Big Arms by the Bay : Ex-Foresters Griffin, Cook make their mark in Oakland

This story has been posted thanks to permission from its original publication, the Santa Barbara News-Press.

 MIKE TAKEUCHI NEWS-PRESS CORRESPONDENT

Former Santa Barbara Foresters pitchers A.J. Griffin, bottom, and Ryan Cook, top, have both made their mark this season as members of the pitching staff for the Oakland Athletics. Griffin, who started for the Foresters during the 2009 season, carries a 2-0 record as a starter with the A's this season, while Cook - a 2008 alumnus of the CCL squad - has 10 saves for the club, earning him a berth in this month's MLB All-Star Game in Kansas City.

Former Foresters pitcher Ryan Cook has flourished for the Oakland A's this season, earning an All-Star berth earlier this month.

Ex-Santa Barbara hurler A.J. Griffin, right, talks things over with catcher Derek Norris in last Thursday's game against the Yankees.

July 24, 2012 6:32 AM

By virtue of their 5-4, 12-inning walk-off victory on Sunday to complete the team's first four-game sweep of the New York Yankees in 40 years, the Oakland Athletics are the hottest team in baseball, and former Santa Barbara Foresters pitchers Ryan Cook and A.J. Griffin are big reasons why.

Despite having the lowest team batting average (.228) in the Major Leagues, the A's hold a 51-44 record, including wins in 14 of their last 16 games (25-9 since June 12) because of pitching. The team's 3.37 ERA is best in the American League, even though four of their five starters (veteran Bartolo Colon is the fifth) have only 63 combined career starts, five of which are Griffin's (2-0, 2.70 ERA).

Their bullpen - led by first-year closer Cook, veteran Grant Balfour and left-handed rookie Sean Doolittle, a former first baseman who began pitching just last August - is third in ERA (2.74) and leads both leagues in batting average against (.201).

Since taking over the closer's role from the now-departed Brian Fuentes on June 13, the right-handed fireballer (4-2, 1.70 ERA) has collected 10 saves and was the club's representative at the All-Star Game earlier this month. In that game, he pitched a perfect seventh inning while striking out Bryce Harper and David Wright in the process.

The right-hander, who employs four pitches - including a mid 90's four-seam fastball and a mid 80's slider - has what Oakland catcher Derek Norris calls "filthy stuff."

"Ryan is the ultimate power pitcher," Norris said.

Cook said that pitching for the Foresters and manager Bill Pintard in their 2008 NBC championship season (he did not play in that World Series as he had already signed a contract) was the catapult that launched him on his way.

"That summer, I was at a point in my career questioning why my fastball velocity had dropped since high school," Cook said. "I got drafted (in the 27th round by Arizona), but people were wondering if I was healthy. I was, but I was thinking about pitching too much and trying to put the ball in one particular spot at USC.

"Then I got to Santa Barbara, and Bill, a no-nonsense old fashioned kind of guy, told me just go out there and throw hard which gave me the confidence to become a power pitcher again."

Pintard was proud of what Cook was able to do after that point.

"Ryan just really blossomed, I mean he went from throwing 89 to 95 by the time he signed with Arizona," Pintard said.

Also further enhancing his professional chances in Santa Barbara was Griffin, a right-hander whose next start is Wednesday in Toronto. After being drafted in the 34th round by Philadelphia, Griffin opted to return to the University of San Diego as well as pitch for the Foresters in 2009. While dropping nearly 30 pounds over the course of the summer, he developed a reputation as a big-game pitcher, including a clutch seven-inning scoreless relief stint in a National Baseball Congress World Series playoff game.

"I was pretty (angry) I got drafted so low, so that fueled my desire to work my butt off," he said.

After a solid season at USD, he was drafted in the 13th round by the A's in 2010. He jumped earlier this season from Double A Midland to Triple A Sacramento, where, after an 0-2 start, he allowed only five earned runs total in five games, posting a 1.32 ERA in 341/3 innings.

When A's starter Brandon McCarthy went on the disabled list on June 24, Griffin was called up.

"When the manager called me in to tell me, yeah, I was pretty excited," Griffin said.

After three solid outings against the Giants, Red Sox and Rangers didn't net him a win, he broke through with a 6-3 win over Minnesota on July 13 for the first victory of his career.

"A.J. has always been a gamer, and that even shows when he doesn't get the W," Pintard said

Last Thursday against the Yankees, he pitched solidly until the sixth when he ran into a spot of trouble by allowing two runs and had two men on base. But he struck out Raul Ibanez on a 65 mph table-dropping curve ball to end the inning to preserve a two-run lead of an eventual 4-3 A's win that Cook closed out.

Oakland manager Bob Melvin was pleased with a pitcher by getting ahead in the count while effectively mixing a low 90's fastball with his swing-wrecking curve.

"His strength is having the confidence to throw the ball where he wants to," Melvin said. "I like how he goes after batters like a power pitcher. He spins it really well and if a hitter thinks they can get it, he takes a little more off of it to keep them off-balance."

"I've learned that you have to attack batters with a purpose with a good idea of what you want to do and where you are going to throw the ball," Griffin said. "If a guy hits a home run off of you, there's not much you can do so you have to get over it but also learn from it. Maybe I'll see something in his stance that will help me the next time."

Norris, who caught Griffin in the minors and has been behind the plate in four of his five starts for the A's.

"He tips the balance in his favor by dictating the tempo and throwing strikes early to get ahead in the count," Norris said.

Both players have said that they're enjoying the experience immensely. Griffin displayed this shortly after he left Thursday's game when he high-fived several fans near his team's dugout.

"People pay their hard-earned money to come out to the ballpark to support us," Griffin said. "With the way the economy is now, it's an escape for them to come out and show their love for us. I love this game and I'm having the time of my life, so I just want to share as much of that experience as I can with them."

email: sports@newspress.com

To Cheer Ichiro Or Not Cheer Ichiro- Ay, There's the Rub

Mixed Emotions

By Mike Takeuchi

*Please note that while there are no curse words in this story, there are self-censored substitutes that are liberally sprinkled throughout this piece.

  What happens when your all-time favorite ballplayer is traded to your least favorite team?  That's exactly the dilemma I faced on Monday when the Seattle Mariners sent right fielder Ichiro Suzuki across the hallway and from the bottom to the top of the standings to play for the New York Yankees.

  It began innocuously that afternoon after I filed my story on Oakland A's (and former Santa Barbara Foresters) pitchers Ryan Cook and A.J. Griffin.  Taking a break for lunch, I plopped down in a chair to watch the fifth episode of "The Newsroom" for the third time.

  It seemed like a normal day, but for some reason, I felt a great disturbance in the Force.  I should have known something was up when I turned to a channel I never watch- the MLB Channel.  Baseball is a great sport, but listening to poor imitations of Vin Scully or worse yet, Bob Costas (there is actually a Mini-Me or in this case of Costas' diminutive stature, a Maxi-Me version that sounds just like the verbose NBC commentator) is something that is never appealing.  Thank Buddha for MLB online where one can watch highlights without a buildup from announcers who act like they are in the middle of the SALT talks.

  As the channel changed to 282, sure enough, there it was in plain letters.

"Ichiro Suzuki traded to the Yankees for two heretofore and future unknown pitchers."

"What. The. Eff?"

  While sometimes forgetting what day it was due to reaching 40-something, I at least knew that it was not April 1. As  Maxi-Me, a few others and a drunk sounding Harold Reynolds (okay, he always sounds drunk) sounded off about the trade, I numbly stared at the screen.

  "How the f--- could this have happened?"

 A million thoughts went from my mind, including blaming Griffin, the right-hander who struck out Raul Ibanez on Thursday night with a nasty curve ball in the sixth inning of the first of four games the A's would take from the Pinstripes (yay! btw). Then I blamed the nice-guy Ibanez, because if he wouldn't have looked so foolish maybe they wouldn't have made the trade.

  Of course these were all so ridiculous, but when one's favorite player is traded to a team I hate worse than brussels sprouts or Japanese nato#, rational thought goes out the window.  My favorite singularly named singles hitter was heading to a place I was essentially taught to hate in the womb-Effing Yankees.

 In the summer of 1965, while my poor mother, was pregnant with me and  holed up in my uncle's central Los Angeles home during the Watt's Riots, my dad drove through darkened and scary city streets on the way back from watching the great Sandy Koufax throw a complete-game shutout.  While mom wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea, she gave dad permission because it was her Man Sandy that was pitching after all.

  When I finally arrived to the outside world, my Uncle Caesar Uyesaka, who was some big shot with the Santa Barbara Dodgers, LA's single A farm team, had the connections within Chavez Ravine.   In addition to introducing me to the likes of Tommy Lasorda, Peter O'Malley and the infamous Al Campanis (who as far as I know was the nicest man April 6, 1987 controversy notwithstanding), we would get seats closer to the field than the ones my dad, a service station owner, got for Union Oil Night which were high in the reserved section near the left field fair pole.   It was here where I learned about bourgeoise and proletariat at a young age, but that is a story for another time.

  I loved going to the games and even though they were far past their primes, I was able to see an over-the-hill Hank Aaron and a fast-fading Willie Mays play, albeit with them looking like tiny ants in gray uniforms.  Maybe that was better, because I couldn't see the slowing of Aaron's bat speed or the stumbling of Mays in the outfield.  Distance helped them remain legends forevermore in the history books and in my eyes.

 As a kid growing up in the Seventies, I never had a favorite ballplayer. Oh there were plenty of wondrous players that I rooted for, but I had just missed the last golden era of the game.  Instead I rooted for Dusty Baker  or the Dodgers infield of Garvey, Lopes, Russell, and Cey simply because they were the good guys because they played close to home.  But as good as they were, they never really instilled a passion within me.

  The one thing that did get my blood boiling was the Cincinnati Reds and their future Hall of Famers Johnny Bench, Tony Perez, and Pete Rose...err, forget the last one.  And because of the 1975 World Series this hatred had me rooting hard for the Red Sox as my number two team, which in turn had me despising the Yankees as my number two (get it?) team.

   New York supplanted the Reds at the top of the list on October 15, 1977 when Lou Effing Piniella robbed Ron Cey of a game-tying home run and me a souvenir in Game Four of the World Series that the Yankees would eventually win.  The Yanks followed that up of course with another world championship the next year while earlier beating the Red Sox in a heartbreaking one-game playoff thanks to another player with a similarly unique middle name, Bucky Equally Effing Dent.  A win over New York in 1981 tempered the hate, but only a bit.

  In that whole time, there were plenty of players that I liked like Willie Stargell and later, Ozzie Smith, but none for an Asian American kid to identify with.  Even as a young child, I noticed this. The only known athlete we had was Bruce Lee, and he wasn't really a team sport guy.  Besides, he was dead, passing when I was seven before I even heard of him.  One can only cheer a dead guy in "Enter the Dragon" and "Game of Death" so many times.

   Baseball had a hero that looked like me.  Only in America, hardly anyone had ever heard of him. With 868 home runs, Japanese slugger, Sadaharu Oh was and remains the most prolific home run hitter in all of baseball.  But since the competition in Japan didn't approach Major League levels and the outfield fences were closer to the plate than they were in America, he wasn't given much credit here stateside. (While agreeing with the facts of this, I always felt that there was a tinge of arrogance at best, racism at worst whenever someone brought this up when I was younger.)  Besides, I never even saw him play other than a "Wide World of Sports" clip here and there.

  The single Asian American guy in pro sports was the Baltimore Orioles Lenn Sakata-a decent middle infielder who played 11 seasons from 1977 to '87 mostly with Baltimore before becoming a coach. Sakata is best known for being the last guy who started at shortstop before Cal Ripken (whose consecutive games streak began a month earlier)  took over for seemingly forever.

 Sakata, who is now the manager of the Modesto Nuts, the Rockies Single A team in the California League,was also known for being behind the plate (because Baltimore over-manager Earl Weaver ran out of catchers) when Tippy Martinez picked off three Toronto runners in one inning.  Sakata hit a walk-off three-run home run in the bottom of that inning.

   But while I had heard of him, Sakata wasn't a star and in pre-cable television games and no internet nor national newspapers in circulation, he was largely unknown on the West Coast.  While everyone at the annual JACL (Japanese American Citizen League) picnics were wearing Dodgers gear, there was one kid who wore a Baltimore Orioles cap.  When we teased him he said something to the effect of they're the only team with one of us on it.  Despite snickering, deep down I knew he was right.

  Thirty one years after the first Japanese player, Masanori Murakami threw his first pitch for the San Francisco Giants, Hideo Nomo and his corkscrew delivery came to L.A. in 1995. Nomo did pretty well winning 123 games (after winning 78 in Japan) while being the only pitcher to throw a no-hitter at Coors Field (1996 with the Dodgers) and Oriole Park at Camden Yards (2001 while playing for the Red Sox).  After that, there were failures (Mac Suzuki-no relation to Ichiro *Suzuki is the number two name behind Sato as the most common in Japan), tragedies (Hideki Irabu) and semi-successes (Shigetoshi Hasagawa).  For position players, the failures of Tsuyoshi Shinjo (Mets, Giants) mixed in with moderate success (So Taguchi won WS titles with St. Louis and Philly).

   Ichiro finally came onto the scene in 2001.  And when I first saw him, I finally understood what that kid in the Orioles cap was talking about.   To paraphrase a line from a movie starring a recently divorced Scientologist, Ichiro had me at hello.

  While pitcher Hideo Nomo opened the door for Japanese pitchers, Ichiro busted it down for Japanese position players.

  While usually comparisons of Asians to samurai warriors caused me to roll my eyes, just like racist stereotypes of bad driving and Charlie Chan or Long Duk Dong accents do, this time it was actually close to the mark.  Watching him extend the upright bat towards center field before circling it over his head conjures up that image of a

daimyo  wielding his blade.

  In the field, highlight after ESPN highlight was shown him making a catch or throw or steal and I would relish each one. Heck, I was proud.

   While I enjoyed watching him on television that year as he made his debut with the eventual West Division winning  Mariners, it wasn't until I saw him personally did I fully appreciate his mystique.  It was a game in Anaheim that was scheduled for September 12 but was changed for obvious reasons to October 3-one week before Munch and I were scheduled to be married in Maui.

 Knowing my love for the game, she wanted to share that with me while I felt the same way.  The only problem was, she had only been to one game prior "a zero-zero tie" in the nosebleed or Union Oil section of Dodger Stadium with some disabled clients she worked with at the time. Baseball to her, was one long snooze-fest.  And to be quite honest, who could blame her for thinking that?  Sometimes it is.

  So I was determined to make the experience better for her by buying tickets close to the field.   But because of the tension of the times, the game had a playoff atmosphere in a packed stadium despite the Mariners heading towards the playoffs and Anaheim heading towards their off-season eventually finishing a whopping 41 games down in the standings (*Note that year, Oakland won 102 games and still finished 14 games behind the M's!).  But much to manager Mike Scioscia and the team's credit, they didn't play that way on this day and showed it when  Angels right fielder Orlando Palmeiro made a diving catch while eating dirt right in front of our seats along the right field line, my future wife turned to me with a smile.

  "Well, this game seems different," she said.  And it was.

  Ichiro banged out four hits that day while exceeding the already high expectations I set for him.  He managed to top it on one play in the field that secured my fandom.

 With runners on first and third with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, the Angels were down 4-3 when Darin Erstad came to bat . It had already been a crazy inning because Adam Kennedy appeared to have beaten the tag in a fielder's choice play at the plate that would have tied the game, but was not only called out-but kicked out of the game for going ballistic after the call.

   Erstad came up and fouled off pitch after pitch from Mariners reliever Kaz Sasaki. When Kaz threw a forkball that caught too much of the plate, Erstad blasted a sizzling line drive towards the right field corner that caused the  40 thousand or so Angels fans to scream with delight.

  While the trajectory of the ball was too low for a home run, the ball seemed destined to be a game-winning, two-run double as a fast runner, Jeff DaVannon was motoring around the basepaths from first.  But before the ball could get there, a blur of gray and blue streaked by like those old Batman comics-Ichiro

  "He's gonna catch it" I inadvertently screamed.

  Just as the crowd reached a fever-pitch, Ichiro reached out as far as he could and snagged the ball in the heel of his glove in full stride in front of the image of Angels manager Mike Scioscia plastered on the right field wall.  To slow himself down, the right fielder bounced playfully off the wall as the crowd, save a few Japanese fans, let out a groan like they were punched in the gut.  Game over-Batman had saved the day.

October 3, 2011 Batman Saves the Day

  Instead of celebrating, the "rookie" put his head down and ran back towards the dugout like it was the middle, not the end of a game trying hard not to smile. While Munch's eyes were wide, I held my hands on top of my head wondering if that really happened.

  In my 40-something years of going to countless games as a fan and reporter, it remains the greatest play I have ever seen. And that's saying something.  I was in that very stadium on October 15, 1986 for the Dave Henderson or Donnie Moore "one strike away" game and I've seen Piniella, or at least his glove, rob Cey (and me) of that homer in the World Series, I was there during Orel Hershiser's streak.   But this play was absolutely magnificent.

  Since then I have seen Ichi make other great plays, including the game winning hit in the 2009 World Baseball Classic finals in a fierce rivalry with Korea that harkened to Real Madrid/Barcelona or India/Pakistan in cricket. I've seen him hit an inside-the-park home run in the 2007 All-Star game-well okay I saw it in the bowels of the A T & T Park auxiliary press room.  I even spent a few days at the Mariners camp watching him do drills in the outfield-not that I'm obsessed or anything.      But there is something about him that I and many others find fascinating.  The Asian factor is part of it sure.  But there is a deeper reason to it that will be revealed soon enough.

  And  despite him becoming human due to age, I have never been disappointed, until now in the conundrum of-favorite all-time player joins least favorite all-time team.  What to do?

 In one of his "Seinfeld"  monologues@, comedian Jerry Seinfeld said that because teams move to different cities and players go to different teams, essentially all we are rooting for is laundry.  While funny, my rooting interest has become decidedly more complicated thanks to Yankees first base coach Mick Kelleher.

  Last year, after hearing my story about Piniella stealing my ball, Mick introduced me to Derek Jeter, Robinson Cano and a few others. Later, he sent me an autographed ball with not only his signature, but that of manager Joe Girardi and half of the team. He later emailed and said "Maybe this will change your mind".

  Yet I still resisted.   Even during a conversation in Oakland last week prior to the trade,  I told him I couldn't "pull the trigger" just yet.  It's become a running joke between us.

  But now, the Yankees got the only guy I have ever rooted for through thick and thin.  What to do?

 Yesterday,  I emailed Mick and joked that I may have to get that Yankees cap after all. I tried to justify to myself that if the cap was not to wear, but to put on my bookshelf along with my other Ichiro memorabilia, it doesn't  that make me root for the Microsoft or GM of sports. Surely my friends who are Red Sox fans would definitely have some advice for me-yet I'm not ready to go there just yet.

 As I contemplated this late Monday night, an email came through.  It was Mick responding.

 "It's about time Mike!" he emailed.

  After going to bed late, I woke up early  Tuesday morning to contemplate this dilemma further  over coffee, before having an action filled day full of errands. But among all the stops, not one of them was to the sports store.  At least not yet.

   * In the same vein of the kid with the Orioles cap.  A few years ago, the late journalist Lester Rodney, the first white journalist to call for the end of segregation in baseball, told me the story of an African American fan in St. Louis explain to a white fan that he rooted for the Dodgers to beat the Cardinals for the same reason.

#Natto is fermented soy beans that somehow Japanese people love.  Frankly I think it smells and tastes like shit.

@ Here is the link to the "Seinfeld" monologue.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WSD6Y2YWj4&feature=youtube_gdata_player

The Day I Took the Field at Fenway Park

The Day I Took the Field at Fenway Park Mike Takeuchi (The second part of this short story was under consideration for the NPR program All Things Considered. Although NPR showed interest and would let me know when they wanted to run it, they have yet to call me back. It's been three years now and counting. So if they want me to take this down so I can relate it on NPR, I will. But in the meantime, it will remain up.)  I've been to Fenway Park four times in my life, three for games. The first time was in 1988 where I flew across the country on my own just to see the Green Monster and the mystique that surrounds it. I recall buying a Dwight Evans jersey number 24, which I sill have. It has since been taken over my Manny and a few others. Other than seeing my first rain delay and that it was against the Mariners, I don't remember a thing. The next time was in 1997, shortly after Princess Diana died. I don't remember much about that one other than it was Nomar's rookie year and they honored the 1967 Impossible Dream Team before that game. The third time was two days before I ran the Boston Marathon in 2005. That was a memorable game because Manny hit a granny and a two-run home run. Yet despite this feat, it was only the second most memorable time at the Fens for me. The top memory occurred around that 1997 visit and it was a day I'll never forget. It was the day I took the field at Fenway Park.     In a time honored tradition of the New England specific Patriot’s Day, the prestigious Boston Marathon is the epitome of all celebrations that include a day baseball game  of the region’s beloved Red Sox.  For this Californian, Patriot’s Day reminds me of the time the Red Sox called his number.     In September of 1997, with my mom scheduled for major brain surgery at  Brigham and Women’s Hospital, our family traveled from California to be with her. Mom, was the glue of our sometimes fractured family. Like many families, we loved each other dearly.  We just couldn’t handle being in the same room together for a period longer than a Thanksgiving dinner.          So, with the only alternative huddling together in a small room for eight hours, I run the City streets. Throughout the sojourn into one of America’s most beautiful cities, I hardly noticed the historical landmarks as my mom dominated all thought process.             Being the youngest, and the show-off of the family- “no trespassing” signs were treated like engraved invitations.  Sky diving trips or crashing Hollywood parties alternately and sometimes simultaneously horrified and amused our glue.     Thinking of this as I ran by the venerable stadium with the famed Green Monster, a light bulb went off in my head.  I trotted up to an open gate and encountered a man who bore a striking resemblance to the late former Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill.  I stopped staring enough and collected myself to formulate a spiel about lost love and finding self amid a leper colony to get me into the stadium. To my disappointment, Tip cut me off. He obviously had heard them all.  “Top o’ the staips, ye gawt faive minutes”, Tip said sounding more like JFK than JFK himself. 56 As I walked into the nearly empty cathedral, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the sounds of a ballgame in progress   replaced the background sounds of the City.  Making my way down to the home team dugout, I stopped at the field gate. After seemingly hours of calculating risk vs. reward, trespassing charge vs. misdemeanor first time offender status, I opened the gate that hadn’t been oiled since 1918 and stopped.  I had to get on the field. With that Elvis song (“It’s now or never”) playing in my head, I took a deep breath and went out to my position.    “Now playing second base for the Red Sox, Mike Ta-ke-u-chiiiiiiiiii!”   Like the real players, I put my head down in false modesty, and took the field towards my position.   I heard the crunch of the dirt and then the swish of the grass as I absorbed the magical feeling of each step.      As I reached the baseline, my romantic bubbly thoughts were burst by the threatening voice from God above.   Only it was not a deity, but something much scarier.   “Get the Hell of my field!” boomed a very large groundskeeper.    Realizing that the guy had the look of serious intent, I turned around and ran back the way I came…fast. As I trotted out of the stadium, I thanked Tip for his kindness.  Just as he grunted a reply, his phone rang.  Not wanting to hang around to see if it was about me, I picked up the pace and sprinted back to the hospital with a smile as big as the Green monster.       I couldn’t wait to tell my mom that I took the field at Fenway Park.  

The Karma of THE ARTIST

By Mike Takeuchi

"Sometimes life is wonderful. Today is one of those days." Michel Hazanavicius on Sunday.

On Saturday afternoon in Santa Monica, Michel Hazanavicius was in a hurry. He was in the middle of a whirlwind weekend and had just collected the first of four awards for him that day and start of nine speeches he had to make to accept the awards for the film he directed, THE ARTIST. In the terms of any filmmaker, it was a great weekend for the black-and-white, predominantly silent film which garnered four Independent Spirit Awards on Saturday, and five more at the Academy Awards at what host Billy Crystal jokingly called "The Bankrupt Theatre" on Sunday.

But at this particular moment, the French director had only achieved one thus far-the Independent Spirit Award for Best Director, and was in a hurry to get back to his seat to join his friends possibly to see what penis joke irreverently funny host Seth Rogen would make next. On his way, we nearly literally ran smack-dab into each other. He stopped, looked and realized that the Rubenesque Asian-American in front of him was someone somewhat familiar to him. Seemingly struggling for a moment to remember, I let him off the hook.

"Hey Michel, congratulations, plenty more of good things to come," I said.

Looking relieved that he didn't have to remember the name of someone he only had a scant recollection of (if at all), smiled brightly.

"Thank you, thank you very much," he genuinely expressed in his heavy French accent before disappearing into the backstage area of the tent.

With that, he was gone-onward and upward.

The first time I met Michel was in Santa Barbara at the Riviera Theatre. THE ARTIST was not yet known outside of my boss Roger Durling, the executive director of the Santa Barbara International Film Festival and a select few who saw it in Cannes, Telluride and Toronto. An agent friend of mine told me that it was going to be a hit.

I thought “Silent, black-and-white movie, Riiiiight!"

It turned out that he was right. An hour before he arrived, I watched the first part of this unique film just mesmerized. While the style was an homage to Billy Wilder, I got the same feeling I did when I watched Frank Capra films. These guys have something here.

Michel's arrival cut my viewing pleasure short, but I wasn't complaining as I looked forward to meeting him and his lovely wife Berenice Bejo (Alas, Ms. Bejo was ill and could not make it that evening but I was able to meet her later at SBIFF. All I can say about her is "Wow!").

As I walked him down the outer corridor of the Riviera as the credits of his film rolled, I didn't say anything to him other than give him some brief stage instructions on what to do. He peeked inside the still packed theatre and looked back at me.

“Wow, this is incredible!” he said.

In hindsight, I wish I said something incredibly wise and prescient like “Your life will never be the same again.” But instead I told him to enjoy himself, because the people he would be joining loved the film.

“Thank you very much,” he said.

When he went out to sit in his director’s chair, I was thinking who would have thought that it would be this successful?

Two months later, when he, Berenice, and Oscar Best Actor winner Jean Dujardin came for the Festival, they were nothing but gracious and full of class. While the highlight for me was getting a wink and a nod from Berenice, I will always remember the constant display of gratitude from Michel as he expressed his thanks several times during his stay with us. The more time spent together, the more I couldn’t help but root for them come Oscar Night not just for their niceness, but for the way they genuinely seemed to enjoy being around each other and just the joy each individual from the film possessed.

To a lot of people, I likened their run a lot to the people from my other recent favorite, SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE. While I mentioned in my previous post that there were parallels between the two, the most telling was that like THE ARTIST group, the trio of director Danny Boyle, writer Simon Beaufoy, and producer Christian Colson seemed to have such good karma going for them, one couldn’t but help get swept up in or at least very interested with this group.

And here it was happening, or did happen with a sense of deja’ vu all over again.

Why THE ARTIST Will (probably) Win Best Picture

Okay, here's who I think is going to win Best Picture at the Academy Awards tonight...wait, I don't know. But I do have a general idea, that when they open the envelope to reveal the Academy Award winner for Best Picture at the Kodak, ahem Hollywood and Highland Bankrupt Center Theatre tonight, I will be surprised if I'm surprised.

By the end of the broadcast, people will say that Billy Crystal was a nice replacement choice (While I and many others will have wished for Jon Stewart, Ellen, Chris Rock, or even Hugh Jackman to have been up there.) as host. No surprises, no Brent Ratner bombs of intolerance…

The other most likely occurrence is that, THE ARTIST will probably win Best Picture. I can't personally argue, because I loved the film enough to see it three, well two-and-a-half times because when the director Michel Hazanavicius came up to do a Q & A, I had to leave halfway through. When working with him, Michel and lead actor Jean Dujardin were gracious and actress Berenice Bejo took my breath away.

But no matter how much I enjoyed the film, I can't honestly say if it was the best of 2012 or not. Everyone surely has their own opinions much like they did when talking about 2009's SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE-it was good, but definitely not the best of the year was a familiar refrain.

While it remains one of my favorite films of recent years, in SLUMDOG's defense, the film won eight of the 10 Oscars it was nominated in including Best Picture, without having the benefit of one performer even being nominated in any of the four acting categories. Among Oscar receivers were director Danny Boyle, adapted screenplay (who my boy Simon Beaufoy beautifully adapted from Vikas Swarup’s wonderful novel "Q AND A'), cinematography, sound, music and direction. All for a film that a producers group that included Christian Colson, were worried about not getting any funding (after Warner Independent went under, it was bought by Fox Searchlight around the time of its world premiere at Telluride in 2008) and fearing it having to go direct to video. Soon enough, it gained critical acclaim and awards and where everyone was singing JAI HO! As SLUMDOG eventually grossed $377 million worldwide.

But I digress.

The journey of THE ARTIST shares some parallels, but it also has its differences. Unlike SLUMDOG, it is still relatively slow at box office ($76.5 million so far) and Dujardin (Best Actor) and the lovely Bejo (Best Supporting Actress) garnered performance Oscar nominations. But THE ARTIST is similar to Boyle's film in a few aspects, including noms in several different categories. It also has momentum amongst critics and more importantly, voting Academy members.

But even with a dearth of strong candidates, it could be an upset victim to THE DESCENDENTS or even HUGO when the last award is announced.

But it is in my opinion that it won't fall victim to the major upset due to the Weinstein Effect, aka Harvey and Bob. This one wildcard THE ARTIST holds up its sleeve will probably be the difference maker when the envelope is opened. Normally studios don't make that much of a difference, or at least as much as they would like people to believe, but because of the influence of the Weinstein brothers - any film that they were involved in has a shot at the brass ring...errr, golden statue. Take for instance one of the biggest upsets in Oscar history when SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE defeated SAVING PRIVATE RYAN and three others to win Best Picture in 1998.

Anyone who is familiar with film at the time can attest that this was nothing short of monumental, especially after PRIVATE RYAN's director Steven Spielberg had just taken the Best Director win a few minutes early. The odds of this occurring are not impossible, but difficult as films that have won a Best Director prize have gone onto win Best Picture 62 out of 85 times in Academy history.

When Harrison Ford (aka Grumpy Old Man With an Earring which is another story entirely) opened the envelope on national television, I recall a brief flash of shock over his face before announcing it. But was it really? This writer thinks that the brothers and their minions who were part of then Miramax Studios (which was named after the brothers' parents) understood the workings of a once mysterious group of Academy voters. Since then, their demographic cover has been blown thanks to a recent comprehensive article by the Lost Angeles Times that details the makeup of the 5,765 voting members. The story points out that the Academy Members are predominantly white males (no surprise there) that average 62-years of age.

With the utmost of respect and admiration, I think they knew how to work the system in their favor via publicity, shrewd marketing and knowing and being ahead of the curve in the ever-changing business. For the lack of a better term, they were the MONEYBALL (one of film's competition in the category) of their day with the difference being that they actually won the championship a few times.

I suspect a lot of this has to do with the T-Factor. No, the T-Factor is not some kind of foolproof saber metric formula, but it might as well be. The T-Factor is Lisa Taback, a publicist that works on Oscar campaigns. She was a big part of the publicity of SHAKESPEARE and since, then dozens of nominated and winning films, including last year's winner THE KING'S SPEECH-which leapfrogged frontrunners THE SOCIAL NETWORK and THE BLACK SWAN for the top prize.

Having known her these last few years, I have come to know Lisa as one tough broad who one doesn't want to cross. But to me she is always cordial and has shone compassion and reached out after losing a friend. I have come to admire her because of my interactions with observations of to see that she knows exactly what is needed to be a contender and will go to the wall to ensure that it happens.

It truly is a sight to watch her, her staff as well as the Weinstein group tirelessly work the room/red carpet in terms of getting media exposure for their film and possibly swaying voters much like a presidential candidate's staff trying to do the same thing. I again saw this firsthand at the Independent Spirit Awards on Saturday. While I don't have any insider information (if I did, I would be Vegas bound), but based on this as well as the habits of the Academy voters, it would be hard to bet against THE ARTIST as well as the Weinstein Effect and the T-Factor tonight.

Unforgettable Mike deGruy

By Mike Takeuchi for the Santa Barbara News-Press

I can't believe he's gone. Not yet a month ago, Mike deGruy and I were sharing an enlightening conversation on our passions when it was interrupted by a phone call. The Santa Barbaran, a multiple Emmy and BAFTA award-winning underwater cinematographer apologized because he had to take the call. After all, who rejects a call from Oscar-winning director James Cameron, especially if it concerns a collaboration they were going to be working on?

Other than a too-brief interlude at a press conference, that was the last time we spoke.

The ringing phone of the early morning call jarred me from a deep sleep last Saturday morning when the Executive Director and my boss at the Santa Barbara International Film Festival Roger Durling personally delivered the terribly bad news that our good friend deGruy died along with fellow filmmaker Andrew Wight in a helicopter crash in eastern Australia while scouting locations for a film that they were working on for Cameron and National Geographic.

I knelt down, unable to breathe, like I was punched in the gut.

My first reaction was that this couldn't be, I was just talking to him a few weeks ago. But a quick glance at the internet confirmed it was true. For the surreal rest-of-the day and throughout the weekend, hugs and tears were shared by all those who knew him. Even the Hollywood types who didn't know him and often seemed devoid of any sympathy, expressed their condolences to those of us who were reeling.

What followed over the next 24 hours on the internet were several stories, including pieces from the New York Times, the Guardian and dozens of others from around the world. Of course, all of the articles extolled his work in Cameron's "Last Mysteries of the Titanic" and the award-winning series from David Attenborough and Discovery's "Blue Planet: Seas of Life" (in which many could be seen on his website mikedegruy.com) which were nice, but understandably couldn't touch upon Mike as a man and a friend.

I knew him as an effervescent guy regularly clad in a fleece top, blue jeans and with a perpetual smile on his face that always left me feeling considerably much better after parting. When we worked together on the Film Festival's Field Trip to the Movies project for the last few years, he was constantly willing to take suggestions while offering his own wisdom on making the free program for Santa Barbara County fifth- and sixth-grade students better.

"Why don't we try this?" "What do you think if we ..." were the constant refrains of someone who never lost his wonder for life. And when he hit the stage to deliver the lesson along with the likes of Cameron two years ago and Oscar-winner Lee Unkrich ("Toy Story 3" ) last year, it was like 2,000 kids were attracted to his enthusiasm like a magnet and then reciprocated.

While he was great with the studio films, Mike was especially in his element with nature projects, like Cameron's "Aliens of the Deep," an incredible underwater piece that elicits as much pride from the vaunted filmmaker as the work he did with the Academy Award-winning "Titanic."

Mike and I often spoke of our mutual love for the outdoors. One memorable night we were joined by my wife Munch and his wife Mimi on discussing travel and the outdoors amidst the shallow cocktail party conversations where people started sidling up and eavesdropping as he spoke.

In our last extended conversation early in January, along with sharing some personal thoughts, my late friend continued to inspire me. Ever the teacher and caretaker of the Field Trip program, Mike offered some last-minute instructions to ensure that the kids remained engaged and involved. They were words that I will forever take to heart, not so much for their content, but for the passion behind it.

My deepest sympathies go out to Mimi, his children Max and Frances, and anyone who has ever been touched by this truly great individual.

For a more detailed and extremely moving tribute to Mike, click here: http://newswatch.nationalgeographic.com/2012/02/17/remembering-mike-degruy-and-andrew-wight-extraordinary-explorersfilmmakers/

The Scary Clown Finds a Home

By Mike Takeuchi

I always joke that clowns scare me. Maybe it comes from that old Seinfeld episode where Kramer reveals such, I don't know. But they really don't. In fact, for a long stretch of my younger childhood, I was happily a clown during Halloween. Complete with a homemade outfit stitched by my mom, I loved it...that is until a friend's older brother started calling my brother Darren "clown" and me "clown junior". After that, those costumes were soon retired perhaps out of an early fear of being type-casted.

Nevertheless, I managed to get out of my childhood unscathed-at least clownaphobia free so my therapist and I can spend more productive time going over whether my 12-years of attending Catholic school was permanently damaging or not. While the jury is still out on that, clowns or a clown came back to the forefront of my biggest fears.

This clown wasn't even a real human being and it wasn't very big, but it scared the crap out of me. It wasn't in the shape of some lamp or even a painting on the wall that had eyes that followed you wherever you went. It was a rather innocuous six-inch Christmas ornament that my wife Munch had for the last two decades.

With its cherubic smile painted on a white pasty face, jester hat, and dress that was straight out of the Renaissance, this Harlequin ornament was not a bad looking article in the artistic sense. But for whatever reason, each time I would see it I would feel this twinge like I was watching a creepy part of a horror film.

For our first few Christmases together, I would tolerate it by not saying anything to my wife when she put it on the Christmas tree. After a day or two, when she wasn't looking, I would move it to a part of the tree that was either facing the window or at least to a spot where I couldn't see it (something I confessed indirectly while she read this story).

But after a couple of years went by, I came clean and told my wife the truth.

"Sweetie, that clown really gives me the heebie jeebies," I said. ”Do you mind if we don't put it on the tree anymore?"

Despite looking at me strangely this year and ensuing Christmases, my wife good naturedly agreed to not put it on the tree. However, to amuse herself, once or twice, she did hide it in a spot like my sock drawer where I would inevitably find it and react with horror followed by a colorful comment.

After a while, it became a running joke.

"You better behave, or I'm going to bring the clown out," she would warn.

It probably worked because I never consciously crossed her again. In return, the clown would stay in its box on Christmas.

After years of this, Munch decided that we needed to do something about our friend that was akin to a proper burial. While I did threaten to bury the clown at sea, I could never follow through because I knew that she was semi-fond of it and besides, I believed that even creepy things that have been part of one’s life for two decades deserve some kind of proper sendoff.

So Munch came up with an idea. On Thanksgiving we would go up to our favorite city, San Francisco for the Thanksgiving weekend and stay at our usual "haunt" the Queen Anne Hotel. In regards to referring to it as a "haunt", there are two actual meanings. One is we love this hotel. Perfectly situated in Pacific Heights, near Japantown and close to many other things, it is a very comfortable, clean hotel that has the friendliest staff. Besides, in addition to a continental breakfast, cookies and sherry are served during Happy Hour. I mean, what could beat that?

The other reason for the term is that the Queen Anne Hotel is reportedly haunted by a woman named Mary Lake. Ms. Mary was apparently the founder of a girl's finishing school and died shortly after opening sometime in the late 1800's. It was later believed to be a gentlemen's club and even a few have said it carried some sort of astrological club. If the walls could talk though, it was probably in the voice of Ms. Mary-who has reportedly been seen there in full-fledged ghostness or in the shape of some bright orbs that appeared in some people's photos.

The decor has a Victorian style with red as the dominant color that doesn't dismiss the possibility of a resident spirit. The old elevator creeks and groans and often opens and closes seemingly of its own volition.

Even though we are often on the fourth floor, we opt to take the stairs. The fourth floor, which is the top, has an old church pulpit near the stairs along with a two and a half foot high Victorian style doll which looks very creepy. For the first few times we stayed there, I would point her/it to face the wall. After I grew more comfortable with her there, I just did it out of habit and to make my wife laugh. Apparently someone agrees with me as they wrote about it as well. Just Google “creepy doll Queen Anne Hotel San Francisco” and there it/she is on About.com

Of course, each morning the doll would be facing forward courtesy of either Mary Lake or the hotel staff.

Each time we have stayed there, we had hoped in vain that Mary Lake would make an appearance. The closest possible encounter occurred during one of our arrivals in our room on the fourth floor (the level where Ms. Mary reportedly frequents the most and where suite 410 is named after her) room, I jokingly said "Helloooooo!" in a hopeful voice, only to be responded to in a same way that was either a weird coincidence from someone down in the street, or it was actually the spirit of said ghost. While I have had only one semi-supernatural experience at the Sunnyvale Toys R' Us (which is another story altogether), I prefer to think of this as the latter, while my more grounded wife thinks it was probably the former. The only thing is when we looked down on the street a very short time later, there was nobody there.

Clown at the Mary Lake Suite.

Regardless, we agreed that it would be the perfect time and place to take our little friend as the hotel would be decorated up with Christmas ornaments. The plan would be to wait for a time when the main foyer, complete with not one, but two fireplaces would be unoccupied. We would then hang said clown on the giant Christmas tree in the center of the room.

The entire week before the trip, I kept reminding myself to not forget the clown. The night before we left for the Bay, I put the clown near the car keys to ensure that I wouldn't forget it. The next day, we loaded the car up and began our journey by going to the neighborhood 7-Eleven to get some provisions.

As we pulled out of the driveway, Munch grabbed me gently by the arm and looked at me.

"We forgot the clown."

"Shit."

So we drove back home and retrieved our precious cargo and put him/it into the car for transport to his "final destination." After a night in Santa Clara, and then a wonderful hike through Muir Woods in our own version of Black Friday, we arrived at the hotel to find the friendly manager Michael and Bonnie there to greet us at our favorite hotel on the planet.

The reason we started a tradition of staying at the Queen Anne around the holidays is that they really do it up right. The reception room has a complete diorama of a winter scene, with numerous stockings with each employee's name stitched on them hanging above. Inside the main room, the tree dominates the center. But there are also varying figures of Santa Claus and Father Christmas dotted around the room. In the far room which houses the second fireplace, a very scary two-foot high mechanical Santa holds sentry. Moving its arms and head while the motor groans, I imagine that old Karen Black TV movie from 1975, "The Trilogy of Terror" where a small voodoo statue comes alive to terrorize her.

Heading up to our room 403 (the Mary Lake Suite is 410 by the way), we settled in to rest and refresh. After a nice dinner at Suzu, we came back to an empty hotel lobby and sitting room. With Christmas music piped in and the sounds of the mechanical Santa Claus figures whirring throughout the room, the place had a very "Shining" type of feeling. A cold chill hit me that Munch didn't feel and I wondered aloud if it was Mary. After being assured that nobody else (human or otherwise) was in the room, we looked at the tree and then each other.

It was time to complete our mission and get rid of that effing clown.

We then climbed the four flights of stairs in the main hallway to our room, located and grabbed our clown and headed back down. After a brief tour around the room to ensure that nobody else was indeed in the room much like Red did when looking for the box Andy left him along that rock wall in "The Shawshank Redemption", Munch walked up and put the clown on the tree. Facing the back room to avoid attracting any unwanted staff attention for the hotel's newest and inadvertent ornament, it seemed right at home amongst the other decorations of similar style.

For some reason, as I looked at it on the tree, the expression on the clown seemed to have changed because it didn't look as scary as I thought it did before. In fact, it took on a warm quality that seemed to say that it was really happy to be there.

"I think it feels like it belongs here," I said to my rolling-eyed wife as I took a few photos for posterity. "And I don't get the same feeling I did when it was in our house."

"You know, we could always take it back home with us if you think you'll miss it," she said smirking.

I declined. After all, that no-longer-creepy harlequin clown had found its proper home.

And who am I to take someone or something out of the environment it belongs in?

Besides, I told her, we could always visit it.