The Martha Stewart Show Live!

Last Wednesday my wife, Liz, appeared on the Martha Stewart Show. Read all about her experience on the show--how she prepped and rehearsed, her experience with Martha and the great crew--here. One of the main reasons she came to the attention of the show’s producers was her contribution as a craft resource to a recently published book, The Handmade Marketplace, by Kari Chapin.

We drove down to NYC from Lowell, Mass on Monday night in fog and driving rain, arriving at the Chelsea Holiday Inn on 26th street around eleven. After we made it up to our 20th floor, we opened the blinds and faced an amazing cityscape of rooftops, skyscrapers, water tanks, and construction cranes. All in the fog.

The next morning, Tuesday, it was still mostly foggy and wet. But we were able to clearly see that one of the buildings shrouded in fog the night before turned out to be the Empire State Building.

The one window in the room was unlocked and slid open easily. No screen, no safety bar. It was disconcerting but I got over my fear of heights to stick my hand out the window to get some more shots of the city view.

Liz’s segment was to be taped and broadcast live (in most markets) on the Wednesday morning show. Even though it was Tuesday, she had a lot of prep work still to do. I walked her one block over to the show offices, across the street from Chelsea Studios where the show tapes. We brought her crafts and supplies and I left her in the capable hands of a couple of the show’s resident crafters and set decorators.  

That left me with time to kill. Tuesday morning and the city was hopping. I walked around for a while, looking at the architecture, watching people, and hit-and-run eavesdropping on people’s conversations, both live and cellular.

There were Starbucks on most corners. That’s not an exaggeration. Each block in the city has a different texture, different businesses, different crowds. One block contained nothing but wholesale flower outlets.

Along the same street a film crew was setting up a shot. I walked right in front of it, thinking, maybe I’ll make it into the movie. But, they were just rehearsing. My 7 minutes of fame would have to wait.

Liz worked at the offices for about four hours. That evening we walked a couple blocks away for dinner at that fancy gourmet destination, the Hog Pit. It was dark and loud, but we warmed to the casual atmosphere and friendly waitress. We had a relatively relaxing dinner and I talked Liz down from the day’s hectic activities.

 

The next morning we checked out of the hotel and carried our luggage to our garage-parked car, then trundled over to Chelsea Studios. Liz had scored me a ticket to the show but wasn’t sure I’d be allowed to accompany her in or have to wait on line with the rest of the audience. It turned out not to be a problem. We were led into the labyrinthine building and were shown to our very own green room. When they whisked Liz to makeup and hair, I tagged along. Halfway through it was time to go up to the studio for rehearsal. As much for the cameras as for Liz (Martha wasn’t around yet).

The producer of Liz's segment led us out onto the studio. It was a wide, pleasantly-lit stage with a kitchen set, a craft area, and a side area laden with flowers. Also, to the left of the kitchen set (where the bulk of her show is taped) was a working kitchen which is only shown during intros and outtros to the show. People were in there cooking and prepping all morning.
I was told I could take pictures during rehearsals. I stayed mostly in a nearby chair in seats on the floor. There were two seating areas, a raised one featured in shots during the show, the other for VIPs and husbands, consisting of chairs on the floor between the stage and the raised seating. I found a VIP chair with my name on it. They had put me as close to Liz during her segment as possible.

While the crew rehearsed Martha’s cooking segments, the producer, crafter, and set designer/art director configured the table where Liz would be working with Martha. I snapped quick pics and tried to stay out of the way.

 

My time on sets (film school does come in handy for certain things later in life) taught me that as long as you look like you belong and are smart about where you step, you can do what you want on a set until somebody either tells you to move, leave, or puts you to work.

Then the main camera got into position in front of Liz's table, an overhead camera buzzed to life, and the roaming camera on a kind of boom or jib was on hand to capture cutaways and close-ups of Liz’s crafts. Liz was to have two segments. One where she shows Martha how she makes a polymer clay covered egg and another featuring a clay card place holders, an item she put together just for the show. Each craft had its own table, and when one craft was finished, they’d cut to commercial and exchange tables.

After a run-through for the crew, there was about 30 minutes until showtime. We went backstage and Liz changed into her freshly pressed shirt, and then went back into makeup. She looked great and was more than ready for her close up.

The backstage area was becoming more crowded and hectic. This show would be live and that pressure fed into all activities. Liz and I waited back in the green room. There was a release form to fill out. Liz looked as scared as I’d seen her and I just held her hand and let her know it was okay to feel scared. This was insane, being on a live TV show. Don’t the producers understand what this means for the little people who don’t live in New York and Los Angeles? Regular people aren’t trained for national TV. I told her to just smile and keep going no matter what.

One of the producers said the show was about to start, and led me out into the studio. The audience was seated and getting direction from some comedian who was explaining how and when to clap, and what the crews' hand gestures meant. I was the last to be seated and sure enough I was just in front of where Liz would stand. The comedian got the crowd excited by telling jokes and asking where they were from. Today there was a group of PTAers from Stamford Connecticut, and another group from New Jersey.

Just before the show started, Martha, her banker friend, one of Martha's cooks, and the day’s celeb, Rob Corddry, came out and sat around a table. The music swelled, the main audience clapped and hollered. The VIP audience was apparently too good to clap and didn’t put as much umph into it. I did what I was told: It’s live people! The group chatted like it was The View. From my seat, I couldn’t see much, so I watched one of the monitors. I also could only hear the amplified audio, so for much of the show it was like watching the show on TV except I occasionally got glimpses of the real deal when the camera or crew shifted around.

The banker was there to give advice about how to be smart with money. And somehow it all came back to cooking and food. After the first break, the banker, the cooking gal, and Martha were on the kitchen set (with a working stovetop and oven) preparingt some dish that was apparently easy and cheap. It smelled good, that’s all I know.

After the next commercial break it was time for Liz to do her thing. The cameras rolled around and got into place, the main one just to my right. Liz came out and looked radiant. Someone taped Liz’s name to the teleprompter monitor so Martha wouldn’t fudge it. Then Martha stepped behind the table, picked up an egg, and waited for the countdown. Martha introduced the segment, and Liz, and she was off.

Liz did a wonderful job working through the steps of the process. It was a job keeping the segment moving when Martha got involved with the pasta maker. The producer wrote notes to Liz on white cards and the stage manager (I think) would hold these cards down in front of Liz that told her how much time was left. Afterward Liz told me it was these promptings that actually helped her move smoothly through the segment—had it been me I would have been stuck at Hello Martha and they would have had to cart me off and go to commercial.

Martha proceeded to cut her finger using the sharp slicing instrument which Liz had warned her about multiple times. Martha held out her finger to Liz, and a brief, micro-shudder went through the crew around me. Liz told me later that blood oozed from Martha’s finger and that sight almost froze her. You can’t see this on the show. Liz, to her grace and benefit didn’t freak out or look to a producer for prompting. She touched Martha on the arm and says something like, “Oh dear.” Then kept it moving. Great TV people, great TV.

Martha really got into this crafting segment. After it ended and they went to commercial Martha was still rolling the clay pieces onto the egg like Liz had showed her. That was gratifying, to see how into the craft Martha got. A photographer posed Liz and Martha together and took a couple of photos, while Band-aids were procured and applied.

They whisked Liz away and I sat through a segment where Martha showed Rob Corddry how to make a chicken sandwich. After the next commercial break they were still working on the sandwich. I had a feeling Liz was getting bumped. There was no end to the sandwich. They went to another commercial and for the final segment Martha finally finished cooking, and then showed Rob how to make a margarita.

Liz’s second craft segment was not to be:

After the show, Martha stood in front of the audience and took questions. This was the only time the audience was allowed take pictures.

Then she was gone, and the producer came and brought me back through to the green room. Liz had nailed it, and I assured her it had gone well and that she looked and did great. She was in shock, had no sense of context for what had just happened. The producers and crafters told her she did well, and we packed her stuff, grabbed our goody bags (cleaning supplies, cook book, voucher for clay and the pasta maker) and walked back to claim our car.

We drove through noontime Manhattan traffic, the sun shone, and somehow I found 12th Avenue to the Henry Hudson Parkway just before it turned elevated. I didn’t even mind the 4+ hour drive home, it was such a relief for Liz to have had a great show.

That's Entertainment!

Last Sunday I helped Liz set up at a craft show in Worcester called stART on the Street.


There were hundreds of craft vendors set up on Park Ave.; a mile of white tents running double down the center line.


Hundreds, nay, thousands of people walked through during the beautiful Sunday, checking out the crafts, food, and entertainment, which included poetry slams, bands, singers, and exotic belly-type dancing.


After I finished my rigorous setting up duties, I went a walkin' to check out the scene. A few yards up Park Street from Liz's tent (she was sharing with Candace of the Intuitive Garden) I spied a store called That’s Entertainment.



I went to college in Worcester back in the day, but I don't remember any store like this. And it looks like it's been there awhile. (However, I do remember Al-bums. Stacks of cool vinyl.)


That's Entertainment is a warehouse chock full of new and used comics, graphic novels, action figures, toys, records, books, and other various memorabilia and ephemera.


I spent almost 2 hours browsing, checking out the huge selection of unusual comics and graphic novels. At the back of the store I found a trove of used books. Mostly fantasy and sci-fi, but also some tasty pulp novels from the fifties. I picked up a lot of 12 John D. MacDonald paperbacks.


Mostly pre-Travis McGee era titles, with names like One Monday We Killed Them All, You Live Once, and Dead Low Tide. Complete with appropriately lurid cover illustrations:



Pretty hot stuff for the 1950s. I've only read titles from MacDonald's color-themed Travis McGee novels (Nightmare in Pink, Darker Than Amber, A Purple Place for Dying) so it'll be fun to see how it all began.

I picked up a new graphic novel I'd been looking for called Filthy Rich. A crime story that takes place in the 60s. I guess my mind has climbed in the wayback machine and broke off the knob somewhere around the end of the film noir era.


I couldn't resist this oddity from Peter Bagge (creator of Hate and Neat Stuff) called Apocalypse Nerd, about a couple of buddies who return to Seattle after camping in the mountains and discover their city's been nuked. Hilarity ensues.


Actually, it kind of does, with Bagge's spot-on character studies of nervous losers and slackers in extremis. This is the first of 6 issues. Guess I'll have to track down the other five to see how it turns out for A. Nerd.

When I finally went up front to pay, I realized the place was jammed with curious and collectors alike. Maybe this had something to do with the crowd:


The next time you're in Worcester, head on down to Park Ave. and check out That's Entertainment. Oh, and see you at next year's stART on the Street.

A Writer’s Downtime

I didn’t write this weekend. But I did help Liz at her final craft show of the year. The SOWA Holiday Market. But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t furthering my writing. I sat behind her table of beautiful handmade items and watched people. People-watching is a great way to help build a stable of characters and character traits. What do real soccer mom’s look like? (Thin, harried, sandy blond hair, worn down.) What kind of hats do twenty-something city-dwelling women wear in the winter? (Tie beanies, Berets, Cabbie caps.) What kind of lipstick do grandma’s wear when they’re out of the house? (Vivid red, thick. Or none at all.)

We were set up next to a woman who sold hats and head bands with feathers on them. All weekend women tried on these items and primped in mirrors. I realized as I watched this very feminine process, that I was witnessing actions usually only saved for intimates. That is, seeing a woman prepare in the mirror is an intimate act, her behavior a delicate display of hair teasing, with subtle head and shoulder canting as she presents herself in the best light to see if she looks good in a hat. Or a head band with flowers. You’d be amazed at how many women want a head band with flowers. These are all details I saw and had the opportunity to write down, or commit to my data base memory of character details to call upon during my writing.

There was also opportunity to collect dialogue by overhearing snippets of conversations. I learned that people who knit are patient. I heard one end of a cell phone conversation: A young man repeatedly told the phone that he couldn’t do it today. Maybe tomorrow, but definitely not today. If he had known ahead of time, maybe.

I saw how parents dealt with children. Some parents hold strong command over their child’s every move. Some make deals to try to keep them satisfied, striking compromises and promises. One of my jobs was to block access to my wife’s wares from clawing, sticky children. At one point I saw a six year old boy break away from his family and run toward our table. Unbound, he aimed for one of Liz’s high-end necklaces. She interrupted the boy’s momentum by saying, in a friendly but firm manner, “Hi, I made all those beads!” The boy stopped, looked up, and realized he was being watched. The fun was over and he withered under our attention, giving his mother enough time to track him and pull him away.

What else does this ‘downtime’ do for a writer? Well, now I can set a story in the cutthroat world of craft shows. I’ve learned about the behind-the-scenes shenanigans. The backstabbing and competition between vendors. The heartbreak of making shitty money or the rejoicing at breaking records and selling all but two cupcake pincushions. I’m already considering storylines starring some of the characters I met this weekend.

There’s that young woman with black rimmed glasses and the stylishly sloppy hair that stayed in any position she prodded it into. Maybe she’s a vendor who sells stuffed dogs and she’s kicked up a fierce competition with the older vendor who wears thick red lipstick, whose specialty is stuffed cats. Maybe these two women join forces against the vendor who needle felts replicas of human fetuses. Maybe, as it turns out, the baby fetus vendor is sleeping with the stuffed dog vendor’s husband. If I don’t want to keep the craft show milieu, then I can transplant my characters. How about the woman who looks just like a Kennedy? Take her out of the Holiday Market location and move her down the street to the Pine Street Inn shelter where she’s mistaken for a lost Kennedy granddaughter. Hilarity ensues. Maybe tragedy. Depends on my mood.

The craft show is two days and one evening. It’s a busy show and Liz does well. I help by being her support system. I bag merch and fold receipts and make change. By Sunday the buyers dwindle. Maybe everybody’s at Mass. Or sleeping in. Or walking their dogs. Maybe I could write a story that takes place on a cold December Sunday morning. Two weeks before Christmas. The lonely crafter oversleeps, and wakes alone. Then he harnesses up his two adorable terriers and walks them down the block. To Mass. After that, he’ll hit the craft fair to buy Christmas gifts. Hmm. Needs work.

Late Sunday afternoon and I’ve put away my notebook in preparation to pack up Liz’s booth. Swooping past our booth on her way to check out the human baby fetuses I spot Ms. X, my erstwhile Grub Street instructor. I shout her name, Ms. X. Ms. X come back! She hears me and doubles back. We’re pleasantly surprised to run into each other at such a non-writerish event. It’s good to see a walking talking working writer outside of her writing nook (I’ve never been to Ms. X’s house, but don’t all writers have nooks they write in?). She says she’s taking a day off. I know Ms. X is busy working on her second novel (she’s got a crazy Spring 2009 deadline) so I don’t ask her how her writing’s going. None of my business. She checks out Liz’s wonderful stuff. Then she asks me how my writing’s going. It throws me, this question. I stammer, “Um. Gosh. Well, I’m working on some short pieces.” And it’s true, that. But what I don’t get around to telling her is: I have some new characters in mind and some hot dialogue and some topical character descriptions. And maybe a couple new storylines to try out. All because of a little writer’s downtime.