You can’t stop what’s comin’ – ain’t all waiting on you. That’s vanity. – Ellis, “No Country For Old Men”
Through some set of mildly odd circumstances, I’ve recently found myself watching the first two installments the epic six-part miniseries America: The Story of Us, now playing on the History Channel. Something about the show peaked my innate sense of cynicism even before I saw one slick, computer-generated frame of Revolutionary War reenactment from the vantage of a hurling musket ball. If there’s an underlying message in the delivery of this production, it might be that the “us” referenced in the title is bonded only by a shared inability to concentrate on anything longer than thirty seconds if it isn’t packaged like a Battlefield game for Xbox 360. Still, even given the ADD-friendly slant of the series, there are enough fascinating moments in this country’s short, staggeringly inventive history to pull it through – a fact to which anyone enduring the “celebrity commentary” segments can attest. One barely has the time to gather his thoughts over Donald Trump waxing philosophic on the “character of an American” before being hit over the head with Sheryl Crow’s thoughts on slavery. It will be worth sticking this thing out if only to discover if anybody pulled the plug on Andy Dick’s Pearl Harbor soliloquy.
Time, as a point of reference, never appears relevant until it’s too late. Anything that happens before one is brought in to the world, or before one has the facility for conscious recollection, might as well be ancient history. As a kid I placed Hitler somewhere between dinosaurs and the Beatles. Similarly, I’ve never known a time when America hasn’t been the world power. But watching this show with its flashy visual enhancements of our breakneck expansion and the mixed bag, viral repercussions of say, the cotton gin, got me to thinking. The lifespan of a country isn’t terribly different from that of a person. It’s born, if it’s lucky goes through a period of intense creation and growth, then grows older and dies. In an odd manner, I’m as fiercely patriotic as anyone I’ve ever known. But as much as I might like to, I can’t parlay an intense appreciation or sense of nostalgia for this country into some deluded denial of our likely impermanence. At the very least, I’d be doing the History Channel a disservice.
I’m livin’ for givin’ the Devil his due –Blue Oyster Cult
My friend Heather, who visited last week from Philly, possesses perhaps the most sincere laugh on the planet. Once engaged, it eclipses mere amusement and shifts in to something more electric and potent, knowing neither decorum nor inhibition. It is equally likely to power on at a ballgame, on the subway, or during a polygraph test. It can begin as excited acknowledgment of the intricate processes of humor and then quickly erupt in to joyous appreciation for laughter itself. Sometimes it’s impossible to tell what she’s breaking up over; only that it’s innate and has to run its course. None of which is to suggest that the girl is an easy laugh. Her disappointment over failed or substandard attempts is as real and visceral as her connection to the genuine item. “Wait, wait …” she’ll sometimes say, “that isn’t funny.” Then she’ll stare with a child-like look of disappointed anticipation, wanting the offender to make it right.
I met Heather when she was nineteen and had just moved to San Francisco. I like to tell the story that she moved there because of a crush she had on the (fictitious) WWF wrestler Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake, whose ring introduction included the line “from San Francisco, California …” She did have a thing for Beefcake, but that was when she was thirteen. By the time she left home she’d figured his deal out, but had also developed a soft spot for the city after visiting there with an aunt. San Francisco and Heather were an incendiary combination with a decent shelf life. The place reflected both her youth and alternating current, fluctuating evenly between excitable and grounded. She used to ask me to grab her by the shoulders and shake her hard – either to stir something up or to settle it down. The city and Heather also shared a deep history belied by their years. With some people and places, you can just tell that they’ve been around for a spell.
I hadn’t seen Heather for a long while, despite our paths running almost identical east/west coast routes. She arrived in Brooklyn a week after my latest vintage stereo receiver came via UPS from Los Angeles. I’ve been purchasing these old receivers of late – the last one was a Harmon Kardon that I bought from a guy in the neighborhood for fifty bucks, and it lasted three years. The current model is a 1974 Pioneer SX-737, an eBay find that ran me about a hundred with shipping from Los Angeles. I like its weight and the solid feeling you get when turning its pulley-rigged tuning dial. The face glows with subtle, cool blue light and there’s a faint, warm waft and scent of electronics from the top vent on the wooden cabinet. When I first turned it on the right channel sputtered and the sound crackled, cutting in and out. I reasoned that this was the risk one takes buying something that’s over thirty-five years old, and prepared to chalk it up to experience. But after leaving it on for a few hours the internal connections strengthened and I could sense it coming back to life. Since then it’s performed flawlessly and the sound seems to become richer by the day. Maybe I’m projecting these qualities, influenced by a combination of nostalgia and that nifty blue glow – but I don’t think so. The thing just plays right.
Young people don’t know anything – especially that they’re young.
-Don Draper
It reached ninety-two degrees in Central Park on Wednesday afternoon, making it the hottest April 7th in recorded history. I remind myself of this two days later as I cut through Manhattan at midnight, hood pulled tight, heading for the train on a chilled, wet Friday. My car remains more or less empty for one stop, where it fills at 14th Street with a group of young gay (not in the Great Gatsby sense) dudes, occupying the seat next to me. A weathered, older Irish gentleman, looking like the type who might admonish George Bailey on ‘characters giving the place atmosphere’ sits across in apparent disapproval. Minutes later at West Fourth some urban clubbers with custom fit pants and high-end sneakers add to the mix, grabbing an overhead bar and the remaining floor space. Like the weather, the vibe shifts and the people readjust. If nothing else, New York City keeps you honest.
Pat Jordan wrote the baseball memoir A False Spring in 1975, and I read it later in college. The Kansas City Star called Jordan’s book “one of the most fabulous failure stories of our time,” and I would agree. But Jordan’s work, documenting his unsuccessful attempt at becoming a major league pitcher, is much more than this. Despite failing to reach The Show, Jordan’s ultimate success in relating his journey is apparent from the first sentence: “I see myself daily as I was then, framed in a photograph on the desk in my attic room.” The writing continues as such to its conclusion, detailing in simple, vivid prose an experience as universal as the passing of the seasons. Even Willie Mays had to learn to face the winter – and not before doing a late-fall stint as a Met.
Perspective, not unlike Dodger fans, tends to arrive late and leave early. I saw the Stones play Candlestick Park back in ‘81, supporting the release of their album Tattoo You. There was a video for the single “Waiting On A Friend” – a tune that was recorded in ‘72 for Goats Head Soup, but didn’t make the cut. In the video, which played constantly on the just-introduced MTV, Mick Jagger sits on a stoop at 96-98 St. Mark’s Place in Manhattan, the same location used for the cover of Led Zeppelin’s 1975 Physical Graffiti LP. He waits for an approaching Keith Richards while mouthing the words to the tune – “a smile relieves a heart that grieves / remember what I said.” The jazz saxophonist Sonny Rollins provides a memorable solo and Mick Taylor’s guitar work from ‘72 can be heard also. I liked the song then and like it now, and had little idea I’d be wandering those same streets near St. Mark’s Place twenty-nine years later, reflecting on how old I thought Mick Jagger was at 38, back in 1981. And I have no idea what any of it means.
New York Harbor, July 1908, from the lens of photographer JB Monaco.
Walking home Monday at midnight in the driving late-March Brooklyn rain, I hit a good twenty minute stretch. I rarely use an umbrella in New York City as it presents an awkward space-management dilemma, like navigating the already populous cement with everybody’s head expanded to triple-size. But given the hour and conditions the sidewalks were clear, so I opened an under-utilized bumbershoot from my pack and watched the encasing runoff as though staring from the backside of a waterfall. The bars on Atlantic Avenue were closing early, even for a Monday, with stools stacked on tables and mops hitting floors. I was plugged in to some tunes, sheltered, on-foot and self-contained, a condition only sustainable for short bursts during a lifetime. But like I said .. twenty minutes.
Hillybilly Deluxe – that’s what I was listening to – Dwight Yoakam’s 1987 follow-up to his debut LP. I used to make an argument for Dwight on occasion in mixed company, back when I was young and had the energy. He’s an easy sort to slap a knee-jerk label on, what with the tight jeans and that ever-present Stetson pulled low over his eyes. “You like this guy?” David Letterman joked in trademark punk fashion to Alec Baldwin, about to introduce Yoakam on a ‘96 show. “I bet you a hundred bucks he’s wearing a cowboy hat..” I’ve grown tired of Dave but still listen to Dwight. The hat, jeans and swagger are all part of a crafted visual that he’s pulled off well, but without them the guy looks like he might be pumping gas at a 50’s Mobil station in Porterville, California. Not unlike Tom Petty, another exceptional talent looked down upon by some “sophisticated” music fans, part of Yoakam’s appeal is in the genuine transformation he achieves while performing. Several observations could be made about this process, but really, it all comes down to the guy’s voice. When Johnny Cash names you his “favorite singer,” chances are you’ve got something going on. He’s been labeled “country” – a derisive term for the clueless post Hank Williams masses – but he crosses genres. Elvis analogies are not out of line. Listen to his cover of the Kink’s Tired Of Waiting For You and then try defining the guy.
But I digress. Brooklyn, transient ruminative relief, late-night pouring rain. I arrive at my building where an elegant woman with baby strapped to front is exiting a cab, attempting futilely to cover from the deluge. I grab her suitcase and turn my key in the door, helping her in to the lobby. “Thank you,” she says with educated English tone. “Nice night,” I observe with some irony, though I’m still feeling OK. “Just awful,” she says, extending the handle and rolling her belongings away. Inside my apartment it’s warm and I switch in to a dry t-shirt. A quick Internet search reveals that Dwight Yoakam is facing an IRS lean on his property; the result of over four hundred grand in delinquent payment. I switch over to Youtube and catch a clip of him performing in Wheeling, West Virginia – a two part medley starting with Suspicious Minds and segueing seamlessly into a sublime, Kentucky-fied cover of the Bee Gee’s To Love Somebody. Maybe I can nurse an extra ten minutes out of this run.
I just finished reading Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, having struggled with the novel for several months and putting it down for long stretches at a time. There were occasions when I would get through multiple chapters in one sitting, but typically I’d read two or three pages at night before becoming exhausted and falling asleep. Eventually I got far enough along where I committed myself to seeing it through, if only to be able to claim truthfully that I’d read the darn thing. The metaphorical dream sequences, Russian culture, and long monologues were difficult enough, but it was the names that really did me in. Not only are they difficult to pronounce, there are alternate names for several characters. The protagonist for example, Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, is also referred to as Rodya, Rodenka and Rodka. Just getting him and his sister straight was like trying to memorize the lineup for a visiting baseball team. And there were so many elaborately wordy, extensive passages that I found myself trapped in similar internal conversations while performing menial, everyday tasks.
I should put this laundry in to dry. But why? It will dry eventually without my using the machine and I have no need for the clothes today. Why have I washed them in the first place? Had I not, I needn’t be having this drying debate. But of course, dry clothes are good, and why resist the process or enjoying their warm, softly-folded pleasures? And here – a sock! But what of its matching counterpart? Why worry when it will only be obscured by the hem of my trouser? .. etc. etc.
Obviously there’s more to the book than this, and thousands of professors, literary scholars, and ardent intellectuals can’t all be wrong. It asks some very compelling questions about morality and redemption; about what a person is capable of doing and then living with. But to read the novel in anything but its native language puts one at a disadvantage. For example – the Russian word for crime is “prestuplenie” and its literal translation is “stepping over.” This information alone changes the complexion of the work. Crime and Punishment looks at murder, and whether it is ever acceptable – not just in cases of retribution, but in ridding the world of a life which only subtracts. What if you know someone who compromises the lives of others in their every action? What if the person is so blind to the world beyond how it touches them, their mere existence sacrifices those closest to them? Is murder then justified? You’d likely have difficulty making your case before a judge.
A great novel works on much more than just the literal level, and is open to as many interpretations as a good song or a fine painting. My less than educated read left me with the impression that Raskolnikov eventually finds love and through it starts on the long path to redemption. This love and redemption comes through human connection, and while similar can’t be fit neatly or literally into the Christian sense introduced earlier in the novel. But there’s a strong chance that I’m wrong. And even if I’m not, I’m fairly certain I’ve contemplated some of these same ideas before, whether it was listening to a Hank Williams song, watching the George Burns movie Oh God, or slogging through the O.J. Simpson trial.
Spring has sprung – according to the window sign in Francesco’s pizza anyway. I typically look to Francesco’s for these reminders. Valentine’s Day, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Remember To Vote – this is the kind of stuff that slips easily past when you reach a certain age and don’t have a local food establishment there to clue you in. There’s still a particular communal, family-oriented vibe present in Brooklyn that’s lacking in San Francisco. It’s difficult to pin down, but I see it when I stop in Francesco’s to get a slice and small salad to go, and note two older Italian dudes having some pizza and talking about how they invest their money. “I’m getting at least seventy percent of it out of this goddamn country, I’ll tell you that ..” It’s there in the young family of four without time to plan a meal or make a reservation, sitting together and enjoying a casual dinner of just-ordered baked ziti while Frank Sinatra croons on Sirius Radio. It’s there in the fact that this joint is neither highly-touted nor exceptional, but consistent, always-open, and delicious. And it’s there in the fact that this place is far from one of a kind in Brooklyn.
I mean not to disparage my other main city out west; only to compare and contrast. Try getting an Irish Coffee in Brooklyn, for instance – particularly when it isn’t being served at my house or as a St. Patrick’s Day novelty item, in a ridiculous glass with half a can of spray-on whipped cream. Try finding some fresh, cracked Dungeness crab or comparing the Verrazano Bridge to the Golden Gate. Try finding a real hill, for God’s sake, or a view of something other than Manhattan that takes your breath away. Still, there’s something to those friendly, seasonal reminders posted outside the local pizza joint, and to being able to read them without being harassed for change or suspicion of being a Straight White Male.
I’ve noticed recent indications of the two respective cities (well, one city and one borough, technically) spilling over to one another. There’s the emergence of excellent new pizza restaurants in North Beach, and even a few spots where one can grab an average slice to go. Brooklyn has a few places to get a San Francisco Mission-style burrito, but if the Park Slope taqueria I tried the other night is any example, they’re about as close to figuring it out as Michael Jackson is to completing that European concert tour. Amazingly this place gets decent reviews out here. Somebody needs to call San Francisco for a delivery so they at least have a point of reference. Both the Park Slope and San Francisco restaurants see fit to give themselves the name “The Taqueria”, but only the latter lives up to this heady billing. Perhaps it’s best that certain charms be left to certain cities. Vive la difference, as the French would be well-advised not to say in Brooklyn. There are enough constants in this world anyway… like Spring coming around just a little faster every year.
I’ve often thought that the one thing standing between this page and the national recognition it so richly deserves is decent sports photojournalism. My brother took this shot of his nine year-old son Peyton, sliding home with obvious concentration during his Little League opener. Anyone who has ever played the game will take note of the kid’s form – staying just outside the baseline, both arms balancing his approach, eyes on the plate, etc. The real question is where he garnered this athleticism. Smart money is on my sister-in-law’s side of the family, as my brother and I, while not exactly oafs, never possessed this kind of deft ability. The scary thing is that the boy’s money game is actually soccer. He’s also a “man of few words” and when he took the call from his coach informing him that he’d made the team of mostly ten and eleven year-olds, the conversation on his end went like this: “Hello? Yes. Uh-huh. Um, shortstop and pitcher. OK. (pause) Daddy! Somebody wants to talk to you!” Gotta love a kid who keeps it simple.
My buddy Tom Myers, who was in Los Angeles for his second consecutive Oscar nomination Sunday night, is on his way to becoming the Jeff Bridges of sound men. He lost to a Swedish dude with two middle initials who made a slightly less grandiose speech than the Indian guy who managed to work the definition of “Om” in to his thank-yous last year. If Tom does follow Bridges’ route, and hangs in there until his sixties before taking home a statue, it may be the most savvy move in the history of technical awards. I don’t think they keep these behind the scenes types around if they’ve already won. They certainly don’t sit them front and center for on-camera eye candy like George Clooney, or even prop them up in back for the Ed Asner/Robert Duvall sympathy vote. My guess is that it’s a one and out kind of thing, so best to get in as many trial runs as possible while rubbing shoulders with Kate Winslet and Maggie Gyllenhaal at the concession stand. Tom sent me a text message Sunday afternoon (as close as I’ll ever get to the Big Show) telling me he’d suppressed the urge to yell “Hey now!” as Jeffrey Tambor passed him in the hall. I didn’t point it out at the time, but Tambor has never been nominated for an Oscar, and yet I’d put five minutes of his Hank Kingsley from The Larry Sanders Show up against anything I saw in The Hurt Locker.
Despite coming from a family with arguable ties to the film industry, my only interest in the last two Academy Awards has been in Tom’s nominations. It’s difficult to get past the self-congratulatory, celebrity circle-jerk element of the whole deal. If hearing Whoopi Goldberg tell her fellow actors “I’m really glad we do what we do, man – we are amazing” didn’t make me cringe, it would probably be time to call it a day. And this new trend of having one group of actors stand on the stage and shower glorious platitudes upon those nominated while the canonized touch their hearts and put their hands together in saintly appreciation is enough to make Joey Chestnut gag. Still, the brief mention of our company during a ‘91 acceptance speech generated more attention than any ad campaign we ever ran. Tens of millions watch the broadcast every year, and I can’t make a solid argument that the interest is any more vacuous than my own in Joe Montana winning a Super Bowl or Tim Lincecum the Cy Young. Further, Tom Myers, the most prominent example among fellow employees to emerge from my era of working at our company, is also the most un-Hollywood type you could find. I just wish he’d worked a little harder on his pitching delivery, growing up playing baseball in Philadelphia. This won’t, however, prevent my rooting for his nomination again next year.
I used to order just to watch her float across the floor – Neil Young
I exchanged a brief, long-distance hello with my old buddy and Greenbrae legend Joe Lazor the other day. Joe grew up down the hill from me and we went to school and played on the same Little League team together. If everyone has one “larger than life” character from their youth, Joe would be mine. And while “infamous” might come to mind before “domesticated” for those scanning the list of appropriate adjectives to describe him back in the day, his exploits never outshone his personality. “I saw your mom two days ago,” Joe told me. “What a great lady.”
My mom’s birthday happened to be approaching a few days later on March first, and I wanted to put some of my thoughts about her in writing, but couldn’t seem to manage. It wasn’t that I felt particularly pressured to do this; I’ve written her in the past and typically don’t need a special occasion to do so. Of all preposterous accusations that might be lobbed my way, none could be quite so absurd as any challenging my connection with my mother. Still, Joe’s simple assertion – “what a great lady” – stuck with me. It’s a truth that I’ve perhaps taken for granted, as one who is born with unusual athletic talent does with his skill, or one with a superior IQ does with his ability to score high on tests. It’s taken me some time to put my mother in proper perspective outside the context of her being my mother, and to whatever relatively objective degree this is possible. Two truths seem apparent: not everybody gets as lucky as me, and I couldn’t put it any better than Joe Lazor.
And so it was I was talking to my mom on her birthday, recounting her exchange with Joe at the local pharmacy, and hearing about her plans for a casual dinner with my dad that evening. She was about to hand the phone over to him when I told her that there was something else I wanted to say. She waited intently while I rambled on, trying to express the above even less adequately and adding some poorly worded crap about how I always like hearing that she’s run in to someone I know because she represents the “best part of me.” Only the first part of this is accurate, and the truth is that I often go out of my way to avoid seeing people I know in public places. My mother’s skill in this arena and innate ability to make others feel good in a casual, social setting is something I’ve long admired but cannot claim to possess. But that’s OK because I probably make up for it in other ways, and my mom is always the first to let me know what those are. Had I really been on my game, I would have reminded her about the time she took Joe, Kevin Benjamin and me to San Francisco’s Chinatown on the last day of the fifth grade to buy firecrackers. It’s a decent story, and probably represents a good chunk of what I’ve been trying to cover here. As any competent writing teacher will instruct: show, don’t tell. What they generally fail to pass on is that it applies equally to love.