Friday, December 31, 2010


Emily Frankel asks John Cullum about his New Year's resolutions.

John isn't sure, until Emily announces that she has resolved to cook more dinners for him.

Recalling some of their old resolutions, the Cullums toast each other, and agree -- their best resolutions have been made, not on New Year's, but during the year, when something happens that requires a strong resolve to fix.

Thursday, December 30, 2010


I don't like the look of him.

I don't like his down-to-earth, highly contagious bad manners and crudeness.

And whenever I see ads for those nasal sprays and cold medicines -- oh dear -- there's a repulsive congregation of cold germs ho-ho-ing, cavorting, proudly beating their chests -- greenish fat MUCINEX monsters who look like Shrek.

They're not cute. Shrek is not cute. To me they're repulsive.

How did we get this green, mocking, repulsive jock, this mutation in our lives?

A guy named Jeffrey Katzenburg, lover of Disney creatures, cartoons, and Rolling Stones/Beatles raucousness, birthed an animation format that outstrips the live-action film in imagination, skill and box-office appeal -- a creation, that is now DreamWork's famous, prize-winning, super popular "SHREK."

Yep, he's a cartoon generated image, (a CGI), with some actor's voice belching out of his mouth.

Katzenberg loves an occasional 3D-surprise, and Saturday Night Live takeoffs on "Cinderella," "Pinocchio," "Robin Hood," "Three Little Pigs," or "Snow White," and plenty of off-color asides for the older folks, and below-the-belt punches at real names in the news.

What bothers me the most?

I don't like the anti-culture that Katzenberg brings into our homes. Yes, it's spoofing, but it's creating a humor, a delight in the next and the next generation, a predilection to snicker, spit on, be bored by, avoid, turn away from, and yawn -- wake up for farts, toilet humor, crude "up yours," and painful down-playing of tenderness, love, respect kindness, innocence ... and, and, and ...

Well ... this animated feature is bright, brisk vaudeville that makes fun of everything, including itself and the multi-billion-dollar animation industry, and that is something that makes Katzensburg, DreamWorks, Pixar, other would-be animators, and the hundreds of accountants, theater owners, and investors fan-fantastically thrilled!

"SHREK" has had 3 sequels -- a Christmas special (Shrek the Halls), a Halloween special (Scared Shrekless) -- it's the 8th of the 10 Top 10 Films in the animated genre of Classic American Films poll by the American Film Institute -- it's number 2 in a Channel 4 poll of 100 Greatest Family Films (number 1 was ET).

And Shrek the Musical has had 441 performances on Broadway, Tony nominations and awards, and is currently on a North American tour, with a London West End production scheduled for June 2011.

Gee, that's jobs for a lot of our show biz friends.

Soo-o-o ...

I'm awarding "SHREK" and its creators an Em Award for brilliant, remarkable, amazingly successful, Artistic No-Goodery, even though I wish it wasn't creating a generation of laughers at stuff I don't find funny at all.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010


She looked so movie starlet perfect -- neat-featured, blue-eyed, natural blonde -- the child of an affluent Mormon family -- gentle, gentile was the look of this 14-year-old girl playing a harp.

The drama is over. The curtain is closed. As the stage manager in show biz says, "House lights back on!"

What a drama it was in June, 2002, when Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped from the bedroom she shared with her 9-year-old sister, Mary Katherine, who said a man with a knife appeared in their bedroom and threatened to kill everyone in the family if Elizabeth didn't come with him.

Daily alerts, interviews with the terrified, worried, but always poised parents, were interspersed with photos of a virginal Elizabeth playing the harp. Thousands of volunteers searched for her. There were prayers and candlelight vigils.

Educated by television crime shows, I figured the young girl was already a murder victim.

A handyman who'd worked for her family was accused. DNA and lie detector tests proved him innocent. When the man unexpectedly died, I couldn't help feeling the Smart family was somehow to blame.

Months were passing. There were flare-ups of news. Someone tried to abduct Elizabeth's cousin. Elizabeth's younger sister suddenly remembered another man -- a weirdo, a religious nut, who called himself Immanuel. The police immediately started looking for him.

Then, in March 2003, Elizabeth, disguised in a cheap grey wig, sun glasses and a head-covering, just happened to be spotted by a policeman, who began asking her questions.

It was a miracle, commentators said. I kept hoping for pictures of her and interviews with her, but all we got was Dad thanking God, and Mom, who told reporters that Elizabeth adjusted very quickly to being back home. "It's as if she'd never been away," Mom said.

Has it really been 8 years ago that all this happened?

Last month, during the trial of her abductor, we heard, finally, details of her sexual ordeal. The kidnapper, Brian David Mitchell, claims he has written his own gospel which he calls the "Book of Immanuel David Isaiah."

The 23-year-old Elizabeth testified that he "married" her, and raped her nightly, hoping to get her pregnant so he could have a child. In September, 2002, he'd moved her, and his wife, Wanda Barzee, to San Diego, continuing to rape Elizabeth nightly while seeking another younger, more malleable wife. Forcing Elizabeth to drink, smoke, and look at porn, he claimed that debasing her elevated her to higher spiritual level.

After his attempt to kidnap a young California girl failed, he was arrested for breaking a church window, and briefly jailed. Elizabeth, who'd learned to manipulate him, telling Mitchell that God had told her what to do, convinced him they should hitchhike back to Salt Lake City.

Asked why she didn't try to escape, Elizabeth said, "Mitchell said he would kill everyone in my family, if I tried to."

Guilty! Guilty -- is what I thought whenever I saw flashes of the latest hot news during the trial.

The angelic looking child, who played the harp, is still immaculate looking, poised, not prudish. Elizabeth was in control until a defense psychiatrist suggested that the mentally ill Mitchell belonged in a psychiatric hospital.

Finally there was drama! Elizabeth Smart "stalked" out. (There were no photographs of her rushing out, but I would have loved to see it.)

Mitchell, who playacted nuttiness throughout the trial, was found guilty. He'll be sentenced in May. His wife has already been tried, found guilty and sentenced to 15 years.

What are Elizabeth's plans? After the verdict, her father told reporters that his daughter planned to return to France and finish a mission for the Mormon Church that she was doing there, then return to Utah's Brigham Young University to finish working on her music degree.

In 2003, at age 15, during an interview about her ordeal, a reporter asked her if she had a boyfriend. Elizabeth said,"yes." We knew more about her then, than we do now. Her face is still a face on a cameo, perfect, classic, unreal.

How can she be 23 and not have a single scar on her that we can see, or hear? Is it her upbringing? Daddy is a motivational speaker. Mom is a nodding, paper-doll of a mother. Is it their religion that keeps them so quiet, silent, graceful, poised?

I wonder if there's a knot of anger in Elizabeth Smart. Somehow, I wish there were. I wonder if she still plays the harp?

Tuesday, December 28, 2010


Humans aren't alone. Romance appears to roam among animals too.

Here are illustrations by Dugaid Stermer, for Time Magazine.

For me, it's not just the pictures of these creatures that I enjoy -- it's their relationship to one another.

Known for their elaborate displays of public affection, these parrot pairs are often spotted engaging in open-beak kissing. The Mexican and Central American natives form a lifelong bond with their mates and share the responsibility of caring for younglings. Like bereft widowed humans, some parrots will die shortly after their partner does.

Commitment doesn't scare them. Unlike most of their fellow primates, nearly 99% of these South American natives establish lifelong bonds with their partners. In a show of their unyielding affection, the tiny monkeys may sleep together on a tree branch with their long tails intertwined.

Their love may last only one season, but it endures all manner of things. Separated for months at a time, the birds can pick out their mates among thousands of others.

Money can't buy love, but among bowerbirds, real estate sure can. To attract a partner, a male creates an ornate structure, known as a bower, out of sticks, moss and other objects, as a home for his potentially lifelong companion. Some males even use chewed-up berries to paint a bower's walls.

Love knows no intelligence. Burying beetles, so named because they bury the remains of small animals to use as food, may mate for life. They cooperate to raise their young, looking out for them even after they've hatched. They may not have glamorous lives, but they build a nice family.

These primates would much rather find love in short-term bonds than take the plunge. Lovers groom each other, kiss, make up after fights and can even take mini-vacations together. What's more, bonobos, close cousins of chimps, mate face-to-face.

Males can become so lovesick during courtship that they simply stop eating. Females are more levelheaded, at least when it comes to sex. They choose lovers wisely, typically waiting four years to mate.

Seemingly monogamous for at least part of the year, they often display affection by nipping, nuzzling and chasing their mate. Males and females care for their young together.

You won't find these rodents out on the prowl after a breakup. As one of the few mammals to display what scientists call social monogamy, they typically refuse to find another companion after a partner dies or otherwise goes missing.


Monday, December 27, 2010


Madame Secretary of State, you said something recently that got me wondering about where you stand on what's going on?

The Republicans don't call it a campaign, but they are pouring money into what's happening now, as if we're already into the presidential campaign of 2012.

Hillary, you recently said, "I think I'll serve as Secretary of State as my last public position." You explained that you would like to return to your roots as an advocate for women and children.

To me, that statement means that you have thought about running for president in 2012, and you wanted your supporters to know how you felt.

But if you were drafted, Hillary, somehow drafted into running, would you say NO? Or YES, because the Republican say-no-tactics are working. They're stopping the President.-- keeping him from creating jobs, and other urgent issues. Or NO, because Democrat liberals and conservatives, friends, good people you know and trust are vacillating -- it's a wrong time.

Hillary, you have changed -- your demeanor, hairdo, clothing style -- you've become a strong, sternly focused Secretary of State. Your charm, poise, and knowledge is used by you in a different and more aggressive way. But the new Hillary is as powerful, maybe more powerful than the old Hillary, whom we cheered, hoped for, and supported as a possible president, even though we chose Obama.

And a woman for president -- the educated, knowledgeable, experienced wife, mother, politician that Hillary Rodham Clinton is -- Hillary, you know there's no one like you, who can inspire other women's love, their trust and support.

Hey, if I'm thinking this, so are millions of other Americans.

Speaking of millions -- the money -- the $21 million you and Bill poured into your campaign -- has it been paid off? The talk about this almost completely disappeared. But last week, an email was sent out by your husband to get donations for the $2 million or so, that's still outstanding.

I don't think money is an issue for the Clintons. I think the Clinton's clear up the old bills, before they start a new campaign.

Hillary, if there was a ground swell of pressure, Hillary, would you say NO?

NO, you lost. you could lose again?
YES. Republicans have built a wall around Obama that's higher and stronger every day, and he's stuck!

NO -- it's a wrong time to put your hat in the ring! It's the end of Obama's 2nd year. It was a tough time for President Clinton, a tough time for FDR. Obama is doing what has to be done right now and doing it strongly and ... well ... maybe, possibly ... YES.

Click the link -- here's what Bill emailed to people who donated money previously. I think the Clintons are again, mulling over Hillary for President.

Sunday, December 26, 2010


JC and Emily recall when they lived in California and the balmy Christmas weather seemed strange.

Each year, they bought a three-foot tree. They decorated it, and greeted it on Christmas morning. After New Year's they planted the tree outside their log cabin home.

When they left California and moved back to New York City, there were eight "little" BIG trees on edge of their backyard at the top of Las Flores Canyon, on the outskirts of Malibu.

Emily recalls Christmas carols, singing carols in the car. But John's most favorite Christmas was the first one they celebrated together.

Saturday, December 25, 2010


This is an excerpt from my book "Splintered Heart." Is Marian Melnik me? Yes, AND no. All the characters in my novels have aspects of me. But the novel is not a story about me.

It was at Christmas time, when Marian Melnik was seven years old, that she had learned about praying.

The Melnik family was Jewish. They were not synagogue-goers. They were agnostics. Marian's father had explained it all to her in a cherished moment of real grown-up conversation.

"I'm an agnostic my dear, not an atheist. Atheism is something different." Anatol Melnik explained the difference to Marian carefully -- that there was a God but God wasn't necessarily Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha or the Lord. You could make up your own idea of God if you were agnostic.

Sometimes, when Daddy talked about things like Pharaoh and Ra, Thor and Vikings, Zeus and Hercules -- it was very interesting. But sometimes when he was talking about "alternative philosophies" like Ethical Culture, and "metaphysics" Marian could not help but let her mind wander. She would think ahead for big words to say, to show she understood. She knew her Daddy loved her smartness. He would smile, not his small-sized smile but his big one, when she managed to surprise him with a new big word.

"I absolutely comprehend," Marian said when her father was finished. And she did understand. Christmas was for Christians, not for agnostics.

Most all the children in the private school were Christians. The school was filled with red, blue, green, gold and silver decorations. There was a Christmas tree with colored lights, colored balls and tinsel in her classroom. There was going to be a Christmas party with candy canes, grab bag gifts, and Christmas carols.

Uncle Milton and Aunt Paula lighted candles, sang Hebrew songs, gave her cousins each a Chanukah gift -- last year a Mickey Mouse watch for Sammy, a locket for Natasha. Marian's best friend, Mary Ellen Warner was a High Episcopalian and she was going with her family to Acapulco for Christmas and New Year's. At Marian's home, the holidays meant that she didn't have to go to school.

But Agnostic was O.K., at least it made Marian one of a kind. Not "run of the mill" which was what Mary Ellen said about the Lutheran, Protestant, and Presbyterian girls in their class.

Marian tried to pray agnostically. She had been reading about Joan of Arc, who had talked to God and heard voices. Marian tried talking to her idea of God in her mind. She wanted Him to talk to her about Mamma.

Mamma stayed in bed most of the time. She was either tired or she had a headaches, or both things.

Daddy said, "Marian, I want you to promise that you will be brave and strong. And very gentle with Mamma. You've got to be the daughter and the son, a very extra special child for while."

In the bathroom with the door locked, Marian had looked it up in the Medical Book. She couldn't find out about "Tired" and "Headache" but she found out about Polio, Scarlet Fever, Sex, Spinal Meningitis, Syphillis, T.B. and Whooping cough.

She was terribly worried about keeping the promise that she'd made to Daddy. She prayed agnostically, that she wouldn't get one of the horrible diseases or the tired headache like Mamma.

All the girls in Marian's class expected dolls -- the kind that wet themselves or dolls with real human hair and wardrobes. One girl was getting a fur coat and the boys were hoping for radios or bicycles. Everyone knew it was parents who gave the presents but the talk was still of Santa Claus and what Santa Claus might be bringing them.

"I know Santa's bringing me a pair of pink satin toe shoes, and a Punch and Judy puppet theater," said Mary Ellen Warner. Mary Ellen was taking ballet for grace, and elocution lessons for poise. "What about you, Marian?"

"Probably my parents are going to give me an Encyclopedia Britannica." An encyclopedia had already been ordered, not for Christmas but for the family's general self-improvement.

"An encyclopedia?" Mary Ellen Warner wrinkled her nose the way she did when a boy came over to play with them.

"Actually I think I'm probably getting a Longines watch and a string of cultured of pearls and also probably a piano!" That impressed Mary Ellen Warner. When Mary Ellen got too snobby or stuck up, Marian had to invent ways of making her shut up.

"Couldn't we celebrate Christmas just this year, Mamma?" Marian asked her Mamma wistfully. Occasionally Mamma would say 'yes' to things without a great deal of fuss, but Mamma just said the usual -- "You'd better ask your father."

The thing about Christmas was not just the presents. It was the decorations and the music. All the children's voices lifted in song -- it made Marian feel as if she were part of a huge family holding hands around the equator of the world, looking up at the same stars and sending notes of music up into the clouds like the ever-larger smoke ring circles from her Daddy's cigarette.

The shiny fragile balls on the trees -- she wished she could have one of each color, just to hold them, look into them and see herself reflected. The icicle tinsel -- she wanted that too -- the silver fringe for a ballerina gown.

Last birthday, Marian's Daddy had taken her to Radio City Music Hall. She never would forget the vision -- the girl dancing with her Prince, her crown of diamond spires, her dress all glitter-gleam lace and sparkles.

And never ever would Marian forget the way the symphony orchestra came rising up from below -- musicians like penguins in their black and white suits, the silver and gold horns, the B O O M of the kettle drums, the up and down bowing-sticks of violins and cellos all moving together, all following their leader the Conductor who made the music get bigger and bigger until it filled every inch of blue space on the stage and in the theater which was one of the biggest theaters in the world -- her Daddy said.

"I am definitely going to be a musician when I grow up, a piano player or a conductor," Marian said to herself. You had to have alternatives, so if that didn't work out, Marian decided she wouldn't mind being a ballerina.

The Prince was part of it. Somewhere in the world, perhaps upside-down in China and growing up like her cousin Sammy was growing up -- there was a boy who would someday marry her. Marian knew, quite definitely, her Prince was not going to be fat like Sammy. Her Prince would definitely be as tall, as handsome as Daddy. She liked to imagine whirling and gliding with him to the rippling music that was in her ears when she was swinging on the swings at the playground.

A few weeks before Christmas, though she realized it was childish, Marian began praying for what she wanted from Santa. She was tentative at first. "Please let me get something for Christmas." But as the time grew closer, her prayers grew longer. She began to do "Now I lay me down to sleep." Then, to that prayer she added "God Bless Mamma, Daddy, Sara our maid, Uncle Milton, Aunt Paula, and my cousins," and onto that she added, "And could I have a string of pearls for Christmas. And a wrist watch. And could you consider a piano?

Marian wrote out a list, put it in an envelope addressed to Santa and placed it on the table in the hall, figuring Sara who was a good maid would show it to Mamma who would show it to Daddy. Probably they'd laugh but maybe they'd open it, and maybe they'd pay attention to the items on the paper.

The next day it was gone.

Nobody ever mentioned it.

A week before Christmas, Marian robbed her piggy bank. Using Mamma's nail file, she found she could scratch up into the slot and get out a few coins. In the locked bathroom, she managed to dig out two quarters, eight dimes, seventeen pennies, and three nickels.

More money came her way unexpectedly when she helped Sara organize the kitchen drawers. There was seventy-two cents in loose change which Sara said Marian could keep. And then on Sunday, when Marian got her Daddy his Times from the corner, he gave her a whole dollar bill tip.

The next day, at the 5 & 10, Marian bought a box of assorted balls and a pack of icicle tinsel. She wanted to have her own secret celebration of Christmas, her own private shrine. She knew even a small tree was out of the question, but she priced the miniature nativity scenes.

With $3.34 to start with, balls and tinsel using up $2.25, there was only $1.09 was left. It didn't take long to find out that even the least expensive "Little Town of Bethlehem" was out of the question, but on the other side of the counter there were other souvenirs -- Eiffel Towers, keys to the city, windmills, back-scratchers and rickshaws.

The rickshaw was IT. Such a tiny teeny thing, all hand carved wood -- wooden wheels with spokes like tooth-picks, tiny grips carved in the handles that pulled the carriage -- it even had a teeny wood-carved cushion and the smallest of small little foot-rests for the royal lady who would hire the rickshaw to take her through the busy streets of Japan and China.

The price was just 79 cents, so Marian bought it. She put the remaining 30 cents back into the piggy when she got home.

After stringing the colored balls on red yarn, Marian hung them in her window in a graceful scallop. She draped eight tinsel icicles between each ball. On the window sill she placed her green hair ribbon and some absorbent cotton. Once the royal rickshaw was carefully placed on the ribbon, it looked like a roadway surrounded by snow drifts.

Marian presented the shrine to her parents the way the guide at the Museum had presented the Egyptian exhibit. She stood up very straight, gestured to the window sill, explaining that decorations were traditional, it was important to conform to traditions since she was going to become a non conformist when she grew up, and celebrating Christmas was a way of orientating herself to the heritage of mankind.

Daddy did not say anything, but as he was examining the rickshaw, he smiled an extra big smile. Mamma said, "But darling, where did you get the money for all these things?"

"It's just leftover stuff from school. Some lady gave me the rickshaw. She didn't want it because it was made in Japan." Mamma was like Mary Ellen Warner. You sometimes had to invent things for Mamma. Little white lies were O.K. to tell, especially when you told them in order to be polite.

The explanation seemed to satisfy Mamma, and Daddy started talking about the boycott, the surplus inventory because of the War.

The last night before Christmas Eve, Marian looked out up at a star.

"Please dear God, a pearl necklace, a watch and maybe a piano -- I would certainly appreciate that, but I'd especially appreciate it if You would show me that You are there!" She was thinking of Joan of Arc and her voices. "Even if you can't give me those things, just give me a little sign that You can hear me."

Christmas Eve, she hung up a stocking and read a poem. So it would be a ceremony, she sang "Silent Night" and "Away in the Manger," then blew a kiss to the North, to the South, to the East and to the West. Checking the clock to be sure it was a full thirty minutes, she thought long, hard, and prayerfully about her Mamma, did "Now I lay me down to sleep" ten times, very slowly. The prayer wasn't to Santa Claus, it wasn't for pearls, watch, or piano. Marian wanted to know if there was a God and this was God's chance to prove it.

She left the window open wide even though it was freezing cold, just in case there was a Santa spirit that might want to come in.

Christmas morning Marian sprang out of bed and rushed to the window. The stocking was empty. There was no sign, not even the tiniest indication that God or Santa had heard her prayers or that either one of them or anything like God or Santa existed.

Her room was cold. She stayed there most of the day.

When Marian brought up the subject at dinner, Daddy explained it: "Praying is something that people invented, it gives them comfort. Don't count on praying, dear. You have to do things yourself. What you pray for you do not necessarily get!"

She nodded. The philosophy was very clear.

A week later, when Marian came home from school, Mamma was gone. Sara said, "Your mother is in the hospital."

Marian felt as if she was going down the swooping curve on the Coney Island roller coaster and had left her stomach behind at the top of the hill. She wondered if what had happened had anything to do with being an agnostic, disobeying her Daddy's rules and praying to God and Santa.

Marian put her four dolls in a shopping bag to give to Mary Ellen Warner who thought having a lot of dolls was very important. The green ribbon went into the waste basket, the cotton was flushed down the toilet. Then she broke the Christmas tree balls one by one and put the pieces in the kitchen trash can. She handed the royal rickshaw to Sara the maid.

Sara said, "Maybe you should keep it, and give it to your baby brother. He's coming home with your Mamma day after tomorrow."

"OH!" Marian said.

She retrieved the green ribbon, put it and the royal rickshaw on a high shelf, so she could use them next Christmas, and teach her new brother about God and Santa watching over you whether you liked it or not.

Friday, December 24, 2010


Emily Frankel introduces the poem that Clement Clarke Moore wrote and published in 1823.

John Cullum reads aloud, "Twas the Night Before Christmas."

Thursday, December 23, 2010


Tune & Lyrics for the Rolling Stones hit,

I can't get no satisfaction,
I can't get no satisfaction.
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try.
I can't get no, I can't get no ...

When I'm drivin' in my car
And a man comes on the radio,
He's tellin' me more and more
About some useless information
Supposed to fire my imagination.
I can't get no, oh no no no.
Hey hey hey, that's what I say.

I can't get no satisfaction,
I can't get no satisfaction.
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try.
I can't get no, I can't get no.

Em lyrics:

I can't get no relaxation,
I can't get no jubilation,
When I'm watchin' my TV
And some politic politician --
He gives me half-baked information,
Firin' up my participation
In a non-stop oh-Obama-rama.

I can't get no satisfaction,
I can't get no satisfaction.
No dope , no hope,
No belief, no relief,
Just perspiration,
And tribulation.
Hey hey hey, that's what I say.

Just guys and gals and their pals
Saying no, no dough, no go,
No solution just revolution.
Get out the rats the Democrats
Become fan, a Repuli-can
You try and try, they lie and lie.
You can't get no plan of action

I can't get no interaction
Just dissing dis satisfaction.
I can't get no, oh no no no.
No go, just eneeni meeny moe --
Get Obama by his toe
Hey hey hey, that's what I say.
No satisfacting interaction --
Just dis dis dis, dis satisfaction.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

BEST GIFTS (video)

Emily Frankel talks about a not very expensive, not very rare gift that she was given -- actually in brown manila envelope, stuffed with crinkled-up newspaper.

Why the gift is still her favorite, most loved gift is not the way it looks, but what the giver figured out, and why the gift was chosen.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010


Two years ago we were inundated with sexy, personal headlines about Eliot Spitzer and a prostitute. He resigned as governor of New York State.

Last year, Eliot Spitzer appeared occasionally as a guest commentator on various news shows. When CNN announced he'd be joining the network to host a round-table discussion program with conservative journalist Kathleen Parker, I thought good for him!

The stink of the sandal is still there. But when he was Governor, and after, whenever I've seen him as a guest commentator on various news shows, I think he's exceptionally clear, sharp, right on the point.

For more than 8 weeks, the Parker-Spitzer show has been on CNN week nights, at 8 p.m. Kathleen Parker is a Pulitzer prize-winning columnist, a Republican conservative, who's known for bashing the members of her own party -- an interesting contrast to the Democratic Spitzer.

There's a good-size older audience, but the ratings for the age group (25-54), that advertisers want is not good. Though CNN claims they're not worried, there's talk that co-host Parker might be replaced.

On the air, Parker has expressed annoyance with the way Spitzer dominates the show. Last week, she "stormed off the show" in a huff. Though Parker returned two days later and didn't deny that she'd been angry, she muttered sardonically, "I don't storm, I saunter."

Okay -- I admire and respect Eliot Spitzer's opinions, but clearly, he has a problem dealing with women. Like former President Clinton, Spitzer's sexual predilections have been laid out in detail for anyone who's curious.

It's taken time, but the scandal surrounding Bill Clinton has faded. He is a major ambassador in today's world.

Spitzer's skills, like Clinton's, are remarkable. An Obama supporter, Spitzer recently discussed on the air, seven promises the President needs to make in his next speech to the nation. Spitzer's ideas are worth noting. Obama is in a tough spot. He needs media support, and the Parker-Spitzer show could help.

Katheen Parker has said, "I'm a big fan of Barack Obama, not one of those Republicans who want him to fail." She written about President Bill Clinton, and said he should not have been impeached. She believes Anita Hill's allegations against Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas. She's criticized Glenn Beck as a former alcoholic, and said in Beck's last big rally he displayed the "grandiosity of a former addict." She's called Tea Partiers "teabaggers" in an article. She's referred to evangelical Christians in another column as "gorillas," "low-brows," and "oogedy-boogedy." (Definitely, KP has a sense of humor.)

Here my advice, Mr. Eliot Spitzer. You made mistakes. You and your wife Silda are back together -- you've said you see each other every day and every night. Obviously marriage counseling has helped. She's working on her projects and you are working on yours. Maybe you've rebuilt your sexual relationship with Silda ... maybe you haven't. In any case, you have paid a huge price for not being able to communicate with your wife.

You've got an interesting, good partner on the show. Share your passion for truth with her -- hear her -- don't just come to your own conclusions -- hear and deal with what Kathleen Parker says and feels. Let her speak. the two of you could be a dynamite news team.

Silda stuck with you. I'm not sure CNN will. But if you can make room for Kathleen Parker and her ideas in your mind, your show will be a show that a larger audience and I will want to listen to every night.

Monday, December 20, 2010


When is the last time you looked up at the night sky and saw a sky full of stars?

When I was very little, I looked up and saw diamonds in the sky -- so many sparkling, blinking speckles -- tiny twinkling jewels overhead. My sister said it was the Milky Way. For me, it was a carpet of diamonds, a pathway for me to follow into the future.

And here I am in New York City, and when I look up -- no stars. never a single star. The child in me is convinced there are no stars in the sky above New York City -- just the red glow of lights from the city.

Oh yes, I have certainly thought about life on other planets, and I wonder if there are other worlds in the universe where people might be living -- and yes, I've thought about aliens -- are there, were there, could there be?

I find myself humming the song from the musical, 1776 -- the plaintive, echoing melody -- "Is – any – body – there?"

I guess other worlds are on my mind, because everything around us is so very crowded. There's almost nothing you can do in New York City, without dodging people on the street, saying excuse me, or being jostled, bumped as you enter a store, and stand in line, waiting to ask a question, or pay a cashier.

Queues -- twice today, I was put on hold on the telephone, and told by a recorded voice "you are in queue" -- every day, you're in some kind of a queue.

Well, here's what I found out about other worlds.

Since 2009 a Kepler space telescope has been orbiting our sun. Though there are hundreds of billions of stars in our galaxy, there are just (approximately), 500 "exoplanets" (that's what they're called) orbiting our own sun -- no earth-size planet in any star's "habitable zone," where things are not too hot or too cold, but okay for life.

Just a few weeks ago, a planet called Gliese 581g was identified by a team of American astronomers.

Other scientists have been shaking their heads, raising questions about whether it exists at all.

But, if the Kepler telescope, with its sensors fixed at about 100,000 sun-like stars, detects dimming in one of the stars in the Gliese system, (dimming about once every year), it means the planet has an orbit like Earth's.

Gliese 581g could be it. Kepler scientists will make their first major announcement in February, about the planets they've found so far. The sheer number of stars out there makes some earth-like worlds all but inevitable. The search will then be on -- the scientists will be looking for any Earth-like life upon them.

Want to find out? $20 million buys a sightseeing trip in orbit -- there's been a first tourist, a second, a third, and two would-be space tourists, actress Cindy Crawford is one of them.

""Is – any – body – there? Does -- any -- body -- care?" goes the song.

I care! I think a lot of us care, and we're waiting, wondering. Maybe if they lowered the price to $5 million, there will be more tourists signing up for sightseeing trips.

Sunday, December 19, 2010


John Cullum loved the OZ books. He describes how he prayed, as a kid, that he would never ever forget how great the OZ books were.

Emily, knowing his interest in the Bible, asks if it was his favorite book. JC talks about the Bible stories that were told to him over and over. -- how some of them frightened him -- how he knew them by heart.

Then Shakespeare came into his life. John explains how it happened, and how he was astounded, fascinated, riveted, when he read "Hamlet." It was when he studied the part of "Marcellus," which he was hired to play, that he realized the power of words.

Saturday, December 18, 2010


President Obama is doing exactly what he said he would do.

I'm hooting, clapping my hands, shouting YIPPEE, hurray.

What a relief to find an article written by a Harvard Professor, a guy who's written other books, who's lectured about Obama, taught classes, is respected and praised by the New York Times. Professor James T. Kloppenberg has just published "Reading Obama," a book that I'm summarizing right here, right now, because it's factual and affirmative.

Kloppenberg is telling the moaners-who-think-Obama's-a-wimp -- the complainers-who- think-Obama's-a-socialist, the Dems-on-the- left and the Dem-right-wingers -- that President Barack Obama, (whom you elected), told you before you elected him, that he does not share your belief that the Democrats are right and the other guys, the Republicans, and Tea Partiers are wrong.

Kloppenberg has read, studied, and written about what Obama told us in the two books Obama wrote -- one in 1995, "Dreams of My Father," and the other in 2006 -- "The Audacity of Hope."

(I love the titles.)

Obama said in his published books -- he is wary of absolutes -- he doesn't make blanket statements; he doesn't have pat formulas; he doesn't announce his principles -- he's committed to a "Christian tradition and prizes humility, and social service."

He said that he goes for experimentation -- he won't demonize his opponents -- he seeks them out and listens to them, trying to understand how they think and why they see the world as they do.

(The word is EMPATHY -- Obama has said "empathy" was something his mother drilled into him.)

Obama wrote, "Disagreeing is part of our personalities as Americans .... our differences are important, not trivial."

And pay special attention to this, readers -- Obama said his opponents hold principles, ideas as deeply rooted in American history, American tradition, as his own.

In "Audacity of Hope," he wrote, “I am obligated to try to see the world through George Bush’s eyes, no matter how much I may disagree with him. That’s what empathy does—it calls us all to task, the conservative and the liberal … We are all shaken out of our complacency."

Kloppenberg shows, with quotes, that Obama's decisions about health care, financial reform, his opposition to the Iraq war, his support of the Afghanistan war, were based on Obama's ideas and explained by Obama in "Audacity of Hope."

There's much more, many more specifics about Obama in the books which you can buy and read yourself. What delights me is that Kloppenberg's book is getting attention -- he's letting anti-Obama folks know that we are getting from our President exactly what Obama said he planned to do.

In "Reading Obama," author James T. Kloppenberg said that you can be a Republican and completely opposed to Obama, but "We have a man in the White House, a philosopher president, a rare breed that can be found only a handful of times in American history. There’s John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison and John Quincy Adams, then Abraham Lincoln, and, in the 20th century, just Woodrow Wilson.”

So, readers -- next time you're getting into a fight with one of your former friends, who's convinced the country's been ruined, etc. by Barack Obama, you can say I understand -- I don't agree, but I understand -- and maintain the friend as a friend.

Friday, December 17, 2010


Do we, did we ever play around?

Why am I opening this subject? Because I wrote about Tiger Woods playing around. And also, I was uploading a new video for our Airbroadcasting Channel on You Tube -- we've been getting so many compliments from strangers as well as friends, about what a loving couple we are.

Playing around was in vogue when we were "in vogue" -- pictures and articles about us were in Newsweek, in the NY Times; we were mentioned quite often in gossip columns, and seen in the chic places with other "names."

Did we play around? Not really, but ... well, we were a very pretty, good-looking, lovey-dovey couple and ... well ...

Click and read about JC and Em playing around.

Thursday, December 16, 2010


<--------- Cyanobacteria. It may be a cure for cancer.

Scientists are saying, more frequently nowadays, that there is hope, a real possibility of being cured, if you have cancer.

The Cancer Treatment Centers advertisements on television, make it sound as if they're the place to go to for support, for help, and possibly a cure. But it's an advertisement -- most treatment centers are profit-making corporations that are selling you hope as well as treatment.

There IS hope -- new medications are already being used. Of course, we know that a cure depends on what you've got, and how long you've had it.

We see "happy" Michael Douglas -- he looks sort of happy and hasn't lost his hair. But he looks worn, and gaunt, almost frail, and it wasn't so long ago that Patrick Swayze was whooping it up, saying he was beating Pancreatic Cancer, and he didn't beat it.

But hope lives in a fighting spirit -- think of Lance Armstrong, professional road racing cyclist, who won the Tour de France a record seven consecutive times, after having survived testicular cancer, with a tumor that had metastasized to his brain and lungs.

Cyanobacteria is found in brackish muck in the Indian River Lagoon, on the Atlantic Coast of Florida.

One cyanobacterium called "Symploca" emits a toxin that attacks tumors. The guy who's mining it, collecting, studying it, hoping to get it FDA approved, is Hendrik Luesch, a 40-year-old associate professor of medicinal chemistry at the University of Florida, in Gainesville.

He has sprinkled it on bone, breast, colon cancer, and they have withered before his eyes. He used "largazole" (another cyanobacterium), that doesn't do anything to healthy tissue.

Luesch hopes to have CYANOBACTERIA on the market in 10 years -- that's how long it usually takes to get FDA approval.

What's going on? Scientists have discovered that 60% of drugs are natural products, or mimics of natural products. Advances in technology are making it easier and profitable to hunt for drugs in coral reefs, and deep-sea trenches. And many research teams are experimenting with marine-derived compounds for treating cancer, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, malaria, diabetes, depression, asthma, and other ailments.

There is real hope. Reach for it. Grab it. Hold onto it.

If I've said that before, it's because hope is your fighting spirit and fighting keeps you vigorously alive.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010


Now that "Scottsboro Boys" is closed, Emily asks John Cullum how it feels to be unemployed.

John jokes about the reality that all actors, understand. The fact is, all acting jobs are "temporary." He describes his discussion with actor, George C. Scott, when they were working at the Circle in the Square, in "Boys in Autumn." Even though Scott was employed in films and theater, more than most actors, he also felt what John feels as a show closes -- that he will never work again.

Emily knows John will miss the "boys" -- they were like a family.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010


Bette Davis said, "Aging ain't for sissies." Others have said it too.

I hear Bette, not the million nagging voices that tell you endlessly through the day, every day, that you are old, aging, no longer qualified to take center stage, and be what's important, what people want to pay attention to right now.

Bette Davis let herself look old as she grew older; she played older women. She kept working as an actress until the end of her life. There have been other great stars before her and after her, but no one quite like her What she did as an actress was always interesting, fascinating, amazingly truthful.

All those adjectives -- I'd like them to apply to me, as I work and strive. I am sure there is no one quite like me in my world, but ... gee , like the plant in the hallway that I wrote about the other day -- my bonsai with some of its leaves becoming less glossy, fading, a few falling off -- I'm seeing age happening to myself.

So how do I handle growing older, and older and ... .older ?

Before I pulled my thoughts together, I let my fingers fly and made a list of the aging things I've noticed about ME.

It was realistic.

Well, I am not going to share it. I am not planning to call attention to all those things one can see in the mirror, usually, before anyone else sees it.

Are you a sissy if you don't grow old gracefully, or a bigger sissy if you fight like hell to stay young, look young, act young?

The age things hit you, slowly at first. A cramp, a muscle, the whistles that you used to get and are not getting now, the casual remarks friends make, that suggest that you really shouldn't try to do thus-and-so because ... well ... you might get hurt. And your checkups with your dentist, your doctor, plus the ads for medicines, the references to retiring, to buying insurance and those age categories -- over thirty five -- 40 to fifty -- fifty to retirement -- fifty to seventy. And the fact that age numbers beyond seventy are rarely mentioned -- just huzzahs and news alerts about someone very frail looking who's hanging around in his/her nineties!

Stop, stop, you want to shout, as you change the channel, or turn the page.

But talk of the future keeps echoing, and in the night, when you can't sleep, your night thoughts are not bad dreams -- they are realistic inklings, forebodings of the future.

That's tough to shuck off. It can hang over your day. That is NOT for sissies.

Advice: You can fence it out, block it off or turn negative predictions into wry, humorous exchanges. What is better is -- become the plant on your window sill, or wherever it is. Water the plant, don't over water. flick off the fading leaves, don't let a pile accumulate on top of the earth in and around the urn, in which the plant, (YOU), are growing.

We were brought up to live, and living is doing -- seeing, tasting, feeling, learning. A sissy closes off the air, the light and the outside world. If you're not a sissy, be what I call a "boldy" -- a darter, darting in and out of air, light, and whatever is beyond the surroundings of home -- dart into the mystery of the unknown.

Yes, I'm saying -- go up, not down as you age. Reach up and out, and go beyond.