Twenty Odd Pieces: A Motley Mélange of Essays, Speeches, Lyrics, Plays, and Parodies for the Indiscriminate Reader

By Michael David Wadler

This is a collection of some of my best and most entertaining writings. As the subtitle indicates, they run the gamut of genres and styles. Most are humorous, but a few are serious – and even inspiring. Many of them are unusual – genuinely “odd pieces” that defy easy categorization. While chiefly realistic and autobiographical, certain essays border on the absurd – because I’ve had a lot of absurd experiences. See if you can guess which ones actually occurred. I hope you enjoy reading these pieces as much as I enjoyed writing – and, in some cases, living – them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jun 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684705382

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WADLER

Copyright © 2019 Michael David Wadler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0539-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0538-2 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 06/04/2019

To Cindy and Cesar

who asked the right questions

and understood my answers

You better cut the pizza in four pieces, because I’m not hungry enough to eat six.

-Yogi Berra

In Vegas, I got into a long argument with the man at the roulette wheel over what I considered to be an odd number.

-Steven Wright

I like English, and I like writing essays, and that kind of stuff.

-Abigail Breslin

PREFACE

This is a collection of some of my best writings. Most of them originated as speeches to my Toastmasters club – Renaissance Speakers, in Hollywood, California. Besides being excellent public speakers, they are a great audience. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t sacrifice my beauty sleep to spend three hours with them every Sunday morning.

Some of these speeches were accompanied by slide presentations. I have removed all of these images, for technical and legal reasons. And I have rewritten some of the speeches so that they work on the page, rather than the stage.

One of the non-speech pieces, The Colony Chronicles, was originally published in the Daily Variety Annual. This is the slightly augmented version, including an epilog, but otherwise it’s pretty much as it appeared way back in 1980. The complete lyrics to the Tarboosh! songs mentioned in this article appear in a separate piece.

You will find lyrics in many of these pieces. Although I have written scripts, plays, speeches, jokes, and essays, my favorite genre is song parodies. This began in college, when I wrote comedy skits (instead of studying). Taking apart and repurposing some of the greatest tunes of all time has given me a profound appreciation of the originals (as well as an embarrassingly low GPA).

Thanks to all the people who helped me with the source material and manuscript. (You know who you are.) Your critiques, suggestions, and encouragement were much appreciated.

That’s enough prefacing. I hope you enjoy reading these odd pieces as much as I enjoyed writing – and, in some cases, living – all twenty of them.

Michael David Wadler

Glendale, California

June 2019

1

HOME SWEET HOME

Los Angeles has tens of thousands of apartment buildings. I’ve lived in seven of them. They ranged from the quite comfortable, through the merely serviceable, and down to the barely bearable. But there was one that stood out from the others – a sad, seedy property that we shall call, for want of a better name, 200 N. Rampart Blvd.

To the passerby, 200 N. Rampart looked like any other uninspired piece of L.A. architecture. It was painted white, it had a tree, and it was more or less modern. The pluses ended right there.

I lived at 200 North with my girlfriend Cheryl in 1969, while she attended classes nearby. We were young and sort of in love, so it didn’t matter much that the rooms were tiny, the appliances tired, and the carpets threadbare, We did care, however, that the street was noisy and the neighborhood unsafe. (We were burglarized twice.) But the thing that bothered us most was the fact that we lived only a block away from Tommy’s Original Hamburger stand. So when the breeze blew northerly, our lungs were filled with the heady aroma of rancid grease and chili.

When it came time to bid a sad farewell to Cheryl, that event was balanced by a joyful farewell to old 200 N. She went off to marry an artist, and I moved to a building that, by comparison, was Hearst Castle. Over the ensuing years, I rarely thought of our low-rent love-nest, and then only for as long as it took me to shudder.

Flash forward 35 years. (My, how time flies in a town without seasons!) I’m living with my then-wife Jude (also an artist!) in a comfortable and art-filled apartment in Hollywood. We take a vacation and visit New York City. While on a sightseeing tour, Jude remembers that there’s an exhibit at the Whitney Museum that she’d like to see. So we jump off the bus, take the subway, and find ourselves on the third floor of the Whitney, viewing some Pop art paintings by Edward Ruscha (pronounced roo-SHAY, according to Wikipedia).

The artist was a Los Angeles resident who gained considerable fame for his satirical photographs of L.A. architecture. His book Twentysix Gasoline Stations was a minor classic, as was his Every Building on the Sunset Strip. And, behold! – there the books were, chained to the wall! (This being New York City, it was grade 100, carbon steel alloy chain.) Between the books was a volume titled Some Los Angeles Apartments. Okay, I thought to myself, why not? Let’s have some laughs at the expense of us West Coast rubes.

The cover photo was of a building named Fountain Blu, perhaps an intentional parody of the storied Fontainebleu Hotel in Miami Beach. I thumbed through the pages, chuckling at one silly name or garish design nightmare after another. Irony abounded. Then all of a sudden, I froze in horror! What’s wrong, dear? my wife asked worriedly. Wrong? I replied. Everything! There, in glorious black-and-white, was 200 North Rampart Boulevard!

I lived there, I blurted out. I lived in that building! And then the strangest thing happened: I felt this surge of emotion welling up – this weird, inappropriate feeling – that wasn’t the usual revulsion for that shabby edifice. No, it was something very different, something inconceivable: It was pride! I had lived in a Celebrity Building!

From that day onward, it was no longer a bad memory of a temporary and hopefully forgettable domicile. That sad, seedy stink hole was now and forever in my memory – Home Sweet Home!

There was Art in Rampart, after all.

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2

MOVING DAY

The most horrendous experience known to man is not physical torture; it’s not slow, painful death; and it’s not even war. It’s moving. Packing up and moving. Nothing compares.

A few years ago, I moved from my Hollywood apartment — but through careful research and precise planning, I was determined to make it a pleasant experience. Or at least not so horrific. Hah!

The key to a smooth move, I decided, was choosing the right company. I noticed trucks in the neighborhood with the name Peerless Moving, and googled them. Peerless seemed okay, but I wanted the very best. So, after many days of research on the web, I found the perfect company: Platinum Van Lines. Their very name instilled confidence. I imagined a fleet of gleaming trucks with liveried movers tenderly wrapping every item in blankets of chinchilla fur.

We exchanged emails and phone calls, during which I informed them there would be some delicate kitchen items requiring professional packing. No worry, was the reply. It’s our specialty.

The big day arrived. I coned off a parking space and waited… and waited… and waited. Finally, a beat-up truck lumbered up the hill and wheezed to a stop. Three slovenly men jumped out. Do you have a wheel chock? one asked. No, I replied, don’t you? No worry, he said, and pointed across the street. His partner ambled over, stole two cinder blocks from my neighbor’s garden, and jammed them against the worn-out tires.

I’m Sergio, that’s Manny. And Hugo, he added, indicating The Masonry Thief. As Sergio opened the doors, I viewed the vehicle with alarm. Isn’t there a lift-gate? He just shook his head. What about a ramp? He smiled and pointed to Hugo. He’s our ramp.

We went upstairs to fill out the paperwork. I signed and initialed page after page, stopping only when I saw