Who Asked Me?

Louis C.K., the culturally-iconic comic, writer and performer, has always been hit or miss for me. I’ve enjoyed him most when he’s riffing on the soulless expanse of social media and modern technology or the inane sanitation of language. He does a great bit on the pointlessness of having a phrase like “the n-word” when everybody mentally substitutes the word anyway once you say it. But he loses me with some of his more self-loathing takes on middle age and near-clinical meditations on the true nature of his sexual id. It doesn’t matter that the guy is smart and truthful; this is the idiosyncratic nature of comedy. It either clicks or it doesn’t, and I find myself laughing out loud more when watching Norm MacDonald. All of which I’m sure C.K. could live with, given his lofty position atop the showbiz heap and ability to call his own shots. Which brings me to his latest creation, the near perfectly-imperfect “Horace and Pete,” now available on his website louisck.net, for five bucks.

There are a dozen launching points one could choose in discussing the show, so let’s start with that last one first. There was no forewarning from C.K. and this was obviously a conscious decision on his part. Anyone can scrap an advertising budget, but getting an assembled cast and production staff to remain quiet about what they’re doing takes some planning. It just “arrived” on his website with an email to subscribers along the lines of “check this thing out that I made.” There is no means of enforcement for the five dollar charge; only the honor system and understated request that you not “be a dick” by stealing it. Losing the middle man bonds audience with endeavor. For a fiver you’re on-board and connected; not giving it a chance would be like buying an expensive cup of coffee then leaving it on the counter. There’s a blurb on his website about what to do if you “hate” something he is offering and want a refund. His own system is at work .. simple, but given the scope of his influence, quite effective.

So what do you get for the ticket? If you were one of the first to sign up, it’s jarringly current. There’s mention of the Iowa Caucus and Donald Trump skipping the Republican debate — both occurring within days of the show’s launch — in the opening moments. The setting is a hundred year-old bar in Brooklyn populated by a group of dedicated day-drinking alcoholics and a smattering of non-regular hipsters and wanderers-in. The easiest thing to describe about “Horace and Pete” is how it might be sold at a network pitch meeting. Various reviews have used “Cheers meets ..” and then “Eugene O’Neil” or something equally dark after the hyphen. But this doesn’t do it justice and a large part of the point is that there was no pitch meeting. C.K.’s subject matter is a clever mix of the psychological, political, familial and inter-personal. There’s a fine line separating means of delivery from content. The show was delivered un-sold; what to make of it is left to its audience. At its core, it’s a transcript of some of C.K.’s inner dialogues via a group of talented actors (Steve Buscemi, Alan Alda, Edie Falco, Jessica Lange etc.) It avoids some of the more self-absorbed tangents of his stand-up routine or FX series “Louie.” It’s a particular treat seeing his typically sharp thinking delivered from abstract perspective. “Horace and Pete” feels like theater, complete with miscues and rough spots, highs and lows. Marc Maron commented on his podcast that you can now add “playwright” to C.K.’s list of credentials, and I wouldn’t disagree.

The show is also about how we fail to connect, and C.K.’s character Horace is perhaps the least-connected of the bunch. C.K.’s acting chops are a step behind the other main players, but this, too, draws us in on a meta level. We’re familiar with his comic persona and aware at every turn that he’s created this. It has his stamp all over it. When his character is accused of being an inept failure as a subsequent-generational heir to his hundred year-old family business, he answers simply and honestly “I don’t care.” It can be read as like ambivalence toward any “message” one might derive from the production. The questions raised in “Horace and Pete” are both compelling and mundane. They are not easily answered. How they’re delivered feels as salient as their interpretation. As Alda, in a great reverse-casting role as a profane and racist bartender (making ample use of the un-sanitized ‘n-word’) notes: “racist is what you do, not what you say.” When he later weighs in on the ensuing legal battle over the bar’s future, his perspective and history feel equally valid despite his skewed, misanthropic angle.

I’m not sure where C.K. will go with this show. It’s labeled “Episode One” but feels complete unto itself and impressively current and real. Any exploration of topics raised in the pilot — if that’s in fact what this is — would seem like overkill. All I really need to know about Horace is transmitted in this sixty-seven minutes. Alda is spot-on, and Buscemi, well, Buscemi. I’d like to see C.K. continue as a dramatic writer to see where it takes him. He has the chops and, most impressively, the ambition, stature and vision to follow up on them in a uniquely independent way. It’s a rare and potent combination.*

*Louis C.K. did, in fact, reveal in an email to his website subscribers days after the show was realeased, that it’s an episodic series with more to come. Despite the above, I’ll be interested to see where it goes.

Ed Greenman died last week. He was my next-door neighbor Kirk’s father and a mainstay on Via Navarro — our block growing up in Greenbrae, California. We had a house on the other side of us, too, but the Greenmans will always fill my sole definition and mental image for “next-door neighbor.” An ex-Navy man with a shaved head long before the hipsters or movie stars who weren’t Yul Brynner started doing it, Ed cut an imposing figure on the block. He was over six feet tall and spoke with a kind of unplaceable drawl that suggested he was in no hurry to get the words out because he figured you weren’t going anywhere until he finished talking. One of my more enduring images of the man is that of him standing on the front deck to call Kirk for supper while we shot baskets in the McCormack’s driveway up the street. It’s a two-word impression that I still do to this day because of its power coupled with economy of language. “Kirk … chow.” This was all that was ever necessary .. Kirk’s name as a heads-up and the reason he was being alerted. It was never yelled nor spoken with particular urgency, but the voice carried and point was made. Never, in all of those hundreds of hoop-shooting sessions, was a second call for dinner required. “I gotta go” was Kirk’s immediate reaction, even if he was four letters into a game of HORSE. So powerful was it that I used it as my first-ever email address: kirkchow@msn.com. The significance was largely lost, however, and most folks just assumed I was Asian.

Ed had a flare for the creative. He built a porthole into the deck above their backyard swimming pool with a ladder leading up to it. This was but one of hundreds of examples of his unusual sense for design and decoration, but it stuck with me as a little kid. There was something supremely cool about using that ladder to access the upper level instead of the more ‘adult’ deck stairs and nobody ever told you it was too dangerous, either. Once, when my dad was clearing out the basement of his old family home on Leavenworth Street in the city, Ed noticed a box of dials in our garage. The basement was where my grandfather, a talented and self-taught engineer, started our family business .. and the dials belonged to various film processing machines and other equipment he’d built himself. The box was being thrown out and Ed asked if he could have its contents. The next week these same dials with their now-polished brass housings and newly-shined surfaces were mounted on the wall in the Greenman kitchen. This was a revelation to me as a kid, that something beautiful and interesting could be salvaged from old junk. Ed was also a master at making model ships with intricate masts and painting old, collectible lead soldiers. He had a glass cabinet displaying the latter in the living room, and he’d made that, too. His woodwork was precise with attention to detail and fine finishing. My father was a gifted woodworker but unlike Greenman he had no patience nor sense of economy with materials. Both were talented; but with my dad the point was the therapeutic process and forging ahead to completion of an entire room or substantial and functional piece of furniture. My father’s finished products never failed to impress, but he went through a mint in materials getting there. Greenman could use the scraps left behind to construct something from nothing, and the results often astounded.

Ed played the bagpipes, intrigued, in part no doubt, by my Scottish mother’s heritage. While it isn’t the most mainstream instrument, I’m sure there are a fair number, globally and outside of Scotland, who take it up. The difference with Ed was that, as with most things, he stuck with it. I recall my mother telling me about his wanting to play ‘Amazing Grace’ at his nephew’s funeral .. a young man who’d died tragically and prematurely in an automobile accident. “I botched a few notes in front of everyone,” he said afterward, “but went back on my own later and played it right for him.” This image of Mr. Greenman as a lone piper, out there at his nephew’s grave site and hitting all the notes on his second attempt, stuck with me.

The Greenmans moved south, some years back, to Fallbrook in San Diego County. Mrs. Greenman died in 2003 and Ed stayed in the house. I never visited, but have no doubt that it was decorated with many personal touches, like the home in Greenbrae. There is a sense of pity that one has for some older people, living on their own after a spouse dies .. but it was never the image I had of Ed Greenman. He kept the tradition of sending my folks a Christmas card every December with a brief update, and I enjoyed reading these in recent years, returning from New York. This was Ed .. solid, substantial. In alerting me to his dad’s death, Kirk explained that his plan had been to move in with his father at the start of the new year, to help him out and see if they could make an eventual move, together, to Oregon. He was still getting by on his own, however, and the description of his final day on this earth after eighty-seven some years, from what Kirk could put together, filled me more with envy than sadness. There were a few loads of laundry in the machine; evidence of his self-sufficiency and while not on par with his other more intricate skills, an ability that many men of my father’s generation never acquire. The exercise bike had been recently used; this wasn’t a man prone to flab or inactivity. And an unfinished container of yogurt was on the kitchen table. This was Ed Greenman at the end: doing laundry, exercising, having breakfast .. getting things done. He’d carried his habit to San Diego of putting an American flag up outside the house each morning. It wasn’t typical behavior in the liberal confines of Marin County, but fit him perfectly with neither irony nor heavy-handedness. It was this flag that a Fallbrook neighbor who’d been checking in on him of late noticed still displayed on the deck after nightfall .. something that Ed wouldn’t allow .. and was all the alert necessary to assure that he’d be found promptly. It was all very quick, dignified, and even considerate. ‘Graceful’ is another word that comes to mind. An exceptional run and fine exit. Somewhere a lone piper plays ‘Amazing Grace,’ flawlessly, note for note.

Been out west for the better part of the last two months and it was an intense visit. “Put a kettle on,” as someone from my past once advised .. but her tea was suspect, too. Now I’m pointed east for the long haul to New York and figured I’d keep a road journal. So far so good, but a two hundred mile drive to Tahoe is only a drop in the proverbial bucket. Got some rain in that bucket, though, just past Auburn on I-80. Then on to Truckee for a quick beer and shot at the Pastime Club, where a small late afternoon crowd was just getting started. I was at the Pastime about fifteen years back with my friend Mo Allen when the bartender announced that “a gentleman name ‘Bear’ would like to buy a round for the entire house.” So we lined up in orderly fashion for our free beverage. “You know, Rick,” Mo observed, “this kind of stuff only happens to you.” I thought of pointing out that it was happening to everybody in the bar on that particular afternoon, including him, but refrained. At the end of the day a free drink is no great shakes, but it beats a swift kick in the pants. A family cabin with fireplace on a chilly late October evening, however, is definitely a great-shakes qualifier. And while I’ve never traveled the length of this great country by car, I strongly suspect that there isn’t much out there that beats Lake Tahoe for a solidly spectacular setting. Truth be told, I could just park it here and be satisfied. But I already have a $47 hotel room booked in Salt Lake City and will be pointing myself in that direction tomorrow. Stay tuned to this space for updates — hopefully with a little more punch and literary flair. And remember to read from the bottom-up.

Movin’s the closest thing to bein’ free – Waylon

Went to see the Red Headed Stranger in Prospect Park last night. That’s Willie Nelson for those not in the know, and not Danny Bonaduce. Although Bonaduce might have been a welcome addition to the crowd which, from my estimate, contained mostly fourth generation hipsters and baby-strolling Park Slope parents. I’ve written about the latter before, and their penchant for wheeling their prized bundles of joy to these shows and decking them out with noise-canceling headphones in order to protect their precious, still-forming ears. Is it just me, or has anybody else noticed how annoying most other peoples’ kids are? Had nature not provided most of us with the inexplicable instinct to fawn over that which our own loins produce there would be a lot more abandoned offspring out there. Which is somewhat ironic, as it presents a scenario in which these noise-canceling headphones might be of genuine use, in order to block out all the plaintive wailing. Anyway … “Get off my LAWN .. ”

“Outlaw Country,” the genre that Nelson is credited with having helped start, and “Park Slope, Brooklyn,” are words that probably shouldn’t be uttered in the same sentence. This didn’t seem to bother Willie, though, and he motored through a tight set of old favorites, recent tunes, and plenty of deftly-administered nylon string picking. There was some lead-up discussion about how this was his first show ever at the venue. Given the number of days a year he’s touring, new venues likely register on the same scale as moving the TV a few feet to the left in one’s living room. I’ve seen him perform many times over the years and the shows have all followed a similar pattern, with the new wrinkle being a few tunes from his recent releases. This time it was two of his “weed tunes”: “It’s All Going To Pot” and “Roll Me Up And Smoke Me When I Die.” He’s become something of a national spokesman for the herb, having used it in abundance over the years. It was fun to watch the Park Slope parents scramble to cover their precious progenies’ already-covered ears, then stop to reconsider. “Wait .. it’s legal in Colorado and Oregon .. I don’t want to be sending the wrong *message* here ..”

Willie skipped an encore and was likely already partaking in some high-potency ganja by the time the lights went up. You have to admire an 82 year-old man whose life has consisted mostly of jogging, smoking weed, playing golf, living in Hawaii, and touring the country in a bus. OK .. you don’t .. but I do. After the show I did a cursory check of where he’d be heading and found that he’s scheduled for Garrettsville, Ohio on Friday night, followed by Atlantic City, New Jersey on Sunday. Yeah, that sounds about right.

One of my favorite Willie stories happened in late 2006, when his bus was pulled over by a Louisiana state trooper. To quote one article: “When the door was opened and the trooper began to speak to the driver, he smelled the strong odor of marijuana. A search of the bus produced 1½ pounds of marijuana and slightly more than three ounces of narcotic mushrooms.”  There was enough on the bus to merit felony distribution charges had it been in one person’s possession, but all aboard claimed the stash as their own, and each was charged with a misdemeanor then released. What are the odds, that all riding the Nelson Family Bus would be so savvy under such circumstances? A pound and a half of pot is one thing; I figure Willie typically goes through that himself in a good week. But over three ounces of mushrooms? Of course he was only 73 at the time, so I suppose you could chalk it up to youthful experimentation. “Take off that stupid headset, Junior, I’ve got a story to tell you about Uncle Willie ..”

I’m glad I went to the show and would recommend catching it if comes your way. There are very few iconic American performers left out there, and I put Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan at the top of the list. It’s easy to take these guys for granted, as they’re out there most nights of the year performing somewhere on their respective never-ending tours. But one day they won’t be, and all we’ll be left with is a bunch of up-starts talking about the day their parents took them to see — but not hear — these legends. Thankfully and for now, the show goes on.

Have not written here for a while, or anywhere else for that matter outside of wedding cards and credit card receipts. Seems I skipped an entire month. Oh well. In the time since my last post I’ve been in London, Scotland, New York, San Francisco, and Princeton, New Jersey. I’ve touched base with old, new, and even international friends. I had a milestone birthday, received a new guitar and Roomba vacuum cleaner, smoked a few quality cigars, and had a nice dinner out with my mother. Kind of reminds me of the Neil Young song “Music Arcade,” which I won’t reprint word for word, but will include the following sample:

there’s a comet in the sky tonight
makes me feel like I’m alright
I’m moving pretty fast
for my size

Caught up with my buddy Dave Glass at Specs bar in San Francisco on a few separate occasions last month. Specs is one of those rare joints where folks from 20 to 80 can gather comfortably and laugh, bitch, drink, pontificate .. do what people generally do in bars. You can’t order a Long Island Iced Tea nor pay with credit card. In exchange for these mild inconveniences, though, Specs offers something that few public houses in this country can: longevity. It’s the same joint you went to at 17, hoping you didn’t get carded. It was your weeknight spot when you lived in the neighborhood for a few years, keeping mostly to yourself and the bartender at the end of the bar. It’s where you can see the same folks, night after night and over the course of decades, their faces as familiar as any relative, and never speak a word to most of them. The same stuff that was on the walls in the early 80s remains today .. framed articles about the owner’s near-death exploits and rescue by the Coast Guard, pithy sayings (“it’s always darkest just before it goes completely black”), mounted whale bone from key anatomical section, and countless artifacts in need of dusting. Hell, these all go back back to the 70s, and likely 60s as well. What’s most valuable, perhaps, is what’s hanging in the balance currently: the simple assurance that the place will be there when you walk down Columbus and make a short left at what used to be Adler. Because if and when it goes, a large, last chunk of “there” will be gone, too, boxed in by whatever the fancy new McBar is just above and the new-money, out-of-towner version of Tosca just below. None of us escapes such loss; it’s worthy of a new paragraph but I’ll close this one with it, instead: what was there and remains always deserves consideration.

Then again, out with the old and in with the new. There’s something to be said for this as well. My old vacuum was a birthday gift, too, and did a very decent job. Enough so to make me think “what the hell am I going to do with this thing?” when I opened the Roomba, a present from my brother. Then I turned it on and watched as it made its way around the room, skillfully avoiding electrical cords and all manner of obstacle. Some guy spent some real time thinking this one through. Truly a “set it and forget it” kind of deal, like Ron Popeil’s rotisserie chicken, if not so much his spray-on hair. Why would anyone need a robot vacuum, you’ve perhaps asked yourself. Well, there is no more satisfying feeling than sitting on a couch (as I am now) and knowing that the floor is being cleaned beneath you. It does require a sofa with at least six inches of clearance, but small price to pay indeed.

I was walking down Main Street
not the sidewalk but Main Street
dodging traffic with flying feet
that’s how good I felt

And so the Roomba returns to its base with pleasant electronic ditty announcing that it is done with the room. All I’ve got, for now. To paraphrase Paulie Walnuts, observing Christopher with trow dropped in the Bing, complying with anti-wiretap measures for newly-made guys: “I guess you could call that a post.” More as it comes, or not, but either way with the assurance of dust-free floors.