Category Archives: Columns

Column: Trick-or-Treat thoughts

by Woody

Trick-or-Treat Costs Arm and Leg

 In case it has been sneaking up on you, there are only six shopping days remaining . . .

. . . until Halloween.

Somewhere over the past few decades trick-or-treat has become the warm-up act for Christmas. To give you an idea, the National Retail Federation estimates Americans will spend $350 million on Halloween costumes this year.

Murray as a DISH TV satellite dish (sort of).

Murray as a DISH TV satellite dish (sort of).

Clarification: that’s $350 million on costumes for their pets!

For humans, the projected figure is $7.4 billion for costumes, candy and decorations. Candy alone will run $2 billion – and that doesn’t include dental bills six months down the road.

As far as pets go, I will spend the same amount on my dog Murray – an adorable boxer named in honor of the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Jim Murray – that my parents used to spend on my siblings’ costumes and mine: zilch.

Back in the 1960s, kids made costumes out of boxes and paint, old clothes and sheets, this and that, all mixed with imagination. I’m not even sure you could buy a manufactured costume back then; I don’t think I ever saw a friend or classmate wearing one.

Today the most popular costumes come off store shelves – and off the silver screen. For girls, Elsa from “Frozen” reigns No. 1 according to the NRF while “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” Donatello, Rafael, Michelangelo and Leonardo collectively top the list for boys.

For adults, one of this year’s hot costumes is expected to be Ebola – not people dressed like the wormy virus but instead wearing containment suits.

Instead of sterile costumes from a box, here are some outside-the-box Halloween outfits I’d like to see come knocking on my door next Friday evening:

All the election signs throughout Ventura County dressed up as recycled trash.

Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard dressed as Administrator of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.

SoCal weather dressed up as rainy Seattle; our brown lawns costumed as a PGA putting green; our citizens dressed up as the Morton Salt Girl.

The iPhone6 Plus dressed up as a rotary rPhone1960.

Dodgers ace Clayton Kershaw in a postseason game dressed like Sandy Koufax.

Kobe Bryant dressed up in a Lakers playoff jersey without crutches.

The Los Angles Kings dressed up in their old purple-and-gold sweaters with a crown on the chest for the entire season.

The Scratch food truck as the Partridge Family bus.

Camarillo’s Mike and Bob Bryan, tennis’ all-time winningest “Dynamic Duo,” dressed as Batman and Robin even though they will probably have one of their trademark brotherly battles over who gets to be Batman.

Firemen, nurses, cops and teachers dressed up as Justice League heroes like Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash and Green Lantern.

An NFL team dressed up as Los Angeles’ home squad.

Roger Goodell dressed up as the former Commission of the NFL.

My Venturan friend Ken McAlpine, who has written a new thriller novel “Juncture,” dressed up as a New York Times bestselling author.

Jeff McElroy, another friend and author of the surf noir short-story collection “Californios,” same as above.

My dad as the grandpa in the comic “Pickles” and my son as Jeremy in “Zits.”

Congress dressed up with “Will Work For Food” signs.

Oscar-winning Actress Renee Zellweger dressed in a mask of how she used to look.

Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani teenager who was shot in the head by the Taliban before becoming the youngest Nobel Peace Prize winner in history, dressed as the President of the United Nations General Assembly.

Venturan Erin Prewitt, a role model an advocate for forgiveness after her husband Chris was hit and killed by a drunk driver, dressed as Malala Yousafzai.

The Kickstarter campaign at local DATA Middle School to fund painting of a “Make it a Great Day” 50-foot mural on campus that celebrates the spirit of former assistant principal Chris Prewitt, dressed up as a fully funded success. (Info: click here )

Lastly, my dog Murray as a DISH TV satellite dish by wearing the veterinary cone he needed when he had eye surgery a few months ago.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: At Home in Ireland

by Woody

Feeling Home in Distant Land

This is the final of four columns in a series on my recent travels to Ireland.

*  *  *

In 1792, at age 14 – while claiming to be 18 in order to board a ship bound for America – James Dallas sailed out of Ireland’s Cork Harbor seeking a new life, likely never again to see his Old World loved ones.

1-corkbillboard

A billboard honoring poets in lovely downtown Cork.

Nearly two and a quarter centuries later, I marvel at my great-great-great-grandfather’s hardihood.

James Dallas is the earliest documented branch of my family tree. Visiting his homeland has long beckoned me.

My roots grow deep in the fertile soil near Ohio’s Mad River where James Dallas settled. The next four generations, beginning with my great-great-grandfather John Woodburn (who married James Dallas’ daughter), remained nearby until my dad moved our family to Ventura four decades ago.

Heritage is dear to me: my son’s middle name is Ansel, in honor of his great-grandfather; my daughter’s first name is Dallas. Thus, my summer fortnight in Ireland, and especially five days spent in ancestral County Cork, promised to be a trip for the ages.

Flying 12 hours to London and two more to Dublin, before taking a three-hour train ride to Cork seemed an arduous journey. Yet I could not help think how embarrassingly easy this was compared to weeks at sea in an 18th century ship.

In a movie, I would have arrived in Cork and taken a taxi to a farmhouse, knocked on the front door and been greeted with open arms by a distant blood relative. Real life, of course, is rarely so Hollywood.

For starters, where would I possibly knock?

When asked about the surname “Dallas,” tour guides, locals and even a historian in the Cork City Central Library did not recognize it as Irish. It was suggested the Gaelic name “Dalgash” might have been anglicized upon arrival to the New World.

On a nine-hour bus tour of bucolic southern Cork, our guide/professor Dan O’Brien spent an hour expounding on dairy farming. It was an invaluable lecture.

Dairy cows dot the County Cork landscape -- and milk cans are common as well.

Dairy cows dot the County Cork landscape — and milk cans are common as well.

1-milkcan

Importantly, I learned that dairy farming was “the jewel of the crown” in Cork in the 1700s and 1800s. In fact, Port of Cork was the world’s leading exporter of butter. So it makes perfect sense James Dallas was a dairy farmer.

Making sense of why he left Ireland may be answered by the question in this lyric from an old Irish folk song: “Was it poverty or the call of adventure?”

Likely, both. Three decades of economic difficulty preceded James Dallas’ emigration. Add to this a system of powerful landlords and hardscrabble tenant farmers, and perhaps as much as fleeing hardship James Dallas was running to adventure in America and the opportunity of land ownership.

Gazing out the tour bus window at farm after farm, cows after cows, mile after mile, I wondered if against all odds I was at one moment looking at James Dallas’ boyhood pasture. As Hemingway wrote in “The Sun Also Rises”: “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Two more pretty thoughts: strolling through historic English Market Cork it came easy imagining James Dallas once shopping here; visiting Guinness Brewery, established in 1759, I could not help but picture my forebearer, even at age 14, drinking a pint of the legendary black stout.

An example of a very old stone fence still standing despite no mortar.

An example of a very old stone fence still standing despite no mortar.

One more prettiness: Hearing Irish accents and pronunciations, like the silent “h” in “th” – tirty, tousand, tirsty – I wondered if James Dallas carried the lilt of a leprechaun.

Prior to arriving in Ireland, James Dallas, born 182 years before I was, had seemed less a real person and more a painting faded a tousand years. But in the context of this ancient land where farmhouses are routinely a century old or more; stone fences built masterfully without mortar stand 300 years later; and castles date back half a millennium, time collapsed and I suddenly felt a closer connection.

Spiritually, I felt his presence.

The day I arrived in Cork a small sign above a house doorway caught my eye – and heart: “Welcome Home.” It brought to mind a poetic thought by Maya Angelou: “When you leave home, you take home with you.”

Traveling to Ireland, I felt this true. Returning to America, I felt it equally.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Splendid Irish People

by Woody

Ireland takeaway: Splendid People

Third in a four-column series on my recent travels to Ireland to explore my distant family roots and much more.

*

            In the southern Irish town of Clonakilty, a plaque below a statue of famed patriot Michael Collins bears the final entry in his diary from August 21, 1922, the day before he was assassinated: “The People Are Splendid.”

Lisa and I at the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher.

Lisa and I at the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher.

During my wife’s and my recent fortnight in Ireland those words proved emblematic. The people we met were splendid, indeed.

And, in deed, from journey’s start to finish. Wheeling our suitcases in downtown Dublin the night we arrived we got lost looking for our hotel. Struggling with a map and double-checking street signs we must have looked pitifully confused even for tourists.

Suddenly four people jaywalked over to ask if we needed help. Instead of offering directions, they walked us to the hotel. A similar kindness later happened when we arrived in Limerick.

Yes, time and again the Irish made even famously amiable Midwesterners seem grouchy by comparison.

At St. James’s Gate Guinness Brewery, Jenny, a lovely young woman whose accent was as thick as she was thin, took a full 10 minutes to ring us up in the gift shop because she was so busy conversing. Learning we were headed to County Cork, her hometown and the land of my distant family roots, she told us about a hidden gem of a café – and drew a map – where we “must” have an authentic Irish breakfast.

In Cork City, the taxi ride from the train station to our hotel proved unforgettable not just because our driver spoke even faster than he drove but because he turned down a tip. I insisted; again he refused, saying warmly: “You paid me fairly. Have a brilliant time!”

Another brilliant example of Irish kindness occurred during a tour of Old Galway City in an open-top double-deck bus. At a stop midway out, two middle-aged women stepped on thinking it was a public bus. Told it was not, they asked where they could catch one because their friend was waiting for them at the city square.

“I’ll take you,” the bus driver cheerfully responded and refused to accept any fare.

Kissing "a tall, dark blonde in a gold dress."

Kissing “a tall, dark blonde in a gold dress.”

On the drive to Bunratty Castle our cabbie, Patrick Murphy – who was as perfectly Irish as his name suggests – patiently explained the native sport hurling. He also told me, with a wink to my wife, of a favorite nearby pub where I could have “an affair with a tall, dark blonde in a gold dress” while waiting for a return taxi.

This, he noted, is how locals order a Guinness in reference to the legendary stout’s ebony color and light head served in a trademark pint glass with a gold-leaf harp logo.

Over and again, we found that even more important than the places you visit are the people you meet. And not just the locals.

Our final night, Lisa and I went to a pub for dinner and surprisingly saw a familiar face. Seated alone was a man who had been on our Cliffs of Moher bus tour several days prior. We invited him to join us.

What a memorable ending to an unforgettable trip the evening became.

A French Canadian from Quebec, Jasan was originally a forestry engineer before switching careers a few years ago at age 60 to become a suicide prevention counselor and university professor on the subject.

The seeds for this fascinating life path detour were planted decades earlier.

About 30 years ago, when a temporary home was needed for an abandoned infant from Senegal in West Africa, Jasan, who is white and has never married, opened his home. Too, he opened his heart and soon legally adopted the boy.

Five years later, Jasan adopted not one more child in need, but eight 10- and 11-year-old girl refugees from Vietnam. The fact that three of his new daughters had relatives who had committed suicide eventually led Jasan into his new career.

“It makes me happy to help others,” Jasan, now a grandfather more than a dozen times over, shared.

Michael Collins was right: People are splendid.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Unsigned paperbacks or Kindle ebook can be purchased here at Amazon

Column: The Path Less Traveled

by Woody

Taking The Path Less Traveled

This is the second in a four-column series on my recent travels to Ireland to explore my distant family roots and much more.

*

CollinsStatue

Statue of Irish patriot Michael Collins

A dear friend of mine, a travel writer who has visited the four corners of the globe, always offers this reminder before I embark on a trip:

“Be sure to turn down a hidden alleyway or go inside a quiet doorway off the beaten path because that’s where you’ll find some of the most memorable experiences.”

During my recent fortnight in Ireland I again heeded Ken McAlpine’s wisdom. Hence, in addition to seeing the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher, historic Kilmainham Gaol prison and, of course, the famous Guinness Brewery, I also enjoyed some not-in-a-tour-guide-book experiences.

For example, during a scenic tour of County Cork our bus stopped at Emmet Square where we were greeted by a seven-foot statue of Clonakilty’s favorite son, Michael Collins. After learning about the founding father of the national self-determination movement who was assassinated in 1922, my wife and I went off to explore the town.

Artwork by Kevin Holland

Artwork by Kevin Holland

In an alleyway off the main street I came upon a small music shop. Inside at the back was a half-hidden stairway. I went up to explore. Instead of more handsome acoustic guitars and beautiful African drums, I found myself face to face with a mesmerizing oversized mask sculpture resembling Abraham Lincoln.

A second face was below Abe’s copper countenance – storeowner Mark Holland looked up from his bookkeeping and shared: “I love it, too. Every time I look at it I see it differently and draw a new feeling from it.”

Over the next half hour, while my wife wondered where I had wandered off, I learned that the artist who created the mask – it was anonymous, by the way, not of Lincoln – was Mark’s brother, Kevin.

For good reason the mask carried a price tag of 2,500 Euro (about $3,200 – proving, once again, if you have to ask you can’t afford it) because Kevin is somewhat famous. His numerous public commissioned pieces throughout Ireland include none other than the statue of Michael Collins in Emmet Square.

Irish artisan working at is craft

Irish artisan working at is craft. . .

... and the final piece.

… and the final piece.

A serendipitous secret I collected upstairs off the beaten path: Collin’s shoes were cast from a pair belonging to Mark’s and Kevin’s father.

As my own shoes carried me down a road less taken in Galway Eire, I happened upon a much lesser known artist – an artisan who works with rock instead of metal. A master stoneworker by trade, Michael Daif turns discarded shale shingles into engraved elegance.

For one-hundredth the price of Kevin Holland’s copper mask, I brought home a lovely image of a Gaelic harp, Ireland’s national symbol. Daif skillfully added his name and a personalized inscription on the back.

A different signature, this one in blue ink, came about when my wife and I walked past a small independent bookstore in Dublin one evening, heard laughter, turned around, went inside and followed the voices upstairs.

And so it was we met Irish author Caroline Finnerty, whose book launch party was wrapping up. After a pleasant conversation, she signed a copy of her new novel “Into the Night Sky” as a gift for our daughter.

Frank McCourt & Me

Frank McCourt & Me

Under a sunny afternoon sky in Limerick, a bronze bust caught my eye through a closed wrought iron gate on narrow Hartstong Street in the Georgian Quarter.

On closer inspection, the base below the familiar face read “Frank McCourt 1930-2009” with a feather quill below.

By chance, and by taking a new walking route, we had stumbled upon the Frank McCourt Museum – formerly Leamy School, where young Frank attended and lived in the 1930’s – honoring the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of “Angela’s Ashes.”

Galway Greyhound Stadium was museum-like quiet and seemingly closed the evening we strolled past. Hoping to sneak a peak through a side gate we found it ajar.

Slipping inside rewarded us with the sight of a lone trainer working out a handful of greyhounds.

Witnessing these magnificent animals bounding 40 mph as if on winged paws around the quarter-mile oval in an empty stadium, at brilliant sunset, was art and poetry and another most memorable experience.

Thanks, Ken.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: A Blarney Kiss

by Woody

A Blarney Kiss to Remember

This is the first in a four-column series on my recent travels to Ireland to explore my distant family roots and much more.

* * *

            Philip Dormer Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield in the 18th Century, famously observed: “Sex – the pleasure is momentary, the position ridiculous, and the expense damnable.”

Kissing the Blarney Stone!

Kissing the Blarney Stone!

The Earl’s kiss-and-tell quote could well have been about the Blarney Stone.

To be sure, the expense of traveling from Ventura County to County Cork, Ireland, where Blarney Castle is located, was damnable.

As for the position required to plant my lips on the legendary Blarney Stone, it was ridiculous indeed. Here I was atop the five-story castle built in 1446, lying supine with my head and shoulders precariously extended over a two-foot gap between the battlement floor and the outside stone wall with a 90-foot straight drop to the ground below.

Fortunately, three steel rails have been installed to prevent a fatal fall – which happened on occasion in centuries past – but it is nonetheless unnerving to arch backwards over the parapet’s edge until one’s head is upside-down and facing out in order to kiss a germ-infested block of limestone imbedded in the opposite wall below floor level.

Spider-Man would feel a twinge of acrophobia.

Blarney Castle rises tall out of the bedrock.

Blarney Castle rises tall out of the bedrock.

While risk to life and limb has been eliminated, there remains danger of a bumped forehead or scraped nose during the contortions. I earned both red badges of courage.

The acrobatic challenge actually begins with a steep climb up a claustrophobically narrow and low-ceilinged spiral maze of a staircase to reach the castle’s summit.

Sir Winston Churchill is reported to have been tall to the challenge, kissing the Blarney Stone in 1912. Hollywood’s Oliver Hardy, who comically starred with Stan Laurel, is also among the long list of celebrities and dignitaries said to have accomplished the feat.

Both figures famously fortify the lore of the Blarney Stone’s magical power to endow the gift of eloquence to all who kiss it for

Hardy successfully made the transition from silent movies to talkies while Churchill simply became arguably the greatest orator of the 20th Century.

Even beyond its celebrated rock of ages, Blarney Castle is magnificent. However, on the drive back to the hotel our cab driver insisted my wife and I visit Bunratty Castle, located 100 kilometers north in Limerick, claiming it to be “one-hundred times more brilliant.”

This sounded like a bunch of blarney.

It proved true.

Bunratty Castle is breathtakingly impressive.

Bunratty Castle is breathtakingly impressive.

Bunratty Castle is monstrous outside and gorgeous within, an architectural masterpiece of stonework rising from a riverbank into the clouds. With a drawbridge at the front entrance and four imposing sentry towers at each corner it looks exactly as one thinks a medieval castle should.

Descending a twisting stairwell after enjoying a panoramic view from Bunratty’s crest, I encountered a woman in ascent.

“How much further up,” she asked, short of breath but full of excitement, “until we can kiss the Blarney Stone?”

Having bussed the Blarney Stone two days previous, I now possessed such gift of eloquence as to not laugh out loud at her muddle. Instead, I gently explained this was Bunratty Castle and unfortunately the Blarney Stone was in the Blarney Castle about 60 miles away in Cork townland.

The woman was visibly crestfallen. And embarrassed, for she shared she was a Limerick resident and had brought her visiting cousin here specifically to kiss the Blarney Stone.

It would be like my taking a visitor who dreams of riding Disneyland’s iconic Matterhorn instead to Magic Mountain and getting in line for Revolution.

For a different reason Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw did not kiss the Blarney Stone, passing on the opportunity because he said: “Eloquence I have enough and an overabundance.”

Unlike the great Mr. Shaw, an under-abundance have I. And so my hope is the legend is true and some eloquence rubbed off on my lips, and scraped nose, and can be transferred to my typing fingertips.

If so, the position will have been ridiculous and the expense damnable, but my pleasure from kissing the Blarney Stone far from momentary.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Going Cell Phoneless

by Woody

Going Phoneless Takes ‘Bold’ Effort

Barbara Walters once famously asked Katharine Hepburn in a TV interview, “What kind of a tree are you?”

For the record, the legendary actress replied “oak.”

1-boldWere I similarly asked what animal my BlackBerry Bold cell phone was, the answer would be “cat” because it has had nine lives.

Alas, it grew so antiquated over the past seven years it became a dumbphone compared to state-of-the-art 3G, 4G and now 5G smartphones. With each new iPhone and Galaxy unveiling, I began to secretly hope my BlackBerry would finally croak so I could replace it without remorse.

But a funny thing happened – every time it appeared to die or was lost or stolen, I was crestfallen. I had fallen in love with the Bold’s miniaturized real QWERTY keyboard that made texting and emailing gunslinger quick.

I say my BlackBerry had nine lives, but that might be an understatement. When I forgetfully left it behind in restaurants it always wound up back in my hands like a well-thrown boomerang. Thrice stolen it was returned each time by good Samaritans who found it in trashcans while scavenging for aluminum cans. Another time it was left on a car roof and didn’t break – or get run over – when it fell off as I backed out. Two battery replacements provided successful CPR.

In the end, my BlackBerry’s Achille’s heel proved to be its keyboard that allowed a small splash of water to get through the cracks and fizzled its electronic circuitry.

My own inner circuitry fizzled a bit when I learned my family’s family plan was not eligible for a free upgrade/replacement for a full month. Waiting would save me $200 so I went on a 30-Day Cell Phone-Free Diet.

What promised to be a welcomed experiment in being unplugged started off disastrously. The first full day I was cell phoneless, I got a flat tire on the freeway driving home from the airport. What are the odds, Mr. Murphy?

Fortunately I was near enough an exit to get off the 101 and limped into a gas station. Which, of course, had no public payphone. Two separate customers I approached asking if I could borrow their phones reacted with wary disbelief that anyone in the 21st century didn’t have their own cell phone.

The clerk inside helpfully phoned AAA for me and a tow truck driver quickly arrived and even more quickly put on the spare tire as though his weekend job is with a NASCAR pit crew.

For the next 29 days I wondered how we used to get along without cell phones. Not just for big things like car trouble, but small things like calling your spouse because you forgot what you were supposed to pick up at grocery store or having your kids text you when they need a ride home from sports practice.

But I also saw the evils of being too tightly leashed to one’s cell phone. And never more dramatically than at the park one weekend afternoon when a father was throwing a football with his young son. The Norman Rockwell scene was splashed with graffiti, however, because after each catch the 10-year-old boy had to race to his dad and hand him the football instead of throwing it back. You see, the dad was holding a cell phone to his ear the whole time and couldn’t catch a return throw.

Also, sadly, in restaurants I witnessed couples on dates and family outings where everyone’s head is bowed with their attention focused on their cell phone screens instead of on enjoying each other’s company.

And on and on.

After the month passed I got a newfangled latest and greatest and fastest oversized smartphone which, to be honest, blows my old BlackBerry out of the water.

We’ll see how many extra lives it proves to have, but I’m determined not to let it steal too much of my attention away from my own life. Instead of looking down during a walk through the park, I want to look up and see the trees.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Hollywood Tale

by Woody

Hollywood Tale Ends With Airtight Alibi

The other day a friend asked if I had ever considered writing a movie script. To my credit, I didn’t end our friendship on the spot.

Let me explain. I once gave it a whirl and like most screenwriters – wannabe greenhorns to green-lighted veterans alike – I ended up secretly wishing revenge on a movie producer who has lied through white-capped teeth.

1-hollywoodBinding the snake’s hands, putting a pillowcase over his head, cracking a rib and basically scaring the living daylights out of him during a nighttime home break-in admittedly might be a tad extreme.

Depending on your definition of “tad.”

My Hollywood tale began in Lana Turner-like fashion. Instead of being “discovered” on a stool at the soda fountain in Schwab’s Pharmacy on Sunset Boulevard, I was at my desk in The Star’s newsroom. A reader phoned, said he admired my columns, and asked if I would be interested in writing a screenplay for him.

I reacted the way my wife did one evening when Vin Scully returned my phone call at home: she thought it was a friend playing a practical joke and hung up. Like Mr. Golden Voice, Mr. Silver Screen Movie Producer called right back. He insisted he was serious. I insisted I was not interested. He persisted. I agreed to meet him.

Mr. Movie Producer’s home (pronounced “mansion”) at the top of a long, winding driveway took my breath away. When he opened the 10-foot-tall elaborately carved art piece of a front door he “had me at hello.”

By the time I said goodbye two hours later, Mr. Movie Producer had shown me a rough edit of a film he was wrapping up (I actually recognized a few of the actors) and we had hashed out some ideas for a “Remember The Titans”-like plot I would write. I should mention this was a few years before “Titans” became a blockbuster.

There were, however, a few buckles in the red carpet to trip over: I had never written a screenplay; never taken a screenwriting class; did not even know how to properly format the text of a script.

“No problem, no worries, no big deal! Writing a sports column is harder,” Mr. Movie Producer insisted.

“Introduce all the characters in the first five pages, give the plot a twist at page 30 and another at page 60,” he explained.

“Buy a screenwriting program and a new laptop and I’ll pay you back,” he promised.

I delivered a script that Mr. Movie Producer insisted he loved; he delivered excuses and delays, but never a nickel reimbursement for the screenwriting software much less a dime of the $5,000 writing fee he guaranteed.

In truth, I was not 10 percent so gullible as to think there wasn’t a 90 percent likelihood I would get stiffed; I saw it as motivation to write a screenplay and an excuse to get a new laptop.

Still, I would be lying if I did not admit to dreaming of movie success and becoming nicknamed Hollywoody. So when Mr. Movie Producer stopped phoning me and started ignoring my calls, I was a little angry.

While I gave up big-screen hopes for my “Blindsided” script, I held on to wishing I would one day come across it as a straight-to-DVD release and I could – in true Hollywood fashion – blindside Mr. Movie Producer with a lawsuit.

Fast forward a number of years when I read a newspaper story about a late-night home invasion by two masked gunmen. They reportedly tied up the homeowner, who had been watching TV, covered his head with a pillowcase, punched him in the face and broke one of his ribs before escaping with $2,000 and some computer equipment.

When I read the victim’s name I did a double take – it was Mr. Movie Producer! On the silver screen, I would have been an obvious suspect.

Indeed, I felt as lucky to have the airtight alibi – being seated in a press-box chair at a Lakers game the night it happened – as Lana Turner must have felt sitting on that famous stool at Schwab’s.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Smiley’s “Death of a King”

by Woody | 1 Comment

‘Death of a King’ is Lively, Relevant Today

Pursuant of my goal of reading 50 books annually, I just finished “Death of a King: The Real Story of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s Final Year” by Tavis Smiley that will be released Tuesday (Sept. 9) but which I got my hands on early.MLK

It is not only the most remarkable of the 33 books I have read to date in 2014, it ranks among the best I have read in many years. It is so riveting and enlightening I read it twice in one week.

In truth, I feel I have “read” it three times because I had the great privilege of initially listening to an audio-book version, if you will, during a two-hour lunch with Smiley at a Caribbean café. It was like hearing a one-on-one lecture about Abraham Lincoln from Doris Kearns Goodwin, or David McCullough discussing the year 1776 over beers.

Smiley is a similar scholar of note on King. As he writes in the Introduction: “During the most difficult period of my childhood, a time when I had fallen into deep despair, (King’s) spirit entered my soul and excited my imagination. I recognized the rhythms of his rhetorical passion as more than hypnotic: I knew they were righteous. As a result of their disturbing truths, I became a lifelong student of his work as a minister, advocate, and writer. His call to radical democracy through redemptive love resonated with me on a profound level.”

In “Death of a King,” Smiley profoundly chronicles from April 4, 1967, when King delivers an impassioned speech opposing the Vietnam War, to his assassination on April 4, 1968. The tumult of these final 365 days is truly remarkable.

But what I found most remarkable is that 46 years later this story is eerily relevant with police shootings of African-American men, peaceful demonstrations and riots; poverty, racial inequalities in the justice system, and militarism dominating the headlines.

Here, in King’s own words from “Death of a King,” are some examples that ring loudly still:

“A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.”

*

“You can’t blame nonviolent demonstrators who are demonstrating for their constitutional rights when violence erupts.”

*

“In the final analysis a riot is the language of the unheard. And what is it that America has failed to hear – it has failed to hear that the plight of the Negro has worsened over the last twenty years, that the promises of justice and equality have not been met, and that large segments of white society are more concerned about tranquility and the status quo than about justice and humanity.”

*

“We must see now that the evils of racism, economic exploitation, and militarism are all tied together.”

*

“I speak out against this war, not in anger, but with anxiety and sorrow in my heart, and, above all, with a passionate desire to see our beloved country stand as a moral example of the world.”

*

“True compassion is not flipping a coin to a beggar. It comes to seeing that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring.”

*

“The lives, the incomes, the well-being of poor people everywhere in America are plundered by our economic system.”

*

“We must all learn to live together as brothers in this country or we’re going to perish together as fools.”

*

“We may be able to emerge from the bleak and desolate midnight of man’s inhumanity to man, into bright and glittering daybreak of freedom and justice. I have not lost hope …”

*

Tavis Smiley

Tavis Smiley

Smiley concluded our lunch the same way he does “Death of a King,” sharing the goose-bump-inducing eulogy King delivered in 1965 for Reverend James Joseph Reeb, a white man who joined the Civil Rights Movement and was then murdered because of it.

King’s words would prove prescient of his own death, as he asked about Reeb’s murder: “When we move from WHO to WHAT, the blame is wide and the responsibility grows.”

It is an evocation that remains relevant in American life today.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: What’s in a Name?

by Woody

Mike, Bob, Imogen, Mo’ne and more

No rhyme or reason, just odds and ends . . .

*

As a Luddite who continues to embrace e-books as I would a bouquet of poison oak, I love what my friend Drew Daywalt, author of the mega-award-winning-best-seller children’s book “The Day the Crayons Quit,” said in an interview with thecaliforniamom.com:

crayons.png AM“As for books, I think they’ll always be necessary as long as humans are curious, even though their form might change over the ages – our current trend obviously being toward e-books.

“One thing I can say about my own kids is that they like picture books in traditional paper form. Even though they love the iPad for its games and videos and interactive qualities, they still prefer good old-fashioned paper and page turning for reading.

“I’m not sure what it is, but if they’re anything like me, they get that rush from the tactile sense of a real book; the feel of the paper, the rustle of the pages, the smell of the ink, the reveal that comes from the turn of the page.

“And even though books are competing with other new media, I don’t think the form is in trouble, even if the format may be. Theater didn’t kill books, radio didn’t kill theater, TV didn’t kill radio and the Internet didn’t kill TV, music or books. Things are changing, but the fundamentals will always remain.”

*

Here’s hoping the Internet doesn’t kill newspapers.

*

In a terrific “Life in Pictures” profile this week in New York Magazine, I like how the humor of 36-year-old identical twins Mike and Bob Bryan – currently gunning for their 100th career doubles title at the U.S. Open – came through, such as:

Mike: “Bob would say he is the better driver. We shared a Mercedes and I totaled it.

Bob: “I am the better driver.”

And Bob again: “We have to warm up our bodies a little more than we used to. A couple of years ago, I went gluten-free, like Mike. But after we won a tournament, I had a huge waffle.”

*

If you are reading this while waiting for a fetal ultrasound, here are the most popular baby names of 2014 (so far) from the website Nameberry.com:

Girls – Imogen, Charlotte, Isla, Cora, Penelope, Violet, Amelia, Eleanor, Harper and Claire.

Reaction XX: Oh-em-gee! Imogen is No. 1? Who knew so many young parents were such big fans of Shakespeare’s play “Cymbeline” and specifically the king’s daughter?

Boys – Asher, Declan, Atticus, Finn, Oliver, Henry, Silas, Jasper, Milo, and Jude.

Reaction XY: It’s nice to see literature playing a role here, too, with “To Kill a Mockingbird” (Atticus), “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” and, of course, “The Vampire Diaries” (Silas).

*

There are some people (pronounced “fuddy-duddys”) who scoff at today’s trending baby names and miss the old days of Robert, David, Jennifer and Mary.

I just wish today’s kids, by any name, were not 10 percent less healthy and fit – according to a new study from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention – than they were just 10 years ago.

*

On the topic of children, the Ventura County Human Services Agency is hiring 36 additional social workers in the next few months to keep up with the growth in child abuse complaints.

The historic local expansion should be applauded, although far better news would be if the agency could make record layoffs due to a lack of child abuse cases.

*

Add kids’ names. I predict a new challenger to overtake Imogen: Mo’ne.

Mo’ne Davis is the charismatic, hard-throwing 13-year-old GIRL wunderkind pitcher from Philadelphia who has graced the cover of Sports Illustrated for not only pitching a shutout in the Little League World Series but for striking out gender stereotypes.

Heck, Mo’ne might overtake Atticus, Silas and Finn, too.

*

One mo’re name. The NFL fined Cleveland Browns rookie quarterback Johnny Manziel $12,000 for flipping off the Washington Redskins’ bench during a preseason game.

It is just the latest punk move by the Heisman Trophy winner whose nickname should be changed from “Johnny Football” to “Football’s Justin Bieber.”

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Amazing Grace (and Duane)

by Woody

A Fast Friendship Out of the Blue

KaBOOM! KaBOOM! KaBOOM!

The racket sounded like a judge frantically trying to restore order in his courtroom.

Instead of a gavel, however, this ruckus was the pounding of 11 small, wooden mallets upon two tabletops. Specifically, two dining tables covered with butcher paper taped down at the corners.

A bushel of Maryland Blue Crabs seasoned by the gods!

A full bushel of steaming Maryland Blue Crabs seasoned by the gods!

And the butcher paper was covered with mountainous piles of Callinectes sapidus: Maryland Blue Crabs, fresh from the Chesapeake Bay.

There are a handful of meals over one’s lifetime that stand out above all others and this dinner two weeks past makes my honor roll. Beyond the delicious food, this was due to the fine company. Oh, and the messy fun that made me feel like a kindergartener in need of an art smock.

Indeed, when I arrived my hosts, the aptly named Grace and her husband Duane, apologized for not warning me to wear an old shirt.

Since I was a blue crab virgin, Grace’s father, Ray, gave me a cracking tutorial. He began by showing me how to locate the crab’s apron – a male’s looks like the nearby Washington Monument while the female’s resembles the Capitol dome – and then breaking it off.

Ray lost me somewhere between removing the top shell and cleaning the gills, but I latched onto the most important step: Pound the crab with the mallet and then pick out and eat the sweet meat.

What I lacked in skill, I made up for with enthusiasm. Half-a-dozen crabs into the feast, I needed a clean shirt; after dozen, a shower; still I kept going.

This was Thanksgiving in August. Instead of an oversized turkey, Grace served up a full bushel of steaming blue crabs seasoned by the gods. Half as many would have been a challenge to finish, but the 11 of us did our mighty best.

“You learn a lot about someone when you share a meal together,” Anthony Bourdain, chef and TV personality, has said.

I learned that Ray was in the CIA during the Cold War and I learned much of Grace’s charm comes from her mother, Anne.

I learned that in just about any endeavor, Duane would be my top draft pick. A Southern California beach boy, he was a discus thrower on scholarship in college and now does triathlons; he is a masterful furniture maker and also built entirely by himself their gorgeous house that merits being featured in Better Homes and Gardens.

Duane and Grace with Greg and me.

Duane and Grace with Greg and me.

Too, he is an involved dad of two terrific teenage sons; a wonderful storyteller; modest as a monk; and generous beyond belief.

Actually, the last thing I already knew about Duane and Grace. You see, when my son accepted a 10-week summer internship in Washington, D.C., with KaBOOM!, a national non-profit dedicated to promoting active play for kids, he needed a place to stay.

I have a dear Venturan friend who grew up in Virginia and I asked him for recommendations where to look for housing. Ken in turn emailed a childhood friend for suggestions; Grace instantly phoned back saying they would take the stranger in.

“Who does that?” my wife, a remarkably kind person herself, said in happy wonderment, her sleepless nights of worrying where our son would stay now cured.

Amazing Grace, Duane, Robbie and Scott, and charismatic collie-mix Hobie, made Greg feel so welcome that when I showed up for the crab feast only I was a visitor. Instead of a lonely rented room, Greg came home each night to a family. If he was running late, they held dinner. If he needed a ride, they drove him or gave him the car keys. When they went to parties and barbecues, Greg was included.

“We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed,” Ray Bradbury wrote. “As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.”

Grace and Duane proved Bradbury wrong, for they filled the vessel to overflowing even more quickly than 11 hungry souls emptied a bushel of delicious Maryland Blue Crabs.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”