Jonathan West, My Doppledanger

You are aware that Jonathan West died, right? Well, he did on May 14, 2008 and you can read about it by going back a few days on my blog.

But, the good news is that there are still a couple of Jonathan Wests out there for the world to kick around. I know this because I look at my driver's license from time to time to remind myself that I am still Jonathan West. And, like a lightning bolt from the sky, I was just informed that there is indeed another Jonathan West (with Milwaukee roots nonetheless) who still walks the earth.

From what I can tell from his Facebook profile (he friended me, which is always so exciting) we are nothing alike. I would guess that he is a male underwear model or some other profession that requires a good six-pack set of abs. I have more hair on my back than my head and the only thing I might be asked to model is sweaters for a middle aged white guy catalog.

I haven't asked him other questions about his life. I do know that his mom and dad still live in Milwaukee, as do mine. He mentioned there professions, which are different from my parents', so I don't think there's any fear that we're twins or some crazy after school special-like plot device such as that. But it is strange that there were at least two other Jonathan Wests in Milwaukee at some period of time while I've been living here.

I wonder if we all share the same trait of being fairly horrible at math? Did the one Jonathan West and does the other Jonathan West floss as religiously as I do?

Some things are probably better left unsaid.

NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Dick Martin. Sydney Pollack. Jonathan West. And now, this.

Horror upon horrors, Harvery Korman is dead.

One of the first movies I can remember seeing was "Blazing Saddles." Sure, I remember Cleavon Little and the Klan men. Sure I laughed at Alex Carras farting around the camp fire. Sure, my thoughts of Madeline Kahn are pleasant. But for me, that movie was all about Korman.

Damn. I was just thinking it was time for a Harvey Korman comeback. Maybe him and Gabe Kaplan. Get on it Gabe before you go the way of the late, great Korman.

My final requests, for those who care to listen to me

Not to beat a dead horse.

Okay, I will. This being dead, though not really being dead thing has got me thinking about actually being dead. Not so much actually being dead, but the ceremony that undoubtedly would be held in my honor if I were to die anytime soon.

By the by, I have no plans on dying anytime soon. But, should I be squashed by a falling building or something, here are a few things I think you should know about my farewell tribute.

I will require a farewell tribute. That is the first thing. I don't fancy myself a saint or martyr, but I've hosted my share of dinner parties and I feel that is deserving of at least a one night only collection of friends and colleagues to give it up for me. Ego, my brutal hubris, friends.

At said affair I feel it is only fitting for the men to wear bow ties and the women to wear skirts or dresses. I don't care if the weather is hot fellas, bow ties it is. You can undo your collars when you go home, but if I die, you wear a tie. And please, no short sleeve shirts. That's just too trailer park for words. Ladies, I have no great reason for you having to wear skirts or dresses other than the fact that I think you dolls look nice all fancied up. Also, I imagine if I'm looking down on you from above, it will be easier to look down your cleavage. Hey, I may end up being dead, but that doesn't mean I can't still be a little randy.

At this mournful gathering any tributes from anyone remotely engaged in the production of live theatre will be strictly prohibited. I've attended these kind of tributes, and I can't suffer through another "audition" spectacle where my theatre friends are working on their new material, shooting from the "honest" part of their heart. Yuck. I won't sit through another one of those if I can help it, especially my own. Besides, actor that I am I know I would just be listening to everyone's passionate tributes thinking, "I could do that better if only I had been given the chance!"

Since I enjoy food as I live and breath, I suggest that a fine selection of edibles be on hand. I will let my wife Paula choose the menu since I know that her taste is impeccable and that she will undoubtedly outlive us all. One tip to my bride, however--there is no such thing as too much bacon at my memorial service.

In terms of drinks, there will be two options. Option number one for the drinkers in the crowd will be Plymouth Gin martinis straight up with a twist. Plymouth Gin Martinis were my favorite before I gave up booze some five years ago. They seem to fit right in at my death party. For the teetotalers, I want cases of liter bottles of Canfield's seltzer on hand. These should be cold and guests may drink them directly from the bottle. I imagine there will be lots of belching because of that, but I'm totally fine with a little gas.

For entertainment, I want someone to hire Nellie McKay to sing a song or two, and then I would like the entire party to split up into eight person rounds of Quiddler. If you don't know what Quiddler is, find out (because in this life, I will kick your Quiddling ass if you don't).

If a speaker must speak, I choose either my brother, Christopher West, or Barack Obama. My brother doesn't have the oratorical skills of Barack, but he's a witty cuss when he's put into a corner.

That's essentially it. I kind of would love it if a fight broke out at my farewell soiree, but it isn't mandatory. I'm just encouraging a little dissension.

But, I repeat, I'm not planning on having this event any time soon. I've too many things to do, and there are so, so many mistakes I haven't even gotten near to making yet.

Shhhh! Don't let them know that it was the other Jonathan West who kicked the other day!

There I am. Sitting in a coffee shop. Listening to Sinatra and writing. And still alive.

A few days ago I mentioned that Jonathan West has died. Not me, the other one. You know the 45-year-old guy from Milwaukee who is survived by relatives and friends? Not me, the 38-year-old Jonathan West who has many relatives and friends who work hard to survive every day with me in their lives.

Last night, my friend Scott called me while my family was eating dinner. I generally don't pick up the phone during the dinner hour, so we all listened as Scott recounted how a mutual friend/colleague of ours had read the obituary notice and tracked Scott down to see if he knew if the Jonathan West in the obituary the other day was me. I moved to the phone to pick it up, but something made me stop.

Hmmmmm? If I don't call Scott back, will he start to wonder? Will our friend have questions? Will a memorial service start to be organized?

I imagine nothing will happen, but there is something intoxicating about having the power to be "dead" to some people for a day to two.

I'll call Scott back soon. I'll let him and our pal off the hook soon. Soon, but not too soon, mind you. I'm going to hell for this one, I can feel it.

Obsession Number One: Getting People Naked

I came across this old recollection about nudies. It's really proof positive that I'm just obsessed with finding ways to get my friends to take their clothes off.

Be my friend?


One of the things I like to do when looking at the newly spit shined buildings in my always gentrifying neighborhood is to imagine what went on in them pre-facelift. I’m sure that sports fans sipping their pints are unaware that for one glorious day a few years back I brought together a group of casual acquaintances at a spot now known as The Highbury and took away all their clothes and left them standing around panting and naked.

Well, I don’t know about the panting, but they were pretty darned naked.

Okay, they had towels. White towels. This wasn’t like a porno. It was more indie film feel with all the rough around the edges kids who you always thought were kind of yummy looking.

The Highbury is a soccer lover’s dream -- televised international soccer matches all within easy access to beer. During the World Cup games, lads and lassies stumble unto the street with the aroma of hops and malt while people like me who don’t care about drinking at 9 A.M. look for coffee. I’m sure that the soccer pub who get there early for those transatlantic games love the flying balls and head butts coming over the wires. The balls and butts I was able to unveil within the walls of this sturdy old building were sport enough for me, though.

Racy to be sure, but not without cause. At one time, I ran a theatre company noted for doing “all those nude” plays. I was even once called a pornographer by a colleague. I took offense at that. I was no pornographer. I knew that because I never made any money asking people to perform sex acts in front of live audiences. If that doesn’t somehow suggest some deeper problem in the American theatre, I don’t know what does.

A photographer named Lucas used to own the building that now is home to The Highbury. He took note of some of the plays I was producing and volunteered his shutter bug service if I could provide free models. A perfect arrangement for two cheap skates like my buddy Lucas and me.

Lucas invited me to his newly acquired studio one spring day a few years back. It was our first real meeting to discuss our first big project together—shooting a group of actors wearing nothing but strategically placed white towels for publicity for a play I was directing. Lucas assured me he was the guy to do it, showing me loads of highly artistic nude shots he had taken. I recognized a local waitress in his pile of shots, and made a mental note to tip her very well the next time she served me.

Confident that Lucas and I could work together (we immediately felt at ease making fun of each other’s receding hairlines) we set the date to shoot our models. As is often the case in my career in the theatre, my next job was to do a lot of fast-talking. I had hired actors, but the nearly nude photo shoot would be a surprise. Calls to the talent went something like this:

ME: “Hi, its me. Can’t wait for the play to begin.”

ACTOR: “Me, too. I’m learning my lines.”

ME: “Good, good. Say, are you available for a photo shoot in Bay View this weekend.”

ACTOR: “Sure. What time? And what should I wear.”

ME: “Noon. Oh, and, don’t worry about your wardrobe. I’ll take care of it.”

Okay, I omitted a small detail in talking to those actors. Wardrobe would only mean a towel and a smile.

In a brilliant stroke of genius, I also asked all of the designers and technicians to come, promising a full company group photo. We would all stand proudly draped and tucked. If my photographer friend wanted talent to expose some flesh, I was ready to provide the mother load.

We all assembled at the then dark and mysterious photo studio, now vibrant and exciting Highbury building, and immediately everyone knew something was up. I was standing at the entrance to the building holding three-dozen white towels. These actors and artists were smart—none of them suspected I was going to sponge up a flood with my booty.

After everyone had entered the building, I gently explained the idea. Everyone would take their clothes off, I would hand them a towel, Lucas would shoot loads of pictures, and we would have the most fabulous publicity shots in the history of theatre production. I must have channeled Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg, because no sooner had I finished then one of the actors started to disrobe and reach for a towel. Soon everyone was shedding shirts and pants and reaching for a white wrap. Even a reluctant sound designer got into the game, now permanently recalled in a poster size photo I hung across form my desk.

The afternoon turned out to be full of fun, and, honestly very innocent. Lucas knew a thing or two about making people feel comfortable (coffee and donuts work well with towel clad models), and everyone looked like international models in the final photos. Even I am able to look at a picture of myself dressed only in a towel and not run from the room screaming. The man was an artist.

Lucas eventually sold the building and moved West, but continues to shoot great pictures. If he ever comes back in town, I’m going to buy him a beer at the Highbury. And who knows, maybe we’ll bring the towels and a camera for any willing models. Some memories should never die.

LAW AND ORDER, you are still the greatest...

I feel crappy tonight. I think everyone in my house is getting sick.

But there is something that makes me happy tonight.

Jack McCoy.



It's been a while since I've taken an hour out of my night to sit down and watch "Law and Order", but it's still the gold standard.

I still feel crappy, but Jack McCoy is keeping me on my sofa instead of running to the toilet to puke.

That's good television, folks.

I'm alive today and it kind of sucks because of my big fat ego.

That is me. Jonathan West. Taken today, May 20, 2008. You can see from the thermal energy shooting forth from this photo that I am indeed alive. Very, very alive.

However, I was just alerted to the fact that Jonathan West died on May 14. My friend Jenny Clark called me to tell me this fact. She had seen a death notice for Jonathan C. West from Milwaukee in today's paper. She thought I should know.

A few things about him. He was 45. He is survived by many friends and relatives. That's it. That's all I know.

Jenny wanted to make sure that I knew in case I got any calls from anyone asking if I was dead. I mean, despite the fact that I am only 38, many people can make the mistake of thinking I'm 45. Those long ago years of drinking and smoking and dirty living took their toll on my face. And hairline. I also have many friends and relatives. We could be the same person based on that one line death notice.

But, I have received no phone calls today. No one has checked to see if I'm dead today.

No one has checked to see if I'm alive, either.

Irrelevancy sucks.

Here's to you Jonathan C. West. I'd cry over your death if I wasn't so ashamed about feeling sorry for myself over the fact that no one has rushed to the phone to see if I'm the one pushing daisies.

I'm begging you to be only moderately nice to me.

This is a lesson on civility. There is such a thing as being too civil.

I recently was sitting in a coffee shop working on my laptop trying to produce some stunning work of fiction. I frequently sit in coffee shops with my laptop trying to produce some great work of fiction. So far, all I’ve produced is an unusually high tolerance for caffeine. Plus the tendency to have to pee a lot.

On this particular morning, a woman approached my table and asked if I had recently performed in a play she had seen. I informed her I had, and she spent the next few minutes lavishing me with praise. I loved it. Come on, I’m an actor. I need the oral equivalent of a full body massage from time to time.

My ego was stoked. I’m as needy as the next actor for attention and this willing stranger was willing to give, give, give. And give she did. She even told me that she thought a two-person play like the one I had performed in would be boring, but she was pleasantly surprised. I’m always so happy to not bore.

As she wrapped up her part of the conversational stroking, she extended her hand to me. I took my admiring fan’s paw shaking it and believing that my mere touch was enough to make her day, perhaps sending her into a convulsion of pleasure right there in the coffee shop. Maybe it just made her slightly dizzy. I like to believe this is the fact as I look back on what happened next. It seems that one of my mitt grabs just wasn’t enough for her because as I turned back to my laptop to resume my work, she went in for a second handshake.

No one goes in for a second handshake. No one. That isn’t only a universal truth, it’s a warning.

The result of this “never-before-attempted” second handshake was a deft knock of my full coffee cup into my buzzing-with-ideas laptop. I thought I had salvaged my loving computer when the stranger and I lapped up the spill with some environmentally friendly napkins supplied by the good people at the coffee shop, but this job needed toxins that the green java people just weren’t ready to give up. I smiled back at the fan, and said, wimp that I am, “Happens all the time!” She left, I picked up my French Roast scented laptop and died a little inside as a pool of dark murky liquid started to pour from the CD/DVD slot.

Damn. Computers should not have that dark roasted scent as alluring as it may be to a coffee drinker like me.

Had the lady been standing in front of me at that moment of digital death reoginition I like to think that I would have said something a lot more witty than my initial comment. Something like, “Crazy bitch! Ahhhhhh! Crazy bitch! “ I’m sure I would have been supplied with some superior words had the double hand shaker not retreated into the safety of the world away from the coffee shop.

But I realize this is the chance you take waking up every morning. Perhaps this is how our economy really works. Someone fucks with you, you buy something.

Here's what I bought. Stay away from it with your mochas or lattes.


If you were wondering what the price of mild fame is, I can now tell you that it is $1, 611 dollars given freely to the Apple Computer Company.