Malibu, Calif. — Here wifey and I are out at our house at the
beach, which we are enjoying very much. After weeks of bad weather,
the clouds are gone and we are happy campers. We can see the ocean
with smashing clarity, blue and peaceful and endless out our
windows, and, believe me, this is a treat indeed.
Both of us, wifey and I, have gotten addicted — wifey first —
to a series of British murder mysteries written by a genius named
Simon Brett. He is one of the powers of the British mystery world
and has written several series of mysteries. But the ones we love
(and, again, wifey “discovered” him) are about a fictitious
actor-drunk-detective named Charles Paris. Paris is a middle-aged,
irresponsible, slobby, although handsome, alcoholic failure as an
actor, but he is a tenacious detective as men and women are
murdered all around him on his various acting jobs. His
observations and those of the narrator — played by a genuine
prodigy of talent named Simon Prebble, the best voice talent I have
ever heard — are stunningly funny and on target.
It seems to me that Simon Brett understands real life, not
stuffy fake literary life, but real life, better than just about
any author I have ever read. His characters really suffer
humiliation, really feel depressed and worried, really are beaten
up by the arrogance of proud men, feel the sting of the insolence
of office, are victims of the slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune. And often his hero, Charles Paris, makes mistakes, is so
nervous that he has attacks of diarrhea and cramps, and is
generally one of us.
I love his insights into how plays and TV shows get made. I love
his astonishing witticisms as he relays to us the critics’ almost
invariable jibes at his past performances. Maybe you should start
with Star Trap or Murder Unprompted or So
Much Comic. All are great, but by all means get the
books-on-tape versions.
Now I listen to Charles Paris mysteries all day and night in my
car. I have finished most of them, but I have about five left. What
I shall do when I am done, I have no clue. Maybe I will resume
listening to my volume of greatest speeches. My life is largely
about giving speeches, and I like to learn. My favorite speech is
John F. Kennedy’s first inaugural (and only inaugural, owing to
Khrushchev and Castro’s cruel decision to assassinate him — see
Edward Jay Epstein’s astounding book, Legend). He ended
with the greatest phrase of all time in a speech that I am familiar
with, “Here on earth, God’s work must truly be our own.”
Who wrote that speech? Mr. Goodwin? Mr. Sorensen? Someone must
know.
Anyway, so here Alex and I are in Malibu, with the two dogs, and
I have made a fire in the fireplace, and we are watching a little
treasure. It is called A Shock to the System. I bought it
on Amazon. It is from a book by the selfsame brilliant man, Simon
Brett, I have just been telling you about. It is not a Charles
Paris story, nor is it even a mystery. It is a story of a murdering
executive, who only kills people who deserve it. (Swoosie Kurtz as
the evil wife is fabulous and Peter Riegert is pure genius as the
mean-spirited, boastful man who trumps the hero’s ace — at first.
And Michael Caine is at his best as the murderer. Wow, is he great.
He is always great, but in this, he is really, really great. You
must see him in Funeral in Berlin, The Ipcress
File, and above all, Get Carter, but he is also
fabulously menacing and provocative in A Shock to the
System. Get it and tell me what you think.
Anyway, a fine movie, but then a dismaying night. I dreamt my
house was robbed. Then I dreamt I had been sent to a concentration
camp for old writers and actors, where we just pitched stories to
ourselves and acted in a hammy way in a huge rolling field, with
our old, battered cars all around us.
I was so relieved to awaken in my own bed, with the ocean’s roar
below me and my dogs on top of me. Thank you, God, that I am still
alive. I had a hard time getting back to sleep, so I said my
prayers that I have been saying every night for a while now.
“Please God, show wisdom and strength to our president, George W.
Bush, and to Karl Rove, and to Condoleezza Rice, and to Donald
Rumsfeld. And please bless and keep Tony Blair, a great, great man,
and the leaders of Israel. And please watch over every soldier,
sailor, airman, marine, and CIA man, and all of the women who do
these dangerous jobs to keep us free. And bless all of the
policemen and firemen and FBI men and INS agents and everyone who
keeps us safe.” Then, if I can remember it, I add:
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose power binds the restless wave,
Who biddest the mighty ocean deep,
Its own appointed limits keep,
O, hear us in peril when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the Sea.
This is the Navy hymn, adapted, I believe, from an earlier
English hymn, and I feel it in my bones for those brave enough to
offer their lives for us.
And by the way, do we ever need a pay raise for the military. It
is criminal how little they are paid as they offer their lives on
the altar of freedom. Mr. Bush, let’s do it now. I said my prayers
and ate an English muffin, and soon, yea, soon, I was asleep on my
little bed, which, I hope, will not be vaporized by the North
Koreans any time soon.
Why, oh why, did Clinton not rush forward with missile defense?
If he had done so, we might have a defense right now. How I wish we
had one, and I don’t care how much it costs. America has to learn
that our life is on the line. Crazy people have atom bombs. This is
not a good situation and we need to defend ourselves.
