WHO ASKED ME?
Rick Monaco's World View



Be Mice Elf Again

I've always appreciated Van Morrison's live 1994 album "A Night in San Francisco," particularly
the way it represents the man's uncanny knack for sampling from other artists and weaving it in
seamlessly to his own material. One such example is the eighth cut of the first disc - "See Me Through/
Soldier of Fortune/Thank You Falletinme Be Mice Elf Again." By the time Van gets around to the Sly
Stone lyrics he owns them. They take on a forlorn, nostalgic tone, lacking any hint of the original's funky
punch. Attempts at switching from funky punch to forlorn nostalgia seemed to elude Sly, perhaps a
result of doing enough cocaine to blow a hole in his nasal septum.

There's a great sentiment behind "thank you for letting me be myself again" no matter how the words
are sung. On Van's live version, it follows his borrowing from Howlin' Wolf (and Roosevelt Sykes)
with "I been wearin' my .44 so long, it makes my shoulder sore." The combination of burden and
relief works beautifully, and when he sings "Be Mice Elf" it's as if a cool breeze has entered the
Masonic Theater. What greater compliment could be paid than thanking somebody for allowing one
to be himself, again? The "again" is particularly relevant because it signifies that the protagonist has
become lost and is trying to find his way home. Lost in search of change, which brings us back to this
running theme in which I've become inextricably entangled. Adventures of the Terminally Obscure.
At least I gave this one a musical theme. (9..7.08)

Change We Can Believe In

That's Obama's tag, to touch briefly on the world of politics again. And McCain is scrambling to
project his own non-stagnating image, putting a saucy-looking "hockey mom" on the ticket. The
old guy has something there. When's the last time anybody really wanted to do a vice president?
Have to go all the way back to Spiro Agnew for me. But it's change, or the idea of such, that
continues to fascinate me.

The only change I remain fully capable of believing in is the kind I allow to accumulate in a large
plastic cup on the wooden counter separating my kitchen and living room. The last time I took
it to Commerce Bank and filtered it through their "Penny Arcade" machine, I walked away with
over ninety-two bucks in bills. If I had to break it down after all this time slugging it out in New
York, what this coast has over the other comes down to two things: better pizza and Commerce
Bank's Penny Arcade machine. They've got the same thing in some supermarkets on the West
Coast, but you have to pay a surcharge in order to have your coins converted to bills. Not only
does Commerce waive the charge, they actually pay out a cash reward if you come within a
certain amount of guessing your total. And you don't even have to be a regular customer. This
represents a real throwback to the days when banks put the customer first and gave out free
toasters with new accounts. Not only this, but "Commerce" was the name of the bank on the
original Beverly Hillbillies television program, run by my brother's long-standing personal hero and
role model, Milburn Drysdale. Screw the A.P. Giannini loyalty to Italians thinking, I'm pulling my
funds from Bank of America in the morning.

But I digress - which leads me conveniently back to my topic at hand. I've done my share of both
standing still and taking a frantic run at change. In the process I've come to appreciate air travel the
most. It's the only relatively affordable activity that sustains the illusion of change. Being thirty thousand
feet above the ground and moving at a high speed never fails to instill the idea that things will somehow
be different when you land. I suspect that I'd lose this break from reality as well, were I to fly four or
five times a month. But at the very least, being that high in the air removes any possibility of pursuing
change for the time being. Nothing to do but stare at the guy's head in front of you and wait to land.
Those far more cynical than I might point to this as an apt metaphor for life.

Some years back, and before I left for New York the first time, I read a book by a guy named Allen
Wheelis. It was called "How People Change." Someone I was close to at the time had given me a
printed excerpt that was part of a class she was taking, and I found it compelling enough to buy the
book. It's a concise and exceptionally straight forward work. In brief, Wheelis focuses on three different
kinds of change: actual physiological changes as in adolescence or old age which lead to a different sense
of self, change brought on by external forces like being a prisoner of war (hey, McCain actually has
a legitimate claim to this one), and change from "within" that comes consciously and by design. To hear
Wheelis tell it, this last type of deliberate change represents such a trying and immensely difficulty task,
being a POW might be a preferable option. I thought it was a great book, and in retrospect it accurately
predicted my own insights that were to come in the following years.

The current presidential candidates might be better off for perusing Wheelis' work. At the very least
they might be less likely to throw the word out there so carelessly or slap it on their campaign signs.
I remember sending an email after reading the original excerpt from "How People Change" and
quoting Steve Earle's "Fort Worth Blues." It's a song he wrote on the west coast of Ireland, shortly
after the death of Townes Van Zandt. "They say Texas weather's always changing / and one thing
change will bring is something new." It's a great song and it never fails to hit me every time I hear
it. Some things will never change. (9.2.08)

I sat home in Tennessee, starin' at my screen
uneasy feelin' in my chest, wonderin' what it means
-Steve Earle "Christmas in Washington"

So Obama made his speech last night, and this message of "change" was prominent. Sheryl Crow even
switched a few words around in one of her songs to fit the occasion and Stevie Wonder showed a lot of
teeth. There were a lot of good teeth all around, for that matter. For a guy who smoked for a long while,
Barack's are coming along nicely. And that Joe Biden has one hell of a set of chompers. In fact, Biden's are
alarmingly white. I think it's time to acknowledge that this teeth whitening technology has advanced beyond
the point where it's doing anyone any good. It's like everything's being shot under a black light these days,
and everyone's mother has bred with Sam Champion. Perhaps it's our ongoing determination, particularly
during the political season, to reinforce our independence from England. But I'd take Winston Churchill over
any of these clowns.

This was supposed to be Obama's moment to lay out his ideas and vision. He touched on this a bit, and also
made some new references, including one to McCain's reputation as a hot head. But the majority of his talk,
despite expectations, continued to focus on this non-specific idea of change. What specifics he did address
weren't a heck of a lot different from traditionally democratic ideas of the past. In an effort to appeal to all
people and avoid alienating any, he's steadfastly refused to hammer on the most obvious change point that
he represents: he's black and he doesn't have a name like Jefferson, Washington or Lincoln. Sure, he's brushed
up against the idea in the past and mentioned, passingly, that his name and appearance are different. The one
speech he made addressing the point, when it could no longer be avoided, was by far his most eloquent and
gripping of the campaign. But now any reference to this colossal and authentic version of "change" that he
embodies is only touched on ever so delicately and implied in subtext. And yet there it is in every camera shot,
in the faces of his wife and kids, and in the eyes of every black person in crowd.

I don't think he'd be practicing any great injustice, playing the "race card" or implying racial prejudice on the part
of anyone not voting for him were he to put it out there a bit more. The idea that he'll seem aligned with radical
ideology or appear fixed with anger on righting the many wrongs set in place by this country's great historical shame
is ridiculous. That he's an appealing and potentially capable candidate speaks for itself in his very manner. But if
we're talking about change here, let's get real people, and start with the most obvious and glaring example he
represents. The problem with politicians is that they try to maintain a straight face while trying to be all things to
all people. And in doing this they typically come off as being full of shit. It's no secret that there are a lot of brown
people, in all corners of the world, who aren't exactly singing America's praises. And folks of all political persuasion
seem capable of acknowledging that we squandered at least a bit of the international good will that was in the air
immediately following September of 2001. Historically, symbolic gestures are every bit as important as the actual
practices put in place. Nixon made great strides with China, but all anyone remembers is his sweating a lot and
leaving in disgrace.

I found myself paying attention to the start of Obama's acceptance speech last night, tuning out during the middle part
where he touched on solar energy and Mccain being a Bush clone, and then tuning back in at the very end. It was
in closing that he mentioned Martin Luther King's march on Washington forty-five years ago, and in measured tones
his voice rose with passion. He should lose the restraint and start going with it a bit more. He's already got the posters
all printed up; might as well meet this change thing head-on. (8.29.08)

Ain't talkin' / just walkin'
Eating hog eyed grease in a hog eyed town
-Bob Dylan

I've never been a huge fan of poetry outside of songwriting. Something to do with my innate,
nonlinear orientation makes it nearly impossible for this form of prose to stick with me if it doesn't
have a strong back beat or chord progression. There are exceptions; I've seemed able to commit
large pieces of Robert Burns work to memory. But I've always thought that Burns' stuff reads like
rock 'n' roll anyway - like something Keith Richards could slap a riff on. And of course, Burns was
a songwriter.

While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

I mean, come on. Try not tapping your feet to "mosses, waters, slaps and stiles" or failing to rock out
to the idea of "getting fou and unco happy." Burns was on another planet. An no wrath-nurser worth
her salt can't relate to that last line.

All of which is a long way of getting around to Bob Dylan, a gentleman equally deserving of that "other
planet" distinction. I saw Bob perform at Prospect Park in Brooklyn last week, a significant personal
marker for my time in New York. My buddy Mark Street is perhaps the biggest Dylan fan I know, and
has remarked on numerous occasions of his admiration for Bob's refusal to bow to expectation. Whether
plugging in to an amplifier to Pete Seeger's chagrin or touring Israel while strumming his Christian tunes,
"I'm Bob Dylan" has always seemed sufficient justification. And indeed, he was offering no explanations
in Brooklyn, as his band put down a sublime and restrained back beat for the bluesy cuts off "Modern Times"
and as he chopped and reconstructed melodies and interpretations of early works. There was some old
hippie grumbling among the widespread cheers about the way he "mangled" Blowin' In The Wind and other
early sixties chestnuts. This has always seemed curious to me - how these folks who claim some exclusive
right to an artist are the same ones who haven't seen him perform in the last twenty years. Who goes to a
Dylan show expecting something?

For a lesser talent, this refusal to be categorized or interpreted could be mistaken for posturing. But the boy
could always flat out write. "Time Out Of Mind" and "Modern Times" are both deceptively great albums and
resonate with a dark and forlorn feeling. At sixty seven Dylan seems thankfully more intent on musing over being
at this end of the road as opposed to contemplating what he meant to a previous generation. He also seems to
be having a good time on his own terms. I enjoyed the pockets of cheers coming from the crowd when he sang
"I'm the oldest son of a crazy man / I'm in a cowboy band." It seemed to sum it up fairly well, and he's
surrounded himself with some talented gunslingers. There's been some discussion about the derivative nature of
Modern Times and how Dylan has adapted many cuts from older, well-known compositions. But you don't have
to be a genius to realize that most of modern culture can be traced back to either a Buddy Holly song or an episode
of The Honeymooners. Of course they don't all have Bob's words behind them.

I was happy to read the Times review of the show the following morning, and to see that it made prominent note
of something that stuck with me. After the encore, Dylan came to the front of the stage and as his band stood
stoically behind in black western suits he formed his hands into pistols and fired menacingly and deliberately into
the crowd. It wasn't just the gesture, but the way he appeared to be taking his time and savoring it. As contrived
as it sounds, and despite the low lighting, you could see it in his eyes. Here's to a guy who was never destined to
be a greatest hits act.



(8.17.08)

Self Wiring

Among the numerous theories relating to how we come to be who we are is the deceptively
simplistic idea that it "all comes down to wiring." There's something undeniably satisfying about
this approach, as susceptible as it might be to picking apart. Advocates of genetic influence would
likely weigh in with support, but it's difficult to form a sound argument that excludes environment.
The same event that causes our circuitry to go haywire becomes no big deal with repeated exposure.
Sense of self isn't an exclusively western concept, but it takes on a different connotation among cultures
stressing the importance of the group over the individual. No matter how you look at it, individual wiring
exerts irrefutable influence.

"Man On Wire", a documentary film currently in theaters, details the story of frenchman Philippe Petit's
1974 high-wire walk between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. The idea of this daredevil
act consumed Petit from the time he was seventeen and saw a magazine image of the yet to be constructed
towers while waiting in a dentist's office in France. This singular, crystallized dream defined his focus in
the coming years and seemed to define him still, more than thirty years after accomplishing the feat. The
act itself could be argued selfish, and watching the guy ramble on in excited broken English with a heavy
french accent doesn't embody my idea of a good time. But there is something undeniably spectacular,
beautiful even, in what he accomplished. And taken in a metaphorical sense, the act is particularly moving.
There's a moment in the film when one of his accomplices, another french guy who helped rig the wire, is
reflecting stoically on the day it all went down. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he breaks down sobbing.
Another nice moment comes when Petit speaks of the hesitation in his first step on to the wire, and how
all those years of planning came down to this single initiating act. There's a still shot of him a few steps
later, suspended more than thirteen hundred feet above New York City with a look of absolute joy on
his face. Here was a man who knew his own wiring so well that he literally needed only the first step in
even the most precarious and terrifying of circumstances to feel on solid ground. (8.11.08)



08/08/08

I'm in Mazzone's True Value hardware store buying a quarter-inch pressurized cap for the water line
that used to go in to my old refrigerator's ice maker. I'm fairly pleased with this fifty cent purchase - it's
early in the day and I'm under the illusion that I've taken care of another problem. But I should be more
cognizant of the signals around me, including the big kid with the square head, board shorts and oversized
Jets jersey, asking the Mazzone employee in all earnestness if they sell machetes. I tell myself it's none of
my business, and that he's likely confusing it with some sort of gardening implement. Heading toward home,
I take particular note of the various Virgin Mary front yard displays in this South Brooklyn neighborhood.
These multi story brownstones are all pushing two million (and higher) despite a supposedly slumping market,
but some folks still aren't selling and a little gentrification isn't going to prevent the Holy Mother from getting
her props.

Back at the digs I attach the cap to the copper water line and turn the cold water back on, anticipating
pushing my new fridge in place and admiring a job well done. But it doesn't form a seal and there's a touch
of dampness on the side of the copper. So I'm off again to the discount store a few blocks up, to procure
some threaded plumber's tape. Another one dollar purchase - I'm up to a buck fifty now, but am getting
some exercise in the process. Never mind the panicking girl running with hands over mouth from behind
the register, crying that her wallet's been lifted. I'm willing to turn my pockets out in proof of innocence if
it means getting home and forming a tight seal on my old freezer line. I pick up a few bottles of Gatorade
at the shady bodega on the corner, planning on putting the cooling powers of my new appliance to the test.
An hour later I've gone through both bottles and the entire roll of plumber's tape, and of course the leak
is even worse. Sweating though my third t-shirt of the day, I get the inspired idea to disconnect the line
entirely from under the sink, and cap it there. Ten minutes later I'm again soaked, this time a result of the
water spraying in all directions. I've gone from a passably damp quarter inch copper pipe to a tapped
Harlem fire hydrant in full summer glory. I shut off the cold water, bite the bullet, and reach for my phone.

I don't know any plumbers in the area, but after a few calls I settle on a firm called "Einstein's" - an
unlikely name for the trade, but there's something reassuring about the girl's voice on the other end of
the line. I tell her that it's a straight forward job and shouldn't take more than ten minutes, and she
explains that it's seventy-nine dollars for a service call and estimate. The guy arrives promptly and when I ask
him if he's Einstein he offers the appropriate response in a thick Brooklyn accent. "If I was, would I be doin'
this job?" We're off and running. I explain that I've bought a new refrigerator and had trouble trying to
cap the water line that went to the old unit's ice maker. He looks under the sink, tells me it's no problem,
and then, with a straight face says "what it's gonna be is two hundred and eighty-nine." I tell him he's
got to be kidding, and he offers a slight grin and some form of explanation relating to escalating costs.
What can I do? If I send him away I'm out eighty bucks and back where I started. I tell him that it's almost
as much as I paid for the new refrigerator and he suggests that I "shoulda got one with an ice maker."
Fifteen minutes later all is in fine working order, except my credit card, which has been swiped to the tune
of three hundred and change.

Later in the evening I'm enjoying some hand-made ice, watching sheet lightning flash between the thick clouds
over Jersey. Again with the weather - it seems like I never stop with this. But the entire area's like some
electrical appliance that gets plugged in come June and stays charged through early September. Sometimes
it's a better idea to let the water run. (08.08.08)

How Sweat It Is

It's halfway through July, the high point of summer, and a run of ninety degree days has given way
to mid eighties temperatures and the threat of heavy rain. I've noted it before - New York weather
lends itself to the city and possesses weight, distinction and authority. When the sky makes up
its mind to do something, it does it. I hang on to this notion as I descend the stairs at the Carroll
Street subway station to flag a Manhattan-bound F. These charcoal skies and ominous, disruptive
clouds aren't just hanging around for their health. Nobody shows up to this city without some idea
of putting what they've got on the table. But for now, they're just making me sweat.

The temperature seems to bump a degree every two steps down for the turnstile. This counters my
memories of the basement being the coolest place in the house. There's nowhere so oppressively
suffocating as a New York City subway platform on a hot summer day. Add to this an impregnated
barometer and the impending sense that something, somewhere has to give, and you've got a recipe
for major league perspiration. Not that I have a problem with sweat. I accepted it long ago as the
sign of a healthy system balancing its internal thermometer and ridding itself of impurities. I've also
accepted my own sweat rhythms; the way I'll typically drip like a maniac immediately post-shower,
soak my clothes through, then dry out nicely an hour later in the complimentary chill of subway car AC
or the relief of a breezy Manhattan street corner. Deodorant is a must and part of the unwritten social
contract, but antiperspirant is a futile gesture, a band-aid on Hoover Dam. It may work for the elegant
post-debutante attempting to guard her silk chiffon from the unsightly damp, but not for me. I wouldn't
trust a guy who wears antiperspirant. People pointed to Nixon's excessive sweating as evidence of his
flawed character, but I think it's an important indicator of where you stand with someone. Obama's
curiously bone dry dress shirts are still standing between him and my vote.

The drops reach critical mass on my upper back, gravitate toward center, and begin their southern
river run toward the lower back and areas less mentionable. I wipe my forehead with an equally sweaty
forearm then with the bunched fabric of my small umbrella. The sweat takes on a desperate quality as I
strain to look down the rail for signs of an approaching headlight; check the dead air for movement and
the glorious stirring of atmosphere just prior to an arriving carriage. And then five minutes later it appears,
doors opening to refreshing, refrigerated relief. Say what you will about the trials of the MTA, at least they
got this right.

Six hours on it's dark, humid, and still threatening. I'm above ground in the Great Jones Cafe on the
Lower East Side, hunched over a frosty Stella Artois and pulled pork sandwich. The Mets are beating
the Phils, the jukebox playing Sly Stone on vinyl 45, and the waitresses scurrying to turn the tables over
one last time. Suddenly two of them are at the hinged front door, gazing out in gasped wonder at the New
York sky making good on a three day promise. There is no build up or pretense this time, only a crack of
thunder like ball hitting bat then sheets of monsoon-quality water drenching the pavement. I throw some
cash down and grab my umbrella, determined to put it to good use after toting it around all day. Outside,
my bumbershoot proves antiperspirant ineffective; it's raining so hard that the splash-back from the ground
is like an inverse sky drenching. Constant electric-blue flashes dominate above with no gap between
lightning and thunder. The storm is literally on top of Manhattan, illuminating walls of concrete like some
kind of skyscraper freak show. In seconds I'm drenched.

I arrive home an hour later leaving my soaked clothes and shoes in a pile just inside the front door, the
ineffective umbrella a disheveled afterthought and useless cherry on top. I've gone from wet to dry to
wet again, all within a single day's rhythm. Changing in to a dry pair of shorts, I set the bedside fan on
medium-high, click the reading lamp and open my book. Outside it's quiet and the rain has stopped. (7.25.08)

The new Batman movie opened this weekend to record box office receipts, and though I
have to admit to some morbid curiosity in watching Heath Ledger in full face paint, perched
on the edge of the abyss before canceling his SAG card, I generally expect it will be typical,
large-scale Hollywood crap. I'd attempt to make a decent argument against this long-established
trend of making films that play more like booming theme park rides, but why bother? It's all about
the coin, and they've already run the numbers. I half-expected a reverse in the trend after the
World Trade Center toppled some years back, but apparently no amount of real life crash
and burn can dull the American public's appetite to see it on the big screen. It's not the violence
or sensationalism to which I object, just the general lack of a decently executed story and that
everything generally comes off as too loud.

Tom Myers, my own personal film guru, crashed on my couch one night last week while
visiting New York. Tom's come as close to the big time in the movie biz as any former employee
of my family's company. He turns the knobs at Skywalker Sound, George Lucas's audio palace
in the hills of Marin County, and has worked with a lot of big names. But I'm more impressed
with his unassuming status as an American Film Purist, and his vast knowledge of directors, actors
and writers. I remember him talking once about a high school report he did on "One Flew Over
the Cuckoo's Nest", and the significance of Will Sampson's Chief Bromden character. It's the
Chief who uproots the huge marble fountain from the bathing facilities of the mental institution
and crashes it through the barred windows, gaining escape. But it's an earlier scene that's my
favorite, when Jack Nicholson attempts and fails to lift the fountain himself after placing bets
with the various loony spectators. As he walks away in frustration he remarks "But I tried,
didn't I goddamnit? At least I did that."

I have a strong memory of first moving to New York in 2003, and writing an email to someone
from an Internet cafe in the Village, relating that same Cuckoo's Nest scene to my personal
experience in having made this potentially life-changing move. Something in either my prose or
the translation was obviously lacking, and I failed to receive the response I was hoping for. But
maybe my hope for a particular response in this and other relevant life examples is evidence that
I didn't fully get the point of the scene myself. It's never really about the outcome or the
heroic, cinematic effort; it's only ever about the try. (7.21.08)

Some Truths About Baseball.

I used to have a love - hate relationship with baseball, but in recent years it's evolved into an
indifferent - somewhat less indifferent relationship. I played as a kid. My brother's a big fan
and the game occupies as much of my dad's frontal lobe as eating or sleeping. Back in 1987
I attended enough Giants home games to be named an honorary usher. But somewhere along
the line I lost interest...not all interest, but the kind that maintains a constant awareness of pitch
counts, even when traveling abroad. I didn't outgrow the sport. I still believe it's a beautifully
constructed game whose imperfections only lend to its appeal. Arguing against inter league play
or the designated hitter is as valid a means of putting a bar idiot in his place as any. And I can
still get excited about and follow individual players (the Giants' pitcher Tim Lincecum being a
current example.) I just don't get as pumped up as I once did. But this doesn't preclude my
knowing more about the game than your average fan. As we've reached the halfway mark in
the 2008 season, perhaps it's time to share some insight.

You only get to pick one team per lifetime. A lot of so called "fans" seem unclear on this
concept. While it's perfectly acceptable to follow other teams and players and to root for
specific teams once your own has failed to reach post season play, you can't "adopt" another
team as your own. Proclaiming a team one's own is a rite of passage and something that often
occurs on an involuntary level. Typically speaking, your father's team is your team - although
this rule isn't automatic. It's OK for adolescents to experiment with "other" teams the same way
they might drugs or growing a moustache before they're ready. But at a certain age, typically
in your late teens, you must commit. I've committed to practically nothing in my life, and yet I still
understand this. I am a Giants fan, end of story. You don't go away to college in San Diego and
"become" a Padres fan. Baseball is about suffering, not reinvention. And it isn't like marriage or the
church; you can neither weasel nor grow out of it. One life, one team. If this is too difficult to grasp,
switch sports or become a Buddhist and put your faith in returning next time as a Mets fan.

Guys over thirty-six should not wear jerseys with player's names in public. I realize that
this is going to dash whatever hope a certain segment of the population has for ever achieving an
individual sense of style, but something needs to be said. When a kid or younger person wears
a player's jersey in public it says "I really like this player, and while I realize that any aspirations
for a professional sports career are likely delusional, I'm still allowed to dream." This differs from
the intoxicated oaf sporting "25 Giambi" on his back, despite enjoying long standing employment
with the local pipe fitters union and being ten years Jason's senior. OK, you're a fan .. I get it. And
you really like Giambi. Your overt exuberance and ability to almost scream his name correctly after
twelve beers already suggest this. Let's leave the dressing up to the kids. My aversion to this breed of
fan may have a knee jerk element and be related to Ken Young, a middle aged white guy from the
Giants games of my youth. Young sported an impressive boiler, resembled Barney Rubble, and
not only wore a jersey, but a full uniform with batting helmet. The batting helmet would have been
the capper (completely disallowed unless you're Clint Howard in "Gung Ho") had it not been for one
other detail: Young also wore Willie Mays' name and number twenty-four on his back. Mays was
the greatest Giant, and possibly the greatest player, to ever put on a uniform. I wouldn't know
where to begin in listing what was wrong with Ken Young assuming his persona. To this day it's
slanted my stance on the civilian jersey wearer.

You weren't that great a player in your day. Maybe it's the pastoral mythology or hanging on to
the American Dream, but something about baseball breeds delusion. And among the more delusional
offshoots of the game none is as inexplicable as the number of guys secretly harboring the idea
that they could have played on some sort of competitive level. These fantasies don't transfer to football
and basketball. You don't find many middle aged guys sizing up Warren Sapp or Kevin Garnett and
thinking "if only I'd stuck with it." Yet something about baseball engenders this Peter Pan reality substitute.
Perhaps it's because there are still professional baseball players who are constructed like somewhat normal
human beings. Although this is an increasingly rare phenomenon - I once attended a game in San Francisco
and stood by the clubhouse entrance (a perk for season ticket holders with "Field Level" seats.) These
are not small boys, not by any standard. On occasion someone like the above mentioned Tim Lincecum
comes around who, despite being five foot ten and a buck-seventy, can throw a baseball at close to a
hundred miles an hour. These exceptions may be what make baseball great, but they are far from proof
that you could have done it. Standing in the box while this guy threw you one hard curve without giving in
to the temptation to bail or collapse would be more than any mortal could hope for.

Let's break it down: looking back on it, there were several categories with which to associate when you
were young. There were the guys who didn't play, the guys who played but sucked, the guys who fell in
to that vast middle range, the guys who were good, and the guys who were among the elite three or four
best in your high school. Among these select elite, if you went to a large enough school, there might have
been one or two who were good enough to play college ball, and maybe one who was good enough to
earn a minor league contract. The odds are that even he, the elite of the elite, never played pro ball. Sure,
there are exceptions and somebody had to go to high school with Barry Bonds, but someone had an
algebra class with Albert Einstein too. As with this rant, it's time to let it go. (7.15.08)

One of the better moments in Oscar history came in 1993 when Barbra Streisand stepped to the
podium to present the award for best director. The theme for that year's ceremony was "The Year
of the Woman" and Streisand was introduced as the "woman who directed The Prince of Tides."
After she remarked that she looked forward to a day when such distinctions would not be necessary,
you could have iced your vodka-soda on Bab's expression when she opened the envelope and read
Clint Eastwood's name. The towering and still formidable sixty-two year old star accepted the award
with bygone grace and his trademark squint. "Seein' as it's the year of the woman and all," he said,
"I'd like to thank some of the gals who worked on the film." Never before or since has the word
"gal" been put to such particular use. "Unforgiven" also won that night for best editing, supporting
actor, and picture.

I received the Dirty Harry Collector's edition box set for my birthday last weekend (part of a selection
of excellent gifts) and began watching them in order. The first film can't be fully evaluated without taking
the setting and time in to consideration - San Francisco, 1971. Despite its present effete, liberal reputation,
San Francisco's roots are in the Gold Rush and Barbary Coast. By 1971 the Summer of Love had taken on
a much darker incarnation. Speed and pushers usurped grass and dealers and a hefty extorted price was
being slapped on free love at every turn. The Zodiac killer was the SF Chronicle's favorite new pen pal.
And in stepped Clint with a finely coiffed pompadour, wrap around Ray Bans, elbow-patched sports jacket
and a big gun. A very big gun. The term "fascist" was bandied about in reference to the film, but I think
"unapologetic" might have been a better choice. What Eastwood represents in Dirty Harry is a mythologized
version of America, subversively embraced by many persuasions. It's not what he stands for, but simply that he
stands. What some took as a regressed, archaic representation of a suppressed male fantasy was actually an
emerging modern archetype. Eastwood never had to speak more than a few lines to define a part; his mere
presence on the screen produced a potent intangible. And whether in front of or behind the camera, he's always
had vision.

The climax to the original Dirty Harry film is shot across the bay from San Francisco, in Marin County. If you
freeze the frame in one of the shots on Highway 101, you can make out my parents' home in the distance,
tucked into the dry grass hills of burnt summer orange. Nordstroms and Sharper Image had yet to lay claim
to valuable Marin real estate, and the culminating scenes utilize the old Hutchinson Quarry in Greenbrae for a
final shoot out. This was practically in my backyard, and to this day, as the camera pulls back for the end credits,
I wait in vain anticipation of catching a glimpse of our roof. I remember some of my friends' older brothers bragging
of being there that day when Clint jumped from the train trestle to the top of the speeding school bus, or even of
braving the murky waters of the quarry lake to retrieve the SFPD badge that he chucked in a final show of
contempt for The System.

So it's probably fairly easy to see where I'm coming from in regard to the recent exchange of words between
Eastwood and director Spike Lee.

For those unfamiliar, Lee criticized the lack of black actors in Clint's two Iwo Jima films, Eastwood suggested
that Lee shut his face, and Spike intoned that Clint retains a "plantation" mentality. For me, this is less a black
and white thing than it is a respect your elders thing, and I'd have the same problem with Morgan Freeman
getting trash-talked by Quentin Tarantino. There are plenty of less accomplished directors (and those who have
worked with fewer black actors) for Spike to go after, and his use of the phrase "old man" was as classless and
ill-placed as any racial epithet. "Shut your face" may not have been the most subtle request on Clint's part, but nor
was it inherently racist, and his twenty-six years on Lee allow for not mincing words. Further, there are likely more
than a few Italian Americans who would have preferred non inclusion to Danny Aiello's pizza parlor portrayal in Lee's
Do The Right Thing, even if it was an intentional caricature devised to make a point. Some of the representations of
black America in Dirty Harry are a bit retrograde, but so are many of the other themes .. and it was 1971. This was
part of the film's subtext and other characters refer to Harry as a neanderthal and dinosaur. Maybe Clint is operating
in a previous century, but acknowledgement is due for his consistency, body of work, and iconic standing. Even if it
never existed, it's nice to imagine a time when all punks were created equal, regardless of race, orientation, or societal
ranking. (7.9.08)

I wouldn't belong to any club that would accept me as a member
-Groucho Marx

I'm not certain on the definition of a successful writer, but when your novel's title enters the modern
lexicon as an independent entity, you're probably doing OK. Such was Joseph Heller's experience
with Catch-22. The book has been praised as one of the great literary works of the twentieth century,
but I'm more impressed with the idea that the phrase will live on forever. I read and discussed Catch-22
in high school - the topic of an oral book report for Stan Buchanan's English class. Stan played next to
Bill Russell on the 1954-55 NCAA Champion San Francisco Dons basketball team, and described
himself as the "last of the great pee-wee forwards." Most people would list this accomplishment as the
pinnacle of lifetime achievement, but Stan spoke of walking the streets of Kansas City alone in the wee
hours following the championship game, with an oddly empty feeling. The thrill, it seemed, was in the climb
and in beating the odds. Now, despite the victory, it was all over. I'm not certain, but I suspect there was
some form of catch-22 in Stan's experience. Fortunately, Buchanan had another specifically idiosyncratic
talent: teaching the novel The Great Gatsby. I count winding up in his freshman English class and having him
present this book as one of the lucky breaks of my life.

I don't think my Catch-22 oral report represented the pinnacle of personal achievement for me either, but
Stan Buchanan was impressed and told me that I was a smart guy. I was too much of a goofy kid to take
the compliment seriously, but I do remember him repeating it to emphasize that it wasn't the sort of praise
that he threw around lightly. I recall small bits from my report, including my mentioning that in order to
appreciate the basic premise of the book, one would have to be open to the idea of war being an absurd
concept. My Uncle Ned, I suggested, wouldn't dig the novel. I also mentioned that Joseph Heller spent some
time as a screenwriter, working under the name "Max Orange." This was one of the questions on the test that
Buchanan later gave to assure that the class had been paying attention to the various reports: "Who the hell is
Max Orange?"

The catch-22 in "Catch-22" is deceptively ingenious. A fighter pilot wants to get out of flying missions, and in
order to do so must be declared insane by a military psychologist. The very admission that he wants to stop
flying these potentially fatal missions is proof of his sanity, and he's sent back to fly. While not in the same league
as The Great Gatsby, it is a decent book. And the idea that life is filled with catch-22s has come back to me
repeatedly over the years. Some of us, it would seem, are better at both spotting and creating them. (6.27.08)

I was seven when George Carlin's "Class Clown" came out. I remember being at a party at the Picetti's
house and being sent to another room with the rest of the kids while the adults listened to the album in the
living room. The next weekend, my older brother procured the LP at Tower in San Francisco (a fact that
raised a few parental eyebrows) and within a few weeks I had the whole thing memorized. There was
something about his intonation and rhythm that made it like memorizing a song for me. All these years later
I can jump to any part of the record in my mind and do it word for word. Interestingly, I bought a record that
day myself - Johnny Cash at San Quentin. It was the first music I ever bought on my own, and I committed
that to memory too .. not just the songs, but every bit of dialogue in between. It would be easy to hang this
memorization trick on some sort of fascination with early vinyl impressions, but it was much more than this.
To this day I'd assert that there's something special in those two recordings.

Class Clown presents Carlin at a potent juncture: He's at the top of his game after honing his talents with his
earlier, more conventional act, and he has the energy of a man unchained and venturing into riskier territory.
There's a political element to his material, but he never descends into blatant posturing. Instead he focuses on
universal and semi universal curiosities; language in particular. On a later album he muses about the expression
"at any rate." 'At any rate' .. what does that mean? And then in another voice: what about four and a half
percent? He seemed attuned to the idea that, if we can't trust the basic building blocks of communication, how
can we put much weight in anything? And indeed, as he got older his humor became darker and defiantly fatalistic.
There seemed to be a more antagonizing motivation behind his shtick - he became less concerned with eliciting
laughter and more focused on driving home the realization that we're all screwed.

My friend Heather sent me the preface to Carlin's 1997 book "Brain Droppings" in acknowledgement of his
death yesterday. For anyone interested, it can be found here. He makes some valid points and edges into some
areas that, frankly, hit a bit too close to home with me. I prefer to remember him a decade or so past his prime
but before this dark period, when he was still musing about such things as the flame thrower. As Bob Dylan
might have put it, it wasn't dark yet but he was getting there. (6.24.08)

The Scottish are a bit like Joe DiMaggio - they don't get it. The great Yankee Clipper
reportedly failed to comprehend the Simon and Garfunkel line "where have you gone,
Joe DiMaggio?" and his own status as a national icon. "I'm still here," Jolting Joe protested.
"Haven't they heard of Mr. Coffee?"

The passport official at Edinburgh Airport recommends the whitewater rafting up north. "It's
nothin' like ye've got in America .. but it'll git yer blood pumpin'.." But it isn't Colorado we're
after, replete with ball cap wearing vacationers fresh from a spending splurge at The North Face
and anxious to stave off increasing signals that middle age is taking hold. It's the rolling hills of lush
green. The fresh air. The ample helpings of mince and tatties that Oor Wullie dug into while Fat Boab
waited patiently outside the hoose, in the shed. (OK - that last one may apply only to me.)

And the weather. Don't get these people started on the weather. "Ach, I cannae believe it's been
rainin' since ye got here - we haven't seen one wet day fer all of May .." It's a documented fact
that most of the UK (and particularly the English) regard Americans as a thick lot of uncultured morons.
But there's a limit to what even we will swallow. If it never rains here, why is everything greener than a
Boston bar when the Celtics are playing? Why does the satellite shot on the news have a permanent dotted
outline where the country is supposed to be? Why is that entire dining room set making its way down the
River Tay? But still they persist, as if the subject of weather is akin to a misguided cousin prone to taking in
high school girls lacrosse games and about whom the family doesn't speak. Let it go - we're not that stupid.
We knew where we were going and don't suspect a misprint on our tickets to Scottsdale.

The sign posted outside Saint John's Shopping Centre on the High Street in Perth boasts "Now open
late nights Wednesday until seven." When do these people sleep? Perhaps it's our long established
independence from England that they wish to emulate. Indeed, the Scottish Nationalists seek secession
from the UK, sighting rights to ample North Sea oil supplies as sufficient means. But I tend to place some
value in the opinion of long time Perth resident and former City Planner Denis Munro, and his reticence
regarding the matter. His concerns over who would fund the legions of his dole-seeking countrymen are
well-founded, and a stroll through town shortly after the pubs close is enough to give one pause for thought.
That's a lot of North Sea oil, indeed.

There isn't any oil, as far as I know, in the hills east of Pitlochry, just north of Perth and south of the
Highlands. There is, however, the smallest distillery in Scotland - Edradour - where they produce a fine,
handcrafted single malt whisky. There's an older Scottish gentleman with white beard and kilt who will
show you the facilities and offer a complimentary dram. And if you've hiked the two and a half miles up
from town and take the trail back down, there's an expanse of farm land and mountains in the distance for
which no words could do apt justice and no inclement weather could spoil. Scotland needs no apologies.
The place speaks for itself. (6/10/08)

you got a heart so big
it could crush this town
-Petty

I think I used that tune as a lead in about five years ago, and wrote something about the
heart .. how some claim that it has intuitive properties much like the brain and is capable
of influencing reason, spirit and behavior. Most doctors would point out that it's really just
pumping blood, but don't get me started on them. There must be a reason all those old
sayings came to be. How you've got to follow it and be true to it. Heck, how you've just
got to have it. The kids use it in their language today as a literal and mocking translation for
the annoying emoticon symbols that crept up years ago. They'll say "I heart cupcakes"
using the "heart" effectively in place of "love" and as a slap in the face to the whole lol, brb,
and lmao text culture (as well as NYC shopping bags and countless bumper stickers.) Most
people over the age of thirty probably wouldn't even get this, but fortunately I've regressed. And
I hold it as singular proof of hope for this generation - a one word "f*ck you" to cutesy computer
shorthand and powerful affirmation of this heavyweight vital organ.

The tune is "Walls (No. 3)" from the "She's The One" soundtrack ..an interesting example of
something I wrote below; that the observer often brings more to the table than the creator. In
this case the observer was Tom Petty, and the creator Ed Burns, who asked Petty to do the
soundtrack for his film. The film was a colossal piece of sh*t, but Petty wrote at least a few
accompanying tunes that were as good as anything he's ever done. The opening lines alone are
fairly brilliant: some days are diamonds / some days are rocks / some doors are open / some
roads are blocked. He keeps it simple, uses an unexpected rhyme scheme, and transitions into
sundowns are golden / then fade away. It's as if Rainman got in Nick Drake's head and
made everything all right. But what I really like about the tune is the power that the protagonist
attributes to his object of affection's heart; that it could crush this town. Don't always assume that
just because you're dealing with a big heart, it will rule in your favor. And like the boy says, even
walls fall down. (4/29/08)

I think you'd better call John 'cause it don't look like they're here to deliver .. the mail.
-more Neil

I was showing someone an old comic strip of John Spears the other day, by way of explaining
who he was. It was in a large album of other strips I'd done, with titles like Dad in: The Diet and
Jim Moye in: Jim Moye, Intercom. The response came back "you really missed your calling,"
which was a bit confusing, given the album in front of me. Nobody called, but I still drew them.
I suppose I may have failed to understand the potential global appeal of Dad in: Painfully Shy,
but at least I got it down on paper.

This particular early nineties Spears strip featured him crashing through the restroom door of our
company lunchroom after he became convinced that someone was blocking his exit from the other
side. Of course nobody was - he had simply failed to turn the handle and unlock the door. The resulting
expressions on the faces of print department veteran Kevin Chan and his domino playing cronies were strip-
worthy in themselves. I'd used the Coyote-Roadrunner effect of exact body outline to represent Spears
breaking on through to the other side. In reality the door was broken at the lock and badly splintered. As
others shuffled in for their lunch breaks and observed the structural carnage, "Spears thought he was
trapped" was the only explanation necessary. I suppose we can all relate, at different times in our lives.

I guess I'm whoring the old boy out a bit by writing about this, but my conscience can live with that in light
of my limited audience and the Powderfinger obscurity of my references. "He's got a webpage," my mom
informed a neighbor the other night. A little too close to "she also tap dances" from where I was standing.
That was one consistently admirable quality about Spears - no matter how brutally and insightfully over the
top the depiction, he preferred it to not being noticed at all. He was never one of those to profess not wanting
the attention while secretly craving the reverse. And you can always replace a lunchroom door. (4/17/08)

Well they raised that horse to be a jumper ..

Tom Myers once told me that he heard the "I was flyin'" line in Tom Petty's Runnin' Down A
Dream song as "I was sublime." I myself once thought the "how my poor heart aches" line in Sting's
Every Breath You Take was "I'm a pool hall ace." This just goes to show that the observer often
brings more to the table than the creator. Which brings me to Torrance, California.

Dirk Diggler was from Torrance, but he was a fictional character. The city has one of the highest
concentrations of Japanese Americans in the United States. Quentin Tarantino is a Torrance High
drop out. What I've noticed about Torrance is the abundance of strip mall restaurants with partially
burnt out neon signs. "Red obsters" abound. Dad and I have been eating at the Elephant Bar, currently
going by the "lent Bar," with a few gaps between and not too far past Easter. We've come to the
conclusion that they have a decent menu and pour a good glass of wine. We've also agreed that the
best thing about the digital age is that it allows less latitude for poseur auteur filmmakers to blame
their creative shortcomings on the film laboratory.

At some point I think I figured that my assumption that I had the best mom in the world was likely
based partially on subjective reasoning. But along the way I've met a lot of people, many of whom
have or have had mothers of their own, who've affirmed my opinion of her.

None of this relates much to the Marriott Residence Inn, which sits semi majestically on Torrance
Boulevard at Hawthorne, fitting the So Cal landscape like words from a Petty Song. Sometimes
you got to trust yourself .. it ain't like anywhere else. (3/29/08)