Who Asked Me?

I’ve given up drink for a week. Not sure if I will continue for another, through the evening, or beyond the end of this sentence. (OK .. made that last deadline.) Initial observations haven’t been life-changing and the benefits few outside of confirming that I can last this brief stretch. My sleep is shit (as usual) and I’m noticing neither increased energy nor lucidity. Part of my problem is tolerance. This isn’t a macho brag and there are many who put away far more than I do. But I could always inflict a sizable dent in a bottle of single malt without much slurring, stumbling or stares. My tendency to fly under the radar extends to all areas, inebriation included. This may be what got my attention. Nobody was going to notice but me and the same likely applies to sobriety.

I’ve been watching this ex-con motivational speaker on youtube .. Wes Watson. He’s a majorly ripped, tatted-up dude who speaks hard truth at high volume with spittle flying from his mouth. Wes seems a caricature at first glance, easily dismissed until you give him an extended listen. Then you realize that he’s gained more wisdom at 36 than most guys gather by 70. His ability to articulate rivals his muscles, once you get used to the frequent use of ‘motherfucker’ and the sensation that he’s about to jump from the screen and rip your head off. Ol’ Wes is rather straight-edged when it comes to substance use, save his indulgence in Folger’s coffee (served black, of course) when he wakes at 2:45 a.m. It seems penitentiary time has guided his philosophy and greatly expedited life lessons. The more severe the conditions, the faster and greater the wisdom. Fourteen months in solitary equates to three graduate degrees and all the Tolstoy one can consume. At the core of his preaching is the simple principle that serving others is the key to being released from internal suffering. Dude makes Joe Rogan look like Rip Taylor.

Not sure where Wes Watson and my brief flirtation with sobriety cross. I’m already up a lot at 2:45 a.m. but not by course of discipline and I’d have to do too much body shaving to pull off his tattoos. But I do find interest in his “Zen of rage” message even if I don’t subscribe to the method. I was listening to Wes speak about his Folger’s coffee habit around the same time somebody sent me a piece that Warren Zanes had written about Tom Petty. Zanes was Petty’s biographer and wrote some revealing bits about Tom’s heroin habit and personal relationships. The book was OK’d by T.P. but still caused a stir and the article was the first Zanes had written about Petty since his death a few years ago. Coffee again figured centrally; Tom was a Maxwell House man. He arrived at this choice with some serious thought on the matter. He didn’t see the point in fancy coffees or espresso and instead longed for something that would take him back to Gainesville, Florida, sitting in a diner for six hours with a never-empty cup and talking music until the alligators came home. In essence, the coffee was his link to the past; to a purer less complicated time. It all resonated as I’ve been thinking about this myself lately. Not having arrived yet seems less a problem than not being able to go back; not being able to re-set our brains to a time when there was less in there. Not sure how Tom and Wes might have gotten along, but both seem and seemed to know a lot about the same things.

OK .. maybe I will tackle ‘The Irishman.’ It’s early in the evaluation game and the film has been playing on Netflix for a week after limited theater release. I’ve seen it in both settings and multiple times. It’s been lauded and bestowed heaps of praise, but as Scorsese might point out this is an Avengers/X-men age we’re living in. I’ve never seen any of ‘those’ movies, so my opinions here are irrelevant. Plenty are acknowledging that it’s good, but perhaps fewer realize just how good it is. If ‘Raging Bull’ and ‘Goodfellas’ are the standard, ‘Irishman’ completes the trifecta. It’s a notch above ‘Casino’ and anything starring DiCaprio, and while an argument might be made for ‘Mean Streets’ he was still cutting his teeth back then. ‘The Irishman’ is indeed something special.

It is, in every sense, a Scorsese film. The pacing, vignettes that play like short movies, acting and actors, establishing shots, music, and theme all have his personal stamp. It’s the first work he’s done that truly addresses age and growing old in both subtle and poignant manner. There’s a risk of losing audiences when you tackle this theme. Younger viewers miss the subtleties and things can tilt toward the slow-paced and depressing. But here’s a work of some technological achievement where the actors portraying characters at multiple life stages do so from the perspective of men in their seventies. The much talked-about ‘de-ageing’ process isn’t flawless and it’s impossible to view without some subconscious acknowledgement that these are all older men. (Pacino may be the exception here but more on his excellent performance later.) Even fully cognizant of this modern times sleight of hand, one’s brain adapts — largely due to superb acting and directing. This is particularly true with repeated viewing and, in this select sense it may be the quintessential Netflix production.

Joe Pesci (as Russell Bufalino) is brilliant. Having forged a career as the most explosive little guy in the history of cinema, here he is something else: underplayed, reserved, gently killing it. It’s an odd word to invoke given the mobster genre but there’s a strong and intangible love between Pesci and DeNiro. When they meet in a hushed-tone Italian restaurant, Pesci notes half-jokingly “there’s a lot of tough guys in this place .. you’re not afraid of tough guys, are you?” He already knows the answer but his manner and gentility underlines how this film isn’t ‘Goodfellas’. That ruthless killers can share this bond and dichotomous appeal is at the film’s center. Later, as older men, the two meet early morning, the only ones in a Howard Johnson’s self-serve breakfast nook. They’re on the cusp of their later years and the setting speaks to this — the quietness and intimacy of the moment, the morning sun shining in from another new day begun with many under the bridge. The gravity of the conversation is belied by the mini cereal packages of cornflakes and Total and the non-essential lines in a situation where every word counts. Here Pesci is the gentle father figure, explaining to his grown son how the world works. DeNiro has always been a quiet actor but he says more in silence in this film than any of his previous work.

If I had to (previously) rank my favored order of these three established icons (Pesci, DeNiro and Pacino) Al would perhaps have finished third. This may have changed with ‘Irishman.’ As Jimmy Hoffa, Pacino has done something remarkable. It’s an extraordinary performance and as good as any he’s done. The scenes opposite English actor Stephen Graham (portraying Anthony ‘Tony Pro’ Provenzano) are worth watching repeatedly. Even paired with an actor thirty-plus years his junior, nothing about Pacino’s digitally-enhanced performance seems aged, fake or manipulated. He adds both weight and levity to the film and his lines (“if you GOT it .. a TRUCK brought it” .. “CHARGE with a gun .. with a knife you run” etc) are instantly quotable. He portrays Hoffa as a man so certain of himself that you have to wonder if he’s figured his inevitable fate and legacy are preferable to those of his mobbed-up counterparts. That Scorsese has waited this long to work with Pacino makes it more special. It’s hard to imagine him in a better or better-cast role.

Supporting performances fire on all cylinders. Ray Romano is fantastic as Bufalino’s attorney cousin and, along with Sebastian Maniscalco as Crazy Joe Gallo and Jim Norton as Don Rickles, testament to the idea that comedians are most suited to transition to dramatic acting roles. Harvey Keitel shines as does the young Jesse Plemons as Hoffa’s son. (Did this kid make a conscious decision after “Friday Night Lights” to pack on the extra pounds? Either way, it lends to his dramatic appeal.) There isn’t a bad performance in the movie and at three and a half hours it always holds attention. Anna Paquin and Kathrine Narducci are excellent as is Welker White as Hoffa’s wife. Some shade may be cast on the film for being typically chauvinistic and male-dominated, but it is what it is: a Martin Scorsese mob epic with a who’s who of Italian-American actors. If hitting the ball out of the park doesn’t suffice or justify its existence or cost of production .. well, it isn’t like they’re going to stop making X-men films anytime soon.

” ‘cause imitation’s boring . .” – Iggy Pop “Cry For Love”

There’s a scene in season two, episode ten of The Sopranos that seals it as the greatest TV show ever. Tony, facing the possibility of going away for a long, long time, sits in the dark of his kitchen with a bottle of booze. Among James Gandolfini’s many acting talents was his ability to portray being drunk accurately; always nuanced and never overplaying it. His daughter Meadow enters the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, unaware of her dad’s presence. She’s startled when he addresses her and turns on the light. He responds with hand blocking his eyes “no -turn it off” and she complies, realizing immediately that he’s inebriated. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” she asks, and he answers honestly “I don’t know .. (I) like the dark.” The next few minutes are brilliantly constructed. He tells her how much he loves her and wants to hear from her that she knows. But in doing so he includes “your mother doesn’t think I love you enough” — a blatant and manipulative lie designed to gain the favor he’s so desperately afraid of losing. It works and she responds “you listen to her?” David Chase, who created the show, once said it was fun to write because everybody was lying or saying the opposite of what they really meant. I think he sold his genius short; people lie in The Sopranos for a myriad of reasons, one being that it’s often the only means of getting to the truth. Tony continues – “I tell people you’re just like your mother, but you’re all me. Nothing gets by you.” Meadow tells him that he should go to bed but he says he’s going to finish his drink. She lets him off the hook in the most loving and bonding way. “Sometimes,” she says, “we’re all hypocrites.”

Being hypocritical is part and parcel of being human. (Just as using the phrase ‘part and parcel’ is part and parcel of being an asshole.) It’s a lesson slow to come to most of us. The important conversations that I regret least are those where I’ve made no great effort to defend myself. You can’t “try” to reach this state; it’s either there or it isn’t. The kind of love Tony seeks from Meadow is conveyed equally in silence. Declared love (in this very select case) conditionalizes; it lessens. When I’d tell my mother I loved her, she’d respond with a slight chuckle .. “I know that.” It’s a difficult standard in mortal relationships. Most of us go about seeking approval by explaining ourselves, by letting people know who we are and trying to pave over the rough bits. But once broken, this type of ‘unstated’ love can never be the same. Chasing it only emphasizes its absence. This isn’t an argument against saying “I love you,” but rather an example of when it can be redundant or even needy.

If hypocrisy is rampant even in the most personal relationships, it’s the bread and butter of governance. The word “politics” is synonymous with what we feign to find most objectionable: dishonesty, distrust, bullshit. So why, if we already know this, do we cling to our political identities so and go through this same practice of trying to define, conditionalize and explain? Not sure on that one, but it’s at the core of the ongoing meltdown. Most of us think we know what’s right and defend our stance almost as we would our family. But these positions are often as flawed as that degenerate uncle or fuck-up kid. And switching to the opposite position is of no help if we’re looking to break the hypocritical chain. So inherent is this political imperfection that it comes to embody our representatives. You can’t govern unless you’re elected and you can’t get elected if you’re completely sincere about what you believe. Your true positions always need nudging and tweaking and this becomes truer the farther up the chain you go. The more important the political position, the less honest one must be to achieve the votes. It’s almost as though the biggest asshole has the best chance of winning; either this or the person willing to push the bigger fairy tale.

So we settle for this imperfection and, in more select and patriotic moments, argue for our system being less imperfect than the other guy’s. It’s much like defending our families all the while knowing that ours has its flaws, too. When the chips are down some people will show up and others won’t and there is no impenetrable honor in the crest. Perhaps it’s best to turn the lights back off now and then, sit with our glass in the dark, and take comfort in our daughter’s true words.

A while back Jay Leno had a joke relating to a feel-good story about a little girl who got trapped in a well and was rescued after a number of days. The community “rallied around” the event, as communities tend to do in such circumstances. “I was watching the news coverage,” Leno said, “and the reporter said ‘only in America’ do people respond this way.’ Yeah, sure .. like the Swiss would have left her in there.” These days “only in America” is typically invoked for something bad or in disfavor with the person using the phrase. Some kook shoots up a shopping mall or a nightclub and it’s an “only in America” thing. Some brash real estate blowhard is elected President. The uses don’t hold up to close inspection without further qualification. Most of the time you need to be speaking about the western world, because if you include everybody else all bets are off. Of course you’ve got your share of crazy shit going on in Europe and elsewhere with no shortage of varying personalities being elected to public office. America is just bigger and more powerful, which in itself raises the red flag of suspicion. I’ve had people younger than me from other countries tell me “I used to have such great hope for America.” Really? What should make our evolution and self-perception any different from yours?

My Scottish pal Denis has a phrase for types inclined to use “only in America” in a pejorative sense. He calls them the “Down With Us” crowd. Down With Us folks seem unaware that they are included in the group they criticize. Either this or they somehow think that by asserting such criticism they are set apart and given a pass. Down With Us is an extension of Down With Me, which typically has roots in either charming self-deprecation or crippling depression. I had a blind date with a woman who critiqued our meeting the next day with the observation “while I enjoy a self-deprecating sense of humor, there is nothing more intoxicating than self-confidence.” It was included in a bit of “free advice” she gave about why there was no “love connection” between us. For me it rested in the fact that her arms were kind of fat, so she could have included ‘superficial’ with “unassertive” in my list of faults.

Being anti Down With Us isn’t the same thing as outlawing all criticism. At any given time there’s going to be well over fifty percent of the population doing something that rankles you. It’s perfectly acceptable to point this out, bitch about it, or vote them out of office. It’s when you attribute these objectionable qualities to the group at large that you run into problems. Think Homer Simpson watching a black comedian bust on white people on ‘Def Comedy Jam’ while bursting into hysterical agreement. “It’s true! It’s true! We’re so lame!” If someone makes a comment on boorish Americans and you’re from America, perhaps an eloquent and restrained reply is in order before enthusiastic concurrence. Yes, we have louts a’plenty .. but they aren’t in front of you at present, choosing to run down your country. In the current climate “patriotism” is sometimes assumed synonymous with “racism” or “nationalism.” But there’s plenty of things to be unapologetically patriotic about .. baseball and jazz music to name just a few. Could anybody really call nationalism on being a patriotic Louis Armstrong fan? OK .. so I’m conflating a bit here, and jazz fans aren’t typically getting called nationalists. But conflating is what we Americans do. We’re so lame ..

Perhaps the most important distinction to keep in mind is that Down With Us typically involves an observation. It shouldn’t be a movement as such because it offers no solutions. There’s never a “here’s what we should do” attached. But sadly it seems to be turning into a cause. The most vocal proponents include anybody in the majority or ruling class. If someone makes the observation “Americans are xenophobic bigots” it won’t raise an eyebrow in some circles. But this isn’t true if they include the qualifier “especially Chinese people.” The implied racism disallows the statement. But aren’t Chinese Americans just as American as the rest of us? Maybe the “especially” should be disallowed, but the point still stands that you’re speaking for everybody. On the other hand I was annoyed recently by a friend who corrected me from the colloquial use of “we” in a conversation while making a common observation. “Please,” he interrupted, “use ‘I’ and not ‘we’.” I would have been OK with dumping a chocolate milk on his head at that particular juncture, but it had nothing to do with his being American.

Down With Us is plain lazy, and indicative of neither sophistication nor evolved thinking. It isn’t even a distinctly American instinct and has likely been around since cavemen learned to cook food and sit in reflection by the fire. Only In America is OK if Don King is using it to bolster his pomposity or someone is pointing something out that’s specific to our Constitution. But it might be better used more carefully, whether being applied to positive or negative observation. Unless of course you’re simply using it to bond with your fellow countrymen and create warm feelings. Come to think of it, there are no hard and fast rules. Only in America would this pass as a blog post.

When you get to be my age, or somewhere thereabout, you tend to question where you are. This holds particularly true if you’ve left the house to get there. And in rare instances, you actually get an answer. Such was my circumstance last Friday night, 2,129 miles from home, when Keith Richards took center stage at Chicago’s Soldier Field and played “You Got The Silver.”

I hadn’t given much thought to signing up to see the Stones play; it was something to do in Chicago besides Gibson’s steakhouse and Wrigley Field. The only way to do a ‘stadium show’ at my age is to not think about it. So it barely registered when Mick Jagger’s heart valve operation was scheduled for April. The show was off, sure, but such things happen with a 75 year-old man. My interest did peak a few weeks later, seeing Mick up, about and dancing around his studio, announcing that the tour was back on as planned. Good genes, a life-long workout regimen, and keeping your fighting weight at eighty pounds still goes a long way. But I (“ME” with John C. Spears emphasis) still had to get there. Give a man a purpose and he’s good to go at any age .. this explained Jagger’s prance, apparently invincible ticker, and unwavering summer plans. But he had a date with 61,000 where I had one with American Airlines, post shoe-bomber security and numerous Uber drivers.

To be fair, I was staying at the Four Seasons, and as with most other circumstances in my life, had nothing to bitch about. But as Bill Wyman once said, hell is other people, and most of them were heading for Soldier Field last Friday night. I’d seen the Stones play twice before — in 2002 and 1981 — and remembered from the later date that they’d grown into these large-scale performances, making fine use of advances in big screen technology and sound. There’s never been any debate with me over who’s the World’s Greatest Rock n Roll band. I’ve always maintained severe indifference for the Beatles despite being isolated in this opinion. “I Am The Walrus” and “Dear Prudence” never cut it for me. And one fact stands unchallenged: a ‘band’ has to stick and play together. Jagger, Watts and Richards have been doing this for longer than I’ve been alive.

So yeah, cut to the chase, I was there standing among the multitudes as the lights went down and music went up. They were more than good and locked in and strong in vocals and chops. And Charlie Watts — Charlie friggin’ Watts — was keeping that same solid back beat at 78 years of age, looking relaxed and fit and healthy and offering bemused grins for his noodle-limbed singer covering the massive stage like he was 30. Then it was Keith’s turn.

Keith Richards loves the blues .. this is undisputed fact. And he picked the right music to love as his fingers gnarled and the crevices in his face deepened to Arizona Tourism Board proportion. Where it’s hard to maintain that Springsteen faux earnestness as years rocket by, simple chords and simple music can actually age well. At least it’s been true for Keith, whose version of Jagger’s daily workouts and health regimen seems to have been heroin, cigarettes and falling out of coconut trees. And that’s when it hit me at Soldier Field, listening to the thunderous applause as he approached the spotlight in subdued fashion. Yeah, I’ve seen my share of age and death in recent years, but he’s still here and I’m here to see him. On opening night. In Chicago.

All that was necessary were those two-fingered open chords, Keith’s voice, and the heart of someone loving what he does. Oh, and a little slide guitar from Ronnie Wood, who seems to have a line not only on the good drugs at 72, but the good Minoxidil. They did it again. It wasn’t just some superficial gesture, dragging my ass out there to watch them play. It was an excellent show and one I’ll be forever glad for having attended. Coo coo ca choo.