An Evening With Norman Lloyd

I'd love to say that I spent the evening having a little dinner and being regaled, just a few of us, by Mr. Lloyd, actor, producer, director, college of Orson Welles and John Horseman, this past Saturday. But, alas, though I was regaled, and charmed, by this entertainment legend who just reached his centenary year, I was one of a substantial crowd in the Aero Theatre in Santa Monica. I could not have him to myself to hear his stories.

In one five foot seven or so package, slightly bent, wearing a natty pair of gray pants and a double breasted blazer, is one powerhouse man of the old Hollywood industry, who for all of his age maintains a twinkle in his eye and a talent for telling tales of the 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s and even beyond. Whew!

There are two things I love about Los Angeles. The weather is a big one. The other is the existence of what used to be called the "Dream Factory".  Much of the film and television industry has emigrated to locales like Vancouver, but much still remains, and, one thing you have here is the ability to go and hear actors, writers, directors, producers talk about some of the greatest movies ever made. I have heard tales from Jack Lemmon, Shirley McClain, Janet Leigh, Charlton Heston, Elmer Bernstein, Carl Reiner, to name just a few. Every time there is both a pang of joy and a pang of potential loss, because as these folks age and die (as so many in this list already have), we can no longer hear the stories of those who were there in person. We do have archives, video, internet, audio.  That's great, but it isn't the same.

So, how did this all come about. I got an e-mail from Len Speaks and he said that Saboteur, one of Alfred Hitchcock's early American films circa 1942, (he did films in England before that) was running at the Aero, and Mr. Lloyd was going to appear and talk about his small, but seminal, first acting role, in the film. The movie starred Robert Cummings, who for some unknown reason, I never favored, though he was a fine enough actor. So, I had never seen the movie, despite my love of Hitchcock's work. But I knew of Norman Lloyd. For those who love the small screen, he was Dr. Auschlander in the long running TV show "St. Elsewhere" between 1983 and 1988. But he also produced, and directed the Alfred Hitchcock Hour and Presents. I mentioned Orson Welles. Lloyd was involved with the Mercury Theatre, you know the one that did the historic, "War of the Worlds" on radio in 1939. He called Hitchcock "Hitch".  Now, come on, that is downright cool!

As it happened I had just watched a movie in which he appeared in 1989, "Dead Poets Society" as the unyielding headmaster to Robin Williams' "Carpe Diem" English teacher, and listened to his memories of doing that movie with director Peter Weir. So, though I was feeling lazy about going out that evening, I said, "Sure."  And boy am I glad!

The man tell stories, and remember every detail, even what someone was eating during some momentary encounter. He told one story of Welles flicking expensive whiskey on his actors while they were on stage. He talked about meeting Welles many years after they had parted ways, and receiving a bear hug from the great man, as Welles said, "You son of a bitch!" with great love. 

The thing is, what I saw Saturday night was an ordinary man who did extraordinary things. As he talked I saw my dad in him. My dad would be 96 right now, so he and Mr. Lloyd shared a part of long gone time. Both were born on the East Coast, both sought out education and learned to speak and write and think well. They both went to New York University. I could imagine my dad, also an amazing raconteur, and, in his youth and even older age, having a matinee idol look, having taken a slightly different turn in his life. Dad had a chance to go into the entertainment industry. friend of his worked for NBC after the war, and offered to help dad get in there in some capacity, but dad was unsure of himself in those days, a lingering effect of his own background, and he declined. I remember thinking, "It could have been you Dad." Instead, it was Norman Lloyd with his gestures so much like my father, his love of women (when photos were being taken Mr. Lloyd was delighted to have his taken with a young woman and he beamed), and his ability to hold you in thrall over some encounter years in the past. I felt close to Mr. Lloyd and my father, at once.

The extraordinary things Norman Lloyd did are interesting to the ordinary me, a student of the entertainment industry that I once hoped to become part of as a television writer.  Like my dad, I was afraid, and chose a more certain, though not necessarily safer, occupational path, that of a lawyer. So, I admire those who took a path less well traveled, like Norman Lloyd and who have been the source of many wonderful and still lasting products of their talents and imagination.

Oh, and the movie was good too. Get it on DVD or Netflicks.

Things that Aren't Here Anymore, the Djinn Version

If you watch PBS as I do when my 400 other channels seem to be devoid of anything to watch that doesn't involve blood or sex or explosions causing either, then you might have seen the documentaries by Ralph Story, "Things That Aren't Here Anymore" and "More Things that Aren't Here Anymore" focusing on attractions, stores, celebrity haunts, family entertainment venues that were popular in the 30s, 40's, 50s, 60's and 70s in Los Angeles and its environs that are no longer part of its kitschy landscape. You know, like the Brown Derby on Wilshire Boulevard, or Tail of the Pup that used to be around La Cienega and Beverly, the Garden of Allah on the Corner of Crescent Heights and Sunset where the stars would covet and cavort with one another clandestinely. Oh, and Schwabs, also on Sunset, where Lana Turner was said to have been discovered.

I was driving along the other day and it occurred to me that since I came to Los Angeles in 1981, I too have seen many a Los Angeles venue pass on to it great reward, often to be replaced by a banal, square strip mall or banal, square apartment building named after the place it supplanted.

Speaking of Schwab's that is one of the locations that was disappearing just as I arrived in La La land.



Alas, when I saw it, it did not look like this.  It looked more like


  this and it was about to become one of those large malls, now housing movie theatres (albeit quite a good one, Sundance), and Crunch and Starbucks and the like. The stars and the crowds who followed them were long gone.

Another location, deteriorated in Dickensian fashion, was the Original Spanish Kitchen, but when Ii moved into my Fairfax District neighborhood, it still was an extant landmark.




It looked like this, decaying and the source of many a tale of its demise, for twenty years after my arrival in Los Angeles. What I heard was that the last remaining member of the original family that owned the land refused to touch it (leaving all the furniture and appurtenances exactly as it had been) after it closed abruptly in the early 1960s. Only when she died was it able to be in any way altered. There was one or more movies about the place, all speculating on what REALLY had happened (and naturally a sordid tale) to cause a successful restaurant to close overnight. Assuming any of the rumors were true, she must have died, as the space was ultimately made into a Spa. The only thing partially preserved was the sign off the top right of the picture. They kept the first three letters.

My very first experience at a trendy Los Angeles restaurant was actually several years before I moved here. It was 1977 and I had a week's vacation from law school in New York. I had not yet learned how to drive and so I was squired about by a friend (hello Dennis) who had a fellowship at USC. One of the first trips was down the 10, to the Pacific Coast Highway and then to Malibu, for dinner at the Sea Lion. If you were a fan of Johnny Carson, you might remember a skit he did on his show about a particularly bad storm that caused a wave to go right through one of those ocean view windows. That trip to Malibu was what sold me on California.  While the old Sea Lion isn't there anymore, the spot is still a trendy restaurant, Duke's, an outpost of the Honolulu Dukes. You can wave from one Duke's on this side of the Pacific to the one on Oahu.


One of my favorite things from 1981 to today remains the original Farmer's Market on Third and Fairfax. I can't say it isn't there anymore. It isn't there like it was, and while I have accustomed myself to the Grove (alas, perhaps, more than accustomed myself) that is the primary lure for tourists these days with its upscale shops and attractions, I miss the half that was razed in order to make the Grove.

 This side of the market is the site of the second parking lot and places like Maggiano's and Wood Ranch Grill. It used to house a bevy of kitschy souvenir stores, or should I say, the rest of the kitschy stores including an antique place, and truth be known the upscale David Orgell (now in Beverly Hills solely). To the right of that picture is the original Gilmore adobe, which has survived the Grove.  I was within walking distance of the Market for many years and I would go to the newsstand, buy a Hollywood Reporter (in those days I still thought I'd end up a television writer), and have a couple of slices at Patsy D'Amore. The family came from New York and so these were two pieces of New York pizza heaven.  I am no longer within walking distance, but I still go from time to time to the part that remains of the original market, which was helped financially by the existence of the Grove, buy Entertainment Weekly at the newstand and have a couple of pieces of Patsy's pizza.

I have been writing while at a volunteer job that had moments of quiet, and it's getting to that point where  have to wrap a few things up, so I pause here aware that there are so many other places to mention, that gave so much pleasure and are, in some cases, no longer available to be enjoyed by a new generation.  I will be back with my "More Things that Aren't Around Anymore."  Soon.

Lunch at the Chateau (Marmont)

Today is a rare day, even for the Djinn in retirement. After I served at Mass this afternoon, I was free to do as I wanted.  No important errands. No favor to be accomplished. No volunteer activity whatsoever.

I did pick up a tarp at the 99 cents store because we have been informed that it might rain in Southern California and I have terrace furniture to protect.  Right now, there is a significant breeze and errant rain like clouds overhead blocking the sun occasionally. So just maybe we will get the first of a rain for which California finds itself in extremis.

But a few hours ago, it was sunny and seasonable and I decided to do something I have long wanted to. I walked all of four blocks and up a hill to the Chateau Marmont and on an impulse had lunch in "The Restaurant". 

I think this comfort is a product of being at an age when I am largely invisible. I might well have been the eldest person there. And though I remain a bit of a wanna be, I am not presently vaguely in the entertainment industry. There was no one I recognized until Mark Ruffalo came handsomely breezing in, seeming like a very nice guy.

I found myself considering the look of the women. I generally don't share too much of my internal world in these pages, but heck, I am at that age now, also when frankly I realize that my internal world doesn't amount to a hill of beans in the scheme of things, so what's to hide?  I was looking to see in them what I have been told is missing in me, (and I don't quite disagree as it happens) although it might be nice if people did not feel that they have a right to make overt observations about me when I could make equally difficult observations about them I am certain they would be enraged to hear.  I was recently told that I look asexual, that I dress asexually, that I am fat (true) and that if it is true (it was my fault for saying that I wouldn't mind having a soul mate, but I meant just that a SOUL mate; I wasn't speaking of anything particularly sexual) I wanted a soul mate then I had to lose weight and go to Beverly Hills and change the way I dress. This came from a Hollywood (I mean Hollywood prime) friend who was on his way to rehab and who isn't looking his very best at the moment and my first reaction was to scream, "Are you kidding me?!" with all attendant expletives.

So, there I was looking at the women. Three in front of me, one of whom had the trendy hat, each with identical full pouty lips and ample well presented bosoms. The three men with them looked like slobs, but that seems to be the trend.  The women dress, the men wear track pants. Another woman, large, dressed baggily, even more baggily than I do ever and to whom the word asexual might apply, was with a fairly handsome man, and they seemed fully a couple. How different did I wearing a nice pair of black pants and a casual but frilly ish turquoise shirt look from them? Older to be sure, as I keep dwelling on, for I think the average age in the room was 30. What did I lack? The willingness to put my feminine self out there?  The promise of sex?  To say that there is more to life than the promise of the giving or receiving of sex is to be downright heretical in this society. There have been moments, Lord help me, that I have wondered whether I have been greatly mistaken in thinking there is more to life than that. That is the subject of someone's dissertation perhaps, but not mine, here.

By the by, though, I did not think that I fell particularly short in the looks department or the dress department among these kids. Is it possible that I am just who I am, just as I am, with positives and limitations, just like every one of the souls in this beautiful arched courtyard?

I wasn't overly preoccupied with these thoughts happily.  I had a blast in that space, two prosecos, and a chicken salad and cappuccino, without a care in the world for like an hour and a half, talking to the hostess (an army brat she said) and being well treated by Scott the waiter. No demands. No expectations.  Good enough and even better for it being as different from the life I knew in the Bronx as going to Venus might be. I paid my 45.00 plus tip bill and walked back down the hill to my West Hollywood apartment, where I tell you the tale.

This is a place I'd go back to. . .alone or with others. Surprisingly unpretentious for the attendance of the arguably pretentious or the potentially pretentious.  My neighborhood. Where Schwabs used to be. And the Garden of Allah. At the entrance to Laurel Canyon.  All in all, I am a lucky girl.

And when I came home, a message from my friend in rehab, letting me know why he had not been in touch (and talk about too much information) and reminding me that as he was getting himself together I was to do the same in terms of my, well, let's say, look. I think I might have committed myself to doing something. Well, it couldn't hurt to lose weight anyway! 

The clouds have rolled in fully. I am praying for the rain to relieve us from the drought. And thankful for a pleasant interlude before they did.

All the Small Crosses

 

The trees have been groomed these last two days courtesy of the City of West Hollywood.  This is lovely. There will be fewer hard falling fronds to dodge.

But the process was unmerciful as it combined with several other events in my living area.

Let me elaborate in my lament.

Last year, our condo redid half the building roof.  It was the only way to begin the too long put off work--which was needed even when my father lived in this apartment but minimize the already pretty steep assessment required of the homeowners. The other half had to be done, and the Board took a vote to do it now, before what they said would be a winter's El Nino. (We can only hope for that would bring the rain of which we are in dire need in California..)  For at least two days, cars would have to absent themselves from the garage so that the big truck of the roofers could be put in a spot for the removal and dumping of the old tar covering.

Meanwhile, for about the last month, a new building has been going up a few doors away, the concrete and other sundry trucks making an obstacle course amid the pounding of the ground and the yelling of the workers and the honking of the horns of distressed drivers. Meanwhile, the City decided that it was time to trim the high palm trees in the block, forbidding day parking on much of the street onto which our cars had been banished. Is that something like a hat trick in hockey?

I may be retired, but I have a variety of projects and activities that sometimes cause me a bit of stress.  I allowed myself, for example to take the lead on something for which there is turning out to be little consensus and even less approval and I see the handwriting on the wall that I am to be the bad guy, despite my intense best efforts.

So, when, yesterday, I woke up, uncharacteristically early, to thundering feet across my apartment ceiling (the thundering caused a glass cover on one of our common area lights to drop and shatter), and loud pulling and scraping of tools, combined with the thrilling sound of the as loud buzzing of tree trimming, and the usual sounds of trucks pounding through for the new building nobody in the block wanted that was forced upon the.citizenry, I was nearly beside myself with the need to escape what is usually my shoebox of solitude (it isn't big enough to be a fortress). 

While I was dressing for escape  to, as it happens, the dysfunction of my parish office where I volunteer, a friend called for advice on a subject of which I have little experience . I looked for some spot in my apartment where there was not pounding or scraping or buzzing, while I worried about getting my car out before the gate was blocked. I tried to be kind and responsive while desire to pull out my hair was overtaking me.

I am fortunate truth to tell. These are small crosses to bear. And yet, isn't it interesting that I fail to be grateful for the fact that, thus far, and I pray for the future, I am not faced with the panoply of hardships which beset friends and so much of my fellow men?  More than that I am an angry mass of loud complaint and raging woes to me!  At such moments, I find that the thing I should most do is the last thing I can imagine doing, praying. Perhaps it is the lack of a place of quiet. The disconnect within is disquieting particularly as I claim to be a member of a faith that posits the joining of suffering with the God who saved by suffering Himself.

I am not likely to change overnight and become sanguine with all the little crosses of my days.  But, as I sit here on my terrace, the orange of the sky backdrop to the darkening trees of a night to begin, and the blessed quiet of a work day ended--the buzzing and pounding is at end for the evening at least--I take in a deep cleansing breath and finally thank the Lord, whom I follow so poorly, for the beauty and peace of this moment.

Dennis Prager, Prophet

     I have been listening to Dennis Prager since 1982 when he was a radio broadcaster neophyte. My late father, a long time voracious consumer of late night talk way back to the days of Barry Farber in New York, introduced me to Dennis as "moderator" of a midnight Sunday show called "Religion on the Line".  Every week there would be a Catholic priest, a Rabbi, a Protestant pastor and, often, a representative of another faith or philosophy like Hinduism, Buddhism or Islam. They collegially discussed faith and its impact on daily life in the context of their own theologies, reflecting on the large similarities in values and distinguishing the differences in beliefs.

I am a pretty articulate person, but from the moment I heard Dennis, facilitating and questioning and yes, pontificating based on his broad education and, though he was then young and arguably inexperienced, I found myself wishing I could frame my thoughts as concisely and forcefully as he did. This was a contemporary (we are roughly the same age; as Dennis was starting his work in Los Angeles, like me a New York transplant, I was beginning a West Coast legal career that led to my becoming a prosecutor at the State Bar in 1986, which lasted 25 years) I could admire and emulate.

I looked forward to hearing Dennis before I went to sleep as much as watching the night time soap opera "Dallas". Now there is an irony.

Dennis always speaks something I have felt but could not frame at the moment of my experience. In a world in which I largely feel gaslighted by the public discourse and the demands of political correctness, he confirms that I am not in fact crazy to believe and think as I do on a variety of subjects.

He is passionate without ever becoming angry or nasty with those who disagree with him. That is a rarity with radio personalities of the left or the right. He doesn't demean the one with whom he disagrees. His motto is that he seeks clarity rather than agreement.

It is that clarity of thought in a world of psychological and verbal jumble that, to me, makes Mr. Prayer a prophet.  Today people think of prophets as augurs, like the people in those storefronts reading tarot cards and crystals.  No, this is like the men (alas, yes, they were mostly men, sorry political correct tyrants; there are a few women today who might qualify as prophets thought) of the Pentateuch who simply were able to sift from the forgive the word, "crap", of the societies in which they lived and find objective truth and try to warn the people of that truth in order to save their very souls. The men of old stood in the desert and shouted to the deaf. Dennis sits at a microphone and stands at podiums, and quietly proclaims and responds to questions of the thoughtful and the less than thoughtful, assuring those of us who usually feel at sea in the world that we are not, in fact, in need of a straitjacket, and keeping the truths of God and man and republic in circulation. A voice in the wilderness he is. 

There are many wonderful commentators on talk radio. But I can truthfully say that if Dennis were not on the air I would be bereft and might not even listen any longer. I would have to be satisfied with my reading only, for even my Church (I am a Catholic) is a victim of confusion and the preaching is geared to avoid offense. I haven't heard a single preaching on abortion since my former pastor retired (he has since died). Dogma and practice seem to be completely divergent. Dennis, my Jewish cousin, keeps me on track even theologically. 


It is rare for me to say that I wish I personally knew a "celebrity" (yes, Dennis you are a celebrity, a cerebral celebrity), but I would be honored, delighted to share a meal with Mr. Prager.

I live in California, in Los Angeles.  Dennis helps me to know that I am not alone. And that I should not despair. 

Saving the Fly That Went By

No, this is not a new Dr. Seuss tale.

It is my life. There are those--I know who you are--who will say, "She is strange.". Ok, so maybe I am. But who isn't when you get close enough. You know the saying, "A normal person is someone you don't know yet.".

I saved the life of a fly. And I am delighted.

It was this very fly.

The fact that I was able to get a picture of the object of my largesse is part of the story.

I love my little condo's terrace. It isn't perfect because most of it faces a wall, but that part has space enough for a table and chairs, overlooks the swimming pool and presents a snapshot of the sky that is often incredible, red skies as the sun sets, puffy clouds left over from some nearby storm that hasn't reached us so that our drought will be over, and hummingbirds quenching at the feeder I have put out for them.  I sit out there whenever I am home and the weather mostly provides.

The other day I was doing just that, in the late afternoon. I had this computer, a book and a lovely peach nectar concoction to drink. At some point I turned my eyes to that glass and started to put the glass to my lips when I saw a fly had managed to fall into it. My first thought was to run to the kitchen and pour liquid and fly down without further thought. Then it occurred to me, "Maybe he's alive. Maybe I can save him.". The reason is that once I saved a bee in my pool, by swishing him onto the landing and I watched him, for quite a long time, maybe ten minutes, allow the sun to dry him off, and occasionally shaking his wings and using his gossamer legs to do a little wiping of his striped body. After a while he took off.

So, it occurred to me that just maybe this little fly had not been long in the nectar and could revive, if I got to him in time. So, I dripped him onto the ledge of my terrace. Not clear if he still was alive. Then, he slowly dragged himself from the remains of the liquid that poured out with him and his wings began to whip at lightning speed. I could have sworn I felt a drop of something on my face.
And then, painstakingly, he began to wipe his body, with front tentacles and back. I wondered if he was afraid with me looming over him, but he had no choice but that before he could fly, if he could again fly, he would need to be well, unstuck. The peach nectar, although mixed with sparkling water, had to be a bit sticky. I watched for a while, and then thought to grab my camera. I knew this would take time. And so back I came while he was smoothing his bee buns with his back legs, removing whatever detritus was still restraining him.

And then, I could tell as he slowly turned around, a bit like an aircraft carrier, he was about to take off.  And so, he did.

I felt, as I had with the bee in the pool, felt incredibly happy. Why?  I don't know. Bees, flies, animals, both by human hand and nature, die in droves every day. What's one fly more or less?

It just seemed that once I thought he might be alive in that glass still it would have been cruel simply to let it happen. His life is short enough. If I, with dominion over him by God's gift, could give him the whole of his time, why deny him that because he is not a higher creature?

And so, the fly lives. I hope he is not attracted by another glass, another liquid.



 

You Know You're Getting Old When. . ..

I remember a time lo, probably some 36 years ago, or thereabouts, that I sat on a curb somewhere in Orange County after a visit to Disneyland with Lens Speaks, Malcolm Moran, now a well known sports writer and professor, and my cousin Angela, awaiting some help after Len's rented car had a bit of a glitch. And I had with me a fresh new People Magazine with a cover story about the latest James Bond movie, starring Roger Moore.  I had followed Roger Moore from the time he did the short lived series Ivanhoe, through The Saint, and The Persuaders. He was one of a series of actors and actresses whose work I enjoyed and about whom I enjoyed reading in the celebrity press. 

There were still some of the real old timers around then, like Jack Lemmon, or Lauren Bacall, or I think even Laurence Olivier was still alive then, Peter O'Toole, Richard Burton, Liz Taylor.  Even Bette Davis and maybe Paul Henried, who'd shared a sexy cigarette scene in "Now, Voyager". Oh, Jimmy Stewart. Roger Moore was kind of a second generation star in this crowd of stars.

Year by year, they have passed away. And what has replaced them?  The Nicky Minaj types, the Kardashian, and the like.  Sensuality used to be presented by implication. Now it is literally, well, thrust upon us.

I used to hate the fact that my dad knew nothing about my generation's interests. He didn't know anyone on the entertainment shows. I mean, he thought I was an idiot for watching "The Monkees" on NBC. He was proud of his ignorance of all things post 1967.  I thought, "Well, he's old. He's still interested in Pérez Prado, and the Tango, and the Big Bands.. We are a different generation."

I still buy People and Entertainment and in order not to be completely out of the loop and become my father, in essence, I still watch programs I used to love like Access Hollywood, or Entertainment Tonight, but I know something has changed. Is it me? Am I just old now?  I cannot believe, like my parents could not before me, what passes for public consumption..

There she is, in the picture above, Jennifer Lopez, Jenny from the Block, a Catholic school girl, no less, over 40 herself.  I decided not to post the photos of her with her booty hanging out, but I think that is what did it for me, the "Yup I don't get it, I must be getting old" jumping the shark moment, the dueling shaking booty's of Jennifer and Nicky. 

Maybe when I was ogling Roger, whose movies had him discretely under the sheets with the latest Bond girl, I should have realized that we were on the slippery slope to the full Monty in every movie, in every photo, in every description, in everything, but I didn't expect this level of how do I say it in my old age, this level of visual debauchery to which every generation is now subjected on a daily basis.

I was laughing the other day when some parents were upset that a middle school had a book called "Rabbit is Rich" by John Updike which some enterprising kid discovered had sexual content. For the life of me I cannot understand why they would be upset.. Every billboard has something sexual on it in one way or the other. Network television has sex and violence as their primary ingredients. Middle schooners have required sex education in classes, whether their parents want it or not. Cut the proverbial crap, folks. The only thing free about this society is the availability of sex and violence, but mostly sex.

My dad used to say, "I don't belong in this world.". I know I must be getting old, because I find myself on the edge of saying the same thing.

Maybe our parents' generation was right when they were horrified at the shaking of Elvis pelvis.  It was a precursor to a world that looks depressingly like the set in "Blade Runner". 

I remember suddenly another moment. I was about fifteen and I was in a theatre watching Joel Grey, in full makeup, especially the ruby red lipstick, singing "Cabaret" in the movie of the same name to an audience that looked hard, and sleazy, and violent. The movie was depicting Germany in just pre-Nazi days, from a book written by Christopher Isherwood (Berlin Stories). 

I felt so depressed and even a little afraid as I watched the scene. But I could leave the movie behind me, all the sleaze and hopelessness it depicted. 

It's hard to leave the ugliness of Jennifer's booty behind, because it represents a cultural phenomenon. Nothing is left to the imagination. 

Maybe it's better if I do take myself out of the loop. I know I'm getting old because I find myself in despair of the society in which I live, and hope that I won't live to see its worst, its predictable worst, for mankind just never learns from its prior mistakes. As long as man thinks he is the measure of all things he will always destroy himself. 

But then what do I know?  I know.  I'm getting old.

Maybe I'll watch an old movie tonight.