Who Asked Me?

I’m on the road again, pointing the old white E320 east on I80 toward the Sierras. It’s got a hundred and forty thousand miles on it, that car, but rides as solid as a chunk of accelerating granite.  Say what you will about the Germans, but they make a decent vehicle.  Somewhere past Auburn I stop at a glorified taco stand – something between a Taco Bell and tamale peddler –  and order two with chicken from the drive through window. In the ten minutes I spare for consumption, I sit in the Benz surveying the landscape and pondering who lives here in these Sierra foothills. The spread isn’t quite urban and isn’t quite country, and I tend to associate it with waitresses, gas stations, Denny’s and fast food clusters. But it’s only an hour out of Sacramento, and people do start and end their days here. A simple concept, yet one that continually eludes my grasp.

Wherever you go, there you are. Some guy thought that up, and his slightly more ambitious buddy wrote it down and cashed in on the bumper sticker. It’s kind of like “it is what it is” with either a slightly more grounding or slightly more daunting effect, depending on one’s slant. It applies equally to getting in a plane and flying across the country, driving on the interstate toward Lake Tahoe, or switching from bed to couch in the middle of the night. Manhattan’s got more distractions than Weimar, California but you can only ever take them in from your own vantage point. As John C. Spears would remark with profound intonation “The eyes only see out.” Unfortunately, Spears failed to get it on the bumper sticker too.

Tahoe is what it is, but in its particular case this is really something else. I’m no world traveler, but I’ve lived in Umbria, North Beach and New York, seen London, Madrid and Paris, and had an airport stopover in Memphis. None offers the same sensation one gets from this particular lake. And the air – well, as Sinatra might have observed, it is indeed rarified. And yet the same feeling overtakes me whenever I make the brief journey from car to inside of cabin: well, here I am. After about forty years, the place is taking on a theme prominent in all my family’s homes: multiplying televisions. For decades there was only the old Magnavox black and white, representing the sole technological advancement in a domicile that lacked even a phone line. But now there’s a Panasonic LCD in the living room, a small color set upstairs, and my brother’s old four hundred pound Sony XBR unplugged on the back bedroom floor. None, except perhaps the Panasonic, is really necessary, but you always need somewhere to stash the old one. This is what a family cabin is, in large part – a place for you and the extended clan to store the old stuff. The funny thing is, folks seem to think they’re doing you a favor by adding that third blender to the kitchen ensemble. That’s where Mom comes in, making the journey every so often to weed out the two inferior blenders.

Blenders and televisions aside, it’s an ideal setup: a small A-frame that’s all sleeping space, save a decent kitchen and two modest bathrooms. The water is superior up here, better to taste and softer to shave. Towering pines swaying in late September afternoon breeze put the unanswerable in perspective. And that body of water, well, you can see how the first indians to lay human eye on it figured themselves a foot up on the rest of civilization.  Just before sundown I hear footsteps coming up the stairs to the deck, always a slightly jarring sensation while pondering one’s own company in the woodsy off season. Darnell is a young black kid with green eyes, dressed impeccably in well starched white shirt and politely stepping back from the door as I answer. “Excuse me Sir,” he begins, “and pardon me for interrupting your privacy this evening.”

He’s a nice kid, living in Reno and going door to door looking to solidify his standing with some sort of troubled youth program by selling magazine subscriptions. At least that’s the script, and I’m torn between suspecting a scam and listening to the rest of his story. It’s a standard pitch but with believable humility and decent flare. An ex drug dealer and a father with young son at twenty-four, his simple rationale rings sincere:: “I was a knucklehead.” He notes the sign above the door “Monaco – is that you?” and asks if it’s a family cabin. “See, that’s also what I’m doing,” he explains, “trying to learn how to do it the right way from those who have attained success.” He glances at the Mercedes in the driveway and asks politely but with a dose of familiarity “How’d you make your first million?” I consider several replies including “lucky genetic draw” and telling him that the car is worth four grand, tops. But instead I self-consciously allow the assumption to sit, despite my t-shirt stained by taco sauce and a three day growth.”I guess my family’s just stuck together and hung on to the stuff that’s worked out.” It rings hollow, even as I’m in the middle of saying it.

I end up giving him twenty bucks, either out of appreciation for his slim pickings up here or residual white man’s guilt. He’s appreciative but disappointed that I’m not getting a subscription, and has me sign a sheet acknowledging his “twenty points” and rating his demeanor. “Polite and engaging” I write, seeing as there’s insufficient room to add “Overlooked my stained shirt.” I notice the various signatures under mine and subscriptions bought – either the kid’s doing OK or he’s forged an elaborate plan. Either way it’s at least a twenty buck effort. He asks if I know what time it is and I tell him five-thirty. “They get bears around here, don’t they?” he asks. I tell him they do, but on rare occasion, and that they’re more interested in uncovered garbage cans than door to door magazine salesmen. It’s about as successful a bit of advice as I can muster. “God bless you, Sir,” he tells me, and is on his way.

I sat home in Tennessee, starin’ at my screen
uneasy feelin’ in my chest, wonderin’ what it means
-Steve Earle “Christmas in Washington”

So Obama made his speech last night, and this message of “change” was prominent. Sheryl Crow even switched a few words around in one of her songs to fit the occasion and Stevie Wonder showed a lot of teeth. There were a lot of good teeth all around, for that matter. For a guy who smoked for a long while, Barack’s are coming along nicely. And that Joe Biden has one hell of a set of chompers. In fact, Biden’s are alarmingly white. I think it’s time to acknowledge that this teeth whitening technology has advanced beyond the point where it’s doing anyone any good. It’s like everything’s being shot under a black light these days, and everyone’s mother has bred with Sam Champion. Perhaps it’s our ongoing determination, particularly during the political season, to reinforce our independence from England. But I’d take Winston Churchill over any of these clowns.

This was supposed to be Obama’s moment to lay out his ideas and vision. He touched on this a bit, and also made some new references, including one to McCain’s reputation as a hot head. But the majority of his talk, despite expectations, continued to focus on this non-specific idea of change. What specifics he did address weren’t a heck of a lot different from traditionally democratic ideas of the past. In an effort to appeal to all people and avoid alienating any, he’s steadfastly refused to hammer on the most obvious change point that he represents: he’s black and he doesn’t have a name like Jefferson, Washington or Lincoln. Sure, he’s brushed up against the idea in the past and mentioned, passingly, that his name and appearance are different. The one speech he made addressing the point, when it could no longer be avoided, was by far his most eloquent and gripping of the campaign. But now any reference to this colossal and authentic version of “change” that he embodies is only touched on ever so delicately and implied in subtext. And yet there it is in every camera shot,in the faces of his wife and kids, and in the eyes of every black person in crowd.

I don’t think he’d be practicing any great injustice, playing the “race card” or implying racial prejudice on the part of anyone not voting for him were he to put it out there a bit more. The idea that he’ll seem aligned with radical ideology or appear fixed with anger on righting the many wrongs set in place by this country’s great historical shame is ridiculous. That he’s an appealing and potentially capable candidate speaks for itself in his very manner. But if we’re talking about change here, let’s get real people, and start with the most obvious and glaring example he represents. The problem with politicians is that they try to maintain a straight face while trying to be all things to all people. And in doing this they typically come off as being full of shit. It’s no secret that there are a lot of brown people, in all corners of the world, who aren’t exactly singing America’s praises. And folks of all political persuasion seem capable of acknowledging that we squandered at least a bit of the international good will that was in the air immediately following September of 2001. Historically, symbolic gestures are every bit as important as the actual practices put in place. Nixon made great strides with China, but all anyone remembers is his sweating a lot and leaving in disgrace.

I found myself paying attention to the start of Obama’s acceptance speech last night, tuning out during the middle part where he touched on solar energy and Mccain being a Bush clone, and then tuning back in at the very end. It was in closing that he mentioned Martin Luther King’s march on Washington forty-five years ago, and in measured tones his voice rose with passion. He should lose the restraint and start going with it a bit more. He’s already got the posters all printed up; might as well meet this change thing head-on.

Among the numerous theories relating to how we come to be who we are is the deceptively simplistic idea that it “all comes down to wiring.” There’s something undeniably satisfying about this approach, as susceptible as it might be to picking apart. Advocates of genetic influence would likely weigh in with support, but it’s difficult to form a sound argument that excludes environment. The same event that causes our circuitry to go haywire becomes no big deal with repeated exposure. Sense of self isn’t an exclusively western concept, but it takes on a different connotation among cultures stressing the importance of the group over the individual. No matter how you look at it, individual wiring exerts irrefutable influence.

“Man On Wire”, a documentary film currently in theaters, details the story of frenchman Philippe Petit’s 1974 high-wire walk between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. The idea of this daredevil act consumed Petit from the time he was seventeen and saw a magazine image of the yet to be constructed towers while waiting in a dentist’s office in France. This singular, crystallized dream defined his focus in the coming years and seemed to define him still, more than thirty years after accomplishing the feat. The act itself could be argued selfish, and watching the guy ramble on in excited broken English with a heavy french accent doesn’t embody my idea of a good time. But there is something undeniably spectacular, beautiful even, in what he accomplished. And taken in a metaphorical sense, the act is particularly moving. There’s a moment in the film when one of his accomplices, another french guy who helped rig the wire, is reflecting stoically on the day it all went down. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he breaks down sobbing. Another nice moment comes when Petit speaks of the hesitation in his first step on to the wire, and how all those years of planning came down to this single initiating act. There’s a still shot of him a few steps later, suspended more than thirteen hundred feet above New York City with a look of absolute joy on his face. Here was a man who knew his own wiring so well that he literally needed only the first step in even the most precarious and terrifying of circumstances to feel on solid ground.

It’s halfway through July, the high point of summer, and a run of ninety degree days has given way to mid eighties temperatures and the threat of heavy rain. I’ve noted it before – New York weather lends itself to the city and possesses weight, distinction and authority. When the sky makes up its mind to do something, it does it. I hang on to this notion as I descend the stairs at the Carroll Street subway station to flag a Manhattan-bound F. These charcoal skies and ominous, disruptive clouds aren’t just hanging around for their health. Nobody shows up to this city without some idea of putting what they’ve got on the table. But for now, they’re just making me sweat.

The temperature seems to bump a degree every two steps down for the turnstile. This counters my memories of the basement being the coolest place in the house. There’s nowhere so oppressively suffocating as a New York City subway platform on a hot summer day. Add to this an impregnated barometer and the impending sense that something, somewhere has to give, and you’ve got a recipe for major league perspiration. Not that I have a problem with sweat. I accepted it long ago as the sign of a healthy system balancing its internal thermometer and ridding itself of impurities. I’ve also accepted my own sweat rhythms; the way I’ll typically drip like a maniac immediately post-shower, soak my clothes through, then dry out nicely an hour later in the complimentary chill of subway car AC or the relief of a breezy Manhattan street corner. Deodorant is a must and part of the unwritten social contract, but antiperspirant is a futile gesture, a band-aid on Hoover Dam. It may work for the elegant post-debutante attempting to guard her silk chiffon from the unsightly damp, but not for me. I wouldn’t trust a guy who wears antiperspirant. People pointed to Nixon’s excessive sweating as evidence of his flawed character, but I think it’s an important indicator of where you stand with someone. Obama’s curiously bone dry dress shirts are still standing between him and my vote.

The drops reach critical mass on my upper back, gravitate toward center, and begin their southern river run toward the lower back and areas less mentionable. I wipe my forehead with an equally sweaty forearm then with the bunched fabric of my small umbrella. The sweat takes on a desperate quality as I strain to look down the rail for signs of an approaching headlight; check the dead air for movement and the glorious stirring of atmosphere just prior to an arriving carriage. And then five minutes later it appears, doors opening to refreshing, refrigerated relief. Say what you will about the trials of the MTA, at least they got this right.

Six hours on it’s dark, humid, and still threatening. I’m above ground in the Great Jones Cafe on the Lower East Side, hunched over a frosty Stella Artois and pulled pork sandwich. The Mets are beating the Phils, the jukebox playing Sly Stone on vinyl 45, and the waitresses scurrying to turn the tables over one last time. Suddenly two of them are at the hinged front door, gazing out in gasped wonder at the New York sky making good on a three day promise. There is no build up or pretense this time, only a crack of thunder like ball hitting bat then sheets of monsoon-quality water drenching the pavement. I throw some cash down and grab my umbrella, determined to put it to good use after toting it around all day. Outside, my bumbershoot proves antiperspirant ineffective; it’s raining so hard that the splash-back from the ground is like an inverse sky drenching. Constant electric-blue flashes dominate above with no gap between lightning and thunder. The storm is literally on top of Manhattan, illuminating walls of concrete like some kind of skyscraper freak show. In seconds I’m drenched.

I arrive home an hour later leaving my soaked clothes and shoes in a pile just inside the front door, the ineffective umbrella a disheveled afterthought and useless cherry on top. I’ve gone from wet to dry to wet again, all within a single day’s rhythm. Changing in to a dry pair of shorts, I set the bedside fan on medium-high, click the reading lamp and open my book. Outside it’s quiet and the rain has stopped.

One of the better moments in Oscar history came in 1993 when Barbra Streisand stepped to the podium to present the award for best director. The theme for that year’s ceremony was “The Year of the Woman” and Streisand was introduced as the “woman who directed The Prince of Tides.” Before opening the envelope, she said she looked forward to the day when such distinctions (‘woman director’) would not be necessary. And then, tentatively, she read Clint Eastwood’s name. The still formidable sixty-two year old star accepted the award gracefully and with his trademark squint. “Seein’ as it’s the year of the woman and all,” he said, “I’d like to thank some of the gals who worked on the film.” Clint’s film “Unforgiven” also won in the categories of editing, supporting actor, and best picture and, had there been a category for “Most Effective Use of the Word ‘Gal,’ ” he would have taken that too.

I received the Dirty Harry Collector’s Edition box set for my birthday last weekend and watched them in sequence. The original film can’t be properly evaluated without taking the setting and time in to consideration — San Francisco in 1971. Despite its somewhat effete reputation, San Francisco’s roots are in the Gold Rush and Barbary Coast. By ’71 the Summer of Love had taken on a darker incarnation. Speed and pushers usurped grass and dealers. A decidedly un-flowery vibe pervaded the Haight with the return of war-hardened Vietnam vets. The Zodiac killer was the Chronicle’s favorite new pen pal. And in stepped Clint with wrap around Ray Bans, elbow-patched sports jacket and a big gun. A very big gun.

The term “fascist” was bandied about in reference to the first Dirty Harry film, but “unapologetic” might be a better choice. Harry Callahan offered a mythologized version of the American Hero, and one subconsciously embraced by varied persuasions. What some took as a regressed, archaic version of suppressed male fantasy was actually an emerging archetype. Eastwood never had to speak more than a few lines to define a part; his mere presence did the talking. Whether best attributed to luck, timing or talent, it’s hard to deny that the man has possessed vision and star power.

The climax to the original film was shot across the bay from San Francisco, in Marin County. If you freeze the frame in one of the shots of Highway 101, you can make out my parents’ home in the distance, tucked into the dry, summer-brown grass hills of California. Nordstroms had yet to lay claim to valuable Marin real estate and the climactic shoot-out scenes utilize the old Hutchinson Quarry in Greenbrae. This was my backyard. My older brother’s friends bragged of being there when Clint jumped from the train trestle to the top of the speeding school bus. Some even exaggerated braving the murky waters of the quarry lake to retrieve the SFPD badge that he chucks away in a final show of contempt for The System.

It probably isn’t difficult to anticipate my take in regard to the recent exchange of words between Eastwood and director Spike Lee. For those unfamiliar, Lee criticized the lack of black actors in Clint’s two Iwo Jima film, Eastwood suggested that Lee ‘shut his face’ and Spike intoned that Clint retains a “plantation mentality.” This seems less a black and white thing than a generational divide. There are plenty of less accomplished directors more deserving of Spike’s words. Calling Clint “old man” was as classless and ill-placed as any racial epithet. “Shut your face” isn’t the most subtle response, but it wasn’t racially-fueled either. Clint’s twenty-six years on Lee perhaps allow for not mincing his words.

As to racial representation, there are a few Italian Americans who would have preferred exclusion from Lee’s “Do The Right Thing” to Danny Aiello’s portrayal of a Brooklyn pizza parlor owner. Even as a caricature devised to make a point it lacks subtlety. The vision of Black America eighteen years earlier in Dirty Harry was indeed retrograde, but so is much of the film’s 1971 subtext. Even as a ‘fascist’ statement the film seems dated and Harry is referred to as a ‘neanderthal’ and dinosaur.’ And yet the film still holds up. Acknowledgement is due for Eastwood’s consistency and body of work, if not for the sheer number of years he’s been at it. He’s come a long way from Dirty Harry to “Letters from Iwo Jima” and “Flags of Our Fathers.” Spike might consider giving it a few more years on the trail before weighing in the next time.