I will tell one Yaphet Kotto story today, though it really belongs to Tom Fontana, the mastermind of "Homicide: Life on The Street." Anyway, the character of Al Giardello was based on Gary D'Addario, the real-life Italian-American shift commander in my source book for the drama..
...But when Yaphet signed on to take the role, there was a natural inclination to change the character to reflect ethnicity. But Tom and Barry Levinson, in a decision as inexplicable as it was brilliant, said fuck it, he's Al Giardello and whether he's the child of a...
...mixed marriage or an adopted kid or whatever, he identifies as Sicilian. We're going to go with it. And Yaphet just went with it, relishing the occasional Italian phrase and talking with his hands at points. The only complication as far as Tom was concerned...
...was Yaphet's choice to at points deliver some of his lines in a Brando-like mumble worthy of Don Corleone. At some moment on set, Tom took Yaphet aside and said he needed to enunciate more, especially on lines involving exposition...
"Tom," Yaphet explained, "I'm playing the Sicilian."
"Yaphet, can you understand me right now?" Tom countered.
Yaphet allowed that he could.
"Yaphet, I am Sicilian."
Which left everyone including Yaphet laughing.
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I’ll bite. A less anachronistic and simplistic take might be to note that the last of The Wire was written and shot in 2007, when GTTF didn’t exist and most of those so corrupted were not even out of the police academy, that the drama...
....critique was not simply good cops stymied but targeted at a culture iofmass arrests, drug warring door-on-the-table that leads inevitably to GTTF and the exalting of such , and that time doesn’t stand still. Eventually, Herc and Carver...
...become the majors and captains and train the next generation in what they know — and don’t. And the sporadic corruption and collapse of supervision goes citywide.
It just occurred to me to tell the consummate story of the family wrought by Bernard and Dorothy Simon, the great continuing saga involving the three-volume hardback set entitled "The Secret Diaries of Harold Ickes" Bear with me:
Once upon a time, in a hamlet called Silver Spring, my parents occupied a rancher adorned with three full walls of built-in book shelving as well as additional book shelves scattered throughout the kid's rooms. Nonetheless, my father's cup runneth over. Understand...
...that this was a man for whom a trade paperback was an affront to literacy, while a pocket paperback was suitable only for overseas guidebooks and the sort of genre fiction that is to be left to the tides at the beach. Everything else, hardback...
POINT OF ORDER: I have been reminded by some of the more ledger-account-minded of you that I promised to randomly abuse a new follower when the Twitter counter turned over on 300K on this account. Now, it seems, that mark was attained during the recent hijinx...
...with the taintsniffing wonder that is Hewitt and I have no way of discerning which digital camp follower deserves to be so rated. So instead, and by means of apology, I will address some contempt to this platform as a whole. To wit....
...Every last fucking thing that is wrong with Twitter as a platform for human discourse can be summed up by this ensuing reality: When one seeks to engage in serious and contextualized discourse and/or rhetorical debate about one of the issues of our day, and one does so...
Hewitt, you hollowed-out little fucksquib, you've crossed the only rubicon that truly matters here. In your transparent attempt to cater to the beshitted and bespittled deplorati who easily squee at any half-ass trope that imagines decadent and vile elites, you have wantonly...
...slandered me through a linkage to this Hollywood locale. If you ever get a single, lonesome fact correct in your entire fecal-flecked career of rote hackery -- and that is an ambition to exceed your entire skillset -- know this: I live and work in Baltimore, Maryland, where...
...the citizenry make a point of pausing in our routine of nightly intramural violence and disorder whenever we catch the scent of a true and enduring piece of shit edging over the city line, whereupon we close ranks and hunt that low fucker en masse, bag him live...
"Planes Trains & Automobiles" is the finest Thanksgiving film experience that humans can achieve. We shall not give pause for any discussion or dissent.
"Those aren't pillows" is the finest line of dialogue in the finest Thanksgiving film experience.
"How does he know where we're going?" is the second finest line of dialogue in the finest Thanksgivinpg film experience.
Already, I am upset to be living in a world without Carl Reiner and I only know the man his public work and essence. But I have one small remembrance of a random encounter that makes me laugh and I'm gonna share: Long time ago I was a newspaper reporter and I had the chance...
...to write a TV script with another newspaperman and college friend, the late David Mills. Having been partially rewritten by a couple guys who actually knew their business (Thanks, Yosh & Tom) it got an award nom in Hollywood. And so Mills and I rented monkey suits and flew...
...out to LA to attend the ceremony. Carl Reiner was there, as I recall, for a lifetime achievement award and was pretty much the main attraction and I was as awed as any civilian can be. Mills, too. At some point before our category, some elfin, 95-pound female writer...