Who Asked Me?

Displayers of affection and all good intentions
Why don’t you just send me the bill – Tweedy/Scott

Money talks, as Neil Diamond informs, but it don’t sing and dance and it can’t walk. Bullshit walks, according to Bobbi Flekman. I dig the Wilco lyrics and the idea of being able to cover the bill instead of sitting through the dinner. It’s the very definition of fuck-you money, which is some good money to have. Loose change, chump change .. any change is good. If you’ve got the money honey I’ve got the time.

A banker friend of the family related a story to me recently about a company Christmas dinner where person after person got up to sing the praises of the bank and all the good it had done. “Then,” he said, “a small woman got up to speak – a caretaker for an elderly patron or former employee. ‘Money,’ she said, ‘is shit.’ And then she sat down.” This banker friend said everyone at the table sat stunned until he began to clap, and then they all joined in politely. “I was a banker all my life and had particular insight to what money can do to people and families,” he told me. “She had a point.”

Some people claim to have no interest in money. This likely extends as far as their lack of interest in food, followed closely by shelter, clothing etc. Then there are those whose have such a singular interest that it eclipses whatever said money can buy. They’d rather sit on a cold night with a number on a ledger than a log on the fire. Gambling holds special interest for some of these people because they’re dealing with the pure rush of the number; feeling the surge of its rise and angst of its fall. Many of them die with a lot of money and leave it to those by whom they wish to be remembered most fondly .. and then they fight over it amongst themselves.

A rich start-up guy in San Francisco recently took to leaving envelopes of cash around the city for lucky citizens to find. Some questioned his method and asked why he didn’t simply target those most in need or deserving and give them the dough. I suspect it was because it wouldn’t have been as much fun or made him feel nearly as cool. I say it’s his money to do with as he sees fit. Were I in his shoes I would have started a foundation for gardeners in Golden Gate Park and called it Rick Monaco’s Hedge Fund. But that’s just me.

So concludes my two cents on the subject. Not much of a blog entry, but nobody’s paying me for it.

Editor’s Note: Assorted emergencies have precluded updates; in light of recent news about Malcolm Young please enjoy this Best Of World View from August 2009.

Pervasive summer fog punctuates another longish San Francisco stay and by trip’s end my condition mirrors area weather: low, even, and not letting up anytime soon. The flight is thankfully shorter west-east. A late life first time father takes advantage of his infant son’s only silent in-flight interval, picking the kid up and making raspberry sounds on his forehead. Junior starts wailing again and I’m about to deck a sexagenarian. I restrain myself admirably, endure the rest of my air time, and cab it home from Kennedy. The apartment is clean, left so by my landlord renting it back for a mid-summer stay. A cold slice awaits me, the air conditioning is on, and my eyes and brain readjust once more to the readjustment. Except this time the blur hangs a little longer and something in my brain feels even funnier than usual. I chalk it up to geographical ambivalence, barometric fluctuation and Eastern Daylight Time. Chalk it up to too many things to chalk it up to.

Wednesday rolls in – high eighties, sweaty and charcoal dark by mid afternoon. Foreboding skies threaten to the point of no return. An uneasy, day-long pressure builds with each taken and held breath like a thumb over a cranked garden hose. Isolated, large splatters of rain hit the window and a blue chunk of forked lighting touches down blocks away with a throbbing, charged electric buzz before a slam of punishing thunder sets off a half dozen car alarms. Water slashes in vertical sheets, hard enough to pull leaves from branches and sting the paved street on contact. Something inside of me adjusts and the thumb pops off the nozzle.

Friday night I’m waiting in an exceptionally long line at Penn Station, hundreds winding back from a ticket machine spitting passes for a new rail line to Jersey. A dozen equally long lines twist and stem from identical machines and I figure I won’t be getting to where I’m going ’til midnight. But things tend to move fast in this city and people generally know what they’re doing. I make good time to the front and purchase a ticket to Secaucus and an adjunct rail to the Meadowlands. I’ve received birthday tickets for hard rockin’, boogie-woogie madmen AC-DC. Seeing them at Giants Stadium is a last chance rite of passage and noting that I’m too old for this shit is beyond irrelevant. I soon find myself in a passenger car, shoulder to shoulder with fans twenty years my senior and junior. “Ladies and Gentleman,” the conductor cracks over speaker, tongue firmly in cheek, “welcome to the AC-DC rock ‘n’ roll train ..” Mayhem.

It’s ten pm, skies have parted and rain stopped. Angus Young, all fifty-four years and five foot one inches, is selling it in his schoolboy uniform like there’s no tomorrow, convulsing around a massive stage and hundred yard catwalk like an epileptic Red Bull pitchman on a jittery day. The young couple in front of me of love it. He bolts for the aisle to join a Jersey muffler shop worker, playing Beavis to the older dude’s Butthead, horned fingers thrust and heads thrashing in crazed syncopation. She hangs back at their seats, dancing fluidly with her beautiful self, a pole-less untouchable stripper shattering the adage that youth is wasted on the young. It occurs to me, the thing about this band .. they’ve never taken themselves too seriously. The show rages on with relentless pace amid a stage decked with two huge, horned, inflatable schoolboy hats with capital “A’s” in front. A massive, wrecked, still-smoking locomotive protrudes above the drum kit with the numerals 666 across the nose. ‘Hell’ isn’t some solemn, spooky metalhead stance for this band; just a metaphor for no tomorrow. Fireworks explode in rapid-fire succession after the midnight encore, spectacularly anticlimactic when paired next to what Angus has left on stage: two gallons of sweat, a pint of blood, and every bit of himself. Rarely does one feel so compensated having put down twenty-nine fifty on a ticket. House lights come on and a thick cloud of smoke hangs over the Jersey night. Another New York day ends.

HBO’s new series “True Detective” has a dripping backwoods bayou setting, spookily appropriate opening funeral dirge by The Handsome Family, and musical selections hand-picked by T Bone Burnett including Lucinda Williams, Dwight Yoakam and Wu-Tang Clan. Woody Harrelson, one half of a querulous detective team, brings a cocksure “No Country For Old Men” Texas mumble (despite going for Louisiana) and an age-adjusted swagger reminiscent of “White Men Can’t Jump.” Matthew McConaughey’s broody smoke suggests Matt Damon doing his McConaughey impression, talk-whispering “sure I dropped the thirty-eight pounds for ‘Dallas Buyers Club’ but I still look damn good with my shirt off.” There’s something for everyone – beautiful young women who get naked and say improper things, satanic ritual and symbolism, antler-donning murder victims, and dusty mid-afternoon roadside bars with sun peering through the cracks and Kris Kristofferson’s “Casey’s Last Ride” on the juke. They don’t miss a beat. McConaughey’s “time is a flat-circle” nihilism is paired with the two actors playing parts that cover a seventeen year span and they pull it off effectively. There’s little question that “True Detective” isn’t that bad, but is it all that good?

That may come down to taste and whether you prefer straight narratives or thematic horror mysteries requiring a bit of homework after the one hour weekly class adjourns. Topping this list of take-home work are the multiple references to a ‘yellow king’ in the series which is a nod to an 1895 book of macabre shorts by the American writer Robert W Chambers called “The King in Yellow.” The title references a fictional play used as a motif running through several of the stories and said to bring madness and despair to anyone who reads it. “Ah, well – that explains that” some will say, then busily continue their research before next Sunday night rolls around. Others – perhaps those preferring a good Hank Williams song that sums itself up nicely in the first verse – will say “fuck this.” Either way, the show serves useful purpose as a blowhard detector for anyone claiming complete understanding after the first go-round.

My one-man jury is still out and I’ll reserve final judgement for the last episode. If nothing else the show has been a reminder of the effectiveness of a well-scored soundtrack. Like “The Sopranos” which followed David Chase’s singular musical vision, “True Detective” features T Bone Burnett’s steady hand throughout. He uses Lucinda Williams “Are You Alright” beautifully in episode four and closes an epically spooky final scene with McConaughey in episode five with the intro to The Bosnian Rainbows’ “Eli” – disturbing enough to have me checking behind the couch as the titles rolled. But all of this stylized richness also runs the risk of swallowing the narrative whole. At its center “True Detective” has some compellingly solid stuff about the sometimes futile search for meaning. In the opener Woody Harrelson opines on McConaughey’s character, whose troubled past includes a collapsed marriage and stint in a psychiatric hospital after his three year-old daughter is hit and killed by a car. “Past a certain age a man without a family can be a bad thing.” The implicit irony is that Harrelson’s man with a family – a character who cheats on and neglects his wife and two daughters – is an even worse thing. But Harrelson’s cowboy philosophizing pales in comparison to McConaughey’s soliloquies on nothingness and the illusion of self, epitomized by his take on studying the faces of various female murder victims:

“You know what you see? They welcomed it .. not at first, but right there in the last instant. It’s an unmistakable relief because they were afraid and now they saw for the very first time how easy it was to just let go. They saw, in that last nanosecond, what they were. That you, yourself, this whole big drama, it was never anything but a jerry-rig of presumption and dumb will and you could just let go. To realize that all your life –all you know, all you love, all you hate, all your memory, all your pain– it was all the same thing, all the same dream. A dream you had inside a locked room. A dream about being a person..”

Heady stuff and well-delivered by an actor on a particularly strong career streak. Where all of this nothingness, intersecting timelines and obscure literary references might lend an effective metaphor for life’s milieu, it also walks a tightrope when it comes to delivering the goods in episodic television. Most of the buzz among viewers has seemed to center on what the payoff is going to be, how it will all be tied together. But how do you lend meaning and definition to a narrative that emphasizes their absence? If “True Detective” wraps up neatly it will be a disappointment to those enjoying its rich ambiguity. If it persists with obscurity there will be others asking “what the fuck?” Either way it conjures the image of McConaughey, carving up sixteen ounce Lone Star beer cans in the shape of people and cooly asserting that it don’t mean a thing.

As a Northern California sports fan living in New York, I’ve become familiar with something commonly known as the East Coast Media Bias – a tendency for major outlets like ESPN to ignore anything happening with a ball west of the Mississippi. It registered on my first day in Brooklyn, 2003, when I picked up a late edition of the New York Times to check the box scores for the Giants-Dodgers game the previous evening. “Los Angeles – San Francisco : night game.” This was all it said .. no score, no explanation, nothing. The implication was clear: those teams left in ’58 and nobody cares what they’re doing now. Sure, there was the occasional story about the hated Barry Bonds back then as he was ramping up to pass the great Babe Ruth (and eventually Henry Aaron) for the home run record. And in subsequent years some attention was thrown the Giants’ way for their two World Series victories. But as far as day to day sports coverage went (and still goes) I was out of luck unless a New York team was traveling west.

All of which is a long way of getting around to how shell-shocked Richard Sherman must have felt when he woke up Monday morning. Sherman is the talented and talkative cornerback who plays for the Seahawks, an equally talented but decidedly small-market football team in Seattle. If west coast teams already have a chip on their shoulder because of the New York media bias it has to be doubly bad for Seattle and their fans, playing in the same division as the storied San Francisco 49ers. The teams have been neck and neck for the past few seasons mirroring each other with strong, hard-hitting defenses. Seattle has been nearly unstoppable at home. But let’s face it – Tony Bennett never left his heart there and outside of rain, coffee, and a high suicide rate, the town isn’t exactly on most must-see lists. So there was plenty of build-up to the NFC championship game on Sunday featuring the Seahawks and 49ers despite the fact that a lot of people still didn’t know who Richard Sherman was. Being a Niner fan I was already more than familiar with the guy and his mouth, but it was quite the phenomenon as about fifty million other television viewers received a crash course in his special brand of id-venting.

The game was a good one but something changed for me early in the fourth quarter when the 49ers’ linebacker NaVorro Bowman suffered a sickening knee injury, replayed endlessly on FOX for good measure. The Niners were still in it but I didn’t care anymore. Things got sloppy after that; chances for a controlled scoring drive were squandered by quarterback Colin Kaepernick and he threw a key interception. It ended with a final surge downfield and a somewhat forced attempt at a touchdown pass with thirty seconds left, perhaps against better judgement and to Richard Sherman’s corner of the end zone. Sherman made a great leaping play on the ball tipping it into his teammate’s hands for the interception and win. It was an opportunity for the guy to do one of two things: celebrate with his fellow players and allow the multiple slow-motion angles to speak for his greatness, or go with his M.O. of running his mouth. To both his credit and demise, Sherman stuck with the latter. He immediately got in the face of the intended receiver Michael Crabtree, slapping his behind and offering a taunting handshake. He made a choking gesture, putting his hands around his throat. But he saved the pure gold for his post-game interview a few minutes later where the intensity of his anger (despite the win) was palpable. He proclaimed himself the greatest in the game without mention of his team and went after Crabtree as a “sorry” receiver. This wasn’t Terrell Owens in tears and overcome with emotion after making a game-winning catch against the Packers. And it wasn’t Peyton Manning shattering the single season passing yards record and deflecting all credit to his team, either. It was a guy going nuts and proclaiming his singular greatness to fifty million people while making sure to get in how much the opposing player sucked.

There were excuses for Sherman’s behavior. Crabtree had supposedly dissed him at an Arizona charity event in the off-season when Sherman attempted to shake his hand. But this wasn’t an isolated post-game outburst for Sherman and his on-camera record is notable, whether taunting Tom Brady, accusing haplessly pompous ESPN commentator Skip Bayless of sucking at life, or provoking the Redskins’ Trent Williams to make good on his promise – “I’ma gonna punch you in the face” – after their game last year. Some, including Sherman himself, noted that Sunday’s incident was in the heat of an adrenaline-fueled moment minutes after he’d made the play of the game. Yet he still had the tact and good sense to reiterate Crabtree’s mediocrity and his own greatness an hour later in a calmer, sit-down session with the media. Things went viral by the following morning with most Internet outlets seeming to defend Sherman’s outburst(s) as ‘good television’ and many implying that the backlash had much to do with race. (Sherman, Crabtree, and the majority of both the Niners’ and Seahawks’ rosters are black.) But the reader response to these posts went in the other direction ranging from those proclaiming that Sherman qualified as a jerk regardless of his skin color to out and out racist vitriol. It’s an unfortunate fact that stirring a national hornets’ nest typically includes letting some sub-human hornets out, too. An article on the sports website Deadspin asserted that a public personality (in America) can be black, arrogant or talented, but never any more than two of these traits at the same time. I don’t know if this is true, but as a 49er fan I’d still like to reserve the right to dislike Richard Sherman. If he was on my team I’m sure I’d be glad he made that play, but a part of me would probably wish he’d learn to shut up on occasion, too. Perhaps that makes me racist, but like Richard Sherman I believe it’s healthier to put it out there for discussion.

If I had to put all of this under one encompassing canopy it wouldn’t be about Sherman’s race, talent, outspokenness, Compton upbringing, feud with Crabtree, Stanford education or impressive dreadlocks. It would be about the guy’s age .. twenty-five years old. Jerk or saint, supremely talented or B-squad backup, not many people get to be the center of a national maelstrom simply by running their mouth as they’ve always done throughout a short if eventful career. Putting this in proper context would be an impossible task for anyone, never mind a twenty-five year old man. It will be interesting to catch up with the guy in a few years to get his perspective. Chances are he’ll still have a lot to say.

“If it looks like an antenna and acts like an antenna, then it is an antenna.” This according to affably urbane Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel, angered at the ‘official’ proclamation that New York’s new World Trade Center is the tallest building in the country. The needle on top was declared something other than an antenna, thereby allowing the structure to surpass the Windy City’s Willis (formerly Sears) Tower. This is one dogfight that you might have figured the famously profane politician would have let go, but at five foot seven he perhaps has a more personal investment in the matter. Outgoing New York mayor Mike Bloomberg is only an inch taller than Emanuel but the new guy, Bill de Blasio, is a soaring six foot five. It isn’t too much of a stretch (insert winky emoticon) to imagine Rahm pacing his bedroom at three in the morning, fuming over that “m**herf**cking thing” on top of that “c*cks*cking building.” New York seems mostly oblivious to the matter, or perhaps slightly amused – like Dominique Wilkins watching Spud Webb steal his title at the NBA slam dunk competition. If I were Emanuel’s shrink I’d skip the Freudian bullshit and advise him to turn his ambition toward becoming the next mayor of New York. Perhaps it’s because I’m of average height, but diminutive stature isn’t the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Bloomberg or LaGuardia.

It made me happy, for lack of a less appropriate word, up at four a.m. on a recent, chilly morning and watching the glowing, blue signal light atop that spire, or needle, or whatever the heck it is. The upper portion of the World Trade building is visible from my living room window and I caught the view almost by accident, noting profoundly “wow .. that thing is way up there.” The building’s erection (again with the winky emoticon) has mirrored my own stay in New York and progressed at a slow and steady pace. In rare moments of kinder self-evaluation I might say the same about myself. That night I’d returned from a Van Morrison show at the Garden where the 68 year old Irish fireplug had again done well by music critic Greil Marcus’s famous quote (“no white man sings like Van Morrison.”) After the show I grabbed a late night snack at a midtown bar and caught the second half of the 49er game on Monday Night Football. Cold night, Van Morrison, 49ers, quesadillas and a shot of Jameson, Midtown New York City. They say it’s the little things and, Rahm Emanuel not withstanding, they’re probably right. Though I might amend it to “the little things in a big city” for added sublimity .. sometimes that really hits the mark.