Who Asked Me?

I finally tapped out on the Robin Williams news cycle last night after finding myself watching an interview with Todd Bridges, the often troubled former child actor and Gary Coleman’s older brother on Diff’rent Strokes. Bridges seemed to be the only public figure (outside of some Fox News dufus) critical of Williams in death, calling his choice of suicide selfish and inconsiderate.* (Cut to Gary Coleman and Conrad Bain from beyond the grave giving a “whatchoo talkin’ ’bout Willis?” glare and look unseen since Bea Arthur came braless to the set of Maude, respectively.) In the interview Bridges takes a tepid shot at excusing himself – “bad timing” – and concludes with “one more thing .. what about all those comedians who made fun of me when I was having my problems?” Kinda makes one figure that Todd may no longer be on the A-list for celebrity handlers. But this was it, as far as anybody offering anything close to a bad word about Robin Williams. Amid the avalanche of positive sentiment, San Francisco Chronicle film critic Mick LaSalle put it well. LaSalle met Williams at a comedy festival in 1987 and observed: “Offstage he seemed subdued, slightly wistful, very gentle with people, very aware of the capacity of his celebrity to do damage, and very determined not to hurt anybody.” 

So it would seem that Williams carried the weight of celebrity with exceptional grace and went out of his way to help anybody in need. He tread lightly and considerately with ordinary folk, lent his talents repeatedly to armed services overseas, and donated generously of his time and money. He had extensive professional success and while not at the peak of his fame, was notably famous. And his life was not without love; he seemed to have it on both a personal and public level. Yet none of this was enough to keep him in the game. If he had financial problems he certainly wasn’t without the capacity to make money, and on a scale beyond most others’ reach. There was the apparent diagnosis of early Parkinson’s tempting some to conclude that this was it, but this seems more a safety check for those needing one. Many are afflicted but keep going. The pervasive sentiment among those who knew the man was that, whatever his demons, he struggled with them often and over the course of many years. Something not far from the surface seemed to suggest the embodiment of a raw nerve, exposed and vulnerable to all of life’s damaging reverberations.

We can try and spin this bullshit about a great, benevolent force present in the universe. It may even be true. But it ain’t the only force out there. The real miracle is that so many seem able to push on without voluntary exit, existing on that initially bestowed bit of unconditional love. The world is growing increasingly unquiet with words and information flying about our heads like shrapnel. A good deal of this chatter is compulsively positive and takes the form of impulsively generated, self-promoting, uptempo bullshit. Don’t do Twitter or Facebook? Avoid the Internet and all other sources of rapidly disseminated information entirely? Good for you but it’s getting harder and harder to duck. Williams first gained notoriety in the late seventies through what were then the typical channels: network TV, film, and print media. News typically broke first on the radio or via “special reports” on television complete with apology and promise to return you to your “regularly scheduled program.” When I found out that he’d died last week it was in the manner that I now receive most breaking news, on my phone via a text message from a friend. This friend had been informed through Twitter and the information was just minutes old. Still fascinated with this new technology, I immediately checked major news sources online – Drudge, CNN, etc – to see if they were reporting it. None were. Then, as soon as I could hit “refresh” they all had it. It exploded.

Robin Williams’ line of work was one pursued by those most in need of constant, positive affirmation. This isn’t my observation but his own, as relayed to Marc Maron in a 2010 interview. That same affirmation is available to the masses now, albeit in a slightly scaled-down form. There were various Facebook postings on my account last week from people who went to my high school — the same as his — seeming to ascribe some sort of celebrity grief connection to this fact. “You know you’re from Marin if ..” and then a picture of Williams in his varsity letter jacket. Wordsworth knew not how good he had it when he wrote that “the world is too much with us.” Is any of this, though, enough to explain one man’s suicide, depression, or the apparent rise in both among those formerly described as possessing the world in oyster form? Probably not. The idea that someone in Williams’ position might feel too alone to be helped is an anomaly to some, and maybe most. And yet, for whatever reason, this appears to have been the case. If, like Todd Bridges, we choose to hang in there, we might do well in remaining connected to the fragility of this choice. While it may be easier to field an opinion these days, most answers remain elusive.

*Note: there have been a few more critical responses to Williams’ suicide since, including Henry Rollins and some octogenarian English film critic.   

I’ve been Googling of late about the universe and the Palestinian-Israeli conflict – two broad and complex topics about which I only have a cursory understanding. Of the two I find the universe to be the more pleasant subject. Sure, it can be off-putting to learn that the Sun’s luminosity will eventually increase to the point of evaporating all of Earth’s surface water, rendering it uninhabitable for terrestrial life. But I live in Brooklyn, and as Woody Allen’s mother tells him in ‘Annie Hall’ when he frets over the universe expanding: “What is that your business? You’re here in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is not expanding.” This may not hold as true as it once did, but on a fundamental level we all need to get on with our lives. I’m not sure what Woody’s take on Israel is but if you’re looking for a surefire dinner party ending topic you could pick none better than the conflict between the Israelis and the Palestinians. It’s difficult to qualify this ongoing mess as ‘news’ despite the horrific details. The two sides have been at each other’s throat with a consistency matched only by Robert Downey Jr’s drug problems in the late 1990’s. What’s most striking, particularly when reading about the topic in conjunction with the universe, is how small the strip of land in question really is. If at some point near the end of our earthly existence we’re allowed small insight to the vast scope of the cosmos, you have to figure these people will be thinking “holy shit .. we were fighting over that?”

Of course much of this rageful violence is fueled by religion – a fine violence-fueler if ever there was one. Having God on your side is apparently divine justification for all kinds of horrible stuff, including but not limited to wiping out kids via rockets filled with dart-like shrapnel. David Remnick, in the August 4 New Yorker, does a decent job of dishing the blame to both sides, noting both Hamas’ deadly cynicism and the bloodshed Israel has extracted in Gaza. He writes: “The way you order and make sense of this brutalizing conflict depends on who you are.” I’m not sure if any order or sense can ever be made from this. To use a facile and trivial analogy, it’s like last year’s NFC Championship game. Being from San Francisco I identified with and rooted for the 49ers with blind passion and wanted them to obliterate the Seahawks. Never mind that I have as much to do with these finely-tuned, exquisitely violent young athletes as I do with the late Morey Amsterdam. Every ounce of my being was leveraged into seeing San Francisco destroy Seattle. Then, late in what was a very close game, Niners linebacker NaVorro Bowman suffered a gruesome leg injury that was replayed repeatedly in slow motion. The part of me personally invested in the outcome of the game sort of dissipated at that point. I still cared about who won but did so with curious detachment.

We all need something in life to live for, be it home,  family, work or a particular passion. Sometimes though, these reasons for living become muddled or difficult to reconcile with other life events. We lose our job or a family member disappoints us and we start to question our priorities. Sometimes we even question why we’re here. But let somebody else take away one of these perceived parts of ourselves and we once again have vengeful, blind purpose. This, I think, is what you have with Palestine and Israel .. enough vengeful, blind purpose to obscure unspeakable violence and keep this thing going on forever. It isn’t land these people are warring over but an addiction to cause; a purpose. Perhaps what they’re lacking is the NFL replay – slow motion video images on large screens, looping the violence on both sides over and over for all to see. It wouldn’t be much of a morale-booster but it might make them put their rockets down and long for the start of baseball season.

Major League Baseball’s ‘Midsummer Classic’- the All-Star Game – was held last night in Minnesota. It was a decent match, as these things go, but nothing to write home about. They’ve tried to spice things up in recent years by granting World Series home field advantage to the winning league. This makes one wonder what Pete Rose would have done to Ray Fosse in 1970 if the game had counted for something. Last night’s designated hero was the Yankees’ star shortstop Derek Jeter, retiring this season at the ripe old baseball age of 40. They broadcast Jeter’s pep talk to the victorious American League squad before the game where he advised the younger players to make the most of their time in uniform because “it goes by fast.” Sage advice I suppose but nothing they wouldn’t get in a Minneapolis tavern, perched on a stool next to some forty or fifty year-old dude. The announcers made much of Jeter’s unrivaled character and ‘class’ .. but let’s face it, the bar is set rather low when it comes to major league ballplayers.There was an article in the NY Post a few years back about Jeter’s habit of leaving his female conquests with a gift basket filled with autographed swag, waiting for them the following morning in his chauffeured car to take them home. I suppose this could be considered classy, depending upon your slant on things, and it’s likely more than most women (or men) get to commemorate a one-night stand. It certainly seems to top that bestowed upon the conquests of ex Giants and Phillies slugger Pat Burrell. Stories circulated around the time of the Giants’ first World Series victory in 2010 of the legendary swordsman’s exploits. Pat was rumored to pose naked at the foot of the bed in full batting stance post-consummation, urging the young lady to “take a picture .. you just f****d ‘Pat the Bat.'” If this seems overly crass she could be thankful that he didn’t leave an even less appealing surprise on the carpet by the bedpost. I’m hoping that, at the very least, this second rumor is mere urban legend .. but Burrell likely never sat front row at the Derek Jeter Class Act Awards.

Ballplayers are often among the first indicators that our parents’ emphasis on intelligence and nobility isn’t a prerequisite for financial success in the proverbial ‘real world.’ I was a fan of Giants’ outfielder Jack Clark in the late 70s, mostly because my brother liked him. I recall a post-game interview between Clark and announcer Lon Simmons where Clark described his performance that day as ‘good.’ When asked to elaborate by Simmons, Clark replied “yeah Lon, I played real good.” Jack was a member of the Giants’ ‘God Squad,’ a tightly-knit group of players who all coincidentally found the Lord during the same June slump and subsequently credited Him every chance they got as the team’s fortunes improved in July and August. Clark had a good outfielder’s arm but lacked accuracy and the running joke was “why is it Jack Clark can find God but not the cutoff man?” Even as a kid I had to wonder why the Almighty would choose a lousy ballpark with artificial turf to make His presence known. The aforementioned Pete Rose was another example of superhuman hustle and skill with a wooden bat not translating into book smarts. I recall being out at a typically cold Candlestick night game once with my old man, late in Rose’s career. He was playing first base for the Phillies wearing his trademark infielder’s batting helmet and came bolting over toward our seats to make an impossible catch on a spiraling foul ball. It was the kind of catch that only Rose would make, sacrificing his ageing frame for a meaningless out late in the season between two teams that were going nowhere. As he went to retrieve the helmet and put it back on his head my dad commented “my father used to say you could tell a lot about a person’s intelligence just by looking at their face ..”

Baseball and the All-Star Game in particular have become a convenient excuse for meaningless nationalistic grandstanding, with cheesy second-tier stars singing the National Anthem and America the Beautiful, massive American flags being unfolded in the outfield, and military jets performing the mandatory post-anthem flyover. It would be OK if the game itself lived up to the hype, but it rarely does. Instead we get four hours of being constantly reminded how damn great our national pastime is and just how unique the young men who play it are. Baseball is special; I can attest to this as one who has consistently followed precious little in his long and meandering lifetime. But it’s typically special in postseason play or in those rare moments requiring having followed something as it’s unfolded over the long and measured course of the season. It’s special in knowing that only Pete Rose would make a catch like that or in sitting at a cold night game with your father, silently and mutually appreciating that the loudmouth waxing baseball-philosophical behind you knows nothing of the game. And it’s special in the legendary exploits of Pat Burrell, regardless of what he may or may not leave at the foot of your bed.

“A lot of life is the pursuit of ‘look at me’ followed closely by the realization ‘look at me – I’m dying just like everybody else.’ ”

Not the most uplifting notion, perhaps, but a decent indication of where my head’s been of late. Just wrote it in an email to my buddy Tom. Been realizing what a wide selection of real friends I have. Another relative newcomer (last fifteen years of so), my buddy Dave, commented recently “Hey Rick .. I saw where you published a ‘Best Of’ piece on your blog the other day. That bullshit won’t cut it ..” And so I thank Dave, too, for his honest and accurate assessment. Not a lot of time right now for fat-headed reflection but I suppose I can always sneak in some stream of consciousness ramble.

Food shows, top-chef competitions, high-end eateries and culinary bullshit are all the rage these days. Been this way for the last ten or more years. Gordon Ramsay, Bobby Flay, Tom Colicchio .. none of these assholes has a thing over the people who run Il Pollaio on Columbus Avenue in San Francisco’s North Beach. I flip by these TV programs and catch the young aspiring cooks dutifully replying “yes, Chef, no Chef” to their senior, millionaire mentors like they’re in the presence of a four-star general. Here’s something to respect: a family-run restaurant with a limited menu that stays in business in the same location for over thirty years. One that not only remains consistent but provides a spot for neighborhood people, single diners, elderly patrons, and a particular 85 year-old who knows what he likes and what he doesn’t. Here’s a TV show I’d watch: me sitting at one of the window tables with Gordon Ramsay and pounding his botoxed forehead off the simple, wooden top every time the waitress at Il Pollaio – the same sweet, polite, efficient woman who’s been serving me (and now my father) since she was nineteen – displays her sensitivity and competence. “Yes Chef” (BANG) .. “No Chef” .. (BANG) ..”

Yeah, yeah, I know .. “Get off my lawwwwwn …” Well there are worse directions in which to head than Clint’s. Every generation thinks they know what’s up and every aging curmudgeon thinks the younger set is clueless and cultural climate in a state of rapid decline. But in my case it’s an accurate assessment. I knew this instinctively at sixteen, watching a pirated version of the Playboy Channel on my parents’ cable box. Chuck Woolery hosting the Playboy Playoffs. The falcon could no longer hear the falconer and his call was becoming a distant memory. And these days? These kids were born mid-flight with computers in their claws. To quote another (dead) curmudgeon “pack your shit, folks, we’re going away.”

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in emergency wards and physical rehab facilities over the last six or seven years. It isn’t a pleasant subject, nor are the offshooting topics .. so, like most things on this blog, I write around it. In these places and during these stretches you split your time between stark and extended periods of reflection and more abbreviated and immediate intervals of crisis. And you tend to see, or think you see, the world for what it is. You have a rather clear view of who (including yourself) is full of shit and about what. It doesn’t always lend itself to eloquent sentence construction but the thoughts are there. And that’s about all I got for now.

“True Detective’s” greatly anticipated first season finale aired Sunday night and as warranted by its cult status received a lot of critical attention. The Internet wasn’t around in ’72 when “The Godfather” came out. Back then if you wanted to read a critique or analysis you had to do so in select newspapers or magazines. This is by no means an argument for putting ‘Detective’ at Godfather-level .. it was not. But when a well-written television show delves into topics like nihilism and the occult, dropping obscure references and twisting plot lines along the way, it’s bound to generate a kind of online chatter not seen since Mohamed Atta’s AOL account on the night of September the 10th. 

The show bugged me in the beginning. Maybe it had something to do with Woody Harrelson’s marble-mouthed, southern-slurred accent or the high dose of male bravado mainlined into his dialogue with star Matthew McConaughey. I’ve never been a huge McConaughey fan even after his recent turn toward more selective script reading. ‘Detective’ also had a self-consciously styled, broody Louisiana vibe that, while meticulously crafted, wasn’t exactly novel or unfamiliar to recent HBO productions. And its soundtrack or score, while exceptionally good, had me paying select attention to the writing to see if it was all just so much window dressing. The series-opening ritualistic crime scene complete with nude female victim posed with antlers seemed suspect too. All a bit too creepy, all a bit too easy.

But something clicked for me after re-watching one of the middle episodes and McConaughey’s “illusion of meaningful Self” rant. He was actually pretty good here, better than ‘Dallas Buyer’s Club’ and perhaps on par with his never-graduating high school senior in ‘Dazed and Confused.’ And the writing, while leaving itself open to accusations of pretension, had a kind of poetic interest to it. The guy holding the pen, Nick Pizzolatto, was really going for it here. At its core this show was about big-picture meaning and the mysteries of the universe; the choices we make to live in the stories that we tell ourselves. On this level I found it intriguing, neither overtly critical nor accepting of any one perspective. It took a risky turn and accomplished no small feat by making its anti-hero a man devoid of belief and aptly equipped to articulate this stance. Plus he was the most competent cop on the show by good measure.

The other stuff, the spooky bits and Rosemary’s Baby-esque horror nods, was really just the series’ paint job along with its music, sets and cinematography. I found the finale ambitious and well-executed if flawed. The embodiment of McConaughey’s “monster at the end of every dream” was a creepy character to be certain but one that gave human definition to the darkness; robbed it of its scope and made it less powerful. This is where I found the conclusion oddly effective, though, in not attempting to tie up all the loose ends. It thrived in Pizzolatto’s writing which left plenty of darkness undefined while lending some catchy words to ponder as they were dropped on the anti-hero via some kind of supernatural PA system wired through the evil bowels of a Carcosa catacomb. For once this guy had to shut up and listen. The Christ metaphors abounded too, from the steel in Cohle’s side to his flowing hair and Holy Tunic hospital gown. None of that bothered me, not even the reluctantly hopeful suggestion that light might be gaining ground on darkness in the only story worth telling or simplistic realization that love is a single heart beating in the void. How else were they going to conclude such an epic and relatively brief storyline .. with a Sopranos-style jarring cut to black? Harrelson’s tempered cynicism and McConaughey’s measured belief represented a subtle perspective switch for the two main players and a decent enough character arc for an eight part series. For a self consciously and darkly cool production the “OK there may be something out there” admission was a welcome breath of fresh air.

“True Detective,” given its success, will certainly be back for a second season, but the McConaughey and Harrelson characters are done. All of which gives rise to more questions. Will T-Bone Burnett continue with this great musical soundtrack and who will the new detective pairing be? I’m hoping for some off-typecasting – perhaps Pauly Shore and Ellen DeGeneres – and a more irreverent, light-hearted storyline. All of this big-picture contemplation can wear a guy out.