Post Root Canal/Three Days of Rain Ruminations
Continued from previous post...

New York this past Sunday seemed none the worse for wear, physically, for all the market gyrations. The high rises from the roof of MoMA were all still standing straight. But the worst was yet to come in a matter of days; and overhearing conversations I detected not one syllable about the politics of the day or even the economic crisis. Just the usual round of where we're going and what we're seeing and the names of people and where they were from that fell on my ear in an unfamiliar fashion that was neither urgent nor dismissive.

This was my first extended visit to the "new and improved" MoMA. I have to say, I'm not over fond of the design. I liked the temporary site in the Queens staple factory. There, you ran into Van Gogh and Picasso and even Cindy Sherman like old friends at a party.

I remarked to Amie that the new place already had a grimy look to it as though it'd been there since about 1978, which is how the design strikes me: a monument to modernism that is past.

The one design aspect of the musuem I found most appealing was the wooden or composite wood surface floors in the galleries. They Queens location was like many galleries in Chelsea; hard concrete, that after going through a dozen, cause as much foot discomfort as the aesthetic pain one feels after seeing too much of what some have deemed art.

The apartment buildings across the street have always intrigued me. They are pre-war, and don't have central air, as evidenced by the window units. The two are 25 and 17 W. 54th St. that I like fantasizing myself into are side by side; one has this Secessionist Deco angularity with big square windows and and the second has turret bays. And higher up, balconies and terrace gardens. Gawd, how it would be to live in such an ayrie.


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Gazing across the roof terrace on this wondrous day, I found myself in rapturous love with those buildings, and the place.

But one of the great pleasures of our quick visit to NYC that Sunday was having a glass of red wine in the MoMa sculpture garden, hearing the pleasant falling water of the fountains and the Barnett Newman sculpture of the pyramid conjoined at its tip with the obelisk.

I had a jarring memory though; the wire frame chairs that are more comfortable than they appear in particular after a day of art-hiking -- I recalled this photograph, believe it or not; that's Theresa Duncan in her going-incognito style, here.

Funny how the visual memory works.

So we sat there, and I kept editing, and drinking, and basking in the splendid New Yorkness of the moment, and it was just as good as being rich.

Well. Almost.

Passages

Don LaFontaine was known to most people who'd never seen him as "The Movie Trailer Guy." His was the gravelly ominous voice, the one that always started with, "In a world gone mad, one man stands alone..." or some such. He was most recently in a GEICO ad. He died September 1, following a collapsed lung, and was just 68.

This video, "Five Guys In A Limo," is kind of a El Divo of voice over princes. Don is first--he was the King of Voice Over, and how they make fun of themselves is enjoyable.




David Foster Wallace

I have a confession to those in the billion-eyed audience who may have mistaken me for a literary type. My reading is not as wide nor as adventurous as it should be; and that's to my deficit.

I did not know his work well. I encountered him here and there in magazines and perhaps due to my own porousness of mind do not remember anything about what I read.

We were born the same year, a month apart, and out of the general same culture, but he was a genius and I just work at being understood. But the little wheels that have no sister whirred too long and much louder than he could stand them, and he hung himself, and silenced an observer of our time just when we could've used him the most.

I further confess that what little I knew about him, made me...envious. This makes me seem petty, and maybe so.

He was 24 when his first novel came out, hitting in a big way, and while I was still struggling with what I was trying to do with myself and switching majors at VCU and slogging away at an immature first-person fiction and thinking the world would end before I ever finished.

There was also following the 1980s literary brat pack thing, that Gordon Lish crop of writers that annoyed me. They were good looking and high living. They demonstrated that fiction is just about impossible to write and remain authentic and getting anybody to read it even more so. The hype soured me on reading most of what passes for contemporary literature in the U.S.

I can't get through so much of the stuff; it hurts my eyes, clotted with brand names, trying to be television on the radio, or sleek as Norwegian furniture in those New York lofts I lust for. But I'm not sure about the value -- of the fiction, the lofts are quite pricey.

And I don't know enough about David Foster Wallace's writing, but should now refresh and remind myself. The rhythm of his name always sounded famous to me, and it conflated with John Foster Dulles in my ear. And I think of Don DeLillo's observation that our famous assassins are always known by their three names: John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray, Mark David Chapman. But Wallace was a creator, not a destroyer...except at the very end. You can read more about this tragedy, here and here.

There's a story..not about him, but perhaps he'd appreciate it.

So a dog walks into a bar. Sits down on a stool, neither expectant nor presumptious, and the barman is bent over cleaning his glass on the scrubber and he looks up, asks the dog if he can help him. "No, not right now," the dog replies.

The barman goes back to his glass washing then glances up and a rabbi has come and sat down.

The barman looks at the dog, and at the rabbi, and says, "What can I do for you?"

"Just water for now, thanks," the rabbi says.

The barman bends over his business when his ears pick up a click clock clump thinking at first: this is is a heavy woman in heels. But no, he sees instead a horse. The animal sits on a stool, nods its muzzle but make no other sound.

The barman goes back to his work, then stands, shoves his rag into his back pokcet and crosses his arms across his chest. He looks up and down the bar and says aloud, "OK. A dog, a rabbi and horse have come into my bar. Is this a joke, or what?"

Economic Collapse

The Federal Reserve, which is no more a government agency than Federal Express, has been turned into a big hedge fund that gambles with public money and protects crooks. Home owners will continue defaulting on their loans; just exiting and leaving the keys in the mailbox.

Cities are getting sapped of their real estate taxes, meaning ballooning regional and local deficits and shortfalls for affording basic services like road repair and streetscape maintenance, to say nothing of public schools.

Years of neglect and deregulation by both political parties, and a public willing to go along for the ride heedless of warnings that, to be fair, weren't made wide and public (who listens to caution at the height of the party?) have arrived us at the threshold of disaster.

Washington Mutual is seized and sold. McCain goes to D.C., causes a sound and fury of pointless ruckus, and will now make his appointment at Ole Miss to debate Obama. Perhaps McCain will come across as a canky grandfather and Obama a cool, collected sharp-witted customer. I hope so. But either way, we're just in some serious kimshie. The leadership of this country is demonstrably, in too many crucial instances, crazy and clueless, cavalier and callous, cynical and cruel.

Is this the best we can do? Treasury Secretary Paulson down on one knee begging Nancy Pelosi not to kill the bill? And he having to admit its the Republicans who are the problem? You can read about it here and here. Have Philip Glass score it and Aaron Sorkin write it, and we've got an opera.

Finally, a colleague directed my attention to a hilarious interpretation of Keith Olbermann's "Special Comment." Wonder if this guy was told he looked and sounded so much like him, he decided to go for it.

Will it be the same ole thing, or The West Wing?
"Yes We Can"... do what?

Image of the cast, via West Wing, summary of "Shibboleth" episode here.

"Senators Barack Obama and Joseph R. Biden Jr. in Springfield, Ill., Saturday." via The Caucus, New York Times political blog, here.

Billion-eyed audience, I realize that The West Wing was just a television show, and political porn for us trapped in the reign of George II, but I was addicted and loved it for most of the run--at least long as Aaron Sorkin was writing until his own deviltries and frailities unseated him. And it was OK after that, with some major gaffes (that whole thing with Leo in Cuba and the spy mission --echhh) and the series ending with a Hispanic elected as President. H'mmm. How unlikely did that seem?

I got hooked on the series during reruns on Bravo and brought up to speed. I even liked the West Wing ads...you see an empty office until Donna jumps up, "A-hah!" Or the announcer, underscoring the multiple times the show ran, repeating. "The West Wing...The West Wing...The West Wing," with some kind of funny tag line, I think about a copy machine, delivered by Josh.

So forgive me if, when watching some of these scenes of BHL and JRB and the attendant families and dignatorial functionaries in flag-draped scenes among clamoring crowds, that I get an attenuated form of cultural vertigo--that feeling you may know from when the elevator tops but you feel as though it is still moving. This is not just a campaign. This the Best West Wing Episode Ever.

I thought it interesting how in a slip of the tongue, Obama almost introduced Biden as the next President of the United States, and Biden referred to his running mate as "Barack America," like a spoken word poet, or, a superhero. Or perhaps both. And that Biden came out of the gate "literally" (as he so often said yesterday) running was fun to see. (I had a PBR to drink from each time he said "folks" and my guess is one of his media people told him to lay off the phrase--so I had just two sips by that word).

"Damn It Jim, I'm A Politician, Not An Actor."

You can tell Obama is tired. He didn't sell his lines quite right. His statement, "Joe Biden will give some real straight talk to America" was kind of a throwaway when the emphasis should've been on "some real straight talk" and that would've been a more direct jab at McCain. But, having made a few score curtain speeches, I know how difficult remembering all your notes can be, especially if you don't want some bright piece of paper distracting the audience's attention. Then again, he's a politician, not an actor.

I recall how years ago--when Tim Kaine was a Richmond City Councilman, and not even mayor, the Firehouse invited him to participate in a fund raiser and he accepted. Tim is one of the primary reasons there is a Firehouse today. Anyway, I wrote the show that had this Laugh-In style Advent Calendar-esque door opening-and-closing-quip-tossing scene. At the time, radio personality Jim Jacobs was broadcasting on WRVA here, and rather popular.

As written, Jacobs popped his head out and set up a joke, to which Tim replied, "Damn it Jim, I'm a lawyer, not an actor!" My little nod to Star Trek. OK. So Tim comes to me and asks if he can change the line to "politician" not an actor. Not only was this line alteration funnier, as it proved, but accurate. Tim then had his sights on the next thing, and as so happened he's gone a considerable distance.

The Climax of Climaxes So Far

The climax of climaxes of the Obama Experience thus far will be the stadium-sized acceptance speech. Seems to me this is an idea Sorkin might've had in some West Wing variant, and rejected due to the implausibility. When BHC came down here last year and his nervy staff had to hide art work at Plant Zero for fear of sending the wrong message (another West Wing-esque moment), I couldn't have anticipated where his candidacy would go.

I will say this: all politicians fail to live up to expectations. The younger, first-time voters may learn this the hard way. Also, placing too much faith in anybody running for office is a one-way ticket to Disappointment Junction. Even if the wellspring of a candidate's motivation is of the most pure and idealistic, the way to the highest level of governance is a chutes and ladders game of moral and ethical deviations and compromise. Also, there is something fundamentally wrong with anybody who wants the job of President of the United States. The massive ego and a certain level of arrogance required to endure an inhumane and over-long campaign and a constant assault on one's character and personal history means the possession of almost superhuman levels of confidence.

An Ambivalent Cynic

And, further, to place one's full faith in any leader--temporal or spiritual-- is dangerous. To think that any one person can undertake an overhaul of such a vast maelstrom of corruption as the government at Washington and do so without, to borrow a phrase, massive resistance, is foolish. To paraphrase Twain, our world is either governed by well-intentioned mediocrities or malicious idiots. I tend to think there is a bountiful combination of the two.

And that we have all these sitting senators running--does this not indicate some kind of rift in the Millionaire's Club that is the Senate? This reflects, too, the split in the country. And if we had a functioning non-money-special-interest polluted political system, a parliamentary style--not this show biz thing we have now--there'd be more voices and greater choices. And I'm not going to get started about the electoral college and manipulated voting and how we are today a corporatist nation. That elections today are about as profound as an "American Idol" and with fewer voters. Call me and ambivalent cynic. Hell, I voted for John Anderson in my first time out, and once even for Ross Perot.

In conversation this weekend with a neighbor, he told of how a friend who was accused of being a "liberal" once too often finally snapped, "I'm not a liberal, I'm a radical. I don't think any of it works." Or, as acquaintance of mine from years ago remarked, shrugging, "Why vote? It just encourages them."

"What Do We Do Now?"

Well, I don't think any of it works. I mean, not really. So much of what passes for action is just momentum. And voting encourages a misplaced hopefulness -- yet I vote whenever I get the chance. The real politics happens in your civic associations, community gardens, your theaters, and neighborhoods, on your front stoop. When the power goes out and the InterTubes crash, you're left with the people living to around you. That's where the solutions get worked out, and what has the most affect on you.

Some in the billion-eyed audience may be familiar with the 1972 film The Candidate, featuring Robert Redford, as a young vital politician who goes through a rigorous campaign that at times barely acknowledges his existence, and in the end, victorious and arms raised, he says through his smile, "What do we do now?" Read more here.

And here is just one reason why I liked that show so much; the crackling dialogue, the tangled situations--Sorkin and Thomas Schlamme-- the cinematic lighting and camera, and the great doors. West Wing had awesome doors.

"Well, Here I Am, Anyway."

The Parade As It Goes By
Not Comcastic

[Image via TurnOffYourTV.com]
A few days ago I met an actress and production designer, probably a decade younger than me, who has never owned a television. Friends of ours raised their children without the box--or Christmas. Another friend of mine recalled that as a girl, the television was covered by a sheet and turning on the device meant having to uncover the screen.

I'm meeting more of these people who have either chosen to go without--much like a smoker who decides to quit cold turkey--or even undergo periodic media fasts.

The average U.S. household has at the very least three televisions. Heck, they even make refrigerators with one embedded in the door. They come in the back of car seats. I cannot rail too much about electric soma. Our household meets the national average. But in terms of actual viewing, there is far less than more than what's estimated as the average -- more than eight hours a day. The Partner-in-Art may keep a movie channel on while she's working, but like many of us, she's not actually "watching."

Me, I get caught up in Discovery and History channel programs. And the news. But, with whatever seriousness with which we engage television, this is all entertainment. The television is part of our attention and what we do in lieu of something else more productive. Nowadays, between television and online surfing, many folks in the U.S. spend more time consuming media than sleeping. We are distracting ourselves dreamless.

Once upon a time, a meditating-yoga-posing writing friend of mine suggested that most people would say that focused meditation, as the yogis do, is crazy. Yet they'll stare at an appliance with moving images for hours. Would you watch a toaster for that long? Television blocks our selves from ourselves.

The convention of the Kurt Vonnegut story Harrison Bergeron has people given implants that emit distracting noises that interrupt their thought processes. People who exhibit remarkable talent or intellectual prowess are given restrictions by the Handicapper General, Diana Moon Glampers, a humorless woman who shoots a ballerina on live television. Nuff said.

On Broadway these days there's The Farnsworth Invention. I'd like to see it; one of my favorite writers, Aaron Sorkin, created the script and Hank Azaria is David Sarnoff and Jimmi Simpson as Farnsworth (pictured). The reviews have been so-so. I wouldn't care. It's Broadway. [Image via NPR, Joan Marcus]

Philo Farnsworth didn't intend for television to turn into what it has. I first encountered him in an excellent novel, Carter Beats The Devil, about an historic 1920s illusionist who navigates a "a magical -- and sometimes dangerous -- world, where illusion is everything, and everything is illusory" wherein Farnsworth thinks his invention may inspire world peace.

After all, he observes, how can you kill a man when you can watch what he's eating for breakfast? How far we've traveled where I can sit in my breakfast nook and watch U.S. tanks roll across the Iraq desert, as I did during the Second Gulf War, while eating brunch. And the total voyeurism--voluntary and otherwise--of the Internet further twists the concept.

So while shoveling the cat boxes and performing household chores this past Sunday, I had on Flags Of Our Fathers, which I'd wanted to see. This examination of the circumstances surrounding the iconic photograph of the flag raising at Iwo Jima (in fact, the second one), and the celebrity that accompanied the men captured in the picture (not all of whom were recognized at the time), which did a big number on their heads and subsequent lives.

The film stakes ground between the genuine heroism of soldiers asked to make the ultimate sacrifices when fine jingling words seem quite distant indeed, and the propaganda and opportunism that war breeds. The story compiles tragedies, piled upon tragedies. You do understand better why the U.S. in the end dropped its atomic bombs: to end the slaughter, stop the drain on the treasury (and demonstrate to the Soviets that we had a bigger stick).

Anyway, as compelling as Flags is, the advertising that came toward the end was even more interesting. Not quite fnords, I guess, but for me, wont to extrapolate from slender tendrils of information, curious. After the film's conclusion, a trailer for Breach came on. This concerns the famous spy case of Robert Hanssen, an FBI agent convicted of selling secrets to the Soviet Union--for years. After this came a trailer for Baghdad Hospital: Inside The Red Zone, an HBO documentary shot by a physician working in some of the worst conditions imaginable, as doctors try patching together residents of Baghdad after the bombs have blown up and the snipers have done their gruesome work.

So, we go from war horror/celebrity propaganda/obscurity and alcoholism to James Bond-religion deluded/traitor/outed to busted nation/wrecked people/stuff we don't see otherwise on television.

We never see the whole story of war or even politics; we wouldn't want to and most couldn't bear to watch, and there are always those who either work the system, or think they can, and cause their comeuppance. Problem is, that never comes soon enough -- if at all-- while billions are spent and millions of people are damaged and die. And the great names that today inspire respect, fear or loathing, in the end, are like that stranded statue of Ozymandias.

That said, we cannot resign ourselves to mundanity -- and yet many of are willing to do just that.

I think, too, of the recent passing of political events, in this world where "illusion is everything, and everything illusory." The recent endorsement of Barack Obama's candidacy by Caroline Kennedy and Sen. Ted Kennedy comes across as political theater designed to capture the spirit of Kennedy's high flown rhetoric, but deflect the realities of his record.

Kennedy was a conflicted and contradictory man and a great president, but one whose full legacy is forever impossible to determine because the course was cut short. Kennedy, who due to injuries sustained during World War II while in battle in the Pacific used pain-killing drugs and was at times in need of a backbrace, nonetheless projected an image of virile vitality.

Kennedy sent "advisors" to Vietnam and meddled with the Diem government when he should've stayed out, and then there's Cuba. Of course, he also stared down Khruschev and the world didn't end in October 1962.

[Adlai Stevenson shows aerial photos of Cuban missiles to the United Nations in November 1962., via Wikipedia]

Kennedy was a womanizer, but he also took up the cause of civil rights, inaugurated the space program and inspired a generation of young people to commit to national service. These combined overshadow the legacy of any of the presidents from the past 30 years.

But why does Obama need to have the mantle of a false U.S. "Camelot" placed upon him? Under 40 voters won't care, or not much, and the over 40 voters are looking more for somebody who doesn't have Clintonian baggage and can stand on their on two feet and look you straight in the eye and tell you the truth.

Or am I fantasizing? This is a world of illusion in which we are all co-conspirators. As Aaron Sorkin's famous phrase was put in the mouth of Jack Nicholson, "You can't handle the truth." What we should demand is not "leadership" but "citizenship." We should want someone who'll let democracy work as intended, not by imposing a top-down counterfeit version. What Obama (or Hillary) should've been doing is coming into town meetings and taking notes from the audience. He would listen, more than talk, and try to form some kind of consensus from what he heard to devise policies, rather than running an obstacle course set by opponents, and by accepting what is tantamount to bribes from special interests--just like everybody else does.

The people are supposed to be the leaders of politicians, not the reverse. Waiting for one to receive a public anointment is a bad sign, if you ask me. And it's our damn fault. But if you're Barack Obama, and you want to be president in the current regime of U.S. politics, you can't very well decline with a gracious speech. You smile, wave and let the cameras roll. And hope that your contradictions and conflicts don't make too much noise in the next coming weeks and months. And you know that's going to happen, sooner or later, no matter what. Best to have what armor you can find, in Camelot.