Who Asked Me?

” ‘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.

I just got done watching Clint Eastwood’s latest, “The Mule,” and enjoyed it thoroughly. Enjoyed it thoroughly for many of the same reasons I enjoy Eastwood (and by extension, the character he plays.) He’s flawed, but he keeps going. There is no way to watch an 88 year-old American film icon on screen minus the autobiographical overtones. At minimum, he will be portraying every one of those 88 years, and that puts him in select company. There’s a scene where, as an inconspicuous drug runner for the Mexican cartel, he comes across a group of lesbian motorcyclists having engine trouble. He calls them “gals” or similar and they correct him .. “Hey man, we’re Dykes on Bikes!” It feels like something lifted straight out of “Every Which Way But Loose” or the 1978 San Francisco Gay Pride Parade. Having noted that he once had the same motorcycle and the problem is likely with the starter, he bids them adieu with a cheerful “Bye, Dykes!”

Reading a few online reviews for the film, I wasn’t surprised to see it being called “lazy” and “racist.” The “lazy” part seems most ironic, given Clint’s age and what passes for film criticism these days. (Granted several of these self-appointed critics were merely holders of a Twitter account.) But the “racist” part (and by extension the ubiquitous “homophobic”) is curious and only applicable if you assume Eastwood only ever plays Eastwood. Even by that definition, you’d have to presume to know his intentions as an actor and director (not to mention one in his late eighties with a huge body of work behind him.) He’s portraying a dinosaur in this film — a flawed but well-intentioned dinosaur — so even if there is an autobiographical element it isn’t being applied with malice or a lack of self-awareness. There’s nothing particularly damning about him using their preferred nomenclature with his parting line (“Bye, Dykes!”) .. in fact, he’s merely calling them what they’ve asked to be called. The scene feels flawed merely because it’s so ‘retro’ and out of step with anything that might pass for current times.

There’s a similar scene that’s been criticized involving a family of black motorists whom he calls “negroes” and then cheerfully replies “no shit?’ when informed that they prefer ‘black’ or just ‘people.’ The point here isn’t that he should be allowed to call people whatever pleases him, but rather that he’s out of step and means no harm. As with the lesbian scene, its greatest flaw is using a rather dated reference in a supposedly ‘modern’ movie. It would be a stretch to claim that Eastwood is doing this purposefully and self-consciously to make a point (autobiographically or otherwise.) In any case that’s another essay and, instead, I’d like to use the idea as a segue into talking about Pauline Kael.

Kael was the preeminent film critic of her time and at the peak of her powers when Eastwood starred in perhaps his most iconic role, as Detective Harry Callahan in the Don Siegel film “Dirty Harry.” Kael was the first (or at least the most noted) to apply the tag “fascist” to the film. She branded the work as “deeply immoral” while conceding that “it would be stupid to deny that ‘Dirty Harry’ is a stunningly well-made genre piece.” She goes on to make a very particular distinction between “turning an audience on” and “art.” : “Turning on an audience is a function of motor excitation that is not identical with art (though there is an overlap); if it were, the greatest artists would be those who gave us heart attacks ..” It’s a fantastic piece of writing, unlike most anything you’d find today, and the scope of her criticism is both broad yet specific and compelling. It was perhaps the beginning of a more colloquial understanding of “fascism” as the word has come to be applied in this country, and there’s definitely a specific argument to be made there. But far more interesting is her nuanced take on what defines ‘art.’ I won’t touch that, at least not for now.

Kael was from San Francisco, my current home city and that of Detective Harry Callahan. “I grew up in San Francisco,” she writes, “and one of the soundest pieces of folk wisdom my mother ever gave me was ‘if you’re ever in trouble, don’t go to the cops.‘ ” As with a lot of good folk-wisdom, it only works on a specific level. There is a certain kind of trouble for which the only person you’d be able to turn to is a cop. And, by vocational necessity, this dictates many of the flawed attributes Kael’s mother seemed to be implying. Does she have a point? Of course she does. Does it cover everything? Certainly not. San Francisco is perhaps the American epicenter for the loose application of “fascist” and distrust of cops. (Though the city is changing so rapidly at present this may be a dated stereotype.) It’s also the epicenter for human feces on sidewalks and in public spaces. Make of this what you will.

I’m too lazy to get into these broader arguments here (which is all the more reason for my being impressed with Clint Eastwood still going at 88.) I’ve been churning out these mostly spontaneous and lightly-researched pieces on this blog for many years, and the best I can claim is that my stance on most of these matters hasn’t changed much in that time. I’ve always liked Clint Eastwood, San Francisco, good writing, and a reasonably conservative bent on most things. Whether this qualifies me as “fascist” or not I’m uncertain. But at least it isn’t something that’s crept upon me in old age. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to bid farewell to a group of lesbian motorcyclists.

I wouldn’t touch this under normal circumstances — trying to write something about my mother now and do her justice. But we had the services Friday and I did write and read a eulogy. It was a nice day; a pause in what’s been weeks of rain. She told me once that she’d like a piper to play and I was able to make that happen .. a young auburn-haired, kilted lass who reminded me of her. And the reverend read Burns’ “Ae Fond Kiss” at graveside and at my suggestion. Somebody bought me a book some years back and outlined that one. I could have chosen worse. It was a beautiful ceremony and I don’t toss such words around. But like I say, words will fail me for a long while with this one. I did, however, manage to string these together and then read them in front of the assembled crowd:

Some of you have heard this story. It was about five years back and Mom had just suffered another in a series of interminable falls, hospital stays with delirium and long stints in the cardiac unit, a month of physical rehabilitation and other complications at Kindred in San Rafael .. all par for the course. I was at the end of my rope and had contacted Lynn and Leslie at Eldercare, which would eventually lead to meeting Marilyn and a significant change for the better.

But she was happy this day in a way that defied odds and defined her spirit. We’d been to the orthopedist and seen an x-ray of her lower body that displayed enough pins and rods to construct a go-kart. Rob said it looked like something from a ‘Ren and Stimpy’ cartoon. And we’d finished getting blood tests at Marin General where we’d run into an ex girlfriend of mine there with her in-laws and at her father in law’s deathbed.

“How’s he doing?” I asked, and the solemn answer came back that he was near the end and with the priest in his hospital room.  “Ooh,” my mother queried, “Don’t they trust the doctors?” There were intense stares all around as she smiled obliviously. So I excused us and shuffled her away with her walker. When we got to the parking lot I asked “Mom, why would you say that?” and she replied “what did I say?” I said “they told you he was with the priest and you asked if they trusted the doctors.”

“Priest?” she said .. “I thought they said he was with the police.”

Helen Davis Monaco was born to Agnes and John Moncrieff, March 1, 1935, in Perth, Scotland. At the time she attended school, Scottish education was regarded as among the best in the world. From age five all children were schooled together until streamed, at age eleven, towards an academic or trade-oriented education according to their abilities. This segregation took place on the basis of an examination the final year of primary school. She did so well in those exams that she was awarded the title of “Dux,” or top student in academics and all-around merit. This honor led her straight to Perth Academy where, the records show, she continued to excel.

In 1952 she moved to London and worked for the Foreign Office, eventually being transferred to the British Embassy in Washington D.C. And in 1958 she made it to American Airlines Flight Academy in Dallas/Ft Worth, before being stationed as a stewardess in Tulsa, Oklahoma. After a year of flying she landed in San Francisco, got a small Tenderloin apartment at 525 O’Farrell Street, and was hired by my grandfather Dan at Monaco Labs. Dan would soon tell my father “if you don’t ask that girl out, I’m going to do it for you.”

She was a first-ballot inductee to the Scottish Mothers’ Hall of Fame, ruined two sons for life in any attempt they’d make to meet a woman who equaled her, and made my father the very epitome of a man who didn’t know how good he had it. I can’t begin to convey who my mother was in spirit, but up until the end and through huge cognitive changes, she could somehow transmit this simply by being herself. It didn’t even take words. She had caregivers fighting over who would get to care for her after my father died.

I can’t properly eulogize my mother. It’s an impossible task. She equaled my dad in all the flattering ways I eulogized him, but eclipsed anyone I’ve ever met in a more ethereal sense .. in positivity, in spirit, in goodness. Fortunately she was able to convey these qualities with just about any encounter. As a hostess. As an employee or employer. In line at a bank or supermarket check-out. She was the only person I ever believed when told “everything is going to be alright.”

As with all elite conveyors of wisdom, she taught by showing .. not telling. She taught by being. I’ve received some praise in recent years for helping to take care of my parents. But the truth is, this wasn’t some self-sacrificing act or run at becoming the next Mother Teresa. It was a pleasure to give back a fraction of what my mother gave me. She was the draw. She was the pull. She was the reason. Moreover it was an exceedingly rare example of an extended stretch where I was able to get out of my own head — and believe me, that’s no place where any of you want to be. It was simply another in a long line of gifts that she gave to me.

I discovered music through my mother .. discovered Johnny Cash. Then I went in my own direction as she tried to keep up. For a short time when I was in high school she thought everybody was Sting. A tune would come on the car radio and she’d say confidently “That’s Sting!”  “No, Mom,” I’d say, “that’s Tom Petty” or “that’s the Pretenders.” It didn’t matter .. everybody was Sting. Her roots were strong. She had a similar memory to my own for song lyrics and would point out that the Neil Young song I was playing was, in fact, a Don Gibson song.

She used to tell me that she was a Scottish witch; which would explain a lot of things. Not a witch in the good-witch bad-witch Wizard of Oz sense, but more like some elfin creature tripping from one serendipitous moment to the next. She had sayings – “Yer bum’s a lemon, suck it and see” and “Ye can’t see shite but ye need a bite.” She had all the exterior qualities too, thrown in for good measure. She was as good-looking as my dad reckoned he was. More than one male friend, in noting her passing, has begun with “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always thought your mom was …”

There is no easy transition in trying to wrap up a goodbye to my mother. And this isn’t that. The truth is I talk to her all the time and will continue to. She said some things to me about that as well .. prepared me for this time as much as any son could be prepared for losing someone of her stature from this earthly existence; from ‘shuffling off this mortal coil’ as she and Shakespeare put it. Instead I would like to include some quick thank-yous as I did with my dad’s eulogy. Again, thank you to every caregiver who worked at the home in Greenbrae and took such great care of her. You all know better than anyone what went down in recent years, who was there and what was needed. You all bore witness. Thank you to Hospice for being such a fantastic service and allowing me to meet some great people. Thank you to Eldercare, Lynn and Leslie, and most particularly Marilyn Christensen, who had a Scottish mother herself and understood and bonded with my mom the very day she met her. Thank you to Anne O’Toole for her invaluable friendship and assistance this week. Elissa, once again thank you for making this trip for just 24 hours from New York to pay respects to a woman who thought the world of you. My parents were very different people, but they both agreed on you.

Most of all, thank you Mom.  I said it plenty when you were here and will continue to until they eulogize me. You were the single greatest influence in my life. You were me and I am you. You live on.