Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Well they raised that horse to be a jumper ..
Tom Myers once told me that he heard the “I was flyin'” line in Tom Petty’s Runnin’ Down A Dream song as “I was sublime.” I myself once thought the “how my poor heart aches” line in Sting’s Every Breath You Take was “I’m a pool hall ace.” This just goes to show that the observer often brings more to the table than the creator. Which brings me to Torrance, California.
Dirk Diggler was from Torrance, but he was a fictional character. The city has one of the highest concentrations of Japanese Americans in the United States. Quentin Tarantino is a Torrance High drop out. What I’ve noticed about Torrance is the abundance of strip mall restaurants with partially burnt out neon signs. “Red obsters” abound. Dad and I have been eating at the Elephant Bar, currently going by the “lent Bar,” with a few gaps between and not too far past Easter. We’ve come to the conclusion that they have a decent menu and pour a good glass of wine. We’ve also agreed that the best thing about the digital age is that it allows less latitude for poseur auteur filmmakers to blame their creative shortcomings on the film laboratory.
At some point I think I figured that my assumption that I had the best mom in the world was likely based partially on subjective reasoning. But along the way I’ve met a lot of people, many of whom have or have had mothers of their own, who’ve affirmed my opinion of her.
None of this relates much to the Marriott Residence Inn, which sits semi majestically on Torrance Boulevard at Hawthorne, fitting the So Cal landscape like words from a Petty Song. Sometimes you got to trust yourself .. it ain’t like anywhere else.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
nothin’ illegal; just a little bit funny
Springsteen wrote the tune, in deference to Pete Seeger, on 1992’s Lucky Town. It’s a difficult one for me to get through now, because I have a specific memory of my old pal John C. Spears wading in my parents’ swimming pool, clad only in what my brother referred to as his “marble bag,” while the song played on an outdoor speaker. “Waist-deep, in a big muddy..” Never before had words so aptly described a situation. Which is kind of my point..
While Springsteen is a decidedly liberal dude, it’s never interfered with his capacity to write insightful lyrics. A few of them from this tune (“don’t tell me the rich don’t know – sooner or later it all comes down to money“) registered this morning while reading this essay by esteemed playwright David Mamet. The piece is further proof of the paramount power of good writing; whether one agrees with his change of heart or not, his logic as expressed is difficult to refute.
The beauty of the primary elections is that they allow you to pick a side without having to make a final decision. While you are influencing the general outcome of things, you can still jump ship when you step in the booth come November. As such, it’s been easy for me to pull for Obama in these contests. While I’m patently uncertain about the liberal argument, I’m fairly clear on my feelings about Hillary Clinton. However, previously expressed sentiments about sticking with the ticket for the long haul are subject to change. It’s been more than easy to get caught up in all this rock star hyperbole surrounding the Illinois senator, but I’d admittedly take Alice Cooper over Hillary. And as old as McCain is, it almost always comes down to your basic philosophical approach. That said, I’d gladly sell out to either side to be able to write like David Mamet. (3/12/08)
rip ‘n’ run
Both Davids – Simon and Chase – should take heart in the amount of critical attention given to the final acts of their respective creations. While The Wire may have ended a bit too neatly and The Sopranos a bit too obscurely for some, it was only because they both left the audience wanting more. There was some talk that HBO would have to develop a strong replacement series for their Jersey mob epic, but they already had it in The Wire. That the public at large never caught on was just an unfortunate side note. If anything, The Wire was more ambitious than the Sopranos. It was also a bit less comical and substantially less white. This isn’t a knock on Chase and company – I actually preferred his show. But at its peak The Wire was strong stuff.
As screwed as HBO would now appear to be, I have a solution for them: coax David Chase out of retirement and talk him in to expanding the upcoming John Adams mini series starring Paul Giamatti into a full blown series. While Giamatti may seem the most unlikely of leading men, Chase has a reputation for turning less than dashing Italian actors into national icons. He could delve into the psyche of one of America’s forefathers and mix fiction with reality by foreshadowing the actor’s real life father becoming commissioner of our national pastime. If anyone could pull this off it would be Chase, and at the very least it would have to be better than the colossal piece of crap that was John From Cincinatti.
I have to give props again to my buddy and George Lucas’ most valuable sound designer, Tom Myers, for getting me hooked on The Wire. I didn’t have the same personal connection with the show that I did with The Sopranos, and were it not for Tom I likely would not have persisted. But it was worth it if for only seeing the way that Cheese was taken out by Slim in the final episode. It might have been the most concise and punctuated example of poetic justice in television history. And unlike Tony Soprano’s fade to black, it left nobody wondering what happened. (3/10/08)
An off the cuff remark by an Obama advisor featured in this article provides what has to be one of the least startling angles on this campaign: a lot of people are rightfully wary of the Clintons in general, and Hillary in particular. Shortly after I read the quote, I received an email from Clinton’s team (I’m on both her and Obama’s mailing list) asking for money to help ward off this sort of “attack politics.” But anyone caring to put the remark in context could see that it was more a regrettable slip than an orchestrated attack, and one that the advisor attempted to retract and keep off the record. And as such it only echoes my own suspicions about the woman. Everyone’s human, but she’s as harden, fixated and driven as any man in recent political history. Old Bubba may have been a savvy and knowledgeable politician, but he’s a teddy bear compared to the woman he married.
Comedian Dennis Miller hit the nail on the head well over a year ago, before this race had taken shape or even gotten under way: “If I were Obama, I’d keep my head on a swivel, because you go up against the Clintons .. that’s like going across the middle on Ronnie Lott.” As a long time 49er fan, I appreciated the remark; Barack might want to stay loose as this thing enters the final minutes of the fourth quarter. That was always when Ronnie did his hardest hitting. I saw Lott not too long ago while going through the security check at the Oakland airport, and he looked as formidable as ever. But given the choice, I’d be looking across the line at him rather than Hillary. (3/8/08)
Friday, February 29, 2008
Brooklyn, on his damned quarrel smiling,
showed like a rebel’s whore
I saw Macbeth in Brooklyn last night, not in the form of an oddly cloaked apparition on the F train, but as performed by Patrick Stewart at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Stewart has damn fine posture for a man pushing seventy and needs no lesson in elocution. If projection is the opposite of depression, he might be the least depressed person on the planet. Also fine in the production is Michael Feast playing Macduff. Feast seems inherently attuned to the intrinsic power of silence. No words could speak so much when he realizes his entire family has been wiped out.
The dimensions of seeing a Scottish play, written by one fairly prominent englishman and starring another (albeit one of Scottish descent), all performed in a Brooklyn theater, are staggering. So much so that I won’t attempt to tie them all together here. Having spent time in both Scotland and Brooklyn, I can attest to similarities. Both possess a fiercely independent spirit while inevitably drawing on their proximity to larger players. This proximity is relative, however, and herein may lie the difference. The journey from Brooklyn to Manhattan is much shorter than that from Edinburgh to London, and a borough does not a country make. You won’t find too many New Yorkers objecting to the idea that we’re all Americans, but similar arguments might not fly so well in select Scottish pubs. Poorly constructed postulation aside, they are bringing this production of Macbeth to Broadway next month. I feel fortunate for having had the opportunity to see it in Brooklyn, but won’t likely attempt to explain this the next time I’m in Scotland.
On another slightly less convoluted note, I was wondering last night how these actors manage to commit countless lines of Shakespearean verse to memory. After expressing my amazement to a friend, I was reminded of my own faculty in this regard, the primary difference being that I’ve inexplicably chosen to focus on vintage Muhammad Ali rhymes and the words to the Patty Duke Show intro. Such a fine line between clever and stupid. (2/29/08)
Thursday, February 28, 2008
I’ve done a lot of sleeping on couches in my time. It’s affected some of the relationships I’ve been in, as some people take it as a personal affront. But the truth is I’m equally likely to sleep on the couch, or get up from the bed to go sleep on the couch, when I’m alone. Someone once put it to me as “getting away from yourself on the couch,” which stuck with me long enough to suggest it wasn’t entirely inaccurate. But sometimes it’s just a choice and where I sleep the whole night through.
A couch can possess a particular lure lacking in a bed. Strictly speaking, it’s intended for leisurely and communal sitting. When one associates sleep with a couch, it’s typically in the form of a nap. This idea of “getting away with something” can make it seem more enticing and likely to seduce one into greedy slumber. (Which, coincidentally, was the name of my high school band.) The other unconventional but accepted context for couch sleep is that of a marital dispute. In either case, it isn’t where “proper sleep” is supposed to take place. This distinction is reserved for one’s bed, and as such comes with the pressure to perform as soon as one turns down the sheets. This might be why, when I do sleep on the bed, it’s more often on top of the comforter with another comforter over me.
All of this relates to the psychology of sleep, which, if you’re fortunate, you’ve never had to consider. My father has been sleep-challenged for most of his post adolescent life, and there is definitely a genetic component involved. As a younger man he could often be found in the morning curled under a blanket on the living room floor, having given half a dozen other spots a try. Back then he attributed most of his sleeping woes to worries about work, but the truth is that it’s the mind set and not the circumstance that leads to problems. Although his sleeping woes have abated to some extent in retirement, he’s just as likely to lose sleep these days over a ten a.m. tee time. Don’t let anyone tell you that golf is relaxing.
Being a sympathizer and disproportionately huge fan of genetic theory, my dad urged me to consult a sleep clinic some years back. I put it off for a while but eventually submitted and forked over $250 for a consultation from one of the few accredited facilities in San Francisco. After some tests and extensive interviewing the physician informed me that my problems were not physiological and were best addressed by consulting a therapist. Fortunately, I’d had some experience with this as well – enough to know that it was a lot like consulting a sleep expert, except every week and for the rest of your life. So I went home and resolved to deal with my problem as I always had, which has worked with varying degrees of success to the present. While I’ve often envied those who are able to switch over to sleep in an instant, some of these folks also tend to speak hauntingly and even scream in their sleep, thrashing and kicking at unseen demons. Given the choice, I prefer to do my demon kicking while awake. As Willie Nelson once pointed out, “nobody slides, my friend.” (2/28/08)
Friday, February 22, 2008
New York City’s like a friendly old ghost
you seem to cruise right through – Bob Seger “Katmandu”
I now get New York magazine delivered to my door, the result of being too lazy to check the “no thanks” box on an Amazon giveaway. It’s more than an “er” behind the New Yorker and resembles a cross between Vanity Fair and the Post. Although it does feature some excellent semi naked photos of Lindsay Lohan in the current issue, a Marilyn Monroe homage allowing for the observation that whatever substance abuse problems she’s had, the girl’s also had the good sense not to alter a twenty two year old body. New York magazine might be the ultimate word in dentist office reading, providing sufficient depressive effect as to not require novocaine. After perusing a glossy paged Heath Ledger wrap up or any featured domicile in the Real Estate section (it’s not the $1.995 million asking that gets me, but the $1,828 per month “maintenance”) a good tooth-pulling might be just the ticket for re-entry to the real world. Even the New York Times seems to be pushing the boundaries of their “All the News That’s Fit to Print” motto, running a story this week on an alleged affair John McCain had with a lobbyist eight years back. If true, I for one find it encouraging that McCain had it in him as recently as eight years ago. If they want a real head-turner, why not go with Bob Geldof’s proclamation that George Bush has done more for the African cause than any other president? Who would have figured W would have to go to Liberia to dig up some respect?
Pitchers and catchers have long since reported to spring training in Arizona and Florida. Hope indeed springs eternal (unless you’re speaking of Bob, who passed away in 2003.) I once took a college course titled “The History and Literature of Baseball.” One of the predominant themes in baseball literature is that of venturing out and around the bases with the desired goal of returning home safely. This might explain America’s preoccupation with the long ball. Hitting a home run is one of life’s few guaranteed tickets; a chance to see what’s out there with the promise that you’ll be able to find your way back. Although the guarantee offers no provision that the experience won’t change you (see Bonds, Barry.) Any batting coach will tell you that the goal of a competent hitter is to hit line drives, not home runs. Home runs are a product of hitting solid line drives, not the other way around. Of course this offers no assurance that you won’t end up stranded on second base when the third out comes. Many a tear has to fall, but it’s all in the game. (2/22/08)
“I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed. I hate most people.”
Daniel Day Lewis as Daniel Plainview, “There Will Be Blood”
Quite the Super Bowl yesterday. I picked up a hundred bucks for hitting the winning fourth quarter numbers in a pool with a bunch of strangers. They didn’t seem to mind in light of the remarkable victory from their home town heroes, and they almost forgot to check to see who won. “Who’s Mon-co?” some big guy with an Eli Manning jersey asked, and I sheepishly stepped up to collect. “Way to go, dude” he told me. I seem to come up big with some frequency in these pure luck gambling endeavors, although it never won me any friends in the Monaco Labs company pools. What was I supposed to do – give my squares away to charity?
I’m not a strong believer in the school of thought that says you can adopt new sports franchises as your own when you move to different cities. And you only get one choice per large metropolitan area – none of this “I support both the Giants and the A’s” garbage. For me, it’s the (baseball) Giants and the 49ers. Despite Billy Beane’s dead-on Money Ball instincts, the A’s will always be a glorified softball team playing in the lesser league. And you can keep your “Raider Nation” too. If you have to don silver face paint and a scary costume to feel good at a football game you might want to consider getting your testosterone levels checked.
Having said this, I was definitely pulling for the boys from the Meadowlands yesterday. This instinct took root about three months ago when the Red Sox were trouncing the Rockies in the World Series. Loud whoops and hollers could be heard from the normally quiet apartment next door, and I put it together than my neighbor was a Boston fan. I was fine with this until after the football season started, and I noted his mounting exuberance with each passing weekend, as the Patriots won game after game. I’m no Scrooge, but nobody deserves this kind of overwhelming success from both his favored sports franchises. So, little by little, I developed a growing hatred for the New England Patriots. I see nothing wrong with this, as opposed to developing false hometown allegiances. And while I can’t assume equal claim to those who grew up with the likes of Frank Gifford or Lawrence Taylor, I did have a good time yesterday. The hundred bucks didn’t hurt, and I enjoyed the quiet from the apartment next door when I returned home. Go Big Blue. (2/4/08)
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
In a mildly radical departure from traditional political values, I’ve decided to endorse Omar Little from “The Wire” as my choice for presidential candidate. Let me be clear about this: I’m not endorsing Michael Kenneth Williams, the actor who portrays Omar on the show, but rather the character himself. There will be those who point to the inherent dangers of supporting an openly fictional character, but who among current candidates isn’t playing a role to one extent or another? The simple gesture of placing Omar on the ballot acknowledges this from the outset and sends a message to the field: no more pretense – we’re calling this game like it is.
On the surface Omar might not seem an appropriate candidate. There will be those who have difficulty seeing past his current occupation as a shotgun wielding, duster wearing, Honey Nut Cheerio eating, Farmer in the Dell whistling stickup artist. But again, I think once the public at large decides to collectively see through the pretense they’ll realize that he’s just Bush with a more convincing swagger; Cheney with better aim. In fact, supporting an Omar presidency works well from both ends of the political spectrum. He speaks to the core ideals of the right, once you get past his sense for operating outside the constraints of “traditional law.” He believes in being polite and uttering nary a single curse word, even under the most trying circumstances. And he possesses an innate sense for the first law of finance and power: there’s no such thing as clean money, and there’s nothing quite so useless as an unloaded gun. Speaking to the left, he allows for taking the newly favored “progressive” label and running with it. He’s unapologetically gay, shattering ineffectively swishy stereotypes, and – as offensive as the argument was from its origin – he’ll never be subjected to the abuse Obama has suffered for not being “black enough.”
I was discussing this idea for a late stage grass roots campaign while walking to dinner with some friends last week through my rapidly-gentrifying yet cosmetically urban (and traditionally Italian) Brooklyn neighborhood. I consciously kept my voice lowered, realizing that such broadened cerebration must be guarded in its nascent stage. Suddenly, a voice came from behind us. “Excuse me,” this young white guy interrupted, walking in the direction of the newly appreciating low rises adjacent to the BQE. “Did you just say ‘Omar for President?‘” I began to explain and qualify, starting with my premise being based on the idea that the character, and not the actor, be nominated. He cut me off before I could finish. “That’s awesome,” he said. (1/22/08)
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
loose change in my pocket; future in my hand
I’m 32,000 feet above Michigan monitoring progress on my Jet Blue flight tracker, and the corpulent woman across the aisle is quite literally losing it over an episode of the apparently aptly titled “Everybody Loves Raymond.” Another blow for Darwinism – we may be walking upright, but many of us haven’t discerned that wearing headphones doesn’t mean that nobody else can hear us. More relevantly, it’s testament to the well-established fact that I’m not extracting all the available joy life has to offer. Why can’t I derive such unrestrained pleasure from the program? It does have that big guy .. he’s kind of funny.
Maybe it was the captain’s well-chosen remarks before departing a storm-ravaged Northern California. He came out of the cockpit to address the cabin with a reassuring “I’m not going to lie to you..” What bad could possibly follow this? As it turned out, the ride to airport was much more harrowing than the flight, with my brother’s windshield wiper flying off and the remaining arm scratching a deep groove in the glass, making a hellish squealing sound as he attempted to navigate off the freeway in the ensuing deluge. The problem was partially remedied with rag and shoelace, prompting him to dub himself a “regular Macgyver.”
Saw Van Morrison at the Masonic on Nob Hill after catching him at the United Palace in Harlem in October. His tickets are getting a bit pricey, so I might have to consider substituting Ray Romano. I don’t suspect that Van’s the type of guy you’d catch wearing earphones and laughing out loud on a cross country flight. But he can still sing, improvise, blow horn, and turn his back to the audience with the best of them. It’s curious how many still lament this well-established fact, like they’re expecting some kind of miracle Regis Philbin personality transplant. As he put it a few years back “it’s just a job you know, and it’s not Sweet Lorraine..” Thankfully he still does it well. As does Neil Young, whom I also saw at the United Palace in December. He commented on the place being a great venue and an ex movie house with “2001” still loaded up in the projector. Neil continues to play through the rust, and put on a three hour combined acoustic/electric set, pacing the stage like some kind of charged, marauding relic. Some might point to my tendency toward select, repetitive musical acts, but I try and wear different socks each time. When you find something that doesn’t suck, it’s difficult not to stick with it.
I managed my way up to the Sierras as well, seeing enough snow to satisfy my winter quota. (They were getting clobbered again as I returned to mid-sixties temperatures in New York.) While I can debate the relative merits of San Francisco and New York, I’m hard pressed to find anywhere as spectacular as Tahoe. My parents bought the place there in the late sixties and have hung on to it – a wise move among many. It’s a simple A-frame cabin whose mystique and memories exceed its square footage. My dad seemed to give up on the place for a while, but has come back to it in recent years and makes the drive up frequently with Mom. I’ve never brought anyone up there who hasn’t commented on its charms. Wherever bullshit resides, Tahoe always seems far from it. (1/9/08)
