Who Asked Me?

I was watching an episode of Stephen Merchant’s new tolerably decent HBO show “Hello Ladies” the other night, standard fare cringe-comedy of the sort he’s been doing with Ricky Gervais for the last decade. Merchant has yet to reach Gervais’s saturation level and as such hasn’t veered off into ‘Derek’ territory – the latter’s latest TV comedy-drama about a ‘special’ volunteer member of a nursing home staff who enlightens all via uncalculated displays of ‘kindness.’ Ugh.  But more on that another time. There was a transitional scene in the ‘Ladies’ episode where Merchant exits a pool party he’s planned because the invited Hollywood models and actresses have failed to show. They then, of course, all arrive on cue shortly after his departure. In order to explain why nobody phones or texts to alert him to the change of events they had to insert a scene where a neighbor woman throws his cell phone in the swimming pool. It’s only later, once he’s home on his laptop computer, that someone breaks through via a pop-up message to let him know what’s going on.

Louis CK had a brilliant bit on a recent Conan show that starts with him explaining why he won’t get his kid a cell phone and develops into a dissertation on the absence of healthy despair and sadness in modern culture. “You need to build an ability,” he reasons “to just be yourself and not be doing something .. and this is what the phones are taking away.” He goes on to explain that “underneath everything in your life there’s that thing .. that empty .. forever-empty ..” Cut to CK driving in his car as Springsteen’s ‘Jungleland’ comes on and his instant urge to join the murderous legions texting while driving in order to not feel lonely. He describes the powerful instinct to get the phone and “write ‘hi’ to, like, fifty people” sifting through the uncool ones until he finds the appropriate response to alleviate his crushing sadness. Instead he pulls safely over to the side of the road and cries hard. While I’m not sure I agree with his alternative method — I once had the “getting it out of you” analogy for intensely indulged grief explained as the psychological equivalent to running on a broken leg — I do think he’s on to something. Perhaps the more reasonable alternative is to just keep driving while letting yourself listen to the end of the song and shedding a few unmanly tears for no one to see.

CK’s humor follows the trail blazed by George Carlin and borders on straight-up pathos, save the appropriate comic observations. The laughs often come defensively; his observations are so uncomfortably accurate that responding any other way would involve pulling the car over. Where Carlin evolved into a loquaciously dark, almost confrontational persona, CK sticks with an edgy sort of hopelessness with homicidal id on full display. He can reference topics like filicide and necrophilia with the same ease Jerry Seinfeld talks about Superman. He loses me at times when he indulges in the morbidly unattractive elements to middle aged physicality and decline, but always seems to right the ship with some insightfully funny and brutally honest shit. He had another bit recently about parents at their children’s school dance recital, none of whom are viewing the event straight-on but rather on the screens of their iPhones and iPads held in front of their faces and causing all to look like a group-shot from the witness protection program. “In a million years you’re not going to watch videos of your kid doing shit you missed the first time it happened.” It’s in these unscripted moments that he’s most eloquent. He goes on to say that the parents just post this stuff to Facebook, where it goes unwatched by legions of others who see only the first frame and occasionally comment. You can prove this to yourself, he concludes, by splicing in an extended video of your asshole shortly after the dance intro and noting how nobody notices. Personally, I don’t think he needs to wrap up what’s already a brilliantly funny bit by going for the huge laughs with broad humor .. but it works.

Got called “faggot” by an urban street-tough on the subway the other day. His foot was in the middle of the aisle and I stepped on it getting up to offer my seat to an older woman. “Excuse me, faggot” he said, all bad-ass and hard-boiled. I had earphones in and I don’t think he figured I’d heard him. I gave him zero consideration until I sat down again in the middle of the car and started thinking on it. Then I got an inexplicable urge to see his face; to find out what he looked like. I’d only been mildly aware of him previously, listening to him spit out threatening expletives at his video game. I got up and walked over to where he’d been but he was gone .. the entire incident filed away in the drawers of civic minutia.

Not sure what I might have done. Nothing about it felt particularly threatening but I likely underestimate my age and inability to take care of myself. New York isn’t the city it once was but it isn’t Mayberry either. Mostly I was curious about his choice of epithet. ‘Faggot’ seemed particularly weak in light of other potential slurs. ‘Grandpa’, ‘Slacker’, ‘Yankee Fan’ and ‘Facebook Over-Poster’ all would’ve done the trick. Later, near Union Square, I stopped to sign a petition for gay rights. I support the cause but am typically too up in my head to address someone with a clipboard. Not that it was a noble gesture and means of evening the score with my subway friend. “Zing – take that young urban street tough!” But I allowed myself to feel that way momentarily while ignoring my Bernie Goetz scene revisitation. These days I’ll accept false credit for things even if constructed entirely within the parameters of my own head. It’s a small perk in exchange for the endless shit I beat myself up over.

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Been watching “Boardwalk Empire”, catching up with past seasons. It’s above average but falls back on stylistic devices, graphic violence, and attractive, naked women with Zelda Fitzgerald hairstyles. Granted, this has kept me watching. Steve Buscemi is a good leading man; believable both as a Sad Sack loner and powerful gangster kingpin. He’s proof that one needn’t be physically imposing nor handsome to possess commanding screen presence. ‘Handsome’ occasionally seems something of a handicap in terms of sustaining superior episodic drama. It worked for Jon Hamm in the early seasons of “Mad Men” but now, as we delve deeper into Don Draper’s psyche via innumerable flashback sequences, it’s become more difficult to remember why we care. Sure, this guy looks great in a suit and he gets laid a lot. But now we’re expected to have empathy because this doesn’t provide him with the answers to life’s mysteries? Have another Canadian Club and watch January Jones take her clothes off. I prefer to watch Buscemi, alone in his study with an uncomfortable collar, wool suit, and that Bugs Bunny mug reflecting the pain of a thousand disappointments. Both shows romanticize eras when smoking and drinking were acceptable day-long indulgences. There’s the occasional nod to high blood pressure and cirrhosis of the liver, but it’s really about how cool everyone looks in tailored vests with Lucky Strikes and whiskey tumblers.

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I’ve been looking at Oregon real estate, albeit from a great distance and via the Internet. It’s a long-shot but so are most things at one time, including those that come to fruition. I wanted to see what one gets for the price he pays for a six hundred square foot, junior one bedroom apartment in New York. The results were eye opening: 2000 square feet, ocean-front property, multiple bedrooms, separate studio and guest house, etc. But the town I was scoping has a population of six thousand, many of them retirees. It isn’t the kind of place where you can walk down the block and grab a calzone. On the other hand, there’s no subway and more distance between you and the guy calling you ‘faggot.’ I figure they just burn it on your lawn or carve it in to a tree. And you can have a dog and a bar b cue. It’s a nice thought anyway, and something on which to conclude this exercise in three-dot meandering.

I got a kick out of this article today about a thirty-something lawyer couple in my Brooklyn locale who have installed an adjunct to their townhouse with a large, clearly visible glass shower where they lather up in full view of the neighbors. The tipster reporting the story described the two as “not unattractive,” which I think should be a minimum requirement for anyone filing for such an exhibitionist permit. “The City of New York requires that the installation have proper drainage, be adequately sealed, and never be utilized by anyone failing to meet established, not-unattractive standards ..” This would have gone a long way toward solving last year’s controversy in San Francisco’s predominantly gay Castro district, where some flabby, middle-aged dudes fought for their right to parade about publicly in their birthday suits. The gentleman in question were also said to have engaged in sex acts and flaunted their goods adjacent to a local elementary school (as reported by area Supervisor .. wait for it .. Scott Weiner.) This is about where Brooklyn draws its line with San Francisco and had they tried the same here, odds are it would have resulted in a day-old loaf of lard bread being placed in a highly-awkward location. (Which in turn might have prompted the eastward migration of numerous middle-aged Castro district residents, but this is another matter.)

While most would agree that there’s something shaky about naked, older men setting up camp next to a schoolyard, things get a bit less well-defined with broader issues of public exposure. Particularly in New York City, where population density and proximity to one’s neighbors’ windows make it nearly impossible to remain entirely oblivious to what’s going on across the way. Case in point, an 81st Street Upper West Side studio that I lived in for six months back in 2004. My window stood directly opposite those of an exceptionally not-unattractive, tall, young blonde who had a fondness for neither shades nor clothing. This was something straight out of a George Costanza fantasy sequence – if she wasn’t a model she’d missed her calling, and it wasn’t merely a matter of being careless about who could see in. The amount of time she spent right by her window, well-lit and engaged in particular .. activities .. more than suggested that this was an audience-friendly affair. That said I’m both open to and inclined to agree with all accusations of hypocrisy and perversion. What the hell – I was relatively new to the big city and largely alone. If any crime was committed it was the fact that I never thought to send her an anonymous Christmas gift .. well, this and not extending my lease. From there I moved to 86th and Riverside, and a third floor walk up. Nice place but it overlooked a nursing home. Either way, you’ve got to love this city.

McSorley’s Bar, 1912. John Sloan.

Hot in New York. It’s never good when you’re looking toward the weekend, anxiously anticipating the ‘relief’ of a 93-degree day. But that’s what the city is in the summer, and running from it only takes more out of you. I made this observation with Tom Myers, who was out from Northern California last week: you have to get some of New York ‘on you’ this time of year. And we did, traipsing through Williamsburg in the afternoon sizzle-sweat. Could there be a more effective getting-it-on-you spot than this wonderfully oppressive Brooklyn stretch of Hasids, Homeboys and Hipsters? Mid-afternoon, July, in Williamsburg .. the definition of masochism. And yet it places a premium on every gentle breeze that passes; a buck-fifty bottle of water seems like the deal of the century. Two dollars and fifty cents for a brief ferry ride with the cool off the East River is like trading beads for Manhattan. An ice-chilled, air conditioned subway train .. off the charts.

People complain about the ‘Disneyfication’ of New York City, but those people are some of the biggest pussies going. Yeah it costs a small fortune to rent or own here, but for every across the pond import up-pricing apartments and scouring private schools for their kids, there’s someone scraping by on their fifth or sixth decade, too wrapped up in the day to day to recount old stories of CBGB or Bernhard Goetz. Or someone on their seventh or eighth decade with enough New York under their belt to put Bernie in the ‘current events’ file. It isn’t rocket science. New York is New York because of the people, in all of their voluminous, newcomer, old-timer, reviling, adoring, old money, new money and no money glory. It’s the women in the summertime, elegant in age or effortlessly beautiful in youth, a real-time reminder of nature’s ‘refresh’ key. It’s the boatloads of new arrivals landing on frantic Manhattan intersections with their wheeled suitcases, looking both overwhelmed and like there’s no place they’d rather be. You don’t need a personal guide or pricey ticket to experience it .. two dollars and fifty cents, again, will do. Go underground at the nearest subway station and purchase a one-way ride, then spend a few hours traveling aimlessly and observing before coming up for air. It might not register through the initial sensation, but you’ll have experienced something unique to precious few urban centers. If New York is losing its authenticity it’s only because we’re doing the same as a people. Personally I’m not buying it and suspect it’s the age-old standard lament of the uninspired, unimaginative, and terminally dissatisfied. Hell, half the people here on any given day are from somewhere else anyway.

Which brings me back to Myers and the summer of 2013. We got corned beef sammis at Katz’s deli (my second in recent months for those counting) then nursed a mild hangover from the previous evening over two light and two dark at McSorley’s Ale House. Tom recounted a visit to said tavern in his youth, walking through the door with his travel duffel still in hand to the welcoming strains of “they’ll let any asshole in here now ..” from a couple of old-timers. I cooked a Newport steak on my roof one night in the rain while we caught up with Mark Street – another Monaco Labs veteran from the Days That Used To Be – in my apartment below. We hit the George Best Irish soccer bar slash taco place down the block for a late-night meal and tequila and watched There Will Be Blood and No Country For Old Men on my new flat screen. We rode the A, F and G and we watched the people – those glorious New York denizens – do their thing. And we never even thought to thank them.

The word ‘everyman’ has been used a lot to describe James Gandolfini’s portrayal of mob boss Tony Soprano, particularly in the hours since the actor’s death Wednesday night in Rome. Physical descriptions – ‘balding’, ‘overweight’ – pop up in attempt to explain his accessibility, how what he did spoke to so many people. But there are legions of fat, balding actors who couldn’t hold a candle to Gandolfini and dozens of more conventionally-styled leading men who might have taken an admirable run at his defining role but ultimately ended up looking like soulless hacks in comparison. As great a show as The Sopranos is on so many levels, there’s only one inextricable piece. Without Gandolfini the whole thing comes crashing down.

I’ve watched The Sopranos so much, particularly in the six years since the final episode, that entire chunks are lodged in my subconscious. While picking up groceries or out for a run my mind will inevitably drift to a Tony-line. It’s usually the more mundane, seemingly throwaway ones too – ‘the hell with heating it up, it’s good like this‘ when Carmela offers to microwave a bowl of cold pasta for him. “Ah – a roller ball,” unmoved upon receiving the pen as a gift from Ginny Sac’s brother, the ‘Lord of the Lenses.’ This character was no ‘everyman’ but in fact an exceptionally violent mafioso with a huge appetite for food, sex and ego gratification. As expressed by Gandolfini, Tony Soprano was equally compelling in his bathrobe, holding a carton of with-pulp orange juice while standing in his driveway. David Chase has commented on the expressive powers of Gandolfini’s sad eyes but his breathing, hunched movement, large, fat fingers and powerful, borderline nasal voice were all solid, too. Everything about the guy was solid. There might not be a more appropriate word to describe him.

There was complexity to Tony Soprano’s potent appeal. Cinematic violence is so commonplace that its often rendered ineffective. Gandolfini had no such problem. His violent scenes were so real that the catharsis of the act seemed to evolve quickly into something that left him spent and that had the same impact on the viewer. Watching him curb-stomp Coco Cogliano, put a football helmet through the windshield of AJ’s SUV, or put his fist through the wall while fighting with Carmela, it was difficult to imagine much levity on the set when the director yelled “cut.” But violence was just a small part of his range on the show. Gandolfini could do boredom like nobody else. He was the Houdini of Irritation, the Van Gogh of genuine sentiment. This begs another point: some have suggested that he was merely playing himself; that so much of his New Jersey, Italian-American upbringing was Tony Soprano. That it wasn’t acting. No doubt this was the role of a lifetime and one he was made to play. But this overlooks the much larger point that he both won and nailed this part. Every successful actor peaks, declines and eventually dies. Given the quality and duration of the production, hour for hour he had more effective screen-time than DeNiro. He wasn’t simply playing himself and anyone questioning his acting ability need only watch the quieter moments with his family or even his ailing racehorse. Actors talk about how to deliver a line but it was in silence that Gandolfini was often most effective. His facial expressions could make a scene without him saying a word.

I’ve watched the Sopranos enough to know that it can’t be narrowed down to a favorite episode or handful of scenes. There were over eighty installments and I’ve never tired of watching them repeatedly. Draw from this whatever conclusions that you will. There are two non-verbal Tony Soprano moments running through my head as I type this. One is an episode where he’s rejected by his shrink for endangering her life and practice and then returns home to his wife in the middle of the day. She’s surprised to see him and they sit together at the dining room table – she opening the mail and he again eating leftover pasta – without saying a word. The other is an episode where he walks into his mother’s house to find Richie Aprile dead on the kitchen floor where his sister Janice has shot him. He rubs his mouth momentarily, taking in the scene, and his expression – over in a split second – is priceless.  I won’t attempt to convey what’s being said with either look but would suggest that there aren’t many actors who could pull it off. David Chase deserves every bit of credit for conceiving, creating, and writing the best television show in modern history but it was James Gandolfini who embodied the deal and put it over the top. He will be missed but Tony Soprano lives forever.