Who Asked Me?

he just grinned and shook my hand
and “no” was all he said
– Robertson/Dylan

So that Seth Rogen kid lost a ton of weight, which may not bode well for his comedic persona. While the formerly fat may register close to the naturally thin at weigh-ins, the resemblance often stops there. If you put them side by side, you can almost always spot the fat person trying to get out. There is no actual science behind my opinions, but I think it takes at least ten years of inhabiting a different body before it becomes one’s own. Even then, ownership is precarious. This is why fat people seem so uncomfortable with all the praise they get if they drop a lot of weight. It can feel like folks are rushing to get all of their compliments in before you happen upon a stray pallet of fudge pop tarts. If they truly wanted to encourage your keeping this new body, they’d act like it was the one you had all along. Despite popular consensus, it’s actually fine to tell a guy who’s been three hundred pounds for the last fifteen years that he’s “really let himself go.” It gives him hope that he need only get things back on track, and that a more legitimate form of self remains underneath.

I’ve never cared for the easily thin who take it upon themselves to pass judgment on the fat. The way I figure it, we’re all carrying some form of extra weight – it’s just easier to spot if it manifests itself in pounds. I’ve known some excessively lean folks who were dragging psychological loads capable of breaking a truck scale. Popular opinion aside, weight is not an effective predictor of character. And yet it inevitably creeps in, when – no pun intended – we’re sizing somebody up. I made the observation about Obama. Would he have been elected if he more resembled Nathan Bookman, the portly superintendent from Good Times ? The man has been a smoker at different points in his life – a habit proven to negate the benefits of an otherwise healthy lifestyle, and one that affects the health of those around you. But it’s also something that’s more easily disguised – just invest in breath mints and a tooth whitener. It isn’t so much our flaws that the culture at large is concerned with, but how well we keep them hidden. The guy down the street who harbors an unusual fondness for automatic weapons isn’t judged until he brings one to the community college and opens fire. But his portly neighbor is the recipient of critical opinion as soon as he steps out the door.

All of this isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate a good fat joke now and then. One of my favorite television moments came on the old Siskel and Ebert show when Roger and Gene were swapping bald and fat barbs. After being ridiculed for having a forehead that showed up on satellite weather photos, Gene retorted “at least when I wear a brown sweater, people don’t report a mudslide.” It’s a cruel world out there, and don’t let anybody tell you differently.

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley – Burns

Pausing mid-run for the traffic light at Court and Atlantic on Sunday, I noticed a long line of folks outside the new Trader Joe’s store and suspected a sale on horseradish. But upon further inspection I saw that they were being broken in to small groups and led by a portly fellow in a neon construction vest to the center of the busy intersection. There, in a space cordoned off with traffic cones, each disappeared below ground after being helped carefully down a ladder leading from an uncovered manhole. “Awesome,” I thought. “Sunday sewer tours.” The light changed and I continued on my run, my faith properly restored in my decision to move to New York City.

Turns out I was almost right. These people were part of a tour instigated by this man after his long search to find an abandoned Civil War era subway tunnel proved fruitful.  The main body of the tunnel is still blocked off by a concrete wall, and is rumored to house as many as two steam railroad engines in good condition and the diary of John Wilkes Booth.  The promise of such discoveries typically outshines the actual find, if and when it’s made. If Booth did keep a diary, it’s likely largely banal and unmoving. (Tuesday, April 12. Ate out at mutton joint on Calvert Street last night and suspect I was overcharged. Nagging internal resentment growing.) More interesting to me is the idea that such a tour is available to city residents on a Sunday afternoon. The closest San Francisco comes to this kind of weekend offering is the free oat cakes and chai brunch at the Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Community Center on Market Street. (This weekend’s topic : Straight Men and What To Do About Them.) For all its gentrification and, until recently, appreciating real estate, Brooklyn continues to prove worth its salt in surprising and varied respects.

Late in the evening that same day, returning from Manhattan and walking down Montague Street (where Bob Dylan apparently resided back when there was “revolution in the air”), I was privvy to another personal New York First : having to alter my walking route due to rats. Monday being garbage day, there were mounds of trash bags containing food scraps on the sidewalk outside the closed restaurants and cafes. It had just rained, and the relatively warm temperatures combined with wet streets made for prime conditions. Having been around the city a while now, I’m certainly used to seeing the rodents in varying size and number. But this was something else. There had to be at least fifty of the fat tailed beasts scurrying in an unbroken trail from a recessed stairwell to the trash bag bonanza. As I neared, it became apparent that my presence would do little to deter them from their frenzied activity and the best I could hope for would be to not have several of them take me on in hope of an alternative food source. So, with a slight shiver, I crossed the street to the other sidewalk and continued my journey home.

This, of course, is where urban authenticity meets personal hygienic preference. The only run-ins I’ve had with New York rats have been from a distance, either observing them on the tracks from the subway platform or in the above mentioned context, on the street in front of me. The way I figure it, if you’re going to choose to live in an urban environment, you have to accept the presence of other living creatures. I’ve yet to have a rat hit me up for money or ask for a moment of my time to discuss a charitable contribution for a good cause. The rest of my walk home was brisk, enjoyable, and uneventful.

well, you know, she still laughs with me
but she waits just a second too long
– John Prine

Thought I’d pen a brief follow-up to my below post, as the Oscars have come and gone and it gives me the chance to wax philosophic, somewhat at my pal’s expense. Neither my friend Tom Myers nor resurgent tough guy thespian Mickey Rourke emerged victorious. Tom was bested by an Indian fellow (dots, not feathers) named Resul Pookutty, who did the sound mix for Slumdog Millionaire. Pookutty dedicated the award to a billion Indians living in a country that “gave the world the word that precedes silence and is followed by more silence.” He was referring to the primordial Hindu syllable “Om”. This was some fairly heady stuff, but no more profound than what Tom had planned – an enthusiastic shout-out to Richie Allen and the ’64 Phillies. Pookutty’s trumping Myers was particularly disappointing for me, as I was counting on Tom bringing his Oscar with him when we ate at Marin Joe’s, to facilitate getting a table. I have no doubt that Tom will be back though, as he’s still young, hard working and talented.

On a less personal note, I was also disappointed to see Mickey Rourke lose to Sean Penn for Best Actor. While I give Penn his due, how difficult is it to win for playing Harvey Milk at an awards show often referred to as the Gay Superbowl? Still, it was somewhat fitting that Rourke would come up short, as this reflected the true nature of his role in “The Wrestler” and is an even more poignant storyline to accompany his return after falling from grace. Then again, I’ve always preferred teams like the Brooklyn Dodgers to the New York Yankees. Life seems more aptly reflected by those who strive for great things, go far, but never quite get there. Similarly, the things that we wish for most are typically entirely different if and when we realize them. This concludes my above mentioned philosophical waxing, as well as this year’s Oscar Wrap.

I was twenty the first time I met Danny Szeto. I’d just dropped out of USC after a two year stint, gotten fat, and started working for my family’s company driving the delivery truck. It wasn’t where I wanted to be. Danny had already been at the company for a year, having migrated from his native Hong Kong where he worked as a tailor. (I never could get my mind around the idea of a Danny Szeto altered suit, but that’s another story.) He’d started in the chemical mixing department of our film lab, developed a bad rash, and tried to hide it because he needed the work. Veteran employee Martin Hall called my father’s attention to the situation, and my dad suggested the position of janitor. We’d been using a nightly service, and they weren’t doing the best job. Danny jumped at the chance.

By the time I showed up, Danny had been at the janitor gig for a while. He was still (and always would be) working on his English skills, but he gathered that my name was Rick and greeted me with a friendly “Hello Rihhh” whenever we’d cross paths in the shipping department. About three weeks in to my employment, I was taping together a UPS package while Danny and machine operator Benny (Mac) McBride sipped at small Dixie cups by the water cooler. A call came over the intercom – “Rick Monaco, line two” –  and Danny got a curious look on his face. “Who is Rihhh Mah-naco? ” Benny gestured impatiently toward me. “This is Rick Monaco, Danny – his father owns the f*ckin’ company.” Danny got quite excited at this revelation and started congratulating me profusely. Drawing attention to my connection with ownership was the last thing that I wanted, but picking up on my self-conscious, self-loathing vibe wasn’t exactly Danny’s forte, either. For the next several weeks, wherever he’d see me – outside getting in the truck, in the freight elevator, up in the company lunch room – he’d start pumping my hand with those green-rubber janitorial gloves, and repeating “Rihhh Mah-naco, Rihhh Mah-naco” like I’d just won the lottery. That I wasn’t as excited about it seemed to matter little to him. My awkward indifference to this perceived good fortune couldn’t stop his fun.

I couldn’t have predicted at that point what a staple Danny would become in my long tenure at Monaco Labs. He wasn’t exactly a partner and he wasn’t exactly a foil. But he was always there observing the goings-on, pointing out the packaged assortment of tea, coffee and hot chocolate in the lunch room to those who might have missed it, and the first in the buffet line at company Christmas parties, piling an impressive assortment of chow on his plate. I helped him out with his English lessons on occasion by injecting various rock lyrics to the mix. I’d give him the lead line and he’d repeat and finish the phrase, whether it was Aerosmith ( “wahhh this way, tahhh this way” ) or Bobby Darin ( “splish-splash, I was takin’ a bofff..” ) Nobody seemed to mind when I taught him the correct response to “Merry Christmas” – Bah Humbug . He spat it out with proud conviction, and the laughs he got reinforced the routine. Years after he retired, I’d  get Christmas cards from Danny, and he’d always sign off with that refrain. He never missed any of my birthdays either – always sent a card.

Scott Miller, another long time Monaco regular, used to join me in taking Danny to various events like professional wrestling and Giants baseball games. One night at a Giants game, I was talking to Miller while Danny sat silently beside us with a rather substantial, slovenly fellow to his left. I was concerned with Danny’s comfort level, sitting next to this stranger.  Giants relief pitcher Greg Minton was having a bad year, and I had taught Danny one simple, two-word phrase to bring to the ballpark. They put Minton in late in a losing effort, to work some throwaway innings. When they announced his name, the big guy next to Danny got a disgusted look on his face and Danny instinctively uttered “Min-ton suck.” The guy slapped him on the back saying “you got that right, little fellow” and he and Danny were fast friends.

It came as little surprise the other night when the sad word arrived in Brooklyn that Danny had died. I hadn’t been in touch for a while, but it was the first year in memory that he hadn’t sent a birthday or Christmas card. The last time we’d hung out was a few years back in San Francisco. We went out for a coffee in North Beach and then did some people watching from a bench in Washington Square Park. I don’t think either of us ever fully understood what the other was saying, but I’d nod and repeat words that I could make out in his sentences and he’d smile like we were on the same page. There were long periods of silence that were equally comfortable, when we’d just sit and observe. I guess we were on the same page, in an odd sort of way, and I got the feeling that he read me well, going all the way back to when I was a wise-ass kid.  Afterwards he tried to teach me a Chinese card game at my place and then we gave up and watched the sun set on the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a pretty good day.

I watched the inaugural yesterday. It was a decent show, and I’m waiting to find out exactly what “childish things” we’re going to be asked to put aside. I’m there for the new president, but if it means parting with my 1968 Nolan Ryan/Jerry Koosman rookie card he may have to go it alone. He is, however, welcome to my remaining Bank of America stock.  I remain skeptical but hopeful, which for me is a fairly optimistic condition. It was quite an impressive crowd – about as substantial as this country can muster at a non-sporting event. And there seemed to be plenty of good feelings all around, which is perfectly OK if kept in perspective. While there was something legitimately stirring about the images of black people in the crowd watching in joyous disbelief at the proceedings, I’m still a bit apprehensive about some white folks who seem a bit too anxious to cash in on this “shared struggle.” Let’s get this out of the way at the onset. As noble as it may have been, a vote for Obama never translated in to knowing what it means to be black in this country.

That’s precisely what I like about this guy. He was always two steps ahead of all of this effusive, altruistic bullshit. He’s known that his mere physical presence speaks to the barriers shattered, and seems anxious to get on to the business at hand. Let’s not fool ourselves – image has played a big part. Given his cool demeanor and articulate nature, he still wouldn’t have landed this gig if he looked like Bookman from Good Times. But he doesn’t, and up to this point he seems like the complete package. I read a New Yorker article some time back that included an email exchange between Obama and Patrick Gaspard, his campaign’s political director. It was after Obama’s first debate with McCain in September, and Gaspard wrote “You are more clutch than Michael Jordan.” Obama’s reply was to the point: “Just give me the ball.” This quote stuck with me, along with an image from just after he’d won the election. He was exiting his first national security briefing a day after becoming President Elect, and his expression was fixed and serious. Most of the boyish ease and natural assurance from his acceptance speech just the previous evening was absent. Whatever they’d told him, it was apparently sobering.

It’s your ball Mr. President, good luck.