The Moody Bugle

A Most Pleasant Surprise

Mon, 24 Nov 2008 19:01:39 GMT

I've been at this entertainment game for 33 years.

I did my first "celebrity" interview in 1976 with the late Bill Bixby. It was a treat. We talked for 90 minutes about movies, TV, art, families, books -- everything. I remember that today as one of my favorites.

Since that time, I've interviewed literally hundreds of celebrities, from Gregory Peck and Tyne Daly to Angela Lansbury, Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson. I've had lunch with big-time movie producers, dinner with award winning actors, and breakfast with a gorgeous young actress, which sounds a lot more interesting than it really was -- it was 10 am and the only time she had between scenes at a loud and noisy studio.

Some of the stars have been open. Some have been difficult. Some have been jokey. Others sarcastic. I've met them all. And, yet, it seems that very few of them have hit the "tone" I was expecting when I met them. They weren't necessarily the people I expected them to be. Jack Lemmon was. Jane Fonda wasn't. Mickey Spillane was. Mickey Dolenz wasn't. Michael Douglas was. Jerry Lewis wasn't. Then, was, oddly enough. Gregory Peck was. Julio Iglesias wasn't. Rachel Ray -- omigod -- wasn't. Oprah was. (But that was a long time ago, before she became Oprah -- Queen of the Universe. I haven't talked to her since, so I don't know how she's changed.)

It's a roll of the dice whenever you talk to a celebrity. Especially, I've found, in a red carpet situation. They're moving. You're desperate for a quick bite (hopefully, live for the 6pm news back home) and it's all craziness. Nothing work the way it does. People's true personalities emerge.

In the press corral, the reporters and photographers jockey for position and fight for what they need. Oh, the humanity.

Meanwhile, the publicists are making sure that schedules are kept, the big names get their interviews and the star is not inconvenienced. They push and shove who they need to push and shove to make sure things get pushed and shoved right along the schedule.

And then comes the star, striding the carpet, trying to find a comfortable line between promoting his movie, keeping his sanity, appearing human and not creating a moment that will wind up being the hit of You Tube for the next six weeks.

It's difficult to do, like juggling hand grenades. Or cats. Same diff.

And, yet, Will Smith does it. Somehow, the guy moves through the crowd, making time for the fans, promoting his film (Seven Pounds. December 19th. I really liked it. Made me cry buckets.) and still getting to the reporters for their little moments of biting entertainment journalism.

And, somehow, in all of it, he remained human. Yes, he was the star. Yes, he was the reason we were all there at the Colorado Center Theater. Yes, he was, and remains, Will Smith. But he was the guy I hoped he would be. And he took the time to talk to me about what I wanted to ask. And, it was just plain great.

As he walked on, late for the screening, but still working both the crowds and the reporters, I realized that he was the real thing.

Some people would say, I bought into the image he was trying to present.

Perhaps.

I like to think, that I got to meet the real person.

I got to meet a mensch.

It's always a pleasure.

Targeting the Families

Thu, 04 Sep 2008 22:39:59 GMT

Late night TV comics and talk show hosts are notorious for taking on politicians of all parties for any misstep, misquote, mistake or misdirection.

And Alaska Governor (and Republican VP nominee) Sarah Palin is no different.

Dave and Jay and Conan and Craig and even Jon have all teed off on the Governor's speech, style and political stands.

On the other hand, they've either ignored or tread lightly, upon her family. And I appreciate that -- specifically the story of Palin's unwed, pregnant, teenaged daughter.

On Tuesday night, each comedian touched on the story. Letterman did it in his final joke of the monologue.

"Here's good news, ladies and gentlemen," Letterman said. "The Palin family crisis that we were talking about on Sunday and Monday, that has been solved now and, today, the baby is being adopted by Angelina Jolie."

For three of the other four, Democrat John Edwards became the butt of their jokes.

"Gov. Palin announced over the weekend that her 17-year-old unmarried daughter is five months' pregnant," Jay Leno said, "And you thought John Edwards was in trouble before! Now he has really done it."

That's the way Craig Ferguson and Conan O'Brien both handled the subject as well.

"I don't think that a young lady getting pregnant should even be news," said Ferguson on the "Late Late Show." "Unless John Edwards is the father. Then that is kinda news."

O'Brien joked that Palin said that "we should never have introduced her to John Edwards."

As for John Stewart of "The Daily Show," he never mentioned it. Although -- one skit did have a pregnant cloud float through it.

I understand that the comics couldn't ignore it. The situation is there. It had to be dealt with in some way shape or form. But I'm glad they didn't hammer the kid and I'm glad they dropped the entire subject after only one night.

Families, ALL families, whether they be Republican or Democrat, whatever the race, creed, color, religion or gender orientation, have problems. If you have teenagers, you have mistakes. In what you did, in what they did. That's just the way it goes. For the vast majority of us, those problems and mistakes don't have to be played out, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, on the 24-hour news channels for the entire world to see and debate.

Most of us get to deal with our family problems in the quiet of our own homes. (Which, depending on the subject matter, may not be all that quiet.)

While Sarah Palin's positions and statements, experience and history are all fair game for the media (and that's not sexism), her family should not be -- even for the comics.

It's tough enough to grow up without your mom suddenly running for Vice President and shoving you, your pregnancy, your boyfriend and a potential shotgun marriage into the harsh light of the national media.

In fact, I would think it's darned near impossible.

40 Years -- And the Feeling Remains

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 19:50:44 GMT

June 5, 2008

Forty years ago today, I stepped out of my basement bedroom and into the kitchen of our Michigan home. My dad was sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a Kent (this was almost exactly one year to the day before the massive heart attack that drove him from butts cold turkey).

The radio was on. The usual morning music and farm prices had been taken over by the harsh staccato of a news broadcaster.

My father only said one thing to me.

"They shot him."

And I knew immediately who he meant.

By the next morning, Robert F. Kennedy had joined Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, on the altar of the martyred of 1968.

I was still a teenager.

I lost my innocence that day.

And gained cynicism.

It was an unfair trade, but necessary to survive the world at large.

A Reminder of Paranoid Days Gone By

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 19:38:27 GMT

When I get a fortune cookie, I get one of two things inside: either, a) a fortune; or, b) a "wise saying."

A fortune is usually a prediction of good luck coming my way, such as, "You will find a great wad of cash in that pair of jeans you haven't worn in two years," or, "You will discover a colony of yellowjackets living in that hole on the deck."

A wise saying is usually a, well, a wise saying, like, "A fool and the wad of cash he found in his jeans are soon parted," and, "Yellowjackets tend to sting anything they can within a five-mile radius when aroused by a stick."

So, you can imagine my surprise when I got a fortune cookie from Opera Colorado promoting their new opera "Nixon in China."

It read, "Beware Dancing Communists."

Now, to me -- that's a wise saying.

I'm sure that's some clever reference to the opera, but having grown up during the Cold War, wondering why that man who sounded like Boris Badenov was painting a bullseye in our back yard, I took it to heart.

I have always been wary of dancing Communists. It's just a fact of life for me.

I've always been wary of them dancing, singing, running, jumping, dressing, calf roping, ascending, descending and driving tanks through my neighborhood.

I know it's paranoid. I can't help it. It's just the way I was brought up.

Movies warned us ("Big Jim McLain"). TV warned us ("The Big Picture"). Newspapers warned us (It was the McCarthy era). Cartoons warned us ("Make Mine Freedom"). Even comic books warned us. (I remember one where Commies took over Washington DC and proceeded to blow up all the monuments, each explosive panel painted in gripping, gory, gruesome detail. Yeow! That was great reading!)

I still harbor the odd belief that jumping under a school desk will protect me from an atomic blast ("Duck -- and -- Cover!"), that a little bit of radiation from above ground atomic testing is good for you ("Mmmmm ... taste that Strontium 90!") and that a massive defense budget -- and American ingenuity -- will always keep the Red Menace at bay.

I know better, now, but I've got to admit that deep in the recesses of my brain, right over there next to the well-thumbed National Geographics, there's a small box of paranoid memories that occasionally whisper, "Hey, dillweed! We're still here."

And I shudder.

Nobody gets out of childhood clean.

Bike Racing for Everyone in Ft. Collins

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 22:04:20 GMT

To those who race bikes, Six Day Races are exactly what they sound like: races that last six days on a bike without a break.

And, yet, a group of riders and racing promoters in Fort Collins have taken that title and given it a new twist: Six Days of racing on six Sundays in a row, through May and into June, on the .4 of a mile CSU Oval in the middle of campus.

And what racing it is!

Slideshow: Photos of June 2's races

There are numerous categories, involving every possible age group, bicycle type, skill level and gender.

There are races for licensed, adult riders on track bikes and road bikes, as you might imagine.

But, then, there are races for kids, ages 7-12 and 13-17 on bikes that range from cut down road bikes to BMX bikes, pink pastel first bikes to tricked out speedsters.

Or, anyone, of any age, on a cruiser bike gets their own category and races as well. One guy, in fact, raced a classic Stingray style bike with a banana seat. He took a magnificent face plant in the last ride of the day. He was okay.

The race styles change as well, from one lap Chariot races, to multi lap points races (with $$ prizes) to 3 lap "Win and Out" races. The packs of racers are big, the sprints are very fast, and the entire program moves very quickly. And that's because the program is so well planned and laid out. There is never a break in the action. The crowds on hand, and they were considerable, were never at a loss for something to watch. (Including a track stand competition, where riders balanced on their bikes, without pedaling, for two minutes and 45 seconds, first with two hands on the handlebars, then one, then none. Winner carried off a Chipotle burrito. I fear I would have carried off a broken arm.)

It was a great way to spend a beautiful Sunday afternoon. And I can't wait to go back again.

There are two more Sundays of racing left this season, June 8 and June 15 (Rain Date: June 22). Admission to watch is free. There is a $10 entry fee to race.

For more information on watching, racing, check out the website for the Fort Collins Velodrome Association: fcvelodrome.org

(My thanks to Christy Barry for his marvelous pictures of the day in Ft. Collins. See the complete cbs4denver.com slideshow.)

The Invitation Tango

Thu, 22 May 2008 20:49:40 GMT

So, while my wife and I are busy addressing (and paying for) invitations to my daughter's graduation party, she bounces gaily into the room to inform us that despite the fact that not a single invitation has gone out in the mail, she has already received 23 RSVP's.

And how is such a thing possible?

Obviously, I'm an analog mind living in a decidedly digital world.

You see, while we were busy picking out invites and the right picture to send along with it and addressing envelopes and slapping on postage, she was on the computer doing a mass email to all her buddies on Facebook.

I lick 100 envelopes.

She pushes "Enter."

So, how fair is that?

Hell Hath No Fury

Thu, 15 May 2008 21:14:47 GMT

It seems my mother has taken note of, and umbrage to, my biography which resides within this website. With that umbrage in mind, and, as her inspiration, she has written a response to that biography. READ IT HERE

All I can say in response is -- I love her. And I don't THINK I owe her money.

-- Greg Moody

My New Friend

Tue, 06 May 2008 21:43:24 GMT

I went to the Roller Derby on Saturday. It was a BLAST! The action was fast and fierce, the crowd was rowdy, the aluminum bleachers incredibly uncomfortable (bring your own chairs) and everybody in my family had a great time. My daughters are now proudly wearing their Rocky Mountain Roller Girls shirts to school.

Some good time.

Incidentally, I made a new friend while I was there. Jerry -- or Terry -- (either I couldn't hear properly due to his screaming girlfriend or he couldn't remember his own name, a distinct possibility) had come into the Bladium on a party bus. Buy a ticket, get all the free beer you want, enjoy the game and have a great time.

Oh, Jerry -- or Terry -- did. He was sloshed. Hammered. Blotto. Three sheets to the wind. Gone gonerson. Stinking.

You get the idea. He had been enjoyed a malted grain beverage or two.

His girlfriend was much the same way. In fact, she had one of two volumes all night: either she was screaming at the top of her lungs for 20-30 seconds at a crack, or, she was silent and morose, sliding down between the bleachers to the floor below. (Not so gone though that she couldn't reach up and find her beer ...)

They came, they went, they returned late in the second half. About then, Jerry (Terry) leaned over to me and shouted "You know ... your mustache is legend. Can I touch it?"

To which I said, "No, I'd rather you didn't."

"Oh, come on. Just let me touch your mustache."

I thought about it for a second, assumed (in error) that I could wash off any dread diseases before they found their way up my nose and said, "Ok, sure, go ahead."

Well, Jer (Ter) DIDN'T touch my mustache. I don't think he could have found it if he had tried. It was too much like a precision movement. Instead, he leaned forward, ran his hands through my hair and hugged me.

I didn't move. But, my family did, laughing madly, they scooted away so as not to be associated with me in any way. (Yes, I can always rely on them when the chips are down.)

I patted Jerry (Terry) on the back and finally he broke. He was very happy.

"Thanks, man. You're a legend," and his eyes drifted back to the bout.

I sat there for a second, looked to my wife and daughters for support (which, incidentally, was NOT forthcoming), then drifted back to the bout myself.

The Roller Girls beat Rhode Island, 135 to 9. It was a blowout of epic proportions.

Great moves. Great action. Great fun. And the Jammer, She Who Must Not Be Named, #88, was simply phenomenal. Sure, it was rowdy. But we can't wait to get back to another game. It was completely out of the ordinary for us.

Still, I couldn't help think of Jerry (Terry) and his trip back to the party bus and more beer and fun, wondering, in his bleariness, if, in fact, he had wiped boogers in my hair.

I shampooed myself bald that night.

But I had made a friend.

A Participant, Not a Spectator

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 21:15:00 GMT

Over the past few weeks, I've been dealing with a midlife crisis of sorts. (Midlife, HA! How many 100 year old Moodys do you know?) I've been bothered by my exercise efforts, which seem supreme ("Can't Bre-a-the"), versus my exercise results (slow weight loss, slow return of fitness, hips that feel like they're coated with sandpaper). Anyway, if you've been following this blog, you know the riff I've been playing. Darned depressing, if you ask me.

But, today, I got a boost. The workout wasn't any easier, but I did stick with it, even when I couldn't seem to catch my breath. I made it all the way through, including a few moments of high heart rate were I looked at the monitor and dimly realized that if it went a few beats higher, a red light would go on between my ears, a bell would ring and I'd win a free ride in an ambulance.

Anyway, there I was, walking between exercises (schlumping between exercises) when Ted, a friend of mine at Matrix Fitness, wandered past and said, "You know, it may hurt to put in the effort you're putting in every day over here, but remember something -- at the end of the day, you're a participant. There are participants in life and spectators. You're a participant."

And, somehow, that made me feel a lot better.

No, I'll never be able to race Taylor Phinney. (I could. I'd lose.)

I'll never see 145 pounds again -- until I've been dead for a couple of months.

I'll never this. I'll never that.

But, as my wife and other friends keep reminding me, "You're trying."

I am. I am awfully trying.

I may not be good. I may not be fast. I may not be thin.

But I'm in the game.

I'm a participant. The gym. The track. Ride the Rockies.

I'm a participant.

That is the greatest compliment I've heard in years.

What a Drag It is Getting Old ...

Tue, 08 Apr 2008 20:19:08 GMT

Saturday and Sunday this past weekend, I was working on a number of honeydew projects in the backyard, bending, painting, cutting (slicing fingers) to help my wife prepare for the high school after prom party this coming weekend. And, by Sunday afternoon, my back had locked up big time.

I tried a new trick I had heard about to loosen it up, but that just torqued it all the more, and, by late Sunday, I was wandering the aisles of the local pharmacy, looking for pills, formulas and emolliants to relieve my pain.

As I walked, I gathered, which I tend to do in a store, picking up whatever seems like it would help. This cream and that lotion and this wrap and ooooo some hair color that only hides a bit of the gray (not like the black exterior enamel I've thought of using ...), and another wrap and some No More Hurting Back pills. When I looked down at my little basket, I suddenly realized that I wasn't shopping for me, I was shopping for my grandfather. This was all the stuff that had lined his medicine cabinet when I was a kid. Same boxes and bottles, only 20 times more expensive.

I thought about it for a minute and retraced my steps. First, the analgesic cream went back, and the heating linament. Then the wraps and the hair color, which I realized would only postpone the inevitable, then the pills and the wraps. When I finally left the store, I was carrying four AA batteries and a sore back.

The sore back, I could put up with. I've had 'em before, and I would have 'em again.

I could always stretch that out tomorrow at Matrix. Or get a rub down.

What I still have yet to deal with is the fact that this shell I laughingly call my body isn't quite what it used to be. A few more things are wrinkled. A few more pounds refuse to leave. A few more aches and pains seem to have set up permanent residency in my hips and lower back.

They slow me down. They get in my way. They torque me off.

They don't stop me, but they do make me admit, Mick was right.

It certainly is a drag getting old.