph.  He couldn't have been more gracious.

He was a nervous ball of energy on the set, always moving, like his character.  I realize now he was probably ADD, like many actors and executives in Hollywood.  That energy made his character seem exasperated and impatient much of the time, which worked for that role.

Sherman was also openly gay (on the set) and allegedly had a drug problem.

I think being trapped as an artist by his own success, and being a gay African-American, contributed to the drug problem.  I have no idea how long it was a problem, or if it was something he ever overcame (certainly hope he did), but I do know that in my four years as a page the only taping I can recall being canceled the day of the show was on The Jeffersons.  Everyone on the set told me Sherman was just too out of it to tape the show.

Doing some research tonight, I was shocked to discover Hemsley was the same age I am now when his show was canceled.  He seemed so much older.  After playing the role for eleven seasons, making millions for the network and production company in the process, he learned the show was canceled when he read about it in the paper. That's show biz.

I'm sure that the show, which made him rich beyond his wildest dreams, could not have possibly been creatively fulfilling after the first season for a trained actor with numerous stage credits - including an appearance on Broadway - like himself.  And the role would typecast him for the rest of his life.  He knew it.  He's still doing commercials as that character.  I might need a little medication to ease the psychic pain had I been in his shoes. 

The show ended.  Their set, a "deluxe apartment in the sky," was moved out of Stage 44, and a new show took its place.

Somewhere in storage I probably still have a jacket with The Jeffersons logo embroidered across the back - a gift from the production company to everyone who worked on the show that final season.

I wonder if Sherman was ever able to find his peace.  A pure creative outlet.  I hope so.  He seemed a gentle soul who had lost his way when I knew him. 

The Jeffersons still holds an important place in the history of network television.  And its theme song is embedded in American popular culture.  Just start singing the opening line of the theme song, "we're moving on up," around some friends and you'll inevitably have several people singing along.

I was looking for a clip on YouTube of the opening of the show to put at the end of this post.  Couldn't really find a good one.  But then I found this oddity, which illustrates even better how ingrained the show really was in American pop culture.  You know you've made it when you've become a Hitler meme on YouTube.  Like finally having your piece of the pie.

We Can't All Be D.B. Cooper

F.B.I. composite sketches of hijacker "D.B. Cooper."

Wearing my Dad's charcoal, pin-striped suit coat and black sunglasses, and holding his briefcase, I walked into the kitchen and sat down for breakfast.  It was early on a wet December morning in 1971.  I was eight years old.

"Good moooooooorning!," my mother cheerfully sang, as only a mother can.  She gave me a look. 

"What are you doing with your father's coat and sunglasses?  And his briefcase?"

"I"m D.B. Cooper."

"That's nice, dear.  Now eat your breakfast."

"D.B. Cooper" was the name, or more likely alias, (we would soon learn that the actual hijacker had given his name at the ticket counter as "Dan Cooper," and that the erroneous "D.B." was a mistake, which stuck, made by the media) of a man who had hijacked a Northwest Orient Airlines Boeing 727 flying between Portland and Seattle on Wednesday, November 24, 1971 - the day before Thanksgiving.

A Northwest Airlines 727 with its aft airstairs deployed.

Cooper received $200,000 cash in ransom money and a parachute, and jumped - no one to this day knows exactly where or when - out of the aft air stairs of the 727 into the cold, dark night over Washington State, never to be seen or heard from again (Although three packets of the ransom money were found along the banks of the Columbia River in 1980 - adding further fuel to the legend).

My six year old brother came into the kitchen and started to grab the briefcase.

"Let go of that," I commanded.

"It's not yours," he sniveled.

"It is, too, I'm D.B. Cooper," I argued.

"I wanna' be D.B. Cooper."

"Well, you aren't and you can't."

"Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" he whined.  Cry baby.

"Why are you boys fighting?," my mother inquired.

"Because I was D.B. Cooper first and now he's trying to take my briefcase and be D.B. Cooper.  We can't all be D.B. Cooper!"

"Oh, you two," my mother said with an exasperated sigh, "what am I going to do with you?  Now learn to get along or I'll take everything away and Mr. Nobody will get to be D.B. whatever his name is..."

My brother stuck his tongue out at me with satisfaction.  Damn.  My mother had played the "Mr. Nobody" card.  I had to think fast.

"Okay.  You can be the pilot," I told my brother.

Just as it appeared me and my brother had reached a Cooper detente, my Dad finally entered the kitchen.  He walked in, gave my Mom a peck on the cheek, and sat down at the table, doing a double take at the sight of me wearing his suit coat and sun glasses at the kitchen table.

"Can you tell me why you're wearing my good suit and sunglasses, and holding my briefcase, at the breakfast table?

"I'm D.B. Cooper," I helpfully replied.

"You can't be," my father countered, "your uncle Steve is D.B. Cooper.  He was a paratrooper at Fort Lewis and always went camping along the Columbia River."

"Oh, honey, please don't scare the children," my mother pleaded.

"Well, why not?  He's as good a guess as anybody at this point.  And your Uncle John is an airline mechanic up in Portland..."

Flummoxed, I just sat and sulked.

"Dammit!," I thought to myself, "is there ANYONE in this family who isn't D.B. Cooper?"

We all sat silent in the kitchen for a moment, pondering any other family friends or relatives who could have been D.B Cooper.

"I still say we can't all be D.B. Cooper," I finally uttered.

My Dad finished his cereal and started to get up from the table.

"Okay, sports fans, let's finish our breakfast and pack the car.  We have six hours of driving until we get to your Aunt Margie's house."

I knew that at least Aunt Margie wasn't D.B. Cooper.  Although come to think of it, she HAD been a stewardess...